"Listen, mademoiselle," said Ratoneau, more loudly, and without rising.
"Listen! I will bring your cousin back."

She wavered, paused, then turned and looked at him. He gazed at her
gravely, intently; his look and manner were a little less offensive now.

"Yes--I am not an ogre," he said. "I don't eat boys and girls. But I
assure you there are people in the Empire who do. And you are quite
wrong if you think that an innocent man is never punished. The police
may have their reasons--bang--there go the big gates of Vincennes, and
the stronger reason that opens them again is hard to find. Innocent or
guilty--after all, that pretty cousin of yours has touched a good deal
of pitch in the way of _chouannerie_, mademoiselle."

"You said--" Helene waited and stammered.

"I said I would bring him back. You want to understand me? Sit down
beside me here."

The girl hesitated. "Courage! for Angelot!" she said to herself.

She did not believe in the man; she dreaded him; shrank from him; but
the name she loved was even more powerful than Ratoneau had expected.

"Ah, but we will send that little cousin to the wars, or to America," he
thought, as she came slowly back and let herself sink down, pale and
cold, in the opposite corner of the sofa.

"Where is my cousin, monsieur?" she said under her breath.

"I suppose, as the police arrested him, that he is in their hands," said
Ratoneau. "Where he is at this moment I know no more than you do."

"But you said--"

"Yes--I will do it. You can believe, can you not, that I have more
influence at headquarters than poor Monsieur de la Mariniere--a little
country squire who has saved himself by licking the dust before each man
in power?"

"It is not right for you to speak so of my father's cousin, who has been
so excellent for us all," Helene said quickly; then she blushed at her
own boldness. "But if you can really do this--I shall be grateful,
monsieur."

The words were coldly, impatiently said; she might have been throwing a
bone to a begging dog. Ratoneau bent forward, devouring her with his
eyes. The delicate line of her profile was partly turned away from him;
the eyelids drooped so low that the long lashes almost rested on the
cheek. All about her brow and ears, creeping down to her white neck, the
fair curls clustered. Soft and narrow folds of white muslin, lace, and
fine embroidery, clothed her slender figure with an exaggerated
simplicity. Her foot, just advanced beyo