If the discovery that Tignonville had fallen into her husband’s hands had not sufficed to crush her, Count Hannibal’s tone must have done so.  The shoot of new life which had raised its head after those dreadful days in Paris, and—­for she was young—­had supported her under the weight which the peril of Angers had cast on her shoulders, died, withered under the heel of his brutality.  The pride which had supported her, which had won Tavannes’ admiration and exacted his respect, sank, as she sank herself, bowed to her horse’s neck, weeping bitter tears before him.  She abandoned herself to her misery, as she had once abandoned herself in the upper room in Paris.

And he looked at her.  He had willed to crush her; he had his will, and he was not satisfied.  He had bowed her so low that his magnanimity would now have its full effect, would shine as the sun into a dark world; and yet he was not happy.  He could look forward to the morrow, and say, “She will understand me, she will know me!” and, lo, the thought that she wept for her lover stabbed him, and stabbed him anew; and he thought, “Rather would she death from him, than life from me!  Though I give her creation, it will not alter her!  Though I strike the stars with my head, it is he who fills her world.”

The thought spurred him to further cruelty, impelled him to try if, prostrate as she was, he could not draw a prayer from her.

“You don’t ask after him?” he scoffed.  “He may be before or behind?  Or wounded or well?  Would you not know, Madame?  And what message he sent you?  And what he fears, and what hope he has?  And his last wishes?  And—­for while there is life there is hope—­would you not learn where the key of his prison lies to-night?  How much for the key to-night, Madame?”

Each question fell on her like the lash of a whip; but as one who has been flogged into insensibility, she did not wince.  That drove him on:  he felt a mad desire to hear her prayers, to force her lower, to bring her to her knees.  And he sought about for a keener taunt.  Their attendants were almost out of sight before them; the sun, declining apace, was in their eyes.

“In two hours we shall be in Angers,” he said.  “Mon Dieu, Madame, it was a pity, when you two were taking letters, you did not go a step farther.  You were surprised, or I doubt if I should be alive to-day!”

Then she did look up.  She raised her head and met his gaze with such wonder in her eyes, such reproach in her tear-stained face, that his voice sank on the last word.

“You mean—­that I would have murdered you?” she said.  “I would have cut off my hand first.  What I did”—­and now her voice was as firm as it was low—­“what I did, I did to save my people.  And if it were to be done again, I would do it again!”

“You dare to tell me that to my face?” he cried, hiding feelings which almost choked him.  “You would do it again, would you?  Mon Dieu, Madame, you need to be taught a lesson!”