Madame gazed at the door and wondered if she could reach it before he could.

“So, sometimes you are called ‘Diane’?  You are no longer the huntress; you are Daphne!”

“Monsieur!”

“And you would turn into a laurel tree!  My faith, Madame, it was a charming scene!  You are as erudite as a student fresh from the Sorbonne.”

“Monsieur, this is far away from the subject.”

“Let me see; there was a line worthy of Monsieur de Saumaise at his best.  Ah, yes!  ‘I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times’!  Ah well, let us give the Chevalier credit; he certainly has a handsome pair of eyes, as many a dame and demoiselle at court will attest.  It was truly a delightful letter; only the music of it was somewhat inharmonious to my ears.”

“Take care, Monsieur, that I do not choose the block.  I am not wholly without courage.”

“Pardon me!  Jealousy has an evil sting.  I ask you to pardon me.  Besides, it was evident that you had some definite purpose in trifling with the Chevalier.  Well, he is out of the game.”

“Do you know what brought him here?” veering into a new channel to lull the vicomte’s caution.  She had an idea.

“I do; but it would not sound pleasant in your ears.”

“He followed . . .”

“A woman?” with quick anticipation.  “I do not say so.  I brought him into our conversation merely to prove to you that I was more in your confidence than you dreamed of.”

Madame drew her fingers across her brow.

“Does any one else know that you have this paper?” Madame manoeuvered her chair, bringing it as close as possible to the table.  Less than three feet intervened between her and the vicomte.

“You and I alone are in the secret, Madame.”

“If I should call for help?”

“Call, Madame; many will hear.  But this paper, and the general fear of Mazarin since the Fronde, and the fact that I have practically obliterated my signature by scratching a pen across it . . .  Well, if you think it wise.”

Her arms dropped upon the table, and the despair on her face deceived him.  “Monsieur, this is unmanly, cruel!”

“All is fair in love and war.  My love compels me to use force.  What if this document had fallen into D’Herouville’s hands?  He would have gone about it less gently.”

Madame bent her head upon her arms, and the candles threw a golden sparkle into her hair.  The vicomte’s heart beat fast, and his hand stole forth and hovered above that beautiful head but dared not touch it.  Presently madame looked up.  There were tears in her eyes, but the vicomte did not know that they were tears of rage.

“Think, Madame,” he said eagerly; “is a dungeon more agreeable to you than I am, and would not a dungeon be worse than death?”

Madame roughly brushed her eyes.  “You speak of love; I doubt your sincerity.”