“François d’Aguesseau is no servant,� she cried; “he is as well born and far more noble than his persecutor!�
The man laughed fiercely. “He is doubtless mademoiselle’s lover,� he remarked contemptuously; “she is more lightly won than I supposed.�
“It is always in the power of the strong to insult the weak,� Rosaline retorted coldly.
“You cannot deny that this heretic is your lover!� he exclaimed passionately.
Rosaline raised her head proudly; her innocent gentleness had deserted her; she was like a young lioness roused in defence of her own.
“I do not deny it,� she said fearlessly; “M. d’Aguesseau is my equal—and—and, yes, monsieur, my affianced husband. I do not deny it, nor do I deny my love for him, though he is a prisoner and at your mercy; the bon Dieu defend him and me!�
She had never looked more beautiful than at that moment of passionate indignation and defiance in the cause of those she loved. M. de Baudri, looking at her, swore in his heart that he would have her despite heaven and hell.
“You are frank, mademoiselle,� he remarked coolly. “’Tis unusual for a young girl to be so eager to declare her affection. I am afflicted indeed; for ’tis my portion to decide M. d’Aguesseau’s fate, and it would grieve me to bereave mademoiselle of her lover!�
Rosaline’s distress was shaking her resolution; already her lips were quivering, and there were tears in the blue eyes.
“Is his fate in your hands, monsieur?� she asked, with passionate anxiety and a desperate hope.