She rose suddenly, squarely confronting him, desperate now, driven to play the only card upon which she thought she might count.

“Monsieur,” she said, “you did me the honour to-day to speak in certain terms; to... to allude to certain hopes with which you honour me.”

He looked at her almost in fear.  In silence, not daring to speak, he waited for her to continue.

“I...  I...  Will you please to understand, monsieur, that if you persist in this matter, if... unless you can break this engagement of yours to-morrow morning in the Bois, you are not to presume to mention this subject to me again, or, indeed, ever again to approach me.”

To put the matter in this negative way was as far as she could possibly go.  It was for him to make the positive proposal to which she had thus thrown wide the door.

“Mademoiselle, you cannot mean... "

“I do, monsieur... irrevocably, please to understand.”  He looked at her with eyes of misery, his handsome, manly face as pale as she had ever seen it.  The hand he had been holding out in protest began to shake.  He lowered it to his side again, lest she should perceive its tremor.  Thus a brief second, while the battle was fought within him, the bitter engagement between his desires and what he conceived to be the demands of his honour, never perceiving how far his honour was buttressed by implacable vindictiveness.  Retreat, he conceived, was impossible without shame; and shame was to him an agony unthinkable.  She asked too much.  She could not understand what she was asking, else she would never be so unreasonable, so unjust.  But also he saw that it would be futile to attempt to make her understand.

It was the end.  Though he kill Andre-Louis Moreau in the morning as he fiercely hoped he would, yet the victory even in death must lie with Andre-Louis Moreau.

He bowed profoundly, grave and sorrowful of face as he was grave and sorrowful of heart.

“Mademoiselle, my homage,” he murmured, and turned to go.

“But you have not answered me!” she called after him in terror.

He checked on the threshold, and turned; and there from the cool gloom of the hall she saw him a black, graceful silhouette against the brilliant sunshine beyond — a memory of him that was to cling as something sinister and menacing in the dread hours that were to follow.

“What would you, mademoiselle?  I but spared myself and you the pain of a refusal.”

He was gone leaving her crushed and raging.  She sank down again into the great red chair, and sat there crumpled, her elbows on the table, her face in her hands — a face that was on fire with shame and passion.  She had offered herself, and she had been refused!  The inconceivable had befallen her.  The humiliation of it seemed to her something that could never be effaced.

Startled, appalled, she stepped back, her hand pressed to her tortured breast.