clared that he saw them making their escape. This
uncertainty was more horrible to Coursegol than the poignant reality
before his eyes. He flung himself down upon the seared turf, and there,
gloomy, motionless, a prey to the most frightful despair, he wept
bitterly.

CHAPTER VI.

PARIS IN 1792.

On the third of September, 1792, about eleven o'clock in the morning, a
tall, stalwart man, with an energetic face and sunburned hands, and
accompanied by a young woman, might have been seen approaching the
Barriere du Trone. Both were clad in the garb worn by the peasantry of
southern France. The young woman wore the costume of a Provencale
peasant girl, and carried upon her arm a short, dark cloak, which she
used as a protection against the cool night air, but which she did not
require now in the heat of the day. The man wore a suit of black
fustian, a foxskin cap, blue stockings and heavy shoes. The expression
of weariness imprinted upon their features and the dust that covered
their garments proved that their journey had been long. As they neared
the gateway, the man, who was carrying a heavy valise in his hand,
paused to take breath. His companion followed his example, and, as they
seated themselves by the roadside, she cast an anxious glance at the
city.

"Do you think they will allow us to pass?" she murmured, frightened
already at the thought of being subjected to the examination of the
soldiers who guarded the gate.

"Are not our passports all right?" demanded her companion. "If we
wished to leave Paris it would be quite another matter; but as we merely
desire to enter the city, there will be no difficulty. Have no fears,
Mademoiselle; they will not detain us long at the gate."

"Coursegol, stop calling me Mademoiselle. Call me your daughter. If you
do not acquire the habit of doing so, you will forget some day and then
all will be discovered."

"I know my role, and I shall play it to perfection when we are before
strangers, but, when we are alone, I cannot forget that I am only your
servant."

"Not my servant; but my friend, my father. Have you not always felt for
me the same affection and solicitude you would have entertained for your
own daughter?"

Coursegol responded only by a look; but this look proved that Dolores
had spoken the truth and that the paternal love, of which he had given
abundant proofs in the early part of this history, had suffered no
diminution.

"If you had only been willin