"Mademoiselle, this is madness," exclaimed de Lacheville, pacing the floor. "Can you not listen to reason?"
The sound of shouting in the distance caused him to stop suddenly and run to the window. The candle had burned down to the socket and went out with a few last feeble flickers. The cries of Gardin's ruffians were borne to him on the wind.
The slight composure which he had managed to regain during his talk with Edmé left him again, and he turned toward her, the trembling, shaking coward that he was when she had first discovered him.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered, his hand shaking as he put it to his lips.
"I have heard it in this very room to-day," replied Edmé, looking at him with disdain.
"They are coming here again," he whispered hoarsely. "But they shall not find me," he exclaimed fiercely, clenching his fist and shaking it in a weak menace toward the spot whence the sound came. "I have a swift horse in the courtyard beneath. In an hour I shall be safe from them," and he prepared to leave the room.
The ordeal of the afternoon had told on Edmé's nerves and the thought of being left alone again made her desperate.
"You shall not leave me here alone," she cried, seizing his arm. "You were born a man—behave like one. Devise some means to take me from this place at once. Do not leave me alone to face those wretches again, or I shall believe you are a coward."
De Lacheville roughly released himself from her grasp.
"I care not what you think of me," he snarled. "It is each for himself. I cannot imperil my safety for a woman. I must escape." And he rushed from the room.