t not noble cause?"

I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask Monsieur Auguste why he left
France, but the uselessness of it was apparent.

"You see, Monsieur, I am justify before you, before my frien's,--that
is all I care," and he gave another shrug in defiance of the world
at large. "What I have done, I have done for principle. If I remain
Royalist, I might have marry my cousin, Mademoiselle de St. Gre. Ha,
Monsieur, you remember--the miniature you were so kin' as to borrow me
four hundred livres?"

"I remember," I said.

"It is because I have much confidence in you, Monsieur," he said, "it is
because I go--peut-etre--to dangere, to death, that I come here and ask
you to do me a favor."

"You honor me too much, Monsieur," I answered, though I could scarce
refrain from smiling.

"It is because of your charactair," Monsieur Auguste was good enough to
say. "You are to be repose' in, you are to be rely on. Sometime I think
you ver' ole man. And this is why, and sence you laik objects of art,
that I bring this and ask you keep it while I am in dangere."

I was mystified. He thrust his hand into his coat and drew forth an oval
object wrapped in dirty paper, and then disclosed to my astonished eyes
the miniature of Mademoiselle de St. Gre,--the miniature, I say, for
the gold back and setting were lacking. Auguste had retained only the
ivory,--whether from sentiment or necessity I will not venture. The
sight of it gave me a strange sensation, and I can scarcely write of the
anger and disgust which surged over me, of the longing to snatch it from
his trembling fingers. Suddenly I forgot Auguste in the lady herself.
There was something emblematical in the misfortune which had bereft
the picture of its setting. Even so the Revolution had taken from her
a brilliant life, a king and queen, home and friends. Yet the spirit
remained unquenchable, set above its mean surroundings,--ay, and
untouched by them. I was filled with a painful curiosity to know what
had become of her, which I repressed. Auguste's voice aroused me.

"Ah, Monsieur, is it not a face to love, to adore?"

"It is a face to obey," I answered, with some heat, and with more truth
than I knew.

"Mon Dieu, Monsieur, it is so. It is that mek me love--you know not how.
You know not what love is, Monsieur Reetchie, you never love laik me.
You have not sem risson. Monsieur," he continued, leaning forward and
putting his hand on my knee, "I think she love me--I a