She fumbled over the clasp.  M. Etienne, with a “Permit me, madame,” took it boldly from her hand and hooked it himself about mademoiselle’s neck.  He delayed longer than he need over the fastening of it, looking with burning intentness straight into her face.  She lifted her eyes to his with a quick frown of displeasure, drawing herself back; then all at once the colour waved across her face like the dawn flush over a gray sky.  She blushed to her very hair, to her very ruff.  Then the red vanished as quickly as it had come; she clutched at her bosom, on the verge of a swoon.

He threw out his arms to catch her.  Instantly she stepped aside, and, turning with a little unsteady laugh to the lady at whose elbow she found herself, asked: 

“Does it become me, madame?”

The little scene had passed so quickly that it seemed none had marked it.  Mademoiselle had stood a little out of the group, monsieur with his back to it, and the ladies were busy over the jewels.  She whom mademoiselle had addressed, a big-nosed, loud-voiced lady, older than any of the others, answered her bluntly: 

“You look a shade too green-faced to-day, mademoiselle, for anything to become you.”

“What can you expect, Mme. de Brie?” Mlle. Blanche promptly demanded.  “Mlle. de Montluc is weary and worn from her vigils at your son’s bedside.”

Mme. de Montpensier had the temerity to laugh; but for the rest, a sort of little groan ran through the company.  Mme. de Mayenne bade sharply, “Peace, Blanche!” Mme. de Brie, red with anger, flamed out on her and Mlle. de Montluc equally: 

“You impudent minxes!  ’Tis enough that one of you should bring my son to his death, without the other making a mock of it.”

“He’s not dying,” began the irrepressible Blanche de Tavanne, her eyes twinkling with mischief; but whatever naughty answer was on her tongue, our mademoiselle’s deeper voice overbore her: 

“I am guiltless of the charge, madame.  It was through no wish of mine that your son, with half the guard at his back, set on one wounded man.”

“I’ll warrant it was not,” muttered Mlle. Blanche.

“Mar has turned traitor, and deserves nothing so well as to be spitted in the dark,” Mme. de Brie cried out.

Mademoiselle waited an instant, with flashing eyes meeting madame’s.  She had spoken hotly before, but now, in the face of the other’s passion, she held herself steady.

“Your charge is as false, madame, as your wish is cruel.  Do you go to vespers and come home to say such things?  M. de Mar is no traitor; he was never pledged to us, and may go over to Navarre when he will.”

It was quietly spoken, but the blue lightning of her eyes was too much for Mme. de Brie.  She opened her mouth to retort, faltered, dropped her eyes, and finally turned away, yet seething, to feign interest in the trinkets.  It was a rout.