“You must be an imbecile!” he cried. Then, with a sarcastic laugh, he asked, “And how much, pray, do you offer me as a douceur?”
“I offer you,” I said plainly and distinctly. “I offer you, M’sieur de Largentière, your own liberty!”
“My own liberty!” he gasped, starting in alarm. “My own liberty? I do not understand.”
“Ah, no!” I exclaimed, with a short, harsh laugh. “You do not know me. We are strangers.”
“I—I was not aware that I was in your custody, m’sieur,” he said, crimson with indignation.
“No,” I answered, with a coolness that surprised even myself. “But your life is!”
“You—you come here—to—to demand this woman’s liberty under threats of assassination!” he gasped.
“I have a revolver here, it’s true,” I replied. “But I have no intention of committing murder, even though the life of my fiancée is at stake.”
“You—you threaten me!—you come here, and—”
“Henri, dear!” a voice called in English. “Why, here you are! I thought you had dressed long ago. Already some of the guests have arrived!” and, turning quickly, I saw a tall, beautiful woman in a marvellous ball toilette. Her face I recognised instantly by the photographs I had seen in London shop-windows. It was Madame de Largentière!