The man responded at a leap. The veins of all received the infection of his wild humour. In a moment, chattering and pushing and giggling, we were to take our places for “Shadow Buff.”
We had no sheet. The dirty drab of the wall must suffice. A stool was placed for the guesser—not yet appointed; and la Marquise’s four candles, relighted, were placed on the table over against it, in a receding row like a procession of acolytes. Between the candles and the back of the guesser the company were to pass one by one, for identification by means of the shadows cast on the wall.
“Who shall take the stool?”
The clamour echoed up to the vaulted stonework of the roof—and died. Cabochon’s evil face was visible at the grille.
He saw what we were at; the dull brute was sopped with drink and bestially amiable. His key grated in the door and he stood before us, his bodyguard supporting him, the fatal list in his hand.
“Ah!” he said, “but ‘Shadow Buff’ again? It is well timed. Yet I could name some citizen shadows without sitting on the stool.”
His voice guttered like a candle. It seemed to run into greasy drops.
A wild inspiration seized me.
“Voilà, citoyen!” I cried. “You shall join us. You shall take your victims from the wall!”
In a moment I had snatched the dirty rag of paper out of his hand, and had retreated with it a few paces. I had an instant to glance down the list before he slouched at me in sodden anger. My heart gave a queer little somersault and came upright again.