es would fall on us had they their will;
the houses nod to--to--"

"To what, Mademoiselle?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders and assuming a
tone of cynicism.

"To crush us! Yes, Monsieur, to crush us!"

"And all this because I left you for a moment?"

"For an hour--or well-nigh an hour," she answered more soberly.

"But if I could not help it?"

"You should have thought of that--before you brought me to Paris,
Monsieur. In these troublous times."

He coloured warmly. "You are unjust, Mademoiselle," he said. "There are
things you forget; in a Court one is not always master of one's self."

"I know it," she answered dryly, thinking of that through which she had
gone.

"But you do not know what happened!" he returned with impatience. "You
do not understand that I am not to blame. Madame d'Yverne, when I
reached the Princess Dowager's closet, had left to go to the Queen of
Navarre. I hurried after her, and found a score of gentlemen in the King
of Navarre's chamber. They were holding a council, and they begged, nay,
they compelled me to remain."

"And it was that which detained you so long?"

"To be sure, Mademoiselle."

"And not--Madame St. Lo?"

M. de Tignonville's face turned scarlet. The thrust in tierce was
unexpected. This, then, was the key to Mademoiselle's spirt of temper.

"I do not understand you," he stammered.

"How long were you in the King of Navarre's chamber, and how long with
Madame St. Lo?" she asked with fine irony. "Or no, I will not tempt
you," she went on quickly, seeing him hesitate. "I heard you talking to
Madame St. Lo in the gallery while I sat within. And I know how long you
were with her."

"I met Madame as I returned," he stammered, his face still hot, "and I
asked her where you were. I did not know, Mademoiselle, that I was not
to speak to ladies of my acquaintance."

"I was alone, and I was waiting."

"I could not know that--for certain," he answered, making the best of it.
"You were not where I left you. I thought, I confess--that you had gone.
That you had gone home."

"With whom? With whom?" she repeated pitilessly. "Was it likely? With
whom was I to go? And yet it is true, I might have gone home had I
pleased--with M. de Tavannes! Yes," she continued, in a tone of keen
reproach, and with the blood mounting to her forehead, "it is to that,
Monsieur, you expose me! To be pursued, molested, harassed by a man
whose look terrifies me, and whose to