His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission. You are my wife now and you belong to me. Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. Here he was preparing to leap over the hedge into the fields on the left, when he was intercepted by two horsemen, who, hearing the shouts, rode up and struck at him with the butt-ends of their heavy riding-whips.
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