THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
“No, no,” she began, pleadingly; “you must hear me. I am English, like the King you serve. At your hands I have every right to consideration.”
“You sail in parlous times, madame,” he replied, coldly, striving to disguise his voice.
“Listen, sir. I have braved danger of insult, and worse, to come hither to-night. But there is something—I cannot tell what—which says that you will deal fairly.”
“Your confidence, I trust, is not ill-placed,” with averted head.
“Your manner of speaking betrays that you are French. Nay, do not turn away, monsieur. If you are not English, you serve an English master, and that should be the guarantee of all honesty.”
“Honesty is as honesty does,” he replied, turning with more assurance to address her. And then, “You come a cool dove of peace in time of hot war, madame. You have no place in such a scene as this.”
“Give me a word, sir, and I will go.”
His gaze was fixed blankly upon the starless
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