‘Is he not yet here?’ she asked.
‘He is not, madame,’ said Desgrais in an altered tone; ‘nor is it likely that he will come.’
‘What do you imply?’ exclaimed Marie, somewhat alarmed, and advancing towards the door.
‘Pardon me, madame,’ said Desgrais, ‘but you cannot pass.’
‘Insolent!’ cried the Marchioness. ‘What does this outrage mean?’
‘That you are my prisoner, madame.’
‘Prisoner! And by whose orders?’
‘By order of his Majesty Louis XIV., King of France,’ cried Desgrais loudly, as he threw aside his abbe’s robes, and appeared in his under-clothing as exempt of the guard. ‘Madame, you are mine at last!’
The words had been the signal to those without, whom he had left the room to put upon their guard. As he pronounced
