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It was of Barnabo they talked that morning, hidden by the cypresses, Etoile standing by the leopards’ cage, the great beasts fawning against the bars, and letting her stroke their heads. There seemed some sympathy between her and the two sleek, sinuous cats. The voice and the eyes of Etoile cast a spell upon them. They would purr and rub against the bars when she came near.

The Lady of the Peacocks told Gaillard a piece of news that made the man’s eyes grow more hard and restless.

“He had better not meddle,” he said; “or I will twist his neck.”

Etoile snapped her fingers.

“You are a great fool, my Gaillard, Barnabo is not so rough and clumsy. I know the man.”

“But the rat is nibbling at our cheese!”

“What else can he do, the Savoyard cannot go to bed with him. A man is at a disadvantage. He can only call names.”

“Behind our backs, my desire!”

“Over the chess-board, perhaps.”

Gaillard put a hand through the bars, and scratched a leopard’s head.

“It is a pity,” he said, “that we cannot shut Barnabo up with these two innocents when they are hungry. They would play a pretty game with him, a game of knucklebones, with nothing left afterwards but some rags, two sandals, and a brain box.”