Some two hours after Gilbert was repulsed from Madame d’Espaze’s door an old man and a young girl were sitting in the Hôtel de la Force playing backgammon by a scanty fire. The large, bare room was empty but for themselves, for La Force had not then the crowd of captives of which it was to be relieved in so bloody a fashion just two months later. Nevertheless there ran across the apartment a long trestle table void of a cloth, and the old man looked up every now and again from his game as though expecting an arrival. “Our guests and the supper are alike late to-night, my dear,” he remarked at last, pushing away the board and the pieces. He wore the cross of Saint Louis on a faded and old-fashioned coat; the snuff-box between his long blanched fingers was of common horn, and a network of darning obscured the original Mechlin of the lace at his wrists. For the Chambre des Victoires, where he sat, was on the debtors’ side of La Force, itself pre-eminently a debtors’ prison, though already opening to receive political offenders. A moment after his observation a key turned in the door, and three men came in. Two of them were quite young, the third about thirty-five, and all, after saluting the occupants of the room with some ceremony, fell to conversation with them with the ease and humour of old acquaintances. Indeed it was now some months since the five had been accustomed to take their evening meal in common—for though they always called the Chevalier de Maisonfleur their host, the title was one of courtesy only, belonging more properly to the State, which provided apartment, food, and service, and was willing, in return for a small extra payment, to save its officials the trouble of dishing up separate repasts. “Mademoiselle, your hands are cold,” said one of the younger men. “In July too. I fear the Chambre des Victoires is chilly even in summer.” “They were late in lighting the fire, Monsieur,” replied the girl, “and perhaps I am tired to-day.” The ghost of a sigh checked on her white lips. “I trust our host will not think me a boor,” said his companion, bowing to the old man where he sat with crossed legs in his chair, an air of contentment on his lined and high-bred features. “But I should like to suggest that his domestics are behindhand with the banquet also.” The Chevalier de Maisonfleur smiled. “You have my sincere apologies, M. Chanzeau. I must really speak sharply to my _maître d’hôtel_. Ah, here is the rogue.”