He saluted me with the words and turned. He already had his foot raised to the stirrup when I muttered his name.
He looked round. "Pardon!" he said. "Is there anything----"
I beckoned to the servants to stand back. I was in misery between rage and shame, the hot fit gone. "Monsieur," I said, "there is one more thing to be said. This does not end all between Mademoiselle and me. For Mademoiselle----"
"We will not speak of her!" he exclaimed.
But I was not to be put down. "For Mademoiselle, I do not know her sentiments," I continued, doggedly disregarding his interruption, "nor whether I am agreeable to her. But for myself, M. de St. Alais, I tell you frankly that I love her; nor shall I change because I wear one tricolour or another. Therefore----"
"I have only one thing to say," he cried, raising his hand to stay me.
I gave way, breathing hard. "What is it?" I said.
"That you make love like a bourgeois!" he answered, laughing insolently. "Or a mad Englishman! And as Mademoiselle de St. Alais is not a baker's daughter, to be wooed after that fashion, I find it offensive. Is that enough or shall I say more, M. le Vicomte?"
"That will not be enough to turn me from my path!" I answered. "You forget that I carried Mademoiselle hither in my arms last night. But I do not forget it, and she will not forget it. We cannot be henceforth as we were, M. le Marquis."
"You saved her life and base a claim upon it?" he said scornfully. "That is generous and like a gentleman!"