“ ‘Couthon,’ she said, ‘are the Dupins to die?’
“ ‘Yes, tomorrow.’
“ ‘Dupin the younger is the father of my child.’
“ ‘And he has deserted you, and you hate him. He shall die.’
“ ‘Pardon me, I do not hate him.’
“ ‘Ah, you love him still; but that is no reason why he should be spared, my pretty one. We must do our duty. They are plotters against the Republic, and must go.’
“ ‘Couthon, they must live. Consider; shall that man ascend the scaffold with the thought in his heart that I could have rescued him, and that I did not; that I have had my revenge? Besides, what will be said?—that the Republic uses justice to satisfy private vengeance. All the women in my quarter know who I am.’
“ ‘That is a fancy.’
“ ‘Fancy! Is it a fancy to murder Dupin’s wife—murder all that is good in her—murder the belief in her forever that there is such a thing as generosity? You do not wish to kill the soul? That is the way with tyrants, but not with the Republic.’
“Thus Victorine strove with Couthon, and he at last yielded. Dupin and his father were released that night, and before daybreak they were all out of Paris and safe. In the morning Legouvé found that they were liberated, and on asking Couthon the reason, was answered with a smile that they had an eloquent advocate. Victorine had warned Couthon not to mention her name, and he kept his promise; but Legouvé conjectured but too truly. He went home, and in a furious rage taxed Victorine with infidelity to him, in favour of the man who had abandoned her. He would not listen to her, and thrust her from him with curses. I say nothing more about her history. I will only say this, that Pauline is that child who was born to her after Dupin left her. I say it because I am so proud that Pauline has had such a mother!”
“Pauline her daughter!” said Zachariah. “I thought she was your daughter.”
“She is my daughter: I became her father.”
Everybody was silent.
“Ah, you say nothing,” said Caillaud; “I am not surprised. You are astonished. Well may you be so that such a creature should ever have lived. What would Jesus Christ have said to her?”
The company soon afterwards rose to go.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Coleman,” said the Major in his careless way; “I am glad to find Manchester does not disagree with you. At least, I should think it does not.”
“Oh no, Major Maitland, I like it quite as well as London. Mind, you promise to come again soon—very soon.”
The Major had gone downstairs first. She had followed him to the first landing, and then returned to bid Pauline and Caillaud goodbye. She stood like a statue while Pauline put on her hat.
“Good night, madam,” said Caillaud, slightly bowing.
“Good night, madam,” said Pauline, not bowing in the least.
“Good night,” she replied, without relaxing her rigidity.
As soon as they were in the street Pauline said, “Father, I abhor that woman. If she lives she will kill her husband.”
Mrs. Coleman, on the other hand, at the same moment said, “Zachariah, Pauline and Caillaud cannot come to this house again.”
“Why not?”
“Why not, Zachariah? I am astonished at you! The child of a woman who lived in open sin!”
He made no reply. Years ago not a doubt would have crossed his mind. That a member of Mr. Bradshaw’s church could receive such people as Caillaud and Pauline would have seemed impossible. Nevertheless, neither Caillaud nor Pauline were now repugnant to him; nor did he feel that any soundless gulf separated them from him, although, so far as he knew his opinions had undergone no change.
Mrs. Coleman forbore to pursue the subject, for her thoughts went off upon another theme, and she was inwardly wondering whether the Major would ever invite her to the theatre again. Just as she was going to sleep, the figure of the Major hovering before her eyes, she suddenly bethought herself that Pauline, if not handsome, was attractive. She started, and lay awake for an hour. When she rose in the morning the same thought again presented itself, to dwell with her hence forwards, and to gnaw her continually like vitriol.
XI
Politics and Pauline
Soon after this visit debates arose in Zachariah’s club which afterwards ended in the famous march of the Blanketeers, as they were called. Matters were becoming very serious, and the Government was thoroughly alarmed, as well it might be, at the discontent which was manifest all over the country. The Prince Regent was insulted as he went to open Parliament, and the windows of his carriage were broken. It was thought, and with some reason, that the army could not be trusted. One thing is certain, that the reformers found their way into the barracks at Knightsbridge and
