"On Mademoiselle de Vrillac." The other's eyes gleamed with passion. He leaned forward. "What has she to do with it?" he cried. And he stood up and sat down again in a breath. Tavannes raised his eyebrows with a blandness that seemed at odds with his harsh visage. "I will answer that question by another question," he replied. "How many are there in the house, my friend?" "You can count." Tavannes counted again. "Seven?" he said. Tignonville nodded impatiently. "Seven lives?" "Well?" "Well, Monsieur, you know the King's will?" "I can guess it," the other replied furiously. And he cursed the King, and the King's mother, calling her Jezebel. "You can guess it?" Tavannes answered; and then with sudden heat, as if that which he had to say could not be said even by him in cold blood, "Nay, you know it! You heard it from the archer at the door. You heard him say, 'No favour, no quarter for man, for woman, or for child. So says the King.' You heard it, but you fence with me. Foucauld, with whom his Majesty played to-night, hand to hand and face to face--Foucauld is dead! And you think to live? You?" he continued, lashing himself into passion. "I know not by what chance you came where I saw you an hour gone, nor by what chance you came by that and that"--pointing with accusing finger to the badges the Huguenot wore. "But this I know! I have but to cry your name from yonder casement, nay, Monsieur, I have but to stand aside when the mob go their rounds from house to house, as they will go presently, and you will perish as certainly as you have hitherto escaped!" For the second time Mademoiselle turned and looked at him. "Then," she whispered, with white lips, "to what end this--mockery?" "To the end that seven lives may be saved, Mademoiselle," he answered, bowing. "At a price?" she muttered. "At a price," he answered. "A price which women do not find it hard to pay--at Court. 'Tis paid every day for pleasure or a whim, for rank or the _entree_, for robes and gewgaws. Few, Mademoiselle, are privileged to buy a life; still fewer, seven!" She began to tremble. "I would rather die--seven times!" she cried, her voice quivering. And she tried to rise, but sat down again. "And these?" he said, indicating the servants. "Far, far rather!" she repeated passionately. "And Monsieur? And Monsieur?" he urged with stern persistence, while his eyes passed lightly from her to Tignonville and back to her again, their depths inscrutable. "If you love Monsieur, Mademoiselle, and I believe you do--" "I can die with him!" she cried. "And he with you?" She writhed in her chair.