For a moment Dangeau's heart stood still, then laboured so that his voice was beyond control. It came in husky gasps. "Dead—she is dead. Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!"
Rosalie was rocking to and fro, counting on her fingers. His emotion seemed to please her, for she gave a foolish smile.
"She has a little white neck, very smooth and soft," she muttered.
A terrible sound broke from Dangeau's ghastly lips; a sound that steadied for a moment the woman's tottering mind. She looked up curiously, as if recalling something, smoothed the hair from her forehead, and touched the rigid hand which lay upon her shoulder.
"Tiens, Citizen," she said in a different tone, "she is not dead yet"; and the immense relief gave Dangeau's anger rein.
"Woman!" he said violently, "what has happened? Where is she? At once——"
Rosalie twitched away her shoulder, shrinking back against the wall. This blaze of anger kept her sane for the moment.
"She is in prison, at the Abbaye," she said. Under the excitement her brain cleared, and she was thinking now, debating how much she should tell him.
"Since when?"
"A month—six weeks—what do I know?"