But the proof of fidelity
which the Countess had just given him had blown to a white heat the
smouldering flame in his heart, and Madame St. Lo's gibes, which should
have fallen as cold water alike on his hopes and his passion, had but fed
the desire to know the best. For all that, he might not have spoken now,
if he had not caught her look of affright; strange as it sounds, that
look, which of all things should have silenced him and warned him that
the time was not yet, stung him out of patience. Suddenly the man in him
carried him away.
"You still fear me, then?" he said, in a voice hoarse and unnatural. "Is
it for what I do or for what I leave undone that you hate me, Madame?
Tell me, I beg, for--"
"For neither!" she said, trembling. His eyes, hot and passionate, were
on her, and the blood had mounted to his brow. "For neither! I do not
hate you, Monsieur!"
"You fear me then? I am right in that."
"I fear--that which you carry with you," she stammered, speaking on
impulse and scarcely knowing what she said.
He started, and his expression changed. "So?" he exclaimed. "So? You
know what I carry, do you? And from whom? From whom," he continued in a
tone of menace, "if you please, did you get that knowledge?"
"From M. La Tribe," she muttered.
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