"I can't—you know I can't—you have locked the door."
"I've not—try it," replied Blassemare, coolly.
In a moment more Le Prun entered, trembling like a man in an ague, his face livid and covered with a cold sweat.
"That, that accursed fiend, she has—the murderess—she attempted my life—upon my soul she did."
There was some blood upon his hand, and more upon his lace cravat.
"What do you mean?" said Blassemare, growing very pale. "Why, why, you have not, great God, you have not hurt the wretched woman?" and he grasped him by the collar with a hand that trembled with mingled fury and horror.
"It was she, I tell you—let me go—it was she—she that tried—by ----, she had a knife at my throat—I could not help it—I'm ruined—help me, Blassemare—for God's sake, help me—what—what is to be done?"
Blassemare gave him a look of contemptuous fury, turned from him, and entered the chamber.
Le Prun stood like one stupefied, stammering excuses and oaths, and trembling as if it were the day of judgment.
Blassemare reëntered, paler than before, and said—