proceeded to her recess, where she expected to find Veronique ready to adjust her dress.  Veronique, however, was missing; but anxious to lose no time, she had taken off her delicate white satin farthingale to change it for an unobtrusive dark woolen kirtle, when, to her surprise and dismay, a loud creaking, growling sound made itself heard outside the door at the other end.  Half-a-dozen heads came out of their cells; half-a-dozen voices asked and answered the question, ‘What is it?’ ‘They are bolting our door outside.’  But only Eustacie sped like lightning along the passage, pulled at the door, and cried, ‘Open!  Open, I say!’ No answer, but the other bolt creaked.

’You mistake, CONCIERGE!  We are never bolted in!  My maid is shut out.’

No answer, but the step retreated.  Eustacie clasped her hands with a cry that she could hardly have repressed, but which she regretted the next moment.

Gabrielle de Limeuil laughed.  ’What, Mademoiselle, are you afraid they will not let us out to-morrow?’

‘My maid!’ murmured Eustacie, recollecting that she must give a colour to her distress.

‘Ah! perhaps she will summon old Pierre to open for us.’

This suggestion somewhat consoled Eustacie, and she stood intently listening for Veronique’s step, wishing that her companions would hold their peace; but the adventure amused them, and they discussed whether it were a blunder of the CONCIERGE, or a piece of prudery of Madame la Comtesse, or, after all, a precaution.  The palace so full of strange people, who could say what might happen?  And there was a talk of a conspiracy of the Huguenots.  At any rate, every one was too much frightened to go to sleep, and, some sitting on the floor, some on a chest, some on a bed, the girls huddled together in Gabrielle de Limeuil’s recess, the nearest to the door, and one after another related horrible tales of blood, murder, and vengeance—­then, alas!  Only too frequent occurrences in their unhappy land—­each bringing some frightful contribution from her own province, each enhancing upon the last-told story, and ever and anon pausing with bated breath at some fancied sound, or supposed start of one of the others; then clinging close together, and renewing the ghastly anecdote, at first in a hushed voice that grew louder with the interest of the story.  Eustacie alone would not join the cluster.  Her cloak round her shoulders, she stood with her back against the door, ready to profit by the slightest indication outside of a step that might lead to her release, or at least enable her to communicate with Veronique; longing ardently that her companions would go to bed, yet unable to avoid listening with the like dreadful fascination to each of the terrible histories, which added each moment to the nervous horror of the whole party.  Only one, a dull and composed girl, felt the influence of weariness, and dozed with her head in her companion’s lap; but she was awakened by one general shudder and suppressed cry when the hoarse clang of a bell struck on the ears of the already terrified, excited maidens.