He did not follow, nor move to follow; but he laughed a low laugh of content.  And his eyes devoured her.

“Ho! ho!” he said.  “We are not so brave as we pretend to be, it seems.  And yet you dared to chaffer with me?  You thought to thwart me—­Tavannes! Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle, to what did you trust?  To what did you trust?  Ay, and to what do you trust?”

She knew that by the movement which fear had forced from her she had jeopardized everything.  That she stood to lose all and more than all which she had thought to win by a bold front.  A woman less brave, of a spirit less firm, would have given up the contest, and have been glad to escape so.  But this woman, though her bloodless face showed that she knew what cause she had for fear, and though her heart was indeed sick with terror, held her ground at the point to which she had retreated.  She played her last card.

“To what do I trust?” she muttered with trembling lips.

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” he answered between his teeth.  “To what do you trust—­that you play with Tavannes?”

“To his honour, Monsieur,” she answered faintly.  “And to your promise.”

He looked at her with his mocking smile.  “And yet,” he sneered, “you thought a moment ago that I should strike you.  You thought that I should beat you!  And now it is my honour and my promise!  Oh, clever, clever, Mademoiselle!  ’Tis so that women make fools of men.  I knew that something of this kind was on foot when you sent for me, for I know women and their ways.  But, let me tell you, it is an ill time to speak of honour when the streets are red!  And of promises when the King’s word is ‘No faith with a heretic!’”

“Yet you will keep yours,” she said bravely.

He did not answer at once, and hope which was almost dead in her breast began to recover; nay, presently sprang up erect.  For the man hesitated, it was evident; he brooded with a puckered brow and gloomy eyes; an observer might have fancied that he traced pain as well as doubt in his face.  At last—­

“There is a thing,” he said slowly and with a sort of glare at her, “which, it may be, you have not reckoned.  You press me now, and will stand on your terms and your conditions, your ifs and your unlesses!  You will have the most from me, and the bargain and a little beside the bargain!  But I would have you think if you are wise.  Bethink you how it will be between us when you are my wife—­if you press me so now, Mademoiselle.  How will it sweeten things then?  How will it soften them?  And to what, I pray you, will you trust for fair treatment then, if you will be so against me now?”

She shuddered.  “To the mercy of my husband,” she said in a low voice.  And her chin sank on her breast.

“You will be content to trust to that?” he answered grimly.  And his tone and the lifting of his brow promised little clemency.  “Bethink you!  ’Tis your rights now, and your terms, Mademoiselle!  And then it will be only my mercy—­Madame.”