“No!” she cried impulsively.

“No?” with a dubious smile, and a glance from one to the other.  “Oh, I had hoped better things.  But he still may?  He still may.  I am sure he may.  In which case, Mademoiselle, your modesty must pardon me if I plead urgency, and fix the hour after supper this evening for the fulfilment of your promise.”

She turned white to the lips.  “After supper?” she gasped.

“Yes, Mademoiselle, this evening.  Shall I say—­at eight o’clock?”

In horror of the thing which menaced her, of the thing from which only two hours separated her, she could find no words but those which she had already used.  The worst was upon her; worse than the worst could not befall her.

“But he has not persuaded me!” she cried, clenching her hands in passion.  “He has not persuaded me!”

“Still he may, Mademoiselle.”

“He will not!” she cried wildly.  “He will not!”

The room was going round with her.  The precipice yawned at her feet; its naked terrors turned her brain.  She had been pushed nearer, and nearer, and nearer; struggle as she might, she was on the verge.  A mist rose before her eyes, and though they thought she listened she understood nothing of what was passing.  When she came to herself, after the lapse of a minute, Count Hannibal was speaking.

“Permit him another trial,” he was saying in a tone of bland irony.  “A short time longer, Mademoiselle!  One more assault, father!  The weapons of the Church could not be better directed or to a more worthy object; and, successful, shall not fail of due recognition and an earthly reward.”

And while she listened, half fainting, with a humming in her ears, he was gone.  The door closed on him, and the three—­Mademoiselle’s woman had withdrawn when she opened to him—­looked at one another.  The girl parted her lips to speak, but she only smiled piteously; and it was M. de Tignonville who broke the silence, in a tone which betrayed rather relief than any other feeling.

“Come, all is not lost yet,” he said briskly.  “If I can escape from the house—­”

“He knows you,” she answered.

“What?”

“He knows you,” Mademoiselle repeated in a tone almost apathetic.  “I read it in his eyes.  He knew you at once:  and knew, too,” she added bitterly, “that he had here under his hand one of the two things he required.”

“Then why did he hide his knowledge?” the young man retorted sharply.

“Why?” she answered.  “To induce me to waive the other condition in the hope of saving you.  Oh!” she continued in a tone of bitter raillery, “he has the cunning of hell, of the priests!  You are no match for him, Monsieur.  Nor I; nor any of us.  And”—­with a gesture of despair—­“he will be my master!  He will break me to his will and to his hand!  I shall be his!  His, body and soul, body and soul!” she continued drearily, as she sank into a chair and, rocking herself to and fro, covered her face.  “I shall be his!  His till I die!”