He suppressed a gesture of anger. But, suddenly, remembering the experiment of the day before and that she seemed rather to have retained a certain optical memory of the time when she enjoyed her full reason, he wrote on the white wall a capital "L" and "M." She stretched out her arm toward the letters and nodded her head as though in assent. "And then?" said Lupin. "What then? . . . Write something yourself." But she gave a fearful scream and flung herself to the ground, yelling. Then, suddenly, came silence, immobility. One last convulsive spasm. And she moved no more. "Dead?" asked the Emperor. "Poisoned, Sire." "Oh, the poor thing! . . . And by whom?" "By 'him,' Sire. She knew him, no doubt. He must have been afraid of what she might tell." The doctor arrived. The Emperor pointed to the girl. Then, addressing Waldemar: "All your men to turn out . . . Make them go through the houses . . . telegraph to the stations on the frontier. . . ." He went up to Lupin: "How long do you want to recover the letters?" "A month, Sire . . . two months at most." "Very well. Waldemar will wait for you here. He shall have my orders and full powers to grant you anything you wish." "What I should like, Sire, is my freedom." "You are free." Lupin watched him walk away and said, between his teeth: "My freedom first. . . . And afterward, when I have given you back the letters, O Majesty, one little shake of the hand! Then we shall be quits! . . ." CHAPTER XIII THE SEVEN SCOUNDRELS "Will you see this gentleman, ma'am?" Dolores Kesselbach took the card from the footman and read: "André Beauny. . . . No," she said, "I don't know him." "The gentleman seems very anxious to see you, ma'am. He says that you are expecting him." "Oh . . . possibly. . . . Yes, bring him here." Since the events which had upset her life and pursued her with relentless animosity, Dolores, after staying at the Hôtel Bristol had taken up her abode in a quiet house in the Rue des Vignes, down at Passy. A pretty garden lay at the back of the house and was surrounded by other leafy gardens. On days when attacks more painful than usual did not keep her from morning till night behind the closed shutters of her bedroom, she made her servants carry her under the trees, where she lay stretched at full length, a victim to melancholy, incapable of fighting against her hard fate. Footsteps sounded on the gravel-path and the footman returned, followed by a young man, smart in appearance and very simply dressed, in the rather out-of-date fashion adopted by some of our painters, with a turn-down collar and a flowing necktie of white spots on a blue ground. The footman withdrew. "Your name is André Beauny, I believe?" said Dolores. "Yes, madame." "I have not the honor . . ." "I beg your pardon, madame. Knowing that I was a friend of Mme. Ernemont, Geneviève's grandmother, you wrote to her, at Garches, saying that you wished to speak to me. I have come."