tart for France, I will send you that imprudent letter
of his by special courier. More than that, I will pledge you the word of
France, that the day I lay hands on that meddlesome Englishman, St. Just
will be here in England, safe in the arms of his charming sister."

And with a deep and elaborate bow and another look at the clock,
Chauvelin glided out of the room.

It seemed to Marguerite that through all the noise, all the din of
music, dancing, and laughter, she could hear his cat-like tread, gliding
through the vast reception-rooms; that she could hear him go down the
massive staircase, reach the dining-room and open the door. Fate HAD
decided, had made her speak, had made her do a vile and abominable
thing, for the sake of the brother she loved. She lay back in her
chair, passive and still, seeing the figure of her relentless enemy ever
present before her aching eyes.

When Chauvelin reached the supper-room it was quite deserted. It had
that woebegone, forsaken, tawdry appearance, which reminds one so much
of a ball-dress, the morning after.

Half-empty glasses littered the table, unfolded napkins lay about, the
chairs--turned towards one another in groups of twos and threes--very
close to one another--in the far corners of the room, which spoke of
recent whispered flirtations, over cold game-pie and champagne; there
were sets of three and four chairs, that recalled pleasant, animated
discussions over the latest scandal; there were chairs straight up in a
row that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated dowager;
there were a few isolated, single chairs, close to the table, that spoke
of gourmands intent on the most RECHERCHE dishes, and others overturned
on the floor, that spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville's
cellars.

It was a ghostlike replica, in fact, of that fashionable gathering
upstairs; a ghost that haunts every house where balls and good suppers
are given; a picture drawn with white chalk on grey cardboard, dull and
colourless, now that the bright silk dresses and gorgeously embroidered
coats were no longer there to fill in the foreground, and now that the
candles flickered sleepily in their sockets.

Chauvelin smiled benignly, and rubbing his long, thin hands together, he
looked round the deserted supper-room, whence even the last flunkey had
retired in order to join his friends in the hall below. All was silence
in the dimly-lighted room, whilst the sound of the gavotte