The woman put her hand on his arm with affectionate entreaty. “Why not,” she asked, “why not give it all up? It is becoming too dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Of course. But it is too late to draw back, and I will keep my oath now—now,” he repeated, lingering on the word, “if I perish to-morrow.” He put his hand quietly on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. “You, too, some day will come to believe that revenge is better than love.”
“At least we have no choice,” she answered with a cruel little laugh.
“Don’t! don’t,” the Chevalier whispered, in a sudden tenderness. “What does it matter for me? but you—you—I can’t bear it for you.”
“It is fate,” she said very quietly, “your fate and mine.”
With his arm about her she stood in silence for no small while. They were both thinking their own thoughts, and they were not pleasant.
“Are you quite sure he loves her?” the Chevalier asked.
“I shall know for certain before many days,” she answered, “although a woman feels sure now.”
They parted, as they had met, without greeting, but had the Chevalier followed her he would have seen that the woman went in the direction of “The Cock with the Spurs of Gold.” It was probably because he already knew this that he returned to the palace.
All this time Denise had sat crushed and sad, alone in the antechamber. Nor did she know that André had stood for some minutes in the doorway looking at her, had twice stepped forward to speak, had twice restrained himself, and finally had left her to her tears and her silence.