Mère Tigrane hesitated, looking at the coins in her hand, but she had a motive more powerful than greed this time. She changed her tone, however. “I’m a poor woman, Excellency,” she whined; “’tis worth more.” He threw her a broad piece, with a curse. “Go on!” he shouted, fiercely; “or I’ll break your neck.” She put the money into her wallet and then licked her lips; there was a good taste in her mouth. “Monsieur knows the family at St. Cyr,” she said, one evil eye seeming to fix itself on Charlot; “the old woman and her granddaughter are there, and a steward.” M. de Baudri was interested now; he frowned darkly upon her. “Does monsieur know who the steward is?” she demanded, her head on one side. “No, I thought not! ’Tis M. d’Aguesseau,--the heretic from Dauphiné,--whose father was broken on the wheel at Montpellier to the edification of all good people; and his sister was in the Tour de Constance. Her body was shown here at a fair. _Dame!_ but her flesh was white.” M. de Baudri threw her another coin. “Your information is good,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a smile. She curtsied and thrust the money in her wallet. “That is not all, monsieur,” she said amiably; “the young mademoiselle at the château--she went with this heretic to a prayer-meeting out there by the old quarry and sang psalms there. Mère Tigrane knows! And old Madame de St. Cyr, she too is a heretic. _Dame!_ the château would make a good burning, monsieur.” M. de Baudri turned a black face on her. “Look you, hag,” he said, “there is more money. You are well paid, but if a word of this goes to any one else, _nom de Ciel!_ I will hang you. Now--_au diable!_” Mère Tigrane took the money eagerly, vowing that she would be discreet, and got out of the room just in time to escape a boot that M. de Baudri picked up to throw at her. He was in a storm of passion; he summoned his servants and ordered one to bring his horse and the other to get his riding-suit, and then he went to his room to dress, cursing heaven and earth in his haste to be off to St. Cyr. The hunchbacked cobbler had been forgotten, and when M. de Baudri went out he quietly gathered up his bag and left the house. His face was white, but he had never walked so fast as he did then. He did not go to the shop; he went straight along the Rue St. Antoine and out at the gate, and the road to St Césaire stretched before him, as endless and as steep--to his vision--as the road to heaven. CHAPTER XVI A BRIEF DELAY