“I do not deny it,” she said fearlessly; “M. d’Aguesseau is my equal--and--and, yes, monsieur, my affianced husband. I do not deny it, nor do I deny my love for him, though he is a prisoner and at your mercy; the _bon Dieu_ defend him and me!” She had never looked more beautiful than at that moment of passionate indignation and defiance in the cause of those she loved. M. de Baudri, looking at her, swore in his heart that he would have her despite heaven and hell. “You are frank, mademoiselle,” he remarked coolly. “’Tis unusual for a young girl to be so eager to declare her affection. I am afflicted indeed; for ’tis my portion to decide M. d’Aguesseau’s fate, and it would grieve me to bereave mademoiselle of her lover!” Rosaline’s distress was shaking her resolution; already her lips were quivering, and there were tears in the blue eyes. “Is his fate in your hands, monsieur?” she asked, with passionate anxiety and a desperate hope. M. de Baudri bowed, with his hand on his heart. “Absolutely,” he replied pleasantly; “he has not yet been handed over to the authorities. By lifting my finger I can set him free and also your grandmother, and as easily I can consign both to the miserable fate awaiting the heretics.” Rosaline took a step forward, clasping her hands and gazing intently into his face. “Ah, monsieur, surely you will be merciful,” she exclaimed, “surely you will spare my grandmother--a feeble woman--and M. d’Aguesseau--has he not suffered enough? _Dieu!_ he has lost all,--his parents, his sister, his property. I cannot believe that you will condemn these two! You are a man, and not a fiend.” He watched her with an inscrutable expression on his face. “And what will you do to regain their liberty?” he asked slowly. “What petition do you make for them?” “I ask you in God’s name,” she said with passionate earnestness, “and on my knees, monsieur, though I never kneeled to living man before.” She was kneeling, her white face lifted, her hands clasped; and with her golden hair she looked more like a supplicating angel than an unhappy and defenceless girl. For him it was a moment of triumph; and his heart was untouched by any feeling of compulsion; it only throbbed with fierce determination. “Rise, mademoiselle,” he said, offering his hand with gallantry. “Serious as the situation is, dangerous as it is for me to release heretics, yet I must be less than human to resist such eloquence and beauty. Your petition is granted--on one condition.” She looked at him searchingly, and her heart sank as she read the expression in his eyes. “And that condition?” she demanded in a low tone. “A simple one, mademoiselle,” he said, with an easy air of confidence: “I adore you, Rosaline; and when you are my wife, these two are free.” “You say this to me after I have declared my love for another man!” she exclaimed aghast, “you say this to me,--a heretic! Your conscience is not very scrupulous.”