He laughed harshly.  “You will be my wife in five minutes,” he said, “and you give me the lie?  A week, and you will know me better!  A month, and—­but we will talk of that another time.  For the present,” he continued, turning to La Tribe, “do you, sir, tell her that the gentleman is below.  Perhaps she will believe you.  For you know him.”

La Tribe looked at her sorrowfully; his heart bled for her.  “I have seen M. de Tignonville,” he said.  “And M. le Comte says truly.  He is in the same case with ourselves, a prisoner.”

“You have seen him?” she wailed.

“I left him in the room below, when I mounted the stairs.”

Count Hannibal laughed, the grim mocking laugh which seemed to revel in the pain it inflicted.

“Will you have him for a witness?” he cried.  “There could not be a better, for he will not forget.  Shall I fetch him?”

She bowed her head, shivering.  “Spare me that,” she said.  And she pressed her hands to her eyes while an uncontrollable shudder passed over her frame.  Then she stepped forward:  “I am ready,” she whispered.  “Do with me as you will!”

* * * * *

When they had all gone out and closed the door behind them, and the two whom the minister had joined were left together, Count Hannibal continued for a time to pace the room, his hands clasped at his back, and his head sunk somewhat on his chest.  His thoughts appeared to run in a new channel, and one, strange to say, widely diverted from his bride and from that which he had just done.  For he did not look her way, or, for a time, speak to her.  He stood once to snuff a candle, doing it with an absent face:  and once to look, but still absently, and as if he read no word of it, at the marriage writing which lay, the ink still wet, upon the table.  After each of these interruptions he resumed his steady pacing to and fro, to and fro, nor did his eye wander once in the direction of her chair.

And she waited.  The conflict of emotions, the strife between hope and fear, the final defeat had stunned her; had left her exhausted, almost apathetic.  Yet not quite, nor wholly.  For when in his walk he came a little nearer to her, a chill perspiration broke out on her brow, and shudderings crept over her; and when he passed farther from her—­and then only, it seemed—­she breathed again.  But the change lay beneath the surface, and cheated the eye.  Into her attitude, as she sat, her hands clasped on her lap, her eyes fixed, came no apparent change or shadow of movement.

Suddenly, with a dull shock, she became aware that he was speaking.

“There was need of haste,” he said, his tone strangely low and free from emotion, “for I am under bond to leave Paris to-morrow for Angers, whither I bear letters from the King.  And as matters stood, there was no one with whom I could leave you.  I trust Bigot; he is faithful, and you may trust him, Madame, fair or foul!  But he is not quick-witted.  Badelon, also, you may trust.  Bear it in mind.  Your woman Javette is not faithful; but as her life is guaranteed she must stay with us until she can be securely placed.  Indeed, I must take all with me—­with one exception—­for the priests and monks rule Paris, and they do not love me, nor would spare aught at my word.”