Felton entered Milady’s apartment. Milady arose.
“You are here!” said she.
“I promised to come,” said Felton, “and I have come.”
“You promised me something else.”
“What, my God!” said the young man, who in spite of his self-command felt his knees tremble and the sweat start from his brow.
“You promised to bring a knife, and to leave it with me after our interview.”
“Say no more of that, Madame,” said Felton. “There is no situation, however terrible it may be, which can authorize a creature of God to inflict death upon himself. I have reflected, and I cannot, must not be guilty of such a sin.”
“Ah, you have reflected!” said the prisoner, sitting down in her armchair, with a smile of disdain; “and I also have reflected.”
“Upon what?”
“That I can have nothing to say to a man who does not keep his word.”
“Oh, my God!” murmured Felton.
“You may retire,” said Milady. “I will not talk.”
“Here is the knife,” said Felton, drawing from his pocket the weapon which he had brought, according to his promise, but which he hesitated to give to his prisoner.
“Let me see it,” said Milady.