I'll give you five minutes
then. . . ."
"Three minutes in the privacy of this box are quite sufficient
for me," he rejoined placidly, "and I think that you will be wise to
listen to me, Citoyenne St. Just."
Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised
his voice above a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff,
yet there was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy
eyes, which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the
sight of some deadly hitherto unguessed peril.
"Is that a threat, citoyen?" she asked at last.
"Nay, fair lady," he said gallantly, "only an arrow shot into
the air."
He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a mouse running
heedlessly by, ready to spring, yet waiting with that feline sense of
enjoyment of mischief about to be done. Then he said quietly--
"Your brother, St. Just, is in peril."
Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him. He could
only see it in profile, for Marguerite seemed to be watching the stage
intently, but Chauvelin was a keen observer; he noticed the sudden
rigidity of the eyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost
paralysed tension of the beautiful, graceful figure.
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