"You know the ladies?" the Mayor said, turning to me and speaking roughly; even with a tinge of suspicion in his voice. And he looked from one to the other of us sharply. "Perfectly," I said. "They are from Cahors?" "From that neighbourhood." "But," he said, "I told you their names, and you said that you did not know them, M. le Vicomte?" For a moment I held my breath; gazing into Madame's face and reading there anxiety, and something more--a sudden terror. I took the leap--I could do nothing else. "You told me Corvas--that the lady's name was Corvas," I muttered. "Yes," he said. "But Madame's name is Corréas." "Corréas?" he repeated, his jaw falling. "Yes, Corréas. I dare say that the ladies," I continued with assumed politeness, "did not in their fright speak very clearly." "And their name is Corréas?" "I told you that it was," Madame answered, speaking for the first time, "and also that I knew nothing of your Capuchin monk. And this last," she continued earnestly, her eyes fixed on mine in passionate appeal--in appeal that this time could not be mistaken--"I say again, on my honour!" I knew that she meant this for me; and I responded to the cry. "Yes, M. le Maire," I said, "I am afraid that you have made a mistake. I can answer for Madame as for myself." The Mayor rubbed his head. CHAPTER XVI. THREE IN A CARRIAGE. "Of course, if Madame--if Madame knows nothing of the monk," he said, looking vacantly about the dirty room, "it is clear that--it seems clear that there has been a mistake." "And only one thing remains to be done," I suggested. "But--but," he continued, with a resumption of his former importance, "there is still one point unexplained--that of the red cockade, Monsieur? What of that, M. le Vicomte?" "The red cockade?" I said. "Ay, what of that?" he asked briskly. I had not expected this, and I looked desperately at Madame. Surely her woman's wit would find a way, whatever the cockade meant. "Have you asked Madame Corréas?" I said at last, feebly shifting the burden. "Have you asked her to explain it?" "No," he answered. "Then I would ask her," I said. "Nay, do not ask me; ask M. le Vicomte," she answered lightly. "Ask him of what colour are the facings of the National Guards of Quercy?" "Red!" I cried, in a burst of relief. "Red!" I knew, for had I not seen Buton's coat lying by the forge? But how Madame de St. Alais knew I have no idea. "Ah!" M. Flandre said, with the air of one still a little doubtful. "And Madame wears the cockade for that reason?" "No, M. le Maire," she answered, with a roguish smile; I saw that it was her plan to humour him. "I do not--my daughter does. If you wish to ask further, or the reason, you must ask her." M. Flandre had the curiosity of the true bourgeois, and the love of the sex. He simpered. "If Mademoiselle would be so good," he said.