They found the dark room where all of the munitions of war and compound assassination were stored. Entering, they inadvertently closed the door behind them.
"Dame!" cried Mlle. Fouchette. "The key, monsieur! the key!"
"How provoking!"
"But we have the dynamite——"
"Ah, çà!"
But somehow Mlle. Fouchette was not as badly frightened at the situation as one might have the right to expect. She even laughed gayly at their mutual imprisonment.
"Dynamite!" muttered Jean,—"a throne founded upon dynamite would crumble quickly——"
"Yes, and by dynamite," said she.
"Monsieur de Beauchamp was——"