all, why am I to be subjected to this insult?' asked
Gerald, addressing the crowd. 'You deliver me to the Commissary, not
for any crime or for any accusation of one; you compel me to speak about
matters purely personal--circumstances which I could have no right to
extort from any of _you_. Is this fair--is it just--is it decent?'

While he thus pleaded, the crowd was obliged to separate suddenly,
and make way for a handsome equipage, which came up at full trot, and
stopped before the door of Mirabeau's house; and a murmur ran quickly
around, 'It is The Gabrielle come to ask after Riquetti'; and Cabrot,
forgetting his part of public prosecutor, now approached the window of
the carriage with an almost servile affectation of courtesy. Had Gerald
been so disposed, nothing would have been easier for him than to make
his escape in the diversion caused by this new incident, so eager was
the crowd to press around and catch a glimpse of her whose gloved hand
now rested on the door of the carriage.

'She is Riquetti's mistress,' cried one; 'is not she?'

'Not a bit of it. Riquetti declared he would have no other mistress than
France; and though she yonder changed her name to Gabrielle to flatter
him, though she has sought and followed him for more than a year, it
avails her nothing.'

'Less than nothing I'd call it,' said another, 'since she pays for all
those flowers that come up from the banks of the Var--the rarest roses
and orange buds--just to please him.'

'More than that too; she has paid all his debts--in Paris some six
hundred thousand livres--all for a man who will not look at her.'

'"That is to be a 'veritable' woman!"' said a foppish-looking man, who
was for some time endeavouring to attract the attention of the fair
occupant of the carriage.

Meanwhile, Gerald had pressed his way through the crowd, curious to
catch one look of her whose devotion seemed so romantic.

'You see me in despair--in utter despair, Belle Gabrielle. There was no
place to be had at the Francais last night, and I missed your glorious
"Phedre."'

Her reply was inaudible, but the other went on--

'Of course, the effort must have cost you deeply, yet even in that
counterfeit of another's sorrow who knows if you did not interpolate
some portion of your own grief!'

'Is he better? Can I not see the Sister Constance,' asked she, in a low
and liquid voice.

'He is no better; I believe he is far worse than yesterday. There was a
young m