Count Hannibal

"I am content," she muttered faintly.

"And the Lord have mercy on my soul, is what you would add," he retorted,

"so much trust have you in my mercy! And you are right! You are right,

since you have played this trick on me. But as you will. If you will

have it so, have it so! You shall stand on your conditions now; you

shall have your pennyweight and full advantage, and the rigour of the

pact. But afterwards--afterwards, Madame de Tavannes--"

He did not finish his sentence, for at the first word which granted her

petition, Mademoiselle had sunk down on the low wooden window-seat beside

which she stood, and, cowering into its farthest corner, her face hidden

on her arms, had burst into violent weeping. Her hair, hastily knotted

up in the hurry of the previous night, hung in a thick plait to the curve

of her waist; the nape of her neck showed beside it milk-white. The man

stood awhile contemplating her in silence, his gloomy eyes watching the

pitiful movement of her shoulders, the convulsive heaving of her figure.

But he did not offer to touch her, and at length he turned about. First

one and then the other of her women quailed and shrank under his gaze; he

seemed about to add something. But he did not speak. The sentence he

had left unfinished, the long look he bent on the weeping girl as he

turned from her, spoke more eloquently of the future than a score of

orations.

"Afterwards, Madame de Tavannes!"