“I was a woman distraught, Monsieur. Surely you will not hold me to words uttered in an hour of madness. It was a bargain I had no right to make, for I am no longer free to dispose of myself. I am betrothed to the Vicomte Anatole d'Ombreval. The contract has already been signed, and the Vicomte will be meeting us at Treves.”
It was as if she had struck him, and amazement left him silent a moment. In a dim, subconscious way he seemed to notice that the name she mentioned was that of the man he was bidden to arrest. Then, with an oath:
“I care naught for that,” he cried. “As God lives, you shall fulfil your word to me.”
“Monsieur, I refuse,” she answered, with finality. “Let me request you to close the door and suffer us to proceed.”
“Your mother and your treasure may proceed—it was thus we bargained. But you shall come with me. I will be no girl's dupe, no woman's fool, Citoyenne.”
When he said that he uttered the full truth. There was no love in his voice or in his heart at that moment. Than desire of her nothing was further from his mind. It was his pride that was up in arms, his wounded dignity that cried out to him to avenge himself upon her, and to punish her for having no miserably duped him. That she was unwilling to go with him only served to increase his purpose of taking her, since the more unwilling she was the more would she be punished.
“Citoyenne, I am waiting for you to alight,” he said peremptorily.
“Monsieur, I am very well as I am,” she answered him, and leaning slightly from the coach—“Drive on, Blaise,” she commanded.
But La Boulaye cocked a pistol.
“Drive so much as a yard,” he threatened “and I'll drive you to the devil.” Then, turning once more to Suzanne: “Never in my life, Citoyenne have I employed force to a woman,” he said. “I trust that you will not put me to the pain of commencing now.”