Four days had passed since that dreadful night in the Rue des Mathurins--days the memory of which can never be effaced whilst I live. No tidings were obtainable of mademoiselle, save that she was amongst the prisoners who were being tried in secret by De Mouchy, and all efforts to communicate with her had been in vain. This much, however, leaked out: that owing to the whispers that had got abroad--none knew how--the prisoners, with the exception of one or two, were not of importance; but this in itself made the matter worse for mademoiselle, and gave the mock court of justice--it could be called by no other name--every opportunity of veiling its real purpose. In this De Mouchy was managing the trial with great skill. The prisoners of no account--the scrivener's clerk, the poor shopkeeper, the small mercer--got the benefit of plea and quibble! God knows, I did not grudge them that! But each acquittal, pronounced loudly in the name of the King's mercy, with high-flown words about the love of the King for his people, led step by step to the real object for which the infamous triangle worked. Already the gossips were beginning to wag their tongues at the leniency shown. It was said in the cabarets and public places that the memory of the tailor of St. Antoine haunted the King, and that he and the Queen were, in secret, heretics. At the last acquittal the cruel mob of Paris had actually dared to parade the streets, with angry cries at being deprived of the hideous spectacle of an expiation. "_Au feu, au feu_! Death to the Christaudins!" I still seem to hear their voices. And so the time was ripe for the law to claim its prey, for the shameless three to gather in their spoil, and for an evil, vindictive woman to accomplish her revenge. The King was at Fontainebleau, whither he had gone, accompanied by La Valentinois and the Court. The Queen was at St. Germain-en-Laye, and the Louvre--except for its guards--was deserted. On the morning of the fifth day, however, the Queen returned, and although she knew what had happened she summoned me before her to hear the story from my lips. I found her in her study with three or four of her ladies. Catherine looked pale and heavy-eyed, and there were hard lines about her mouth. It was said she had never smiled since the day of the masque. I for one am certain it was from that day her secretive nature took the dark and devious course that led her to be what she became; but now it was only the beginning. I said what I had to say briefly, and when I was done the Queen looked up at me. "Is this all?" I bowed in silent response, and after a pause she continued: "I know what you would ask. I have done my best. I have written to the King to pardon Mademoiselle de Paradis, as he forgave Madame de Rentigny. I wrote at once, four days ago." And then she flushed to her temples as she added: "Up to now there has been no answer. It is useless to go myself----"