‘Done?’ he stammered; her words, her air, bringing him to earth again. ‘Done? Yes, if you believe me.’
‘I do not,’ she answered proudly. ‘If that be all, be satisfied, Monsieur. I do not believe you.’
‘Then tell me this,’ he retorted, after a moment of stunned surprise. ‘Answer me this! Why, if he was not on our side, do you think that we let him remain here? Why did we suffer him to stay in a suspected house, bullying us, annoying us, thwarting us, taking your part from hour to hour?’
‘He has a sword, Monsieur,’ she answered with fine contempt.
‘MILLE DIABLES!’ he cried, snapping his fingers in a rage. ‘That for his sword! It was because he held the Cardinal’s commission, I tell you, because he had equal authority with us. Because we had no choice.’
‘And that being so, Monsieur, why are you now betraying him?’ she asked. He swore at that, feeling the stroke go home.
‘You must be mad!’ he said, glaring at her. ‘Cannot you see that the man is what I tell you? Look at him! Look at him, I say! Listen to him! Has he a word to say for himself?’
Still she did not look.
‘It is late,’ she replied coldly. ‘And I am not very well. If you have done, quite done—perhaps, you will leave me, Monsieur.’
‘MON DIEU! he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders, and grinding his teeth in impotent rage. You are mad! I have told you the truth, and you will not believe it. Well—on your head be it then, Mademoiselle. I have no more to say! You will see.’