‘Hold!’ thundered Berenger.

The assailant had just mastered the poor girl’s hand, but she took advantage of his surprise to wrench it away and gather herself up as for a spring, but the Abbe in dismay, the attendant in anger, cried out, ‘Stay—­it is Monsieur.’

‘Monsieur; be he who he may,’ exclaimed Berenger, ’no honest man can see a lady insulted.’

‘Are you mad?  It is Monsieur the Duke of Anjou,’ said Mericour, pouncing on his arm.

‘Shall we have him to the guardhouse?’ added the attendant, coming up on the other side; but Henri de Valois waved them both back, and burst into a derisive laugh.  ’No, no; do you not see who it is?  Monsieur the English Baron still holds the end of the halter.  His sale is not yet made.  Come away, D’O, he will soon have enough on his hands without us.  Farewell, fair lady, another time you will be free of your jealous giant.’

So saying, the Duke of Anjou strolled off, feigning indifference and contempt, and scarcely heeding that he had been traversed in one of the malicious adventures which he delighted to recount in public before the discomfited victim herself, often with shameful exaggeration.

The girl clasped her hands over her brow with a gesture of dismay, and cried, ‘Oh! if you have only not touched your sword.’

‘Let me have the honour of reconducting you, Mademoiselle,’ said Berenger, offering his hand; but after the first sigh of relief, a tempestuous access seized her.  She seemed about to dash away his hand, her bosom swelled with resentment, and with a voice striving for dignity, though choked with strangled tears, she exclaimed, ’No, indeed!  Had not M. le Baron forsaken me, I had never been thus treated!’ and her eyes flashed through their moisture.

‘Eustacie!  You are Eutacie!’

’Whom would you have me to be otherwise?  I have the honour to wish M. le Baron a good morning.’

’Eustacie!  Stay!  Hear me!  It concerns my honour.  I see it is you—­but whom have I seen?  Who was she?’ he cried, half wild with dismay and confusion.  ‘Was it Diane?’

‘You have seen and danced with Diane de Ribaumont,’ answered Eustacie, still coldly; ’but what of that?  Let me go, Monsieur; you have cast me off already.’

‘I! when all this has been of your own seeking?’

‘Mine?’ cried Eustacie, panting with the struggle between her dignity and her passionate tears.  ’I meddled not.  I heard that M. le Baron was gone to a strange land, and had written to break off old ties.’  Her face was in a flame, and her efforts for composure absolute pain.

‘I!’ again exclaimed Berenger.  ’The first letter came from your uncle, declaring that it was your wish!’ And as her face changed rapidly, ‘Then it was not true!  He has not had your consent?’

’What! would I hold to one who despised me—­who came here and never even asked to see this hated spouse!’