Rosaline read the evil look in the hag’s eyes and knew that she would never relent; and so great was her own abhorrence that it was well-nigh impossible to look at her again. She turned her eyes toward the door, therefore, and closed her lips; she had no hope save in heaven.
“How would mademoiselle like the Tour de Constance?� Mère Tigrane inquired pleasantly. “’Tis a healthful place and full of her friends. Dame de Dieu, what an opportunity to travel without pay from Nîmes to Aiguemortes!�
She stopped and looked at the girl eagerly, trying to discover what emotions were stirring in the heart of her victim, longing for tears and entreaties; but Rosaline sat like a statue.
“Nom de St. Denis!� she exclaimed at last, “how proud mademoiselle is,—an aristocrat! But ’tis not the Tour de Constance, ma chérie,� she added, with a mocking laugh. “No, no, there must be a better fate for such a lovely prisoner. Dame! but your flesh is white—I could eat it. How much does mademoiselle think that M. de Baudri would pay for such a prize?�
“Dieu!� cried Rosaline, shaken out of her resolve, “are you a woman? Is it possible that the bon Dieu put such a heart in a woman?�
“A woman, my pretty?� retorted the hag, with a peal of wild laughter. “Ay—and once a pretty one! Now you see what I am—and you are like to live to be like me, unless I wring that pretty, white throat now! I am a woman, morbleu, yes—this is what a woman becomes!� and she crooked her talon fingers pointing at herself. “Do you think I will pity you? Dame, I would see you burn this minute with joy, you little white fool!�
Rosaline nerved herself to bear it without tears; she struggled hard to ward off the faintness that stole upon her, clasping her heart in a vice.
“What do you mean to do with me?� she asked, in a strange voice, her eyes chained now by a horrible fascination to the old hag’s face.
“Sell you, my sweetheart,� Mère Tigrane retorted, showing her fangs, “to the highest bidder in Nîmes. Dame, you are pretty enough to keep poor Mère Tigrane’s pot boiling for a year or two, my sweetie.�
“God will not let you do it!� cried Rosaline, with white lips; “I am His.�