were so blended in his tone. It even seemed to me that he drew
off from me somewhat. "Yes, M. de Pavannes," I replied, offended
and indignant, "It is so far possible that it is the truth; and
more, I think you would not so speak of this lady if you knew
all; and that it was through her your wife was to-day freed from
those who were detaining her, and taken safely home!"

"Ha!" he cried eagerly. "Then where has my wife been?"

"At the house of Mirepoix, the glover," I answered coldly, "in
the Rue Platriere. Do you know him? You do. Well, she was kept
there a prisoner, until we helped her to escape an hour or so
ago."

He did not seem to comprehend even then. I could see little of
his face, but there was doubt and wonder in his tone when he
spoke. "Mirepoix the glover," he murmured. "He is an honest man
enough, though a Catholic. She was kept there! Who kept her
there?"

"The Abbess of the Ursulines seems to have been at the bottom of
it," I explained, fretting with impatience. This wonder was
misplaced, I thought; and time was passing. "Madame d'O found
out where she was," I continued, "and took her home, and then
sent me to fetch you, hearing you had crossed the river. That is
the story in brief."

"That woman sent you to fetch me?" he repeated again.

"Yes," I answered angrily. "She did, M. de Pavannes."