hem were in the prime of life, and, by their
toilettes and the air that clung to them, belonged unmistakably to the
noblesse.

One glance did Mademoiselle bestow upon that tragic spectacle, then with
a shudder she drew back, her face going deathly white.

"Why did you bid me look?" she moaned.

"That for yourself you might see," he answered pitilessly, "the road by
which your lover is to journey."

"Mon Dieu!" she cried, wringing her hands, "it is horrible. Oh! You are
not men, you Revolutionists. You are beasts of prey, tigers in human
semblance."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Great injustices beget great reactions. Great wrongs can only be
balanced by great wrongs. For centuries the power has lain with the
aristocrats, and they have most foully abused it. For centuries the
people of France have writhed beneath the armed heel of the nobility,
and their blood, unjustly and wantonly shed, has saturated the soil
until from that seed has sprung this overwhelming retribution.
Now--now, when it is too late--you are repenting; now, when at last some
twenty-five million Frenchmen have risen with weapons in their hands to
purge the nation of you. We are no worse than were you; indeed, not so
bad. It is only that we do in a little while--and, therefore, while it
lasts in greater quantity--what you have been doing through countless
generations."

"Spare me these arguments, Monsieur," she cried, recovering her spirit.
"The 'whys' and 'wherefores' of it are nothing to me. I see what you are
doing, and that is enough. But," and her voice grew gentle and pleading,
her hands were held out to him, "you are good at heart, Monsieur; you
are generous and you can be noble. You will give me the life that I have
come to beg of you; the life you promised me."

"Yes, but upon terms, Mademoiselle, and those terms you have heard."

She looked a moment into that calm, set face, into the dark grey eyes
that looked so solemn and betrayed so little of what was passing within.

"And you say that you love me?" she cried.

"Helas!" he sighed. "It is a weakness I cannot conquer.

"Look well down into your heart, M. La Boulaye," she answered him, "and
you will find how egregious is your error. You do not love me; you love
yourself, and only yourself. If you loved me you would not seek to
have me when I am unwilling. Above all things, you would desire my
happiness--it is ever so when we truly love--and you would seek to
promote it. If, inde