She looked at him in blank amazement, but for a moment no sound came from her lips. “Monsieur,” she stammered at last in breathless anger—“monsieur—” Mornay affected not to hear her. “The coranto, madame,” he said, amusedly; “madame has promised me the coranto.” [21] [21] “’Tis an intrusion, monsieur,” she began, her breast heaving. Mornay had drawn from his laces the pardon of Nick Rawlings. Before she could finish he had opened the paper and handed it towards her. “It is the pardon, madame.” That was all he said. But the crimson seal of the crown, dangling from its cords, caught her eye, and, half bewildered, she glanced down over the writing. “Clemency—thief—murderer—Nick Rawlings—pardon?—a pardon for me, monsieur?” Monsieur Mornay showed his white teeth as he smiled. “Madame forgets her promise of the coranto. Voilà! Here is the pardon. There is the musique. Will madame not dance?” A silence had fallen upon those within earshot, and not a couple took the floor for the dance. His grace of Dorset looked serious. Sir Henry Heywood thrust himself into the circle. But the music tinkled bravely, and Monsieur Mornay still stood there, awaiting her reply. [22] [22] The struggle lasted for some moments. She turned white and red by turns as she fought for her self-control and pressed her hand to her breast to still the tumult which threatened to burst from her lips. Captain Ferrers made a step as though to come between them, but Monsieur Mornay did not notice him. Nor until then did Mistress Clerke break her silence. “Stop, Captain Ferrers,” she coldly said. “I will dance with this—this Monsieur Mornay.” Her tone was frozen through and through with the bitterness of utter contempt. And then, giving Mornay her
Prev.
Back
Top