Since then she had heard nothing from Chauvelin. She had
concluded that he had failed, and yet, she had not felt anxious about
Armand, because her husband had promised her that Armand would be safe.
But now, suddenly, as Suzanne prattled merrily along, an awful
horror came upon her for what she had done. Chauvelin had told her
nothing, it was true; but she remembered how sarcastic and evil he
looked when she took final leave of him after the ball. Had he
discovered something then? Had he already laid his plans for catching
the daring plotter, red-handed, in France, and sending him to the
guillotine without compunction or delay?
Marguerite turned sick with horror, and her hand convulsively
clutched the ring in her dress.
"You are not listening, CHERIE," said Suzanne,
reproachfully, as she paused in her long, highly interesting
narrative.
"Yes, yes, darling--indeed I am," said Marguerite with an
effort, forcing herself to smile." "I love to hear you talking. . .
and your happiness makes me so very glad. . . . Have no fear, we will
manage to propitiate maman. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes is a noble English
gentleman; he has money and position, the Comtesse will not refuse her
consent.
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