Tavannes raised his eyebrows with a blandness that seemed at odds with his harsh visage.
“I will answer that question by another question,” he replied. “How many are there in the house, my friend?”
“You can count.”
Tavannes counted again. “Seven?” he said. Tignonville nodded impatiently.
“Seven lives?”
“Well?”
“Well, Monsieur, you know the King’s will?”
“I can guess it,” the other replied furiously. And he cursed the King, and the King’s mother, calling her Jezebel.
“You can guess it?” Tavannes answered; and then with sudden heat, as if that which he had to say could not be said even by him in cold blood, “Nay, you know it! You heard it from the archer at the door. You heard him say, ‘No favour, no quarter for man, for woman, or for child. So says the King.’ You heard it, but you fence with me. Foucauld, with whom his Majesty played to-night, hand to hand and face to face—Foucauld is dead! And you think to live? You?” he continued, lashing himself into passion. “I know not by what chance you came where I saw you an hour gone, nor by what chance you came by that and that”—pointing with accusing finger to the badges the Huguenot wore. “But this I know! I have but to cry your name from yonder casement, nay, Monsieur, I have but to stand aside when the mob go their rounds from house to house, as they will go presently, and you will perish as certainly as you have hitherto escaped!”
For the second time Mademoiselle turned and looked at him.
“Then,” she whispered, with white lips, “to what end this—mockery?”
