She moved swiftly, and a table stood between them. He was powerless.
The letter crumbled into black flakes upon the table. She set down the
candle, breathing quickly, her amber eyes blazing with triumph.
"That was not honorable. I trusted you."
"I trusted, too, Monsieur; I trusted overmuch. Besides, desiring to
become a nun, it would have compromised me."
"Did you come three thousand miles to accomplish this?" anger swelling
his tones.
"It was a part of my plans," coolly. "To how many gallants have you
shown this ridiculous letter?"
His brain began to clear; for he saw that his love hung in the balance.
"And had I followed you to the four ends of France, had I sought you
from town to city and from city to town . . . ?"
"You would have grown thin, Monsieur."
"And mad! For you would have been here in Quebec. And I have kissed
that letter a thousand times!"
"Is it possible?"
"Diane . . ."
"I am Diane no longer," she interrupted.
"In God's name, what shall I call you, then?" his despair maddening him.
"You may call me . . . a dream. And I advise you to wake soon."
The man in him came to his rescue. He suddenly reached across the
table and caught her wrist. With his unengaged hand he caught up the
ashes and let them flutter back to the table.
"A lie, a woman's lie! Is that why the ash is black? Have I wronged
you in any way? Has my love been else than honest? Who are you?"
vehemently.
"I am play, Monsieur; pastime, frolic," insolently. "Was not that what
you named me in the single hours?"
"Are you some prince's light-o'-love?" roughly.
The blood of wrath spread over her cheeks.
"Your name?"
"I am not afraid of you, Monsieur; but you are twisting my arm cruelly.
Will you not let go? Thank you!"
"You will not tell me who you are?"
"No."
"Nor what your object was in playing with my heart?"
"Perhaps I had best tell you the truth. Monsieur, it was a trap I set
for you that night in Paris, when I came dressed as a musketeer. My
love of mischief was piqued. I had heard so much about the fascinating
Chevalier du Cévennes and his conquests. There was Mademoiselle de
Longueville, Mademoiselle de Fontrailles, the little Coislin, and I
know not how many others. And you walked over their hearts in such a
cavalierly way, rumor had it, that I could not resist the temptation to
see what manner of man you were. You were only the usual lord of
creation, a trite pattern. You amused me, and I was curious to see how
long you would remain constant."
"Are you not also a trite pattern?"