"He said he would not return until to-morrow. You had until to-morrow,
he said."

"And then?"

"He would come and bring the priest with him," Madame Carlat replied
sorrowfully.

"The priest? To-morrow!" Mademoiselle cried. "The priest!" and she
crouched anew with hot eyes behind the hangings of the bed, and,
shivering, hid her face.

But this for a time only. As soon as she had made certain of the
respite, and that she had until the morrow, her courage rose, and with it
the instinct of which mention has been made. Count Hannibal had granted
a respite; short as it was, and no more than the barest humanity
required, to grant one at all was not the act of the mere butcher who
holds the trembling lamb, unresisting, in his hands. It was an act--no
more, again be it said, than humanity required--and yet an act which
bespoke an expectation of some return, of some correlative advantage. It
was not in the part of the mere brigand. Something had been granted.
Something short of the utmost in the captor's power had been exacted. He
had shown that there were things he would not do.

Then might not something more be won from him? A further delay, another
point; something, no matter what, which could be turned to advantage?
With the brigand it is not possible to bargain. But who gives a little
may give more; who gives a day may give a week; who gives a week may give
a month. And a month? Her heart leapt up. A month seemed a lifetime,
an eternity, to her who had but until to-morrow!