“I have not condemned you!” he muttered. “Do not be unjust to me!”
She breathed in a whisper that touched his forehead like a caress:
“Had you reproached me, you would have been in the right. Well, dare me again!—to denounce the person guilty of this massacre.... I am quite capable of doing it, I give you my word!... Perhaps they would send me to Ham!... Who knows?”
A nervous titter escaped her. She bent her head, trying to stifle it, but it would have its way. She caught the lace of her veil in her little white teeth and nipped it. De Moulny saw the creamy rounded throat that was clasped by a chain of diamonds, swell within the ermine collar. He knew, as he inhaled the seductive fragrance that emanated from her, the exquisite allure of whiteness against white. Visions so poignant were evoked, that he remained spellbound, leaning to her, drinking her in. She continued, and now with real agitation:
“I shall see them in my dreams, those dead men in blouses,—if ever I sleep again!... Ah, bah! Horrible!... Please tell the coachman home. Rue de Sèvres.” She added before he withdrew his head to obey her: “Unless I take the Prefecture of Police upon my way?...”
He retorted with violence:
“Be silent! You shall not torture me as you are doing!”
“Then,” she said, with another hysterical stifled titter, “pray tell the coachman to take me home.”
He told the man, who leaned a haggard face from the box to listen; and added a warning to drive through the most unfrequented streets and to be careful of Madame. To Madame he said, hovering over her for another fascinated instant before he shut the carriage door upon the warm seductive sweetness:
“Remember, you are not to be held accountable for a moment of madness. You never meant to pull the trigger. I swear that you did not!”