that was fully equal to that of Mademoiselle de
Verneuil, she trembled as she foresaw the clash with which such natures
might come together, and the girl shuddered when she saw Mademoiselle de
Verneuil go up to the young man with a passionate look and, taking
him by the hand, draw him close beside her and into the light, with a
coquettish glance that was full of witchery.

"Now," she said, trying to read his eyes, "own to me that you are not
the citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr."

"Yes, I am, mademoiselle."

"But he and his mother were killed yesterday."

"I am very sorry for that," he replied, laughing. "However that may be,
I am none the less under a great obligation to you, for which I shall
always feel the deepest gratitude and only wish I could prove it to
you."

"I thought I was saving an _emigre_, but I love you better as a
Republican."

The words escaped her lips as it were impulsively; she became confused;
even her eyes blushed, and her face bore no other expression than one
of exquisite simplicity of feeling; she softly released the young man's
hand, not from shame at having pressed it, but because of a thought too
weighty, it seemed, for her heart to bear, leaving him drunk with hope.
Suddenly she appeared to regret this freedom, permissible as it might
be under the passing circumstances of a journey. She recovered her
conventional manner, bowed to the lady and her son, and taking Francine
with her, left the room. When they reached their own chamber Francine
wrung her hands and tossed her arms, as she looked at her mistress,
saying: "Ah, Marie, what a crowd of things in a moment of time! who but
you would have such adventures?"

Mademoiselle de Verneuil sprang forward and clasped Francine round the
neck.

"Ah! this is life indeed--I am in heaven!"

"Or hell," retorted Francine.

"Yes, hell if you like!" cried Mademoiselle de Verneuil. "Here, give me
your hand; feel my heart, how it beats. There's fever in my veins; the
whole world is now a mere nothing to me! How many times have I not
seen that man in my dreams! Oh! how beautiful his head is--how his eyes
sparkle!"

"Will he love you?" said the simple peasant-woman, in a quivering voice,
her face full of sad foreboding.

"How can you ask me that!" cried Mademoiselle de Verneuil. "But,
Francine, tell me," she added throwing herself into a pose that was half
serious, half comic, "will it be very hard to love me?"

"No, but will he love you always?" r