"And I choke!" she retorted; "I choke! Do you not see how they look at us, at us Huguenots, in the street? How they, who live here, point at us and curse us? How the very dogs scent us out and snarl at our heels, and the babes cross themselves when we go by? Can you see the Place des Gastines and not think what stood there? Can you pass the Greve at night and not fill the air above the river with screams and wailings and horrible cries--the cries of our people murdered on that spot?" She paused for breath, recovered herself a little, and in a lower tone, "For me," she said, "I think of Philippa de Luns by day and by night! The eaves are a threat to me; the tiles would fall on us had they their will; the houses nod to--to--" "To what, Mademoiselle?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders and assuming a tone of cynicism. "To crush us! Yes, Monsieur, to crush us!" "And all this because I left you for a moment?" "For an hour--or well-nigh an hour," she answered more soberly. "But if I could not help it?" "You should have thought of that--before you brought me to Paris, Monsieur. In these troublous times." He coloured warmly. "You are unjust, Mademoiselle," he said. "There are things you forget; in a Court one is not always master of one's self." "I know it," she answered dryly, thinking of that through which she had gone. "But you do not know what happened!" he returned with impatience. "You do not understand that I am not to blame. Madame d'Yverne, when I reached the Princess Dowager's closet, had left to go to the Queen of Navarre. I hurried after her, and found a score of gentlemen in the King of Navarre's chamber. They were holding a council, and they begged, nay, they compelled me to remain." "And it was that which detained you so long?" "To be sure, Mademoiselle." "And not--Madame St. Lo?" M. de Tignonville's face turned scarlet. The thrust in tierce was unexpected. This, then, was the key to Mademoiselle's spirt of temper. "I do not understand you," he stammered. "How long were you in the King of Navarre's chamber, and how long with Madame St. Lo?" she asked with fine irony. "Or no, I will not tempt you," she went on quickly, seeing him hesitate. "I heard you talking to Madame St. Lo in the gallery while I sat within. And I know how long you were with her." "I met Madame as I returned," he stammered, his face still hot, "and I asked her where you were. I did not know, Mademoiselle, that I was not to speak to ladies of my acquaintance." "I was alone, and I was waiting." "I could not know that--for certain," he answered, making the best of it. "You were not where I left you. I thought, I confess--that you had gone. That you had gone home."