She had leisure for these musings, for she was left to herself all that day, and until late on the following day.  Her own servants waited on her, and it was known that below stairs Count Hannibal’s riders kept sullen ward behind barred doors and shuttered windows, refusing admission to all who came.  Now and again echoes of the riot which filled the streets with bloodshed reached her ears:  or word of the more striking occurrences was brought to her by Madame Carlat.  And early on this second day, Monday, it was whispered that M. de Tavannes had not returned, and that the men below were growing uneasy.

At last, when the suspense below and above was growing tense, it was broken.  Footsteps and voices were heard ascending the stairs, the trampling and hubbub were followed by a heavy knock; perforce the door was opened.  While Mademoiselle, who had risen, awaited with a beating heart she knew not what, a cowled father, in the dress of the monks of St. Magloire, stood on the threshold, and, crossing himself, muttered the words of benediction.  He entered slowly.

No sight could have been more dreadful to Mademoiselle; for it set at naught the conditions which she had so hardly exacted.  What if Count Hannibal were behind, were even now mounting the stairs, prepared to force her to a marriage before this shaveling?  Or ready to proceed, if she refused, to the last extremity?  Sudden terror taking her by the throat choked her; her colour fled, her hand flew to her breast.  Yet, before the door had closed on Bigot, she had recovered herself.

“This intrusion is not by M. de Tavannes’ orders!” she cried, stepping forward haughtily.  “This person has no business here.  How dare you admit him?”

The Norman showed his bearded visage a moment at the door.

“My lord’s orders,” he muttered sullenly.  And he closed the door on them.

She had a Huguenot’s hatred of a cowl; and, in this crisis, her reasons for fearing it.  Her eyes blazed with indignation.

“Enough!” she cried, pointing, with a gesture of dismissal, to the door.  “Go back to him who sent you!  If he will insult me, let him do it to my face!  If he will perjure himself, let him forswear himself in person.  Or, if you come on your own account,” she continued, flinging prudence to the winds, “as your brethren came to Philippa de Luns, to offer me the choice you offered her, I give you her answer!  If I had thought of myself only, I had not lived so long!  And rather than bear your presence or hear your arguments—­”

She came to a sudden, odd, quavering pause on the word; her lips remained parted, she swayed an instant on her feet.  The next moment Madame Carlat, to whom the visitor had turned his shoulder, doubted her eyes, for Mademoiselle was in the monk’s arms!

“Clotilde!  Clotilde!” he cried, and held her to him.

For the monk was M. de Tignonville!  Under the cowl was the lover with whom Mademoiselle’s thoughts had been engaged.  In this disguise, and armed with Tavannes’ note to Madame St. Lo—­which the guards below knew for Count Hannibal’s hand, though they were unable to decipher the contents—­he had found no difficulty in making his way to her.