She looked at his stern, sardonic face and solemn grey eyes, and for a moment it almost seemed to her that she hated him more than anybody in the world. He was so passionless, so master of himself, and he addressed her in a tone which, whilst it suggested that he accounted himself most fully her equal, made her feel that he was really her better by much. If one of these two was an aristocrat, surely that one was the Citizen-deputy La Boulaye.
“If you had but the will you would do it, Monsieur,” she answered him. “It is not mine to enlighten you; I know not how.”
“I have the very best will in the world, Citoyenne,” said he. “Of that I think that I am giving proof.”
“Aye, the will to do nothing that will shame your manhood,” she rejoined. “That is all you think of. It was because your manhood bade you that you came to my rescue—so you said when you declined my thanks. It is this manhood of yours, I make no doubt, that is now prevailing upon you to deliver two unprotected women out of the hands of these brigands.”
“In Heaven's name, Citoyenne,” quoth the astonished Deputy, “out of what sentiment would you have me act, and, indeed, so that I save you, how can it concern you by what sentiment I am prompted?”
She paused a moment before replying. Her eyes were downcast, and some of the colour faded from her cheeks. She came a step nearer, which brought her very close to him.
“Monsieur,” she faltered very shyly, “in the old days at Bellecour you would have served me out of other sentiments.”
He started now in spite of himself, and eyed her with a sudden gleam of hope, or triumph, or mistrust, or perhaps of all three. Then his glance fell, and his voice was wistful.
“But the old days are dead, Mademoiselle.”
“The days, yes,” she answered, taking courage from his tone. “But love Monsieur, is everlasting—it never dies, they say.”