 thunder-cloud. 'Could it be only her own fancy?' she said to
herself, because this was to be the great event of her life, for surely
all these great people could not know or heed that little Eustacie de
Ribaumont was to make her escape that night!

The trains of royalty were not sumptuously lodged. France never has
cared so much for comfort as for display. The waiting-lady of the
bedchamber slept in the ante-room of her mistress; the others, however
high their rank, were closely herded together up a winding stair
leading to a small passage, with tiny, cell-like recesses, wherein the
demoiselles slept, often with their maids, and then dressed themselves
in the space afforded by the passage. Eustacie's cell was nearly at the
end of the gallery, and exchanging 'good-nights' with her companions,
she 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