not returned?" he answered, raising his eyebrows. "Then I fear
we must not wait for them. We might wait long!" And turning sharply to
the panic-stricken servants, "Go you to your places! Do you not see that
Mademoiselle waits to be served?"

The girl shuddered and spoke.

"Do you wish me," she muttered, in the same strangled tone, "to play this
farce--to the end?"

"The end may be better, Mademoiselle, than you think," he answered,
bowing. And then to the miserable servants, who hung back afraid to
leave the shelter of their mistress's skirts, "To your places!" he cried.
"Set Mademoiselle's chair. Are you so remiss on other days? If so,"
with a look of terrible meaning, "you will be the less loss! Now,
Mademoiselle, may I have the honour? And when we are at table we can
talk."

He extended his hand, and, obedient to his gesture, she moved to the
place at the head of the table, but without letting her fingers come into
contact with his. He gave no sign that he noticed this, but he strode to
the place on her right, and signed to Tignonville to take that on her
left.

"Will you not be seated?" he continued. For she kept her feet.

She turned her head stiffly, until for the first time her eyes looked
into his. A shudder more violent than the last shook her.

"Had you not better--kill us at once?" she whispered. The blood had
forsaken even her lips. Her face was the face of a statue--white,
beautiful, lifeless.

"I think not," he said gravely. "Be seated, and let us hope for the
best. And you, sir," he continued, turning to Carlat, "serve your
mistress with wine. She needs it."

The steward filled for her, and then for each of the men, his shaking
hand spilling as much as it poured. Nor was this strange. Above the din
and uproar of the street, above the crash of distant doors, above the
tocsin that still rang from the reeling steeple of St. Germain's, the
great bell of the Palais on the island had just begun to hurl its note of
doom upon the town. A woman crouching at the end of the chamber burst
into hysterical weeping, but, at a glance from Tavannes' terrible eye,
was mute again.

Tignonville found voice at last. "Have they--killed the Admiral?" he
muttered, his eyes on the table.

"M. Coligny? An hour ago."

"And Teligny?"

"Him also."

"M. de Rochefoucauld?"

"They are dealing with M. le Comte now, I believe," Tavannes answered.
"He had his chance and cast it away." And he bega