one face one minute, and one another.  We had come to save Pavannes’ life at the risk of our own; we found him to be a villain!  Here was Mirepoix owning himself a treacherous wretch, a conspirator against a woman; we sympathised with him.  The priest had come upon a work of charity and rescue; we loathed the sound of his voice, and shrank from him, we knew not why, seeming only to read a dark secret, a gloomy threat in each doubtful word he uttered.  He was the strangest enigma of all.  Why did we fear him?  Why did Madame de Pavannes, who apparently had known him before, shudder at the touch of his hand?  Why did his shadow come even between her and her sister, and estrange them? so that from the moment Pavannes’ wife saw him standing by Diane’s side, she forgot that the latter had come to save, and looked on her in doubt and sorrow, almost with repugnance.

We left the Vidame going back to the fireplace.  He stooped to set down the candle by the hearth.  “They are not here,” he said, as he straightened himself again, and looked curiously at his companions.  He had apparently been too much taken up with the pursuit to notice them before.  “That is certain, so I have the less time to lose,” he continued.  “But I would—­yes, my dear Coadjutor, I certainly would like to know before I go, what you are doing here.  Mirepoix—­Mirepoix is an honest man.  I did not expect to find you in his house.  And two ladies?  Two!  Fie, Coadjutor.  Ha!  Madame d’O, is it?  My dear lady,” he continued, addressing her in a whimsical tone, “do not start at the sound of your own name!  It would take a hundred hoods to hide your eyes, or bleach your lips to the common colour; I should have known you at once, had I looked at you.  And your companion?  Pheugh!”

He broke off, whistling softly.  It was clear that he recognised Madame de Pavannes, and recognised her with astonishment.  The bed creaked as I craned my neck to see what would follow.  Even the priest seemed to think that some explanation was necessary, for he did not wait to be questioned.

“Madame de Pavannes,” he said in a dry, husky voice, and without looking up, “was spirited hither yesterday; and detained against her will by this good man, who will have to answer for it.  Madame d’O discovered her whereabouts, and asked me to escort her here without loss of time to enforce her sister’s release.”

“And her restoration to her distracted husband?”

“Just so,” the priest assented, acquiring confidence, I thought.

“And Madame desires to go?”

“Surely!  Why not?”

“Well,” the Vidame drawled, his manner such as to bring the blood to Madame de Pavannes’ cheek, “it depends on the person who—­to use your phrase, M. le Coadjuteur—­spirited her hither.”

“And that,” Madame herself retorted, raising her head, while her voice quivered with indignation and anger, “was the Abbess of the Ursulines.  Your suspicions are base, worthy of you and unworthy of me, M. le Vidame!  Diane!” she continued sharply, taking her sister’s arm, and casting a disdainful glance at Bezers, “let us go.  I want to be with my husband.  I am stifled in this room.”