“It is impossible,” he answered quietly. “And for reasons, Mademoiselle. In the first place, I can more easily protect my wife. In the second, I am even now summoned to the Louvre, and should be on my way thither. By to-morrow evening, unless I am mistaken in the business on which I am required, I shall be on my way to a distant province with royal letters. It is essential that our marriage take place before I go.”
“Why?” she asked stubbornly.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Why?” he repeated. “Can you ask, Mademoiselle, after the events of last night? Because, if you please, I do not wish to share the fate of M. de Tignonville. Because in these days life is uncertain, and death too certain. Because it was our turn last night, and it may be the turn of your friends—to-morrow night!”
“Then some have escaped?” she cried.
He smiled. “I am glad to find you so shrewd,” he replied. “In an honest wife it is an excellent quality. Yes, Mademoiselle; one or two.”
“Who? Who? I pray you tell me.”
“M. de Montgomery, who slept beyond the river, for one; and the Vidame, and some with him. M. de Biron, whom I count a Huguenot, and who holds the Arsenal in the King’s teeth, for another. And a few more. Enough, in a word, Mademoiselle, to keep us wakeful. It is impossible, therefore, for me to postpone the fulfilment of your promise.”
“A promise on conditions!” she retorted, in rage that she could win no more. And every line of her splendid figure, every tone of her voice flamed sudden, hot rebellion. “I do not go for nothing! You gave me the lives of all in the house, Monsieur! Of all!” she repeated with passion. “And all are not here! Before I marry you, you must show me M. de Tignonville alive and safe!”
He shrugged his shoulders. “He has taken himself off,” he said. “It is naught to me what happens to him now.”
“It is all to me!” she retorted.