ll see, too, whether _noblesse_ is
necessary to courage, for here and now I defy you all and all your
powers!"

A knock interrupted. It was the _concierge_, who handed him a card.
Without looking at it, Lecour replied--

"Tell him I am ill and cannot be seen."

The words upon the card might well have produced his answer. When the
door was shut he glanced at it, started, and held it in his hands,
fascinated by apprehension. It read--

"Le Marquis de Chartier de Lotbiniere."

In the name he recognised that of his father's patron.

"It is clear I must leave this place," thought he; and then it flashed
upon him that de Lotbiniere must have intended to call on _the other
Repentigny_.

"Yes, he would lodge here. Without doubt the reason this is de
Bailleul's resort is that it is a meeting-place for Canadians."

Putting on his hat and cloak he went down to the entrance, and in
passing out said as if casually to the _concierge_--

"Has the Marquis de Repentigny entered yet?"

"Yes, sir," the man returned.

Germain started out into the night, not knowing where to go. It was
about nine o'clock and dark overhead, but the narrow towering streets of
old Paris possessed a rude system of lighting and the life at least of a
great city, so that he felt less lonely than in his rooms, and walked on
and on for several hours.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE EXECUTIONER OF DESTINY

Lorgnette in hand, Cyrene was sitting in the music chamber of the Hotel
de Noailles, scanning the bars of a sheet of music sent her by her
suitor. Near by was the harpsichord on which she was about to try it,
when it seemed to her that a screen beside her trembled. Glancing for an
instant at it she was reassured. Almost immediately, however, it again
shook and fixed her attention, but after watching it for a few moments
and seeing no repetition, she once more turned away, satisfied that she
had been mistaken. Then suddenly she became aware that a man was
standing beside her, sprang to her feet and would have screamed had his
attitude not been so deferential.

He was dressed entirely in black, of the best materials and Paris cut;
his age was over fifty, and his features well made, but pinched and of
an ashen tint. His expression of strange woe roused her sympathy and
quieted her fears.

"Who are you?" she said.

He took no notice of her words.

"Are you la Montmorency," he asked, "the _fiancee_ of the Guardsman?"

"This is a strange question,"