The vicomte's hand tightened. "I will place the paper in your hands on
the day of our marriage, unreservedly. You will then have the power to
commit me, if so you will. Come, Madame; it grows on toward night.
Which is it to be? A Montbazon's word is as good as a king's louis."

"Once it has been given!"

As a cat leaps, as the shadow of a bird passes, madame's hand flew out
and grasped the projecting end of the paper. The short struggle was
nothing; the red marks on her wrists were painless. Swiftly she rose
and stepped, back, breathing quickly but with triumph. He made as
though to leap, but in that moment she had smoothed out the crumpled
paper. A glance, and it fluttered to the table. Her laughter was very
close to tears.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, what a clever wooer you are!" She fled toward the
door, opened it, and was gone.

The vicomte sat down.

"Truly, that woman must be mine!"

He took up the paper, smoothed it, and laughed. The paper was totally
blank.




CHAPTER XXII