She struggled to check the rising tempest of her tears, and presently dropped her hands and looked at me earnestly from out her shining wet eyes.  “Is that true?  Are you not flayed?” And to make sure, she laid her hand delicately on my back.

“They have whacked your coat to ribbons, but, thank St. Genevieve, they have not brought the blood.  I saw a man flogged once—­” she shut her eyes, shuddering, and her mouth quivered anew.  “But I am not much hurt, mademoiselle,” I answered her.

She took out her film of a handkerchief to wipe her wet cheeks, her hand still trembling.  I could think of nothing but to repeat: 

“I am not in the least hurt, mademoiselle.”

“Ah, but if they have spared you the flogging to take your life!” she breathed.

It was not a heartening suggestion.  To my astonishment, suddenly I found myself, frightened victim, striving to comfort this noblewoman for my death.

“Nay, I am not afraid.  Since mademoiselle weeps over me, I can die happily.”

She sprang toward me as if to protect me with her body from some menacing thrust.

“They shall not kill you!” she cried, her eyes flashing blue fire.  “They shall not!  Mon dieu! is Lorance de Montluc so feeble a thing that she cannot save a serving-boy?”

She fell back a pace, pressing her hands to her temples as if to stifle their throbbing.

“It was my fault,” she cried—­“it was all my fault.  It was my vanity and silliness brought you to this.  I should never have written that letter—­a three years’ child would have known better.  But I had not seen M. de Mar for five weeks—­I did not know, what I readily guess now, that he had taken sides against us.  M. de Lorraine played on my pique.”

“Mademoiselle,” I said, “the worst has not followed, since M. Etienne did not come himself.”

“You are glad for that?”

“Why, of course, mademoiselle.  Was it not a trap for him?”

She caught her breath as if in pain.

“I knew that as soon as I saw that my cousin Mayenne was not angry.  When I told what I had done and he smiled at me and said I should have my gloves, why, then I thought my heart would stop beating.  I saw what I had accomplished—­mon dieu, I was sick with repentance of it!”

I had to tell her I had not thought it.

“No,” she answered; “I had got you into this by my foolishness; I must needs try to get you out by my wits.  Brie, the one who took you by the throat—­there has been bad blood between him and your lord this twelvemonth; only last May M. le Comte ran him through the wrist.  Had I interfered for you,” she said, colouring a little, “M. de Brie would have inferred interest in the master from that in the man, and he had seen to your beating himself.”

It suddenly dawned on me that this M. de Brie was the “little cheese” of guard-room gossip.  And I thought that the gentleman would hardly display so much venom against M. Etienne unless he were a serious obstacle to his hopes.  Nor would mademoiselle be here at midnight, weeping over a serving-lad, if she cared nothing for the master.  If she had not worn her heart on her sleeve before the laughing salon, mayhap she would show it to me.