izen Robespierre is well?" he asked, without turning.

"Yes," said she, and for all that there was chagrin to spare in the
glance with which she admired the back of his straight and shapely
figure, she contrived to render her voice airily indifferent. "We were
at the play last night."

"Ah!" he murmured politely. "And was Talma in veine?"

"More brilliant than ever," answered she.

"He is a great actor, Citoyenne."

A shade of annoyance crossed her face.

"Why do you always address me as Citoyenne?" she asked, with some
testiness.

He turned at last and looked at her a moment.

"We live in a censorious world, Citoyenne," he answered gravely.

She tossed her head with an exclamation of impatience.

"We live in a free world, Citizen. Freedom is our motto. Is it for
nothing that we are Republicans?"

"Freedom of action begets freedom of words," said he, "and freedom of
words leads to freedom of criticism--and that is a thing to which no
wise woman will expose herself, no matter under what regime we live.
You would be well-advised, Citoyenne, in thinking of that when you come
here."

"But you never come to us, Caron," she returned, in a voice of mild
complaint. "You have not been once to Duplay's since your return from
Belgium. And you seem different, too, since your journey to the army."
She rose now and approached him. "What is it, cher Caron?" she asked,
her voice a very caress of seductiveness, her eyes looking up into his.
"Is something troubling you?"

"Troubling me?" he echoed, musingly. "No. But then I am a busy man,
Citoyenne."

A wave of red seemed to sweep across her face, and her heel beat the
parquet floor.

"If you call me Citoyenne again I shall strike you," she threatened him.

He looked down at her, and she had the feeling that behind the
inscrutable mask of his countenance he was laughing at her.

"It would sort well with your audacity," he made answer coolly.

She felt in that moment that she hated him, and it was a miracle that
she did not do as she had threatened, for with all her meek looks she
owned a very fiercest of tempers. She drew back a pace or two, and her
glance fell.

"I shall not trouble you in future," she vowed. "I shall not come here
again."

He bowed slightly.

"I applaud the wisdom of your resolve--Cit--Cecile. The world, as I have
said, is censorious."

She looked at him a second, then she laughed, but it was laughter of the
lips only; the eyes looked stee