“It was M. de Saint-Ermay who insisted, mon père,” replied Mademoiselle de Maisonfleur, and a desolate little smile twitched her mouth for an instant.
“The fact is that I really know how to hold it properly,” said Louis, half to the girl and half to the others, as he held out his hands and she put the skein in position. “I advise you to take a lesson from me, Des Essars.”
“Ah, but could you do it the other way round?” asked Des Essars. “Could you make the ball if Mademoiselle held the skein?”
Whether Louis would have taken up this challenge was to remain unknown, for at that instant the turning of a key in the lock reminded them all that their circle was still incomplete.
“Here are our missing guests,” said the Chevalier, tapping his snuff-box, “or else, indeed, Jacques with the supper.”
It was neither. The door swung open to reveal an unfamiliar figure—an official from the guichet of the prison, with a large bunch of keys in one hand and a paper in the other. A dead silence fell on the room.
“Citizen Chantemerle!” said the man.
Louis looked up for a moment, but he did not stir, and went on placidly holding the skein, though the hands that had held the ball were twisted together in their owner’s lap.
The guichetier referred to his paper. “Louis-Adrien Chantemerle, ci-devant Vicomte de Saint-Ermay. You, there, is not that your cursed name?”
“A portion of it,” responded Louis lazily. “Your information appears fragmentary. However, I do recognise myself.” He rose from the chair. “Mademoiselle, to our next meeting. I regret infinitely that the skein is not finished after all.” He slipped the wool off his hands and slid it gently into her lap, and then catching her shaking fingers, he kissed them with his most courtly air. “Good-bye, Monsieur le Chevalier. Good-bye, Des Essars.”