ed, his eyes dilating. Then,
before an answer could be given, he plucked his hand from Mirande's
grasp and seizing him by the shoulder shook him to and fro.

"Where is she?" he cried hoarsely. "Speak, man, what have you done with
her? Where is she?"

"She is behind you."

Bercy turned. Claire was behind him. "Claire?" he cried. "Claire?"

The girl stood, her eyes slightly downcast, her arms hanging by her
sides. And then at the sound of the name uttered a second time, she
looked up, her eyes swimming with love and tears. "No, Corinne!" she
said simply. And then, in a voice which pierced the traitor's bosom as
with a sword, she continued, "Honore, my husband! Forgive me! Forgive
me that I distrusted you! That I disowned you!"

He did not answer, but he opened his arms and took her into them and
held her there; while the father went to the window--perhaps to hide his
emotion, and the Commissary lifted up his hands in admiration genuine
and French of this moving scene. As for Baudouin, he bit his nails, his
face white with rage.

He cursed the delay. He would have cursed the police, had he dared, and
had not the tricolour scarf awed him. "Bah!" he exclaimed at last in
venomous tones, "a fine piece of play-acting, M. Mirande! And our
friends here have indulgently given you time for it. But it is over, and
the sequel will be less pleasant, I fear. He laughs best who laughs
last."

"That is true," Mirande answered soberly; and for an instant from his
place at the window, he looked into the room.

"In three days you will sneeze into the sack, my friends," Baudouin
continued with savage mockery. "Your married bliss, M. le Vicomte, will
last but a short time, I fear. As for mademoiselle, Sanson will prove
but a rough coiffeur, I doubt."

"Silence!" the Girondin cried; and his tone was strangely altered, his
voice vibrated strangely through the room. "Silence, you hound!" he
continued, turning from the window and walking into the middle of the
chamber, his figure drawn to its full height, his hand outstretched. "Be
still, and tremble for your own head. The warrant you bring is signed by
Maximilien Robespierre?"

"The Incorruptible," murmured the Commissary. And saluted.

"Corruptible or Incorruptible," Mirande rejoined, with a sneer, "he is
fallen! He is fallen! Within the last ten minutes he has been arrested
and lodged in the Tuileries!"

"You rave!" cried the officer. While Bercy and Corinne cast dazed
glances