"Of the Sixteen?"
"Of the Sixteen," she nodded, her shrewd face agleam with mischief. "In truth, if my son were within, you were little likely to find harbourage here. But, as it is, he and his wife are supping with his Grace of Lyons. And the servants are one and all gone to mass, leaving madame grand'mère to shift for herself. No, no, my good friends; you may knock till you drop, but you won't get in."
The attacking party was indeed hammering energetically on the door, shouting to us to open, to deny them at our peril. The eyes of the old lady glittered with new delight at every rap.
"I fancy they will think twice before they batter down M. Ferou's door! Ma foi! I fancy they are a little mystified at finding you sanctuaried in this house. Was it not my Lord Mayenne's jackal, François de Brie?"
"Yes; and Marc Latour."
"I thought I knew them," she cried in evident pride at her sharpness. "It was dark, and they were masked, and my eyes are old, but I knew them! And which of the ladies is it?"
He could do no less than answer his saviour.
"Ah, well," she said, with a little sigh, "I too once—but that is a long time ago." Then her eyes twinkled again; I trow she was not much given to sighing. "That is a long time ago," she repeated briskly, "and now they think I am too old to do aught but tell my beads and wait for death. But I like to have a hand in the game."
"I will come to take a hand with you any time, madame," M. Étienne assured her. "I like the way you play."
She broke into shrill, delighted laughter.