“Let me prescribe a glass of brandy. You are not well this morning, Madame.”
She shook her head, but sat down, pulling excitedly at her glove. She knew that she must listen to this man. He, in turn, gauged exactly the measure of his power over her.
“Come,” he said, “do not be angry with me. We are friends together, in a good cause. If I were not your friend, I should not be here this morning. On the contrary, I should be in the Rue—but no names, my dear, they are not necessary—let us say that I should be telling my friends to go and see the young man whose foot was crushed by an artillery waggon. You would not like that—eh? Well, be reasonable, then, and listen to what I have to say.”
A murmur of assent escaped her lips. The pallor of death was on her face. The ungloved hands showed blue veins outstanding as upon a hand of clay.
“What do you want me to do, Monsieur?” she asked in a low voice.
He bent over the table, and whispered the words in her ear.
“To be my friend, little Beatrix.”
She rose from the table.
