The man’s eyes burned, and the pulse in his temples beat wildly.

“But you shall not!” he exclaimed.  “I may be no match for him in cunning, you say well.  But I can kill him.  And I will!” He paced up and down.  “I will!”

“You should have done it when he was here,” she answered, half in scorn, half in earnest.

“It is not too late,” he cried; and then he stopped, silenced by the opening door.  It was Javette who entered.  They looked at her, and before she spoke were on their feet.  Her face, white and eager, marking something besides fear, announced that she brought news.  She closed the door behind her, and in a moment it was told.

“Monsieur can escape, if he is quick,” she cried in a low tone; and they saw that she trembled with excitement.  “They are at supper.  But he must be quick!  He must be quick!”

“Is not the door guarded?”

“It is, but—­”

“And he knows!  Your mistress says that he knows that I am here.”

For a moment Javette looked startled.  “It is possible,” she muttered.  “But he has gone out.”

Madame Carlat clapped her hands.  “I heard the door close,” she said, “three minutes ago.”

“And if Monsieur can reach the room in which he supped last night, the window that was broken is only blocked”—­she swallowed once or twice in her excitement—­“with something he can move.  And then Monsieur is in the street, where his cowl will protect him.”

“But Count Hannibal’s men?” he asked eagerly.

“They are eating in the lodge by the door.”

“Ha!  And they cannot see the other room from there?”

Javette nodded.  Her tale told, she seemed to be unable to add a word.  Mademoiselle, who knew her for a craven, wondered that she had found courage either to note what she had or to bring the news.  But as Providence had been so good to them as to put it into this woman’s head to act as she had, it behoved them to use the opportunity—­the last, the very last opportunity they might have.

She turned to Tignonville.  “Oh, go!” she cried feverishly.  “Go, I beg!  Go now, Monsieur!  The greatest kindness you can do me is to place yourself as quickly as possible beyond his reach.”  A faint colour, the flush of hope, had returned to her cheeks.  Her eyes glittered.

“Right, Mademoiselle!” he cried, obedient for once, “I go!  And do you be of good courage.”

He held her hand:  an instant, then, moving to the door, he opened it and listened.  They all pressed behind him to hear.  A murmur of voices, low and distant, mounted the staircase and bore out the girl’s tale; apart from this the house was silent.  Tignonville cast a last look at Mademoiselle, and, with a gesture of farewell, glided a-tiptoe to the stairs and began to descend, his face hidden in his cowl.  They watched him reach the angle of the staircase, they watched him vanish beyond it; and still they listened, looking at one another when a board creaked or the voices below were hushed for a moment.