But the Countess de Vassart was already in the hall, facing Buckhurst with perfect composure.
Twice she ordered him to leave; he looked up from his whispered consultation with Mornac and coolly motioned her to be silent.
Once she spoke to Mornac, quietly demanding a reason for the outrage, and Mornac silenced her with a brutal gesture.
“Madame,” I said, “it is I they want. I beg you to retire.”
“You are my guest,” she said. “My place is here.”
“Your place is where I please to put you!” broke in Mornac; and to Buckhurst: “I tell you she’s as guilty as the others. Let me attend to this and make a clean sweep!”
“Citizen Mornac will endeavor to restrain his zeal,” observed Buckhurst, with a sneer. And then, as I looked at this slender, pallid man, I understood who was the dominant power behind the curtain; and so did Speed, for I felt him press my elbow significantly.
He turned and addressed us, suavely, bowing with a horrid, mock deference to the Countess:
“In the name of the commune! The ci-devant Countess de Vassart is accused of sheltering the individual Scarlett, late inspector of Imperial Police; the individual Speed, ex-inspector of Imperial Gendarmes; the individual Eyre, under general suspicion; the 365 woman called Sylvia Elven, a German spy. As war-delegate of the commune, I am here to accuse!”
There was a silence, then a low, angry murmur from the soldiers, which grew louder until Buckhurst turned on them. He did not utter a word, but the sullen roar died out, a bayonet rattled, then all was still in the dancing torch-light.