For the second time Mademoiselle turned and looked at him.

“Then,” she whispered, with white lips, “to what end this—­mockery?”

“To the end that seven lives may be saved, Mademoiselle,” he answered, bowing.

“At a price?” she muttered.

“At a price,” he answered.  “A price which women do not find it hard to pay—­at Court.  ’Tis paid every day for pleasure or a whim, for rank or the entree, for robes and gewgaws.  Few, Mademoiselle, are privileged to buy a life; still fewer, seven!”

She began to tremble.  “I would rather die—­seven times!” she cried, her voice quivering.  And she tried to rise, but sat down again.

“And these?” he said, indicating the servants.

“Far, far rather!” she repeated passionately.

“And Monsieur?  And Monsieur?” he urged with stern persistence, while his eyes passed lightly from her to Tignonville and back to her again, their depths inscrutable.  “If you love Monsieur, Mademoiselle, and I believe you do—­”

“I can die with him!” she cried.

“And he with you?”

She writhed in her chair.

“And he with you?” Count Hannibal repeated, with emphasis; and he thrust forward his head.  “For that is the question.  Think, think, Mademoiselle.  It is in my power to save from death him whom you love; to save you; to save this canaille, if it so please you.  It is in my power to save him, to save you, to save all; and I will save all—­at a price!  If, on the other hand, you deny me that price, I will as certainly leave all to perish, as perish they will, before the sun that is now rising sets to-night!”

Mademoiselle looked straight before her, the flicker of a dreadful prescience in her eyes.

“And the price?” she muttered.  “The price?”

“You, Mademoiselle.”

“I?”

“Yes, you!  Nay, why fence with me?” he continued gently.  “You knew it, you have said it.  You have read it in my eyes these seven days.”

She did not speak, or move, or seem to breathe.  As he said, she had foreseen, she had known the answer.  But Tignonville, it seemed, had not.  He sprang to his feet.

“M. de Tavannes,” he cried, “you are a villain!”

“Monsieur?”

“You are a villain!  But you shall pay for this!” the young man continued vehemently.  “You shall not leave this room alive!  You shall pay for this insult!”

“Insult?” Tavannes answered in apparent surprise; and then, as if comprehension broke upon him, “Ah!  Monsieur mistakes me,” he said, with a broad sweep of the hand.  “And Mademoiselle also, perhaps?  Oh! be content, she shall have bell, book, and candle; she shall be tied as tight as Holy Church can tie her!  Or, if she please, and one survive, she shall have a priest of her own church—­you call it a church?  She shall have whichever of the two will serve her better.  ’Tis one to me!  But for paying