Simon's crown-pieces in his ears.
Perhaps it was the certainty that the birds were caged that made him a
trifle careless, and so there was something in his air and in the
glance he cast back upon his companions, whilst leading them through
the gallery, that filled mademoiselle with a sudden fear, and, but for
her pride, she would have run back to my side. So she nerved herself,
and went on to La Marmotte's room, though it was with a quaking heart.
At the door Torquato stopped, expressed a civil hope that mademoiselle
would be comfortable, and, bowing politely to her as she passed in,
handed the candle to La Marmotte, and was about to return when he felt
his arm seized. It was La Marmotte, and she looked into his face with
eager, searching eyes as she asked: "What does this mean?--more
treachery?"

There was a bitter note in her voice, and the Italian looked at her
steadily. "She grows old," his thoughts ran on, "old, and exacting; I
must end this." Then, because there was other business on hand, he
restrained himself, and answered calmly:

"I mean no harm to her, I assure you."

With this he tried to disengage himself; but La Marmotte was not
satisfied. She felt he was lying. Then, too, all the vague feelings
of the past that had somehow been aroused in her that night were awake
and groping in her poor heart, and, perhaps, with these emotions there
was jealousy--who knows?

Time had been in the gay days in Paris when La Marmotte could have
counted her lovers by the score. At last fate had thrown her across
the path of the Italian, and she, although knowing him evil, loved him
none the less, and followed his uncertain fortune like a faithful dog;
but years were going, and beauty was fading, and her heart was fearful
lest she should be cast adrift.

"Trotto," she said, and her voice was husky, "I--I do not like this.
Let them go."

Torquato Trotto cursed under his breath; but time was short, and he
could not afford to waste it. He bent down and kissed the woman's hand.

"_Carissima_! have no fear. And now let me go and see to our guest's
wounds." With this he freed himself, and went back.

La Marmotte stood for a pace watching the dim figure as it slipped
through the gloom of the corridor, the candle in her hand casting its
light on her red lips, her white neck and arms, and on the silken black
hair that hung to her waist. Then with a half-stifled sigh she
followed mademoiselle, and stepped into the r