"Because I trust them, Auguste," Antoinette answered. She spoke without
anger, as one whose sorrow has put her beyond it. Her speech had a
dignity and force which might have awed a worthier man. His
disappointment and chagrin brought him beyond bounds.

"You trust them!" he cried, "you trust them when they tell you to give
your brother, who is starving and in peril of his life, eight hundred
livres? Eight hundred livres, pardieu, and your brother!"

"It is all I have, Auguste," said his sister, sadly.

"Ha!" he said dramatically, "I see, they seek my destruction. This
man"--pointing at me--"is a Federalist, and Madame la Vicomtesse"--he
bowed ironically--"is a Royalist."

"Pish!" said the Vicomtesse, impatiently, "it would be an easy matter to
have you sent to the Morro--a word to Monsieur de Carondelet, Auguste.
Do you believe for a moment that, in your father's absence, I would have
allowed Antoinette to come here alone? And it was a happy circumstance
that I could call on such a man as Mr. Ritchie to come with us."

"It seems to me that Mr. Ritchie and his friends have already brought
sufficient misfortune on the family."

It was a villanous speech. Antoinette turned away, her shoulders
quivering, and I took a step towards him; but Madame la Vicomtesse made a
swift gesture, and I stopped, I know not why. She gave an exclamation so
sharp that he flinched physically, as though he had been struck. But it
was characteristic of her that when she began to speak, her words cut
rather than lashed.

"Auguste de St. Gre," she said, "I know you. The Tribunal is merciful
compared to you. There is no one on earth whom you would not torture for
your selfish ends, no one whom you would not sell without compunction for
your pleasure. There are things that a woman should not mention, and yet
I would tell them without shame to your face were it not for your sister.
If it were not for her, I would not have you in my presence. Shall I
speak of your career in France? There is Valenciennes, for example--"

She stopped abruptly. The man was gray, but not on his account did the
Vicomtesse stay her speech. She forgot him as though he did not exist,
and by one of those swift transitions which thrilled me had gone to the
sobbing Antoinette and taken her in her arms, murmuring endearments of
which our language is not capable. I, too, forgot Auguste. But no
rebuke, however stinging, could make him forget himself, and before we
realized