Front matter (continued 6)

Out of the darkness Marguerite came trembling.

"Aline, what is it?" she whispered. "I heard you, and came as far as the door, and then, Holy Virgin, is n't she terrible? She makes me cold like ice, and her laugh, it 's—oh, one does not know how to bear it!"

Mlle Ange turned, collecting herself.

"Is it Louise?" she asked.

"No, I am Marguerite de Matigny. Louise is in the corridor."

"Let us come away from here," said Aline, taking the lantern, and they hastened through the two dark rooms, meeting Louise at the farthest door. She was a tall, haggard woman, with loose grey hair and restless, terrified eyes. Mlle Ange drew her aside, whispering, and after a moment the fear went out of her face, leaving a sallow exhaustion in its place.

"It is a miracle," she was saying as Aline and Marguerite joined them. "The saints know how we got here. I remember nothing, I am too tired; and Madame,—how she is not dead! Nothing would hold her, when the doctor told her she had a mortal complaint. If you know Madame, you will know that she laughed. 'Mon Dieu,' she said to me, 'I have had one mortal complaint for ten years now, and that is old age, but since he says I have another, no doubt he is right, and the two together will kill me.' Then she said, 'Pack my mail, Louise, for I do not choose to die here, where no one has ever heard of the Montenay.' 'But, Mademoiselle,' I said, and Madame shrugged her shoulders. 'But the Terror,' I said, and indeed, Ma'mselle, I went on my knees to her, but if you think she cared! Not the least in the world, and here we are, and God knows what comes next! I am afraid, very much afraid, Ma'mselle."

"Yes, and so am I," whispered Marguerite, pinching Aline's arm. "It is really dreadful here. La tante mad, and this old house all ghosts and horrors, and nothing to eat, it is triste,—yes, I can tell you it is triste."

"We will come again," said Aline, kissing her, "and at least there is food here."

"Yes, take the basket, Louise," said Mlle Ange, "and now we must go."

"Oh, no, don't go," cried Marguerite. "Stay just a little—" but Louise broke in——

"No, no, Ma'mselle, let them go. Madame would not be pleased. I thought I heard her call just now." She shrugged her shoulders expressively, and Marguerite released her friend with a little sobbing kiss.

"Come, Aline," said Mlle Ange with dignity, and they went down the echoing stair in silence.

Neither spoke for a long while. Then amongst the deeper shadows of the wood Aline heard a curiously strained voice say:

"So you are Rochambeau, and noble?"

"Yes."

"Marthe said so from the first; she is always right."

"Yes."

A little pause, and then Ange said passionately:

"What made you give that name? Are you ashamed to be called Dangeau?"

"She was so old, and of my kin; I said the name that she would know. Oh, I do not know why I said it," faltered Aline.

"Does he know it, Jacques?"

"Yes, oh yes!"

"He knew before you were married?"

"Yes, always; he has been so good."

"So good, and you his wife, and could deny his name! I do not understand you, Aline de Rochambeau."

Aline flushed scarlet in the darkness. Her own name spoken thus seemed to set a bruise upon her heart.

"It was not that," she cried: "I do not know why I said it, but it was not to deny—him."

Her voice sank very low, and something in it made Ange halt a moment and say:

"Aline, do you love Jacques?"

Aline's hand went to her breast.

"Yes," she said under her breath, and thought the whole wood echoed with the one soft word.

"And does he know that too?" The questioning voice had sunk again to gentleness.

"No, no—oh, no."

"Poor child," said Agnes Desaix, and after that they spoke no more.

CHAPTER XXIV

BURNING OF THE CHÂTEAU

Mlle Marthe lay in the dusk frowning and knitting her brows until they made a straight dark line over her restless eyes. A sense of angry impotence possessed her and found expression in a continual sharp movement of head and hand; the stabbing physical pain evoked was sheer relief to the strained mind. Two days had now passed since the first expedition to the château, and every hour of them had seemed more heavily weighted with impending danger. Nothing would persuade Mme de Montenay to move, or Ange to leave her to her fate. Louise was tearful, and useless; Marguerite, a lonely child, terrified of the great shadowed rooms, and clinging eagerly to her friend;—a complication, in fact, which roused Mlle Marthe's anger more than all the rest, since even her resolution recoiled from the abandonment of a young girl, who had no share in Mme de Montenay's obstinacy. Marthe fretted, turned a little, groaned, and bit her lip.

As the door opened she looked up sharply, but it was only Jeanne, who came to ask her if she should light the lamp, and got a snappish "No!" for answer.

"It is dark, Ma'mselle," she said.

"I will wait till they come in."

"Eh—it 's queer weather, and a queer time of day to be out," muttered Jeanne sulkily.

"Madame is young; she needs exercise," said Marthe, prompted by something in the woman's tone.

"Ah, yes, exercise," said Jeanne in a queer voice, and she went out, shutting the door sharply. Mlle Marthe's thoughts kept tone with the darkening sky. Her eyes watched the door with an anxious stare. When at last Ange and Aline came in snow-sprinkled and warm, her temper was fretted to a sharp edge, and she spoke with quick impatience.

"Mon Dieu, how long you have been! If you must go, you must, but there is no occasion to stay and stay, until I am beside myself with wondering what has happened!"

Ange threw off her wet cloak and bent to kiss her sister. "Oh, my dearest, has it been so long?" she said. "Why, I thought we were being so quick, and that you would commend us. We did not wait at all, only gave the food to Louise and came straight back. Has the pain been bad then, my poor darling? Have you wanted anything?"

Marthe pushed her away with an angry jerk.

"What I want is a way out of this abominable situation," she exclaimed. "If you had any common-sense, Ange—the slightest instinct of self-preservation—but no, you will sacrifice all our lives to that wicked old woman, and then flatter yourself that you have done something to be proud of. Come here to die, has she? Heavens, she 'll outlive us all, and then go happy in the thought that she has contrived to do a little more mischief before the end!"

Ange winced, but only said gently:

"Dearest, don't."

"There, Ange, I 've no patience! I tell you we are all on the brink of ruin. Madelon has been here."

"Madelon? Ah, the dear child. It is so long since I have really seen her. I am sorry to have missed her. Was she well?"

Mlle Marthe caught her sister's hand and pressed it until she cried out, "Marthe, you are hurting me!"

"Ange! Sometimes I could swear at you! For Heaven's sake think of yourself for a few moments, or if that is asking too much, think of Aline, think of me. Madelon came here because her father sent her!"

"Her father sent her! Marthe, dearest, don't—that hurts."

"I mean it to. Yes, her father——"

"But why. I don't understand."

Aline had been lighting the lamp. She looked up now, and the yellow flare showed the trouble in her face.

"Oh, ma tante," she breathed.

"Yes, child. Ange, wake up; don't you realise?"

"Mathieu suspects?" asked Aline quickly. "But how?"

"He saw you take the path to the château the other day. Saw, or thought he saw, a light in the west wing last night, and sent Madelon to find out how much we knew. A mischief-maker Mathieu, and a bad man,—devil take him."

"Oh, Marthe, don't. Madelon,—Madelon is as true as steel."

"Oh, yes, but mightily afraid of her father. She sat here with her round cheeks as white as curds, and cried, and begged me not to tell her anything;—as if I should be such a fool."

"Ah, poor Madelon," said Ange, "she must not distress herself like that, it is so bad for her just now."

Marthe ground her teeth.

"Ange, I won't have it—I won't. I tell you all our lives are at stake, and you discuss Madelon's health."

"My dearest, don't be vexed; indeed, I am trying to think what can be done."

"Now, Ange, listen to me. If you will go on with this mad business, there is only one thing to be done. I have thought it all out. They must do with as little as possible, and you must not go there oftener than once in four days. You will go at eleven o'clock at night when there is no one abroad, and Louise will meet you half-way and take the basket on. There must be no other communication of any sort: you hear me, Aline?"

"Yes," said Aline, "I think you are quite right."

"That is always a consolation." Marthe's voice took a sarcastic tone. "Now, Ange, do you agree?"

"If you really think——"

"Why, yes, I do. Ange, I 'm a cross animal, but I can't see you throw your life away and not say a word. I 'm a useless cripple enough, but I have the use of my tongue. Will you promise?"

"Well—yes."

"That's right. Now for goodness let's talk about something else. If there 's going to be trouble it will come, and we need n't go over and over it all before it does come. Aline, do, for the love of heaven, remember that I cannot bear the light in my eyes like that. Put the lamp over here, behind me, and then you can take a book and read aloud so as to give us all a chance of composing our minds."

Aline waked late that night. All the surface calm in her had been broken up by the events of the last few days. The slight sprinkling of snow had ceased, but there was a high wind abroad, and as it complained amongst the stripped and creaking woods, it seemed to voice the yearning that strained the very fibres of her being.

She stood at midnight and looked out. Very high and pale rode the moon, and the driving cloud wrack swept like shallow, eddying water across the one clear space of sky in which she queened it. All below was dense, dull, cloud mass, darkening to the hill slope, and the black sighing woodland. Thoughts drove in her brain, like the driving cloud. Sadness of life, imminence of death, shortness of love. She had seen an ugly side of ancestral pride in these two days, and suddenly she glimpsed a vision of herself grown old and grey, looking back along the interminable years to the time when she had sacrificed youth and love. Then it would be too late. Life was irrevocable; but now—now? She threw open her window and leaned far out, drawing the strong air into her lungs, whilst the wind caught her hair and spread it all abroad. The spirit of life, of youth, cried to her, and she stretched her arms wide and mingled her voice with its voice. "Jacques!" she called under her breath, "Jacques!" and then as suddenly she drew back trembling and hid her face in her cold hands.

She did not know how the time passed after that, but when she looked up again there was a faint glow in the sky. She watched it curiously, thinking for a moment that it was the dawn, and then aware that morning must still be far away.

A tinge of rose brightened the cloud bank over the hill, and at its edge the ether showed blue. Then quite suddenly a tongue of fire flared above the trees and sank again. As the flames rose a second time Ange Desaix was in the room.

"Aline! The château! It is on fire!" she cried. "Oh, mon Dieu, what shall we do?"

They ran out, wrapped hastily in muffling cloaks, and as they climbed the hill Ange spoke in gasps.

"They must have seen it in the village before we did. All the world will be there. Oh, that poor child! God help us all!"

"Oh, come quickly!" cried Aline, and they took hands and ran. The slope once mounted, the path so dark a few hours back was illuminated. A red, unnatural dusk filled the wood, and against it the trees stretched great black groping arms. The sky was like the reflection from some huge furnace, and all the way the fire roared in the rising wind.

"How could it have happened? Do you think,—oh, do you suppose this is what she meant to do?" Aline asked once, and Ange gave a sort of sob as she answered:

"Oh, my dear, God knows,—but I 'm afraid so," and then they pushed on again in silence.

They came out of the bridle-path into the cypress walk that led to Madame's Italian garden. At a turn the flaming building came into view for the first time. South and east it burned furiously, but the west front, that which faced them, was still intact, though the smoke eddied about it, and a dull glare from the windows spoke of rooms beyond that were already in the grip of the flames. Between low hedges of box the two pressed on, and climbed the terrace steps.

Here the heat drove to meet them full of stinging particles of grit. The hot blast dried the skin and stung the eyes. The wind blew strongly from the east, but every now and then it veered, and then the fire lapped round the corner and was blown out in long dreadful tongues, which licked the walls as if tasting them, and threw a crimson glare along the dark west wing. Great sparks like flashes of flame flew high and far, and the dense reek made breathing painful.

"Look!" said Aline, catching her companion by the arm, and pointing. From where they stood the broad south terrace was full in view, and the fire lighted it brilliantly. Below it, where the avenue ceased, was a small crowd of dark gesticulating figures, intent on the blazing pile.

"They can't see us," said Ange; "but come this way, here, where the statue screens us."

They paused a moment, leaning against the pedestal where a white Diana lifted an arrow against the glare. Then both cried out simultaneously, for driven by a sudden gust the smoke wreaths parted, and for a moment they saw at a window above them a moving whiteness,—an arm thrust out, only to fall again, and hang with fatal limpness across the sill.

"Ah, it was Marguerite," cried Aline with catching breath. "I saw her face. Marguerite! Marguerite!"

"Hush!" said Mlle Ange. "It is no use calling. She has fainted. Thank God she came this way. There is a stair if I could only find it. Once I knew it well enough."

As she spoke she hurried into the smoke, and Aline followed, gasping.

"Your cloak over your face, child, and remember you must not faint."

How they gained the boudoir, Aline hardly knew, but she found herself there with the smoke all round, pressing on her like a solid thing, blinding, stinging, choking. Ahead of her Mlle Ange groped along the wall. Once she staggered, but with a great effort kept on, and at last stopped and pressed with all her strength.

In the darkness appeared a darker patch, and then, just as Aline's throbbing senses seemed about to fail her, she felt her hand caught, she was pulled through a narrow opening, her feet felt steps, mounted instinctively, and her lungs drew in a long, long breath of relief, for here the smoke had hardly penetrated, and the air, though heavy, was quite fit to breathe. For a moment they halted and then climbed on. The stair went steeply up, wound to the left, and ceased. Then again Ange stood feeling for the catch with fingers that had known it well enough in the dead days. Now they hesitated, tried here and there, failed of the secret, and went groping to and fro, until Aline's blood beat in her throat, and she could have cried out with fear and impatience. The moment seemed interminable, and the smoke mounted behind them in ever-thickening whirls.

"It was here, mon Dieu, what has become of it? So many years ago, but I thought I could have found it blindfold. Réné showing me,—his hand on mine—ah, at last," and with that the murmuring voice ceased, and the panelling slipped smoothly back, letting in more smoke, to press like a nightmare upon their already labouring lungs. Through it the window showed a red square, against which was outlined a white, huddled shape. It was Marguerite, who lay just as she had fallen, head bowed, one hand thrust out, the other at her throat. Ange and Aline stood by her for a moment leaning from the window, and taking in what air they might, and then the confusion and the stumbling began once more, only this time they had a weight to carry, and could shield neither eyes nor lungs from the pervading smoke. Twice they stopped, and twice that dreadful roar of the fire, a roar that drowned even the heavy beat of their burdened pulses, drove them on again, until at last they stumbled out upon the terrace, and there halted, gasping terribly. The intolerable heat dripped from them in a black sweat, and for a while they crouched trembling in every limb. Then Ange whispered with dry lips:

"We must go on. This is not safe."

They staggered forward once more, and even as they did so there was a most appalling crash, and the flames rushed up like a pyramid to heaven, making all the countryside light with a red travesty of day. Urged by terror, and with a final effort, they dragged Marguerite down the steps, and on, until they sank at last exhausted under a cypress which watched the pool where the fountain played no more.

In a minute or two Aline recovered sufficiently to wet the hem of her cloak and bathe Marguerite's face. This and the cold air brought her to with a shudder and a cry. She sat up coughing, and clung to Aline.

"Oh, save me, save me!"

"Chérie, you are saved."

"And they are burnt. Oh, Holy Virgin, I shall see it always."

"Don't talk of it, my dear!"

"Oh, I must. I saw it, Aline; I saw it! There was a little thread of fire that ran up Louise's skirt, like a gold wire. Oh, mon Dieu! They are burnt."

"Madame?" asked Ange, very low.

"Yes, yes; and Louise, poor Louise! I was so cross with her last night; but I did n't know. I would n't have been if I had known. Oh, poor Louise!"

"Tell us what happened, my dear, if you can."

"Oh, I don't know." Marguerite hid her face a moment, and then spoke excitedly, pushing back her dishevelled hair. "I woke up with the smoke in my throat, and ran in to la tante's room. She had n't gone to bed at all. There she was in her big chair, sitting up straight, Louise on her knees begging her to get up, and all between the boards of the floor there was smoke coming up, as if there were a great fire underneath."

"Underneath! It began below, then?"

"Yes, Aline, she did it herself! She must have crept down and set light in ever so many places. Yes, it is true, for she boasted of it. 'Ange Desaix says I am the last of the Montenay. Very well, then; she shall see, and the world shall see, how Montenay and I will go together!' That is what she said, and Louise screamed, 'Save yourself, Ma'mselle!' But la tante nodded and said, 'Yes, if you have wings, use them, by all means.' It was like some perfectly horrid dream. I ran through the rooms to see if I could get down the stairs, but they were all in a blaze. Then I ran back again; but when I was still some way from the door I saw that the fire was coming up through the floor. Louise gave one great scream, but la tante just sat and smiled, and then the floor gave way, and they went down with a crash. Oh, Aline—Aline!"

"Oh, Marguerite, my dear—and you?"

Marguerite shuddered.

"I ran across the corridor and into the farthest room, and the smoke came after me, and I fainted, and then you came and saved me."

"Hush! there is some one coming," said Mlle Ange in a quick whisper.

They crouched down and waited breathlessly. Then, after an agonised struggle, Marguerite coughed, and at once a dark figure bore down on them.

"Thank the Saints I have found you," said Madelon's voice.

Aline sprang up.

"Madelon—you? How did you know?"

"Ah! Bah—I saw you when you crossed the terrace. I saw you were carrying some one. Is it Madame?"

"No, no; a girl—younger than we are. Oh, Madelon, you will help us?"

"Well, at least I won't harm you—you know that; but you are safe enough, so far, for no one else saw you. They were all watching to see the roof fall in over there to the right, and I should have been watching too, only that my cousin Anne had just been scolding me so for being there at all. She said my baby would have St. John's fire right across his face. She herself has a red patch over one eye, and only because her mother would sit staring at the embers. Well, I thought I would be prudent, so I bade Jean Jacques look instead of me, and turned my head the other way, and, just as the flames shot up, I saw you cross the terrace and go down the steps. And now, what are you going to do with Mademoiselle?"

This most pertinent question took them all aback, and Marguerite looked up with round, bewildered eyes; she certainly had no suggestions to make. At last Mlle Ange said slowly:

"She must come home with us."

"Impossible! No, no, that would never do, dear Ma'mselle."

"But there is nothing else to be done."

"Oh, there must be. Why, you could not hide an infant in your house. Everything is known in the village,—and—I should not trust Jeanne overmuch."

"Madelon! Jeanne? She has been with us a life-time."

"Maybe, but she hates the Montenay more than she loves you and Mlle Marthe. Also, she is jealous of Madame here,—and—in fact, she has talked too much already."

"Then what is to be done?" asked Ange distractedly. She was trembling and unnerved. That a man's foes could be they of his own household, was one of those horrible truths which now came home to her for the first time. "Jeanne," she kept repeating; "no, it is not possible that Jeanne would do anything to harm us."

Madelon drew Aline aside.

"Jeanne is an old beast," she said frankly. "I always said so; but until the other day I did not think she was unfaithful. Now,—well, I only tell you that my father said she had given him 'valuable information.' What do you make of that, eh?"

"What you do," said Aline calmly.

"Well, then, what next?"

"What do you advise?"

"Seigneur! Don't put it on me. What is there to advise?"

As she spoke, with a shrug of her plump shoulders, Marguerite came forward. In her white undergarment, with her brown hair loose and curling, and her brown eyes brimmed with tears, she looked like a punished child. Even the smuts on her face seemed to add somehow to the youth and pathos of her appearance.

"Oh, Aline," she said, with a half sob, "where am I to go? What am I to do?" And in a moment the mother in Madelon melted in her.

"There, there, little Ma'mselle," she said quickly, "there 's nothing to cry about. You shall come along with me, and if I can't give you as fine a bed as you had in this old gloomy place, at any rate it will be a safer one, and, please the Saints, you 'll not be burnt out of it."

"No, no, Madelon, you mustn't," said Mlle Ange.

"And why not, chère Ma'mselle?"

"The danger—your father—your good husband. It would not be fair. I will not let you do what you have just said would be so dangerous."

"Dangerous for you, but not for me. Who is going to suspect me? As to Jean Jacques, you need n't be afraid of him. Thank God he is no meddler, and what I do is right in his eyes."

"Dear child, he is a good husband; but—but just now you should not have anxiety or run any risks."

Madelon laughed, and then grew suddenly grave.

"Ah, you mean my baby. Why, you are just like Anne; but there, Ma'mselle, do you really think le bon Dieu would let my baby suffer because I tried to help poor little Ma'mselle here, who does n't look much more than a baby herself?"

Ange kissed her impulsively.

"God bless you, my dear," she said. "You are a good woman, Madelon."

"Well, then, it is settled. Here, take my cloak, Ma'mselle. What is your name? Ma'mselle Marguerite, then—no, not yours; it is much better that you should not come into the matter any more, Ma'mselle Ange, nor you, Madame. Ma'mselle Marguerite will put on my cloak and come along with me, and as quickly as possible, since Jean Jacques will be getting impatient."

"Where is he, then?" asked Aline.

"Oh, yonder behind the big cypress. I left him there to keep a look-out and tell us if any one came this way. He has probably gone to sleep, my poor Jean Jacques. It took me a quarter of an hour to wake him, the great sleepy head. He had no desire to come, not he, and will be only too thankful to be allowed to go back to bed again."

"Now, Ma'mselle, are you ready?"

They went off together into the shadows, and Ange and Aline took their way home to remove the smoke and grime, and to tell Mlle Marthe the events of the night.

CHAPTER XXV

ESCAPE OF TWO MADCAPS

"Well, it is a mercy, only what's to happen next?" said Mlle Marthe in the morning.

"I don't know," said Aline doubtfully.

Marthe caught her sister's hand.

"Now, Ange, promise me to keep out of it, and you, Aline, I require you to do the same. Madelon is a most capable young woman, and if she and Jean Jacques can't contrive something, yes, and run next to no risk in doing so, you may be sure that you won't do any better. The sooner the girl is got out of the place the better, and while she 's here, for Heaven's sake act with prudence, and don't go sniffing round the secret, like a dog with a hidden bone, until every one knows it's there."

"My dearest, you forget we can't desert Madelon."

"My dear Ange, you may be a good woman, but sometimes I think you 're a bit of a fool. Don't you see that Madelon is not in the least danger as long as you keep well away from her? Who does Mathieu suspect? Us. Well, and if you and Aline are always in Madelon's pocket, do you think he will put it all down to an interest in that impending infant of hers? He 's not such a fool,—and I wish to Heaven you weren't."

This adjuration produced sufficient effect to make Mlle Ange pass Madelon on the road that very afternoon with no more than a dozen words on either side.

"Approve of me," she said laughingly on her return. "It was really very, very good of me, for there were a hundred things I was simply dying to say."

Mlle Marthe was pleased to smile.

"Oh, you can be very angelic when you like, my Angel. Kindly remember that goodness is your rôle, and stick to this particular version of it."

"Madelon says the poor child is rested. She has put her in the loft where she stored her winter apples."

"Sensible girl. Now you would have given her the best bed, if it meant everybody's arrest next moment."

"Oh, if it pleases you to say so, you may, but I 'm not really quite so foolish as you try to make me out. Mathieu thinks everyone was burnt."

"Well, one hoped he would. For Heaven's sake keep out of the whole matter, and he 'll continue to think so."

"Yes, I will. I see you are right, dearest. Jean Jacques has a plan. After a few days he thinks he could get her out of the place. Madelon would not tell me more."

"Oho, Mademoiselle Virtue, then it was Madelon who was good, not you."

"We were both good," asserted Ange demurely.

After that there were no further confidences between Madelon and the ladies of the white house. If they met on the road, they nodded, passed a friendly greeting, and went each on her own way without further words.

Ten days went by and brought them to the first week of March. It came in like the proverbial lamb, with dewy nights which sparkled into tender sunny days. The brushwood tangles reddened with innumerable buds; here and there in the hedgerow a white violet appeared like a belated snowflake, and in the undergrowth primrose leaves showed fresh and green. Aline gave herself up to these first prophecies of spring. She roamed the woods and lanes for hours, finding in every budded tree, in every promised flower, not only the sweetest memories of her childhood, but also, God knows what, of elusive beckoning hopes that played on the spring stirring in her blood, as softly as the Lent breeze, which brought a new blush to her cheek. One exquisite afternoon found her still miles from home. So many birds were singing that no one could have felt the loneliness of the countryside. She turned with regret to make her way towards Rancy, taking here a well-known and there an unfamiliar path. Nearer home she struck into the woods by a new and interesting track. It wandered a good deal, winding this way and that until she lost her bearings and had no longer any clear notion of what direction she was taking. Presently a sweetness met her, and with a little exclamation of pleasure she went on her knees before the first purple violets of the year. It seemed a shame to pick, but impossible to leave them, and by searching carefully she obtained quite a bunch, salving her conscience with the thought of what pleasure they would give Mlle Marthe, who seemed so much more suffering of late.

"It is the spring—it will pass," Ange said repeatedly.

Aline walked on, violets in hand, wondering why the spring, which brought new life to all Nature, should bring—she caught herself up with a shiver—Death? Of course there was no question of death. How foolish of her to think of it, but having thought, the thought clung until she dwelt painfully upon it, and every moment it needed a stronger effort to turn her mind away. So immersed was she that she did not notice at all where she was going. The little path climbed on, pursued a tortuous way, and suddenly brought her out to the east of the château, and in full view of its ruined pile, where the blackened mass of it still smoked faintly, and one high skeleton wall towered gaunt and bare, its empty window spaces like the eyeless stare of a skull.

The sun was behind it, throwing it into strong relief, and the sight brought back the sort of terror which the place had always had for Aline. She walked on quickly, skirting the ruins and keeping to the outer edge of the wide terraces, on her way to the familiar bridle-path, which was her quickest way home. When she came into the Italian garden she paused, remembering the nightmare of that struggle for Marguerite's life. The pool with its low stone rim reflected nothing more terrible than sunset clouds now, but she still shuddered as she thought how the smoke and flame had woven strange spirals on its clear, passive mirror. She stooped now, and dipped her violets in the water to keep them fresh. Her own eyes looked back at her, very bright and clear, and she smiled a little as she put up a hand to smooth a straying curl. Then, of a sudden she saw her own eyes change, grow frightened. A step sounded on the path behind her, and another face appeared in the pool,—a man's face—and a stranger's.

Aline got up quickly and turned to see a tall young man in a riding-dress, who slapped his boot with a silver-headed cane and exclaimed gallantly:

"Venus her mirror, no less! Faith, my lady Venus, can you tell me where I have the good fortune to find myself?"

His voice was a deep, pleasant one, but it carried Aline back oddly to her convent days, and it seemed to her that she had heard Sister Marie Séraphine say, "Attention, then, my child."

Then she remembered that Sister Marie Séraphine in religion was Nora O'Connor in the world, and realised that it was the kindly Irish touch upon French consonants and vowels which she had in common with this young man, who was surely as unlike a nun as he could be. She looked at him with great attention, and saw red unpowdered hair cut to a soldier's (or a Republican's) length, a face all freckles, and queer twinkling eyes, a great deal too light for his skin.

"Monsieur my cousin, or I 'm much mistaken," she said to herself, but aloud she answered:

"And do you not know where you are then, Citizen?"

"I know where I want to be, but I hope I have n't got there," said the young man, coming closer.

"And why is that, Citizen?"

He made a quick impatient gesture.

"Oh, a little less of the Citizen, my dear. I know I 'm an ugly devil, but do I look like a Jacobin?"

Aline was amazed at his recklessness.

"Monsieur is a very imprudent person," she said warningly.

"Monsieur would like to know where he is," responded the young man, laughing.

She fixed her eyes on him.

"You are at Rancy-les-Bois, Monsieur."

He bit his lip, made a half turn, and indicated the blackened ruins above them.

"And this?"

"This is, or was, the Château de Montenay."

In a minute all the freckles seemed to be accentuated by the pallor of the skin below. The hand that held the cane gripped it until the knuckles whitened. He stared a minute or two at the faintly rising vapour that told of heat not yet exhausted, and then said sharply:

"When was it burned?"

"Ten days ago."

"Any—lives—lost?"

"It is believed so," said Aline, watching him.

He put his hand to his face a moment, then let it fall, and stood rigid, his queer eyes suddenly tragic, and Aline could not forbear any longer.

"Marguerite is safe," she cried quickly and saw him colour to the roots of his hair.

"Marguerite—mon Dieu! I thought she was gone!" and with that he sat down on the coping, put his head down upon his arms, and a long sobbing breath or two heaved his broad shoulders in a fashion that at once touched and embarrassed Aline.

She drew nearer and watched uneasily, her own breathing a little quicker than usual. A woman's tears are of small account to a woman, but when a man sobs, it stirs in her the strangest mixture of pity, repulsion, gentleness, and contempt.

"She is quite safe," she repeated nervously, whereupon the young man raised his head, exclaiming in impulsive tones:

"And a thousand blessings on you for saying it, my dear," whilst in the same moment he slipped an arm about her waist, pulled her a little down, and before she could draw back, had kissed her very heartily upon the cheek.

It had hardly happened before she was free, and a yard away, with her head up, and a look in her eyes that brought him to his feet, flushing and bowing.

"I ask a thousand pardons," he stammered. "Indeed if it had been the blessed Saint Bridget herself that gave me that news, I 'd have kissed her, and meant no disrespect. For it was out of hell you took me, with the best word I ever heard spoken. You see, when I found Marguerite gone with that old mad lady, her aunt, I was ready to cut my throat, only I thought I 'd do more good by following her. Then when I saw these ruins, my heart went cold, till it was all I could do to ask the name. And when you said it, and I pictured her there under all these hot cinders—well, if you 've a heart in you, you 'll know what I felt, and the blessed relief of hearing she was safe. Would n't you have kissed the first person handy yourself, now?"

He regarded her with such complete earnestness that Aline could hardly refrain from smiling. She bent her head a little and said:

"I can understand that Monsieur le Chevalier did not know what he was doing."

He stared.

"What, you know me?"

"And do you perhaps think that I go about volunteering information about Mlle de Matigny to every stranger I come across? Every one is not so imprudent as M. Desmond."

"I 'll not deny my name, but that I 'm imprudent—yes, with my last breath."

Aline could not repress a smile.

"Do you talk to all strangers as you did to me?" she inquired.

"Come, now, how do you think I got here?" he returned.

"I am wondering," she said drily.

"Well, it 's a simple plan, and all my own. When I see an honest face I let myself go, and tell the whole truth. Not a woman has failed me yet, and if I 've told the moving tale of my pursuit of Marguerite to one between this and Bâle, I 've told it to half a dozen."

Aline gasped.

"Oh, it 's a jewel of a plan," he said easily, "and much simpler than telling lies. There are some who can manage their lies, but mine have a way of disagreeing amongst themselves that beats cock-fighting. No, no, it 's the truth for me, and see how well it 's served me. So now you know all about me, but I 've no notion who you are."

"I am a friend of Marguerite's, fortunately," she said, "and, I believe, M. le Chevalier, that I am a cousin of yours."

Mr. Desmond looked disappointed.

"My dear lady, it would be so much more wonderful if you were n't. You see my great-grandfather had sixteen daughters, besides sons to the number of eight or so, and between them they married into every family in Europe, or nearly every one. Marguerite is n't a cousin, bless her. Now, I wonder, would you be a grand-daughter of my Aunt Elizabeth, who ran away with her French dancing-master, in the year of grace 1740?"

The blood of the Rochambeau rose to Aline's cheeks in a becoming blush, as she answered with rather an indignant negative.

"No?" said Mr. Desmond regretfully. "Well, then, a pity it is too, for never a one of my Aunt Elizabeth's descendants have I met with yet, and I 'm beginning to be afraid that she was so lost to all sense of the family traditions as to die without leaving any."

"If she so far forgot," Aline began a little haughtily, and then, remembering, blushed a very vivid crimson, and was silent.

"Well, well, I 'm afraid she did," sighed Mr. Desmond; "and now I come to think of it you 'll be Conor Desmond's granddaughter, he that was proscribed, and racketed all over Europe. His daughter married a M. de—Roche—Roche——"

"Rochambeau, Monsieur. Yes, I was Aline de Rochambeau."

"Was?" said Mr. Desmond curiously, and then fell to whistling.

"Oh, my faith, yes, I remember,—Marguerite told me," and there was a slight embarrassed pause which Desmond broke into with a laugh.

"After all, now, that kiss was not so out of place," he said, with a twinkle in his green eyes. "Cousins may kiss all the world over."

His glance was too frank to warrant offence, and Aline answered it with a smile.

"With Monsieur's permission I shall wait until I can kiss Madame ma cousine," she said, and dropped him a little curtsey.

Mr. Desmond sighed.

"I wish we were all well out of this," he said gloomily; "but how in the devil's name, or the saints' names, or any one else's name, we are to get out of it, I don't know. Well, well, the sooner it's tried the better; so where is Marguerite, Madame my cousin?"

Aline considered.

"I can't take you to her without asking leave of the friend she is with," she said at last; "but if you will wait here I will go and speak to her, and come back again when we have talked things over. We shall have to wait till it is quite dark, and you 'll be careful, won't you?"

"I will," said Mr. Desmond, without hesitation. He kissed his hand to Aline as she went off, and she frowned at him, then smiled to herself, and disappeared amongst the trees, walking quickly and wondering what was to come next.

At eleven o'clock that night a council of four sat in the apple loft at the mill. Marguerite, perched on a pile of hay, was leaning against Aline, who sat beside her. Every now and then she let one hand fall within reach of Mr. Desmond, who, reclining at her feet, invariably kissed it, and was invariably scolded for doing so. Madelon sat on the edge of the trap-door, her feet supported by the top rungs of the ladder which led to the barn below. She and Aline were grave, Marguerite pouting, and Mr. Desmond very much at his ease.

"But what plan have you?" Aline was asking.

"Oh, a hundred," he said carelessly.

Marguerite pulled her hand away with a jerk.

"Then you might at least tell us one," she said.

"Ah, now I 'd tell you anything when you look at me like that," he said with fervour.

"Then, tell me. No, now,—at once."

He sat up and extracted a paper from his waistcoat pocket. It set forth that the Citizen Lemoine and his wife were at liberty to travel in France at their pleasure.

"In France," said Aline.

"Why, yes, one can't advertise oneself as an emigré. Once on the frontier, one must make a dash for it,—it's done every day."

"But it says his wife," objected Marguerite, "and I 'm not your wife."

"And I 'm not Lemoine, but it does n't hurt my conscience to say I am,—not in the least," returned Mr. Desmond.

"But I can't go with you like that," she protested. "What would grandmamma have said?"

Mr. Desmond gave an ironical laugh. "Your sainted grandmamma is past knowing what we do, and we 're past the conventions, my dear," he observed, but she only sat up the straighter.

"Indeed, Monsieur, you may be, but I 'm not. Why, there was Julie de Lérac, who escaped with her brother's friend. It was when I was in prison, and I heard what grandmamma and the other ladies said of her. Nothing would induce me to be spoken of like that."

"But your life depends on it. Marguerite, don't you trust me?"

"Why, of course; but that has nothing to do with it."

"But, my dearest child, what is to be done? You can't stay here, and we can't be married here, so the only thing to be done is to get away, and then we 'll be married as soon as your father will allow it. My aunt Judith's money has come in the very nick of time, for now we 'll be able to go back to the old place. Ah, you 'll love Ireland."

Marguerite tapped with her foot.

"Why can't we be married now?" she said quickly.

Madelon, who had been listening in silence, started and looked up, but did not speak.

"Impossible," said Mr. Desmond; and Aline whispered:

"My dear, you could n't."

"Why not? There is a priest here."

"You could n't trust him. He has taken the oath to the Convention," said Aline.

"Well but—Madelon, you told me of him; tell them what you said. Do you think he would betray us?"

"How do I know?" said Madelon, with a frown. "I do not think so, but one never knows. It is a risk."

"I don't mind the risk."

"To us all," continued Madelon bluntly. "I am thinking of more than you, little Ma'mselle."

"Who is this priest?" asked Desmond. "What do you know of him?"

"What I know is from my husband's cousin, Anne Pinel, who is his housekeeper. He took the oath, and ever since he has a trouble on his mind, and walks at night, sometimes all night long. At first Anne would get up and listen, and then she would hear groans and prayers, and once he called out: 'Judas! Judas! Judas!' so that she was frightened, and went back to her bed and put her hands over her ears. Now she takes no notice, she is so used to it."

"There!" cried Marguerite. "Poor man, if he can torment himself in such a way he would not put a fresh burden on his conscience by betraying us. Besides, why should he? I have a beautiful plan."

"Well?"

"We shall start at night; and first we will go to the priest's house, and I shall throw pebbles at his window. He will open, and I shall say, 'Mon père, here are two people who wish to be married.'

"Yes! and he 'd want to know why?"

"Of course, and I shall say, 'Mon père, we are escaping for our lives, and we wish to be married because I am a jeune fille bien élevée, and my grandmamma would turn in her grave at the thought of my crossing France alone with ma fiancé; and then he will marry us, and we shall walk away again, and go on walking until we can't walk any more."

"Marguerite, what folly!" cried Aline, and Madelon nodded her head.

"It's a beautiful plan!" exclaimed Mr. Desmond. He had his betrothed's hand in his once more, and was kissing it unrebuked. "My dear, we were made for each other, for it's a scheme after my own heart! Madame, my cousin, will you come with us?"

"Oh, yes, as chaperon, and then we needn't bother about getting married," said Marguerite, kissing her.

"That's not what I meant at all," observed Mr. Desmond reproachfully, and Aline was obliged to laugh.

"No, no, ma mie; not even to keep you out of so mad a scrape," she said, and Madelon nodded again.

"No, no," she echoed. "That would be a pretty state of affairs. There is Citizen Dangeau to be thought of. Deputies' wives must not emigrate."

Aline drew away from Marguerite, and caught Madelon by the arm.

"What's to be done?" she asked.

"Why, let them go."

"But the plan 's sheer folly."

Madelon shrugged.

"Madame Aline," she said in a low voice, "look at them. Is it any use talking? and we waste time. Once I saw a man at a fair. There was a rope stretched between two booths, and he walked on it. Then a woman in the crowd screamed out, 'Oh, he will fall!' and he looked down at her, went giddy, and fell. He broke his leg; but if no one had called out he would not have fallen."

"You mean?"

"It will be like walking on the rope for Monsieur and little Ma'mselle Marguerite, all the way until they get out of France. If they think they can do it,—well, they say God helps those who cannot help themselves, and perhaps they will get across safely; but if they get frightened, if they think of the danger, they will be like the man who looked down and grew giddy, and pouf!—it will be all over."

"But this added risk——"

"I do not think there is much risk. The curé is timid; for his own sake he will say nothing. If Anne hears anything, she will shut her ears; and, Madame Aline, the great thing is for them to get away. I tell you, I am afraid of my father. He watches us. I do not like his eyes."

She broke off, looking troubled; and Desmond stopped whispering to Marguerite and turned to them.

"Well, you good Madelon, we shall be off your mind to-morrow. Tell us where this curé lives; set us in the way, and we 'll be off as soon as may be. My dear cousin, believe me that frown will bring you lines ten years before they are due. Do force a smile, and wish us joy."

"To-night!" exclaimed Aline.

"Yes, that's best," said Madelon decidedly. "Little Ma'mselle knows that she has been a welcome guest, but she 's best away, and that 's the truth. If we had n't been watched, Jean Jacques would have driven her out in the cart a week ago."

"Watched! By whom?" Desmond's eyes were alert.

"By my father, Mathieu Leroux, the inn-keeper."

"Ah! well, we 'll be away by morning—in fact we 'll be moving now. Marguerite is ready. Faith, now I 've found the comfort of travelling without mails, I 'm ready to swear I 'll never take them again."

"I 'm not," said Marguerite, with a whimsical glance at her costume, which consisted of an old brown skirt of Madelon's, a rough print bodice, and a dark, patched cloak, which covered her from head to foot. They stole out noiselessly, Madelon calling under her breath to the yard dog, who sniffed at them in the darkness, and then lay down again with a rustle of straw.

Afterwards Aline thought of the scene which followed as the most dreamlike of all her queer experiences. The things which she remembered most vividly were Marguerite's soft ripple of laughter, half-childish, half-nervous, as she threw a handful of pebbles at the curé's window, and the moonlight glinting on the pane as the casement opened. What followed was like the inconsequent and fantastic dramas of sleep.

The explanations—the protests, the curé's voice ashake with timidity, until at last his fear of immediate discovery overbore his terror of future consequences, and he began to murmur the words which Aline had heard last in circumstances as strange, and far more terrifying. For days she wondered to herself over the odd scene: Desmond with his head bent towards his betrothed, and his deep voice muffled; and Marguerite pledging herself childishly—taking the great vows, and smiling all the time. Only at the very end she turned and threw her arms round Aline, holding her as if she would never leave go, and straining against her with a choked sob or two.

"No, no, I can't go—I can't!" she murmured, but Aline wrenched herself away.

"Marguerite, for God's sake!" she said. "It is too late,—you must go"; and as Desmond stepped between them Marguerite caught his arm and held it in a wild grip.

"Oh, you'll save me!" And for once Aline was thankful for his tone of careless ease——

"My jewel, what a question! Why, we 're off on our honeymoon. 'T is a most original one. Well, we must go. Good-bye, my cousin," and he took Aline's hand in a grip that surprised her.

"I'll not forget what you've done," he said, and kissed it; and so, without more ado, they were gone, and Aline was alone in the chequered moonlight before the priest's house, where the closed window spoke of the haste with which M. le Curé withdrew himself from participation in so perilous an affair.

CHAPTER XXVI

A DYING WOMAN

Next day brought it home to Madelon how true her forebodings had been. Noon brought her a visit from her father, and nothing would serve him but to go into every hole and corner. He alleged a wish to admire her housewifery, but the dark brow with which he accompanied her, and the quick, suspicious glances which he cast all round, made Madelon thank every saint in the calendar that the fugitives were well on the road, and that she had removed every trace of their presence betimes.

"Mon Dieu, Madame Aline!" she said afterwards, "when he came to the apple loft he seemed to know something. There he stood, not speaking, but just staring at me, like a dog at a rat-hole. I tell you, I thanked Saint Perpetua, whose day it was, that the rats were away!" In the end he went away, frowning, and swearing a little to himself, and quiet days set in.

No news was good news, and no news came; presently Aline stopped being terrified at every meeting with the inn-keeper, or the curé, and then Mlle Marthe became so ill that all interests centred in her sick-room. Her malady, which had remained stationary for so long, began to gain ground quickly, and nights and days of agony consumed her strength, and made even the sister to whom she was everything look upon Death as the Angel not of the Sword, but of Peace.

One day the pain ebbed with the light, and at sunset she was more comfortable than she had been for a long while. Aline persuaded Mlle Ange to go and lie down for a little, and she and Marthe were alone.

"The day is a long time going," said Marthe after a silence of some minutes.

"Yes, the days are lengthening."

"And mine are shortening,—only I 'm an unreasonable time over my dying. It's a trial to me, for I liked to do things quickly. I suppose no one has ever known what it has been to me to see Jeanne pottering about her work, or Ange moving a chair, or a book, in her slow, deliberate way; and now that it's come to my turn I 'm having my revenge, and inflicting the same kind of annoyance on you."

She spoke in a quick, toneless voice, that sounded very feeble,—almost as if the life going from her had left it behind as a stranded wreck of sound.

Aline turned with a sob.

"Heavens, child! did you think I did n't know I was going, or that I expected you to cry over me? You 've been a butt for my sharp tongue too often to be heart-broken when there 's a chance of your being left in peace."

"Oh, don't!" said Aline, choking; and something in voice and face brought a queer look to the black, mocking eyes.

"What, you really care a little? My dear, it's too amiable of you. Why, Aline,"—as the girl buried her face in her hands,—"why, Aline!"

There was a pause, and then the weak voice went on again:

"If you do care at all—if I mean anything at all in your life—then I will ask you one thing. What are you doing to Jacques?"

"Was that why you hated me?" said Aline quickly.

"Oh, hate? Well, I never hated you, but—Yes, that was it. He and Ange are the two things I 've had to love, and though I don't suppose he thinks about me twice a year, still his happiness means more to me than it does—well, to you."

"Oh, that's not true!" cried Aline on a quick breath.

Marthe Desaix looked sharply at her.

"Aline," she said, "how long are you going to break his heart and your own?"

"I don't know," whispered the girl. "There's so much between us. Too much for honour."

"Too much for pride, Aline de Rochambeau," said Marthe with cruel emphasis, and her own name made Aline wince. It seemed a thing of hard, unyielding pride; a thing her heart shrank from.

"Listen to me. When he is dead over there in Spain, what good will your pride do you? Women who live without love, or natural ties, what do they become? Hard, and sour, and bitter, like me; or foolish, and spiteful, and soft, and petty. I tell you, I could have shed the last drop of my blood, worked my fingers to the raw stump, for the man I loved. I 'd have borne his children by the roadside, followed him footsore through the world, slept by his side in the snow, and thought myself blessed. But to me there came neither love nor lover. Aline, can you live in other people's lives, love with other women's hearts, rear and foster other mothers' children as Ange does? That is the only road for a barren woman, that does not lead to desert places and a land dry as her heart. Can you take my sister's road? Is there nothing in you that calls out for the man who loves you, for the children that might be yours? Is your pride more to you than all this?"

Aline looked up steadily.

"No," she said, "it is nothing. I would do as you say you would have done, but there was one thing I thought I could not do. May I tell you the whole story now? I have wished to often, but it is hard to begin."

"Tell me," said Marthe; and Aline told her all, from the beginning.

When she had finished she saw that Marthe's eyes were closed, and moved a little to rise, thinking that she had dropped asleep. But as she did so the eyes opened again, and Marthe said fretfully, "No, I heard it all. It is very hard to judge, very hard."

Aline looked at her in alarm, for she seemed all at once to have grown very old.

"Yes, it is hard. Life is so difficult," she went on slowly—weakly, "I 'm glad to be going out of it—out into the dark."

Aline kissed her hand, and spoke wistfully:

"Is it all so dark to you?"

"Why yes, dark enough—cold enough—lonely enough. Is n't it so to you?"

"Not altogether, ma tante."

"What, because of those old tales which you believe? Well, if they comfort you, take comfort from them. I can't."

"But Mlle Ange—believes?"

Marthe frowned impatiently.

"Who knows what Ange believes? Not she herself. She is a saint to be sure, but orthodox? A hundred years ago she would have been lucky if she had escaped Purgatory fire in this life. She is content to wander in vague, beautiful imaginings. She abstracts her mind, and calls it prayer; confuses it, and says she has been meditating. I am not like that. I like things clear and settled, with a good hard edge to them. I should have been the worker and Ange the invalid,—no, no! what am I saying? God forgive me, I don't mean that."

"You would not like to see M. le Curé?" said Aline timidly. The question had been on her lips a hundred times, but she had not had the courage to let it pass them.

Mlle Marthe was too weak for anger, but she raised her eyebrows in the old sarcastic way.

"Poor man," she said, "he needs absolution a great deal more than I do. He thinks he has sold his soul, and can't even enjoy the price of it. After all, those are the people to pity—the ones who have courage for neither good nor evil."

She lay silent for a long while then, and watched the sunset colours burn to flame, and fade to cold ash-grey.

Suddenly Aline said:

"Ma tante."

"Well?"

"Ma tante, do you think he loves me still?"

"Why should he?"

The girl took her breath sharply, and Mlle Marthe moved her head with an impatient jerk.

"There, there, I 'm too near my end to lie. Jacques is like his mother, he has n't the talent of forgetfulness."

"He looked so hard when he went away."

"Little fool, if he had smiled he would have forgotten easily enough."

Aline turned her head aside.

"Listen to me," said Mlle Marthe insistently. "What kind of a man do you take your husband to be, good or bad?"

"Oh, he is good—don't I know that! What would have become of me if he had been a bad man?" said the girl in a tense whisper.

"Then would you not have him follow his conscience? In all that is between you has he not acted as a man should do? Would you have him do what is right in your eyes and not in his own; follow your lead, take the law from you? Do you, or does any woman, desire a husband like that?"

Aline did not answer, only stared out of the window. She was recalling the King's death, Dangeau's vote, and her passion of loyalty and pain. It seemed to her now a thing incredibly old and far away, like a tale read of in history a hundred years ago. Something seemed to touch her heart and shrivel it, as she wondered if in years to come she would look back as remotely upon the love, and longing, which rent her now.

There was a long, long silence, and in the end Mlle Marthe dozed a little. When Ange came in, she found her lying easily, and so free from pain that she took heart and was quite cheerful over the little sick-room offices. But at midnight there was a change,—a greyness of face, a labouring of failing lungs,—and with the dawn she sighed heavily once or twice and died, leaving the white house a house of mourning.

Mlle Ange took the blow quietly, too quietly to satisfy Aline, who would rather have seen her weep. Her cold, dreamy composure was somehow very alarming, and the few tears she shed on the day they buried Marthe in the little windy graveyard were dried almost as they fell. After that she took up all her daily tasks at once, but went about them abstractedly.

Even the children could not make her smile, or a visit to the grave draw tears. The sad monotony of grief settled down upon the household, the days were heavy, work without zest, and a wet April splashed the window-panes with torrents of warm, unceasing rain.

CHAPTER XXVII

BETRAYAL

In the early days of April the wind-swept, ice-tormented Pyrenees had been exchanged for the Spanish lowlands, vexed by the drought and heat of those spring days. If the army had suffered from frostbite and pneumonia before, it groaned now under a plague of dysentery, but it was still, and increasingly, victorious. An approving Convention sent congratulatory messages to Dugommier, who enjoyed the distinction—somewhat unusual for a general in those days—of having been neither superseded nor recalled to suffer an insulting trial and an ignoble death.

France had a short way with her public servants just then. Was an army in retreat? To Paris with the traitor who commanded it. Was an advantage insufficiently followed up? To the guillotine with the officer responsible. Dumouriez saved his head by going to Austria with young Égalité at his heels, but many and many a general who had led the troops of France looked out of the little window, and was flung into the common trench, to be dust in dust with nobles, great ladies, common murderers, and the poor Queen herself. Closer and closer shaved the national razor, heavier and heavier fell the pall upon blood-soaked Paris. Marat, long since assassinated, and canonised as first Saint of the New Calendar, with rites of an impiety quite indescribable, would, had he lived, have seen his prophecy fulfilled. Paris had drunk and was athirst again, and always with that drunkard's craving which cannot be allayed—no, not by all the floods of the infernal lake. Men were no longer men, but victims of a horrible dementia. Listen to Hébert demanding the Queen's blood.

"Do you think that any of us will be able to save ourselves?" he cries. "I tell you we are all damned already, but if my blood must flow, it shall not flow alone. I tell you that if we pass, our passing shall devastate France, and leave her ruined and bloody, a spectacle for the nations!" And this at the beginning of the Terror!

A curious thought comes to one. Are these words, instinct with pure, fate-driven tragedy, the fruit of Hébert's mind—Hébert gross with Paris slime, sensual, self-seeking, flushed with evil living? or is he, too, unwillingly amongst the prophets, mouthpiece only of an immutable law, which, outraged by him and his like, pronounces thus an irrevocable doom?

Well might Danton write—"This is chaos, and the worlds are a-shaping. One cannot see one's way for the red vapour. I am sick of it—sick. There is nothing but blood, blood, blood. Camille says that the infernal gods are athirst. If they are not glutted soon there will be no blood left to flow. They may have mine before long. Maximilian eyes my head as if it irked him to see it higher than his own. If it were off he would seem the taller. I am going home to Arles—with my wife. The spring is beautiful there, and the Aube runs clean from blood. It were better to fish its waters than to meddle with the governing of men."

Dangeau sighed heavily as he destroyed the letter. Surely the strong hand would be able to steer the ship to calmer waters, and yet there was a deep sense of approaching fatality upon him.

His fellow-Commissioner was of Robespierre's party,—a tall man, wonderfully thin, with grizzled hair, and a nose where the bony ridge showed yellow under the tight skin. He had a cold, suspicious eye, light grey, with a green under-tinge, and was, as Dangeau knew beyond a doubt, a spy both on himself and on Dugommier. There came an April day full of heat, and sullen with brooding thunder. Dangeau in his tent, writing his report, found the pen heavy in his hand, and for once was glad of the interruption, when Vibert's shadow fell across the entrance, and his long form bent to enter at the low door.

"Ah, come in," he said, pushing his inkstand away; and Vibert, who had not waited for the invitation, sat down and looked at him curiously for a moment. Then he said:

"A courier from Paris came in an hour ago."

Dangeau stretched out his hand, but the other held his papers close.

"There is news,—weighty news," he continued; and Dangeau felt his courage leap to meet an impending blow.

"What news?" he asked, quite quietly, hand still held out.

"You are Danton's friend?"

"As you very well know, Citizen."

Vibert flung all his papers on the table.

"You 'll be less ready to claim his friendship in the future, I take it," he said, with a sudden twang of steel in his voice. Dangeau turned frightfully pale, but the hand that reached for the letters was controlled.

"Your meaning, Citizen?"

Vibert's strident laugh rang out.

"Danton was—somebody, and your friend. Danton is—a name and nothing more. Once the knife has fallen there is not a penny to choose between him and any other carrion. A good riddance to France, and all good patriots will say 'Amen' to that."

"Patriots!" muttered Dangeau, and then fell to reading the papers with bent head and eyes resolutely calm. When he looked up no one would have guessed that he was moved, and the sneering look which dwelt upon his face glanced off again. He met Vibert's eyes full, his own steady with a cold composure, and after a moment or two the thin man shuffled with his feet, and spat noisily.

"Well," he said, "Robespierre for my money; but, of course, Danton was backing you, and you stand to lose by his fall."

"Ah," said Dangeau softly, "you think so?"

He looked to the open door of the tent as he spoke. The flap was rolled high to let in the air, and showed a slope, planted with vines in stiff rows, and, above, a space of sky. This seemed to consist of one low, bulging cloud, dark with suppressed thunder, and in the heavy bosom of it a pulse of lightning throbbed continually. With each throb the play of light grew more vivid, whilst out of the distance came a low, answering boom, the far-off heart-beat of the storm. Dangeau's eyes rested on the prospect with a strange, sardonic expression. Danton was dead, and dead with him all hopes that he might lead a France, purged terribly, and regenerate by fire and blood, to her place as the first, because the freest, of nations. Danton was dead, and Paris adrift, unrestrained, upon a sea of blood. Danton was dead, and the last, lingering, constructive purpose had departed from a confederacy given over to a mere drunken orgy of destruction—slaves to an ignoble passion for self-preservation. To Dangeau's thought death became suddenly a thing honourable and to be desired. From the public services of those days it was the only resignation, and he saw it now before him, inevitable, more dignified than life beneath a squalid yoke. All the ideals withered, all the idols shattered, youth worn through, patriotism chilled, disenchantment, disintegration, decay,—these he saw in sombre retrospect, and nausea, long repressed, broke upon him like a flood.

A flash brighter than any before shot in a vicious fork across the blackening sky, and the thunder followed it close, with a crash that startled Vibert to his feet.

Dangeau sat motionless, but when the reverberations had died away, he leaned across the table, still with that slight smile, and said:

"And what do you say of me in your report, Vibert?"

Still dazed with the noise, the man stared nervously.

"My report, Citizen?"

"Your report, Vibert."

"My report to the Convention?"

Dangeau laughed, with the air of a man who is enjoying himself. After the dissimulation, the hateful necessity for repression and evasion, frankness was a luxury.

"Oh, no, my good Vibert, not your report to the Convention. It is your report to Robespierre that I mean. I have a curiosity to know how you mean to put the thing. 'Emotion at hearing of Danton's death,' is that your line, eh?"

"Citizen——"

"What, protestations? Really, Vibert, you underrate my intelligence. Shall I tell you what you said about me last time?"

Vibert shifted his eyes to the door, and seemed to measure his distance from it.

"What I said last time, Citizen?" he stammered. Once out of the tent he knew he could break Dangeau easily enough, but at present, alone with a man who he was aware must be desperate, he felt a creeping in his bones, and a strong desire to be elsewhere.

Dangeau's lip lifted.

"Be reassured, my friend. I am not a spy, and I really have no idea what it was that you said, though now that you have been so obligingly transparent I think I might hazard a guess. It would be a pity if this week's report were to contain nothing fresh. Robespierre might even be bored—in the intervals of killing his betters."

Vibert's lips closed with a snap. Here was recklessness, here was matter enough to condemn a man who stood firmer than Dangeau.

Dangeau leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.

"You agree with me that that would be a pity? Very well then, you may get out your notebook and write the truth for once. Tell the incorruptible Maximilian that he is making the world too unpleasant a place for any self-respecting Frenchman to care about remaining in it, and, if that is not enough, you can inform him that Danton's blood will yet call loud enough to bid him down to hell."

There was no emotion at all in his voice. He spoke drily, as one stating facts too obvious to require any stress of tone, or emphasis.

Vibert was puzzled, but his nerves were recovering, and he wrote defiantly, looking up with a half-start at every other word as if he expected to see Dangeau's arm above him, poised to strike.

Dangeau shrugged his shoulders.

"You needn't be afraid," he said, with hard contempt. "You are too obviously suited to the present débâcle for me to wish to remove you from it. No doubt your time will come, but I have no desire to play Sanson's part."

Vibert winced. Perhaps he saw the red-edged axe of the Revolution poised above him. When, four months later, he was indeed waiting for it to fall, they say he cursed Dangeau very heartily.

The lightning stabbed with a blinding flame, the thunder crashed scarce a heart-beat behind, and with that the rain began. It fell in great gouts and splashes, with here and there a big hailstone, and for a minute or two the air seemed full of water, pierced now by a sudden flare of blue, and shattered again by the roar that followed. Then, as it had come, so it went, and in a moment the whirl of the wind swept the sky clear again.

Vibert pulled himself together. His long limbs had stiffened into a curious rigidity whilst the storm was at its height, but now they came out of it with a jerk. He thrust his notebook into the pocket which bulged against his thin form, and under his drooping lids he sent a queer, inquisitive glance at his companion. Dangeau was leaning back in his chair, one arm thrown carelessly over the back of it, his attitude one of acquiescence, his expression that of a man released from some distasteful task. Vibert had seen many a man under sentence of death, but this phase piqued him, and he turned in the doorway.

"Come then, Dangeau," he said, with a would-be familiar air, "what made you do it? Between colleagues now? I may tell you, you had fairly puzzled me. When you read those papers, I could have sworn you did not care a jot, that it was all one to you who was at the top of the tree so you kept your own particular branch; and then, just as I was thinking you had bested me, and betrayed nothing, out you come with your 'To hell with Robespierre.' What the devil took you?"

Dangeau looked at him with a strange gleam in his eyes. The impulse to speak, to confide, attacks us at curious moments; years may pass, a man may be set in all circumstances that invite betrayal, he may be closeted with some surgeon skilled in the soul's hurts, and the impulse may not wake,—and then, quite suddenly, at an untoward time, and to a listener the most unlikely, his soul breaks bounds and displays its secret springs.

Such an hour was upon Dangeau now, and he experienced its intoxication to the full.

"My reason?" he said slowly. "My good Vibert, is one a creature of reason? For me, I doubt it—I doubt it. Look at our reasonable town of Paris, our reasonable Maximilian, our reasonable guillotine. Heavens! how the infernal powers must laugh at us and our reason."

Then of a sudden the sneer dropped out of his tone, and a ring almost forgotten came to it, and brought each word distinctly to Vibert's ear, though the voice itself fell lower and lower, as he spoke less and less to the man in the tent-door and more and more to his own crystallising thoughts.

"My reason? Impulse,—just the sheer animal desire to strike at what hurts. What was reason not to do for us? and in the end we come back to impulse again. A vicious circle everywhere. The wheel turns, and we rise, fancying the stars are within our grasp. The wheel turns on, and we fall,—lose the stars and have our wage—a handful of bloody dust. Louis was a tyrant, and he fell. I had a hand in that, and said, 'Tyranny is dead.' Dead? Just Heaven! and in Paris to-day every man is a tyrant who is not a victim. Tyranny has the Hydra's gift of multiplying in death. Better one tyrant than a hundred. Perhaps Robespierre thinks that, but God knows it is better a people should be oppressed than that they should become oppressors." Here his head came up with a jerk, and his manner changed abruptly. "And then," he continued, with a little bow, "and then, you see, I am so intolerably bored with your society, my good Vibert."

Vibert scowled, cursed, and went out. Half an hour afterwards he thought of several things he might have said, and felt an additional rancour against Dangeau because they had not come to him at the time. A mean creature, Vibert, and not quick, but very apt for dirty work, and therefore worth his price to the Incorruptible Robespierre.

Dangeau, left alone, fell to thinking. His strange elation was still upon him, and he felt an unwonted lightness of spirit. He began to consider whether he should wait to be arrested, or end now in the Roman way. Suicide was much in vogue at the time, and was gilded with a strong halo of heroics. The doctrine of a purpose in the individual existence being rejected, the Stoic argument that life was a thing to be laid down at will seemed reasonable enough. It appealed to the dramatic sense, a thing very inherent in man, and the records of the times set down almost as many suicides as executions. Dangeau had often enough maintained man's right to relinquish that which he had not asked to receive, but at this crisis in his life there came up in him old teachings, those which are imperishable, because they have their roots in an imperishable affection. His mother, whom he adored, had lived and died a devout Catholic, and there came back to him now a strange, faint sense of the dignity and purpose of the soul, of life as a trial, life as a trust. It seemed suddenly nobler to endure than to relinquish. An image of the deserter flitted through his brain, to be followed by another of the child that pettishly casts away a broken toy, and from that his mind went back, back through the years. For a moment his mother's eyes looked quite clearly into his, and he heard her voice say, "Jacques, you do not listen."

Ah, those tricks of the brain! How at a touch, a turn of the head, a breath, a scent, the past rises quick, and the brain, phonograph and photograph in one, shows us our dead again, and brings their voices to our ears. Dangeau saw the chimney corner, and a crooked log on the fire. The resin in it boiled up, and ran down all ablaze. He watched it with wondering, childish eyes, and heard the gentle voice at his ears say, "Jacques, you do not listen."

It was there and gone between one breath and the next, but it took with it the dust of years, and left the old love very fresh and tender. Ah—the dear woman, the dear mother. "Que Dieu te bénisse," he said under his breath.

The current of thought veered to Aline, and at that life woke in him, the desire to live, the desire of her, the desire to love. Then on a tide of bitterness, "She will be free." Quickly came the answer, "Free and defenceless."

He sank his head in his hands, and, for the first time for months, deliberately evoked her image.

It seemed as if Fate were concerning herself with Dangeau's affairs, for she sent a bullet Vibert's way next morning. It ripped his scalp, and sent him bleeding and delirious to a sick-bed from which he did not rise for several weeks. It was, therefore, not until late in June that Robespierre stretched out his long arm, and haled Dangeau from his post in Spain to Paris and the prison of La Force.

Meanwhile there was trouble at Rancy-les-Bois. Mr. and Mrs. Desmond, after a series of most adventurous adventures, had arrived at Bâle, and there, with characteristic imprudence, proceeded to narrate to a much interested circle of friends and relatives the full and particular details of their escape. Rancy was mentioned, Mlle Ange described and praised, Aline's story brought in, Madelon's part in the drama given its full value. Such imprudence may seem inconceivable, but it had more than one parallel.

In this instance trouble was not long in breeding. Three years previously Joseph Pichon of Bâle had gone Paris-wards to seek his fortune. Circumstances had sent him as apprentice to M. Bompard, the watchmaker of Rancy's market-town. Here he stayed two years, years which were enlivened by tender passages between him and Marie, old Bompard's only child. At the end of two years M. Pichon senior died, having lost his elder son about six months before. Joseph, therefore, came in for his father's business, and immediately made proposals for the hand of Mlle Marie. Bompard liked the young man, Marie declared she loved him; but the times were ticklish. It was not the moment for giving one's heiress to a foreigner. Such an action might be unfavourably construed, deemed unpatriotic; so Joseph departed unbetrothed, but with as much hope as it is good for a young man to nourish. His views were Republican, his sentiments ardent. By the time his own affairs were settled it was to be hoped that public matters would also be quieter, and then—why, then Marie Bompard might become Marie Pichon, no one forbidding. Imagine, then, the story of the Desmonds' escape coming to the ears of Joseph the Republican. He burned with interest, and, having more than a touch of the busybody, sat down and wrote Bompard a full account of the whole affair. Bompard was annoyed. He crackled the pages angrily, and stigmatised Joseph as a fool and a meddler. Bompard was fat, and a good, kind, easy man; he desired to live peaceably, and really the times made it very difficult. His first impulse was to put the paper in the fire and hold his tongue. Then he reflected that he was not Joseph's only acquaintance in the place. If the young man were to write to Jean Dumont, the Mayor's son, for instance, and then it was to come out that the facts had been known to Bompard, and concealed by him. "Seigneur!" exclaimed Bompard, mopping his brow, which had become suddenly moist. Men's heads had come off for less than that. He read the letter again, drumming on his counter the while, with a stubby, black-nailed hand; at any rate, risk or no risk, Madelon must not be mentioned. He had known her from a child; there was, in fact, some very distant connection between the families, and she was a good, pretty girl. Bompard was a fatherly man. He liked to chuck a pretty girl under the chin, and see her blush, and Madelon had a pleasant trick of it; and then, just now, all the world knew she was expecting the birth of her first child. No, certainly he would hold his tongue about Madelon. He burnt the letter, feeling like a conspirator, and it was just as he was blowing away the last compromising bit of ash that Mathieu Leroux walked in upon him.

They talked of the weather first, and then of the prospects of a good apple year. Then Mathieu harked back to the old story of the fire, worked himself into a passion over it, noted Bompard's confusion, and in ten minutes had the whole story out,—all, that is, except his own daughter's share in it, and at that he guessed with an inward fury which fairly frightened poor fat Bompard.

"Those Desaix!" he exclaimed with an oath. "If I 'd had your tale six weeks ago! Now there 's only Ange and the niece. It's like Marthe to cheat one in the end!"

Bompard looked curiously at him. He did not know the secret of Mathieu's hostility to the Desaix family. Old Mère Anne could have told him that when Marthe was a handsome, black-eyed girl, Mathieu Leroux had lifted his eyes high, and conceived a sullen passion for one as much above him as Réné de Montenay was above her sister Ange. The village talked, Marthe noted the looks that followed her everywhere, and boiled with pride and anger. Then one day Mme de Montenay, coldly ignoring all differences in the ranks below her own, said:

"So, Marthe, you are to make a match of it with young Leroux"; and at that the girl flamed up.

"If we 're not high enough for the Château, at least we 're too high for the gutter," she said, with a furiously pointed glance at Réné de Montenay, whose eyes were on her sister.

Ange turned deadly pale, Réné flushed to the roots of his hair, Madame bit her lip, and Charles Leroux, who was listening at the door, took note of the bitter words, and next time he was angry with his brother flung them at him tauntingly. Mathieu neither forgot nor forgave them. After forty years his resentment still festered, and was to break at last into an open poison.

His trip to Paris had furnished him with the names and style of patriots whose measures could be trusted not to err on the side of leniency, and to one of these he wrote a hot denunciation of Ange Desaix and Aline Dangeau, whom he accused of being enemies to the Republic, and traitors to Liberty, inasmuch as they had assisted proscribed persons to emigrate. No greater crime existed. The denunciation did its work, and in a trice down came Commissioner Brutus Carré to set up his tribunal amongst the frightened villagers, and institute a little terror within the Terror at quiet Rancy-les-Bois.

The village buzzed like a startled hive, women bent white faces over their household tasks, men shuffled embarrassed feet at the inn, glancing suspiciously at one another, and all avoiding Mathieu's hard black eyes. At the white house Commissioner Brutus Carré occupied Mlle Marthe's sunny room, whilst Ange and Aline sat under lock and key, and heard wild oaths and viler songs defile the peaceful precincts.

Up at the mill, Madelon lay abed with her newborn son at her breast. Strange how the softness and the warmth of him stirred her heart, braced it, and gave her a courage which amazed Jean Jacques. She lay, a little pale, but quite composed, and fixed her round brown eyes upon her father's scowling face. In the background Jean Jacques stood stolidly. He was quite ready to strangle Mathieu with those strong hands of his, but had sufficient wit to realise that such a proceeding would probably not help Madelon.

"They were here!" vociferated Mathieu loudly. "You took them in, you concealed them, you helped them to get away. You thought you had cheated me finely, you and that oaf who stands there; and you thought me a good, easy man, one who would cover your fault because you were his daughter. I tell you I am a patriot, I! If my daughter betrays the Republic shall I shield her? I say no, a thousand times no!"

Madelon's clear gaze never wavered. Her arm held her baby tight, and if her heart beat heavily no one heard it except the child, who whimpered a little and put groping hands against her breast.

"Then you mean to denounce me?" she said quite low.

"Denounce you! Yes, you 're no daughter of mine! Every one shall know that you are a traitress."

"And my baby?" asked Madelon.

Leroux cursed it aloud, and the child, frightened by the harsh voice, burst into a lusty wailing that took all its mother's tender hushing to still.

When she looked at her father again there was something very bright and intent in her expression.

"Very well, my father," she said; "it is understood that you denounce me. Do you perhaps suppose that I shall hold my tongue?"

"Say what you like, and be damned to you!" shouted Mathieu.

Jean Jacques clenched his hands and took a step forward, but his wife's expression checked him.

"I may say what I like?" she observed.

"The more the better. Why, see here, Madelon, if you will give evidence against Ange Desaix and her niece, I 'll do my best to get you off."

"Why, what has Mlle Ange to do with it?" said Madelon, open-eyed.

Leroux became speechless for a moment. Then he swore volubly, and cursed Madelon for a liar.

"A liar, and a damned fool!" he spluttered. "For now I 'll not lift a finger for you, my girl, and when you see the guillotine ready for you, perhaps you 'll wish you 'd kept a civil tongue in your head."

"Enough!" said Madelon sharply. "Let us understand each other. If you speak, I speak too. If you accuse me, I accuse you."

"Accuse me, accuse me,—and of what?"

Madelon's eyes flashed.

"You have a short memory," she said; "others will not believe it is so short. When I say, as I shall say, that it was you that arranged Mlle Marguerite's flight there will be plenty of people who will believe me." She paused, panting a little, and Mathieu, white with passion, stared helplessly at her.

Jean Jacques, in the background, looked from one to the other, amazed to the point of wondering whether he were asleep or awake. Was this Madelon, who had been afraid of raising her voice in her father's presence? And what was all this about Leroux and the escape? It was beyond him, but he opened ears and eyes to their widest.

"There is no proof!" shouted Mathieu.

"Ah, but yes," said Madelon at once; "you forget that Mlle Marguerite gave you her diamond shoe-buckles as a reward for helping her and M. le Chevalier to get away."

"Shoe-buckles!" exclaimed Mathieu Leroux, his eyes almost starting from his head.

"Yes, indeed, shoe-buckles with diamonds in them, fit for a princess; and they are hidden in your garden, my father, and when I tell the Commissioner that, and show him where they are buried, do you think that your patriotism will save you?"

"It is not true," gasped Mathieu, putting one hand to his head, where the hair clung suddenly damp.

"Citizen Brutus Carré will believe it," returned Madelon steadily.

"Hell-cat! She-devil! You would not dare——"

"Yes, I would dare. I will dare anything if you push me too far, but if you hold your tongue I will hold mine," said Madelon, looking at him over her baby's head. She laid her free arm across the child as she spoke, and Leroux saw truth and determination in her eyes.

Jean Jacques began to understand. Eh, but Madelon was clever. A smile came slowly into his broad face, and his hands unclenched. After all, there would be no strangling. It was much better so. Quarrels in families were a mistake. He conceived that the moment had arrived when he might usefully intervene.

"It is a mistake to quarrel," he observed in his deep, slow voice.

Mathieu swung round, glaring, and Madelon closed her eyes for a moment. There was a slight pause, during which Jean Jacques met his father-in-law's furious gaze with placidity.

Then he said again:

"Quarrels in families are a mistake. It is better to live peaceably. Madelon and I are quiet people."

Leroux gave a short, enraged grunt, and looked again at his daughter. As he moved she opened her eyes, and he read in them an unchanged resolve.

"I don't want to quarrel, I 'm sure," he said sulkily.

"We don't," observed Jean Jacques with simplicity.

"Then it is understood. Madelon will tell no lies about me?"

"I say nothing unless I am arrested. If that happens, I tell what I know."

"But you know nothing," exploded Leroux.

"The shoe-buckles," said Madelon.

Leroux stared at her silently for a full minute. Then, with an angrily-muttered oath, he flung out of the room, shutting the door behind him with violence.

Jean Jacques stood scratching his head.

"Eh, Madelon," he said, "you faced him grandly. But when did he get those shoe-buckles, and how did you know about them?"

Madelon began to laugh faintly, with catching breath.

"Oh, thou great stupid," she panted; "did'st thou not understand? There never, never, never were any buckles at all, but he thought they were there in his garden, and it did just as well," and with that she buried her face in the pillow and broke into passionate weeping.

Mathieu Leroux held his tongue about his daughter and walked softly for a day or two. Also he took much exercise in his garden, where he dug to the depth of three feet, but without finding anything.

Meanwhile Brutus Carré was occupied with the forms of republican justice. His prisoners were to be taken to Paris, since Justice lacked implements here, and Rancy owned no convenient stream where one might drown the accused in pairs, or sink them by the boat-load.

Ange Desaix faced him with a high look. If her ideals were tottering, their nobility still clung about her, wrapping her from this man's rude gaze.

"I was a Republican before the Revolution," she said, and her look drew from Citizen Carré an outburst of venom.

"You are suspect, gravely suspect," he bellowed.

"But, Citizen—" and the frank gaze grew a little bewildered.

"But, Citoyenne!—but, Aristocrat! What! you answer me, you bandy words? Is treason so bold in Rancy-les-Bois? Truly it's time the wasp's nest was smoked out. Take her away!" and Mlle Ange went out, still with that bewildered look.

M. le Curé came next. There was a high flush on his thin cheeks, and his fingers laced and interlaced continually.

When Carré blustered at him he started, leaned forward, and tapped the table sharply.

"I wish to speak, to make a statement," he said in a high, trembling voice.

There was a surprised silence, whilst the priest stretched out his hand and spoke as from the pulpit.

"My children, I have been as Judas amongst you, as Judas who betrayed his Lord. I desire to ask pardon of the souls I have offended, before I go to answer for my sin."

Carré stared at him.

"Is he mad?" he asked, with a brutal laugh.

"No, not mad," said M. le Curé quietly.