“Sybilla, dear sister of my sainted Catherine,” purred the marshal, “it is your privilege that you should speak freely.  When it is pleasing to me I may even answer you.  It pleases me now, listen—­you know of my devotion to science.  You are not ignorant at what cost, at what vast sacrifices, I have in secret pushed my researches beyond the very confines of knowledge.  The powers of the underworlds are revealing themselves to me, and to me alone.  Evil and good alike shall be mine.  I alone will pluck the blossom of fire, and tear from hell and hell’s master their cherished mystery.”

He paused as if mentally to recount his triumphs, and then continued.

“But at the moment of success I am crossed by a prejudice.  The ignorant people clamour against my life—­canaille!  I regard them not.  But nevertheless their foolish prejudices reach other ears.  Hearken!”

And like a showman he beckoned Sybilla to the window.  A low roar of human voices, fitful yet sustained, made itself distinctly audible above the shriller hooting of the tempest.

“Open the window!” he commanded, standing behind the curtain.

The girl unhasped the brazen hook and looked out.  Beneath her a little crowd of poor people had collected about a woman who was beating with bleeding hands upon the shut door of the Hotel de Pornic.

“Justice! justice!” cried the woman, her hands clasped and her long black hair streaming down her shoulders, “give me my child, my little Pierre.  Yester-eve he was enticed into the monster’s den by his servant Poitou, and I shall never see him more!  Give me my boy, murderer!  Restore me my son!”

And the answering roar of the people’s voices rose through the open window to the ears of the marshal.  “Give the woman her son, Gilles de Retz!”

At that moment the woman caught sight of Sybilla.  Instantly she changed her tone from entreaty to fierce denunciation.

“Behold the witch, friends, let us tear her to pieces.  She is kept young and beautiful by drinking the blood of children.  Throw thyself down, Jezebel, that the dogs may eat thee in the streets.”

And a shout went up from the populace as Sybilla shut to the window, shuddering at the horrors which surrounded her.

The Marshal de Retz had not moved, watching her face without regarding the noise outside.  Now he went back to his chair, and bending his slender white fingers together, he looked up at her.

Presently he struck a silver bell by his side three times, and the mellow sound pervaded the house.

Poitou appeared instantly at the inner door through which the she-wolf had entered.

“How does it go?” asked the marshal, with his usual careless easy grace.

“Not well,” said Poitou, shaking his head; “that is, rightly up to a point, and then—­all wrong!”

For the first time the countenance of the marshal appeared troubled.