CHAPTER XIV

A DANGEROUS ACQUAINTANCE

It was in April that Fate began to concern herself with Mlle de Rochambeau once more. It was a day of spring's first exquisite sweetness--air like new-born life sparkling with wayward smiles, as the hurrying sunbeams glanced between one white cloud and the next; scent of all budding blossoms, and that good smell of young leafage and the wet, fecund earth.

On such a day, any heart, not crushed quite dumb and dry, must needs sparkle a little too, tremble a little with the renewal of youth, and sing a little because earth's myriad voices call for an echo.

Aline put on her worn print gown with a smile, and twisted her hair with a little more care than usual. After all, she was young, time passed, and life held sunshine, and the spring. She sang a little country air as she passed to and fro in the narrow room.

Outside it was delicious. Even in the dull street where she took her place in the queue the air smelled of young flowering things, and touched her cheeks with a soft, kissing breath, that brought the tender colour into them. Under the bright cerulean sky her eyes took the shade of dark forget-me-nots.

It was thus that Hebert saw her for the first time--one of Fate's tricks--for had he passed on a dull, rainy, day, he would have seen nothing but a pale, weary girl, and would have gone his way unnoticing, and unremembered, but to-day that spring bloom in the girl's heart seemed to have overflowed, and to sweeten all the air around her. The sparkle of the deep, sweet, Irish eyes met his cold, roving glance, and of a sudden changed it to an ugly, intent glitter. He passed slowly by, then paused, turned, and passed again.

When he went by for the second time, Aline became aware of his presence. Before, he had been one of the crowd, and she an unnoticed unit in it, but now, all at once, his glance seemed to isolate her from the women about her, and to set her in an insulting proximity to himself.

She looked down, coldly, and pressed slowly forward. After what seemed like a very long time, she raised her eyes for a moment, only to encounter the same fixed, insolent stare, the same pale smile of thick, unlovely lips.

With an inward shudder she turned her head, feeling thankful that the queue was moving at a good rate, and that the time of waiting was nearly over. It was not until she had secured her portion that she ventured to look round again, and, to her infinite relief, the coast was clear. With a sigh of thankfulness she turned homewards, plunging her thoughts for cleansing into the fresh loveliness of the day.

Suddenly in her ear a smooth, hateful voice:

"Why do you hurry so, Citoyenne?"

She did not look up, but quickened her pace.

"But, Citoyenne, a word--a look?"

Hebert's smile broadened, and he slipped a dexterous arm about the slim waist, and bent to catch the blue glance of her eyes. Experience taught him that she would look up at that. She did, with a flame of contempt that he thought very becoming. Blue eyes were apt to prove insipid when raised, but the critic in him acknowledged these as free from fault.

"Citizen!" she exclaimed, freeing herself with an unexpectedly strong movement. "How dare you! Oh, help me, Louison, help me!"

In the moment that he caught her again she had seen the small, wiry figure of Jean Michel's wife turn the corner.

"Louison, Louison Michel!" she called desperately.

Next moment Hebert was aware of some one, under-sized and shrivelled looking, who whirled tempestuously upon him, with an amazing flow of words.

"Oh, my Ste. Genevieve! And is a young girl not to walk unmolested to her home. Bandit! assassin! tyrant! pig! devil! species of animal, go then--but on the instant--and take that, and that, to remember an honest woman by,"--the first "that" being a piece of his hair torn forcibly out, and thrown into his perspiring face, and the second, a most superlative slap on the opposite cheek.

He was left gasping for breath and choking with fury, whilst the whirlwind departed with as much suddenness as it had come, covering the girl's retreat with shaken fist, and shrill vituperation.

After a moment he sent a volley of curses in her wake. "Fury! Magaera!" he muttered. "So that is Jean Michel's wife! If she were mine, I 'd wring her neck."

He thought of his meek wife at home, and laughed unpleasantly.

"For the rest, she has done the girl no good by interfering." This was unfortunately the case. Hebert's eye had been pleased, his fancy taken; but a few passing words, a struggle may be, ending in a kiss, had been all that was in his thought. Now the bully in him lifted its head, urging his jaded appetite, and he walked slowly after the women until he saw Mademoiselle leave her companion, and enter Rosalie's shop. An ugly gleam came into his eyes--so this was where she lived! He knew Rosalie Leboeuf by sight and name; knew, too, of her cousinship with his former mistress, Therese Marcel, and he congratulated himself venomously as he strolled forward and read the list of occupants which, as the law demanded, was fixed on the front of the house at a distance of not more than five feet from the ground:

"Rosalie Leboeuf, widow, vegetable seller, aged forty-six. Marie Roche, single, seamstress, aged nineteen. Jacques Dangeau, single, avocat, aged twenty-eight,"--and after the last name an additional notice--"absent on business of the Convention."

Hebert struck his coarse hands together with an oath. Dangeau--Dangeau, now it came back to him. Dangeau was infatuated with some girl, Therese had said so. He laughed softly, for Therese had gone into one of her passions, and that always amused him. If it were this girl? If it were--if it only were, why, what a pleasure to cut Dangeau out, and to let him find on his return that the bird had flown to a nest of Hebert's feathering.

There might be even more in it than that. The girl was no common seamstress; pooh--he was not stupid--he could see as far into a brick wall as others. Even at the first glance he had seen that she was different, and when her eyes blazed, and she drew herself from his grasp, why, the aristocrat stood confessed. Anger is the greatest revealer of all.

Madame la Roturiere may dress her smiling face in the mode of Mme l'Aristocrate; may tune her company voice to the same rhythm; but put her in a passion, and see how the mud comes boiling up from the depths, and how the voice so smooth and suave just now, rings out in its native bourgeois tones.

Hebert knew the difference as well as another, and his thoughts were busy. Aristocrat disguised, spelled aristocrat conspiring, and a conspiring aristocrat under the same roof as Jacques Dangeau, what did that spell?

He rubbed his pale fat hands, where the reddish hair showed sickly, and strolled away thinking wicked thoughts. Plots were the obsession of the day, and, to speak the truth, there were enough and to spare, but patriot eyes were apt to see double, and treble, when drunk with enthusiasm, and to detect a conspirator when there was only a victim. Plots which had never existed gave hundreds to the knife, and the populace shouted themselves into a wilder delirium.

Did the price of bread go up? Machinations of Pitt in England. Did two men quarrel, and blows pass? "Monarchist!" shouted the defeated one, and presently denounced the other.

Had a woman an inconvenient husband, why, a cry of "Austrian Spy!" and she might be comfortably rid of him for ever.

Evil times for a beautiful, friendless girl upon whom gross Hebert cast a wishful eye!

He walked into the shop next day, and accosted Rosalie with Republican sternness of manner.

"Good-day, Citoyenne Leboeuf."

Rosalie was fluttered. Her nerves were no longer quite so reliable as they had been. Madame Guillotine's receptions were disturbing them, and in the night she would dream horribly, and wake panting, with her hands at her fat throat.

"Citizen Hebert," she murmured.

He bent a cold eye upon her, noting a beaded brow.

"You have a girl lodging here--Marie Roche?"

"Assuredly, Citizen."

"I must speak to her alone."

Rosalie rallied a little, for Hebert had a certain reputation, and Louison had not held her tongue.

"I will call her down," she said, heaving her bulky form from its place.

"No, I will go up," said Hebert, still with magisterial dignity.

"Pardon me, Citizen Deputy, she shall come down."

"It is an affair of State. I must speak privately with her," he blustered.

Rosalie's eyes twinkled; her nerves were steadying. They had begun to require constant stimulation, and this answered as well as anything else.

"Bah," she said. "I shall not listen to your State secrets. Am I an eavesdropper, or inquisitive? Ask any one. That is not my character. You may take her to the farther end of the shop, and speak as low as you please, but, she is a young girl, this is a respectable house, and see her alone in her room you shall not, not whilst she is under my care."

"That privilege being reserved for my colleague, Citizen Dangeau," sneered Hebert.

"Tchtt," said Rosalie, humping a billowy shoulder--"the girl is virtuous and hard-working, too virtuous, I dare say, to please some people. Yes, that I can very well believe," and her gaze became unpleasantly pointed--"Well, I will call her down."

She moved to the inner door as she spoke, and called up the stair: "Marie! Marie Roche! Descend then; you are wanted."

Hebert stood aside with an ill grace, but he was quite well aware that to insist might, after yesterday's scene, bring the whole quarter about his ears, and effectually spoil the ingenious plans he was revolving in his mind.

He moved impatiently as Mademoiselle delayed, and, at the sound of her footstep, started eagerly to meet her.

She came in quite unsuspiciously, looking at Rosalie, and at first seeing no one else. When Hebert's movements brought him before her, she turned deadly white, and a faintness swept over her. She caught the door, fighting it back, till it showed only in that change of colour, and a rather fixed look in the dark blue eyes.

Hebert checked a smile, and entrenched himself behind his office.

"You are Marie Roche, seamstress?"

"Certainly, Citizen."

"Father's and mother's names?"

"By what right do you question me?" the voice was icy with offence, and Rosalie stirred uneasily.

"It is the Citizen Deputy Hebert; answer him," she growled--and Hebert commended her with a look.

Really this was amusing--the girl had spirit as well as beauty. Decidedly she was worth pursuing.

"Father's and mother's names?" he repeated.

Mademoiselle bit her lip, and gave the names she had already given when she took out her certificate of Citizenship.

They were those of her foster-parents, and had she not had that rehearsal, she might have faltered, and hesitated. As it was, her answer came clear and prompt.

Hebert scowled.

"You are not telling the truth," he observed in offensive tones, expecting an outburst, but Mlle de Rochambeau merely looked past him with an air of weary indifference.

"I am not satisfied," he burst out. "If you had been frank and open, you would have found me a good friend, but I do not like lies, and you are telling them. Now I am not a safe person to tell lies to, not at all--remember that. My friendship is worth having, and you may choose between it and my enmity, my virtuous Citoyenne."

Mademoiselle raised her delicate eyebrows very slightly.

"The Citizen does me altogether too much honour," she observed, her voice in direct contradiction to her words.

"Tiens," he said, losing self-control, "you are a proud minx, and pride goes before a fall. Are you not afraid? Come," dropping his voice, as he caught Rosalie's ironical eye--"Come, be a sensible girl, and you shall not find me hard to deal with. I am a slave to beauty--a smile, a pleasant look or two, and I am your friend. Come then, Citoyenne Marie."

Mademoiselle remained silent. She looked past Hebert, at the street. Rosalie got up exasperated, and pulled her aside.

"Little fool," she whispered, "can't you make yourself agreeable, like any other girl. Smile, and keep him off. No one wants you to do more. The man 's dangerous, I tell you so, I---- You 'll ruin us all with your airs and graces, as if he were the mud under your feet."

Aline turned from her in a sudden despair.

"I am a poor, honest girl, Citizen," she said imploringly. "I have no time for friendship. I have to work very hard, I harm nobody."

"But a friend," suggested Hebert, coming a little closer, "a friend would feel it a privilege to do away with that necessity for hard work."

Mademoiselle's pallor flamed. She turned sharply away, feeling as if she had been struck.

"Good-day, Citizen," she said proudly; "you have made a mistake," and she passed from Rosalie's detaining hand.

Hebert sent an oath after her. He was most unmagisterially angry. "Fool," he said, under his breath--"Damned fool."

Rosalie caught him up.

"He is a fool who wastes his time trying to pick the apple at the top of the tree, when there are plenty to his hand," she observed pointedly.

He swore at her then, and went out without replying.

From that day a period of terror and humiliation beyond words set in for Mlle de Rochambeau. Hebert's shadow lay across her path, and she feared him, with a sickening, daily augmenting fear, that woke her gasping in the night, and lay on her like a black nightmare by day.

Sometimes she did not see him for days, sometimes every day brought him along the waiting queue, until he reached her side, and stood there whispering hatefully, amusing himself by alternately calling the indignant colour to her cheeks, and replacing it by a yet more indignant pallor.

The strain told on her visibly, the thin cheeks were thinner, the dark eyes looked darker, and showed unnaturally large and bright, whilst the violet stains beneath them came to stay.

There was no one to whom she could appeal. Rosalie was furious with her and her fine-lady ways. Louison, and the other neighbours, who could have interfered to protect her from open insult, saw no reason to meddle so long as the girl's admirer confined himself to words, and after the first day Hebert had not laid hands on her again.

The torture of the man's companionship, the insult of his look, were beyond their comprehension.

Meanwhile, Hebert's passing fancy for her beauty had changed into a dull, malignant resolve to bend, or break her, and through her to injure Dangeau, if it could possibly be contrived.

Women had their price, he reflected. Hers might not be money, but it would perhaps be peace of mind, relief from persecution, or even life--bare life.

After the first few days he gave up the idea of bringing any set accusation against Dangeau. The man was away, his room locked, and Rosalie would certainly not give up the key unless a domiciliary visit were paid--a thing involving a little too much publicity for Hebert's taste. Besides, he knew very well that rummage as he might, he would find no evidence of conspiracy. Dangeau was an honest man, as he was very well aware, and he hated him a good deal the more for the inconvenient fact. No, it would not do to denounce Dangeau without some very plain evidence to go upon. The accuser of Danton's friend might find himself in an uncommonly tight place if his accusations could not be proved. It would not do--it was not good enough, Hebert decided regretfully; but the girl remained, and that way amusement beckoned as well as revenge. If she remained obstinate, and if Dangeau were really infatuated, and returned to find her in prison, he might easily be tempted to commit some imprudence, out of which capital might be made. That was a safer game, and might prove just as well worth playing in the end. Meanwhile, was the girl Marie Roche, and nothing more? Did that arresting look of nobility go for nothing, or was she playing a part? If Rosalie knew, Therese might help. Now how fortunate that he had always kept on good terms with Therese.

He took her a pair of gold ear-rings that evening, and whilst she set them dangling in her ears, he slipped an arm about her, and kissed her smooth red cheek.

"Morbleu!" he swore, "you 're a handsome creature, Therese; there 's no one to touch you."

"What do you want?" asked Therese, with a shrewd glance into his would-be amorous eyes.

"What, ma belle? What should I want? A kiss, if you 'll give it me. Ah! the old days were the best."

Thus Hebert, disclaiming an ulterior motive.

Therese frowned, and twitched away from him.

"Ma foi, Hebert, am I a fool?" she returned, with a shrug. "You 've forgotten a lot about those same old days if you think that. I 'll help you if I can, but don't try and throw sand in my eyes, or you 'll get some of it back, in a way that will annoy you"; and her black eyes flared at him in the fashion he always admired. He thought her at her best like that, and said so now.

"Chut!" she said impatiently. "What is it that you want?"

Hebert considered.

"You see your cousin sometimes, the widow Leboeuf, who has the shop in the rue des Lanternes?"

"I see her often enough, twice--three times a week at present."

"Could you get something out of her?"

"Not if she knew I wanted to. Close as a miser's fist, that's what Rosalie is, if she thinks she can spite you; but just now we are very good friends--and, well, I dare say it might be done. Depends what it is you want to know."

Hebert looked at her keenly.

"Perhaps you can tell me," he said, watching her face. "That girl who lodges there, who is she? What is her name--her real name?"

In a flash Therese was crimson to the hair, and he had her by the wrist, swinging her round to face him.

"Oho!" she cried, laughing till the new ear-rings tinkled, "so that's it--that's the game? Well, if you can give that stuck-up aristocrat the setting-down I 've promised her ever since I first saw her, I 'm with you."

Hebert pounced on one word, like a cat.

"Aristocrat? Ah! I thought so," he said, his breathing quickening a little. "Who is she, then, ma mie?"

Therese regarded him with a little scorn. She did not care who got Hebert, since she had done with him herself, but what, _par exemple_, did he see in a pale stick like that--and after having admired her, Therese? Certainly men were past understanding.

She lolled easily on the arm of the chair.

"I 've not an idea, but I dare say I could find out--that is, if Rosalie knows."

"Well, when you do, there 'll be a chain to match the ear-rings," said Hebert, his arm round her waist again.

All the same, April had passed into May before Therese won her chain.

It was in the time between that Hebert haunted Mlle de Rochambeau's footsteps, and employed what he considered his most seductive arts, producing only a sensation of shuddering defilement from which neither prayer nor effort could free her thoughts. One day, goaded past endurance, she left Dangeau's folded note at the door of Clery's lodging. When it had left her hand, she would have given the world to have it back. How could she speak to a man of this shameful pursuit of Hebert? How, having put Dangeau out of her life, could she use his help, and appeal to his friend? And yet, how endure the daily shame, the nightly agony of remembering those smooth, poisonous whispers, that pale, dreadful smile? She cried her eyes red and swollen, and Edmond Clery, looking up from a bantering exchange of compliments with Rosalie, wondered as she came in, first if this could be she, and then at his friend's taste. He permitted himself a complacent memory of Therese's glowing cheeks and supple curves, and commended his own choice. Rosalie's needles clicked amiably. She liked young men, and this was a personable one. What a goose this girl was, to be sure!--like a frightened rabbit with Hebert, and now with this amiable young man, shrinking, white-faced! Bah! she had no patience with her.

Edmond bowed smilingly.

"My homage, Citoyenne," he said.

Aline forced a "Bonjour, Citizen," and then fell silent again. Ah! why had she left the note--why, why, why?

Clery began to pity her plight, for there was something chivalrous in him which rose at the sight of her obvious unhappiness, and he gave the impulse rein.

"Will you not tell me how I can serve you?" he said in his gentlest voice. "It will be both a pleasure and an honour."

Aline raised her tired eyes to his, and read kindness in the open glance.

"You are very good," she said slowly, and looked past him with a hesitating air.

Rosalie was busy serving at the moment, and a shrill argument over the price of cabbage was in process. She stepped closer, and spoke very low.

"Citizen Dangeau said I might trust you, Citizen."

"Indeed you may; I am his friend and yours."

Even then the colour rose a little at this linking of their names. The impulse towards confidence increased.

"I am in trouble, Citizen, or I should not have asked your help. There is a man who follows, insults me, threatens even, and I am without a protector."

"Not if you will confide that honour to me," said Clery quickly.

She smiled faintly.

"You are very good."

"But who is it? Tell me his name, and I will see that you are not molested in future."

"It is the Citizen Deputy Hebert," faltered Aline, all her terror returning as she pronounced the hateful name.

Clary's brows drew close, and a long whistle escaped his lips.

"Oho, Hebert," he said,--"Hebert; but there, Citoyenne, do not be alarmed, I beg of you. Leave it to me"; after which he made his adieux without conspicuous haste, leaving Rosalie much annoyed at having missed most of the conversation.

Two days later, Hebert came foaming in on Therese. When he could speak, he swore at her.

"See here, Therese, if you 've a hand in setting Clery at me, let me warn you. I 'll take foul play from no woman alive, without giving as good as I get, and if there 's any of your damned jealousy at work, you she-devil, I 'll choke you as soon as look at you, and with a great deal more pleasure!"

Therese stepped up to him and fixed her great black eyes on his pale, twitching ones.

"Don't be so silly, Hebert," she said steadily, though her colour rose. "What is it all about? What has young Clery done to you? It 's rather late in the day for you to start quarrelling."

"Did you flatter yourself it was about you?" said Hebert brutally. "Not much, my girl; I've fresher fish to fry. But he came up to me an hour ago, and informed me he had been looking for me everywhere to tell me my pursuit of that pattern of virtue, our good Dangeau's mistress, must cease, or I 'd have him to reckon with, and what I want to know is, have you a hand in this, or not?"

Therese was heavily flushed, and her eyes curiously veiled.

"What! Clery too?" she said in a deep whisper. "Dangeau, and you, and Clery. Eh! I wish her joy of my cast-off clouts. But she shall pay--Holy Virgin, she shall pay!"

Hebert caught her by the shoulder and shook it.

"What are you muttering? I ask you a plain question, and you don't answer it. What about Clery--did you set him on?"

She threw back her head at that, and gave a long, wild laugh.

"Imbecile!" she screamed. "I? Do you hate him? Well, think how I must love him when he too goes after this girl--goes to her from me, from swearing I am his goddess, his inspiration? Ah!"--she caught at her throat,--"but at least I can give you his head. The fool--the fool to betray a woman who holds his life in her hands! Here is what the imbecile wrote me only a week ago. Read, and say if it 's not enough to give him to the embraces of the Guillotine?"

The paper she thrust at Hebert came from her bosom, and when he had read it his dull eyes glittered.

"'The King's death a crime--perhaps time not ripe for a Republic.' Therese, you 're worth your weight in gold. I don't think Edmond Clery will write you any more love-letters."

Therese drew gloomily away.

"And the girl?" she asked, with a shiver.

"That, my dear, was to depend on what you could find out about her," Hebert reminded her.

His own fury had subsided, and he threw himself into a chair. Therese made an abrupt movement.

"There is nothing more to find out. I have it all."

"You 've been long enough getting it," said Hebert, sitting up.

"Well, I have it now, and I told you all along that Rosalie was more obstinate than a mule. She has been in one of her silent moods; she would go to all the executions, and then, instead of being a pleasant companion, there she would sit quite mum, or muttering to herself. Yesterday, however, she seemed excited. There was a large batch told off, three women amongst them, and one of them shrieked when Sanson took her kerchief off. That seemed to wake Rosalie up. She got quite red, and began to talk as if she had a fever."

"It is one you have caught from her, then," said Hebert impatiently. "The news, my girl, the news! What do I care for your cousin and her tantrums?"

Therese looked dangerous.

"Am I your cat's-paw, Hebert?" she said. "Pah! do your own dirty work--you 'll get no more from me."

Hebert cursed his impatience--fool that he was not to remember Therese's temper!

He forced an ugly smile.

"Oh, well, as you please," he said. "Let the girl go. There are other fish in the sea. Best let Clery go too, and then they can make a match of it, unless she should prefer Dangeau."

His intent eyes saw the girl's face change at that. "A thousand devils!" she burst out. "Why do you plague me, Hebert? Be civil and play fair, and you 'll get what you want."

"Come, come, Therese," he said soothingly. "We both want the same thing--to teach a stuck-up baggage of an aristocrat a lesson. Let's be friends again, and give me the news. Is it any good?"

"Good enough," said Therese, with a sulky look,--"good enough to take her out of my way, if I say the word. Why, she 's a cousin of the ci-devant Montargis, who got so prettily served on the third of September."

"What?" exclaimed Hebert.

"Ah! you never guessed that, and you 'd never have got it out of Rosalie; for she 's as close as the devil, and I believe has a sneaking fondness for the girl."

"The Montargis!" repeated Hebert, rubbing his hands, slowly. This was better than he expected. No wonder the girl went in terror! He had heard the Paris mob howl for the blood of the Austrian spy, and he knew that a word now would seal her fate.

"Her name?" he demanded.

"Rochambeau--Aline de Rochambeau. She only clipped the tail off, you see, and with a taste that way, she should have no objection to a head clipping--eh, my friend?" said Therese, with a short laugh.

Hebert went off with his plans made ready to his hand. It pleased him to be able to ruin Clery, since Clery had crossed his path; and besides, it would terrify the girl, and annoy Dangeau, who had a liking for the boy. It was inconceivable that he should have been so imprudent as to trust a woman like Therese, but since he had been such a fool he must just pay for it with his head.

The truth was that Clery during his service at the Temple had been strangely impressed, like many another, by the bearing of the unfortunate Royal Family, and had conceived a young, whole-hearted adoration for the Queen, which did not, unfortunately for himself, interfere with his wholly mundane passion for Therese Marcel. In a moment of extraordinary imprudence he made the latter his confidante, never doubting that her love for himself would make her a perfectly safe one. Poor lad! he was to pay a heavy price for his trust.

On the day following Hebert's interview with Therese he was arrested, and after a short preliminary examination, which revealed to him her treachery and his dangerous position, he was lodged in the Abbaye.

His arrest made some little stir in his own small world. Therese herself brought the news of it to the rue des Lanternes. Her eyes were very bright and hard as she glanced round the shop, and she laughed louder than usual, as she threw out broad hints as to her own share in the matter, for she liked Rosalie to know her power.

"I think you are a devil, Therese," said the fat woman gloomily.

"So others have said," returned Therese, with a wicked smile.

Mlle de Rochambeau took the blow in deadly silence. Hope was dead in her heart, and she prayed earnestly that she alone might suffer, and not have the wretchedness of feeling she had drawn another into the net which was closing around her.

Hebert dallied yet a day or two, and then struck home. Aline was hurrying homewards, her ears strained for the step she had grown to expect, when all in a minute he was there by her side.

She turned on him with a sudden resolve.

"Citizen," she said earnestly, "why do you persecute me? What have I done to you--to any one? Surely by now you realise that this pursuit is useless?"

"The day that I realise that will be a bad day for you," said Hebert, with malignant emphasis.

The threat brought her head up, with one of those movements of mingled pride and grace which made him hate and covet her.

"I have done no wrong--what harm can you do me?" she said steadily.

"I have interest with the Revolutionary Tribunal--you may have heard of the arrest of our young friend Clery? Ah! I thought so,"--as her colour faded under his cruel gaze.

She shrank a little, but forced her voice to composure. "And does the Revolutionary Tribunal concern itself with the affairs of a poor girl who only asks to be allowed to earn her living honestly?"

Hebert smiled--a smile so wicked that she realised an impending blow, and on the instant it fell.

"It would concern itself with the affairs of Mlle de Rochambeau, cousin of the ci-devant Marquise de Montargis, who, if my memory serves me right, was arrested on a charge of treasonable correspondence with Austria, and who met a well-deserved fate at the hands of an indignant people." He leaned closer as he spoke, and marked the instant stiffening of each muscle in the white face.

For a moment her heart had stopped. Then it raced on again at a deadly speed. She turned her head away that he might not see the terror in her eyes, and a keen wind met her full, clearing the faintness from her brain.

She walked on as steadily as she might, but the smooth voice was still at her ear.

"You are in danger. My friendship alone can save you. What do you hope for? The return of your lover Dangeau? I don't think I should count on that if I were you, my angel. Once upon a time there was a young man of the name of Clery--Edmond Clery to be quite correct--yes, I see you know the story. No, I don't think your Dangeau will be of any assistance to you when I denounce you, and denounce you I most certainly shall, unless you ask me not to, prettily, with your arms round my neck, shall we say--eh, Citoyenne Marie?"

As he spoke there was a rumble of wheels, and a rough cart came round the corner towards them. He touched her arm, and she looked up mechanically, to see that it held from eight to ten persons, all pinioned, and through her own dull misery she was aware of pity stirring at her heart, for these were prisoners on their way to the Place de la Revolution.

One was an old man, very white and thin, his scanty hair straggling above a stained, uncared-for coat, his misty blue eyes looking out at the world with the unseeing stare of the blind or dying. Beside him leaned a youth of about fifteen, whose laboured breath spoke of the effort by which he preserved an appearance of calm. Beyond them was a woman, very handsome and upright. Her hair, just cut, floated in short, ragged wisps about her pale, set face. Her lips moved constantly, her eyes looked down. Hebert laughed and pointed as the cart went by.

"That is where you 'll be if I give the word," he whispered. "Choose, then--a place there, or a place here,"--and he made as if to encircle her with his arm,--"choose, ma mie."

Aline closed her eyes. All her young life ran hotly in her veins, but the force of its recoil from the man beside her was stronger than the force of its recoil from death.

"The Citizen insults me when he assumes there is a choice," she said, with cold lips.

"The prison is so attractive then? The embraces of the Guillotine so preferable to mine--hein?"

"The Citizen has expressed my views."

Hebert cursed and flung away, but as she moved on he was by her side again.

"After all," he said, "you may change your mind again. Until to-morrow, I can save you."

"Citizen, I shall never change my mind. There is no choice; it is simply that."

An inexorable decision looked from her face, and carried conviction even to him.

"One cannot save imbeciles," he muttered as he left her.

Mademoiselle walked home with an odd sense of relief. Now that the first shock was over, and the danger so long anticipated was actually upon her, she was calm. At least Hebert would be gone from her life. Death was clean and final; there would be no dishonour, no soiling of her ears by that sensual voice, nor of her eyes by those evil glances.

She knelt and prayed for a while, and sat down to her work with hands that moved as skilfully as before.

That night she slept more peacefully than she had done for weeks. In her dreams she walked along a green and leafy lane, birds sang, and the sky burned blue in the rising sun. She walked, and breathed blissful air, and was happy.

Out of such dreams one awakes with a sense of the unreality of everyday life. Some of the glamour clings about us, and we see a mirage of happiness instead of the sands of the Desert of Desolation. Is it only mirage, or some sense sealed, except at rarest intervals?--a sense before whose awakened exercise the veil wears thin, and from behind we catch the voices of the withdrawn, we feel the presence of peace, and garner a little of the light of Eternity to shed a glow on Time.

Aline woke happily to a soft May dawn. Her dream lay warm against her heart and cherished it.

In the evening she was arrested and taken to the prison of the Abbaye.