Mademoiselle de Rochambeau felt a tremor pass over her; she was conscious of a mastering, overwhelming fear. Like something outside herself, it caught her heart, and wrung it.
"No, no," said her trembling lips; "no, no."
With that he was beside her, catching her unresisting hand. Cold as ice it lay in his, and he felt it quiver.
"Oh, mon Dieu, are you afraid of me—of me?" he cried, in a hoarse whisper.
She tried to speak, but could not; something choked the sound, and she only stood there, mechanically focussing all her energies in an effort to stop the shivering, which threatened to become unbearable.
"Aline," he said again, "Aline, look at me."
He bent above her, nearer, till his face was on a level with her own, and his eyes drew hers to meet them. And his were full of all sweet and poignant things—love and home, and trust, and protection—they were warm and kind, and she so cold, and so afraid. It seemed as if her soul must go out to him, or be torn in two. Suddenly her fear of him had changed into fear of her own self. Did a Rochambeau mate thus? She saw the red steel, wet with the King's life, the steel weighted by the word of this man, and his fellows. She saw the blood gush out and flow between them in a river of separation. To pass it she must stain her feet—must stain her soul, with an uncleansable rust. It could not be—Noblesse oblige.
She caught her hand from his and put it quickly over her eyes.
"No, no, no—oh no, Monsieur," she cried, in a trembling whisper.
He recoiled at once, the light in his face dying out.