“Is it entirely composed of Huguenots?”
“It is, madame.”
“What are the numbers?”
“Perhaps two thousand, your Majesty.”
Catherine starts, the lines on her face deepen, and her eyes glitter with astonishment and rage.
“Who is at the head of these rebels?” she asks suddenly, after pausing a few moments.
Avenelle trembles violently; the savage tone of her voice and her imperious manner show him his danger. His teeth chatter, and drops of moisture trickle down his forehead. So great is his alarm that, in spite of his efforts to reply, his voice fails him. Catherine, her eyes riveted on his, waves her hand with an impatient gesture.
“Why do not you answer me, Maître Avenelle? If you are waiting to invent a lie with which to deceive me, believe me, such deceit is useless. The torture-chamber is at hand; the screw will make you speak.”
“Oh, madame,” gasps Avenelle, making a successful effort to recover his voice, “I had no intention to deceive your Majesty; I am come to tell you all I know. It was a passing weakness that overcame me.”
“Who, then, I again ask,” says the Queen, taking a pen in her hand in order to note his reply, “who is at the head of this plot?”