The carte de jour was before Monsieur. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. No mercenary consideration influences me. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Where even to be a Catholic, they say, is to be looked upon with scorn and disgust. \"What's that?\" Lucy asked.
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