“I will go to her, Madame!” he said, springing to his feet. “I will go to her. I—I was wrong.”
She rose, too, he still clinging to her hand, she still unresisting. His eye fell upon me.
“Where is my hat, Davy?” he asked.
The Vicomtesse withdrew her hand and looked at me.
“Alas, it is not quite so simple as that, Mr. Temple,” she said; “Monsieur de Carondelet has first to be reckoned with.”
“She is dying, you say? then I will go to her. After that Monsieur de Carondelet may throw me into prison, may hang me, may do anything he chooses. But I will go to her.”
I glanced anxiously at the Vicomtesse, well knowing how wilful he was when aroused. Admiration was in her eyes, seeing that he was heedless of his own danger.
“You would not get through the gates of the city. Monsieur le Baron requires passports now,” she said.
At that he began to pace the little room, his hands clenched.
“I could use your passport, Davy,” he cried. “Let me have it.”