“I can—­without the trouble of lying.  And I will, unless you’ll give up du Laurier and make up your mind to marry me.  I always meant to have you.  You are the one woman worthy of me.”

“You are the man most unworthy of any woman.  But, give me till to-morrow evening—­at this time—­to decide.  Will you promise me that?”

“No, I know what you would do.  You would kill yourself.  It is what is in your mind now.  I won’t risk losing you.  I have waited long enough already.  Give me a ring of yours, and a written word from you to du Laurier, saying that you find you have made a mistake; and not only will I do nothing to injure him, but will guard against the discovery of—­you know what.  Besides, as a matter of course, I’ll bring all my influence to bear in keeping your name out of this or any other scandal.  I can do much, everything indeed, for I admit that it was through me the Commissary of Police trapped you with Dundas.  I will say that I blundered.  I know what to do to save you, and I will do it—­for my future wife.”

“No power on earth could induce me to break with Raoul du Laurier in the way you wish,” I said.  “If—­if I am to give him up, I must tell him with my own lips, and bid him good-bye.  I will do this to-morrow, if you will hold your hand until then.”

We looked at each other for a long moment in silence.  Godensky was trying to read my mind, and to make up his accordingly.

“You swear by everything you hold sacred to break with him to-morrow?”

“By the memory of my father and mother, martyred by bureaucrats like you, I pledge my word that—­that—­if I can’t break with Raoul, to let you know the first thing in the morning, and dare you to do—­what you will.”

“You will not ‘dare’ me, I think.  And because I think so, I will wait—­a little longer.”

“Until this time to-morrow?”

“No.  For if you cheated me, it would be too late to act for another twelve hours.  But I will give you till to-morrow noon.  You agree to that?”

“I agree.”  My lips formed the words.  I hardly spoke them; but he understood, and with a flash in his eyes took a step towards me as if to snatch my hand.  I drew away.  He followed, but at this instant Marianne appeared at the door.

“There is a young lady to see Mademoiselle,” she announced, her good-natured, open face showing all her dislike of Count Godensky.  “A young lady who sends this note, begging that Mademoiselle will read it at once, and consent to see her.”

Thankful that the tete-a-tete had been interrupted, I held out my hand for the letter.  Marianne gave it to me.  I glanced at the name written below the lines which only half filled the first page of theatre paper, and found it strange to me.  But, even if I had not been ready to snatch at the chance of ridding myself immediately of Godensky, the few words above the unfamiliar name would have made me say as I did say, “Bring the young lady in at once.”