me, Monsieur,” he continued, with irony in voice and manner; “when, I pray you?  In Eternity?  For if you refuse my offer, you have done with time.  Now?  I have but to sound this whistle”—­he touched a silver whistle which hung at his breast—­“and there are those within hearing will do your business before you make two passes.  Dismiss the notion, sir, and understand.  You are in my power.  Paris runs with blood, as noble as yours, as innocent as hers.  If you would not perish with the rest, decide!  And quickly!  For what you have seen are but the forerunners, what you have heard are but the gentle whispers that predict the gale.  Do not parley too long; so long that even I may no longer save you.”

“I would rather die!” Mademoiselle moaned, her face covered.  “I would rather die!”

“And see him die?” he answered quietly.  “And see these die?  Think, think, child!”

“You will not do it!” she gasped.  She shook from head to foot.

“I shall do nothing,” he answered firmly.  “I shall but leave you to your fate, and these to theirs.  In the King’s teeth I dare save my wife and her people; but no others.  You must choose—­and quickly.”

One of the frightened women—­it was Mademoiselle’s tiring-maid, a girl called Javette—­made a movement, as if to throw herself at her mistress’s feet.  Tignonville drove her to her place with a word.  He turned to Count Hannibal.

“But, M. le Comte,” he said, “you must be mad!  Mad, to wish to marry her in this way!  You do not love her.  You do not want her.  What is she to you more than other women?”

“What is she to you more than other women?” Tavannes retorted, in a tone so sharp and incisive that Tignonville started, and a faint touch of colour crept into the wan cheek of the girl, who sat between them, the prize of the contest.  “What is she more to you than other women?  Is she more?  And yet—­you want her!”

“She is more to me,” Tignonville answered.

“Is she?” the other retorted, with a ring of keen meaning.  “Is she?  But we bandy words and the storm is rising, as I warned you it would rise.  Enough for you that I do want her.  Enough for you that I will have her.  She shall be the wife, the willing wife, of Hannibal de Tavannes—­or I leave her to her fate, and you to yours!”

“Ah, God!” she moaned.  “The willing wife!”

“Ay, Mademoiselle, the willing wife,” he answered sternly.  “Or no man’s wife!”

CHAPTER VI.  WHO TOUCHES TAVANNES?