Charlot's brows were suddenly knit with vexation. He half-turned to La Boulaye, as if to speak; but ere he could utter a word-- “The debt has been paid, Citoyenne,” said Caron impassively. Before that cold answer, so coldly delivered, Mademoiselle recoiled. “Paid!” she echoed mechanically. “Aye, paid,” he rejoined. “You claimed your brother's life in payment, and I gave it to you. Do you not think that we are quits? Besides,” he ended suddenly, “Captain Tardivet is the master here. Address your appeals to him, Citoyenne.” With terror written on her face, she turned from him to meet the flushed countenance of Charlot, who, with arms akimbo and his head on one side, was regarding her at once with mockery and satisfaction. “What do you intend by us, Monsieur?” she questioned in a choking voice. He smiled inscrutably. “Allay your fears, Citoyenne; you will find me very gentle.” “I knew you would prove generous,” she cried. “But, yes, Citoyenne,” he rejoined, in the tones we employ to those who fear unreasonably. “I shall prove generous; as generous as--as was my lord your father.” La Boulaye trembled, but his face remained calmly expressionless as he watched that grim scene. “Monsieur!” Suzanne cried out in horror. “You will not dare, you scum!” blazed the Marchioness. Charlot shrugged his shoulders and laughed, whereupon Madame de Bellecour seemed to become a being transformed. Her ample flesh, which but a moment back had quivered in fear, quivered now more violently still in anger. The colour flowed back into her cheeks until they flamed an angry crimson, and her vituperations rang in so loud and fierce a voice that at last, putting his hands to his ears, Charlot crossed to the door. “Silence!” he roared at her, so savagely that her spirit forsook her on the instant. “I will put an end to this,” he swore, as he opened the door. “Hold there! Is Guyot below?” “Here, Captain,” came a voice. Charlot retraced his steps, leaving the door wide, his eyes dwelling upon Suzanne until she shrank under its gaze, as she might have done from the touch of some unclean thing. She drew near to her mother, in whom the brief paroxysm of rage was now succeeded by a no less violent paroxysm of weeping. On the stairs sounded Guyot's ascending steps. “Mother,” whispered Suzanne, setting her arms about her in a vain attempt to comfort. Then she heard Charlot's voice curtly bidding Guyot to reconduct the Marquise to her carriage. Madame de Bellecour heard it also, and roused herself once more. “I will not go,” she stormed, anger flashing again from the tear-laden eyes. “I will not leave my daughter.” Charlot shrugged his shoulders callously. “Take her away, Guyot,” he said, shortly, and the sturdy soldier obeyed him with a roughness that took no account of either birth or sex.