"And you have the letters?" she whispered, her eyes meeting his. "You

have the letters?"

"No, but I have the thief!" Count Hannibal answered with sinister

meaning. "As I think you knew, Madame," he continued ironically, "a

while back before you spoke."

"I? Oh no, no!" and she swayed in her saddle. "What--what are you--going

to do?" she muttered after a moment's stricken silence.

"To him?"

"Yes."

"The magistrates will decide, at Angers."

"But he did not do it! I swear he did not."

Count Hannibal shook his head coldly.

"I swear, Monsieur, I took the letters!" she repeated piteously. "Punish

me!" Her figure, bowed like an old woman's over the neck of her horse,

seemed to crave his mercy.

Count Hannibal smiled.

"You do not believe me?"

"No," he said. And then, in a tone which chilled her, "If I did believe

you," he continued, "I should still punish him!" She was broken; but he

would see if he could not break her further. He would try if there were

no weak spot in her armour. He would rack her now, since in the end she

must go free. "Understand, Madame," he continued in his harshest tone,

"I have had enough of your lover. He has crossed my path too often. You

are my wife, I am your husband. In a day or two there shall be an end of

this farce and of him."

"He did not take them!" she wailed, her face sinking lower on her breast.

"He did not take them! Have mercy!"

"Any way, Madame, they are gone!" Tavannes answered. "You have taken

them between you; and as I do not choose that you should pay, he will pay

the price."

If the discovery that Tignonville had fallen into her husband's hands had

not sufficed to crush her, Count Hannibal's tone must have done so. The

shoot of new life which had raised its head after those dreadful days in

Paris, and--for she was young--had supported her under the weight which

the peril of Angers had cast on her shoulders, died, withered under the

heel of his brutality. The pride which had supported her, which had won

Tavannes' admiration and exacted his respect, sank, as she sank herself,

bowed to her horse's neck, weeping bitter tears before him. She

abandoned herself to her misery, as she had once abandoned herself in the

upper room in Paris.

And he looked at her. He had willed to crush her; he had his will, and

he was not satisfied. He had bowed her so low that his magnanimity would

now have its full effect, would shine as the sun into a dark world; and

yet he was not happy. He could look forward to the morrow, and say, "She

will understand me, she will know me!" and, lo, the thought that she wept

for her lover stabbed him, and stabbed him anew; and he thought, "Rather

would she death from him, than life from me! Though I give her creation,

it will not alter her! Though I strike the stars with my head, it is he

who fills her world."




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