Then at length with a loud “Whoop!” we dashed across the terrace, Croisette leading, and so through the courtyard to the parlour; where we arrived breathless.  “He is off!” Croisette cried shrilly.  “He has started for Paris!  And bad luck go with him!” And we all flung up our caps and shouted.

But no answer, such as we expected, came from the women folk.  When we picked up our caps, and looked at Catherine, feeling rather foolish, she was staring at us with a white face and great scornful eyes.  “Fools!” she said.  “Fools!”

And that was all.  But it was enough to take me aback.  I had looked to see her face lighten at our news; instead it wore an expression I had never seen on it before.  Catherine, so kind and gentle, calling us fools!  And without cause!  I did not understand it.  I turned confusedly to Croisette.  He was looking at her, and I saw that he was frightened.  As for Madame Claude, she was crying in the corner.  A presentiment of evil made my heart sink like lead.  What had happened?

“Fools!” my cousin repeated with exceeding bitterness, her foot tapping the parquet unceasingly.  “Do you think he would have stooped to avenge himself on you?  On you!  Or that he could hurt me one hundredth part as much here as—­as—­” She broke off stammering.  Her scorn faltered for an instant.  “Bah! he is a man!  He knows!” she exclaimed superbly, her chin in the air, “but you are boys.  You do not understand!”

I looked amazedly at this angry woman.  I had a difficulty in associating her with my cousin.  As for Croisette, he stepped forward abruptly, and picked up a white object which was lying at her feet.

“Yes, read it!” she cried, “read it!  Ah!” and she clenched her little hand, and in her passion struck the oak table beside her, so that a stain of blood sprang out on her knuckles.  “Why did you not kill him?  Why did you not do it when you had the chance?  You were three to one,” she hissed.  “You had him in your power!  You could have killed him, and you did not!  Now he will kill me!”

Madame Claude muttered something tearfully; something about Pavannes and the saints.  I looked over Croisette’s shoulder, and read the letter.  It began abruptly without any term of address, and ran thus, “I have a mission in Paris, Mademoiselle, which admits of no delay, your mission, as well as my own—­to see Pavannes.  You have won his heart.  It is yours, and I will bring it you, or his right hand in token that he has yielded up his claim to yours.  And to this I pledge myself.”

The thing bore no signature.  It was written in some red fluid—­ blood perhaps—­a mean and sorry trick!  On the outside was scrawled a direction to Mademoiselle de Caylus.  And the packet was sealed with the Vidame’s crest, a wolf’s head.

“The coward! the miserable coward!” Croisette cried.  He was the first to read the meaning of the thing.  And his eyes were full of tears—­tears of rage.