his wrath boiling over as he sought words in which to give it utterance. And then, words failing him to express the half of what was in him, he lifted the bag high above his head, and hurled it at her feet with a force that sent half the glittering contents rolling about the parquet floor. 'Citoyenne, your journey has been in vain. I will not treat with you another instant.'
She recoiled before his wrath, a white and frightened thing that but an instant back had been so calm and self-possessed. She gave no thought to the flashing jewels scattered about the floor. Through all the fear that now possessed her rose the consideration of this man—this man whom she had almost confessed half-shamedly to herself that she loved, that night on the Liege road; this man who at every turn amazed her and filled her with a new sense of his strength and dignity.
Then, bethinking her of Ombreval and of her mission, she took her courage in both hands, and, advancing a step, she cast herself upon her knees before Caron.
'Monsieur, forgive me,' she besought him. 'I meant you no insult. How could I, when my every wish is to propitiate you? Bethink you, Monsieur, I have journeyed all the way from Prussia to save that man, because my hon—because he is my betrothed. Remember, Monsieur, you held out to me the promise in your letter that if I came you would treat with me, and that I might buy his life from you.'
'Why, so I did,' he answered, touched by her humiliation and her tears. 'But you went too fast in your conclusions.'
'Forgive me that. See! I am on my knees to you. Am I not humbled enough? Have I not suffered enough for the wrong I may have done you?'
'It would take the sufferings of a generation to atone for the wrongs I have endured at the hands of your family, Citoyenne.'
'I will do what you will, Monsieur. Bethink you that I am pleading for the life of the man I am to marry.'
He looked down upon her now in an emotion that in its way was as powerful as her own. Yet his voice was hard and sternly governed as he now asked her,
'Is that an argument, Mademoiselle? Is it an argument likely to prevail with the man who, for his twice- confessed love of you, has suffered sore trials?'
He felt that in a way she had conquered him; his career, which but that day had seemed all-sufficing to him, was now fallen into the limbo of disregard. The one thing whose possession would render his life a happy one, whose absence would leave him now a lasting unhappiness, knelt here at his feet. Forgotten were the wrongs he had suffered, forgotten the purpose to humble and to punish. Everything was forgotten and silenced by the compelling voice of his blood, which cried out that he loved her. He stooped to her and caught her wrists in a grip that made her wince. His voice grew tense.
'If you would bribe me to save his life, Suzanne, there is but one price that you can pay.'
'And that?' she gasped her eyes looking up with a scared expression into his masterful face.
'Yourself,' he whispered, with an ardour that almost amounted to fierceness.
She gazed a second at him in growing alarm, then she dragged her hands from his grasp, and covering her face she fell a-sobbing.
'Do not misunderstand me,' he cried, as he stood erect over her. 'If you would have Ombreval saved and sent out of France you must become my wife.'
'Your wife?' she echoed, pausing in her weeping, and for a moment an odd happiness seemed to fill her. But as suddenly as it had arisen did she stifle it. Was she not the noble daughter of the noble Marquis de Bellecour and was not this a lowly born member of a rabble government? There could be no such mating. A shudder ran through her. 'I cannot, Monsieur, I cannot!' she sobbed.
He looked at her a moment with a glance that was almost of surprise, then, with a slight compression of the lips and the faintest raising of the shoulders, he turned from her and strode over to the window. There was a considerable concourse of people on their way to the Place de la Republique, for the hour of the tumbrils was at hand.
A half-dozen of those unsexed viragos produced by the Revolution, in filthy garments, red bonnets and streaming hair, were marching by to the raucous chorus of the 'Ca ira!'
He turned from the sight in disgust, and again faced his visitor.
'Citoyenne,' he said, in a composed voice, 'I am afraid that your journey has been in vain.'
She rose now from her knees, and advanced towards him.
'Monsieur, you will not be so cruel as to send me away empty-handed?' she cried, scarce knowing what she was saying.
But he looked at her gravely, and without any sign of melting.
'On what,' he asked, 'do you base any claim upon me?'
'On what?' she echoed, and her glance was troubled with perplexity. Then of a sudden it cleared. 'On the love that you have confessed for me,' she cried.
He laughed a short laugh-half amazement, half scorn.
'Mon Dieu!' he exclaimed, tossing his arms to Heaven, 'a fine claim that, as I live; a fine argument by which to induce me to place another man in your arms. I am to do it because I love you!'
They gazed at each other now, she with a glance of strained anxiety, he with the same look of half- contemptuous wonder. And then a creaking rumble from below attracted his attention, and he looked round. He moved forward and threw the window wide, letting in with the March air an odd medley of sounds to which the rolling of drums afforded a most congruous accompaniment.
'Look, Citoyenne,' he said, and he pointed out the first tumbril, which was coming round the corner of the Rue St. Honore.
She approached with some shrinking begotten by a suspicion of what she was desired to see.
In the street below, among a vociferating crowd of all sorts and conditions, the black death-cart moved on its way to the guillotine. It was preceded by a company of National Guards, and followed by the drummers and another company on foot. Within the fatal vehicle travelled three men and two women, accompanied by a constitutional priest—one of those renegades who had taken the oath imposed by the Convention. The two women sat motionless, more like statues than living beings, their faces livid and horribly expressionless, so numbed were their intelligences by fear. Of the men, one stood calm and dignified, another knelt at his prayers, and was subject, therefore, to the greater portion of the gibes the mob was offering these poor victims; the third, a very elegant gentleman in a green coat and buckskin breeches, leant nonchalantly upon the rail of the tumbril and exchanged gibes with the people. All five of them were in the prime of life, and, by their toilettes and the air that clung to them, belonged unmistakably to the noblesse.
One glance did Mademoiselle bestow upon that tragic spectacle, then with a shudder she drew back, her face going deathly white.
'Why did you bid me look?' she moaned.
'That for yourself you might see,' he answered pitilessly, 'the road by which your lover is to journey.'
'Mon Dieu!' she cried, wringing her hands, 'it is horrible. Oh! You are not men, you Revolutionists. You are beasts of prey, tigers in human semblance.'
He shrugged his shoulders.
'Great injustices beget great reactions. Great wrongs can only be balanced by great wrongs. For centuries the power has lain with the aristocrats, and they have most foully abused it. For centuries the people of France have writhed beneath the armed heel of the nobility, and their blood, unjustly and wantonly shed, has saturated the soil until from that seed has sprung this overwhelming retribution. Now—now, when it is too late—you are repenting; now, when at last some twenty-five million Frenchmen have risen with weapons in their hands to purge the nation of you. We are no worse than were you; indeed, not so bad. It is only that we do in a little while—and, therefore, while it lasts in greater quantity—what you have been doing through countless generations.'
'Spare me these arguments, Monsieur,' she cried, recovering her spirit. 'The 'whys' and 'wherefores' of it are nothing to me. I see what you are doing, and that is enough. But,' and her voice grew gentle and pleading, her hands were held out to him, 'you are good at heart, Monsieur; you are generous and you can be noble. You will give me the life that I have come to beg of you; the life you promised me.'
'Yes, but upon terms, Mademoiselle, and those terms you have heard.'
She looked a moment into that calm, set face, into the dark grey eyes that looked so solemn and betrayed so little of what was passing within.
