Mme de Trélan, every sense on the alert, remained outside. Dared she run down the stairs again, and could she do any good if she did? She had not long to hesitate, for in an instant Camain’s voice was heard summoning her within, and she obeyed, anxiety as to what was going forward downstairs swallowing for the moment every other feeling. “You might show these gentlemen the pictures, Madame Vidal,” said her master, looking up from his favourite Sèvres. And as the three men of the party attached themselves to her, the Duchesse began to move slowly along the line of Trélans, starting as far as possible from her husband’s portrait. She heard, before beginning her own unwilling exposition, Camain saying, “You see this plate, ladies; I believe it was one of a service painted for the late Duchesse on her marriage.” And she guessed to what he was directing the attention of those fair and envious vulgarians, to the plate of green Sèvres with the alternate medallions of cherubs on clouds, baskets of flowers, and green wreaths, round the rim whose extreme edge was of dark blue hatched with gold. “That must be the poor woman’s monogram in the middle, then,” said one of them, and Valentine knew that she was looking at the gold T in the centre, intertwined with a V of roses and forget-me-nots, and surmounted by a coronet. “T for Trélan, of course—I wonder what the V stood for?” “I don’t know,” said Camain. “Victoire or Victorine, I expect. Do you know, Mademoiselle Dufour?” “Why on earth should I?” asked Rose Dufour indifferently. “Let me look at it, Georges—I’ll take it in my own hands, thanks . . . Great God, how clumsy you are!” For the sound of a smash told that the late Duchesse de Trélan’s plate now existed only in fragments. Through the ensuing recriminations between the Deputy and his _innamorata_, and the expressions of concern from everybody else in the room, including her own three prospective picture-gazers, Valentine’s ears were strained to catch other sounds. And as she still did not hear them she began to entertain a faint hope. The château was so large that a man might lead his pursuers a good dance and elude them in the end. Unfortunately M. de Brencourt was not familiar with its topography. “If you say you dropped it because you were carrying my pelisse I’ll take the pelisse myself!” Mlle Dufour’s voice emerged again, sounding less good-humoured than usual. “No, I’m not going to carry it on my arm—Heaven forbid. You can put it on my shoulders, only don’t drop it also—Bon Dieu, what’s that?” For a loud knock had come at the door, which stood ajar—a knock that sounded to Valentine like the summons of Fate. Moving a trifle, she was able to see the soldier outside, whose approaching footfalls the recent scene had drowned. A sensitive lady gave a little scream.