Marguerite turned quickly, in alarm, which was not altogether feigned.
“Lud, man! you frightened me,” she said with a forced little laugh, “your presence is entirely inopportune. I want to listen to Glück, and have no mind for talking.”
“But this is my only opportunity,” he said, as quietly, and without waiting for permission, he drew a chair close behind her—so close that he could whisper in her ear, without disturbing the audience, and without being seen, in the dark background of the box. “This is my only opportunity,” he repeated, as she vouchsafed him no reply, “Lady Blakeney is always so surrounded, so fêted by her court, that a mere old friend has but very little chance.”
“Faith, man!” she said impatiently, “you must seek for another opportunity then. I am going to Lord Grenville’s ball to-night after the opera. So are you, probably. I’ll give you five minutes then. . . .”
“Three minutes in the privacy of this box are quite sufficient for me,” he rejoined placidly, “and I think that you would be wise to listen to me, Citoyenne St. Just.”
Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised his voice above a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff, yet there was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes, which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of some deadly hitherto unguessed peril.
“Is that a threat, citoyen?” she asked at last.
“Nay, fair lady,” he said gallantly, “only an arrow shot into the air.”
He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a mouse running heedlessly by, ready to spring, yet waiting with that feline sense of enjoyment of mischief about to be done. Then he said quietly—
“Your brother, St. Just, is in peril.”