“I have money.” “Mademoiselle,” I cried, “I shall take nothing from this room but the recollection of your kindness, the consciousness of your worth, the sense of your beauty.” “But you will be imprisoned!” “I have had this hour of freedom. The rest is nothing.” “They will put you to death.” “Without you, I do not care to live.” “_Mon Dieu_, what shall I do?” “If you could say—if you could let me believe—it will be but for a short time—that, were the circumstances other than they are, you might perhaps have cared for me, it will lighten the hours and give me something sweet to dwell upon. It will make me indifferent to any fate.” “Monsieur—I—I—” she faltered, her face aflame. She buried it in her hands. I sank on my knee and seized the hem of her gown. Then I felt her hands upon my head. I rose to my feet. I don’t know how or why, but I swept her to my breast in an embrace. Her lips met mine. “No more,” she said, pushing me away. “I have gone too far already. You must not go to him now.” “I am in heaven already, Mademoiselle, and death cannot alter the fact that you return my love.” “But you will not go to him?” “I must.” “No!” She stooped, and before I knew what she was about, she took off one of her dainty slippers—warm from her little foot—and placed it in my hand. “Give that to him,” she said; “you will be free and I shall know how to protect myself.” “Mademoiselle!” “In pity leave me! Go!” I could not resist that. Besides, after a warning cough Éspiau thrust his head through the door and said quickly: “Someone comes! You must hasten!” I kissed her hand, and with one backward glance tore myself away. V THE SLIPPER IS RETURNED To scramble down the ivy was the work of a few seconds. The faithful Bucknall was waiting. Without a word we bounded across the park and the bribed turnkey let us out. As for me I was treading on air. I had never been so happy since I was a boy. Never would she have given me that little slipper, against which my heart throbbed madly, if I had been indifferent to her. Did I intend to give it to du Trémigon? Never! I should let him do his worst. Something would happen. I should get out of it in some way. When we reached the inn we found our horses ready. After we were safely mounted old Bucknall broke the silence. “Did ye git it, yer honor?” asked the old sailor. “Get it, Bucknall? Do you remember me telling you of the lady whom I saved from highwaymen on the road to Paris?” I had to tell someone. It would have killed me not to have been able to confide in a soul, and Bucknall was faithful and devoted beyond the ordinary. “I remembers it well, sir.” “She was the lady in the house yonder.” “You don’t say so, sir!” “I love her, Bucknall!” “Then ye didn’t git it?” said the old salt coolly. “Get it? Of course, I got it. It’s in my waistcoat, over my heart.” “You’ll give it to the Markis?”