Front matter (continued 6)

They seated themselves upon the bench.

"Speak!" said Maurice, resting his aching head upon his hand.

"Without exordium, periphrasis, or commentary, I tell you one thing, old fellow,—it is this, that we are ruining ourselves, or rather that you are ruining us."

"How so?" demanded Maurice.

"There is, my friend, a decree issued by the Committee of Public Safety, which declares every man a traitor to his country who enters into any relationship with the acknowledged enemies of the said country. Eh! do you know this decree?"

"To be sure I do," replied Maurice.

"Well, it seems to me, you are not a vile traitor to your country. What say you? as Manlius says."

"Lorin!"

"Undoubtedly; unless you believe that those idolize their country who give house-room, bed, and board to Monsieur le Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, who is not a high Republican, as I suppose, and has not been accused at any time of having taken part in the days of September."

"Ah! Lorin," said Maurice, sighing heavily.

"Still, it appears to me," continued the moralist, "that you have been, and still are, too intimate with the enemies of your country. Come! Come, friend Maurice, do not rebel! you are like the whilom Enceladus; you move a mountain each time you turn yourself."

Lorin pronounced these words in the kindest manner possible, and glossed them over with an artifice truly Ciceronian.

Maurice merely made a gesture of dissent, but the gesture was unheeded, and Lorin continued,—

"If we exist in a greenhouse temperature, a healthy atmosphere, where, according to botanic rules, the barometer invariably points to sixteen degrees, I should say, my dear Maurice, that this is elegant, satisfactory; what though we are occasionally rather aristocratic, we flourish and do well. But if scorched in a heat of thirty-five or forty degrees, the sap burns, so that it rises slowly, and from the excess of heat seems cold; when cold, then comes the blight of suspicion,—you know this, Maurice,—and once suspected, you possess too much good sense not to know what we shall be, or rather that ere long we shall be no more."

"Well, then," said Maurice, "they can kill me, and there will be an end of me, for I am weary of my life."

"For the last quarter of an hour," said Lorin; "indeed scarcely so long that I should leave you to act according to your own pleasure on this subject; and then to die now, it is necessary to die a Republican while you would die an aristocrat."

"Ah!" said Maurice, whose blood began to boil from impassioned grief, resulting from the consciousness of his own criminality, "you go too far, friend Lorin."

"I shall go farther still, and forewarn you, that if you turn aristocrat—"

"You will denounce me?"

"For shame! No. I will confine you in a cellar, and have you sought after to the sound of the drum, like something lost; then I will proclaim that the aristocrats, knowing what you had in reserve for them, had seized, victimized, and starved you, so that, like Provost Élie de Beaumont, Monsieur Latude, and others, when found, you will be publicly crowned with flowers by the ladies of La Halle, and the ragpickers of Section Victor. Make haste, then, to appear again an Aristides, else your business is concluded."

"Lorin! Lorin! I feel that you are right; but I am dragged along. I am sliding down the precipice. Are you displeased with me, because my fate drags me onward?"

"I am not displeased with you, but I shall remonstrate with you. Call to mind a few of the scenes enacted daily between Pylades and Orestes,—scenes which prove beyond all doubt that friendship is a paradox, since these model friends quarrelled without ceasing."

"Leave me to my fate, Lorin, you had much better do so."

"I will never abandon you."

"Then, allow me to love, to be mad, at my ease; to be criminal, perhaps, for if I again see her, I fear I shall kill her."

"Or fall upon your knees. Ah, ah, Maurice, Maurice, to love an aristocrat, I never could have credited it! It is like poor Osselin with the Marquise de Charny."

"No more, Lorin, I beseech you."

"Maurice, I will cure you, or may the Devil take me! I do not wish you to be drawn in the lottery of Saint Guillotine, as the grocer of the Rue des Lombards observes. Maurice, you will exasperate me! Maurice, you will render me bloodthirsty! I feel as if I wanted to set fire to the isle of Saint Louis! A torch! a firebrand!

"The toil were idle. Maurice, thy passion dire Sufficient is Paris to set on fire."

Maurice smiled in spite of himself.

"You know," said he, "that it was agreed between us that we should speak only in prose."

"But you exasperate me with your folly," said Lorin. "Drink, Maurice, become a drunkard, do anything, study political economy; but for the love of Jupiter, let us fall in love with nothing but Liberty!"

"Or Reason?"

"Ah! that is true; by the way, the Goddess Reason talks much about you. She thinks you are a charming mortal."

"Are you not jealous?"

"Maurice, to save a friend I feel capable of any sacrifice."

"Thanks, my poor Lorin, and I truly appreciate your devotion; but the best way to console me is to leave me to sate my grief. Adieu! Lorin, go to your Arthémise."

"And you; where are you going?"

"I shall return home."

And Maurice turned toward the bridge.

"You live, then, in the direction of the old Rue Saint Jacques now?"

"No; but it pleases me to go that way."

"To look once again upon the place inhabited by your fair inconstant?"

"To see if she has not returned where she knows I am awaiting her. Ah, Geneviève! Geneviève! I could not have believed you capable of so much deceit!"

"Maurice, a tyrant who well knew the fair sex, since he died from having loved them too well, said,—

"'Woe to the man who trusts his heart To woman, changeful as the breeze.'"

Maurice sighed, and the two friends took the road to the old Rue Saint Jacques.

As they approached they heard a great noise, and saw the light increase; they listened to patriotic chants, which on a brilliant day in the glorious sunshine, or in the atmosphere of combat, sounded like hymns of heroism, but which by the red light of an incendiary fire savored more of the diabolic incantations of drunken cannibals.

"Oh, my God! my God!" cried Maurice, forgetting that God had been abolished, as he wiped the perspiration from his face.

Lorin watched him attentively and muttered,—

"Alas! when caught in Cupid's snare, To Prudence we must bid adieu."

All the inhabitants of Paris appeared moving toward the theatre of the events we have just narrated. Maurice was obliged to cross a hedge formed by the gendarmes, the ranks of the sections, then the impetuous crowd of this always furious populace, at this epoch easily aroused, and who ran howling from spectacle to spectacle without intermission. As they approached, Maurice impatiently hastened his steps; Lorin, with some trouble, kept close behind him, for he did not like to leave his friend to himself at such a moment.

It was nearly all over. The fire had communicated from the shed where the soldier had flung his torch to the workshops, constructed of planks so put together as to allow the free circulation of air; the merchandise was consumed, and the house itself was now in flames.

"O God!" said Maurice to himself, "if she has returned, should she find herself in a chamber encircled by the devouring element, waiting for me, calling on me—" and Maurice, nearly insensible from grief, liked better to think of the folly of those he loved than of his treason. He rushed headlong toward the door, of which he caught a glimpse through the mass of burning flame. Lorin still followed him. He would have followed him to the infernal regions. The roof was in flames; the fire had now indeed commenced its work of destruction on the staircase. Maurice hastened to visit the first floor, the parlor, the chamber of Geneviève, of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, and the corridors, calling, in stifled accents, "Geneviève! Geneviève!"

No one replied. On returning from the search our two friends saw volumes of flame now entering the door; but not heeding the shouts of Lorin, who pointed to the window, Maurice passed through the flames, then ran to the house, crossed, notwithstanding all impediments, a court-yard strewed with broken furniture, searched the dining-room, Dixmer's parlor, Morand's laboratory,—all filled with smoke, fragments, and broken glass. The fire had reached this part of the house, and the work of destruction would soon be complete. Maurice, as in the pavilion, did not omit visiting a single chamber, or leave unexamined even a corridor. He then descended to the cellars; perhaps Geneviève had taken refuge from the fire there. He found no one.

"Zounds!" said Lorin; "no one but a salamander could take refuge here, and it is not that fabulous animal that you are in search of. Let us go; we can make inquiry in this assemblage. Some one has perhaps seen her."

It needed all Lorin's force to drag away Maurice; hope still detained him there.

Then they commenced their investigation; they visited the environs, stopped all the females who passed, searched all the alleys, without any result. It was now one o'clock in the morning, and Maurice, notwithstanding his athletic vigor, was overpowered and broken down with fatigue, and at length desisted from his worse than useless efforts.

A carriage passed; Lorin hailed it.

"Come, bear up, old fellow," said he to Maurice; "we have done all in the range of human possibility to recover Geneviève. We have broken our backs, been roasted, and have been cruelly cuffed for her. Cupid, however exacting he may be, could require no more from a man in love, and above all, from one who is not. So jump into the carriage, and let us return home."

Maurice submitted without making any reply. They arrived at Maurice's door without either of the friends having uttered a single word. As Maurice descended from the carriage, they heard a window of his apartment closed.

"All right!" said Lorin, "he is waiting; I shall rest easy now. Knock, however."

Maurice knocked, the door opened.

"Good-night!" said Lorin, "wait for me to-morrow morning to go out!"

"Good-night," said Maurice, mechanically, as the door closed behind him. Upon the first steps of the staircase he met his official.

"Ah! Citizen Lindey," he exclaimed, "how much uneasiness you have caused us!" The word us struck Maurice.

"You?" said he.

"Yes, me and the little lady who is waiting for you."

"The little lady," repeated Maurice, feeling the moment ill-chosen to remind him of his former loves; "you were right to tell me. I shall sleep at Lorin's."

"That is impossible; she was at the window, and saw you alight, and cried out, 'There he is!'"

"What care I whether she knows I am here or not? I have no heart for love. Go upstairs, and tell this woman she is mistaken."

The official made a movement as if to obey him, then stopped.

"Ah! Citizen," said he, "you are wrong. The little lady is already very sad; your message will drive her to despair."

"But," asked Maurice, "who is this woman?"

"Citizen, I have not seen her face; it is concealed by her mantle, and she weeps, that is all I know."

"She weeps!" exclaimed Maurice.

"Yes, but very softly, stifling her sobs."

"She weeps," repeated Maurice; "there is then some one in the world who loves me sufficiently to feel anxious in my absence?" and he ascended slowly behind the official.

"Here he is, Citizen, here he is!" cried the latter, rushing into the chamber. Maurice entered behind him.

He then beheld in a corner of the room the trembling form of a woman whose face was hid in the cushions, and whom he would have thought dead, but for her convulsive moaning, which made him start. He signed to his official to leave the room, who went out, closing the door behind him. Then Maurice ran to the young woman, who raised her head.

"Geneviève!" cried the young man, "Geneviève here! good Heavens! am I then mad?"

"No, you are in possession of your senses, my friend," replied the young woman. "I promised to be yours if you would save the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge. You have saved him, and I am here; I was awaiting you."

Maurice mistook the meaning of these words; he recoiled a step, and looked sadly at the young woman.

"Geneviève," said he, "you do not love me."

Geneviève regarded him with tearful eyes; then turning from him, leaned her head on the pillow of the sofa, and gave free vent to her sobs and tears.

"Alas!" said Maurice, "it is evident that you no longer love me; and not only that you love me no more, Geneviève, but that you must entertain a feeling of hatred toward me, to experience this despair."

Maurice had spoken so nobly, yet with so much feeling, that Geneviève arose and took his hand.

"Mon Dieu!" said she, "and is it ever thus that those we think the best prove merely egotists?"

"Egotists, Geneviève! what do you mean?"

"Can you not then imagine what I suffer? My husband a fugitive, my brother proscribed, our house in flames, and all this in one night; and then that dreadful scene between you and the Chevalier was added to the rest!"

Maurice listened with delight, for it was impossible even for the maddest passion not to admit that this accumulation of trouble was more than sufficient excuse for Geneviève's deep and violent grief.

"And now you are come, I shall keep you; you shall leave me no more!"

Geneviève started.

"Where should I go?" replied she, with bitterness. "Have I an asylum, a shelter, a protector, save he who has put a price upon his protection? Oh, rash and foolish that I am! I stepped over the Pont Neuf, Maurice, and in passing I stopped to gaze at the dark water, dashing angrily against the corners of the arches; it attracted and fascinated me. Then said I to myself, there, poor woman, is a shelter for you; there inviolable repose and oblivion!"

"Geneviève! Geneviève!" cried Maurice, "you said that? Then you do not love me?"

"I said it," replied Geneviève,—"I said it; but I am here."

Maurice drew a deep breath, and fell at her feet.

"Geneviève," murmured he, "weep no more! Geneviève, console yourself for all your grief, since you love me. Tell me, Geneviève, for the sake of Heaven! that it was not the violence of my menaces that brought you hither. Assure me that even had you not seen me this evening, on finding yourself alone, isolated, and without an asylum, you would have come to me; and accept the oath which I now make you, to annul the one that I compelled you to take."

Geneviève looked down upon the young man with an expression of ineffable gratitude. "Generous!" said she; "Oh, my God! I thank thee, he is generous."

"Listen, Geneviève!" said Maurice. "God, whom they have here driven from their temples, but whom they cannot expel from our hearts, where he has implanted love, has made this evening in appearance dark and gloomy, but conceals behind its sombre curtain a silvery cloud. God has conducted you to me, Geneviève, and speaks to you through me. God is at length willing to compensate us for all the sufferings we have endured, for the virtue we have displayed in combating this love, as if this sentiment so long entertained, and so profound, could be a crime! Weep no more, Geneviève, weep no more; give me your hand! Do you wish to live in the house of your brother? Do you wish he should kiss the hem of your robe, and pass over the threshold of his door without turning his head? Well, say but the word, make but one sign, and I am gone, and you are free. But on the other hand, my adored Geneviève, will you call to mind that I have loved you so ardently that I had almost died of this love, which it remains with you to render so fatal or so fortunate to me; that for this love I have been a traitor to my party, and am become vile and contemptible in my own eyes,—will you now consider all the happiness which the future has in store for us, the strength and energy which our youth and love possess to defend this happiness, now but in the bud, from all who would dare attack it? Ah! Geneviève, what will you reply? You who are an angel of mercy, will you render a man so happy that he no longer regrets life, and ceases to desire eternal felicity? Then, instead of repelling me, smile, my Geneviève; let me place your hand upon my heart, and incline toward one who worships you from the inmost recesses of his soul. Geneviève, my love, my life, do not take back your vow!"

The heart of the young woman swelled at these words. The fatigue of her late suffering had worn out her strength, and though her tears no longer flowed, occasional sobs relieved her overcharged bosom.

Maurice saw that she no longer had the force to resist, and seized her in his arms. Then she let her head fall on his shoulder, and her long hair brushed against her lover's burning cheeks.

At the same time Maurice felt the heaving of her chest, still disturbed like the ocean after a storm.

"You still weep, my Geneviève," continued Maurice, with profound melancholy,—"you still weep. Oh, reassure yourself! I will never impose my love on scornful grief, and never soil my lips with a kiss empoisoned by a single tear of regret."

He unwound the living girdle of her arms, averted his face, and coldly turned away.

But as quick as thought, in a moment of reaction so natural in a woman who struggles contrary to her own inclination, Geneviève threw her trembling arms around Maurice's neck, pressed him nervously to her heart, and laid her cold cheek, still wet with the tears which had ceased to flow, against the young man's burning one.

"Ah, Maurice!" murmured Geneviève, "do not abandon me, Maurice; I have no one left me in the world but you!"

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE MORROW.

A beautiful sun beamed across the green window-blinds, gilding the leaves of three large roses placed in a flower-stand before the window of Maurice. These flowers, more precious as the season was on the decline, perfumed with a delicious fragrance the little dining-room of spotless neatness, where at a table served with every elegancy, but without profusion, sat Maurice and Geneviève. The door was closed, for as the table contained all that was requisite, it was understood they waited on themselves. They heard the official stirring in the adjoining room. The warmth and life of the last few lovely days entered through the half-open jalousie, making glitter like emeralds and rubies the rose-leaves caressed by the rays of the sun.

Geneviève let fall upon her plate the golden fruit she held in her hand. She appeared to be deep in thought, and smiling only with her lips, while her eyes languished with a melancholy expression. She remained thus silent, abstracted, and happy in the sun of her love, as the beautiful flowers in the sun of heaven. Soon her eyes sought those of Maurice, and encountered his gazing upon her. She placed her soft white arm upon the young man's shoulder, and leaned on his breast with that faith and confidence far exceeding love.

Geneviève looked at him without speaking, and blushed as she regarded him. Maurice slightly inclined his head to imprint a kiss upon the half-open lips of Geneviève. He bent his head, while she turned pale, and closed her eyes as the delicate flower conceals its calyx from the rays of light. They remained dreaming thus, when a sharp ring at the door-bell suddenly startled them.

The official entered mysteriously, and closed the door.

"Here is the Citizen Lorin," said he.

"Ah! dear Lorin," said Maurice, "I will go and dismiss him. Pardon, Geneviève."

Geneviève stopped him.

"Dismiss your friend, Maurice!" said she, "and such a friend! one who has consoled, assisted, and sustained you? No; I would no more drive such a friend from your house than from your heart. Let him come in, Maurice; let him come in."

"With your permission?" said Maurice.

"I wish it," said Geneviève.

"Ah! you will find that to love you is not enough," cried Maurice, delighted with her delicacy; "it is necessary to adore you!"

Geneviève held her blushing face to the young man. He opened the door, and Lorin entered, smart as usual in his costume of demi-muscadin. On perceiving Geneviève he manifested great surprise, which was succeeded by a respectful salute.

"Come here, Lorin, come here, and look at the lady! You are dethroned, Lorin. I have now some one I prefer to yourself. I would have given my life for you; for her,—I tell you nothing new, Lorin,—for her I have sacrificed my honor."

"Madame," replied Lorin, in accents of deep emotion, "I shall endeavor to value Maurice the more, that he has not altogether ceased to care for me."

"Sit down, sir," said Geneviève, smiling.

"Yes, sit down," said Maurice, who, having pressed in his right hand that of his friend, and in his left that of his mistress, presented the appearance of a man arrived at the height of human felicity.

"Then you do not wish to die now; do not wish any longer to kill yourself?"

"What do you mean?" asked Geneviève, turning pale.

"Oh, in good truth!" said Lorin, "man is a most versatile animal, and philosophers have good cause to despise his levity. Here is one, would you believe it, Madame, who no longer ago than yesterday evening wished to leap into the fire, throw himself into the water; who declared there was no more happiness for him in this world. And behold him this morning, gay, joyous, with a smile upon his lips, his countenance resplendent with happiness, life in his heart, seated at a well-furnished table; it is true he has not eaten much, but that does not prove he is unhappy."

"Did he wish to do all this?" said Geneviève.

"All this, and much more. I will tell you all, some day, but at this moment I am very hungry; it is all Maurice's fault for making me yesterday evening run all over the Quarter Saint Jacques. Permit me, then, to make an attack upon the breakfast, which I perceive you have neither of you yet touched."

"That is right," said Maurice, with childish glee; "I have not breakfasted, nor have you, Geneviève."

He watched Lorin's eyes as he uttered her name; but Lorin evinced no surprise.

"Ah!" said Maurice, "you have already surmised who it is, Lorin."

"Zounds!" said Lorin, cutting himself a large slice of white and rosy ham, and not seeming to hear Maurice's remark.

"I, also, am hungry," said Geneviève, holding her plate.

"Lorin," said Maurice, "I was ill yesterday."

"You were worse than ill; you were mad."

"Well, I think it is you who are suffering at this moment."

"Why?"

"You have not yet given us any verses."

"I will sing you one this moment," said Lorin,—

"Phœbus, in the midst of the Graces, The lyre in his hand still retained, Till following of Venus the traces, T was lost, and could not be regained."

"Always ready with a quatrain," said Maurice, laughing.

"And you will have to be contented with it, as it is now necessary to turn our attention to more serious affairs."

"Has anything new occurred, then?" said Maurice, anxiously.

"I am ordered on guard at the Conciergerie."

"At the Conciergerie!" said Geneviève, "near the queen?"

"Near the queen. I believe so, Madame."

Geneviève turned pale. Maurice frowned, and made a sign to Lorin, who cut himself another slice of ham, double the size of the first. The queen had indeed been removed to the Conciergerie, whither we shall follow her.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE CONCIERGERIE.

At a corner of the Pont-au-Change and of the Quai aux Fleurs rose the remains of the old palace of Saint Louis, called par excellence the palace, as Rome is called the city, and which still continues to retain the royal cognomen, when the only kings who inhabit it are the registrars, the judges, and the pleaders.

The house of justice was a large and sombre building, exciting more fear than love for the merciless goddess. There might be seen united in this narrow space all the instruments and attributes of human vengeance. The first wards were assigned to those who had been arraigned for crime; farther on were the halls of judgment, and lower down the dungeons of the condemned. By the door was a small space where the red-hot iron stamped its mark of infamy; and about one hundred and fifty paces from the first another space, far more extensive, where the last act of the fearful tragedy took place,—that is to say, La Grève, where they finished the work previously sketched out for them at the Palace. Justice, as we see, reigned paramount over all.

All these portions of the edifice joined one with another, sullen-looking, dark, and gray, pierced by iron-grated windows where the gaping arches resemble the grated dens extending along the side of the Quai des Lunettes. This is the Conciergerie.

This prison contains dens washed by the black mud from the waters of the Seine; it also possesses mysterious outlets, through which were formerly conducted to the river those miserable victims whom it was thought necessary to remove.

As seen in 1793, the Conciergerie, unwearying procureur for the scaffold,—the Conciergerie overflowed with occupants, who within an hour became the victims of the guillotine. At this epoch the old prison of Saint Louis was literally the Inn of Death. Under the arches some gates were hung, and at night a red lantern was suspended there, fit emblem of this abode of misery and despair.

The evening preceding the day when Lorin, Maurice, and Geneviève were breakfasting together, a dull rumbling shook the pavement of the quay and rattled the windows of the prison, then ceased before the arched gate. The gendarmes knocked with the handles of their swords, the gate opened, and a carriage entered the court; when the hinges had turned, and the rusty bolts had creaked, a female descended.

The gaping wicket opened immediately to receive her, and closed upon her. Three or four curious heads, protruding to gaze upon the prisoner by the light of the torches, appeared in mezzo-tinto, then vanished in the darkness, while vulgar jokes and rude laughter passed between the men leaving, who could be heard though not seen.

The person thus brought remained within the first wicket with the gendarmes; she saw it would be necessary to pass through a second, but forgot at the same time to raise the foot and lower the head, as there is a step to ascend and a beam which descends. The prisoner, not yet well habituated to prison architecture, notwithstanding her long sojourn there, omitted to stoop, and struck her forehead violently against the bar.

"Are you much hurt, Citizeness?" demanded one of the gendarmes.

"Nothing can hurt me now," she replied tranquilly, and passed on without uttering a single complaint, although sanguinary traces of the injury remained upon her brow.

Shortly the arm-chair of the keeper became visible,—a chair more venerated by the prisoners than the throne of the king by his courtiers; for the keeper of a prison is the dispenser of favor, and all mercy is important to a prisoner, as sometimes the smallest kindness may change the darkest gloom to a heaven of light.

The keeper Richard, installed in his arm-chair, felt a due perception of his own importance. He remained undisturbed even when the rumbling of the carriage announced a new arrival. He inhaled some snuff, regarded the prisoner, opened a large register, and looked for a pen in the little ink-horn of black wood, where the ink, incrusted on the sides, retained in the centre a mouldy humidity, as in the midst of the crater of a volcano there always remains some melted matter.

"Citizen Keeper," said the chief of the escort, "write, and write quickly, for they are impatiently awaiting us at the Commune."

"I will not be long," said the porter, at the same time emptying into the inkstand some drops of wine remaining at the bottom of his glass; "I am a good hand at this, thank God! Your name and surname, Citizen," said he, and dipping his pen at the same time into this improvised ink, he commenced entering the new arrival at the bottom of a page already nearly filled; while standing behind his chair, Madame Richard, a female of benevolent aspect, contemplated, with a mixture of astonishment and respect, this woman, so sad, so noble, and so proud, whom her husband interrogated.

"Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josèphe de Lorraine," replied the prisoner, "Archduchess of Austria and Queen of France."

"Queen of France!" repeated the keeper, raising himself in astonishment by the arms of his chair.

"Queen of France," repeated the prisoner, in the same voice.

"Otherwise called the Widow Capet," said the chief of the escort.

"Under which of these names am I to enter her?" demanded the keeper.

"Whichever you please, only do it quickly," said the chief of the escort.

The keeper reseated himself, and with a trembling hand wrote down the name, surname, and titles given him by the prisoner, inscriptions the ink of which still appears visible to this day upon the register of which the revolutionary rats of the Conciergerie have nibbled the leaf at its most precious part.

Richard's wife still retained her position behind her husband's chair, and remained standing with her hands clasped together, commiserating the situation of the unfortunate being before her.

"Your age?" continued the keeper.

"Thirty-seven years and nine months," replied the queen.

Richard wrote this down, then the description, and finished with the regular notes and forms.

"There," said he, "that is completed."

"Where shall we conduct the prisoner?" said the chief of the escort.

Richard helped himself to a second pinch of snuff, and looked at his wife.

"Indeed," said she, "we did not anticipate this, and have had but brief notice, so that we hardly know—"

"You must find out," said the brigadier.

"There is the council chamber," said Richard's wife.

"Too large," murmured Richard.

"The larger the better; we can the more easily place the guards."

"Go to the council chamber," said Richard. "But it is not habitable at this moment; it has no bed."

"True," replied his wife, "I had quite forgotten that."

"Bah!" said one of the gendarmes, "you can put a bed there to-morrow, and to-morrow will soon be here."

"Besides, the citizen could occupy our chamber for one night; could she not, good man?" said Richard's wife.

"And what are we to do?" said the keeper.

"Oh, we can do without a bed for one night; and as the citizen gendarme observes, 'the night is nearly gone.'"

"Then," said Richard, "conduct the citizeness to our chamber."

"And in the mean while you will prepare our receipt?"

"It shall be ready on your return."

Richard's wife took the candle from the table, and led the way.

Marie Antoinette followed without uttering a word, calm and pale as usual. Two turnkeys, at a sign from Richard's wife, followed them. The queen was shown her bed, on which the woman hastened to place clean sheets. The turnkeys installed themselves outside; the door was double-locked; and Marie Antoinette was left alone.

How she passed that night no one ever knew, as she passed it in close communion with her God. On the next day the queen was conducted to the council chamber, a long four-sided room, the wicket-door of which opened upon a corridor of the Conciergerie, and which had been divided in its whole length by a partition which did not reach the height of the ceiling.

One of these compartments was occupied by the men on guard. The other was the chamber of the queen. A window, thickly-grated with small iron bars, lighted both these cells. A folding-screen, the substitute for a door, secluded the queen from the guards, and closed the aperture in the middle. The whole of this room was paved with brick. The walls, at one period or another, had been covered with gilded wood, where still hung some shreds of paper fleur-de-lis. A bed was placed opposite the window, and a single chair near the light. This was all the furniture the royal prison contained.

On entering, the queen requested that her books and work might be brought her. They brought her the "Revolutions of England," which she had commenced in the Temple, the "Voyage du Jeune Anacharsis," and her tapestry.

The gendarmes established themselves in the adjoining compartment. History has preserved their names, as it has done that of many others more infamous, associated by destiny in great events, and who see reflected on themselves a fragment of that light cast by the thunderbolt which destroys the thrones of kings, perhaps even the kings themselves.

They were called Duchesne and Gilbert.

These two men were selected by the Commune, who knew them to be stanch patriots. They were to remain at their post in their cell till the sentence of Marie Antoinette. They hoped by this measure to avoid the irregularities consequent upon a change of office several times during the day, and therefore laid the guards under a heavy responsibility.

The queen first became acquainted with this new regulation from the conversation of the gendarmes, whose discourse, not being softly uttered, reached her ears. She experienced at once joy and disquietude; for if on the one hand she felt that these men ought to be trustworthy since they had been chosen from a multitude, on the other side she reflected that her friends might more easily corrupt two known men at their post than a hundred unknown individuals selected by chance, passing near her occasionally, and then only for a single day.

On the first night before she retired one of the gendarmes, according to his usual custom, began to smoke. The noxious vapor glided imperceptibly through the apertures of the partition, enveloping the unfortunate queen, whose misfortunes had irritated instead of deadening her nerves. She soon felt herself seized with nausea and swimming in the head; but true to her indomitable system of firmness, she uttered no complaint.

During her melancholy vigil, while nothing disturbed the deep silence of the night, she fancied she heard plaintive cries outside. These cries were mournful and prolonged; there was about them something weird and piercing, like the howling of wind in the dark and deserted corridor when the tempest borrows the human voice to animate the passions of the elements.

She soon became aware that the noise that had at first startled her was the doleful and persevering cry of a dog howling on the quay. She immediately remembered her poor little Jet, whom she had not thought of when they removed her from the Temple, and now believed she could recognize his voice. Indeed, the poor little animal, who by his mistaken vigilance had ruined his mistress, had unperceived descended behind her, had followed the carriage as far as the grating of the Conciergerie, where he continued till he narrowly escaped being cut in two by the double iron portcullis which closed behind her.

But the faithful creature had soon returned, and comprehending that his mistress was confined in this great stone building, he whined and howled, waiting, within ten feet of the sentinel, a caressing reply. The queen replied by a heart-broken sigh which reached the ears of her guards; but as this sigh was not repeated, and no other sound proceeded from the queen's chamber, they again composed themselves, and relapsed into their former state of drowsiness.

At break of day the queen rose and dressed herself, then took her seat near the window, the light from which, intercepted by the grating of iron bars, fell with a bluish tint upon her emaciated hands, in which she held a book. She was apparently reading, but her thoughts were far away.

The Gendarme Gilbert half opened the screen, and regarded her in silence. The queen heard the noise of the screen, but did not turn her head. She was so seated that the gendarme could see her head bathed in the morning light. Gilbert made a sign to his comrade to advance and look through the opening with him. Duchesne approached.

"Look!" said Gilbert, in a low tone; "how very pale she is; it is frightful! Those red circles round her eyes denote her suffering. She has surely been weeping."

"You well know," said Duchesne, "Capet's widow never weeps. She is too proud for that."

"Then she must be ill," said Gilbert, and raising his voice, "Tell me, Citizen Capet," said he, "are you ill?"

The queen slowly raised her eyes, and fixed an inquiring look upon the two men.

"Did you address me, gentlemen?" demanded she, in a voice full of sweetness, for she fancied she detected the accent of kindness in him who had spoken to her.

"Yes, Citizeness, we spoke to you," replied Gilbert; "we feared you were ill."

"Why so?"

"Because your eyes are so red."

"And at the same time you are so pale," added Duchesne.

"Thank you, gentlemen, I am not ill; only I suffered much last night."

"Ah, yes, your misfortunes!"

"No, gentlemen, my miseries are always the same; and my religion having taught me to carry them to the foot of the cross, I do not suffer more one day than another. No; I am out of sorts because I could not rest last night."

"Ah! your new lodging and different bed?" said Duchesne.

"And then the lodging is not very comfortable," added Gilbert.

"Ah! it is not that, gentlemen," said the queen, shaking her head. "Lofty or lowly, it is all the same to me."

"What is it then?"

"I ask pardon for telling you; but I have suffered much inconvenience from the smell of the tobacco which that gentleman is smoking at this moment."

Indeed, Gilbert was smoking, which was his habitual occupation.

"Confound my stupidity!" cried he, much grieved from the kindness with which the queen had expressed herself. "Why did you not tell me so before, Citizen?"

"Because I thought, sir, I had no right to deprive you of any enjoyment."

"Well, you shall be incommoded no more,—by me, at least," said Gilbert, casting away his pipe, which broke upon the tiles, "for I shall smoke no more."

He turned round, his companion followed, and he closed the screen.

"Possibly they may cut off her head, that is an affair of the nation; but why should we cause her any suffering, poor woman? We are soldiers, and not hangmen, like Simon."

"It rather savors of the aristocrat, comrade, what you did just now," said Duchesne, shaking his head.

"Whom do you term an aristocrat? Explain yourself!"

"I call aristocrats all those who annoy the nation, and succor its enemies."

"Then, according to your theory, I annoy the nation because I cease to annoy with my smoking the Widow Capet? Go along, then! As for me," continued the brave fellow, "I remember my oath to my country, and the order of my brigadier. As for my order, I know it by heart. Not to permit the prisoner to escape; not to allow any one to see her; to resist all correspondence she may endeavor to institute; and to die at my post,—this is what I promised, and to this will I keep. Vive la nation!"

"That is what I tell you," said Duchesne. "It is not that I disapprove of your conduct, but I fear lest you should compromise yourself."

"Hush! here is some one."

The queen had not lost one word of this conversation, although carried on in a low voice. Captivity had rendered her hearing doubly acute.

The noise which had attracted the attention of the two guards was the sound of several steps approaching the door. It opened, and two municipals entered, followed by the keeper and some of the turnkeys.

"Well," they inquired, "where is the prisoner?"

"Here she is," replied the two gendarmes.

"How is she lodged?"

"You can see." And Gilbert touched the screen.

"What do you wish?" demanded the queen.

"It is the visit of the Commune, Citizeness Capet."

"This man is kind," thought the queen; "and if my friends—"

"Very good, very good!" said the municipals, pushing Gilbert aside and entering the queen's chamber; "so much ceremony is not requisite here."

The queen did not even raise her head; and it might have been believed from her impassibility that she neither saw nor heard them, but fancied herself alone. The delegates of the Commune curiously observed everything around the chamber, sounded the wainscoting, the bed, shaking the grating of the window which looked upon the court of the female prisoners, and then having recommended to the gendarmes the utmost vigilance, took their departure without having addressed a word to the queen, who on her part seemed not to have been aware of their presence.

CHAPTER XXXV.

LA SALLE DES PAS-PERDUS.

Toward the decline of the day on which we have seen the municipals so carefully inspecting the queen's prison, a man attired in a gray jacket, his head covered with a mass of black hair, and on his head one of those hairy bonnets, which then among the people was a distinguishing mark of the most exaggerated patriotism, was walking about in the large hall so philosophically termed "La Salle des Pas-Perdus," and seemed most attentively observing all the goers and comers forming the general population of this hall,—a population considerably augmented at this period, when trials had acquired greater importance, and when the only pleading was to dispute their heads with the hangman and with Fouquier Tinville their indefatigable purveyor.

The attitude assumed by this man whose portrait we have just sketched was in very good taste. Society at this epoch was divided into two classes,—the lambs and the wolves. The one naturally inspired the other with fear, since one half of society devoured the other. Our fierce promenader was rather short, and wielded in his dirty black hand one of those knotted cudgels then called "constitutions." It is true the hand that flourished this horrible weapon might have appeared rather small to any one who might take into his head to act the inquisitorial part toward this singular personage which he had arrogated to himself with respect to others; but no one felt the least inclined to risk it, for this man's aspect was far too terrible.

Indeed, this man with the cudgel caused much disquietude to several groups of petty scribes engaged in the discussion of public affairs, which at this time daily progressed from bad to worse, or from better to better, according as they were considered from a conservative or revolutionary point of view. These valorous folks looked askance at his long black beard, his green eyes surmounted by overhanging, shaggy eyebrows, and trembled whenever the promenade of the mighty patriot (a promenade which extended the whole length of the great hall) brought them in near contact with one another.

This terror was augmented from the fact that whenever they ventured to approach him too nearly, or even looked at him too attentively, the man with the cudgel struck his powerful weapon with its full weight upon the pavement, smashing the flag-stones upon which it fell, sometimes with a dull and heavy, sometimes with a sonorous and clashing sound.

But it was not only these brave men among the scribes, designated generally as the "rats of the Palace," who experienced this formidable impression; it was also the various individuals who entered the Salle des Pas-Perdus by the great door, or through some of its narrow vomitories, who also quickened their pace on perceiving the man with the cudgel, who obstinately continued his journey from one end of the hall to the other, finding each moment some pretext for making his weapon ring on the pavement.

If these writers had been less timorous, and the promenaders more clear-sighted, they would have discovered that our patriot, capricious like all eccentric or pronounced characters, appeared to evince a preference for certain flag-stones, those for instance situated a little distance from the wall on the right, near the centre of the hall, which emitted a clear and ringing sound. He even finished by concentrating his anger upon some particular stones in the centre of the hall. At the same time he so far forgot himself as to stop, and with his eye seemed to be estimating the distance.

True, it was a momentary absence of mind only, and he immediately resumed his former expression, which a gleam of pleasure had replaced for an instant.

Almost at the same moment another patriot,—for at this epoch every one wore his opinions on his forehead, or rather in his dress,—almost at the same moment, say we, another patriot entered by the door of the gallery, and without appearing the least in the world to partake of the fear generated by the former occupant, began to cross the hall at a pace equal to his own, so that in the centre of the promenade they encountered each other.

The new arrival had, like the former, a hairy bonnet, a gray jerkin, dirty hands, and in one of them a cudgel; indeed, in addition he carried a sword, which struck against his legs at every step; and on the whole he appeared a greater subject for terror than his predecessor. The first had an air of ferocity, the last seemed replete with sinister cunning.

Although these two men appeared to belong to the same cause, and entertained the same opinions, the assembly ventured to watch the result, not of their meeting, for they were not walking in the same line, but their approach toward each other. At the first turn they were disappointed in their expectation, as the patriots contented themselves with exchanging looks; at the same time the smaller of the two turned slightly pale,—only from an involuntary movement of the lips it was evident it was not caused by fear, but by disgust.

However, at the second turn, as if the patriot had made a violent effort, his countenance, till now so overcast, cleared up suddenly, and something like a smile passed over his lips as he inclined slightly to the left, with the evident intention of stopping the second patriot in his course.

Near the centre they joined each other.

"Why, upon my word, here is the Citizen Simon!" said the first patriot.

"Himself. But what do you want with the Citizen Simon? And, in the first place, who are you?"

"It seems, then, that you do not recognize me?"

"I do not recognize you, and for an excellent reason,—I never saw you before."

"Not recognize me!—when I had the honor to carry the head of the Princess Lamballe!"

At these words, pronounced with savage fury, and bursting passionately from the mouth of the patriot, Simon started.

"You?" said he, "you?"

"Ha! that surprises you! I thought that you would remember your friends better than that, faith! Ah, Citizen! you grieve me."

"You have done very well," said Simon; "but I did not recognize you."

"It is a greater privilege to act as guardian to the young Capet; it brings you more into notice. As for myself, I both know and esteem you."

"Ah! Thank you."

"You have no reason—are you taking a walk?"

"Yes; I am waiting for some one. And you?"

"I am doing the same."

"What is your name? I will make mention of you at the club."

"I am called Théodore."

"What else?"

"Nothing else: is not that enough?"

"Oh, certainly. Who are you waiting for, Citizen Théodore?"

"A friend to whom I wish to make a fine little denunciation."

"Indeed! Do tell me."

"A whole covey of aristocrats."

"What are their names?"

"No, indeed; I only tell that to my friend."

"You are wrong; for here is mine advancing toward us, who, it seems to me, is sufficiently acquainted with business to settle at once all this affair."

"Fouquier Tinville!" cried the first patriot.

"No one less, friend."

"That's all right."

"Yes. Good-day, Citizen Fouquier."

Fouquier Tinville, calm and pale, opening wide, according to habit, his large black eyes shaded by his bushy eyebrows, at this moment entered by a side-door, his register in his hand, and a bundle of papers under his arm. "Good-day, Simon," said he; "anything new?"

"Several things. First, a denunciation from Citizen Théodore, who carried the head of the Princess Lamballe. I will introduce him to you."

Fouquier fixed his scrutinizing glance upon the patriot, who, notwithstanding his strong nerves, felt rather uneasy while undergoing this examination.

"Théodore!" said he; "and who is Théodore?"

"I!" said the man in the jerkin.

"You carried the head of the Princess Lamballe?" said the public accuser, with an unmistakable expression of doubt.

"I. Rue Saint Antoine."

"But I know a person who boasts that he did so," said Fouquier.

"I know ten," replied the Citizen Théodore, courageously; "but, indeed, as they all make some claim for having done so, and I ask nothing, at least I ought to have the preference, I hope."

This reply excited Simon's laughter, and dispersed the cloud on the accuser's brow.

"Right," said he; "and if you did not do it, you ought to have done so. But leave us now; Simon has some business to transact with me."

Théodore retired, very little hurt by the frankness of the public accuser.

"One moment," cried Simon. "Do not send him away so; let us first hear his denunciation."

"Ah!" said Fouquier Tinville, with an absent air, "a denunciation?"

"Yes; a covey of conspirators," replied Simon.

"All in good time. Speak; what is the matter now?"

"Oh! not much; only the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge and some of his friends."

Fouquier made a leap backward, while Simon raised his arms toward heaven.

"Is this the truth?" they exclaimed, both together.

"The pure truth; will you take them?"

"At once. Where are they?"

"I met the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge in the Rue de la Grande Tissanderie."

"You are mistaken; he is not in Paris," replied Fouquier.

"I tell you I have seen him."

"Impossible! a hundred men have been sent in pursuit of him; he would not show himself in the streets of Paris."

"It was he, by Heaven!" said the patriot. "A tall dark man, as strong as three and bearded like the pard."

Fouquier shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

"Another blunder," said he; "the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is short, pale, and has not the slightest sign of a beard."

The patriot dropped his weapon with an air of consternation.

"Never mind, your good intention is taken for the act. Come, Simon, we must both make haste; they require the register, this is the time for the carts."

"Well, there is nothing new; the child is well." The patriot turned his back that he might not appear indiscreet, but remained in a position which enabled him to hear.

"I will go," said he, "lest I should intrude."

"Adieu!" said Simon.

"Good-day," said Fouquier.

"Tell your friend that you were deceived," added Simon.

"Well, I shall wait," and Théodore removed to a short distance, and stood resting on his cudgel.

"So the child goes on well; but how fares he morally?" asked Fouquier.

"I mould him to my will."

"He will speak then?"

"When I choose."

"Do you think he will testify in the trial of Antoinette?"

"I do not think it; I am sure of it."

Théodore was leaning against a pillar, his eyes directed toward the door. But his eye was wandering, while his ears were erect and uncovered under the hairy bonnet he wore. Perhaps he saw nothing, but most assuredly he heard something.

"Reflect well," said Fouquier, "and do not make what is termed a blunder of this commission. You feel sure that Capet will speak?"

"He will say all that I require."

"Has he told you what we are going to ask him?"

"He has told me."

"It is important, Simon, that you should promise this; the child's evidence is fatal to the mother."

"Zounds! I count upon that."

"There will have been nothing equal to it seen since the intimacy between Nero and Narcissus. Once more, reflect, Simon."

"One would fancy you took me for a brute, repeating constantly the same thing. Take this as an example: when I put leather in water it becomes supple, does it not?"

"But—I do not know," replied Fouquier.

"It becomes soft. Well, in my hands the little Capet becomes supple as the softest leather. I have my own method for that."

"It may be so," said Fouquier. "Is that all you have to say?"

"All—I forgot. There is a denunciation."

"Again? You will overwhelm me with business," said Fouquier.

"One must serve his country."

Simon presented a small paper, black as the leather he had just mentioned, but certainly less supple. Fouquier took it and read the contents.

"Again the Citizen Lorin; you have a great hatred to this man."

"I find him always acting in hostility to the law. He said, 'Adieu, Madame,' to a woman who saluted him from a window yesterday evening. To-morrow, I hope to give you a little information concerning another 'suspect;' that Maurice who was Municipal at the Temple when that affair of the red carnation occurred."

"Be sure! be sure!" exclaimed Fouquier, smiling at Simon.

He held out his hand, and then turned away with an abruptness that evinced little favor toward the shoemaker.

"What the devil do you wish me to be sure of? Many have been guillotined for much less."

"Patience," replied Fouquier, quietly; "everything cannot be done at the same time," and he passed quickly through the wicket.

Simon looked round for the Citizen Théodore, to console himself with him. He was no longer to be seen.

He had hardly crossed the western iron gate, when Théodore reappeared at the corner of a writer's hut. The occupant of the hut accompanied him.

"At what hour are the iron gates closed?" asked Théodore of this man.

"At five o'clock."

"Then what do they do here?"

"Nothing; the hall remains empty till next day."

"No rounds, no visits?"

"No, sir; our barracks are locked."

The word "sir" made Théodore knit his brows, and look round with distrust.

"Are the crowbar and pistols safe in the barracks?" said he.

"Yes, under the carpet."

"Return home, then—By the bye, show me again the chamber of the Tribunal that has not a grated window, and looks upon the court near the Place Dauphine."

"To the left, between the pillars under the lantern."

"Go, now, and have the horses ready at the place assigned!"

"A glorious chance!—a glorious chance!—depend fully upon me."

"Now is your time—No one is looking—open your barrack."

"It is done, sir; I will pray for you."

"It is not for me you ought to pray. Adieu."

And the Citizen Théodore, after an eloquent look, glided so adroitly under the low roof of the barrack, that he disappeared like the shadow of the writer who closed the door.

The worthy scribe drew the key from the lock, took some papers under his arm, and went out of the vast hall with the few employees that the stroke of five sent rushing from their desks like a rear guard of belated bees.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE CITIZEN THÉODORE.

Night had enveloped in her gray mantle the immense hall, whose sad echoes had to repeat the severe words of the advocates and the suppliant ones of the pleaders.

From afar, in the midst of the obscurity, upright and immovable, a white column seemed watching, in the centre of the hall, like a phantom protector over the sacred place.

The only noise heard in this darkness was the nibbling and galloping of innumerable rats, which gnawed the papers enclosed in the writer's huts, after drilling their way through the wood.

Sometimes the sound of a carriage penetrated as far as this sanctuary of Themis (as an Academician would say), and the vague clanking of keys, which appeared to proceed from under the ground; but all this only reverberated in the distance, and nothing save these distant sounds ever broke the deep silence, or penetrated the thick darkness save the glimmering of some far remote light.

Certainly the man would be seized by bewildering terror who at this hour would have ventured into the vast hall of the Palace, the exterior of whose walls was yet stained with the blood of the victims of September; whose staircases this very day had witnessed the descent of twenty-five human beings condemned to an ignominious death, and were separated only by a few feet from the dungeons of the Conciergerie, peopled with bleached skeletons.

Nevertheless, in the middle of this frightful night, in the midst of this almost solemn silence, a low grating noise was heard; the door of a writer's hut turned upon its creaking hinges, and a shadow, darker than the shadow of night, glided cautiously out of the barrack.

Then the fierce patriot we have heard addressed as "sir," but who called himself Théodore, stepped lightly over the uneven stones. He held in his right hand a ponderous iron lever, and with his left felt that his double-barrelled pistol was secure in his belt.

"I reckoned twelve flag-stones from the stall; and see, here is the end of the first!" murmured he; and while calculating, he groped with the point of his foot to discover the chinks which time had rendered more perceptible.

"Let me see," said he, stopping; "have I taken my measurement correctly? Shall I possess strength sufficient; and she—will she have the courage? Oh, yes, her courage is known to me. Oh, my God! When I shall take her hand—when I can say, Madame, you are saved!"

He suddenly paused, as if oppressed by the weight of so great a hope.

"Ah!" he resumed, "rash and foolish project! others will say, hiding themselves under their bedclothes, or contenting themselves by sauntering about disguised as lackeys through the Conciergerie; but they have not my motive for daring all,—it is, that I not only desire to serve the queen, but the woman.

"Well, to work; let us again sum up the whole.

"To raise the stone is nothing, to leave it open is the danger,—they may perhaps make the rounds; but yet they never do so. They cannot suspect anything, for I have no accomplices; and then what time is needed by an ardor like mine to dart through the dark passage? In three minutes I am under her chamber; in other five I raise the stone which is on the hearth. She will hear me working, but has too much firmness to feel alarmed; on the contrary, she will understand that a deliverer is near—She is guarded by two men who will doubtless hasten to the spot—

"Well, after all," said the patriot, with a melancholy smile, looking first at the weapon concealed in his girdle, and then at the one he held poised in his hand, "a double shot from this pistol, or a couple of strokes from this iron bar. Poor creatures! they will die like others not more culpable than themselves."

And Citizen Théodore resolutely pressed his lever between the chinks of the flag-stones.

At this moment a vivid light gleamed like a ray of gold across the stones, and a noise, repeated by the echoes of the vault, caused the conspirator to turn, and then with a single bound to conceal himself in the stall.

Soon voices, weakened by the distance, and softened by the emotion experienced by every one at night in a large and desolate building, reached the ears of Théodore.

He stooped down, and through an aperture in the stall perceived first a man in military costume, whose long sabre clanking on the pavement partly produced the sound which had attracted his attention; then, a man in a pistachio-colored suit, holding a rule in his hand and a roll of papers under his arm; thirdly, a man in a large waistcoat of ratteen and a fur bonnet; and lastly, a fourth, with wooden shoes and a jerkin.

The iron gate Des Merciers creaked upon its sonorous hinges, rattling the chain intended to keep it open during the day.

The four men entered.

"A round," murmured Théodore. "God be praised! ten minutes later and I should have been ruined."

He then with the utmost attention endeavored to recognize the individuals who composed the round,—indeed, three of them were known to him.

He who walked first, clad in the uniform of a general, was Santerre; the man in the ratteen waistcoat and fur bonnet was Richard the porter, and the man in clogs and jerkin was in all probability a turnkey.

But he had never seen the man in the pistachio-colored coat, who held a rule in his hand and a bundle of papers under his arm. Who or what could this man be; and what brought, at ten o'clock at night, to the Salle des Pas-Perdus, the general of the Commune, the keeper of the Conciergerie, a turnkey, and this other man? The Citizen Théodore knelt on one knee, holding in one hand his loaded pistol, while with the other he replaced his bonnet and hair, which his precipitous movement had deranged too much to look natural.

Up to this moment the nocturnal visitors had kept silence, or if they had spoken, their words had not reached the ears of the conspirator; but when about ten paces from his lurking place Santerre spoke, and his voice was distinctly heard by the Citizen Théodore.

"We are now," said he, "in the Salle des Pas-Perdus. It is for you now to guide us, Citizen Architect, and to endeavor to convince us that your revelation is no idle story; for you see the Revolution has done justice to all this folly, and we believe no more in these subterranean passages than in ghosts. What do you say, Citizen Richard?" added Santerre, turning toward the man in the fur bonnet and ratteen vest.

"I have never said there was no subterranean passage under the Conciergerie," he replied. "Here is Gracchus, who has been turnkey for ten years, and consequently is as familiar with the whole of the Conciergerie as he is with the alphabet, and yet he ignores the existence of the vault of which the Citizen Giraud has spoken. However, as the Citizen Giraud is the city architect, he ought to know better than any of us. It is his business."

Théodore shivered from head to foot on hearing these words.

"Fortunately," murmured he, "the hall is large, and before they find what they search for, two days at least must expire."

But the architect opened his great roll of papers, put on his spectacles, and knelt down to examine the plan by the flickering light of the lantern which Gracchus held in his hand.

"I fear," said Santerre, ironically, "that the Citizen Giraud has been dreaming."

"You will see, Citizen General, if I am a dreamer. Wait a little; wait!"

"You see we are waiting," said Santerre.

"Good!" said the architect; and he began to calculate. "Twelve and four make sixteen," said he, "and eight are twenty-four, which, divided by six, makes four, and then half remains; that is it. I can tell the very spot; and if I am mistaken by so much as a foot, you may henceforth dub me an ass."

The architect pronounced these words with an assurance which curdled the blood of the Citizen Théodore.

Santerre regarded the plan with a species of respect, but evidently admired more than he comprehended it.

"Now follow what I say."

"Where?" asked Santerre.

"Zounds! upon this chart which I have drawn. Here we are! thirteen feet from the wall is a movable stone I have marked A; do you see it?"

"Certainly, I see A," said Santerre. "Do you think I do not know how to read?"

"Under this stone," continued the architect, "is a staircase; do you see? It is marked B."

"B!" said Santerre; "I see B, but I do not see the staircase," and the general laughed heartily at his own facetiousness.

"When once the stone is raised, and the foot upon the last step, count fifty paces, look up, and you will find yourself exactly at the register-office where the subterraneous passage terminates, passing under the cell of the queen."

"Capet's widow, you mean, Citizen Giraud," said Santerre, knitting his brows.

"Yes, Capet's widow."

"But you said 'the queen.'"

"The force of old habit."

"You say, then, it may be found under the register-office?" demanded Richard.

"Not only under the register-office, but I will tell you also in what part of the office you will discover it,—under the stove."

"That is curious," said Gracchus, "for I have noticed that every time I dropped a log in that place the stone sounded hollow."

"In short, if we find your statement correct, Citizen Architect, I shall pronounce geometry a fine thing."

"Then declare it, Citizen Santerre, for I am now going to conduct you to the place indicated by the letter A."

The Citizen Théodore sank his nails into his flesh.

"When I have seen it," said Santerre,—"when I have seen it! I rather resemble Saint Thomas."

"Ah! you said Saint Thomas."

"Yes, as you said 'the queen,' from mere habit; but they cannot accuse me of conspiring for him."

"Nor me for the queen."

After this retort the architect delicately placed his rule, reckoned the distance, then stopped, having apparently finished his calculation, and struck upon a particular stone.

This was the identical stone struck by the Citizen Théodore in his fit of frantic rage.

"It is here, Citizen General," said the architect.

"You fancy so, Citizen Giraud."

Our concealed patriot so far forgot himself as to strike his thigh with his clinched fist, at the same time groaning deeply.

"I am positive," said Giraud; "and your examination, combined with my report, will prove to the Convention that I have not been deceived. Yes, Citizen General," continued the architect, with emphasis, "this stone opens upon a subterranean passage, terminating at the register-office, and passing below the cell of the Widow Capet. Let us raise the stone; descend with me into the vault, and I will convince you that two men, even one man, could effect a rescue in a single night, without any one suspecting it."

A murmur of terror and admiration, elicited by the architect's words, ran through the group, and faintly reached the Citizen Théodore, who seemed turned to stone.

"Look at the danger we run," continued Giraud. "Well, now with a grating which I shall place in the middle of this underground passage before it reaches the cell of the Widow Capet, I shall save the country."

"Ah, Citizen Giraud!" said Santerre, "that is an idea bordering on the sublime."

"Perdition seize you, addle-pated fool!" grumbled the patriot, with redoubled fury.

"Now raise the stone," said the architect to the Citizen Gracchus, who in addition to a lantern carried a crowbar.

Gracchus set to work, and in a second the stone was raised.

The vault appeared open, with the staircase lost in its profundity, while the moist air escaped like a pestilent vapor.

"Another abortive attempt," murmured the Citizen Théodore. "Alas! Heaven does not will that she should escape, and her cause must be accursed!"

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE CITIZEN GRACCHUS.

For an instant the three men remained motionless at the entrance to the vault, while the turnkey plunged his lantern into the opening without being able to penetrate its depth. The architect triumphantly exulted over his companions from the summit of his genius.

"Well!" said he, at length.

"Faith! yes," replied Santerre, "here incontestably is the passage. It only remains to know where it leads to."

"Yes," repeated Richard, "it remains to know that."

"Well, then, descend yourself, Citizen Richard, and then you will see if I have told you the truth."

"I have something better to do than go in there," said the porter. "We will return with you and the general to the Conciergerie. There you can raise the hearthstone, and we shall see."

"Very well," said Santerre, "we will return."

"But we must be careful," said the architect; "this stone remaining unclosed may suggest an idea to some one."

"Who the devil do you imagine ever comes here at this hour?" said Santerre.

"Besides," said Richard, "the hall is deserted, and to leave Gracchus here is sufficient. Remain here, Citizen Gracchus, and we will return to you from the other side of the subterranean passage."

"All right," said Gracchus.

"Are you armed?" demanded Santerre.

"I have my sword and this crowbar, Citizen General."

"Just the thing! keep strict watch; in ten minutes we will be with you."

And having closed the iron gate, the three took their departure by the Gallery des Merciers, to repair to the private entrance of the Conciergerie.

The turnkey watched their receding footsteps, and followed them with his eyes as far as he could see, and listened as long as he had anything to hear; then all relapsed into silence, and supposing himself in perfect solitude, he placed his lantern on the ground, sat down, his legs overhanging the depths of the vault, and began to meditate. Turnkeys meditate sometimes; but people, generally speaking, do not trouble themselves to find out what is the subject of their meditations.

All at once, in the midst of his profound revery, he felt a hand press heavily upon his shoulder. He turned round, and attempted, on seeing a stranger, to give the alarm, but at the same instant the cold point of a pistol was pressed to his forehead.

The accents were arrested in his throat, his arms fell listlessly by his side, and his eyes assumed the most suppliant expression.

"Not a word," said the intruder, "or you are a dead man."

"What do you want, sir?" stammered the turnkey.

Even in '93, there were moments when, renouncing their idea of universal equality, they forgot to address each other as "Citizen."

"I wish," said the Citizen Théodore, "to be allowed to go down there."

"What for?"

"Never mind."

The turnkey regarded the person who had proffered this request with the most profound astonishment; but in the mean time his interlocutor fancied he detected in the man's look a ray of intelligence.

He lowered the pistol.

"Would you refuse to make your fortune?"

"I don't know. Hitherto no one has ever made me proposals on the subject."

"Well, then, I will begin."

"You offer to make my fortune?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean by a fortune?"

"Fifty thousand golden francs, for instance. Money is scarce, and fifty thousand francs now are worth a million. Well, I offer you that sum."

"To allow you to go down there?"

"Yes; but on condition that you come with me, and afford me your assistance in my undertaking."

"But what are you going to do? In five minutes that vault will be filled with soldiers, who will arrest you."

The Citizen Théodore was forcibly struck by this argument.

"Cannot you prevent the soldiers from descending there?"

"I have no means of so doing, I know none, and cannot think of any."

Indeed, it was evident the turnkey was taxing all his mental energies to discover some means of winning the fifty thousand francs.

"But," demanded the Citizen Théodore, "could we not enter to-morrow?"

"Yes; but to-morrow a grate of iron will be placed across the passage, occupying its whole width; and for the greater security it is arranged that this partition should be entirely solid, and without even a door."

"Then we must think of something else," said Théodore.

"Yes; we must find some other way," said the turnkey.

It will be seen from the joint manner in which Gracchus expressed himself, that an alliance had already been struck between himself and the Citizen Théodore.

"That will be my concern," said Théodore. "What do you do at the Conciergerie?"

"I am a turnkey."

"What are your duties?"

"I open the doors and shut them."

"Do you sleep there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you take your meals there?"

"Not always. I have my hours of recreation."

"And then?"

"I avail myself of them."

"What to do?"

"To pay my respects to the mistress of a tavern called Noah's Well, who has promised to marry me when I am possessed of twelve hundred francs."

"Where is the tavern Noah's Well?"

"Near the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie."

"Very well."

"Hush, sir."

The patriot listened.

"Ah! ah!" said he.

"Do you hear?"

"Yes. Voices and footsteps."

"They are returning."

"You see very well that we should not have had time."

This we was becoming more and more pronounced.

"That is true. You are a brave fellow, Citizen, and are through me predestined—"

"To what?"

"To be rich one day."

"God grant it!"

"You then still believe in God?"

"Sometimes; here and there. To-day, for example—"

"Well?"

"I should willingly believe."

"Believe, then," said the Citizen Théodore, putting ten louis into the man's hand.

"The devil!" said he, regarding the gold by the light of the lantern. "Is it, then, serious?"

"It could not be more so."

"What must I do?"

"Meet me to-morrow at Noah's Well; I will then tell you what I require of you. What is your name?"

"Gracchus."

"Well, Citizen Gracchus, get yourself dismissed from here to-morrow by the keeper Richard."

"Dismissed! give up my place!"

"Do you reckon on remaining a turnkey, with fifty thousand francs?"

"No, but being a turnkey and poor, I am certain of not being guillotined."

"Certain?"

"Or nearly so; while being free and rich—"

"You will hide your money, and make love to a spinster instead of to the mistress of Noah's Well."

"Well, then, it is settled."

"To-morrow at the tavern."

"At what hour?"

"At six in the evening."

"Flee quickly; there they are. I tell you to be quick, because, I presume, you descend and go through the vaults."

"To-morrow," repeated Théodore, hastening away.

And not before it was time, for the voices and steps drew near, and lights were already seen approaching in the obscurity of the underground passage. Théodore gained the gate which the writer from whom he had taken the hut had shown him, opened the lock with his crowbar, reached the window, threw it open, dropped softly into the street, and found himself upon the pavement of the Republic once again.

Before quitting the Salle des Pas-Perdus he heard the Citizen Gracchus again question Richard, and also his reply.

"The Citizen Architect was quite right; the vault passes below the chamber of the Widow Capet, and it was dangerous."

"I well believe it," said Gracchus, who in this instance told the perfect truth.

Santerre reappeared at the opening of the staircase.

"And the workmen, Citizen Architect?" demanded he of Giraud.

"Before daybreak they will be here; and during the session the grating will be placed," replied a voice which seemed to proceed from the bowels of the earth.

"And you will have saved the country," cried Santerre, half in jest, half in earnest.

"You little know the truth of what you say, Citizen General," murmured Gracchus.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE ROYAL CHILD.

In the mean time, as we have seen in the chapter preceding, the queen's trial was about to take place.

It was already surmised that by the sacrifice of this illustrious head the popular hatred, so long displayed in murmurs, would at length be satisfied.

The means were not wanting for the completion of this tragedy; and in the mean time Fouquier Tinville, that fatal accuser, had resolved not to neglect the new mode of accusation which Simon had promised to place in his hands.

The day after he and Simon had met in the Salle des Pas-Perdus, the noise of arms again startled the prisoners who remained in the Temple.

These prisoners were Madame Elizabeth, Madame Royale, and the child who after having been called "Your Majesty" in his cradle, was now styled simply the "Little Capet."

General Hanriot, with his tricolored plume, his splendid horse, and long sword, followed by several of the National Guard, dismounted, and entered the dungeon where the royal child languished.

By the general's side walked a registrar of very unprepossessing appearance, carrying a writing-desk, a large roll of paper, and flourishing a pen of immoderate length.

Behind the scribe walked the public accuser. We have seen, we know, and shall meet again at a later period, this dry, jaundiced, cold man, with his blood-shot eyes, who made the ferocious Santerre himself tremble, even when cased in his armor.

Several National Guards and a lieutenant followed them.

Simon, smiling hypocritically, and holding his bear-skin bonnet in one hand and his shoemaker's stirrup in the other, walked before to show the committee the way.

They came to a very dirty chamber, spacious and ill-furnished, at the end of which, seated upon his bed, was the young Louis, in a state of perfect immobility.

When we saw the poor child fleeing from the brutal anger of Simon, he still retained a species of vitality, resenting the unworthy treatment of the shoemaker of the Temple. He fled, he wept, he prayed; then he feared and suffered, but still he hoped.

But now both fear and hope had vanished; without doubt the suffering still existed, but if it still remained, the infant martyr, whom they had made pay after so cruel a fashion for his parents' faults, buried it in the depths of his heart, and veiled it under an appearance of total insensibility. He did not even raise his head when the commissioners walked up to him.

Without further ceremony they instantly installed themselves. The public accuser seated himself at the head of the bed, Simon at the foot, the registrar near the window, the National Guard and their lieutenant on the side and rather in the shade.

Those among them who regarded the little prisoner with the slightest interest, or even curiosity, remarked the child's pallor, his extraordinary stoutness (resulting from his bloated condition), and his bent legs, the joints of which had already begun to swell.

"That child is very ill," said the lieutenant, with an assurance that caused Fouquier to turn round, though already seated and prepared to question his victim.

Little Capet raised his eyes to discover who had uttered these words, and recognized the same young man who had already once before saved him from Simon's cruelty in the court of the Temple. A sweet and intelligent glance shot from his deep blue eyes, and that was all.

"Ah, ah! is that you, Citizen Lorin?" said Simon, thus calling the attention of Fouquier Tinville to the friend of Maurice.

"Myself, Citizen Simon," said Lorin, with his usual nonchalance.

And as Lorin though always ready to face danger was not the man to seek it uselessly, he availed himself of this circumstance to bow to Fouquier Tinville, which salutation was politely returned.

"You observed, I think, Citizen," said the public accuser, "that the child was ill; are you a doctor?"

"I have studied medicine, at least, if I am not a medical man."

"Well, and what do you discover in him?"

"Symptoms of sickness, do you mean?" asked Lorin.

"Yes."

"I find his cheeks and eyes puffed up, his hands thin and white, his knees swollen; and were I to feel his pulse, I should certainly count eighty-five or ninety pulsations in a minute."

The child appeared insensible to the enumeration of his sufferings.

"And to what might science attribute the condition of the prisoner?"

Lorin rubbed the tip of his nose, murmuring,—

"Phyllis wants to make me speak, I am not the least inclined.

"Faith, Citizen!" replied he, "I am not sufficiently acquainted with little Capet's constitution to reply. However—"

Simon lent an attentive ear, and laughed in his sleeve to find his enemy so near committing himself.

"However," said Lorin, "I think he does not have sufficient exercise."

"I believe the little scoundrel," said Simon, "does not choose to walk."

The child remained quite unmoved by this apostrophe of the shoemaker.

Fouquier Tinville arose, advanced to Lorin, and addressed some words to him in a low tone. No one heard the words, but it was evident they assumed the form of interrogatories.

"Oh, oh! do you believe that, Citizen? It is a serious charge for a mother—"

"Under any circumstances, we shall find out. Simon pretends he has heard him say so, and has engaged to make him acknowledge it."

"This would be frightful," said Lorin; "but indeed it is possible; the Austrian is not exempt from sin, and right or wrong, does not concern me—They have made her out a Messalina: but not content with that, they wish to make her an Agrippina. I must acknowledge it appears to me rather hard."

"This is what has been reported by Simon," said the impassible Fouquier.

"I do not doubt that Simon has said all this. There are some men who stick at nothing, even the most impossible accusations. But do you not find," said Lorin, fixing his eyes steadily on Fouquier,—"do you not find—you, an intelligent and upright man, possessed with a strong mind—that to inquire of a child concerning such circumstances as those which all the most natural and most sacred laws of Nature command us to respect, is to insult all human nature in the person of a child?"

The accuser did not frown, but took a note from his pocket and showed it to Lorin.

"The Convention enjoins me to investigate," said he; "the rest does not concern me. I shall investigate."

"It is just," said Lorin; "and I declare that if this child acknowledges—" And the young man shook his head, expressive of disgust.

"Besides," continued Fouquier, "it is not only upon the denunciation of Simon that we proceed; the accusation is public."

And Fouquier drew a second paper from his pocket.

This was a number of the paper entitled "Le Père Duchesne;" which, as is well known, was written by Hébert.

The accusation indeed appeared there in full.

"It is written, and even printed," said Lorin; "but till I hear a similar accusation proceed from the lips of the child,—mind, I mean voluntarily, freely, and without menaces,—notwithstanding Simon and Hébert, I shall disbelieve it, as much as you in reality do yourself."

Simon impatiently awaited the issue of this conversation.

The miserable creature was not unaware of the power exercised upon an intelligent man by the looks which he receives from the crowd, expressive either of sympathy or subtle hatred. Sometimes this subtle influence repels, sometimes it attracts, makes the thought flow out and even draws the person of the man toward that other man of equal or superior mental calibre whom he recognizes in the crowd.

But Fouquier Tinville had felt the keen observation of Lorin, and was anxious to be fully understood by him.

"The examination is about to commence," said the public accuser. "Registrar, resume your pen!"

The registrar, who had just drawn out the preliminaries of the investigation, was waiting, like Hanriot, Simon, and all the rest, till the colloquy between Fouquier and Lorin had ceased.

The child alone appeared perfectly unconscious of the scene in which he was soon to become the principal actor, and his face, which had for an instant gleamed with a ray of the highest intelligence, had relapsed into its listless, apathetic expression.

"Silence!" cried Hanriot, "the Citizen Fouquier Tinville is going to interrogate the child."

"Capet," said the public accuser, "do you know what has become of your mother?"

The little Louis turned from an ashy paleness to a brilliant red, but made no reply.

"Did you hear me, Capet?"

He still remained silent.

"Oh, he hears well enough," said Simon, "only he is like the ape, he will not reply for fear he should be taken for a man, and so made to work."

"Reply, Capet!" said Hanriot; "it is the Commission of the Convention that interrogates you. You must show obedience to the laws."

The child turned pale, but did not reply.

Simon made a frantic gesture of rage. With natures so stupid and brutal as his, anger becomes an intoxication, attended with all the loathsome symptoms of alcoholic inebriety.

"Will you reply, wolf's cub?" showing him the strap.

"Be quiet, Simon," said Fouquier Tinville; "you have not the right to speak."

This expression, which had become habitual to Tinville at the Revolutionary Tribunal, now escaped him involuntarily.

"Do you hear, Simon?" said Lorin. "This is the second time you have been told this in my presence; the first was when you accused Tison's daughter, whom you had the pleasure of bringing to the scaffold."

Simon was silent.

"Does your mother love you, Capet?" asked Fouquier.

Still the same silence.

"They say not," continued the accuser.

Something like a ghastly smile passed over the child's pale lips.

"But then, I say," roared Simon, "he has told me she loves him too much!"

"Look here, Simon," said Lorin, "you are angry that the little Capet chatters so much when you are together, and remains silent before company to-day."

"Oh, if we were alone!" said Simon.

"Yes, if you were alone; but unfortunately you are not alone. Oh, if you were, brave Simon, excellent patriot! how you would belabor the poor child, eh? But you are not alone, and dare not show your rage before honest men like us who know that the ancients, whom we endeavor to take for our models, respected all who were weak. You dare not, for you are not alone; and you are not valiant, my worthy man, when you have children of five feet six inches to combat."

"Oh!" muttered Simon, grinding his teeth.

"Capet," said Fouquier, "have you confided any secrets to Simon?"

The child never turned round, but his face assumed an expression of irony impossible to describe.

"About your mother?" continued Fouquier.

A look of supreme contempt passed over his countenance.

"Reply, yes or no!" cried Hanriot.

"Say yes!" roared Simon, holding his leather stirrup over the child's head.

The child shuddered, but made no movement to avoid the blow. Those present uttered a cry expressive of their disgust. Lorin did more. Before the wretch could lower his arm he darted forward and seized him by the wrist.

"Will you let me go?" roared Simon, purple with rage.

"Come, there is no harm," said Fouquier, "in a mother loving her child. Tell us in what way your mother loved you, Capet. It may be useful to her."

The young prisoner started at the idea of being useful to his mother.

"She loves me as a mother loves her son, sir," said he; "there are not two ways for mothers to love their sons, or sons to love their mothers."

"And I, little serpent, declare that you have told me your mother—"

"You have dreamed that," interrupted Lorin, quietly, "you must often have the nightmare, Simon."

"Lorin! Lorin!" growled Simon, grinding his teeth.

"Yes, again, Lorin. There is no way of beating Lorin, since he chastises the wicked; there is no way to denounce him for what he did in arresting your arm, as it was done before General Hanriot and Fouquier Tinville, who approve of it, and they are not lukewarm in the cause. There is then no way to bring him to the guillotine, as you did poor Héloïse Tison. It is very grievous, very vexatious, very enraging; still it is so, my poor Simon!"

"Later! later!" replied the shoemaker, with his mocking laugh.

"Yes, dear friend," said Lorin, "I hope with the help of the Supreme Being—Ah! you expected I was going to say with the help of God! But I hope with the assistance of the Supreme Being, and my good sword, to disembowel you first; but move aside, Simon, you prevent me from seeing."

"Rascal!"

"Be silent, you prevent me from hearing," and Lorin silenced him with a threatening look.

Simon clinched his black hands and shook his fists, but as Lorin had told him, he was obliged to confine himself to these manifestations.

"Now he has begun to speak," said Hanriot, "he will continue no doubt. Go on, Fouquier!"

"Will you reply now?" demanded Fouquier.

The child returned to his former silence.

"You see, Citizen! you see!" exclaimed Simon.

"The obstinacy of this child is strange," said Hanriot, troubled in spite of himself at this royal firmness.

"He is ill advised," said Lorin.

"By whom?" demanded Hanriot.

"By his guardian."

"Do you accuse me?" cried Simon,—"do you denounce me? Ah! that is curious—"

"Let us try gentleness," said Fouquier. Then turning toward the child, whom one would have supposed to be insensible,—

"My child," said he, "reply to the National Commission; do not aggravate your situation by refusing us any useful information. You have spoken to the Citizen Simon about your mother,—how you caress her and love her; how she caresses and loves you?"

Louis threw a glance around the assembly, which gleamed with hatred when it rested on Simon, but he did not reply.

"Do you feel yourself unhappy?" demanded the accuser; "are you uncomfortably lodged, badly fed, and unkindly treated? Would you wish more liberty, better food, another prison, another guardian? Would you like a horse to ride upon, and some companions of your own age?"

Louis still maintained the profound silence he had only once broken, to defend his mother.

The Commission was utterly confounded at so much firmness and intelligence evinced by a child.

"Ah, these kings!" said Hanriot, in a low voice, "what a race! They are like tigers; even the young ones inherit their wickedness."

"How are we to write the investigation?" asked the registrar, much embarrassed.

"There is no charge against Simon; there is nothing to write," said Lorin; "that will suit him exactly."

Simon again shook his fist at his implacable enemy.

Lorin began to laugh.

"You will not laugh like that the day you will sneeze in the sack," said Simon, drunk with fury.

"I do not know whether I shall precede or follow you in the little ceremony you menace me with," said Lorin; "but this I do know, that many will laugh when your turn comes. Gods!—I have spoken in the plural,—gods! you will not be ugly then, Simon; you will be hideous."

And Lorin retired behind the Commission, with a fresh burst of laughter.

The Commission, having nothing more to attend to, withdrew.

As for the poor child, released from his tormentors, he began to sing a little melancholy ditty which had been a great favorite of his father.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE BOUQUET OF VIOLETS.

As might be foreseen, the felicity of Geneviève and Maurice was not of long continuance.

In the tempest which unchains the wind and hurls the thunderbolt, the nest of the doves is shaken in the tree where they had retired for shelter.

Geneviève passed from one terror to another. She no longer feared for Maison-Rouge, she now trembled for Maurice.

She knew her husband sufficiently well to feel convinced, the moment of his disappearance, that he was saved; but sure of his safety, she thought now of her own.

She dared not confide her grief to the least timid man of this epoch when all from desperation were devoid of fear, but it was plainly evinced by her red eyes and pallid cheeks.

One day Maurice softly entered, so quietly indeed that Geneviève, buried in a profound revery, did not notice his entrance. He stopped upon the threshold and saw Geneviève sitting immovable, her eyes fixed on vacancy, her hands lying listlessly on her lap, her head hanging pensively upon her bosom.

He gazed at her for a moment with an expression of deepest sadness, for all that was passing in the young girl's heart was suddenly revealed, as if he had read even to her latest thought. He stepped up to her.

"You have ceased to care for France, Geneviève; confess it is so. You fly from the air breathed here, and not without the greatest reluctance will you even approach the window."

"Alas!" said Geneviève, "I know I cannot conceal my thoughts from you, Maurice; you have divined rightly."

"It is nevertheless a fine country," said the young man; "life is here important, and well occupied now. This bustling activity of the Tribune, the clubs, the conspiracies, renders sweeter the hours spent by our own fireside. One loves it the more ardently, it may be, from the fear of not being able to love it on the morrow, for on the morrow one may have ceased to exist."

Geneviève shook her head. "An ungrateful country to serve," said she.

"Why so?"

"Yes; you who have labored so much for the cause of liberty, are you not to-day more than half suspected?"

"But you, dear Geneviève," said Maurice, with a look replete with tenderness, "you a sworn enemy to this liberty,—you who have done so much against it! You yet sleep, peaceable and inviolate, beneath the roof of a Republican; and there, you see, is my recompense."

"Yes," said Geneviève, "but that cannot last long; that which is wrong cannot endure."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean to say that I,—that is to say an aristocrat,—that I who dream quietly of the defeat of your party and the ruin of your plans; I who plot, even in your house, the return of the ancient régime; I who, recognized, would condemn you to death and dishonor, according to your opinions at least,—I, Maurice, will not remain here as the evil genius of your house; I will not drag you to the scaffold."

"And where will you go, Geneviève?"

"Where shall I go, Maurice? One day when you are out I shall go and denounce myself, without saying where I come from."

"Oh!" cried Maurice, wounded to the heart's core, "already ungrateful?"

"No," cried the young woman, throwing her arms round Maurice's neck; "it is love, and the most devoted love, I swear. I should not wish my brother to be taken and slaughtered as a rebel; I do not wish my lover to be arrested and guillotined as a traitor."

"And you will do this, Geneviève?"

"As truly as there is a God in heaven," replied the young woman; "besides, I not only experience fear but remorse," and she bowed her head as if remorse were a burden too heavy to be borne.

"Oh, Geneviève!" said Maurice.

"You will understand all that I say, all that I feel, Maurice, for you yourself experience this remorse. You know I gave myself to you while I belonged to another, and you have taken me without my possessing the right to dispose of myself."