he interrupted her. He had caught at last the drift of what she
was saying. "There is no need for any comedy, Suzanne. Enough of that
had we at Boisvert."

"It is not comedy," she cried with heat. "It was not altogether comedy
at Boisvert."

"True," he said, wilfully misunderstanding her that he might the more
easily dismiss the subject, "it went nearer to being tragedy." Then
abruptly he asked her:

"Where are you residing?"

She paused before replying. She still wanted to protest that some
affection for him dwelt in her heart, although curbed (to a greater
extent even than she was aware) by the difference in their stations, and
checked by her plighted word to Ombreval. At last, abandoning a purpose
which his countenance told her would be futile:

"I am staying with my old nurse at Choisy," she answered him. "Henriette
Godelliere is her name. She is well known in the village, and seems
in good favour with the patriots, so that I account myself safe. I am
believed to be her niece from the country."

"Hum!" he snorted. "The Citoyenne Godelliere's niece from the country in
silks?"

"That is what someone questioned, and she answered that it was a gown
plundered from the wardrobe of some emigrated aristocrats."

"Have a care, Suzanne," said he. "The times are dangerous, and it is a
matter of a week ago since a man was lanterne for no other reason than
because he was wearing gloves, which was deemed an aristocratic habit.
Come, Mademoiselle, let us gather up your gems. You were going without
them some moments ago."

And down upon his knees he went, and, taking up the little bag which had
been left where he had flung it, he set himself to restore the jewels to
it. She came to his assistance, in spite of his protestations, and so,
within a moment or two, the task was completed, and the little treasure
was packed away in the bosom of her gown.

"To-morrow," he said, as he took his leave of her at the door, "I shall
hope to bring the ci-devant Vicomte to Choisy, and I will see that he is
equipped with a laissez-passer that will carry both of you safely out of
France."

She was beginning to thank him all over again, but he cut her short, and
so they parted.

Long after she was gone did he sit at his writing-table, his head in his
hands and his eyes staring straight before him. His face looked grey and
haggard; the lines that seared it were lines of pain.

"They say," he murmured once, thinking aloud, as men some