“You may call the devil for aught I care, you little fool,” he answered her, very pleasantly. “Do you think Duplay will be mad enough to lay hands upon a Deputy of the Convention in the discharge of the affairs of the Nation?”
“It is a lie!”
“Why, of course it is,” he admitted sweetly. “But Duplay will not be aware of that.”
“I shall tell him.”
“Tut! He won't believe you. I'll threaten him with the guillotine if he does. And I should think that Duplay has sufficient dread of the national barber not to risk having his toilet performed by him. Now, be reasonable, and let me pass.”
Enraged beyond measure by his persiflage and very manifest contempt of her, she sprang suddenly upon him, and caught at the lapels of his redingote.
“Give me that paper!” she screamed, exerting her entire strength in a vain effort to boldly shake him.
Coldly he eyed this golden-haired virago now, and looked in vain for some trace of her wonted beauty in the stormy distortion of her face.
“You grow tiresome with your repetitions,” he answered her impatiently, as, snatching at her wrists, he made her release her hold. “Let me go.” And with that he flung her roughly from him.
A second she staggered, then, recovering her balance and without an instant's hesitation, she sped to the door. Imagining her intent to be to lock him in La Boulaye sprang after her. But it seemed that his mind had been more swift to fasten upon the wiser course than had hers. Instead, she snatched the key and closed the door on the inside. She wasted a moment fumbling at the lock, and even as he caught her by the waist the key slipped in, and before he dragged her back she had contrived to turn it, and now held it in her hand. He laughed a trifle angrily as she twisted out of his grasp, and stood panting before him.