M. de Tignonville’s face turned scarlet. The thrust in tierce was unexpected. This, then, was the key to Mademoiselle’s spirt of temper.
“I do not understand you,” he stammered.
“How long were you in the King of Navarre’s chamber, and how long with Madame St. Lo?” she asked with fine irony. “Or no, I will not tempt you,” she went on quickly, seeing him hesitate. “I heard you talking to Madame St. Lo in the gallery while I sat within. And I know how long you were with her.”
“I met Madame as I returned,” he stammered, his face still hot, “and I asked her where you were. I did not know, Mademoiselle, that I was not to speak to ladies of my acquaintance.”
“I was alone, and I was waiting.”
“I could not know that—for certain,” he answered, making the best of it. “You were not where I left you. I thought, I confess—that you had gone. That you had gone home.”
“With whom? With whom?” she repeated pitilessly. “Was it likely? With whom was I to go? And yet it is true, I might have gone home had I pleased—with M. de Tavannes! Yes,” she continued, in a tone of keen reproach, and with the blood mounting to her forehead, “it is to that, Monsieur, you expose me! To be pursued, molested, harassed by a man whose look terrifies me, and whose touch I—I detest! To be addressed wherever I go by a man whose every word proves that he thinks me game for the hunter, and you a thing he may neglect. You are a man and you do not know, you cannot know what I suffer! What I have suffered this week past whenever you have left my side!”
Tignonville looked gloomy. “What has he said to you?” he asked, between his teeth.
“Nothing I can tell you,” she answered, with a shudder. “It was he who took me into the Chamber.”
“Why did you go?”