priest seemed to
think that some explanation was necessary, for he did not wait to be
questioned.

"Madame de Pavannes," he said in a dry, husky voice, and without
looking up, "was spirited hither yesterday; and detained against her
will by this good man, who will have to answer for it. Madame d'O
discovered her whereabouts, and asked me to escort her here without
loss of time to enforce her sister's release."

"And her restoration to her distracted husband?"

"Just so," the priest assented, acquiring confidence, I thought.

"And Madame desires to go?"

"Surely! Why not?"

"Well," the Vidame drawled, his manner such as to bring the blood to
Madame de Pavannes' cheek, "it depends on the person who--to use your
phrase, M. le Coadjuteur--spirited her hither."

"And that," Madame herself retorted, raising her head, while her voice
quivered with indignation and anger, "was the Abbess of the Ursulines.
Your suspicions are base, worthy of you and unworthy of me, M. le
Vidame! Diane!" she continued sharply, taking her sister's arm, and
casting a disdainful glance at Bezers, "let us go. I want to be with
my husband. I am stifled in this room."

"We are going, little one," Diane murmured reassuringly. But I noticed
that the speaker's animation, which had been as a soul to her beauty
when she entered the room, was gone. A strange stillness was it fear
of the Vidame? had taken its place.

"The Abbess of the Ursulines?" Bezers continued thoughtfully. "SHE
brought you here, did she?" There was surprise, genuine surprise, in
his voice. "A good soul, and, I think I have heard, a friend of yours.
Umph!"

"A very dear friend," Madame answered stiffly. "Now, Diane!"

"A dear friend! And she spirited you hither yesterday!" commented the
Vidame, with the air of one solving an anagram. "And Mirepoix detained
you; respectable Mirepoix, who is said to have a well-filled stocking
under his pallet, and stands well with the bourgeoisie. He is in the
plot. Then at a very late hour, your affectionate sister, and my good
friend the Coadjutor, enter to save you. From what?"

No one spoke. The priest looked down, his cheeks livid with anger.

"From what?" Bezers continued with grim playfulness. "There is the
mystery. From the clutches of this profligate Mirepoix, I suppose.
From the dangerous Mirepoix. Upon my honour," with a sudden ring of
resolution in his tone, "I think you are safer here; I think you had
bette