The girl shuddered and spoke.
“Do you wish me,” she muttered, in the same strangled tone, “to play this farce—to the end?”
“The end may be better, Mademoiselle, than you think,” he answered, bowing. And then to the miserable servants, who hung back afraid to leave the shelter of their mistress’s skirts, “To your places!” he cried. “Set Mademoiselle’s chair. Are you so remiss on other days? If so,” with a look of terrible meaning, “you will be the less loss! Now, Mademoiselle, may I have the honour? And when we are at table we can talk.”
He extended his hand, and, obedient to his gesture, she moved to the place at the head of the table, but without letting her fingers come into contact with his. He gave no sign that he noticed this, but he strode to the place on her right, and signed to Tignonville to take that on her left.
“Will you not be seated?” he continued. For she kept her feet.
She turned her head stiffly, until for the first time her eyes looked into his. A shudder more violent than the last shook her.
“Had you not better—kill us at once?” she whispered. The blood had forsaken even her lips. Her face was the face of a statue—white, beautiful, lifeless.
“I think not,” he said gravely. “Be seated, and let us hope for the best. And you, sir,” he continued, turning to Carlat, “serve your mistress with wine. She needs it.”
The steward filled for her, and then for each of the men, his shaking hand spilling as much as it poured. Nor was this strange. Above the din and uproar of the street, above the crash of distant doors, above the tocsin that still rang from the reeling steeple of St. Germain’s, the great bell of the Palais on the island had just begun to hurl its
