He glared at me fiercely for a moment, then suddenly changing, he whispered, entreatingly: “Marguerite, do not tempt me thus. Do not bring out all that is worst in me. You know I love you.”
“I will not have your love; it is hateful to me.”
“Why should my love be hateful? It is not different from that of other men! It is as strong—so strong that I cannot master it. It is as tender, if you will but answer it. It is not to be despised, for I have never offered it to another; and as for myself, God made me as I am.”
“I will not have your love, M. de Sarennes. I will not answer it, and you degrade it when you would force it on me. Go, and leave me in peace!”
“Marguerite, you know nothing of my love. It counts neither insult nor rejection. If you will have it in no other way, let me at least serve you. Let me take up your quarrel.”
“What do you mean?”
“This Maxwell. Say so, and I will hunt him down, and never leave him until you are revenged.”
“Are you mad, monsieur?”
“No, mademoiselle, I am not mad! But are you shameless?”
Trembling with indignation, I drew my cloak about me, and sweeping aside the curtain, I stepped out on the floor of the lighted ball-room. As I passed, the curtain caught my hood, and, to my annoyance, it fell back from my head. The full glare of the light was dazzling, and I was bewildered and confused, but I kept my eyes fixed on the doorway and walked swiftly towards it. No one spake to me, or uttered any exclamation of surprise. Two gentlemen stepped apart as I advanced to allow me free passage, and I had just gained the entrance when I came face to face with the Marquis de Montcalm.