Instantly a figure pressed forward and took my place.
“Pass, pass, good people!” it cried, “and I will call the tale!”
She sat there—the Marquise—her lips set in an acrid smile. Neither look nor word did she address to her forfeited servant.
Another shadow passed.
“Darviane!” she cried shrilly.
“Encore bien,” roared Cabochon amidst shrieks of laughter. My God, what laughter!
Milet, De Mérode, Fontenay—she named them all. They took their places by the door, skipping—half-hysterical.
D’Aubiers, Monville—I cannot recall a moiety of them. It was a destructive list. Clélie also was in it—poor Clélie, the frail, I fear, but with the big heart. I fancied I noticed a harder ring in Madame’s voice as she identified her.
I stood stupidly in the background. Presently I heard Cabochon—
“Enough! enough! The virtuous citizens would forestall the Executive.”