“And you put your name to that paper!”

“What would you?  Monsieur le Comte would have broken my wrist, and there are black and blue spots on my arm yet.”

“Tell me about that grey cloak.”

“There is nothing to tell, save that Victor did not wear it.  And something told me from the beginning that he was innocent.”

“And the Chevalier du Cevennes could not have worn it because he was in Fontainebleau that dreadful night.”

“The Chevalier du Cevennes is living in Rochelle?” asked Gabrielle.

“Yes.  Was it not gallant of him to accept punishment in Victor’s stead?”

“What else could he do, being a gentleman?”

“Why does your voice grow cold at the mention of his name?” asked Anne.

“It is your imagination, dear.  My philosophy has healed the wounded vanity.  Point out the Chevalier to me, I should like to see the man who declined an alliance with the house of Montbazon.”

“I thought that you possessed a miniature of him?”

“It contained only the face of a boy; I want to see the man.  Besides, I do not exactly know what has become of the picture, which was badly painted.”

“I will point him out.  Was the Comte d’Herouville among the conspirators?”

“Yes.  How I hate that man!”

“Keep out of his path, Gabrielle.  He would stop at nothing.  There is madness in that man’s veins.”

“I do not fear him.  Many a day will pass ere I see him again, or poor Victor, for that matter.  I wonder where he has gone?”

“I would I could fathom that heart of yours.”

“It is very light and free just now.”

“Am I your confidante in all things?”

“I believe so.”

“The year I lived with you at the hotel taught me that you are like sand; a great many strange things going on below.”

“What a compliment!  But give up trying to fathom me, Anne.  I love you better when you laugh.  Must you be a nun, you who were once so gay?”

“I am weary.”

“Of what?  You ask me if I am your confidante in all things; Anne, are you mine?”

No answer.

“So.  Well, I shall not question you.”  The speaker drew her companion closer and retucked the robes; and silence fell upon the two, silence broken only by the wind, the flapping leather curtains, and the muffled howling of the postilion.

It was twelve o’clock when the diligence drew up before the Corne d’Abondance.  The host came out, holding a candle above his head and shading his eyes with his unengaged hand.

“Maitre, I have brought you two guests,” said the postilion, sliding off his horse and grunting with satisfaction.

“Gentlemen, I hope.”

“Ladies!” and lowering his voice, the postilion added:  “Ladies of high degree, I can tell you.  One is the granddaughter of an admiral and the other can not be less than a duchess.”