“But, yes!” she cried, “a game, a game! I acquit myself of these follies. It is present life I desire. Messieurs, what is it to be? To the front, François!” The man responded at a leap. The veins of all received the infection of his wild humour. In a moment, chattering and pushing and giggling, we were to take our places for “_Shadow Buff_.” We had no sheet. The dirty drab of the wall must suffice. A stool was placed for the guesser--not yet appointed; and la Marquise’s four candles, relighted, were placed on the table over against it, in a receding row like a procession of acolytes. Between the candles and the back of the guesser the company were to pass one by one, for identification by means of the shadows cast on the wall. “Who shall take the stool?” The clamour echoed up to the vaulted stonework of the roof--and died. Cabochon’s evil face was visible at the grille. He saw what we were at; the dull brute was sopped with drink and bestially amiable. His key grated in the door and he stood before us, his bodyguard supporting him, the fatal list in his hand. “Ah!” he said, “but ‘_Shadow Buff_’ again? It is well timed. Yet I could name some citizen shadows without sitting on the stool.” His voice guttered like a candle. It seemed to run into greasy drops. A wild inspiration seized me. “_Voilà, citoyen!_” I cried. “You shall join us. You shall take your victims from the wall!” In a moment I had snatched the dirty rag of paper out of his hand, and had retreated with it a few paces. I had an instant to glance down the list before he slouched at me in sodden anger. My heart gave a queer little somersault and came upright again. “_Sang Dieu!_” he growled, thickly. “You do well to jest. Give me the paper, or I’ll brain you with my keys!” I dropped laughing upon the stool, and held the list between and under my knees. With an oath he fell upon me. The company applauded it all with a frenzy of mad mirth and frolic. The struggle was brief. He rose directly, puffing and cursing, the paper in his hand. I affected a crestfallen good-humour. “You might have let us have our game out,” I protested. With his recovered authority in his hand, the rascal condescended to some facetious tolerance. “So!” he said; “you play a good part. They should have you for King George in ‘Le Dernier Jugement des Rois.’ But rest content. You shall appear on a notable stage yet, and before an audience more appreciative than that of the Théâtre de la République.” “And I shall know how to bow my thanks, citizen.” “Ah!” he crowed. “I love thee! Thou shalt have thy game and sit here; and I will pick from the flock as thou numberest its tale.” It fell in with the reckless, dreadful humour of the times. I would have withdrawn from the cruel jest, but it was the company of _les misérables_ that prevented me. Who should go first? There was a little hesitation and reluctance. “Come, hurry!” cried Cabochon, “or I must do my own guessing!”