" the younger man repeated, trembling.

"Because, M. de Tignonville, it is not true."

"But she did not speak!" Tignonville retorted, with passion--the futile
passion of the bird which beats its wings against a cage. "She did not
speak. She could not promise, therefore."

Tavannes ate the prune slowly, seemed to give a little thought to its
flavour, approved it a true Agen plum, and at last spoke.

"It is not for you to say whether she promised," he returned dryly, "nor
for me. It is for Mademoiselle."

"You leave it to her?"

"I leave it to her to say whether she promised."

"Then she must say No!" Tignonville cried in a tone of triumph and
relief. "For she did not speak. Mademoiselle, listen!" he continued,
turning with outstretched hands and appealing to her with passion. "Do
you hear? Do you understand? You have but to speak to be free! You
have but to say the word, and Monsieur lets you go! In God's name,
speak! Speak then, Clotilde! Oh!" with a gesture of despair, as she did
not answer, but continued to sit stony and hopeless, looking straight
before her, her hands picking convulsively at the fringe of her girdle.
"She does not understand! Fright has stunned her! Be merciful,
Monsieur. Give her time to recover, to know what she does. Fright has
turned her brain."

Count Hannibal smiled. "I knew her father and her uncle," he said, "and
in their time the Vrillacs were not wont to be cowards. Monsieur
forgets, too," he continued with fine irony, "that he speaks of my
betrothed."

"It is a lie!"

Tavannes raised his eyebrows. "You are in my power," he said. "For the
rest, if it be a lie, Mademoiselle has but to say so."

"You hear him?" Tignonville cried. "Then speak, Mademoiselle! Clotilde,
speak! Say you never spoke, you never promised him!"

The young man's voice quivered with indignation, with rage, with pain;
but most, if the truth be told, with shame--the shame of a position
strange and unparalleled. For in proportion as the fear of death instant
and violent was lifted from him, reflection awoke, and the situation in
which he stood took uglier shape. It was not so much love that cried to
her, love that suffered, anguished by the prospect of love lost; as in
the highest natures it might have been. Rather it was the man's pride
which suffered: the pride of a high spirit which found itself helpless
between the hammer and the anvil, in a position so false that hereafter
men mi