e him the purity of innocence.

And so it was too with La Marmotte, who had turned to us with a light
laugh, and lighter words to her lips; but laugh and words died away as
she met the girl's look, and--I could read her like an open
page--awakened memory took the woman back to the time when she herself
was as the girl before her. And so, because there were yet undefiled
wells of good in her soul, there came upon her an unwonted timidity,
and it was with a respectful hesitation that she pressed upon us seats
and refreshment. But even as she did so her eyes met mine with a
half-imploring, half-defiant glance. She felt that I knew, though I
thanked her for her courtesy as if she were a princess of the land.

Mademoiselle sank weariedly into a chair; whilst La Marmotte, with all
the silent notes in her heart touched in some undefinable way, hovered
over her, fearing to approach her, and yet feeling as if she must.

For me, I remained standing, softly rubbing my wounded arm, over which
I had drawn my cloak, and looking around me here, there, and
everywhere, for I knew we were in a trap, and trapped by my own folly.
As I looked I saw something white showing beneath the cushions of a
settle, and taking the cup of wine that La Marmotte handed to me I
moved thereto, and, sitting down, looked more closely. It was a white
mask. Softly drawing it forth, and, unobserved, slipping it into the
pocket of my cloak, I saw in doing so that it was stained with fresh
blood, and then I knew we were in the house of death.

At this moment Torquato Trotto appeared at the door with suave
apologies, and stepping forward, rubbing his hands together, he said:
"I regret to have appeared so discourteous; I trust that monsieur and
madame will remain here for to-night."

"I am afraid, Signer Torquato Trotto, that is impossible."

"_Per Bacco_! You know me!" exclaimed the Italian in slight surprise.

"The name of Torquato Trotto is known in France," I said, and the brow
of the man darkened.

"Perhaps I too can return the compliment, monsieur. You are----"

"Bertrand Broussel, bourgeois, of the Rue des Lavandieres, Paris," I
interrupted, and I caught a strange expression of disappointment in
mademoiselle's eyes. "Hum!" I thought, "does the furrier's niece take
me for a prince of the blood in disguise?"

La Marmotte, however, cut in at this juncture, for she saw the storm in
the air, and I again said that we would go on at once, if Messi