He numbered up his list rapidly, counted his prisoners. They tallied.
“To be repeated to-morrow,” he said. “It is good sport. But the guessers, it seems, remain.”
He treated us to a grin and a clumsy bow, gave the order to form, and carried off his new batch to the baking.
As the door clanged upon them I gave a deep gasp. I could not believe in the reality of my respite.
For the thinned company the reaction had set in immediately: women were flung prostrate, on the table, over the benches, wailing out their desperate loss and misery.
Madame made her way to me. The strange smile had not left her mouth.
“You were on the list. I saw it in your face.”
“I was at the bottom—the very last.”
“But how——?”
“As Cabochon struggled with me, I turned my name down and tore it off.”