She gasped; and he went on: "I see you understand. Well, unless you agree to my terms mademoiselle is secure from harm; and I think you will find Anet a dull retreat." There was a little snapping sound, and she had broken her fan, and flung it from her on to the table. At this moment De Mouchy returned, bringing with him some wine and glasses. One he filled and handed to Diane, who drank it without a word, and then sat staring in front of her. "I think," said Simon, "that madame now agrees to our proposal. Is it not so?' "Yes," she said in a low voice, "I agree," but her eyes were kept down to hide their expression. "That, then, is settled. And remember, madame, that we cannot take action until we have the King's grant in writing. De Mouchy here will see that it is properly registered in the Chambre--and remember it must be within a week, or----" And he bent forward and whispered something in her ear. "It shall be as you desire, Monsieur le Vidame." "In that case," said Simon, filling himself a glass, "I drink to the health of the Great Enterprise. To the unending radiance of the crescent moon, to your new estate of Chateaux Vieux de Mouchy, and to Simon, _Duc_ d'Orrain!" With this he drank, and set the glass back on the table with a little click. There was a silence, and then Diane rose. "There is nothing further to discuss, I think?" she said. "No," replied Simon; "except that Dom Antoine here would like to register a certain grant within a week." She made no answer; but, preceded by De Mouchy and followed by Simon, moved to the door, and all three left the room together. The stars had been with me, and two minutes later I stood beside La Marmotte. "Well?" she asked. "There is no time to talk. If we could but get back that rope it would remove all suspicion." She hesitated, and then: "Perhaps with your sword." "Excellent!" And, drawing my sword, which I had slung on once more, I leaned forth from the window, and found that the point easily reached the hook. It needed but a turn of the wrist to free the rope, which, a moment after, was drawn in safely. "And now," I said, "let us be off. If you are wise you will never set foot here again." She laughed sadly, and we went out together into the lonely Passage of Pity. It was growing dark now, and threading our way through the labyrinth of streets we reached the river face. Here La Marmotte stopped, and abruptly wished me farewell; but I stayed her, thanking her from my heart for her good deed, and ventured, with the utmost diffidence, to say that if she were in need of a friend she could count on me. She understood. "Nay, monsieur," she said, "for me there is but one way, and that is to follow the light that has come to me. We will never meet again; and, perhaps, what I have done to-day may be some recompense for the past. Farewell!"