ay, a loud creaking, growling sound made itself heard outside
the door at the other end. Half-a-dozen heads came out of their cells;
half-a-dozen voices asked and answered the question, 'What is it?' 'They
are bolting our door outside.' But only Eustacie sped like lightning
along the passage, pulled at the door, and cried, 'Open! Open, I say!'
No answer, but the other bolt creaked.

'You mistake, CONCIERGE! We are never bolted in! My maid is shut out.'

No answer, but the step retreated. Eustacie clasped her hands with a cry
that she could hardly have repressed, but which she regretted the next
moment.

Gabrielle de Limeuil laughed. 'What, Mademoiselle, are you afraid they
will not let us out to-morrow?'

'My maid!' murmured Eustacie, recollecting that she must give a colour
to her distress.

'Ah! perhaps she will summon old Pierre to open for us.'

This suggestion somewhat consoled Eustacie, and she stood intently
listening for Veronique's step, wishing that her companions would hold
their peace; but the adventure amused them, and they discussed whether
it were a blunder of the CONCIERGE, or a piece of prudery of Madame la
Comtesse, or, after all, a precaution. The palace so full of strange
people, who could say what might happen? And there was a talk of
a conspiracy of the Huguenots. At any rate, every one was too much
frightened to go to sleep, and, some sitting on the floor, some on
a chest, some on a bed, the girls huddled together in Gabrielle de
Limeuil's recess, the nearest to the door, and one after another related
horrible tales of blood, murder, and vengeance--then, alas! Only too
frequent occurrences in their unhappy land--each bringing some frightful
contribution from her own province, each enhancing upon the last-told
story, and ever and anon pausing with bated breath at some fancied
sound, or supposed start of one of the others; then clinging close
together, and renewing the ghastly anecdote, at first in a hushed voice
that grew louder with the interest of the story. Eustacie alone would
not join the cluster. Her cloak round her shoulders, she stood with
her back against the door, ready to profit by the slightest indication
outside of a step that might lead to her release, or at least enable
her to communicate with Veronique; longing ardently that her companions
would go to bed, yet unable to avoid listening with the like dreadful
fascination to each of the terrible histories, which added each momen