“What is the matter with you, Goulard?” said Monsieur d’Hauteserre.

Goulard was dumb with surprise as he noted the tranquil ease of the faces about him.  Observing the peaceful and innocent game of cards which he had thus interrupted, he was unable to imagine what the Parisian police meant by their suspicions.

At that moment Laurence, kneeling in her oratory, was praying fervently for the success of the conspiracy.  She prayed to God to send help and succor to the murderers of Bonaparte.  She implored Him ardently to destroy that fatal being.  The fanaticism of Harmodius, Judith, Jacques Clement, Ankarstroem, of Charlotte Corday and Limoelan, inspired this pure and virgin spirit.  Catherine was preparing the bed, Gothard was closing the blinds, when Marthe Michu coming under the windows flung a pebble on the glass and was seen at once.

“Mademoiselle, here’s some one,” said Gothard, seeing a woman.

“Hush!” said Marthe, in a low voice.  “Come down and speak to me.”

Gothard was in the garden in less time than a bird would have taken to fly down from a tree.

“In a minute the chateau will be surrounded by the gendarmerie.  Saddle mademoiselle’s horse without making any noise and take it down through the breach in the moat between the stables and this tower.”

Marthe quivered when she saw Laurence, who had followed Gothard, standing beside her.

“What is it?” asked Laurence, quietly.

“The conspiracy against the First Consul is discovered,” replied Marthe, in a whisper.  “My husband, who seeks to save your two cousins, sends me to ask you to come and speak to him.”

Laurence drew back and looked at Marthe.  “Who are you?” she said.

“Marthe Michu.”

“I do not know what you want of me,” replied the countess, coldly.

“Take care, you will kill them.  Come with me, I implore you in the Simeuse name,” said Marthe, clasping her hands and stretching them towards Laurence.  “Have you papers here which may compromise you?  If so, destroy them.  From the heights over there my husband has just seen the silver-laced hats and the muskets of the gendarmerie.”

Gothard had already clambered to the hay-loft and seen the same sight; he heard in the stillness of the evening the sound of their horses’ hoofs.  Down he slipped into the stable and saddled his mistress’s mare, whose feet Catherine, at a word from the lad, muffled in linen.

“Where am I to go?” said Laurence to Marthe, whose look and language bore the unmistakable signs of sincerity.

“Through the breach,” she replied; “my noble husband is there.  You shall learn the value of a ’Judas’!”

Catherine went quickly into the salon, picked up the hat, veil, whip, and gloves of her mistress, and disappeared.  This sudden apparition and action were so striking a commentary on the mayor’s inquiry that Madame d’Hauteserre and the abbe exchanged glances which contained the melancholy thought:  “Farewell to all our peace!  Laurence is conspiring; she will be the death of her cousins.”