Part 27 (1/2)

”Do not misunderstand me,” he cried, as he stood erect over her. ”If you would have Ombreval saved and sent out of France you must become my wife.”

”Your wife?” she echoed, pausing in her weeping, and for a moment an odd happiness seemed to fill her. But as suddenly as it had arisen did she stifle it. Was she not the n.o.ble daughter of the n.o.ble Marquis de Bellecour and was not this a lowly born member of a rabble government?

There could be no such mating. A shudder ran through her. ”I cannot, Monsieur, I cannot!” she sobbed.

He looked at her a moment with a glance that was almost of surprise, then, with a slight compression of the lips and the faintest raising of the shoulders, he turned from her and strode over to the window. There was a considerable concourse of people on their way to the Place de la Republique, for the hour of the tumbrils was at hand.

A half-dozen of those uns.e.xed viragos produced by the Revolution, in filthy garments, red bonnets and streaming hair, were marching by to the raucous chorus of the ”Ca ira!”

He turned from the sight in disgust, and again faced his visitor.

”Citoyenne,” he said, in a composed voice, ”I am afraid that your journey has been in vain.”

She rose now from her knees, and advanced towards him.

”Monsieur, you will not be so cruel as to send me away empty-handed?”

she cried, scarce knowing what she was saying.

But he looked at her gravely, and without any sign of melting.

”On what,” he asked, ”do you base any claim upon me?”

”On what?” she echoed, and her glance was troubled with perplexity. Then of a sudden it cleared. ”On the love that you have confessed for me,”

she cried.

He laughed a short laugh-half amazement, half scorn.

”Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, tossing his arms to Heaven, ”a fine claim that, as I live; a fine argument by which to induce me to place another man in your arms. I am to do it because I love you!”

They gazed at each other now, she with a glance of strained anxiety, he with the same look of half-contemptuous wonder. And then a creaking rumble from below attracted his attention, and he looked round. He moved forward and threw the window wide, letting in with the March air an odd medley of sounds to which the rolling of drums afforded a most congruous accompaniment.

”Look, Citoyenne,” he said, and he pointed out the first tumbril, which was coming round the corner of the Rue St. Honore.

She approached with some shrinking begotten by a suspicion of what she was desired to see.

In the street below, among a vociferating crowd of all sorts and conditions, the black death-cart moved on its way to the guillotine.

It was preceded by a company of National Guards, and followed by the drummers and another company on foot. Within the fatal vehicle travelled three men and two women, accompanied by a const.i.tutional priest--one of those renegades who had taken the oath imposed by the Convention. The two women sat motionless, more like statues than living beings, their faces livid and horribly expressionless, so numbed were their intelligences by fear. Of the men, one stood calm and dignified, another knelt at his prayers, and was subject, therefore, to the greater portion of the gibes the mob was offering these poor victims; the third, a very elegant gentleman in a green coat and buckskin breeches, leant nonchalantly upon the rail of the tumbril and exchanged gibes with the people. All five of them were in the prime of life, and, by their toilettes and the air that clung to them, belonged unmistakably to the n.o.blesse.

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 n.o.bility, and their blood, unjustly and wantonly shed, has saturated the soil until from that seed has sprung this overwhelming retribution.