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<H2><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+3" FACE="Apple Chancery"><IMG SRC="../images/top.gif"
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A Child of the Revolution<BR>
</FONT><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery">by Baroness Orczy<BR>
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<H4><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">Many enormous
thanks to Adrea (<A HREF="mailto:adrea1983@aol.com">Adrea1983@aol.com</A>)
for the production of this e-text! We are forever in your debt.<BR>
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<H4><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book
One<BR>
</FONT><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp1.html">Chp
1</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp2.html">Chp
2</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp3.html">Chp
3</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp4.html">Chp
4</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp5.html">Chp
5</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp6.html">Chp
6</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp7.html">Chp
7</A></FONT></CENTER></H4>

<H4><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book
Two<BR>
</FONT><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp8.html">Chp
8 </A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp9.html">Chp
9</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp10.html">Chp
10</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp11.html">Chp
11</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp12.html">Chp
12</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp13.html">Chp
13</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp14.html">Chp
14</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp15.html">Chp
15</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp16.html">Chp
16</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp17.html">Chp
17</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp18.html">Chp
18</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp19.html">Chp
19</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp20.html">Chp
20</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp21.html">Chp
21</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp22.html">Chp
22</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp23.html">Chp
23</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp24.html">Chp
24</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp25.html">Chp
25</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp26.html">Chp
26</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp27.html">Chp
27</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp28.html">Chp
28</A></FONT></CENTER></H4>

<H4><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book
Three<BR>
</FONT><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp29.html">Chp
29</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp30.html">Chp
30</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp31.html">Chp
31</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp32.html">Chp
32</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp33.html">Chp
33</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp34.html">Chp
34</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp35.html">Chp
35</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp36.html">Chp
36</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp37.html">Chp
37</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp38.html">Chp
38</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp39.html">Chp
39</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp40.html">Chp
40</A></FONT></CENTER></H4>

<H4><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book
Four<BR>
</FONT><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp41.html">Chp
41</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp42.html">Chp
42</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="crchp43.html">Chp
43</A></FONT></CENTER></H4>

<H4><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><IMG SRC="../images/fancybordersm.GIF"
WIDTH="133" HEIGHT="18" ALIGN="BOTTOM" BORDER="0" NATURALSIZEFLAG="3"><BR>
</FONT><FONT COLOR="#000000" SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Sink
me!</FONT><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"> <!-- Begin Beseen Hit counter --><IMG 
SRC="http://pluto.beseen.com/hit.counter?account=shgumby@aol.com-ChildofRevolution&font=TealOnWhite&base=1"
BORDER="0" ALIGN="BOTTOM"> <!-- End Beseen Hit counter --></FONT><FONT
 COLOR="#000000" SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">but lucky people
have read this story!</FONT></CENTER></H4>

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TARGET="_top"><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><IMG SRC="../images/return.gif"
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<FONT COLOR="#000000" SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">Hosted by</FONT><FONT
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<P><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" FACE="Apple Chancery">&copy;Blakeney
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><IMG SRC="../images/top.gif" WIDTH="299"
HEIGHT="79" ALIGN="BOTTOM" BORDER="0" NATURALSIZEFLAG="3"><BR>
A Child of the Revolution</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1">This is the story which Sir Percy Blakeney,
Bart., told to His Royal highness that evening in the Assembly
Rooms at Bath.</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The talk was of the recent events in France, the astounding fall
of Robespierre: the change in the whole aspect of the unfortunate
country: and His Royal Highness expressed his opinion that among
all those men who had made and fostered the Revolution, there
was not one who was anything but a scoundrel, a reprobate, a murderer,
and worker of iniquity.</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Sir Percy then remarked: &quot;I would not say that, sir. I have
known men-&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You, Blakeney?&quot; His Royal Highness broke in, with an
incredulous laugh.</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Even I, sir. May I tell you of one, at least, whose career
I happened to follow with great interest?&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And that is how the story came to be told.</FONT></I></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

<P><CENTER><B><I><FONT SIZE="+1">Book I:<BR>
Chapter I:</FONT></I></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I></B><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In Heaven's name, what has
happened to the child?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This exclaimed Marianne Vallon when, turning from her wash-tub,
she suddenly caught sight of Andr&eacute; at the narrow garden
gate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;In Heaven's name!&quot; she reiterated, but only to herself,
for Marianne was not one to give vent to her feelings before anyone,
not even before her own son.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She raised her apron and wiped her large, ruddy face first and
then her big, capable hands, all dripping with soapsuds; after
which she stumped across the yard to the gate: her sabots clacked
loudly against the stones, for Marianne Vallon was a good weight
and a fair bulk; her footsteps were heavy, and her movements slow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
No wonder that the good soul was, inwardly, invoking the name
of Heaven, for never in all his turbulent life had Andr&eacute;
come home looking such a terrible object. His shirt and his breeches
were hanging in strips; his feet, his legs, the whole of his body,
and even his face, were plastered with mud and blood. Yes, blood!
Right across his forehead, just missing his right eye, fortunately,
there was a deep gash from which the blood was still oozing and
dripping down his nose. His lip was cut and his mouth swollen
out of all recognition.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;In Heaven's name!&quot; she reiterated once more, and aloud
this time, &quot;thou little good-for-nothing, what mischief hast
thou been in in now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marianne waited for no explanation; obviously the boy was not
in a fit state to give her any. She just seized him by the wrist
and dragged him to her washtub. It was not much Marianne Vallon
knew of nursing or dressing of wounds, but her instinct of cleanliness
probably saved Andr&eacute; life this day, as it had done many
a time before. Despite his protests, she stripped him to the skin;
then she started scrubbing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Soap and water stung horribly, and Andr&eacute; yelled as much
with impatience as with pain; he fought like a young demon, but
his mother, puffing like a fat pug dog, imperturbable and energetic,
scrubbed away until she was satisfied that no mud or dirt threatened
the festering of wounds. She ended by holding the tousled young
head under the pump, swilling it and the lithe, muscular body
down with plenty of cold water.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Now dry thyself over there in the sun,&quot; she commanded
finally, satisfied that in his present state of dripping nudity
he couldn't very well get into mischief again. Then, apparently
quite unruffled by the incident, she went back to her washtub.
This sort of thing happened often enough; sometimes with less,
once or twice with even more disastrous results. Marianne Vallon
never asked questions, knowing well enough that the boy would
blurt out the whole story all in good time: she didn't even glance
round at him as he law stretched out full length, arms and legs
outspread, as perfect a specimen of the young male as had ever
stirred a mother's pride, the warm July sun baking his skin to
a deeper shade of brown and glinting on the ruddy gold of the
curls which clustered above his forehead and all around his ears.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What a beautiful boy!&quot; strangers had been heard to
exclaim when they happened to pass down the road and caught sight
of Andr&eacute; Vallon bending to some hard task in garden or
field.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What a beautiful boy!&quot; more than one mother in the
village had sighed before now, half in tenderness, half in envy.
And &quot;Andr&eacute; Vallon is so handsome!&quot; tall girls
not yet out of their teens would whisper, giggling, to one another.
If Marianne Vallon's heart swelled with pride when she overheard
some of this praise, she never showed it. No one really knew what
went on behind that large red face of hers, which some wag in
the village had once compared to a bladder of lard. People called
her hard and unfeeling because she was not wont to indulge in
those <I>&quot;Mon Dieu!&quot;'</I>s and <I>&quot;Sainte Vierge!&quot;'</I>s
when she passed the time of day with her neighbours, or in any
of the <I>&quot;Mon chou&quot;</I>'s and <I>&quot;Mon pigeon&quot;</I>'s
when she spoke to her Andr&eacute;.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She just went about her business in and around her cottage, or
at the ch&acirc;teau when she wanted up there to do the washing,
uncomplaining, untiring, making the most of the meagre pittance
which was all that was left to her now of a once substantial fortune.
Her husband had died a comparatively rich man - measured by village
standards, of course. He had left his widow a roomy cottage, with
its bit of garden and a few hectares of land whereon she could
plant her cabbages, cultivate her vines, keep a few chickens and
graze a cow. But, bit by bit, the land had to be sold in order
to meet the ever growing burden of taxes, of seignorial dues,
to be paid by those who had so little to others who seemed to
have so much, of tithes and rents and rights, all falling on the
shoulders of the poor toilers of the land, while the seigneurs
were exempt from all taxation. Then came two lean years - drought
lasting seven months in each case, resulting in a total failure
of the crops and poor quality of the wine. Andr&eacute; was ten
when the last piece of land was sold, which his father had acquired
and his mother tended with the sweat of her brow; he was twelve
when first he saw his mother stooping over her own washtub. Hitherto,
Annette from down the village had come daily to do the rough work
of the household; then one day she didn't come. Andr&eacute; took
no notice. It was nothing to him that at dinner-time it was his
mother who brought in the soup tureen, that it was she who carried
away the plates and the knives, and that she disappeared into
the kitchen after dinner instead of sitting in the old wing chair
sipping her glass of wine, the one luxury she had indulged in
of late. Annette or <I>Maman</I>, what cared he who brought him
his dinner? He was just a child.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But when he saw his mother at the washtub with a huge coarse apron
round her portly person, her sleeves tucked up above those powerful
arms, the weight of which he had so often felt on the rear part
of his person when he had been a naughty boy, then he began to
ask questions.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And Marianne told him. He was only twelve at the time, and she
did not mince matters. The sooner he knew, the better. The sooner
he spared her those direct questions and those inquiring looks
out of his great dark eyes, the sooner, she thought, would he
become a fine man. So she told him that the patrimony which his
father had left in trust for him had all dwindled away, bit by
bit, because the tax collector's visits were getting more and
more frequent, the sums demanded more and more beyond her capacity
to pay. There were the imposts due to the seigneur, and the tallage
levied by the King; there were the rates due to the commune, and
the tithes due to the Church.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Pay! Pay! Pay! It was that all the time. And two years' drought,
during which the small revenues from the diminished land had shrunk
only two palpably. Pay! Pay! Pay! And there were the seignorial
rights. No corn or wine or live stock allowed to be sold in the
market until Monseigneur's wine and corn and live stock, which
he wished to sell, had all been disposed of. No wine press or
mill to be used, except those set up by Monseigneur and administered
by his bailiffs, who charged usurious prices for their use. Pay!
Pay! Pay! It was best that Andr&eacute; should know. He was twelve
- almost a man. It was time that he knew.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And Andr&eacute; had listened while <I>Maman</I> talked on that
cold December afternoon three years ago, when the fire no longer
blazed in the wide-open hearth because wood was scarce and no
one was allowed to purchase any until Monseigneur's requirements
were satisfied. Andr&eacute; had listened, with those great inquiring
eyes fixed upon his mother, his fingers buried in the forest of
his chestnut curls, and his brows closely knit in the great endeavour
to take it all in. He wanted to understand; to understand poverty
as his mother explained it to him: the want of flour with which
to make bread, the want of wood wherewith to make a fire, even
the want of a bit of thread or a needle, simple tools with which
his breeches and shirts - which were forever torn - could, as
heretofore, be mended.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Poor? Yes, he was beginning to understand that he and <I>Maman</I>
were now poor as Annette and her father down in the village were
poor, so that Annette had to go and scrub floors in other people's
houses and wash other people's soiled linen so as to bring a few
sous home every day wherewith to buy salt and bread. Not that
this primitive idea of poverty worried the young brain overmuch.
It was not like a sudden descent from affluence to indigence.
It was some time now since his favourite dishes had been put upon
the table and since he had last wore a pair of shoes. The descent
into the present slough of want had been very gradual, and, childlike,
he had not noticed it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Nor did his mother's lengthened homily make a very deep impression
upon his mind. From a race of children of the soil he had inherited
a sound measure of philosophy and a passionate love of the countryside.
While he could run about in the meadows, or watch the rabbits
at evening scurrying away across the fields, while he could pick
black berries in the hedgerows and gather the windfalls in the
neighbouring orchards, while he could scramble up the old walnut
trees and furtively touch the warm smooth eggs in the nests among
the branches, he was perfectly happy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
What he didn't like was when Marianne set him to do the tasks
which used to devolved on Annette. He didn't like scrubbing the
kitchen floor, and he hated wringing out the linen and hanging
it up to dry. But it never as much entered his dead to disobey.
Mother was not one of those whom anyone had ever though of disobeying,
Andr&eacute; least of all. She was large and fat and comfortable,
and - especially in the olden days - she loved a good joke and
would laugh heartily till the tears rolled down her fat cheeks,
but she knew how to use the flat of her hand, as Andr&eacute;
had often learned to his cost. She was not one of those who believed
in sparing the rod, and many a time had Andr&eacute; gone to sleep
on his narrow plank bed lying on his side because it hurt him
to lie on his back.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But the fear of his mother's heavy hand did not really keep him
out of mischief. As he grew older the desire for mischief grew
up with him. A vague sense of injustice would, moreover, inflame
that desire until it led him to acts which caused not only Mother's
hand to descend upon him, but, also, of a certain hard stick,
which was very painful indeed. That time when he chased Lucile
Godart, the miller's daughter, all down the road and then kissed
her in sigh of Hector Talon, her fianc&eacute;, who was short,
fat, and bandy-legged, and was too slow in his movements to come
to her rescue, was a memorable occasion, for, though Hector had
not felt sufficiently valiant to administer punishment to the
young rascal, godar, the miller, had no such qualms. And Andr&eacute;
got his punishment twice over, Mother's being by far the more
severe. But he said that it was worth it. To kiss a girl, he declared,
when she is placid and willing was well enough, but when she was
a little spitfire like Lucile and fought and scratched like a
wildcat, then to hold her down, kiss her throat and shoulder and,
finally, her mouth, that was as great a lark as ever came a man's
way - and well worth a whipping, or even two. What Lucile thought
about it he neither knew nor cared.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter II:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">The incident with Lucile Godart had
occurred two years ago. Andr&eacute; was thirteen then, and already
the girls were wont to blush when their eyes met his, so dark
and bold.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Since the Lucile had married her Hector, who was now an assistant
bailiff on Monseigneur's estate and lived with his young wife
in a stone house on the edge of the wood. At the side of the house
there was a field, which at eventide was alive with rabbits. That
field exercised an irresistible fascination over Andr&eacute;
Vallon. He would cower behind the hedge and for hours watch the
little cottontails bobbing in and out of the scrub. more than
once he had been warned off by Hector Talon; once he had actually
been caught unawares and driven off with some hard kicks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But to-day a tragedy had occurred.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Lying on his back at this moment on the hard stones not far from
his mother's washtub, and in the state in which God first made
him, he was perhaps wondering whether in this instance the game
was going to be worth the candle. He was too old now to get a
whipping from Mother, and he did not think that what he had done
was punishable by law. Still, Hector Talon was a spiteful beast,
and Lucile... Well, the little she-devil would get her deserts
one day, on the faith of Andr&eacute; Vallon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
While the hot July sun was baking his skin and staunching the
blood of his wounds, his brain was working away on the possible
consequences of to-day's adventure. He wondered what his mother
thought about it. For the moment she appeared to be immersed,
both with hands and with mind, in her washtub. Her broad back
was turned towards him, and Andr&eacute; thought that it looked
uncompromising. Still, Mother would have to know sooner or later,
so better now, perhaps, while she was busy with other things.
And before he knew that he had begun to think aloud, words were
pouring out of him a kind of passionate outburst of resentment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Rabbits! Rabbits!... Why! there are thousands and thousands
of them in that field,&quot; he went on with childish sense of
exaggeration. &quot;M. Talon himself is obliged to put fencing
round his kitchen garden to keep them away. And I didn't put up
any snare or trap - I swear I didn't. There was nobody about,
and I just got over the fence to see.... Well, I don't know. I
just did get over the fence, and there in the long grass was the
tiniest wee rabbitkins you ever saw! He was all crouching together
till he looked like a ball of brown fur, and his round eyes were
wide open, looking - I suppose he was horribly frightened - so
frightened that he couldn't move. Anyway, I just stooped to pick
him up. The house was all quiet, there didn't seem to be any one
at home, and that brute of a dog of theirs was on the chain.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; paused a moment; his hand had gone mechanically up
to his forehead, to his lips, his shoulder, all of which were
smartin horribly. Perhaps, he thought, it was time Mother said
something, but she just went on with her washing, and all that
Andr&eacute; saw of her was that large, uncompromising back.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;How could I guess?&quot; the boy went on; and suddenly he
sat up, his brown arms encircling his knees, his chest striped
with the red of the blood oozing from his shoulder. &quot;How
could I guess that that little vixen Lucile was spying from the
window? I had got the young beggar by the ears, and I remember
just thinking at the moment what luscious strew he was going to
make. Of course, I had no intention of putting him down again,
and I was trying to tuck him out of sight inside my shirt. And
then, all of a sudden, I heard Lucile's voice calling to that
dog of hers: 'Hue! C&eacute;sar! hue!' What a devil! My god! what
a devil! That great brute C&eacute;sar! He was on me before I
could drop the rabbit and take to my heels. He was on me and got
me on the shoulder. Then I did drop the rabbit, and it scooted
away. I wanted both my hands to defend myself. I knew it would
be no use trying to run, and C&eacute;sar would have had me by
the throat if I hadn't got him. And there was that little devil
Lucile, running down the field and shouting, 'Hue! hue!' all the
time.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; was warming to his story. He was fighting his battle
with C&eacute;sar over again. His nostrils quivered; perspiration
glistened on his forehead; his eyes, wide open and dilated, were
as dark as the blackberries in the hedgerows.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I got C&eacute;sar by the throat,&quot; he went on in a
shaky, hoarse voice, his words coming out jerkily, interspersed
with gasps that were half laughter and half tears. &quot;I squeezed
and I squeezed, and all the while his horrid hot breath made me
feel so sick that I thought I should have to let go. Once he got
me on the forehead, and once I felt his nasty slimy teeth right
inside my mouth. That gave me the strength to squeeze tighter,
for I thought that I didn't he would probably kill me. Then that
little devil Lucile began to laugh, and I could hear bits of words
that she said, 'That will teach you to insult honest girls. C&eacute;sar
also thinks it a lark to get a boy down a kiss him on the shoulder,
what? And on the mouth. Hue, C&eacute;sar! hue!' Isn't she a troll,
Mother, a witch, a vixen, a she-devil, nursing vengeance like
this for two years - or is it three? - but I'll kiss her again.
I will! And what's more, I will...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Once more Andr&eacute; paused. His mother's broad back was still
turned towards him, but she had turned her head, and through the
corner of her eye she was looking at him. That is why he did not
complete the sentence or put into words the ugly thought that
had taken root in his brain. He remained quite still and silent
for a moment or two, then he said abruptly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I never let go of C&eacute;sar's throat till I had squeezed
the life out of him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But at this bald statement of fact, Marianne Vallon's outward
placidity gave way. <I>&quot;J&eacute;sus! Mon Dieu!&quot;</I>
she exclaimed, and faced that naked young daredevil with horror
and anxiety distorting her squab features. &quot;Not content with
poaching in M. Talon's field, thou hast killed his dog?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;He would have killed me else. Would'st rather C&eacute;sar
had killed me, Mother?&quot; Andr&eacute; retorted with an indifferent
shrug of his lean shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Don't be a fool, Andr&eacute;!&quot; Marianne Vallon went
on once more, in her usual placid way. &quot;M. Talon - dost not
know it? - has only to go before the magistrate and denounce thee-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Well, they can't hang me for killing a dog in self-defense,
and I didn't poach the rabbit.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;No, but they can...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It was the mother's turn to leave the phrase incomplete which
involuntarily had come to her lips. Just like Andr&eacute; a moment
ago, she did not wish to put into words the thoughts that had
come tumbling into her brain and were filling her heart with the
foreknowledge of a calamity which she knew she could not avert.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
If she could she would have packed Andr&eacute; off somewhere,
to friends, relations, anywhere; away from the spite of Talon,
who already had a grudge against the child and who would feel
doubly vindictive now. But when Marianne Vallon first fell on
evil days she lost touch with her former friends or relations,
who, in their turn, were content to forget her. Andr&eacute; must
stop at home and face the calamity like a man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It came soon enough.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon, who was a man of consideration in the commune, laud a complaint
before M. le Substitut against Andr&eacute; Vallon for poaching
and savage assault on a valuable dog, resulting in the latter's
death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute;, in consideration of his youth - he was only fifteen
- was condemned to be publicly whipped. M. le Substitut told him
that he could consider himself most fortunate in being let off
with so mild a punishment.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter III:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">A blind unreasoning rage, an irresistible
thirst for revenge; a black hatred of all those placed in authority;
of all those who were rich, or independent, or influential, filled
Andr&eacute; Vallon's young soul to the exclusion of every other
thought and every other aspiration.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He was only fifteen, and in his mind he measured the long years
that lay before him in which he could find the means, the power,
to be even with those who had inflicted that overwhelming shame
upon him. It was not the blows he minded.... Heavens above! that
lithe, young body of his was inured to every kind of hardship,
to every kind of pain. It was not the blows, it was the shame.
Talon, who was influential and who was egged on by his wife, had
prevailed upon the magistrate to make an order that all the inhabitants
of the commune who were not engaged in work were to be present
in the market place to see justice done on the young reprobate.
And these were still the days when no one dared go against an
order, however absurd and however unjust, framed by M. le Substitut
du Procureeur G&eacute;n&eacute;ral.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Monseigneur also came in his coach and brought friends to see
the spectacle. There were two ladies among them who put up their
lorgnettes and stared at the straight, sinewy young body, so like
a statue of the Hermes with its slender, perfectly modelled limbs
and narrow hips, and its broad shoulders and wide chest, smooth
and dark as if cast in bronze.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But the boy is an Adonis!&quot; one of the ladies exclaimed
in ecstasy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
<I>&quot;Quelle horreur!&quot;</I> she exclaimed a moment later
when the stripes fell thick and fast on the smooth back she had
admired. The days were not yet very far distant when ladies of
high degree would crowed on balconies and windows to watch the
execution of conspirators who perhaps had been their friends before
then.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But for Andr&eacute; Vallon, the bitter, humiliating shame!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
His mother was waiting for him when he got home. She had prepared
a little bit of hot supper for him, to which sympathisers in the
village had also contributed: things he liked - a little hot soup,
a baked potato, a bit of bread and salts. Andr&eacute; ate because
he was a young, healthy animal and was hungry, but he never said
a word. Silent and sullen, he sat and ate. Not a tear came to
those big dark eyes of his, in which there burned a fierce hatred
and an overpowering humiliation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marianne, of course, said nothing. It was never her way to talk.
She saw to it that Andr&eacute; had his supper, and when he had
finished she took him by the wrist and led him to his little room
at the back. She undressed him and washed and dried his poor aching
young body; then she wrapped him up in one of her wide gingham
skirts which had become soft as silk after many washings, and
laid him down on his narrow plank bed with his head resting on
an old coat of his father's, which had survived the dispersal
of most of the household goods. Before she had finished tucking
him up in her wool shawl he was asleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She watched for a moment or two the beautiful young face, with
the blue-veined lids veiling in sleep the sullen, glowering look
of the eyes; stooped and softly touched the moist forehead with
her lips. Two heavy tears found their way down her furrowed cheeks;
a heavy sigh came though the firm obstinate lips, and slowly she
came down on her knees. With clasped hands flung across the bed,
she remained kneeling there for some time, praying for guidance,
for strength to fight a brave fight with this turbulent young
soul, and for power to guide it in the path of rectitude.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This was the year of grace 1782, and Marianne Vallon, in common
with many men and women in the land these days, was not blind
to the tempest which already was gathering force in every corner
of France, framed by the ardour of young enthusiasts with a grievance
like her Andr&eacute;, or by the greed of profligate agitators,
soon to burst in all its fury, sweeping before it all the old
traditions, the old beliefs, the old righteousness of this country
and its people, and inflicting wounds that it would take centuries
to heal.</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter IV:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	M. le Cur&eacute; de Val-le-Roi, in
the province of Burgundy, where they make such excellent wine,
was a kindly and worthy man. He came of a good family - the Rosemondes
of Ni&egrave;vre, and though his intelligence was perhaps not
of the highest order, his piety was sincere and his human understanding
very real.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	On the tragic day of Andr&eacute; Vallon's public punishment
he stood beside the whipping post the whole time that Marius Legendre
- the local butcher employed by the Commune to administer punishment
to juvenile offenders - was lamming into the boy. Andr&eacute;,
with teeth set and eyes resolutely closed, appeared not to hear
the Cur&eacute;'s gentle words, exhorting him to patience and
humility.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Patience and humility, forsooth! Never was there a vainer exhortation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was only when it was all over and he was freed from the post
that Andr&eacute; opened his eyes and cast a glowering, rankling
look around the market square. Legendre had thrown down the whip
and was handing the lad his shirt and coat. Andr&eacute; snatched
them out of his hand, and Legendre - a worthy man, not unkind
- smiled indulgently. The two gendarmes stood at attention, waiting
for orders, their faces wooden and impassive. Part of the crowd
had already dispersed: the men silent and sullen, the women sniffing
audibly. The younger ones - girls and boys - muttered words of
pity or of wrath. Monseigneur was standing beside the door of
his coach, helping the ladies to step back into the carriage.
one of them - the one with the largnette - cast a final backward
glance at Andr&eacute;; then piped in a high-pitched, flutelike
voice:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;See, my dear Charles, so would a fallen angel have looked
had the Almighty punished the rebels with thongs.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	A man in the forefront of the crowd, close to Monseignuer's coach,
laughed obsequiously at the sally. Andr&eacute; saw him. It was
Talon. Lucile stood beside her husband. When she met Andr&eacute;'s
glance, she, too, gave a laugh, but quickly turned her head away.
Then only did a groan rise from the boy's breast. It was a groan
of an overwhelming, impotent rage. His breath came whistling through
his teeth. He made a movement like a wild beast about to spring,
but instinctively the gendarmes had already placed each a hand
upon his shoulder and held him down. Andr&eacute; was weak after
the punishment, though he would not have admitted it even to himself;
but his knees shook under him, and he nearly collapsed under the
heavy hands of the gendarmes. M. le Cur&eacute; murmured gentle
words. &quot;My son, remember that our Lord-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute; turned on him with a cry that was like a snarl.
&quot;Go away! Go away!&quot; he muttered hoarsely. &quot;I hate
you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But the Cur&eacute; did not go away. He stayed to help the lad
on with his shirt and coat; then, when Andr&eacute;, avoiding
the crowd, went staggering round a back street and then down the
lane towards his mother's cottage, the kindly old priest followed
him at a short distance, ready to render assistance should the
boy be seized with giddiness and collapse on the way. Only when
he saw Marianne standing at the narrow garden gate waiting for
her son did he went his way back to his presbytery. Contrary to
his usual habit, he did not take his breviary out of his pocket
or murmur orisons while he walked. With his soutane hitched up
around his waist, he strode along, obviously buried in thought,
for now and again he would shake his head and then nod, as if
in secret communion with himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The results of M. le Cur&eacute;'s agitation were, firstly, a
lengthy interview with Monseigneur, and secondly a summons to
Marianne Vallon to bring her son Andr&eacute; up to the ch&acirc;teau.
Monseigneur desired to see him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute;, of course, refused to go. &quot;I hate him!&quot;
he declared when M. le Cur&eacute; came to announce what he thought
was great news for Marianne and the boy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Monseigneur,&quot; the priest had explained, &quot;was
interested. He is always so kind and so gracious, but when I spoke
to him of Andr&eacute; he was pleased to be genial, facetious;
he toyed, as one might say, with the idea of doing something for
the boy. Then there were the ladies. Madame la Marquise d'Epinay
put in a word here and there, so charming she was, so sprightly.
She spoke of Andr&eacute; as the bronze Hermes, and though the
latter we know is nothing but a heathen god, and I would not care
to think that our Andr&eacute; had any likeness to such idolatrous
things, I could not have it in my heart to reprove the witty lady,
especially as Monseigneur appeared more and more diverted. Then
Mademoiselle Aurore came in - such a pretty child - her governess
was with her, and I gathered at once she knew something about
our Andr&eacute; - domestics will talk, you know, my good Marianne
- and Mademoiselle was even more interested than Monseigneur.
She put her little hands together and begged and begged of her
father that Andr&eacute; might come up to the ch&acirc;teau, as
she desired to see him. And Monseigneur, who since the death of
Madame la Duchesse gives in to all the child's whims, gave me
permission to bring our Andr&eacute; to him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The good Cur&eacute; spoke thus lenghily and uninterruptedly,
for Marianne, absorbed in her knitting, said never a word: she
was never much of a talker, and Andr&eacute; only glowered and
muttered unintelligible words between his teeth. There was perhaps
something a little unctuous, a little complacent in M. le Cur&eacute;'s
verbiage. He was not forgetting that besides being the incumbent
of this poor little village, he was also by birth a Rosemonde
de Ni&egrave;vre, and that by tradition and upbringing he belonged
to the same caste as Monseigneur le Duc de Marigny de Borne, whose
gracious sympathy in facour of &quot;our Andr&eacute;&quot; he
had been fortunate enough to arouse.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I hate him! I will not go!&quot; was all that could be
got out of Andr&eacute; that day. &quot;You can drag me to that
accursed ch&acirc;teau,&quot; he went on sullenly, &quot;as you
did to the whipping post, but willingly I will not go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;But, my dear child,&quot; the Cur&eacute; protested, &quot;Monseigneur
said-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Whatever he said,&quot; the boy broke in with a snarl,
like an animal that is being teased, &quot;may his words choke
him! - I hate him!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You are overwrought and agitated, my boy,&quot; the priest
said placing his well manicured podgy white hand on Andr&eacute;'s
shoulder, who promptly shook it off. &quot;When the good God and
your dear patron saint have prevailed over your rebellious spirit,
you will realize how much Monseigneur's kindness and Mademoiselle
Aurore's intercession-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Don't speak to me of those women up at the ch&acirc;teau,&quot;
Andr&eacute; cried hoarsely, &quot;or I shall see red!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Marianne Vallon at this point put down her knitting. She knew
well enough that to carry on the discussion any further to-day
would only drive the boy to exasperation. All that he had gone
through in the past few days had, in a way, made a man of him,
but a man with all a child's unreasoning resentment at what he
deemed an injustice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	M. le Cur&eacute; took the hint. With characteristic tact he
changed the subject of conversation, spoke to Marianne on village
matters - the washing of surplices which she had undertaken to
do for a small stipend, and finally took his leave, deliberately
ignoring Andr&eacute;'s ill manners and glowering looks. At the
door, however, he turned once more to where the boy sat, chin
cupped in his hand, staring dully into the gathering shadows.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Remember, my dear child,&quot; he said with gentle earnestness;
all his small, worldly ways drowned in a flood of genuine sympathy,
&quot;that your future does not belong entirely to yourself: your
sainted mother works her fingers to the bone so that you should
be clothed and fed. She performs menial tasks to which neither
by birth nor upbringing was she ever ordained. Think of her, my
lad, before you spurn the hand that can help you up the ladder
that may lead you to an honourable career and give you the chance
of repaying part of your debt to her.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Mother and son spoke little to each other during the rest of
the day. Marianne appeared more than usually busy with knitting
and sewing and spoke even less than was her wont. After sundown
Andr&eacute; went out from a tramp in woods and fields. Ever since
the fatal day he had made a point of wandering over the countryside
only after dark. He dreaded to meet familiar faces in the country
lanes, dreaded to see either compassion or ridicule in the glances
that would meet his.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	To-night his young soul was brimful with bitterness. Never before
had he felt such an all-embracing hatred for everything, and every
human being who had made possible the humiliation that had been
put upon him. Childlike, he wandered down the lane past the house
where lived talon and his wife, the prime authors of the whole
tragedy. He stood for a long time looking at the house. There
were lights in one or two of the window. The Talons were rich,
they could afford candles. They were people of consideration.
They got the ear of the Substitut and engineered his, Andr&eacute;'s,
lasting disgrace. He hated them - hated their house, their garden,
their flowers; he wished with all his might that some awful calamity
would overtake them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The fields around were bathed in moonlight; the air was fragrant
and warm; a gentle breeze fluttered the branches of the forest
trees, causing a gentle murmur to fill the night with its subtle
sound. The scent of hay and clover rose from the adjoining meadows,
and from the depths of the wood there came from to time the melancholy
call of a night bird or the crackling of trigs under tiny, furtive
feet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Only a very few days ago Andr&eacute; would have revelled in
all that: the little cottontails scurrying past, the bard-door
owl flying by with great flapping of wings; fantastically shaped
clouds veiling from time to time the face of the moon. All would
have delighted him, those few short days ago. Now he had eyes
only for that house of evil. he watched its windows till the lights
were extinguished one by one, and then wished once more with all
his might that hideous nightmares should disturb the sleep of
those whom he hated so bitterly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter V:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	When Andr&eacute; finally turned to
go home again, it was close on midnight. Coming in sight of the
cottage, he was surprised to see that, contrary to his mother's
rigid rules of economy, there was still a light in the parlour.
He pushed open the door and peeped in. Mother was sitting sewing
by the light of a tallow candle. She looked up as he came in and
gave him a welcoming smile. He thought she looked quite old, and
her eyes were circled with red, as if she had been crying. But
he pretended not to notice. Still, it was funny, her burning a
candle so late at night when candles were so dear. And why did
she look so tired and so old?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He asked no questions, however. Somehow he didn't feel as if
he could say anything just then. He knew that presently his mother
would come into his room to hear him say his prayers, to tuck
him up in the old wool shawl and give him a last good-night kiss.
Of late he had refused to say his prayers. <I>Le bon Dieu</I>,
he thought, only bothered Himself about rich and powerful people
- nobles, bishops, and such like - s what was the good of murmuring
prayers that were never listened to and asking for things that
were never granted? When Mother said her prayers as usual beside
his bed in spite of his obstinacy, he turned his head sullenly
away. He had even caught himself wishing that she would leave
him alone, once he was in bed: alone, nursing his thoughts of
future retribution on all those whom he hated so.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Strange that he never had the desire to talk to his mother about
all that went on in his mind these days. Strange, seeing that
hitherto he had always blurted out everything that troubled him,
poured into her patient ear the full stories of his peccadillos,
his adventures, anything and everything that passed through his
mind. But now Andr&eacute; had succeeded in persuading himself
that his mother would not understand his feelings. She was, he
thought, so patient and so devout that she would not sympathize
with a man - a man! - who had been so deeply injured as himself.
He felt that he had suddenly become a man - a man suffering an
infinite wrong; and that Mother was only a woman, weak under the
influence of priests and of their everlasting teachings of gentleness
and humility. Men couldn't be gentle these days. They had suffered
too long and too bitterly: crying wrongs, injustice that called
to heaven for vengeance - only that heaven wouldn't hear. Well,
if <I>le bon Dieu</I> wouldn't help the poor and the downtrodden
to defend themselves against injustice, then they would fight
on their own without help from anywhere.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Monseigneur and his sycophants! And those women with their perfumes
and their silk dresses and their lorgnettes and their high-pitched
voices! Andr&eacute; hoped to God that he would live long enough
to see them all eat the bread of humiliation as he himself had
been forced to do.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	At this point in his meditations Mother did come in. Andr&eacute;
did not hear her at first, for she had taken off her sabots and
was in her stockinged feet. It was only when she stood close beside
his bed that he turned his head and saw her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Of course, he felt sorry for her. Women were women, and therefore
weaker vessels, unable to take in the vast thoughts and projects
of men. But they were dear gentle creatures whose ministrations
were essential to the well-being of the stronger, more intellectual
sex. Therefore Andr&eacute; felt very kindly disposed towards
his mother just now: he would not have admitted for the world,
even to himself, that at sight of her dear old face, with its
furrowed cheeks and eyes to often stern, and yet always full of
love, a great yearning seized him to bury his head in her ample
bosom, to forget his manhood and be a child again. However, all
he said for the moment was: &quot;Not yet in bed, Mother? Isn't
it very late?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	To which she replied cheerily, &quot;It is, my cabbage, and fully
time you were asleep.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She then knelt down beside his bed. Andr&eacute; ought then to
have jumped out of bed and knelt beside her to say his prayers.
This had always been the rule every since he was old enough to
babble his &quot;Gentle Jesus, meek and mild...&quot; and clasp
his baby hands; even when he began to feel himself a man, he had
readily complied with the rule. But for days now, when Mother
knelt beside his bed and murmured, &quot;Our Father which art
in Heaven,&quot; he had turned his head stubbornly away, nor had
he looked at her till she had finished her prayers. To-night,
however, though he still felt wrathful and was too big a man to
get out of bed, he kept his head turned towards her so that he
could see her face. There was such a bright moon outside that
he could see her quite plainly: her found flat face, her thin
hair already streaked with gray, parted in the middle and fastened
in a small tight bun on the top of her head. Her eyes were closed
while she prayed with hands tightly clasped, her lips murmuring
softly, &quot;Forgive us our trespasses&quot;; then all at once
she raised her voice and said quite loudly, &quot;As we forgive
them that trespass against us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I won't! I won't!' Andr&eacute; broke in involuntarily.
&quot;I'll never forgive them, never!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But Marianne did not seem to hear. She finished her prayers and
then remained for a time on her knees, gazing on the beautiful
young face that meant all the world to her. Almost distorted now
with wrath and obstinacy, it was none the less beautiful; with
those large dark eyes that seemed forever to be inquiring, to
be groping after something unattainable. Marianne's large, capable
hand wandered lovingly over the hot, moist forehead and brushed
back the unruly curls which fell, rebellious, over the brow. Without
another word she pressed a kiss on the eyes, closed as she thought
in sleep, and on the mouth through which the young passionate
breath came in slow, measured cadence. Then she tiptoed out of
the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute; was not asleep. He had felt the kiss and tasted
the salt moisture of his mother's tears on his lips. For a long,
long while he remained lying on his back, with widely dilated
eyes staring into the darkness above him. Through the chinks in
the ill-fitting door he could perceive the feeble light of the
tallow candle which still burned in the adjoining room. He heard
the old church clock strike one, then the half hour then two.
The moon had gone, the tiny room wherein stood the boy's small
plank bed was in complete darkness, save for that dim streak of
light underneath the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	As noiselessly as he could Andr&eacute; rose and tiptoed across
the room. For a few seconds he listened, his ear glued to the
keyhole, but all that he could hear was an occasional sigh, and
once a sound like a broken sob. The door hung loosely on its hinges,
he pulled it open. His mother was still sitting sewing by the
feeble candlelight. Andr&eacute;, leaning against the door jamb,
stood mutely watching her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She seemed very busy and never looked up once in his direction.
She had a pair of breeches in her hands, had evidently been at
work on them. Now she fastened off the cotton, broke it off, put
down her needle. Andr&eacute; watched her. She did look old, and
there was a tear which had settled on the tip of her nose. She
wiped it off with her apron and then held the breeches up with
both hands to see if more darning was needed. Satisfied that they
were quite in order, she laid them down on the table, smoothed
them out with both hands, then folded them carefully and put them
to one side.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute; thoughts: &quot;Those are my breeches. She has tired
herself out mending them.&quot; And the words which M. le Cur&eacute;
had spoken earlier in the day came hammering into his brain: &quot;Remember,
my child, that your future does not belong entirely to yourself.
Your sainted mother works her fingers to the bone that you should
be clothed and fed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	That was true, for there she was, working for into the night,
mending his breeches, while he...</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Mother!&quot; he said abruptly. &quot;Do you wish me to
go up to the ch&acirc;teau and see those people?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She didn't give a start; obviously she knew that he was there.
She was standing now with one hand resting on the table and peering
over into the darkness to try and see him with her blinking, tired
eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Andr&eacute;! Why aren't you in bed?&quot; she asked. &quot;Go
back at once.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Mother!&quot; he insisted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Yes, Andr&eacute;?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Do you wish me to go to the ch&acirc;teau and see those
people?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;It might lead to something good for your future, my child.
M. le Cur&eacute; said that Monseigneur was kindly disposed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I have no decent clothes in which to go,&quot; the boy
muttered, his sullen mood not yet quite gone.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;There are your new stockings which I have quite finished,&quot;
Marianne rejoined quietly, &quot;and I have done mending your
best breeches. You can wear you father's Sunday coat and his buckled
shoes - fortunately he was a small man, and you are hear as tall
already.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Mother!&quot; Andr&eacute; exclaimed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Yes, Andr&eacute;?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You have been working your fingers to the bone so that
I should be clothed. M. le Cur&eacute; said so.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;No, my child,&quot; Marianna said, smiling through an involuntary
little sigh, &quot;not to the bone.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And did you sit up to-night because you - you-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I knew that you would want your best breeches - soon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You knew I would change my mind and go to the ch&acirc;teau
?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Yes, Andr&eacute;, I knew.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;How could you know, Mother?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I suppose your guardian angel must have told me. He knew.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Mother!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	This time the cry came straight from the boy's heart. With one
bound he was beside his mother and with his arms was encircling
her knees. His tousled head was buried in her voluminous skirt.
She fell back into her chair and drew the hot, aching young head
against her breast. There, resting against that warm, downy pillow,
all pretence at manhood was swamped in the grief of a child. Andr&eacute;
burst into a flood of tears, the first that had welled out of
the bitterness of his heart since that awful day of disgrace.
Marianne, with her kind fat arms wrapped round her most precious
treasure, thanked God for those tears.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The tallow candle flickered and died out. The room was in darkness,
only a pale light, the first precursor of dawn, came shyly peeping
presently through the small uncurtained window. The distant church
clock struck four. It was more than an hour since Marianne had
moved. The child had cried himself to sleep, squatting on the
floor, with his head on her lap, her hand resting on his curls.
From time to time a sob shook the young frame; then even the sobs
were stilled, and Marianne, stiff with sitting motionless, would
not move for fear of waking him.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter VI:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	If you should ever visit the Bourbonnais
do not fail to go as far as Le Borne, on the outskirts of which
stands the princely Ch&acirc;teau de marigny. It is one of the
most sumptuous survivals of medieval splendour, with its unique
position on a spur of the Roches du Borne, commanding a gorgeous
view over the valley of the Allier with its rippling winding stream,
its spreading forests of beech and walnut and sycamore, its vine-clad
slopes and picturesque villages - Val-le-Roi, Le Borne, Vanzy,
and so on - peeping shyly through the trees.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Originally built in the twelfth century by Jean Duke of Burgundy,
it was enlarged and enriched by each of his successors, until
the great Duke Charles - known to history as the Conn&eacute;table
de Bourbon - as great in treachery as in doughty deeds, completed
the work of making the Ch&acirc;teau de Marigny second to none
in grandeur and magnificence. It was to him that King Henry VIII
of England referred when he remarked to Fran&ccedil;ois I of France
on the occasion of the meeting on the Field of the Cloth of Gold:
&quot;If I had so opulent a subject, I would soon have his head
off.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Fran&ccedil;ois I had no occasion to follow his English friend's
advice, for it was soon after that that the illustrious Conn&eacute;table
de bourbon became a traitor to his country and sold his sword
to the enemy of France, which was quite sufficient excuse for
the King to declare the Duke's estates forfeit to the Crown. Some
of these were subsequently sold and passed from hand to hand.
The ch&acirc;teau, then known as Ch&acirc;teau de Borne, came
into the possession of the Duc de Marigny, first cousin of King
Henry of Navarre and a direct descendant of the Conn&eacute;table
who renamed it Marigny and added to his many titles that of De
Borne.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Though the magnificence for which the old ch&acirc;teau was famous
in the past - when 'twas said that Duke Charles kept five hundred
men-at-arms within its precincts - was somewhat shorn of its dazzling
rays, the present Duc de Marigny did, nevertheless, live there
like a prince and entertain with lavish hospitality. These were
the days, closely following on those of the Grand Monarque, when
the king set the pace in splendour and prodigality and the great
nobles thought it incumbent on them to emulate royal ostentation.
It was the era of beautiful furniture and of exquisite silks and
laces, of stately ceremonials both at court and at home, of gorgeous
banquets, expensive food and wins, as well as of the aesthetic
enjoyment of pictures, music, and the play. Money flowed freely
into the coffers of those who had landed estates: the State favoured
them, for not only were they free of taxation, but one privilege
after another was conferred on them, and, quite naturally, they
grasped these with both hands and then asked for more.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Cradled in the lap of luxury, wrapped up in cotton wool by sycophants
and menials, they shut their eyes to the gather clouds of the
inevitable Revolution. The cataclysm found them unprepared, scared,
and astonished, like children wakened out of a dream. Most of
them had not done blinking their eyes under the shadow of the
guillotine. When they died, they died like heroes. They would
have lived like heroes had they been given the lead, had they
understood that the distant thunder of growing discontent among
the people, the flashed of lightning of menace and revenge, were
the precursors of a raging storm that threatened them, their traditions
and their caste.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	In this year of grace 1782 Monseigneur le Duc de Marigny, one
of the richest and most distinguished memebers of the old French
aristocracy, connected with the royal houses of Bourbon and Orl&eacute;ans,
was certainly one of those who thought that most things were for
the best in this best possible world. The only thing that ever
troubled him was the occasional tightness of money. This was an
unheard-of thing. The Duc de Marigny, cousin of kinds, short of
money! in his father's day, my gad, sir! if there were no Jews
to skin there were always those lazy, good-for-nothing peasants
whose whole excuse for being alive at all was that they should
provide their seigneur with everything he was pleased to want.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Those were the good old days. Now there was nothing but grumbling
in the villages. Bad weather, poor harvest, bad luck. <I>Eh, morbleu!</I>
Monseigneur knew well enough that the harvests were poor. If they
weren't, he wouldn't be so terribly short of money; just when
Aurore's birthday was coming on, too, and the ch&acirc;teau was
going to be full of the most distinguished visitors that he had
ever assembled under one roof. He was an amiable old gentleman,
this descendant of the great Conn&eacute;table: he did not aspire
to have five hundred men-at-arms under his orders, but he did
expect his house to be second to none in the matter of hospitality
and of splendour. And Aurore meant half the world to him. He had
been married three times: the first two duchesses had failed in
their duty of presenting him with an heir, the third one turned
her face to the wall and died when a tiny baby girl was first
put against her breast. Monseigneur quickly consoled himself and
would no doubt have brought a fourth duchess home to grace the
head of the table only that his reputation of Bluebeard had made
the eligible young ladies of his own rank chary of accepting so
dangerous a position. Moreover, little tiny Aurore had already
entwined himself around his fickle old heart. his forswore the
delights of matrimony for the more durable ones of fatherhood,
and devoted all the time that he could spare from the study of
his own comforts to the furtherance of Aurore's enjoyment of life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It is, perhaps, a little difficult to imagine a girl in her teens
taking pleasure in games and pursuits which in these modern days
would rouse the scorn of a child of seven - difficult to visualize
that bright sunny day in July, 1782, when Aurore's birthday party,
consisting of twenty or thirty of her friends in ages ranging
from thirteen to twenty-three, spent their afternoon in playing
blindman's bluff or hide-and-seek in the terraced gardens of Marigny.
In and out the bosquest and parterres they darted like so many
gaily plumaged birds, filling the air with their laughter and
childish screams of delight, the while Monseigneur le Duc in his
boudoir was giving M. Talon, his bailiff, a bad quarter of an
hour.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	<I>&quot;Mort de Dieu!</I> you old muckworm!&quot; was one of
the many pleasant ways in which Monseigneur addressed the unfortunate
Talon. &quot;Have I not told you that I must have five thousand
louis before the end of the month?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Yes, monseigneur,&quot; Talon replied obsequiously, &quot;but-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;There is no 'but' about it, my man, when I said 'must'-&quot;
Monseigneur broke in drily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;The tallage has all been paid - the salt tax, the window
tax-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Call it the harvest tax or any cursed name you choose,
but find me the money, or else-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Monseigneur!&quot; protested Talon, who was quaking in
his buckled shoes, knowing well enough what menace was being held
over his head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Or else,&quot; Monseigneur went on slowly, emphasizing
his words, &quot;you and your precious family quit my service;
I have no use for incompetent menials.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Monseigneur!&quot; Talon protested again, and with hands
upraised called Heaven to witness his loyalty and his competence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Ed, what? There is no 'monseigneur' about it; and your
sanctimonious airs, <I>mon ami,</I> are no use to me. I have thirty
guests in the house; it is Mademoiselle's birthday. I have told
you that before, have I not?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;As if I could forget-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Very well, then. Even with your limited intelligence you
must be aware that in order to entertain such distinguished persons
I must have my larder and my cellars full. Well! I'm short of
wine. You know that. You know that we sent to that thief in Nevers
for some, and that the mudlark refuses to send the wine unless
he is paid beforehand.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I know that, monseigneur.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You also know that I am giving Mademoiselle a ruby necklace
for her birthday. You wrote the order out yourself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Yes, monseigneur.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Well, then! that also has to be paid for,&quot; Monseigneur
concluded with what he felt was unanswerable logic. &quot;So do
not dare to appear before me again without at least - mind! I
say <I>at least</I> - five thousand louis in your filthy hand.
Now you can go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Talon's narrow hatchet face, usually sallow and bilious, took
on an ashen hue. Through narrow deep-set eyes he cast a furtive
glance at his irascible master. But Monseigneur, having delivered
his ultimatum, no longer troubled his august head about his unfortunate
bailiff. No doubt experience had taught him that under threat
of dismissal Talon had always contrived somehow to produce the
necessary money. Monseigneur never troubled his head much whence
that money came. He had never been taught to troubled his head
about anything so mean and sordid as money. He paid Talon a liberal
salary, gave him a good house, productive land, and every facility
to rob and cheat him, in order that this man should take all such
burdens to enjoy life without care or worry. Many a time had Talon
heard this philosophy propounded to him by his master: he knew
that argument and protests were worse than useless, and it is
to be supposed that in an emergency like the present one it was
safer to incur further hatred from Monseigneur's tenants than
the displeasure of Monseigneur himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	M. le Duc for the moment appeared to have forgotten Hector Talon's
very existence; he had caught sight through the wide-open window
of his darling little Aurore at play with her friends. There was
a grand game of blindman's bluff going on, and the sight would
have gladdened any old man's heart, let alone that of a doting
father. Monseigneur's eyes gleamed with pleasure; the misfortune
of &quot;blindman&quot; who measured his length on the sanded
path drew a delighted roar of laughter from him. Talon thought
and hoped that he was momentarily forgotten and that he could
achieve his exit without hearing further abuse or further threats.
As noiselessly as he could he turned on his heel and made for
the door. Just as he was about to slip through it Monseigneur's
pleasant voice once more reached his ear:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;That reminds me, Talon,&quot; he said lightly, &quot;that
my cousin M. le Marquis d'Epinay had a splendid idea last year
when he was short of money. There was all that stony land on Mont
Oderic and Mont Socride, you remember? It was no use to him, he
couldn't make anything out of it. So he made the neighbouring
communes buy it of him at his own price. I believe the rascals
have done very well with it since. Well! there's that bit of land
the other side of Rocher Vert. I don't want it. Let the communes
of Val-le-Roi and Le Borne buy it of me. They can have it for
three thousand louis and you can make up the other two out of
the hoard which you have amassed through robbing me, you black-guard.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;The communes couldn't pay, monseigneur,&quot; Talon protested,
and then added very injudiciously: &quot;As for me, how can Monseigneur
think-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;That you are a thief and a liar?&quot; Monseigneur broke
in, with a careless laugh. &quot;Why, you villain, if you were
a decent man you would have left my service long ago. You know
that I only employ you to do my dirty work, which I couldn't ask
others who are clean and honest to do for me. As for the communes,
what I propose is a sound bargain for them: those peasants can
make a good thing out of land, which you are too big a fool to
turn to account. Anyway, that's my last word, and now, get out
of my sight. I am sick of you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Talon was as thankful to go as Monseigneur was to be rid of him.
He slipped like a stealthy cat through the door, while Monseirgneur,
throwing cares and money worries off his broad shoulders, returned
to the more agreeable occupation of watched his daughter playing
at blindman's bluff.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Perhaps, if he had been gifted with second sight, M. le Duc de
Marigny would not have felt quite so carefree: for then he would
have seen his bailiff, Hector Talon, the other side of the door,
pausing for a moment with clawlike fingers resting on the handle.
on his sallow face there was neither humility nor servility, only
a cunning, mocking glance in the narrow, deep-set eyes and a sneer
upon the pale thin lips. What went on in the man's mind it is
impossible to say. Did he long to turn on the hand that fed him?
Did he foresee that, on a day not very far distant, he would be
the one to command and Monseigneur the dependent on his good-will?
All unconsciously now, even good-humouredly, Monseigneur chose
to snub and humiliate him. There was no conscious feeling of arrogance
in so great a gentleman's treatment of his subordinates; just
the belief amounting to a certainty that he and his kind were
made of a different clay from the rest of humanity, and that God
had preordained them to rule and the others to obey. All these
thoughts and hopes did, no doubt, course through Hector Talon's
mind as he stood on the other side of the door with his fingers
on the handle. But Monseigneur knew nothing of that. He was not
gifted with second sight and did not see the change of expression
in his bailiff's face - just as he had only given one casual and
careless glance at the boy at the whipping post whom the ladies
had so aptly named &quot;the rebel angel.&quot;</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter VII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	On this same afternoon when Andr&eacute;
Vallon, still rebellious in spirit, followed M. le Cur&eacute;
de Val-le-Roi up the wooded slopes that led to the ch&acirc;teau,
the picture that was revealed to his gaze when he came in sight
of the gorgeous old building, with its sumptuous gardens, its
marble terraces, its towers and battlements, its stately trees
and wealth of flowers, was one he never forgot. Vagually he had
heard the ch&acirc;teau spoken of by those who knew, as &quot;magnificent&quot;;
vaguely he was aware that Monseigneur lived there in a state of
splendour of which he, a village lad, had no conception, even
in his dreams; and from the valley below, where on the outskirts
of Val-le-Roi his mother's cottage lay <I>perdu</I>, he had often
gazed upwards to the heights, where at sunset the pointed roofs
glistened like silver and the rows of windows sparkled like a
chain of rubies; but he had never been allowed to wander up the
slope and see all that magnificence at close quarters.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Heavy gilded iron gates shut off the precincts of the ch&acirc;teau
from prying eyes and vagabond footsteps; stern janitors warned
trespassers against daring to set foot inside the park; and thus
the place where dwelt those unapproachable personages, Monseigneur
and his friends, had hitherto appeared to Andr&eacute; like fairyland,
or rather, like the ogre's castle of which he had read in the
storybooks of M. Perrault - the ogre who devoured all the good
things of this earth and always wanted more.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute; was dazzled. The same enthusiasm that made him love
the moonlight, the cottontails, or the hedgerows caused him to
utter a cry of pleasure when he first caught sight of the ch&acirc;teau.
He came to a halt and allowed his eyes to feast themselves on
the picture. M. le Cur&eacute; was delighted; he thought that
the boy was showing a nice spirit of reverence and of awe.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;It is beautiful, is it not, Andr&eacute;?&quot; he remarked
complacently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But Andr&eacute;'s mood was not quite as serene as the worthy
priest had fondly hoped. He turned sharply on his heel and retorted
with a scowl:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Of course it is beautiful, but why should it be <I>his?</I>&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What in the world do you mean?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You call that man up there 'Monseigneur.' Why? This all
belongs to him. Why?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Because...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The good Cur&eacute; droned on. Andr&eacute; certainly did not
listen; he stalked on once more, irritable and silent. He had
asked a question for which, in his own mind, there could not possibly
be an answer. True that something of the bitterness of intense
hatred had, as it were, flowed out of him with the tears which
he had shed on his mother's breast, but the spirit of inquiry,
of blind groping after mysteries which were incapable of solution
had, for good or ill, replaced the childish acceptance of things
as they were. To him henceforth his mother's penury and Monseigneur's
wealth were not preordained by God; they did not form a part of
the scheme of creation as God had originally decreed. They were
the result of man's incapacity to grapple with injustice; the
result, in fact, of the weakness of one section of humanity and
of the arrogant strength of the other.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Very wisely, M. le Cur&eacute; had not pursued the contentious
subject. Together the two of them found their way across the wide,
paved forecourt and up the perron. Lackeys in gorgeous liveries
opened wide the gates of the ch&acirc;teau, and Andr&eacute;,
feeling now as if he were in a dream, silent, subdued, all the
starch taken out of him, all the rebellion of his spirit overawed
by so much splendour, kept close to the Cur&eacute;'s heels.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	They went through the endless rooms, across floors that were
so slippery that Andr&eacute;, in his thick shoes, nearly measured
his length on them more than once. He caught sight of himself
in tall mirrors, full face, sideways, walking, sliding, pausing,
wide-eyed and scared, thinking that the figure he was coming towards
him was some strange boy whom he had never seen before. At length
the Cur&eacute; came to a halt in what seemed to Andr&eacute;
like a fairy's dwelling place, all azure and gold and crystal,
where more tall mirrors reflected a somewhat corpulent old man
in a long black soutane, and a tall, clumsy-looking boy in an
ill-fitting coat, with tousled hair and large hands and feet encased
in huge, thick buckled shoes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	On one side of the room there were three tall windows through
which Andr&eacute; saw such pictures as he had never seen before.
At first he didn't think that they were real. There were marble
balustrades and pillars, parterrers of flowers and groups of trees,
and a fountain from whose sparkling waters the warm sunshine drew
innumerable diamonds. This fairy garden appeared peopled with
a whole bevy of brightly plumaged birds that darted in and out
among the bosquets and the parterres with flutelike calls and
rippling music. At least, so it seemed to Andr&eacute; at first.
M. le Cur&eacute;, tired out, hot and panting, had sunk down in
one of the gilded chairs and was mopping his streaming face; Andr&eacute;,
attracted and intrigued by the picture of that garden and those
birds, ventured to go nearer to one of the tall windows in order
to have a closer look. The window was wide open. Andr&eacute;,
leaning against the frame, stood quite still and watched.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	A merry throng peopled the garden; ladies in light summer dresses,
some with large straw hats over their powdered hair, others with
fair or dark curls fluttering about their heads, men in silk embroidered
coats, with dainty buckled shoes and filmy lace at throat and
wrist, were chasing one another in and out of the leafy bosquets,
just like a lot of children, playing some puerile game of blindman's
bluff, which elicited many a little cry of mock alarm and silvery
peals of merry laughter. How gay they seemed! How happy! Andr&eacute;
watched them, fascinated. He followed the various incidents of
the game with eyes that soon lost their abstraction and sparkled
with responsive delight. He nearly laughed aloud when an elegant
gentleman in plum-coloured satin cloth, his eyes bandaged, tripped
over a chair mischievously placed in his way by one of the ladies
- a girl whose pink silk panniers over a short skirt of delicate
green brocade made her look like a rosebud: so, at least, thought
Andr&eacute;.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He quite forgot himself while he stood and watched. Like a child
at a show, he laughed when they laughed, gasped when capture was
imminent, rejoiced when a narrow escape was successful. M. le
Cur&eacute;, overcome by the heat, had gone fast asleep in his
chair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute;, absorbed in watching, did not even notice that
the crowd of merrymakers had invaded the terrace immediately in
front of the window against which he stood. &quot;Blindman&quot;
now was the young girl with the fair hair, free from powder, whose
dress made her look like a rosebud. With arms outstretched she
groped, after the clumsy fashion peculiar to a genuine blindman,
and her playmates darted around her, giving her a little push
here, another there, all of them unheedful of the silent, motionless
watcher by the open window. And suddenly &quot;Blindman,&quot;
still with arms outstretched, lost her bearings, tripped against
the narrow window sill and wound have fallen headlong into the
room had not Andr&eacute; instinctively put out his arms. She
fell, laughing, panting, and with a little cry of alarm, straight
into him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	There was a sudden gasp of surprise on the part of the others,
a second or two of silence, and then a loud and prolonged outburst
of laughter. Andr&eacute; held on with both arms. Never in his
life had he felt anything as sweet, as fragrant, so close to him.
The most delicious odour of roses and violets came to his nostrils,
while the downiest, softest little curls tickled his nose and
lips. As to moving, he could not have stirred a muscle had his
life depended on it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But at the prolonged laughter of her friends the girl at once
began to struggle; also, she felt the rough cloth beneath her
touch, while to her delicate nostrils there came, instead of the
sweet perfumes that always pervaded the clothes of her friends,
a scent of earth and hay and of damp cloth. She wanted to snatch
away the bandage from her eyes, but strong, muscular arms were
round her shoulders, and she could not move.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Let me go!&quot; she called out. &quot;Let me go! Who is
it? Madeleine - Edith, who is it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The next moment a firm step resounded on the marble floor of
the terrace, a peremptory voice called out: &quot;You young muckworm,
how dare you?&quot; and the hold round her shoulders relaxed.
Andr&eacute; received a resounding smack on the side the face,
while the girl, suddenly freed, staggered slightly backward even
while she snatched the handkerchief from her eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The first thing she saw was a dark young face with a heavy chestnut
curl falling over a frowning brow, a pair of eyes dark as aloes
flashing with hatred and rage. She heard the voice of her cousin,
the Comte de Maul&eacute;on, saying hoarsely:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Get out! Get out, I say!&quot; And then calling louder
still: &quot;Here! L&eacute;on! Henri! Some of you kick this garbage
out.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was all terrible. The ladies crowded round her and helped
to put her pretty dress straight again, but the girl was too frightened
to think of them or her clothes. Why she should have been frightened
she didn't know, for Aurore de Marigny had never been frightened
in her life before: she was a fearless little rider and a regular
tomboy at climbing or getting into dangerous scrapes; but there
was something in that motionless figure in the rough clothes,
in those flashing eyes and hard, set mouth which puzzled the child
and terrified her. Here was something that she had never met before,
something that seemed to emit evil, cruelty, hatred, none of his
had ever come within sight of her sheltered, happy life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Pierre de Maul&eacute;on was obviously in a fury and kept calling
for the lackeys, who, fortunately, were not within hearing, for
heaven alone knew what would happen if anyone dared lay hands
on that incarnation of fury. The boy - Aurore saw that he was
only a boy, not much older than herself - looked now like a fierce
animal making ready for a spring; he had thrust one hand into
his breeches' pocket and brought out a knife - a miserable, futile
kind of pocketknife, but still a knife; and his teeth - sharp
and white as those of a young wolf - were drawing blood out of
his full red lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Some of the laidies screamed; others giggled nervously. The men
laughed, but no one thought of interfering. Inside the room, M.
le Cur&eacute;, roused from his slumbers, had obviously not yet
made up his mind whether he was awake or dreaming.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Just then the two lackeys, L&eacute;on and Henri, came hurrying
along the terrace. A catastrophe appeared imminent, for the boy
had seen them; knew, probably, what it would mean to him and all
these bedizened puppets if those men dared to touch him. He was
seeing red; for the first time in his life he felt the desire
to see a human creature's blood. With jerky movements he grasped
the flimsy, gimcrack pocketknife with which he meant to defend
himself to the death. He met the girl's eyes with their frightened,
half-shy glance and exulted in the thought that in a few seconds,
perhaps, she would see one of her lackeys lying dead at her feet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Not even on that fatal day when he had tasted the very dregs
of humiliation had his young soul been such a complete prey to
rebellion and hatred. Why, oh, why had he allowed his heart to
melt at sight of his mother's wretchedness? Why had he ever set
good across this cursed threshold? Pay! Pay! Pay! Those were once
his mother's words. &quot;Pay, while these marionettes laughed
and played; pay, so that their bellies might be full, their pillows
downy, their hair powdered and perfumed. He hated them all. Oh,
how he hated them!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	These riotous thoughts were tumbling about in Andr&eacute;'s
brain, chasing one another with lightning speed while he was contemplating
murder and hurling defiant glances at the pretty child, the cause
of this new - this terrible catastrophe.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Ever afterwards he was ready to swear that not by a quiver of
an eyelid had he betrayed fear or asked for protection. Asked?
Heaveans above! He would sooner have fallen dead across this window
sill than have asked help from any of these gaudy nincompoops.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Be that as it may, there is no doubt that it was the girl's piping,
childish voice which broke the uncomfortable spell that had fallen
over the entire lively throng.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Oh&eacute;!&quot; she cried, with a ripple of laughter.
&quot;How solemn you all look! Pierre, it is your turn. Come,
V&eacute;ronique, you hold him while I do the blindfolding; don't
let him go - it is his turn.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Her friend to whom she called was close by and ready enough to
resume the game. Before Pierre de Maul&eacute;on had the chance
to resist she had him by the hand, while Aurore tied the handkerchief
over his eyes. A scream of delight went up all round. All seriousness,
puzzlement, was forgotten. Pierre tried to snatch the handkerchief
away, but two of them held onto his hands; the others pushed and
pinched and teased. They dragged him along the terrace; they vaulted
over the marble balusters; they were children, in fact, once more,
tomboys, madcaps, running about among the bosquets and the flowers,
irresponsible and irrepressed, while Andr&eacute;, without another
word, another look, turned on his heel and fled out of this cursed
ch&acirc;teau, leaving M. le Cur&eacute; to call and to gasp and
to explain to Monseigneur, as best he could, what, in point of
fact, had actually happened.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Book II:<BR>
Chapter VIII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	There are several biographies extant
of Andr&eacute; Vallon, some written by friends, others by enemies.
No man who has played a r&ocirc;le on the world stage has ever
been without his detractors, and only a few have been without
their apologists. To have really complete conception of Vallon's
temperament, character, and subsequent conduct, it would be necessary
to know something of his life during the ten years that followed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He was little more than fifteen when he left his village of Val-le-Roi
and went up to Paris under the aegis of M. l'Abb&eacute; de Rosemonde,
who had obtained for him, after much tribulation, countless petitions,
and untiring zeal, a scholarship in the College of the Oratorians
in Paris, where a few years before this a young scholar named
Georges Danton had pegged away at the classics, and where many
young minds began nursing those thoughts of rebellion and agitation
which were to render them famous or infamous in the annals of
the greatest revolution of all time.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Some of these men, at the time that Andr&eacute; Vallon went
to the Oratorians, were already prominent in the public eye. Danton
at this date was Conseiller du Roi, was calling himself Ma&icirc;tre
d'Anton and had a fine practice and a pretty young wife. Maximilien
de Robespierre had finished his studies at the Coll&egrave;ge
Louis-le-Grand and was now a leading light of advocacy; and Camille
Desmoulins was a notorious journalist. Andr&eacute;, who had developed
a hitherto latent ambition, and with such examples before him
of success won by hard work, became as model a scholar as he had
been a turbulent village lad. That it took all M. le Cur&eacute;'s
eloquence and floods of his mother's tears to persuade him to
go to college at all goes without saying, but he did go in the
end.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	How much it cost his mother to keep him in decent clothes while
he was at college remained forever a secret within her ample bosom.
As Andr&eacute; grew to be a man he made a pretty shrewd guess
at the hardships which she must have endured in order to put by
a few louis every year so that he should not cut too sorry a figure
among his schoolfellows. Luckily for him, he never felt any sense
of humiliation at his own shabby clothes or want of money to spend.
He was so firmly persuaded that his mother's poverty and his own
empty pockets were only transitory states which would be remedied
by himself when he was a man. And then, again, some of those whose
names at this hour were on everybody's lips had been as poor as
himself. Camille Desmoulins never had a sou from his avaricious
father to spend on leasure or finery, and Robespierre's clothes
were invariably threadbare.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Moreover, as the years went on, poverty became so much a matter
of course, except in the case of a privileged or a dishonest few,
that it ceased to have any significance. It was a matter of caste,
that was all, and became such an accepted fact that for a family
man not to be hungry, to have fuel on his hearth or shoes on his
feet was to be something of an alien among his own class. Nor
was it shame that stirred Andr&eacute;'s young blood to boiling
when he saw his mother in her old age, still scrubbing floors
or toiling up to the ch&acirc;teau to do the family washing; it
was only passionate rage at his own impotence to drag her out
of her penury, and ever growing better resentment at a social
system which permitted the few to have all the good things of
this world and allowed the many to go under for want of sufficient
nourishment. That this resentment should lead a young mind to
wholesale condemnation of the present r&eacute;gime was only natural,
seeing that the King was an autocratic monarch, and that his word,
and his word alone, made and unmade the laws.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	In 1788 Andr&eacute; Vallon was called to the bar and delivered,
as was customary, his diploma speech in Latin. The subject set
for the year was the social and political condition of the country
and its relation to the administration of justice. A ponderous
subject for a village lad to tackle, but even Vallon's detractors
- and he already had a few - were ready to admit that he acquitted
himself adequately, and that his Latin was faultless. The grave
and reverend seigneurs of the law, on the other hand, sat up in
amazement and rubbed their lack-lustre eyes when they heard this
young advocate from the back of the provincial beyond spout grandiloquent
phrases, such as <I>Salus populi suprema lex esto</I>, and with
wide gestures of delicately modelled hands strike a note of warning
to those in high places - to all who had inherited power, influence,
or riches.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	<I>&quot;Qui habet aures auriendi,&quot;</I> he thundered. <I>&quot;Audiat.&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">	There could be no two opinions about
it: it was an incendiary speech, even though there were no actual
words in it that could be construed into excitation to reprisals
or insurrection. On the contrary, it even concluded with a passionate
appeal to those who had the ear of the malcontents to pause before
they led the people blindly along the paths that led to revolution.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Woe to him,&quot; he fulminated in conclusion, &quot;who
for his own advancement plays on the passions and the prejudices
of the people. Woe to the instigator and the maker of revolutions!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Thus ended his impassioned harangue, delivered in the language
of Ovid and Virgil, leaving his learned audience marvelling at
this young Cicero sprung out of a remote village, and gravely
shaking their heads at the unorthodox sentiments to which they
had been compelled to listen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	A week later Andr&eacute; was at home, telling his mother all
about it, courting her approval more ardently than he had done
that of the leading lights at the Paris bar. There was something
in Marianne Vallon's calm philosophy, in her acceptance of the
inevitable, which by its very contrast appealed to Andr&eacute;'s
rebellious spirit.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You help me to keep my balance, Mother,&quot; he would
say with all youth's impatience, when she talked as she often
used to do in the past, of resignation and humility. &quot;And
God knows we shall all of us want it presently,&quot; he added,
with a careless shrug and a laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He went through all the fatigue of translating his Latin speech
into French for her, so that she might understand and criticize.
But he was quite proud of his achievement; he knew that he had
left his mark on the somewhat somnolent brains of his fellow advocates.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Ma&icirc;tre d'Anton was present, Mother,&quot; he related,
bridling up at the recollection of that proud moment when he saw
the popular orator make his way into the hall. &quot;I think he
liked my speech, for I saw him nod with approval once or twice,
and at the end he clapped his hands together, and I heard his
stentorian voice shouting, 'Good! Very good indeed!'&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;A selfish and a cruel man,&quot; Marianne muttered under
her breath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;How can you say that, Mother <I>ch&eacute;rie?&quot;</I>
Andr&eacute; protested. &quot;He is a model husband and a devoted
father.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;He was born lucky. Wait till misfortune overtakes him-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I hope it won't,&quot; Andr&eacute; broke in gaily, &quot;for
he has offered me a clerkship in his office.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Don't take it, Andr&eacute;!&quot; Marianne cried involuntarily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Why in the world no, Mother? It will be the making of me.
Clerk to Ma&icirc;tre d'Anton, Conseiller du Roi! Think of it!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Marianne shrugged: &quot;Conseiller du Roi?&quot; she said with
what would have been a sneer round a mouth less kindly. &quot;That
man, Danton, Conseiller du Roi? When he dreams of nothing but
deposing his King - if not worse.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;He dreams of changing the whole aspect of the world,&quot;
Andr&eacute; protested with unwonted earnestness, &quot;and God
knows this old world wants a change.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Old Marianne shook her head. She was too old to imbibe all those
principles which men with fine oratorical powers like Georges
Danton poured daily into the ears of the young; too old also to
hope for a change in the system which had brought her to her present
state of indigence. In Danton's ways she foresaw disaster. &quot;Once
you set an avalanche sliding down the mountain side,&quot; she
would say, &quot;you cannot possibly stop its mad career. You
are bound to be crushed beneath it in the end.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But Andr&eacute; would retort proudly: &quot;A man like Danton
does not count the cost. He says and does what he believes to
be right, and if he cannot carry his principles though, he will
die like a martyr.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And drag all those whom he has fooled to perdition with
him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What grander death than that of a martyr?&quot; Andr&eacute;
demanded, flushed with enthusiasm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But Marianne, wise old peasant that she was, muttered: &quot;Martyr?
And for what cause, <I>mon Dieu?</I> For what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;The happiness of mankind!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And so the boy would argue. He was only a boy still, after all,
in spite of his Latin, and hero worship was in his blood. He became
a clerk to Ma&icirc;tre d'Anton, Conseiller du Roi, one of the
greatest lights at the moment of Paris advocacy: a man, too, wholly
unspoilt by success and prosperity. He had a way of persuading
all those who knew in him intimately that his was a large, all-embracing
nature, which only pined to see everyone around him smiling and
happy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He had a fine property in the country, a well furnished house
in town, a pretty wife and a boy whom he worshipped. Danton was
at this time the most popular man in France, and Andr&eacute;
one of the happiest, for he felt that he had his chance, a chance
coveted by every budding advocate who had delivered his Latin
thesis that year. He walked hand in hand with the man who was
called the Lion Tamer of France, for he held the savage pack of
snarling felines on the leash. Marat, Desmoulins, and the others
bowed to his moderate, sensible views.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Wait,&quot; Marianne had said, &quot;till misfortune overtakes
him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It did. Soon after Andr&eacute; entered his office his only child
died, the boy whom he adored. His wife was broken hearted; sought
consolation in religion. Georges Danton, who worshipped her, would
escort her daily to church, then rush round to the club and, in
a hoarse voice, broken with sobs, would prophesy now the coming
cataclysm. Shrewd, fat Marianne had proved indeed to be right.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	In the wake of misfortune, Danton's moderation went to the wind,
and during the most impressionable years of his life Andr&eacute;'s
ears were constantly filled with his chief's ever more violent
diatribes against the social regime, the ignorance and ineptitude
of the King, and the venality of his ministers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;They have eyes and see not; ears they have and hear not,&quot;
Danton would thunder forth whenever news of riots in the provincial
towns, already of frequent occurrence, looting of shops, firing
of ch&acirc;teaux, were brought to his office. &quot;Fools they
are! all of them fools! Can't they see that their whole world
is falling to dust about their feet, and that soon the rivers
of France will be running with blood?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute;, whose young soul had always been inclined towards
rebellion, would listen wide-eyed, trying with all his might to
disentangle the right from the wrong in those tempestuous tirades.
Danton was a man of immense influence. In the clubs his power
was supreme, and it was the clubs that governed France these days;
for it was in the clubs that ministers were made and unmade. Men
of all ages, men of wide experience, bowed to Danton as to their
greatest leader. And Andr&eacute; Vallon was little more than
a boy, with a boy's enthusiasm and generous impulses, and young
blood ready to boil at sight of injustice and cruelty.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Get me out an article for <I>l'Ami du Peuple</I>, Andr&eacute;,&quot;
Danton would often say to him when he came home, hoarse and tired
from a noisy s&eacute;ance at the Cordeliers. &quot;Revolution
is in the air; it gathers strength. At Versailles the King fashions
padlocks and the Queen plays at hide-and-seek. The people starve.
Make no mistake: at this moment thousands of men are seeing their
wives and children dying of hunger. Write it, Andr&eacute;. Write
it. Dip your pen in gall. Marat will print anything you write.
For God's sake, don't mince matters! Up at Versailles they must
be made to see, or the most awful cataclysm the world has ever
known will drench this country with blood.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	After which outburst he would go home to his young wife and with
his ardent love-making help her and himself to forget their own
grief and the misfortune of their country. But Andr&eacute; would
go back to his own dingy lodgings and try to put into words the
turbulent thoughts of his chief. And whenever his mother shook
her wise old head over these youthful lucubrations, he would excuse
the more passionate passages by saying:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;It is impossible to stem the fury of the people now, Mother
dear. All we can do is to lead it into as reasonable channels
as we can.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Your Danton tries to cure evil with worse evils, my child,&quot;
Marianne retorted. &quot;How can good come from evil? Take care,
Andr&eacute;! Men like Danton have set their world rocking; when
it falls together with a crash it will drag them along, too, into
the abyss.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;They must take their chance, Mother,&quot; Andr&eacute;
rejoined with an impatient sigh. &quot;We must all take our chances,
for we cannot foresee what the end of it all will be.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But it was not often that he was in such a serious mood. Whenever
he could obtain leave he would take the diligence to Nervers,
and thence the country chaise to Val-le-Roi. He would burst in
on his mother with the gentleness of an exploding bombshell, and
thereafter for a few days, not only the cottage, but the country
inns around, the lanes, the woods, the village streets would echo
with his laughter and his big, sonorous voice.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter IX:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	The worst of the great political storm
had not yet touched the outlying villages. The people, of course,
were desperately poor, for the year had been one of the hardest
the unfortunate country had ever known; a prolonged drought had
been followed by terrible hailstorms on the very eve of harvesting;
the price of corn was prohibitive, and the winter that ensued
was so severe that even forest trees suffered from the frost.
Poor? Of course they were poor! There was no such thing as a plump
girl to be seen in any village: children were emaciated, their
growth stunted, their future health hopelessly impaired. But life
had to go on just the same. There was marriage and giving away
in marriage; babies were born and old people died; and those that
were not old clung to life in spite of the fact that it promised
nothing but misery.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute; Vallon's visits to Val-le-Roi were always something
of holiday for all. He was so gay, so light-hearted. the news
which he brought from Paris always seemed reassuring.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He would meet his friends around the bare tables of the village
inn where, over sips of thin, sour wine, he would try to put heart
into the men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;It can't last, can it, Andr&eacute;?&quot; they would ask.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Of course it can't. The darkest hour always comes before
the dawn. There are some good times head for all of us. You'll
see.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Then he would call to Suzette, mine host's pretty daughter, and
sit her on his knee.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Come, Suzette,&quot; he would say gaily, &quot;help us
to talk of something cheerful: of your pretty self, for instance,
and of Jerome, whom you met last night in the lane. You did...
don't tell me you did not... Give us a kiss, no, this instant,
or I'll tell your worthy papa just what I saw in the lane last
night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And in the sunshine of his irrepressible gaiety some of them
would momentarily forget their troubles.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;There goes that madcap, Andr&eacute; Vallon,&quot; the
older people would say when he went down the village street, singing
at the top of his voice; &quot;he was always a good lad, but his
skin is too tight to hold him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And they would tell each other tales of Andr&eacute;'s misdeeds
when he was a boy, and of the worry which he had been to his mother:
not a lad in the village whom he had not licked at some time or
another, not a girl from whom he had not snatched a kiss. Twice
he had been within an ace of being drowned; three times he had
nearly smashed himself to pieces by falling from a tree or a rocky
height; once he had tackled farmer Lombard's bull which was after
him, and with just his two hands he had squeezed the life out
of Bailiff Talon's savage dog.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Such a beautiful boy, he was,&quot; the women said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And the girls giggled as he went by, for those great dark eyes
of his would look them up and down with disturbing, provoking
glances. And some of them would pause and return the glance with
a look which was more than a hint, but Andr&eacute; would only
smile, showing a gleam of white teeth. But ne'er a look of tenderness
did he cast in response, nor did the faintest whisper of love
ever cross his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Love-making? Yes! Any amount of it. Andr&eacute;'s young arms
were forever reaching out for white shoulders or a slim waist;
his full laughter-loving mouth was always ready for a kiss, but
it remained at that: there was no girl for leagues around who
could boast that she had meant more to Andr&eacute; Vallon than
the old mother whom he worshipped.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But the old mother knew - or rather guessed - that there was
always something behind her son's flippancy in the manner of women
and of love. She didn't know what it was, but there was no deceiving
her - there was something. And there came a time when she made
a pretty shrewd guess. She asked no questions, of course, but
whenever the subject of the Ch&acirc;teau de Marigny and its inmates
cropped up, a strange reserve seemed to tie the boy's tongue.
He would become moody and silent, and if Marianne then pursued
the subject, spoke of the hardships so bravely borne by Monseigneur,
or said something of Mademoiselle Aurore and her angelic patience
in all her misfortunes, Andr&eacute; would suddenly jump to his
feet and cry out with extraordinary vehemence:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Don't talk to me about those people, Mother. I hate them!&quot;<!--SELECTION--><!--/SELECTION--></FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">Aurore had dragged the good old Cur&eacute;
along interminable corridors, and up interminable stairs to a
distant attic, where, beneath the old oak beams, covered with
dust and cobwebs, and ancient black leather trunk stood open,
with most of its contents already scattered about the floor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore went through them methodically, and M. le Cur&eacute; nodded
approval, or the reverse, as she held up the garments one by one
to the dim light.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;These stockings are strong,&quot; she said. &quot;They'll
do for Legendre's children. This shawl we'll give to Marianne
Vallon; she has nothing of the sort, poor thing. These silks are
not much use, but what do you think of these cloth breeches? They
are just the right size for Chabot's boy. Oh! and do look, M.
l'Abb&eacute;, here is a beautiful travelling coat, warm and thick.
You'll have to think of someone for whom it would be really useful.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She was squatting back on her heels, turning a great heavy cloth
coat over and over.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It is rather moth-eaten in places,&quot; she said ruefully,
&quot;but that wouldn't matter much. I believe it was Papa's travelling
coat when he and Maman used to post in Paris...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She paused with the coat in her delicate hands and looked up at
the priest with a troubled expression in her eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;M. l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; she said abruptly, &quot;do you
think it would be possible to warn Papa against that awful Talon?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The Cur&eacute; looked astonished, not to say shocked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My dear child!&quot; he exclaimed. &quot;An old and faithful
servant!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;He is not,&quot; Aurore said decisively. &quot;I am sure
he is not. He is a hypocrite - he talks softly to Papa-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My little Aurore, you must not say those things. Where is
your Christian charity? What has poor Hector Talon done?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;He incites the people down in the village against us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But what makes you say such a thing? You really haven't
the right-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;M. l'Abb&eacute;, listen to me,&quot; Aurore rejoined firmly.
&quot;You know Marianne Vallon down in the village?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I do. A good woman and-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;She is a good woman, I daresay, though she seems to hate
us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;No, no, my dear child. You must not jump to conclusions
like that. Marianne is a very unhappy woman. Her only son, whom
she adored, went to the war a year ago and has not been heard
of since. She feels rather bitter about everything. But hatred?
No! no!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Well, that is as it may be,&quot; Aurore rejoined with some
impatience; &quot;but she said something yesterday which has confirmed
my opinion about Talon. I suspected him long ago, but since yesterday...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Well? And what did Marianne say?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That it was Talon who egged on those people to fire the
mill and the granaries.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The Cur&eacute; raised his hands in protest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh!&quot; he exclaimed. &quot;I cannot believe that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Then you think that Marianne Vallon deliberately told me
a lie?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The old priest felt cornered. His brain, which was not overbrilliant,
though intensely kindly, had to make a choice between calling
a man a traitor or a woman a liar. He shrank from either conclusion;
he hummed and hawed and did his best to avoid Aurore's searching
eyes. In the end he compromised.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Talon,&quot; he said, &quot;may have said something that
those poor people misunderstood. And there is no doubt, alas!
that, with their minds turned away from God, the devil has a great
hold over their souls. But I am sure,&quot; he added hopefully,
&quot;that they have already regretted their action of the other
night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Only because they found the granaries empty,&quot; Aurore
concluded with a shrug.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
What was the use of arguing? This incorrigible optimist was as
surely courting disaster as was her father with his bitter resentment.
She gave an impatient little sigh and returned to the more pleasing
subject of stockings and petticoats.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XI:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">It was eleven years almost to a day
since M. l'Abb&eacute; de Rosemonde, Cur&eacute; de Val-le-Roi,
had toiled up the slope to the Ch&acirc;teau de Marigny with his
young prot&eacute;g&eacute;, Andr&eacute; Vallon. Then, as now,
a hot July sun flooded the pointed roofs with silvery lights.
Only a few white fleecy clouds flitted across the cobalt sky.
The birds sang in the forest trees; the branches of walnut and
sycamore quivered under the breath of a gentle summer breeze.
In the valley below, the Allier gurgled softly among the reeds,
and the weeping willows along its banks set forth their sweet,
sad sighing through the noonday air.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Nature, lovely and impersonal, seemed by her serene beauty to
mock at all the turmoil, the hideousness created by men. &quot;Look
at me,&quot; she seemed to say. &quot;My laws are immutable. I
destroy nothing without cause. Death in my infinite wisdom is
only the maker of life.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
M. le Cur&eacute; looked about him and sighed. He could almost
have wished that God's world would cease to be beautiful since
men no longer had eyes to see the glory of His creations. He was
an old man now. These last few years had put a heavy burden upon
him. Torn between his hatred of the present godless regime and
his desire to do what little good he could among these poor misguided
folk to whom he had ministered for more than thirty years, he
had at last decided to take the oath of allegiance to this impious
government which he abhorred, simply because he did not wish to
leave Val-le-Roi to its fate. In spite of threats, in spite of
persecution, he had managed so far to keep his church open, to
hold occasional services, to visit the sick, and to administer
the sacraments.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
On this beautiful morning in mid-July when he came in sight of
the ch&acirc;teau, he experienced the same heartache which assailed
him every time he noted the slow but sure ravages of neglect upon
the magnificent pile. It was many years now since flowers had
graced the parterres of the garden and thrown their gay note of
brilliance against the subdued colouring of the age-old stonework.
The bosquest now were withered; the fountains still; marble balustrades
and terraces were covered with the soil and litter of years.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The Abb&eacute; sighed again and wearily made his way up the perron.
The monumental gates opened at a touch; the cracked bell which
he pulled echoed weirdly through the silent halls. There were
no servants in gorgeous liveries now to wait on visitors; no sound
of gaiety or laughter came reverberating through this silence,
which seemed as solemn as that of a tomb. The old priest crossed
the vast hall and made his way up the great marble staircase and
through the length of the gorgeous apartments, which stretched
<I>en enfilade</I> to the farthest angle of the ch&acirc;teau.
Here he came to a halt and knocked at the door that faced him.
A woman's voice called, <I>&quot;Entrez!&quot;</I> and he stepped
into the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
At sight of him a young girl jumped up from the low stool whereon
she had been sitting, threw down a book, and came to greet him
with hands outstretched.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;M. l'Abb&eacute;!&quot; she cried. &quot;How kind of you
to come, and in this heat, too! Do sit down. You must be tired.
Papa and I were just saying that perhaps you would not come till
later in the day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The good Cur&eacute; took the two soft white hands that were so
eagerly tendered him and then turned to pay his respects to Monseigneur.
Like the Cur&eacute; himself, Monseigneur le Duc de Marigny had
in the past few years become a very old man. Misfortune and anxiety
had put a quarter of a century onto his years. Like so many men
of his generation and caste, he had made a splendid effort to
bear with outward fortitude the terrible calamities that well-nigh
overwhelmed him, but obviously the fortitude had only been on
the surface. Every line on his face showed that he had suffered
and was suffering terribly. He had the appearance of a martyr,
conscious of his martyrdom. He had see his friends, his relatives,
one by one, either driven to exile or to death, and calmly awaited
the hour when he would be called to share their fate. Were it
not for his daughter he would have welcomed that hour, nay! even
have gone forward boldly to meet it. But there was Aurore, his
child, the darling of his shrivelled heart. Because of her he
was willing to shelter beneath the protection which his near relationship
with that infamous Duc d'Orl&eacute;ans, who had cast his vote
in favour of the death sentence on his cousin and King, had so
far given him. Because of his cousinship with that man he had
escaped persecution at the hands of the Committee of Public Safety:
his name had not as yet appeared on the list of the &quot;suspect.&quot;
He accepted this slur upon it for Aurore's sake, but had suffered
agonies of humiliation for this immunity. In his eyes to-day,
dimmed not so much with age as with unshed tears, there smouldered
the fire of bitter resentment. not even to his daughter, not even
to the kindly priest, his one remaining friend, did he open out
his innermost thoughts, his desperate longing for revenge.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
On this occasion, as indeed always, he greeted the Cur&eacute;
with the greatest friendliness. Cut off from all his friends and
all his kindred, the Abb&eacute; de Rosemonde seemed like a last
link with the happy past. They had become like two old cronies,
these two, not talking much to each other, because there were
so few pleasant things to talk about, but they often had friendly
bouts at chess or piquet, and instinctively the old Duke felt
the soothing influence of his friend's Christian philosophy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore had put a chair in a convenient position, and the Abb&eacute;
fell into it, panting and blowing, for the day was hot and the
climb up the hill steep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I wish I could offer you a glass of wine,&quot; Monseigneur
said with a fretful little sigh, &quot;but I have not a bottle
left in the cellar.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore poured out a glass of water for the old priest, who drank
it eagerly, and then set to with great energy to mop his streaming
face and neck.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The best wine in the world, monseigneur,&quot; he said cheerfully,
&quot;is this fresh water from the well. I am not tired, I assure
you, my dear little Aurore, and even if I were, your smile would
comfort me more thoroughly than the finest bottle of Burgundy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Monseigneur gave a significant grunt and turned his head away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Well!&quot; the priest went on after a moment or two. &quot;What
news?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The every best,&quot; Aurore de Marigny said eagerly. &quot;I
found the box I told you about, and, oh! M. l'Abb&eacute;, it
is full, full of lovely things - stockings and shirts and petticoats.
they will be so useful for many of the poor mothers this winter.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She chattered away in great excitement, her eyes sparkling and
her cheeks flushed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And they won't as much as say 'Thank you!' for them,&quot;
Monseigneur put in drily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh, yes, they will!&quot; the girl asserted. &quot;And even
if they don't...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She gave a little shrug. What cared she if she got thanks or no,
so long as she could find something to do, something in which
to interest herself, to make time slip by a little more swiftly?
The days were so long and so dreary! Nothing to do, nothing to
think of or to hope for, save to bring now and again the ghost
of a smile on Papa's face. To help M. l'Abb&eacute; in his charitable
work was a perfect godsend, now that she saw her youth slipping
by before she had begun to understand the true and inner meaning
of such things as happiness and love. She was barely nineteen
when her world began to crash about her feet, when she first came
face to face with ill-will, malevolence, even hatred. Until that
hour the world had been one great thing of beauty. Loveliness
was the very essence of her young life. She inhaled love and adulation
with every breath she drew. When she took her walks abroad people
got out of her way to allow her to pass. Glances of admiration
accompanied her all the way she went. Gentle expressions of respect,
often a murmured blessing, were the words that most often rang
in her ears.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then suddenly came the crash: an awful cataclysm seemed to sweep
the whole of her past into an immeasurable abyss. Glowering looks,
sullen glances, objurgations, even insults were cast at her, until
she no longer dared to set foot beyond the precincts of the castle.
One by one the servants, who she thought loved her, who had seen
her grow up from babyhood, fled from the ch&acirc;teau as from
a plague-ridden spot. And slowly her childlike mind began to unfold:
it had been closed hitherto to outward things as is a flower bud
sheltered beneath a canopy of leaves. But soon her quick intelligence
grasped the true significance of what was going on around her,
and the Abb&eacute; de Rosemonde, with the utmost gentleness and
care, helped in the development of her understanding.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore de Marigny never took a gloomy view of life. She accepted
a great deal which was rousing her father's bitter resentment
as inevitable; as she was very young, she never gave up hope.
These years of indigence and anxiety were only transitory: of
this she was sure. But while she did her best to infuse some of
that hope into her father's soul, she would in the lineliness
of her little bedroom shed many a bitter tear over her lost youth.
Better times might come presently - they certainly would come,
she knew they would - but she would be old by then; her beauty
would be gone along with her youth; she would no longer be desirable;
she would never learn the great lesson of life, the lesson of
Love.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">Aurore had dragged the good old Cur&eacute;
along interminable corridors, and up interminable stairs to a
distant attic, where, beneath the old oak beams, covered with
dust and cobwebs, and ancient black leather trunk stood open,
with most of its contents already scattered about the floor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore went through them methodically, and M. le Cur&eacute; nodded
approval, or the reverse, as she held up the garments one by one
to the dim light.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;These stockings are strong,&quot; she said. &quot;They'll
do for Legendre's children. This shawl we'll give to Marianne
Vallon; she has nothing of the sort, poor thing. These silks are
not much use, but what do you think of these cloth breeches? They
are just the right size for Chabot's boy. Oh! and do look, M.
l'Abb&eacute;, here is a beautiful travelling coat, warm and thick.
You'll have to think of someone for whom it would be really useful.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She was squatting back on her heels, turning a great heavy cloth
coat over and over.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It is rather moth-eaten in places,&quot; she said ruefully,
&quot;but that wouldn't matter much. I believe it was Papa's travelling
coat when he and Maman used to post in Paris...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She paused with the coat in her delicate hands and looked up at
the priest with a troubled expression in her eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;M. l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; she said abruptly, &quot;do you
think it would be possible to warn Papa against that awful Talon?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The Cur&eacute; looked astonished, not to say shocked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My dear child!&quot; he exclaimed. &quot;An old and faithful
servant!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;He is not,&quot; Aurore said decisively. &quot;I am sure
he is not. He is a hypocrite - he talks softly to Papa-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My little Aurore, you must not say those things. Where is
your Christian charity? What has poor Hector Talon done?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;He incites the people down in the village against us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But what makes you say such a thing? You really haven't
the right-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;M. l'Abb&eacute;, listen to me,&quot; Aurore rejoined firmly.
&quot;You know Marianne Vallon down in the village?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I do. A good woman and-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;She is a good woman, I daresay, though she seems to hate
us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;No, no, my dear child. You must not jump to conclusions
like that. Marianne is a very unhappy woman. Her only son, whom
she adored, went to the war a year ago and has not been heard
of since. She feels rather bitter about everything. But hatred?
No! no!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Well, that is as it may be,&quot; Aurore rejoined with some
impatience; &quot;but she said something yesterday which has confirmed
my opinion about Talon. I suspected him long ago, but since yesterday...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Well? And what did Marianne say?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That it was Talon who egged on those people to fire the
mill and the granaries.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The Cur&eacute; raised his hands in protest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh!&quot; he exclaimed. &quot;I cannot believe that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Then you think that Marianne Vallon deliberately told me
a lie?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The old priest felt cornered. His brain, which was not overbrilliant,
though intensely kindly, had to make a choice between calling
a man a traitor or a woman a liar. He shrank from either conclusion;
he hummed and hawed and did his best to avoid Aurore's searching
eyes. In the end he compromised.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Talon,&quot; he said, &quot;may have said something that
those poor people misunderstood. And there is no doubt, alas!
that, with their minds turned away from God, the devil has a great
hold over their souls. But I am sure,&quot; he added hopefully,
&quot;that they have already regretted their action of the other
night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Only because they found the granaries empty,&quot; Aurore
concluded with a shrug.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
What was the use of arguing? This incorrigible optimist was as
surely courting disaster as was her father with his bitter resentment.
She gave an impatient little sigh and returned to the more pleasing
subject of stockings and petticoats.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XIII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, Aurore de Marigny's anxiety
would have turned to real alarm could she have guessed Talon's
purpose in coming up to the ch&acirc;teau to-day.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He made his way quite unceremoniously to the small boudoir where
Monseigneur usually sat, entered without knocking and with all
the assurance of a privileged guest, rather than of a servant.
Charles de Marigny always writhed at this show of independence
on the part of his once obsequious bailiff. In spite of his outward
stoicism, he had not yet become accustomed to those principles
of equality which placed the caitiff on a level with the seigneur.
Every time that Talon came into his presence with the swaggering
air of an equal, and the suggestion of sympathy and protection
more galling than enmity, Monseigneur would grind his teeth and
clench his hands in an effort not to strike the insolent varlet.
But he had enough sense to realize that, as far as the future
was concerned, his safety, and perhaps his life and that of Aurore
were dependent on this man's good-will: so he swallowed his wrath
and returned Talon's casual greeting with as much heartiness as
he could.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
With scant ceremony the bailiff took the chair lately occupied
by the Abb&eacute;, poured himself out a glass of water, drank
it down, and remarked with an attempt at jocularity:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;No more Burgundy in the cellar, eh? Well! never mind, better
times will be coming soon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then he talked about the weather, commented on the latest news
from Paris, seeming not to notice Monseigneur's absorption. At
last Charles de Maringy broke in impatiently:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Well, what about the granaries?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon sighed and dolefully shook his head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Burnt to the ground. Nothing saved.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And the mill?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Alas!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Monseigneur had made a vigorous effort to control his temper,
but with each curt answer from his bailiff the veins on his temples
stood out more and more like cords, and he pressed his lips tightly
together because he felt that his breath was coming and going
with a hissing sound. All of which Talon did not fail to notice,
even while he appeared absorbed in picking at the nails of one
hand with those of the other.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And,&quot; Monseigneur asked, after a moment or two when
he thought that his voice would sound steady, &quot;what have
you done about it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I, my dear sir!&quot; Talon exclaimed, &quot;what do you
suppose I can do?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This easy familiarity, this jaunty &quot;my dear sir&quot; required
yet another effort on De Marigny's part to keep his temper. He
did it, nevertheless, forced himself to appear at ease with this
man the very sight of whom he detested, and after a moment he
said with quiet deliberation:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I ordered you, some time ago, when that raffish mob fired
my bakery, to let the miscreants know that for every building
of mine which they destroyed I would raze one of their cottages
to the very ground.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But, my dear friend-&quot; began Talon in protest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I am not your dear friend,&quot; Charles de Marigny broke
in, on the fringe of exasperation, &quot;but your employer! I
gave you certain orders. Did you execute them?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I did my best. I threw out hints. I warned them, but I dare
not do more.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Your warnings were no use, apparently. Two valuable granaries
have been wantonly destroyed: also the mill, which cost thousands
to build only have a dozen years ago: find me a handful of honest
men - men who will do what they are paid to do. Choose any two
cottages in the village you like, evict the tenants, and let not
one stone remain upstanding.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Monseigneur!-&quot; Talon exclaimed with a gasp.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ah!&quot; De Marigny rejoined with a sneer. &quot;It has
brought you to your senses, too, has it? You realize that I am
not your dear friend but a man who has not forgotten either his
position or his rights? Those devils up in Paris talk of a government
by terror. Terror, they say, is the order of the day, and they
remain in power because they govern by fear. Terror is going to
be the order of the day on my estate. An eye for an eye; a tooth
for a tooth. A cottage for my granary; a house for my mill. Find
me the men, Talon: I'll show those dastardly ruffians down there
that I am still their lord and master.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Charles de Marigny had worked himself up into a state bordering
on frenzy. All his common sense, his stoicism had fled to the
winds. He had nursed his resentment, his longing to hit back,
for so long that all this wanton outrage against his property
he lost all sense of proportion, and seized the opportunity to
strike, and strike again, not counting the cost of the deadly
danger. If he had been perfectly sane at the moment he not only
would have realized the folly of such arrogance, but he would
not have failed to notice that his bailiff, far from appearing
horrified at the monstrous suggestion or frightened at its probably
consequences, sat huddled up in his chair with his bony hand across
his mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon was doing his best to conceal the sneer that lurked around
his lips and the gleam of triumph that shot through his eyes.
For months now he had worked for this: to bring this arrogant
fool to a state of exasperation had been the aim and object of
all his scheming and his double game. Those whom the dogs wish
to punish they first strike with madness. Talon knew no Latin,
but he did know that he had at last succeeded in bringing to the
point of frenzy the man on whom depended the success of all his
well laid plans.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Monseigneur,&quot; he murmured again. &quot;You don't seem
to realize the temper of the people...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He had shed his easy familiarity as he would a mantle; he was
obsequious, servile, cringing now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It is time they realized mine,&quot; De Marigny retorted
proudly. &quot;I or that rabble. One of us must be the master
here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Unfortunately they have the power... and the numbers. You
are alone.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Monseigneur said nothing for the moment. He sat staring out of
the window through which he could perceive over the treetops the
ruins of his mill and his granaries. It seemed as if his outburst
had tired him out. He looked, all of a sudden, like a sick and
weary old man; the blood was ebbing out of his temples; he closed
his eyes for a moment or two, and a long sigh broke through his
trembling lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon drew his chair a little closer to him, and, sinking his
harsh voice to an insinuating whisper, he said:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Why not turn your back on the rabble? Get away to England
or Belgium... emigrate. So many of your friends have done it...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Monseigneur made no reply; but Talon, whose keen eyes were watching
every change on the proud, expressive face, saw a sudden softening
of its lines, as if an invisible hand had passed over them and
erased all that were hard and cruel. And in the eyes there crept
a look which was almost one of yearning.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;So many have done it,&quot; Talon reiterated. &quot;It is
the only road to safety.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But, as quickly as they had come, softness and yearning had already
vanished from De Marigny's expression; once more the eyes became
hard, the mouth obstinate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I'll not go, Talon,&quot; he said forcefully, and brought
his clenched fist down on the arm of his chair. &quot;I will see
this devilry through to the end. I will hold the fort against
this rabble, though, as you say, I must do it alone. but nobody
shall lord it over Marigny while I live.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It wouldn't be a case of any one 'lording' it,&quot; Talon
murmured, &quot;only of a temporary arrangement. Scores of gentlemen
have done it... and it is the safest plan.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He waited a moment or two, then he added:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The safest plan for you and Mademoiselle Aurore.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This time the blow had gone him. Charles de Marigny could not
suppress a cry of anguish.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Aurore!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But,&quot; he went on slowly, speaking as if to himself,
&quot;if we go - if we - if we emigrate - those devils will confiscate
the whole of my property, and-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon had to make a great effort to conceal the gleam of satisfaction
that shot through his yellow eyes: Monseigneur had started to
argue the point - and that was the first sign of defeat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Only nominally,&quot; he said. &quot;The whole plan is of
the simplest - as I said just now - a temporary arrangement....&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What temporary arrangement?&quot; De Marigny asked with
a frown.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;A paper making the property over to - to - a faithful servant
- just a temporary arrangement, as I say - the other party undertaking
to restore the property to its original owner on demand. It is
done every day, my friend. Half the estates in France, at this
moment, are nominally the property of men who have undertaken
to administer them on the quiet, till times are better....&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;In this case you mean yourself?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh, I don't know that, my good sir. The risks are very great,
you must remember.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;How do you mean - the risks? There are no risks, except
for the unfortunate owners who put themselves at the mercy of
knaves.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Only for the time being - always supposing that those others
are knaves. But when life is at stake - and not only one's own
life, but that of others who are very dear - well, one must take
certain risks. And there is little risk in trusting a faithful
servant who has looked after your interests for twenty years.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon had a persuasive tongue, and as soon as he noted that his
suggestion had made a breach in Monseigneur's armour of pride
and obstinacy, he pressed his point home. It was done every day.
The sale of the estate was nominal. The price paid in worthless
bits of government bonds. Talon had once more dropped his show
of servility. He &quot;dear sir&quot;-ed and &quot;my dear friend&quot;-ed
De Marigny because he had not rejected the proposal with scorn
but was pondering over it. Half the battle, then, was already
won, and Talon saw himself in possession of Marigny, at any rate
for a number of years, long enough to build a good nest egg and
then to flit out of the country if times changed back to the old
regime and he was summarily dispossessed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You, as the owner, would run no risk,&quot; he went on more
glibly. &quot;The risks would all be mine, if I undertook the
task, for I might be denounced as a traitor for my devotion to
you. But you! Why, my dear friend, you could go away to England
or Belgium with Mademoiselle Aurore, and when you came back to
Marigny four or five years hence - the present state of things
cannot last longer than that - you will find your estates impoverished,
no doubt, but your house standing where it did.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He rose, preparing to take his leave. He knew well enough that
he had sown the right seed in fairly receptive soil and that to
say more just now might imperil the happy issue of his fight.
Whether, when once more left to himself, Charles de Marigny would
return to his state of arrogance and frenzy or ponder more deeply
over his bailiff's suggestion was on the knees of the gods. it
was no use thinking that the battle was already won. It was not.
There was a chink in the armour of obstinacy, and that was all.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I'll bring you the papers in a day or two,&quot; he said
casually, as he took his leave. &quot;It is quite a simple affair.
You acknowledge having received a certain sum from me for the
sale of all your properties wheresoever situated, and I sign an
undertaking to restore them to you on demand and the repayment
of the money.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;On demand?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Why, yes! You are not likely to return to this hell upon
earth, are you? Unless times have much changed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And Charles de Marigny, as if wear of struggle and argument, assented
somewhat lamely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes, yes, Talon. Quite right! You are right, I am sure,
and you mean well. Bring me the papers; I'll look at them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;In the meanwhile I'll give it out more decidedly that if
any more arson occurs on your property you will give as good as
you get.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes, yes!&quot; Monseigneur assented, his exasperation getting,
at last, completely the better of his good sense. &quot;Do what
you like, but, for God's sake, get out of my sight now! I am sick
of you and your ugly face.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon grinned. Memory took him back to those days before the great
upheaval, when Monseigneur le Duc de Marigny was in the habit
of thus dismissing his obsequious bailiff. Times had changed,
but not Monseigneur. Talon knew well enough that beneath a great
deal of show of stoicism the old Adam could always be reckoned
with. Because of that old Adam of arrogance and tyranny he would
gain his point. Monseigneur would be forced to yield Marigny up
to him or perish at the hands of an infuriated mob.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And Hector Talon made his way home, satisfied with the morning's
work.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XIV:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">By the time that Aurore and the Abb&eacute;
Rosemonde had finished sorting out the treasures of the old leather
trunk Talon had left the ch&acirc;teau. Aurore found her father
looking thoughtful.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That rascal Talon,&quot; he said presently, speaking as
it were to himself, &quot;is no fool. His advice is sound.&quot;
He drew the girl to him and looked searchingly into her eager
young face. &quot;My little Aurore,&quot; he went on wistfully,
&quot;would you like to put all these horrors behind you and seek
refuge somewhere where we could have peace?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You mean - emigrate, Father?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Why not?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And lose Marigny? They confiscate everything if one emigrates.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;If it could be done without losing Marigny?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Even so...?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You don't want to go?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I want to do whatever you think is right; but - I love Marigny.&quot;
And Aurore's dreamy eyes, full of a vague yearning, swept over
the beautiful vista around, the wooded slopes, the distant ribbon
of the Allier whispering among the reeds, the steeples of the
village churches peeping out between the clumps of sycamore and
walnut. All this meant home to her. She had never known another.
Even the palace in Paris had been but a <I>pied-&agrave;-terre</I>
for her: Marigny alone was home. &quot;I love it,&quot; she reiterated
with a sigh. &quot;I know every tree in the forest, every shrub
in the coppice, the call of every bird. To go away into the unknown
frightens me, somehow.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Now, that is sheer childishness, Aurore,&quot; her father
said sternly. &quot;My dear Abb&eacute;, help me to get those
silly fancies out of her head.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The old priest had stood by in discreet silence, ostensibly engrossed
in looking over again the old clothes he was going to distribute
in the village. At Aurore's outburst he looked up, and now that
Monseigneur appealed to him he came and placed a hand on the girl's
shoulder.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I should miss you terribly in the village, my child,&quot;
he said, &quot;but I agree with your father. If it can be done,
it would be wiser to go away. It will only be for a time.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Do they hate us here so much as all that?&quot; she asked.
Probably she would have broken down then and had a good cry. It
seemed so cruel that, in spite of every effort towards forgiveness
and charity, it was impossible to combat that hatred which a lot
of irresponsible and cruel demagogues had instilled into the hearts
of the people of France. But Aurore met her father's anxious,
loving glance fixed upon her: young as she was, she knew that
he depended on her for every tiny gleam of joy or happiness that
she was able to give, and also that at sight of her grief his
bitter resentment and suffering would increase a hundredfold.
So she swallowed her tears, gave her father a good kiss, then
turned once more to the old priest, smiling through her tears:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Let us go straightway to the village now, M. le Cur&eacute;,&quot;
she said. &quot;I do want the Legendre children to have those
stockings soon. And,&quot; she added with a light laugh, &quot;I
have not yet done my marketing to-day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It was late afternoon when Aurore de Marigny made her way back
from the village toward the ch&acirc;teau. Jeannette was with
her and carried her market basket. She was an elderly woman who
had served the ducal family almost from childhood, when she began
life as a scullery wench. She had lost mother, father, kindred,
one after the other, and gradually her whole life became entirely
dependent upon the ch&acirc;teau. When approaching middle age
she had married Pierre, one of the men-servants, and after that
had carried on just as before. She never had any children. Somehow
she had never wanted any. And then when, one by one, the other
servants of the ch&acirc;teau ran away, terrified lest they should
be identified with unpopular <I>aristos</I>, Pierre and Jeannette
had stayed on, chiefly because they had nowhere else to go. What
few services were required of them - the little bit of cooking
and cleaning - they did quite ungrudgingly but without enthusiasm.
They seemed to have become a pair of automatons, with undeveloped
brains and a vague protective instinct towards Aurore de Marigny
and Monseigneur who gave them shelter and food.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Together Aurore and Jeannette walked rapidly along the road, which
at this point follows the river bank until it branches off to
the wooded slopes which lead up to the ch&acirc;teau. They had
gone past the last two or three outlying cottages, and the road
stretched out before them like a white ribbon, sun-baked, dusty,
and solitary. They had seen no one for some time when, suddenly,
a man came into view around a bend, walking slowly towards them.
He looked wearied, ragged, and dirty, but in this was no different
from many other wayfarers on the high roads these days; but there
was something in his limping gait, in his stooping shoulders,
and in his head, which fell forward on his chest and rolled round
and round as if insecurely held by his neck, which gave the idea
of fatigue verging on complete collapse.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
As the man drew nearer Aurore perceived that he wore a military
coat and breeches, both in the last stages of decay, and that
he had no shoes on his feet, which were bleeding and covered with
grime. His head was bare, and a shocked of chestnut-brown tousled
hair fell like a mop over his face. Aurore noted, also, that the
right sleeve of his tattered coat was hanging empty.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Obviously, a miserable soldier, making his way home from the way.
As he came close up to the two women he stumbled and would certainly
have fallen had not Aurore put out her arms. Instinctively, with
his one hand he seized hold of hers, and remained quite still
for a moment or two, trying to steady himself and clinging blindly
to this unexpected support. Then he raised his head and shook
the mop of hair away from his face. Aurore encountered a pair
of dark eyes, lack-lustre and glassy, and with an unseeing vagueness
in their dilated pupils. She did not dare move for fear of seeing
the man fall at her feet, but she half turned her head to Jeannette
and said quickly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That drop of wine in the small bottle... give it here....&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
At sound of the voice the glassiness went out of the man's eyes.
The pupils contracted, and a deep frown appeared between his brows.
He seemed suddenly to realize that the prop which supported him
was a woman's arm, and with a great effort he steadied himself
on his feet. A curious light flashed from his eyes, which seemed
to sweep Aurore from head to foot.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Jeannette muttered something about wasting good stuff which had
cost so much to procure, but Aurore spoke impatiently:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The bottle, Jeannette! Quick!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Under the man's curious sweeping glance she felt her cheeks flushing,
but still she did not move, holding out her arm quite stiffly
until his hold on it relaxed. Then she frowned and turned her
head away, for the man was staring at her still, and there was
something in that stare, a certain contempt or even enmity, which
almost caused her to take to her heels and run. But she held her
round, and when, presently, Jeannette handed her the bottle, she
took it and held it out to the man. With a sweep of his arm he
brushed it away, then threw back his head and laughed. It was
a strange laugh, hard and mirthless, which caused the suspicion
of a shiver to run down Aurore's spine - a shiver not of fear
(for what was there to fear in this miserable, maimed creature?),
but of recoil, as if in the presence of something weird and not
altogether earthly. But that was only a momentary weakness: the
man looked so unutterably wretched that tears of pity, never absent
from the depths of Aurore's sympathetic head, welled up to her
eyes. Instinctively she felt, however, that pity in this case
would be unwelcome; repulsed, perhaps, with that contempt which
still lingered in the man's eyes; so she closed her own for a
moment or two, lest the tears trickle down her cheeks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
When she opened them again the man had passed by.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Come, Jeannette,&quot; Aurore said quickly, &quot;let us
get home.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Jeanette, stolid and silent, had rearranged the market basket
and started to walk beside her mistress.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Thank goodness,&quot; she said, &quot;this good wine was
not wasted. It would have been a sin to deprive Monseigneur of
it for the sake of that down-at-heel vagabond.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
After a while she added: &quot;You know who that was, don't you,
mademoiselle?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;No,&quot; Aurore replied. &quot;How should I?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It was Andr&eacute; Vallon. I knew him at once, though he
looks a miserable bag of bones now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Andr&eacute; Vallon?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Marianne's son. Mademoiselle must recollect.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But how should I?&quot; Aurore reiterated frowning.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Mechanically, however, she had paused for a moment and turned
round to look at the retreating figure. Strangely enough, the
man, too, had paused and looked back; and once more their eyes
met. There was a distance of some ten metres between them now:
the man, whoever he was, shrugged and laughed as soon as he had
caught her glance; then he turned and went his way; but Aurore
was again conscious of that vague sense of terror, as if something
fateful and irresistible had come across her path. It was nonsense,
of course. Again and again she said to herself: &quot;What is
there to fear?&quot; Unfortunately, these days, inimical glances
were more familiar to her than kindly ones; she was accustomed
to looks of derision, even of hatred, to threatening words and
menace of violence. The wretched vagabond who had just gone by
had not spoken; had threatened with neither word nor gesture;
but never in all these fateful days had she encountered a glance
so full of latent contempt and almost unearthly hatred.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Tell me about this - this Andr&eacute; Vallon - was that
the name?&quot; she said presently to Jeannette, while together
the two of them walked up the slope.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Jeannette, whose powers of narration were limited, began a long
and involved tale on the subject. She talked of Andr&eacute; and
his mother; of the boy's early turbulent life in the village which
ended abruptly and violently in a public whipping in the market
square for disorderly conduct. Jeannette could not remember the
details, but she had heard it said in the village that young Vallon
had sworn deadly enmity against all those who had been present
and seen his humiliation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;He went up to Paris after that,&quot; Jeannette went on
to relate, &quot;and got under the thumb of that murdering blackguard
Danton. So I shouldn't wonder if he has become just such another
assassin himself. I shouldn't care to meet him alone on the road.
But, as I used to say to his mother long ago, she would spoil
him. She let him think he was somebody, though he was nothing
better, even in those days, then a young ne'er-do-weel. And the
woman spoilt him, too, because he had flashing eyes and a way
with him. Dirty young blackguard, I call him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She went meandering on, not caring whether her mistress listened
to her or not. She had the usual anecdotes to tell of Andr&eacute;'s
turpitude, and the perpetual mischief he would get into, causing
his mother endless worry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore only listened with half an ear. Vague memories floated
through her mind of a glorious day such as this in mid-July. Her
birthday. her young friends. A game of blindman's bluff. And then
the face of a boy with flashing black eyes, a shock of chestnut
hair from which the hot sun drew glints of shining copper, and
of a brown, slender hand holding a futile, useless pocketknife.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It all seemed like a dream now. Later on she had heard the story
of the same boy being publicly whipped in the market square for
having killed Hector Talon's savage dog, and she remembered feeling
sorry for him, because already in those days she had instinctively
disliked Talon. How it all came back now! Her pity for the boy,
her dread at sight of his flashing dark eyes and of his beautiful
face convulsed with rage because Pierre de Maul&eacute;on had
slapped his cheek. And the heavy scent of earth which had offended
her nostrils when, blindfolded, she fell against his breast.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XV:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">Soon the news was all over the countryside
that Andr&eacute; Valon had come home from the war, and the very
next day Marianne's doorstep was besieged with people who not
only wanted to see the boy, but wished to know just what was going
on over in Champagne or Verdun; whether the King of Prussia was
really marching on Paris, or whether he had been defeated by the
brave national army and was now in full retreat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Somehow, too, it had become known that Andr&eacute; had both won
his epaulettes and lost his left arm at Valmy, where the King
of Prussia had suffered a severe defeat. Rumours of that victory
- one of the rare ones - had penetrated as far as Val-le-Roi;
Danton had made grandiloquent allusions to it in the National
Assembly, had talked volubly about &quot;our glorious troops,
our valorous soldiers who were sweeping the whole of Europe clean
of tyrants and militarism.&quot; He spoke of &quot;their heroic
deaths, fighting in the glorious cause of liberty,&quot; and &quot;sacrificing
their noble lives with the smile of martyrs going to glory, so
that the world might, at least, be safe for democracy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
What he did not talk of were the unspeakable privations, the almost
unbelievable hardships which, indeed, had been endured by the
troops with a stoicism and heroic obstinacy almost without parallel
in the history of the world. Andr&eacute; himself never spoke
about that. That he had suffered, and suffered terribly, along
with the troops which he had helped to lead to victory, could
be seen by the unnatural glitter that came to his eyes whenever
friends pressed him to tell them something of that well equipped
and well fed army of Prussians and Austrians who were attacking
France just because she had thrown off the shackles of tyranny
and led the vanguard to an era of equality and of liberty. An
almost cruel curve would then distort Andr&eacute;'s lips when
he spoke of the Austrian officers in their smart uniforms, or
the Prussian troops with their good boots and well filled bellies,
all fighting in the cause of those <I>aristos</I> who had so complacently
shaken the dust of starving France from their high-heeled shoes
and were disporting themselves in comfort and safety in Belgium
or England. And he would glance up into the distance, where, outlined
against the summer sky, the pinnacles and pointed roofs of the
Ch&acirc;teau de Marigny towered above the treetops, and the look
in his eyes became almost one of frenzied hatred, whilst words
such as Danton himself would have emulated came hoarsely from
his parched throat. He hated them. Heavens above, how he hated
them all! It was a hatred akin to physical anguish, one that had
been born in his heart when he was a mere child, on that day of
bitter humiliation when he had stood naked at the whipping post,
exposed to the mocking gaze of those <I>aristos</I> with their
perfumed hair and bejewelled lorgnettes. That had been a boy's
hatred, but now it was the hatred of a man filled to the soul
with bitter resentment and the yearning for some measure of revenge.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But it was when the gleam of that resentment glittered most vividly
in her son's eyes that Marianne's podgy, toil-hardened hand would
descend with a soothing pressure upon his shoulder. Her calm philosophy
would express itself in a few clumsy words, and Andr&eacute; would
pat that kindly hand and kiss it and make a big effort to subdue
the paroxysm of his fury.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;All I long for, <I>Maman ch&eacute;rie,&quot;</I> he would
say, as calmly as he could, &quot;is that I may live long enough
to see the destruction for this old world and the rebuilding of
the new. Nothing else will do, my dear one, but complete annihilation
of everything. There is corruption everywhere; uncleanness, crying
evils too deeply rooted to be remedied. The world is overgrown
with tares; nothing but a world conflagration can render it clean
again.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
At which Marianne would nod her head and reply gently: &quot;The
worst tare of all, Andr&eacute;, is hatred. How can you reap anything
but conflict if you sow that?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It is not hate, Mother, that will set the world aflame,
but justice. Something has got to be done. Those who have mocked
at misery and done nothing to alleviate it must be made to suffer.
Those who have enjoyed life, who have always eaten and drunk their
fill - they have got to learn what it feels like to be so cold
- so cold that your chattering teeth seem ready to fall out of
your jaws and to feel your belly so hollow that you would gnaw
the flesh off your own limbs. They have got to know something
of suffering, Mother. It is justice, and it has got to be.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Marianne would still shake her wise old head. Justice? When
had there ever been justice in this old world in which she had
lived long and endured so much? There had been no justice in the
days that were past, when up at the ch&acirc;teau - whither she
trudged day after day, in order to do the family washing - she
saw buckets full of meal and skim milk thrown to the pits, and
fat, meaty bones given to the dogs, which would have kept her
and her boy free from hunger. Was there justice now, when soldiers
who were fighting for France were allowed to starve while the
great orators up in Paris held banquets and feasts in the name
of Liberty?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Justice? God alone held its scales, and no man knew how He would
administer it in the life that was to come.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XVI:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">It was while the excitement of Andr&eacute;
Vallon's homecoming was at its height, and the imagination of
the countryside stirred by his account of the heroism and endurance
of the national army, that Hector Talon took the opportunity of
recruiting half a dozen ruffians to fulfill that act of madness
ordered by Monseigneur by way of reprisals for the burning of
his granaries and his mill.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
With ferocious spite he had already selected the cottage of Marianne
Vallon for the dastardly deed and chosen the day when Andr&eacute;
himself was absent from Val-le-Roi, having gone to Nevers on business
of his own. He also selected another cottage close by, which was
the property of the widow Louvet, who had four children and a
small competence left to her by her husband, at one time a prosperous
farmer who, some time before his death, had fallen on lean days
and been forced, like so many others, to sell most of his land.
Those two cottages, then, isolated from the rest of the village,
had been marked by Talon for destruction. The six ruffians, whom
he had recruited in absolute secrecy and for a small sum from
one of the distant villages, arrived in the early morning armed
with sabres and bayonets, clad in cloth coat and breeches, and
wearing red caps on their heads. They proceeded first to one cottage
and then to the other, and summoned the women to clear out of
them at once. As they refused to move, the ruffians seized them
and the Louvet children and forcibly ejected them from their homes,
after which act of brutality, they set fire to the cottages. When
these were well ablaze they incontinently took to their hells,
and no one had set eyes on them since.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The news of the outrage spread like wildfire, and soon the entire
population of three villages flocked to the scene of the disaster.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Strange how rumour does travel in these lonely districts! The
firing of shops or stores, of granaries or timber sheds, were
of frequent occurrence these days, and usually the crowds that
gathered round the conflagrations were made up, in addition to
the ruffianly incendiaries, of a few young rapscallions intent
on mischief and some poor half-starved vagabonds - men and women
- who hoped to pick up something out of the wreckage. There were
also those who came to shout, <I>&quot;Vive la libert&eacute;!&quot;</I>
at the instigation of the professional tub thumpers, who took
the opportunity of egging the crowd to worse mischief still.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But in this case it was different. People came from Le Borne and
Vanzy, from Auberterre and Barbuise; for hours the road, the lanes,
the towpaths were dotted with dark figures hurrying to the scene.
Men in ragged shirts and shoeless; women in tattered kirtles;
children, half naked, clinging to their mother's hand; but there
were also the farmers from Aubeterre or Vanzy, who came driving
in their carts, and there was the lawyer from Le Creusot in his
carriole, and the leech from Barbuise, who was on his rounds.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
For an hour or more the cottages were ablaze. They were stone-built,
with heavy wooden rafters and age-old beams, which were a ready
prey for the flames. There was very little wind, and the sky was
leaden. Great storm clouds, tinged now with crimson, came rolling
in from the west. Huge columns of smoke rose, writhing and twisting,
to the sky mingled with showers of spluttering, hissing sparks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The men worked wonders, some of them risking their lives in a
heroic endeavour to save the women's goods. There had been a prolonged
drought since June and very little water in the wells, but many
men defied the flames while they dragged poor bits of furniture,
bedding, or clothing out of the blazing buildings. The women stood
round, staring wide eyed at this disaster which they could not
comprehend. It was so ununderstandable, meaningless, wanton. The
destruction of bourgeois or <I>aristo</I> property, yes! they
understood that well enough, because those that were well-to-do
were the enemies of the starving people of France - at least,
so the great orators up in Paris were never tired of dinning into
the ears of all and sundry. But cottages! the dwellings of the
poor, the home of a widow and of a mother of children! That was
beyond human comprehension.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The widow Louvet, with her children gathered about her knees,
was squatting by the side of the road up against the hedge with
a crowd of sympathizers all round her. She mostly had her apron
over her face, feeling, she said, quite unable to bear the sight
of that awful conflagration. She seemed quite incapable of lending
a helping hand, even in the simple effort of dragging her goods
out of the way of the crowd. When her apron was not over her face
she just stared in front of her, or else at her children, and
through quivering lips murmured agonizing, <I>&quot;Mon Dieu!&quot;</I>'s
and <I>&quot;Sainte Vierge!&quot;</I>'s. &quot;What will become
of us now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Marianne Vallon neither cried nor prayed. In her own quiet,
stolid way she did her share in endeavouring to rescue her goods.
She worked like a man: and when all her little bits of furniture
were in safety, she went over the Louvets' cottage and helped
in the work of salvage there.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
<I>&quot;Voyons, Citoyenne Vallon,&quot; </I>one of the men said
to her when she attempted to go too near the blazing building.
&quot;Keep your distance. The place is dangerous.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She said nothing, only shook the men off who tried to restrain
her. There were the children's paillasses to get out of the way,
and their few bits of clothing. The men had gotten these out of
the cottage, but they were too near the fire still, and flying
sparks might set them alight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Take care, Citizeness Vallon!&quot; the women shouted to
her. &quot;Let the men do what they can.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marianne was stooping at the moment. She had hold of a bundle
of bedding with both hands and was dragging it out of the way.
Her bulky shoulders were bent to the task: the scanty gray hairs
clung to her streaming face. The bedding was heavy and awkward
to handle, but so precious; so very precious, with all those poor
sickly children wanting to sleep comfortably o' nights.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Take care, Citizeness Vallon!&quot; the women screamed.
&quot;It isn't safe!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Let the things be!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Take care!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And the men all at once gave a terrific shout, &quot;Out of the
way!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
One of them tried to get a hold of Marianne to drag her to safety,
but she was large and heavy and bulky, and she was bending to
her task, not seeing what was going on and heedless of the shouts
of warning.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And suddenly a sheet of fire came bursting from the cottage: it
was followed by a thunderous crash as the roof fell in, scattering
bits of wood, stones, and tiles in all directions.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A cry of horror rose from every throat, drowning the roar of the
flames, the hissing of sparks, the din of falling timber and crumbling
stones. Beneath a huge smouldering beam Marianne Vallon lay, huddled
up and lifeless, still clasping the bundle of bedding in her arms.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XVII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">Now only the blackened stone walls
were left standing, with the empty holes where the tiny windows
had been staring out on the scene of devastation like hollow,
sightless eyes. An evil-smelling sooty smoke still found its way
out of the smouldering ruins, and now and then a volley of sparks
rose up hissing to the stormy sky. A suffocating smell of hot
paint and burning refuse hung in the air, and the lamentations
of women, the whimpering of children, and the dull murmur of men's
voices seemed like eerie sounds that came from the Stygian creek.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
No one knew exactly what to door what to say. The catastrophe
was so appalling that, beyond sullen murmurs, those who had witnessed
it appeared tongue-tied. Paralyzed they were with the horror of
it. The death of Marianne Vallon was the culminating point in
the overwhelming disaster. And Andr&eacute; himself was away.
He had gone to Nevers the day before to see about a lawyer's business
which he wanted to take over now that he was no longer fit to
rejoin the army. He had been full of hopes of a brighter future
for the mother whom he adored. No longer would she have to wash
and scrub for him. There was so much litigation these days that
any lawyer with brains was certain of a good income. And Andr&eacute;
Vallon was well seen in his high places: he had been clerk at
one time to no less a personage than Georges Danton, the idol
of the people, who thought the world of him. Oh! there was no
doubt about it, the world held compensations for a man like Andr&eacute;
Vallon. He had lost an arm but not an iota of his brains, and
though the terrible hardships which he had endured int he campaign
against the Prussians had to a certain extent impaired his health
and embittered his temper, he had still two priceless possessions
- youth and an iron constitution.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He was going to be so happy! And now this awful, this overwhelming
cataclysm. Who was going to tell him? Who would be bold enough
to face that son with news of his mother's death under such tragic
circumstances? The women discussed it but could offer no advice.
All they could do was to stretch their arms up to heaven and ejaculate,
<I>&quot;J&eacute;sus! Mon Dieu!&quot;</I> even though they knew
well enough that appeals to the deity were nor forbidden by law.
The men were torn between the desire to run away, now that they
could do nothing to help in an active way, and the longing to
fasten the guilt of the whole thing on somebody. For somebody
had done this awful deed. The ruffians who had ejected the women
and children from their homes had taken to their heels. True enough!
But the countryside could be scoured for them, and, by dint of
menace and other more forcible arguments, they might be made to
confess in whose pay they were. Strangely enough, no one suspected
as yet that the monstrous order had emanated from the ch&acirc;teau.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In the meanwhile, those among the crowd who had business of their
own to attend to were gradually trying to get away. Perhaps at
the back of their minds there arose the fear that some sort of
mischief would surely come out of this. Vallon would turn up presently,
and the devil alone knew to what lengths his fury would go. He
already held the people around in the hollow of his hand and could
lead them whithersoever he chose. With his mother lying dead at
his feet through an outrage as yet inexplicable, something of
the rage of a tiger unleashed might carry him and his sympathizers
to excesses which presently might know no bounds. When the temper
of the rabble was worked up no one knew how things would end,
and it was best to be home and keep gates and doors well barred
and bolted. And so the farmers in their carts, the leech in his
carriole, the keepers of neighbouring village stores, drifted
away one by one.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;If you meet Vallon, tell him!&quot; was shouted after those
who were going in the direction of Nevers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And Farmer Lameth, from over Le Borne way, going homeward in his
cart, did presently meet Andr&eacute; Vallon, who had borrowed
a carriole in Nevers and was leisurely driving home. Farmer Lameth
pulled up.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Terrible doings up at Val-le-Roi,&quot; he called out to
Andr&eacute;. &quot;You should be there, Citizen Vallon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Why? What has happened?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Two cottages have been fired, and families turned out of
their homes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Name of a dog...!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Farmer Lameth hesitated a moment or two. Already he did not much
like the look in Andr&eacute;'s face. What would it be presently
- when he knew?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;One of them is your mother,&quot; the worthy farmer added
tentatively.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My mo-!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This time it was the devil himself who kindled the flame in Andr&eacute;'s
eyes. He whipped up the nag, and the carriole started off with
a bump upon the stony road. Farmer Lameth turned in his seat and
called out once more:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Citizen Vallon!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; did not slacken speed, but he too turned in his seat
and shouted back:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes! What is it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;There's more trouble there than you think-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Andr&eacute; did not really listen. He whipped that poor old
nag as he had never whipped a horse before. Never had the road
seemed so long. Trouble indeed! He would see to it that there
was trouble and to spare for whoever had lain hands on his mother's
property and turned her out of her home. Trouble? There would
be trouble in Val-le-Roi such as there had never been even in
Paris, even in Versailles! Trouble? My God!<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XVIII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Here comes Citizen Vallon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;No.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I tell you 'yes.'&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And he's driving like the devil!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Instinctively the crowd had closed up right across the road, barring
the way to the smouldering cottage and standing in a dense mass
round the recumbent figure over which someone had reverently laid
an old tattered shawl. The men had succeeded in moving away the
beam and the bundle of bedding, and Marianne Vallon now lay on
one of the paillasses which she had rescued from the flames: her
hands had been folded across her ample bosom, and the thin gray
hair smoothed away from the marble-like, wide forehead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was no other feeling in the heart of anyone there at this
moment but intense pity for the bereaved son and an awed wonder
as to what would happen next. Even such men as Tarbot, the ex-butcher
of Vanzy, and Mol&eacute;, the wheelwright, two of the most desperate
ruffians the Revolution had engendered in any village, were silent
and uncertain, and determined to delay as long as possible the
terrible revelation that would bring such overwhelming grief to
a devoted son. So they all stood like a solid phalanx, shoulder
to shoulder, around that still and inert mass, while a carriole
came rattling down the road, and a miserable nag, all skin and
bones, thick with dust and lather, charged straight into them.
It is very difficult to stand up to a charging horse and vehicle,
even though the horse is but skin and bones: the crowd gave way,
and Andr&eacute; jumped down from the carriole. The men tried
to restrain him, but with his one arm he shook them off and forged
his way to where his mother law, with eyes closed, her hands folded
across her bosom, her body covered with a shawl.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He was in the midst of a crowd, and he would not let them see
what he felt. Not a word came through his lips, and the cry that
had risen to his throat was smothered and deadened with a mighty
effort of will. He knelt down beside his mother and, with his
hand on her ice-cold forehead, he looked down on her face and
listened. No need for the others to tell him. Death was all too
plainly writ on those beloved features, so stark and set, and
the slightly parted lips through which so many words of quiet
philosophy had often passed in order to comfort and to calm him.
The eyes were closed, and Andr&eacute; bent down and kissed each
rigid lid; the hands were folded as they had so often been in
prayer when she had knelt beside his bed. Her heart was still
- that great, big heart of hers in which there had never been
room for hatred and bitterness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Oh, no! There was no need for others to tell him. He knew the
moment that the crowd parted and he saw her lying there with the
tattered shawl over her that she was dead. A slight noise among
the crowd, a sigh, no doubt, or a smothered sob, recalled him
to the fact that there were others there. Very gently he drew
the old shawl right over his mother's face, and then he rose to
his feet. There was not a drop of blood in his cheeks: his face
looked as pale as that of the dead woman at his feet, but in his
eyes now there were smouldering flames of fury that would not
be quenched save in revenge.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What has happened?&quot; he asked curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A dozen voices were raised at once. Floods of eloquence so long
held in check poured into his ears in full.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The two cottages were fired.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Six ruffians laid hands on the women.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The widow Louvet and her four children are homeless.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Your mother was killed in an endeavour to save some of the
children's belongings.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The roof fell in. A heavy beam knocked her down.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;She must have died instantly.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Hold on!&quot; Andr&eacute; shouted, drowning the tumult
with his stentorian voice. &quot;Who fired the cottages?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Six ruffians there were-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;In cloth coats and breeches-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And with shoes on their feet.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Who saw them?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The widow Louvet - she with the four children - had given up crying
and moaning and staring into vacancy. The far greater tragedy
of Marianne Vallon's death had put her own misfortune in the shade.
Thus directly appealed to, she was ready to come forward with
her tale. She had seen the six ruffians, of course: had they not
turned her out, her and the children, out of her home, and at
the point of their bayonets? She couldn't resist. What could she
do? They had turned her out, and she was afraid the children would
be hurt. Then the ruffians had set fire to her cottage. They had
piled up straw in the middle of the kitchen floor and set it alight.
Some of them stood by to see that the straw had caught on properly;
the others went on to the house of Citizeness Vallon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Was no one about, then, to stop them?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Apparently not. They all shook their heads. It had all been done
so quickly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;After that the reprobates took to their heels.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And no one after them?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Again they all shook their heads.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Your mother tried to save the children's bedding-&quot;
the widow Louvet began dolefully, and suddenly paused, for the
look in Andr&eacute;'s face was so terrifying that it froze the
words on her lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And I am not here,&quot; he murmured, &quot;to tear their
entrails out of their filthy bodies...&quot; And suddenly he threw
back his head and his glowing eyes searched the faces in the crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Can any of you guess,&quot; he asked quite quietly, &quot;who
is at the bottom of this?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Not only had they guessed, but they knew. Had not Hector Talon
- that double-faced hypocrite - had he not thrown out hints that
more than a week ago that Marigny, up at the ch&acirc;teau, had
threatened - nay, commanded - reprisals for the firing of his
granaries? Some of them murmured the name of Talon, but Andr&eacute;
gave a harsh, scornful laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Talon?&quot; he said. &quot;Yes! We'll deal with Talon presently,
for of a certainty he is in this villainy up to the neck. But,&quot;
he went on more slowly, so that every word told and struck the
ears of the crowd like the knell of an inevitable doom, &quot;it
is that devil up there who must account for to-day's infamy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He paused a moment and then added:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I am going up there, anyway, in order to make sure. Who
comes with me?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The response was unanimous. Indeed, it seemed as if a great sigh
of relief went through the assembled crowd. Not only the men,
but also the women. The sense of awe engendered by the magnitude
of the catastrophe and the death of Marianne Vallon was beginning
to wear away. There were men here who had begun to think of reprisals
and who read in Andr&eacute;'s white, set face, in the almost
tigerish fury in his glowing eyes, that passionate desire for
revenge for which they themselves had so often thirsted. Men like
Tarbot, the ex-butcher, and Mol&eacute;, the wheelwright, had
also brooded over the wrongs of their caste until they hungered
for an opportunity to bring <I>aristos</I> to shame, or, better
still, to the guillotine. They had seen around them such scenes
of misery, humiliation, starvation, and tyranny that their hatred
of tyrants and oppressors had turned to savage lust for the sight
of blood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was no question here of philosophy or moderation.<BR>
How are you going to preach forgiveness and moderation to a starving
crowd? There is no tongue sufficiently eloquent to find words
that will pour the soothing oil of forbearance on a raging sea
of rebellion. One Voice alone could do that, and did it nigh two
thousand years ago, but to-day that Voice is still: It only speaks
mutely from the Cross.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Citizen Vallon,&quot; one of the men said decisively, &quot;we
will help you in your revenge.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; nodded in silence. He could not trust himself to
say much. Not yet. There was always the fear of breaking down,
of showing weakness which he was far from feeling. He hardly dared
look on that so still form beneath the ragged shawl: the folded
hands showed all too plainly, and the swell of the ample bosom
against which he had so often as a child cried himself to sleep.
No, indeed, he dared not look, for sobs threatened to choke him,
and he might cry out his agony of grief. But he still had a task
to accomplish, a duty to fulfill.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;A few sticks to make a stretcher,&quot; he said curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Where'll you take her, Andr&eacute;?&quot; one of the women
asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Back home.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It is burnt to the ground.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I know that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
They asked no further questions, for already Andr&eacute; was
busy breaking down branches of trees. The men helped: some of
them had tools, others went to fetch what they could. A stretcher
was soon improvised, and they lifted the dead woman on it. Andr&eacute;
and Tarbot, the ex-butcher, carried her to her ruined cottage,
most of the others following.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Tarbot, looking down on the dead woman, asked:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Where shall we put her?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;In there,&quot; Andr&eacute; replied.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
They put the stretcher down, and Andr&eacute; went deliberately
up to the cottage door and started clearing away the charred d&eacute;bris
which encumbered it. The other men lent a hand, and when the entrance
had been cleared Andr&eacute; and Tarbot went back to get the
stretcher. They had just stooped to lift it when the Abb&eacute;
Rosemonde was seen hurrying down the road. He had heard the news
and came panting along as fast as his shaking limbs would carry
him. He had tucked his soutane up round his waist: he was hatless,
and his gray hair clung to his streaming forehead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I don't want to see him,&quot; Andr&eacute; said abruptly.
&quot;Keep him away.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But the Cur&eacute; forged his way resolutely through the crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Andr&eacute;, my child,&quot; he cried panting, &quot;I
only just heard the news. I came as fast as I could.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; paid no attention to him. In silence, with the aid
of Tarbot, he carried his burden into the ruined cottage.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;We'll lay her down here,&quot; he said, &quot;until such
time as-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Andr&eacute;!&quot; the old priest called.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Go home, Citizen Cur&eacute;,&quot; Tarbot said roughly.
&quot;Can't you see that you are not wanted here?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He and Andr&eacute; had taken the dead woman to the centre of
what had once been her parlour. The floor was littered with rubbish.
They cleared a place on which to deposit the stretcher. Above,
through a wide, yawning gap in the roof, there was a vista of
a leaden sky of gray clouds which hung, low and heavy, presaging
the coming storm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; collected what there was left of charred wood and
spread it around the stretcher.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Straw would be better,&quot; he muttered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What are you going to do, Citizen Vallon?&quot; Tarbot asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The others had come to a halt all about the doorway. Behind them
the old priest was still striving to elbow his way through the
crowd. Andr&eacute; drew his flint and steel out of his pocket
and used them vigorously, trying to draw a spark. The men understood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Straw would be better,&quot; one of them said. Another added:
&quot;I know where to get some,&quot; and turned toward the road.
This made a gap through the crowd, and the old priest pushed his
way in.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Andr&eacute;!&quot; he cried once more. &quot;Your mother...!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; paid no attention to him. He was busy with his flint
and steel, trying to get little bits of wood alight. But the fire
had done its work, the charred wood fell into ashes and would
not burn.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Young Legendre has gone to get straw,&quot; said one of
the men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;This is sacrilege,&quot; the old priest protested loudly.
&quot;Andr&eacute;, in your dead mother's name...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
At this Andr&eacute; looked up. &quot;My mother is dead,&quot;
he said roughly; &quot;she doesn't want you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You may not want me, my child,&quot; the old priest retorted
firmly, &quot;but she would.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then, as Andr&eacute; said nothing more, only went on stolidly
striking flint against steel, the Cur&eacute; said forcefully:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Remember, my son, that from above she can still see you;
how think you she would view this awful sacrilege? <I>Voyons!
voyons</I>, Andr&eacute;,&quot; he went on more gently, &quot;do
not harden your heart in rebellion against the will of God. Let
me come near the dear old soul, and we'll pray together that she
may have eternal rest. She would have wished it, you know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And though resentment and bitterness were tearing at Andr&eacute;'s
heart, he knew that the priest was right. Old Marianne, could
she have said the word, would have rebelled against this desecration
of her body: she would have wished for Christian burial, to the
accompaniment of prayer and the ministrations of the Church. To
the end of her hard life she had remained a professing Christian,
clinging to the simple beliefs of her youth, weeping over the
godlessness of this new regime, over the spirit of rebellion which
it had fostered in her Andr&eacute;'s heart, abhorring the tyranny
of man which had brought so much misery on the poor people, yet
bowing with quiet philosophy to the inscrutable will of God.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; knew all that. &quot;She would have wished it, you
know.&quot; The priest's words found an echo in his aching heart.
For a few seconds still did he hesitate, did his pride war with
his love for the dead. The others watched him in silence while
the women wept. Here was something that was past their comprehension,
something that awed and silenced them and for the time being made
them forget their passions and their hatred. Then Andr&eacute;,
without another word, put his flint back into his pocket and rose
to his feet. He stood aside, and when the priest knelt down beside
the dead and began murmuring his prayers, he watched him silently
for awhile and then walked quietly out of the cottage.</FONT></P>

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<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XIX:</FONT></B></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">But under the stormy canopy of the
sky the spell was broken.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;We'll help you, citizen Vallon. Let's to the ch&acirc;teau!&quot;
was the universal slogan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But first of all for Talon!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The cry came from Andr&eacute;. It was harsh and cruel like that
of a young tiger scenting its prey. They others did not quite
understand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Talon? Why Talon?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Because,&quot; Andr&eacute; said, &quot;such an abominable
deed could never have been carried out without the aid of Hector
Talon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Why indeed Talon? Because he was the man whom Andr&eacute; hated
only one degree less than the people up at the ch&acirc;teau.
Why Talon? Because Andr&eacute; had a longing to see him dragged
here by the heels through the dust and to see his yellow eyes
turn glassy with the agony of deathly terror. Talon the hypocrite!
The mealy-mouthed sycophant!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Who will go and fetch Talon?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There were any number of them there willing enough to start the
day's work by baiting Talon. They went off in a body to fetch
him. They dragged him out of his house. Pushed along, heckled
and jostled, they brought him to the scene of the disaster, face
to face with Andr&eacute; Vallon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
They had dragged him along, and he had come, and on the way he
had mapped out his line of action. Not without due deliberation
had he planned the monstrous outrage, nor without due regard to
the consequences, unpleasant to himself, that might ensue. He
had foreseen the rage of these people, their lust for revenge;
he had reckoned on their passions as a lever for finally persuading
Marigny to emigrate. He had even been prepared for a certain measure
of danger to himself - danger which he would know how to combat.
But what he had not reckoned on was the death of Marianne Vallon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Nevertheless, he faced the crowd boldly. Whatever terror he felt
he did not let them see; nor did he flinch when Andr&eacute;,
towering above him, laid such a heavy hand on his shoulder that
his knees gave way under him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;So there you are, Citizen Talon,&quot; Andr&eacute; apostrophized
him coolly. &quot;I suppose you know who I am?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon looked up at the young face, dark and distorted with fury,
and blinked his yellow eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;How should I not know you, Citizen Vallon?&quot; he said
smoothly. &quot;I have known you ever since-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ever since you had me whipped for killing your brute of
a dog, eh?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That is past history, Citizen Vallon,&quot; Talon said jocosely;
&quot;you are a man now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;While you have remained a worm,&quot; Andr&eacute; retorted:
&quot;such a worm that I have a mind to tread on your face, just
for the pleasure of seeing you wriggle.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The men laughed, but Talon did not flinch. He even contrived to
shrug and to smile. He was clever enough to know that a bold face
and an arrogant air would be his best safeguard against aggression.
Some of these men here - the rougher ones - were his friends.
They knew him to be a man of influence. They had listened to his
oratory outside the village taverns and had heard men in high
places speak of Citizen Talon as a good patriot. And Talon knew
that they would not dare touch him, even though Andr&eacute; Vallon,
the savage young brute, did his level best to incite them to murder.
He kept up his jaunty air, and, only pulling a wry face, he said
indulgently:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You were always good at jesting, Citizen Vallon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I am not jesting now,&quot; Andr&eacute; rejoined. &quot;i
want to know who gave the order for this abominable outrage.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You mean the firing of the cottages?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Who ordered it? Tell us! Speak, why don't you? Speak, or
I'll tear the words out of your filthy throat.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon put up his hands and gazed at Andr&eacute; with an air of
innocence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Easy! easy! my friend,&quot; he said, &quot;how should I
know?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You are Marigny's menial - you must know....&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Then if you've made up your mind...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It was Marigny who gave the order?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I don't know,&quot; Talon protested. &quot;I swear I don't
know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You lie!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon shrugged his lean shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You lie, I say,&quot; Andr&eacute; reiterated roughly. &quot;Speak
the truth, man,&quot; he went on more calmly, &quot;it will be
better for you. The <I>aristo</I> gave the order, is that it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Talon would admit nothing. He knew nothing, he declared: vowed
that he could not believe Marigny capable of such a thing. As
for himself, he knew nothing. Nothing. He had been more shocked,
more distressed than anyone when he first heard of the disaster.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Lies! lies!&quot; Andr&eacute; retorted roughly. &quot;Shall
we to the ch&acirc;teau, citizens, and find out the truth for
ourselves?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A murmur of assent went the round. The truth? Why! they all knew
the truth. Andr&eacute; had known it all along, from the moment
when he saw his mother lying dead and that awful red mist rose
before his eyes. Marigny! It was Marigny who had done this loathsome
deed. Murder, deliberate and most foul, lay at the door of that
arrogant man up there, who, like his kindred and his king, had
not yet learned that the people would no longer bow the neck to
the yoke of their pride and their tyranny. Well, he, at any rate,
would be taught a lesson that day: he would be made to mourn with
tears of blood the deadly wrong which he had committed. He and
his brood! Let them look to themselves! Men and women had gone
to the guillotine for less, had watered their marble floors with
bitter tears for crimes which were as venial sins compared to
this morning's outrage.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Already the crowd had begun to move in the direction of the ch&acirc;teau;
they had all been impatient enough to go. What cared they if the
<I>aristo</I> &quot;up there&quot; were guilty or not? They wanted
to march, to shout, to threaten, as others had done in Paris and
Versailles. In the far distance from over the mountains came,
from time to time, the dull rumbling sound of thunder; occasional
flashes of lightning lit up the heavy storm clouds with a weird
purple light. The air grew hotter and more oppressive every moment,
but they all wanted to be up and doing - the storm was finding
an echo in their hearts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;To the ch&acirc;teau, Andr&eacute;!&quot; they said. &quot;We'll
help you in your revenge.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon made feeble efforts at protest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And you come with us, Citizen Talon,&quot; Andr&eacute;
concluded grimly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Tarbot and Mol&eacute; took Talon by the elbows. There was a general
movement along the road. Men, women, children: they all joined
in the procession. The men, earnest and determined; the women,
bitterly vindictive; the children, innocently curious. There were
fourscore of them at least, fourscore bent on demanding reprisals
for an unparalleled wrong.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And Andr&eacute;, silent and absorbed, with eyes aglow and mouth
set, saw, through a veil of red, a woman's face with large, innocent
eyes and soft fair hair - a woman, just a girl, in a rose-coloured
silk which made her seem like a flower bud. He hadn't seen her
for many years. She must be a woman now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Bah! what had he to do with women, and visions of women seen through
a mist the colour of blood? The one woman in the world he had
ever cared for lay stiff and stark now, silent in her ruined home.
And all that misery, all this injustice and unbounded sorrow lay
at the door of those people &quot;up there&quot;!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Heavens above! how he hated them all.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XX:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">The Abb&eacute; Rosemonde, having finished
his orisons, bethought himself of Marigny and little Aurore up
at the ch&acirc;teau, ignorant, mayhap, as yet of the storm that
was about to break with raging fury over their heads. At one moment
he had thought of speaking to those poor misguided children who
were being led away by disaster into acts of violence, the terrible
consequences of which God alone could foresee. He had thought
of admonishing Andr&eacute; vallon, who bitter resentment was
causing him to whip up the tempers of his sympathizers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The worthy Cur&eacute; shook his head dolefully: that poor lad!
led astray on the very threshold of manhood by his obstinacy and
willfulness: full of generous impulses, and such a good son! He
would have made a kind and faithful husband if only the times
had been different. And now that this awful grief had descended
upon him his obstinacy would harden his heart still more against
the comfort which religion along could give. A pity! a sad, sad,
pity that this catastrophe had happened. It was the will of God,
of course, and he, poor, humble priest, bowed meekly before it,
but, oh! how he wished that it had not happened. He couldn't imagine
who had conceived such an inhuman project, for never for a moment
would he contemplate the idea that Monseigneur would act so cruelly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
<I>&quot;Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Sainte Vierge Marie!&quot;</I> he
murmured fervently, &quot;turn the hearts of those poor, ignorant
people of France to a better knowledge of religion and virtue.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Thus the old man prayed while he tramped up the familiar woodland
path toward the ch&acirc;teau. He had been able to reach the slope
without being seen by the crowd, who were still standing outside
the ruined cottage, talking and murmuring. At one moment the Abb&eacute;
thought that he heard the voice of Hector Talon. Well, of course,
as a priest and a Christian he wished no harm to come to anyone,
but if it pleased God to punish Talon, Talon who had the ear of
Monseigneur and was such an evil consellor, he, as a man, would
not complain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Now, as he tramped upward, the good Cur&eacute; could hear echoing
from the valley below the distant clamour of the angry crowd:
Andr&eacute;'s sonorous voice and the hoarse shouts that rang
with the promise of mischief.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The atmosphere was terribly oppressive; there seemed to be no
air here under the trees; not a leaf stirred, and an evil smell
seemed to rise from the dust in the road. The Abb&eacute; hurried
on. he knew that he could do nothing &quot;up there,&quot; but
he could warn Monseigneur of what was brewing against him. It
might be wise to seek safety in flight while there was time.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was the width of the terrace and the gardens, with the distant
postern gate which gave on a lonely part of the wood, where it
might be possible to await quietly a better turn of events.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Indeed, the Abb&eacute; had to hurry. Looking down from a point
of vantage, into the road below, he could see that the crowd had
begun to move. To the priest it seemed as if their number had
swelled. But his eyes were short-sighted, and many months ago
he had broken his spectacles; he had never had any money since
with which to buy new ones, so he couldn't see very well. he hoped
that the crowd was not great and that Talon was with them. Surely
Talon would act as a restraining power over the others.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
<I>Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!</I> how foolish it all was! If only Mademoiselle
Aurore and Jeannette were out of the way, for arguments with noisy
crowds were not fit for women's ears.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Fortunately he was well ahead of the misguided lambs. He almost
ran up the perron, pushed open the great gate, and hurried across
hall and corridor and up the marble staircase to the distant small
withdrawing room, where Monseigneur usually spent the best part
of the day.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore was there with her father. She was busy sewing, and Monseigneur
was reading a paper which seemed highly to incense him, for just
as the Cur&eacute; entered the room he crushed it in his hand
and threw it on the floor with an oath. The priest sank, puffing
and panting, into a chair:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Those poor people! those poor miserable fools!&quot; he
began, and mopped his streaming forehead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Monseigneur looked at him and laughed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You need not tell me,&quot; he said curtly. &quot;I know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore looked up from her sewing; she looked first at her father,
then at the Abb&eacute;; then she put down her work. Something
terrible had happened. The strange glitter in her father's eyes,
the anxiety and distress in the Cur&eacute;'s face, but, above
all, her intuition and a sense of foreboding told her that something
terrible had happened.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What is it?&quot; she demanded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Those poor people,&quot; the priest murmured, &quot;they
are so foolish - so ignorant-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ruffians and devils!&quot; Monseigneur declared, and struck
the table with his fist, &quot;they have learned at last that
I, for one, am not to be defied.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore took hold of his hand; the one with which he had struck
the table.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What has happened?&quot; she demanded again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was a moment's silence. Only a few seconds. But during those
seconds she heard. The window was open, and she heard the clamour
- the sound of feet tramping up the slope and of a dull murmur
that mingled with the rumbling of the distant thunder. She knew
what it meant. Without doubt an in a moment, she knew what it
meant. Newspapers, pamphlets, rumours had found their way to this
lonely corner of France. Aurore de Marigny knew that all over
the country demagogues - men like that Andr&eacute; Vallon - spent
their time in inciting all the ruffians they could get hold of
to do acts of violence against persons of property. She knew that.
And she knew what the outcome of such provocations had often been.
Outrage. Death. Sometimes worse than death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She questioned her father. She had the right to know. They would
all hold their lives in their hands in a few minutes when the
crowd reached the ch&acirc;teau. She had the right to know, she
declared. Something had roused the village folk to frenzy: what
was it?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Monseigneur shrugged and said nothing. The glitter in his eyes
was like that of a madman. The old priest, overcome with emotion
and the heat, could do nothing but mop his forehead. And the clamour
from the valley grew louder and louder, the dull murmur of voices
and the tramp of naked feet in the dust of the road.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And suddenly Pierre came bursting into the room, with Jeannette
weeping and trailing behind him. They knew everything. Pierre
had heard it all - Heaven knew how - but he had heard so he ran
up - like the old Cur&eacute; had done - to warn Monseigneur and
Mademoiselle. He was breathless and inarticulate, but Monseigneur
did not interrupt him while he blurted out the whole terrible
tale: the six ruffians, the eviction of the women and children,
the firing of the cottages, the death of Marianne Vallon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Charles de Marigny appeared indifferent to the whole thing and
entirely disdainful. He did not even wince when Pierre spoke of
the death of Marianne. The priest moaned and ejaculated: <I>&quot;Mon
Dieu!&quot;</I> and looked to Heaven for guidance, while Aurore
listened wide-eyed, horrified. At first she was incredulous and
turned to her father with an appealing and mute: &quot;Is it true?&quot;
But his glance was obstinately averted. He stared out of the window
- listening - listening for the coming of that rabble which he
despised so utterly, even though their approach now probably meant
death to him and to Aurore.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A few minutes later the crowd had invaded the courtyard. The shuffling
of naked feet, mingling with the clatter of sabots and the tramping
of shoes, sounded like the breaking of surf on a pebble beach.
the voices were subdued, like the distant murmur of an angry sea.
There were no shouts, only murmurs and occasionally the whimpering
of a child.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Monseigneur rose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The gate-&quot; he said curtly to Pierre.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Barred and bolted, monseigneur. Oh! monseigneur didn't think
that I would allow...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Charles de Marigny did not listen. He had opened the drawer of
the table against which he now proceeded to examine carefully.
Aurore's large troubled eyes watched him as he drew his tall figure
to its full height and then turned to the door. With a sudden
little cry she ran and stood between him and that door. &quot;You
are not going to meet them, Father!&quot; she exclaimed impulsively,
and put out her arms to stop him, but he pushed her roughly aside.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You don't imagine,&quot; he retorted coldly, &quot;that
I would allow that rabble to come in here?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;If you go,&quot; she protested, &quot;I come with you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He took hold of her wrist with such violence that she nearly cried
out with pain. Who was she, he demanded, to stand in his way?
How dare she pit her feeble woman's will against his determination
to deal with those ruffians as they deserved?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I order you to stay here,&quot; he commanded; and not heeding
the servants' look of horror or the Cur&eacute; mild protest he
dragged her roughly from the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Are you trying to defy me,&quot; he thundered, &quot;like
that riffraff over there?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And the look which he cast on her - on her, the child of his heart,
the apple of his eye - was so laden with fury that she shrank
from him as if he had struck her in the face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then he opened the door. It gave on one of the great reception
rooms, used as a ballroom in the olden days. A long vista of parquet
flooring, of mirrors and girandoles, of tapestries and consoles,
stretched out to the other great doors opposite. Aurore turned
a last appealing look to the Cur&eacute;.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You must obey your father, my child,&quot; he said. &quot;God
will protect him, and you can do nothing.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He struggled to his feet and beckoned to Pierre. Charles de Marigny
had already gone through the door, and now the Abb&eacute; Rosemonde
and Pierre went out in his wake.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXI:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">The great room was empty. Silent and
majestic, with its gilded mirrors and chandeliers and rows of
chairs ranged round the walls as if ready to receive the ghosts
of the grand ladies and gentlemen who had chatted here a few short
weeks ago, had flirted and laughed and fluttered their fans and
danced the minuet in their high-heeled shoes before they made
their way up the steps of the guillotine or sought safety in an
obscure corner of some foreign land.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Charles de Marigny had no mind for sentimental recollections
just now. He strode across the room to the great central window
and threw it open. Like the sudden bursting of a dam, the sound
of the surging crowd rose in a strident cadence. Monseigneur stepped
out on the balcony and looked down on them. How ugly they were!
Dirty, unkempt, clad for the most part in filthy rags! He loathed
them! Oh! how he loathed them! The men! The women! Those half-naked,
unwashed children! Were they human at all? In the olden days he
would have classed all that rabble as lower and of less consequence
than his cattle or his dogs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He stood there for quite a few moments looking at them, his arms
resting on the marble balustrade, the pistol in his hand. They
had come to a standstill in the vast forecourt and were evidently
debating what to do next. Then a man's figure detached itself
from the rest. he wore an old military coat, one of the sleeves
of which was empty and fastened to a button on his chest. He wore
shoes and stockings, but his head was bare, and his hair was the
colour of a horse-chestnut when it bursts its green prickly shell.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was something vaguely familiar in the face, those dark eyes
and chiselled features, which recreated in Monseigneur's memory
a vision out of the past - a boy half naked, with straight young
back and firm limbs standing at the whipping post, while he and
H&eacute;l&egrave;ne de Beauregard looked on rather amused. H&eacute;l&egrave;ne
had put up her lorgnette and compared him to a rebel angel. He
looked more like a demon now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He strode across the forecourt and up the perron. Two others,
more swinish than the rest, followed him. Charles de Marigny watched
them. No one had caught sight of him yet, for the balcony was
thirty feet from the ground and twenty from the top of the perron.
The three men came to a halt in front of the great wrought-iron
and gilded gates.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Pierre whispered to Monseigneur:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Good thought I had of locking them. They'd want a cannon
to break them open.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The men, seeing that the gates were locked, appeared to hesitate,
and suddenly the man with the empty sleeve looked up.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Marigny!&quot; he called out and pointed to the balcony.
The crowd at once gazed upward. The say Monseigneur. The shouted,
&quot;Assassin! Open the gates!&quot; The women waved their arms;
the men shook menacing fists. But Charles de Marigny remained
motionless and detached, with an expression of withering scorn
on his pale, aristocratic face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Open the gates, Marigny,&quot; Andr&eacute; Vallon commanded.
&quot;The people here want a talk with you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
De Marigny's sole response was a peremptory:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Get out of there! All of you, get out!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Don't be a fool, Marigny!&quot; Andr&eacute; retorted loudly.
&quot;The people will not stand your arrogance. They have come
to speak with you, and speak with you they will, if they have
to pull down these stone walls about your ears.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Get out!&quot; Charles de Marigny called out in reply. &quot;The
gates through which you came are open! Get out!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Open the gates!&quot; they all shouted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Get out!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The tumult was waxing fast and furious down below. murmurs had
long since turned to raucous shouts, in which the words, &quot;Traitor!
Tyrant! Death!&quot; came clearer than the rest. But &quot;Death!&quot;
clearest of all. The Abb&eacute; Rosemonde tried in his feeble
way to restrain Monseigneur, but Charles de Marigny shook himself
free with a loud oath from the kindly hand on his shoulder.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Open the gates!&quot; Andr&eacute;'s voice rose above that
of the others, and Tarbot and Mol&eacute;, like a pair of savage
dogs on the leash, cried out, &quot;Open the gates or we'll burst
them open!&quot; Whereat a boy's voice in the crowd rose shrilly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;If we burst them open there'll be no talking: only death
for the traitor.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Death! Traitor! Assassin!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The guillotine!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Pierre's teeth were chattering with terror. He kept on murmuring,
as if to give himself courage: &quot;They can't burst them open!
They can't! They'd want a cannon!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Charles de Marigny drew himself up. Only his hand now, the one
which held the pistol, rested on the marble balustrade. He wanted
them to see him better, to see the contempt with which he regarded
them and their futile efforts to intimidate him. he turned half
away from the balcony as if that rabble down there was not even
worth a glance. He shrugged ostentatiously when the words, &quot;Assassin!
the guillotine!&quot; rose more and more insistently from below.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Let us go back, M. l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; he said calmly,
&quot;and see what Aurore is doing. When these muckworms are tired
of shouting they'll clear out fast enough.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
As far as he was concerned that was all! Rabble! riffraff! the
scum of humanity! That is what they were! And trying to frighten
him? Ludicrous, of course! Contemptible! What a fool to have brought
his pistol! As if those cravens would ever dare-</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A simultaneous cry from the Abb&eacute; and Pierre caused him
to swing back suddenly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The man with the empty sleeve had clambered up to the balcony.
With the aid of projections in the stonework and the age-old ivy
which, untended, had spread over the wall, he had pulled himself
up. Tarbot and Mol&eacute; were following him, but he, Andr&eacute;,
had got there first. One arm can be as good as two when fury whips
up the blood. With the aid of his one arm and a sinewy pair of
legs he was soon over the balustrade, even before the cry of alarm
spent itself in the old priest's throat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Monseigneur swung round. The pistol was in his hand, even with
Andr&eacute;'s head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Another step and I shoot!&quot; he called.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Shoot and be damned!&quot; Andr&eacute; retorted, and with
a bound was on the floor of the balcony. His arm shot out; his
fingers, hard as steel, closed round De Marigny's wrist and forced
his arm up, up, and back from the shoulder. The pistol went off
with a loud report and then dropped from the nerveless hand to
the ground.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
From the crowd below came an infuriated yell.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
<I>&quot;A moi, Pierre!&quot;</I> Charles de Marigny shouted.
And then, &quot;Let go my arm, <I>canaille!&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">Before Pierre could come to his master's
rescue, Tarbot and Mol&eacute; were over the balustrade, too,
and onto him. They took no notice of the Cur&eacute;, for he had
fallen on his knees, poor old man! and was imploring God to protect
Monseigneur; but they held Pierre down while Andr&eacute; forced
De Marigny, step by step, back into the room. Like a vise, that
one hand of his was nearly wrenching the upturned arm out of its
socket.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
<I>&quot;Mon Dieu, ayez piti&eacute;!&quot;</I> the priest murmured
fervently, whilst Monseigneur, though half swooning with pain,
reiterated obstinately, <I>&quot;Canaille! Canaille!</I> Get out!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The crowd, baulked of the sight of their enemy, had resumed their
cry of &quot;Assassin!&quot; A few of them, more vigorous than
the others, tried to follow their leader's example by climbing
up the ivy-covered wall. The other's shouted, &quot;Open the gate!&quot;
whereupon Mol&eacute;, the wheelwright, seized Pierre by the arm
and said curtly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You hear them, citizen? Come and open the gate.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Pierre, I forbid you,&quot; Monseigneur attempted to command,
but Mol&eacute; had already marched Pierre out through the door,
while Andr&eacute;, step by step, pushed De Marigny back into
the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
When he had got him right over to the other end, with his back
to the door of the small boudoir, he released his arm. It fell,
nerveless and numb. Obviously the man was in great pain, but pride
kept him on his feet. Obstinate and arrogant he was; he could
be cruel, too, where his dignity was at stake; but he was no coward,
either morally or physically. He did not regret the firing of
the cottages, that act of madness which had brought this yelling
horde about his ears. He felt faint and giddy, but with a mighty
effort he kept himself upright. There was a chair close by, but
he would not allow himself to sing into it, and even while Andr&eacute;
stood towering above him like a statue of wrath and vengeance,
his lips continued to murmur mechanically, <I>&quot;Canaille!</I>
Get out!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; gave a contemptuous shrug:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
<I>&quot;Canaille</I> we are,&quot; he said with a sneer, &quot;that's
understood, but we are a <I>canaille</I> who to-day demand justice.
you have committed an outrage which calls to Heaven for vengeance,
and we have come here to show you that we mean to get it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Murder, I suppose?&quot; De Marigny said coldly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Killing is no murder when justice demands it. A few hours
ago two defenceless women and a crowd of children were turned
out of their homes by your orders. My mother gave up her life
to rescue the few belongings of a poor widow and her children.
As sure as that I hold your worthless life in my hands, her death
is at your door. Killing is no murder, Marigny, when it means
justice.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Still De Marigny did not flinch. He made no reply, and for a few
seconds they stood facing each other, these two men, each the
product of his own upbringing and of his century; each imbued
with the passion and cruelty of men when they defend what they
hold most dear. Charles de Marigny, unbending and imperious, seemed
at this moment to be entrenched within the last outpost of his
caste, and to be safeguarding his right of property and the privileges
of his birth. Immaculately dressed, his hair carefully powdered,
his fine linen scarcely disarranged even after a hand-to-hand
struggle with this renegade, his pale face betrayed no emotion,
only a withering contempt. And Andr&eacute; Vallon, the typical
child of this bloody revolution, the son of a people who for generations
had suffered and toiled like beasts of burden and looked with
patient, submissive eyes on the pomp and luxury that never could
be theirs; who had never eaten their fill while others feasted;
who had wallowed in poverty and ignorance with hardly the promise
of Heaven to save them from despair: Andr&eacute; with shabby
coat and empty sleeve, with glowing eyes and heart overflowing
with resentment for past tyranny and unavenged wrongs, Andr&eacute;
stood for those stirrings which men like Rousseau had first infused
into their blood. And as De Marigny worshipped privilege, so did
these youngsters worship at the shrine of the newly discovered
goddess, Liberty. A new dawn had arisen for them, and they fell
on their faces and adored. They ate the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.
They learned and they pondered, and from out the depths of their
soul they evolved the consciousness of the dignity of man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
<I>&quot;Canaille</I> we are!&quot; he had thrown back the challenge
in De Marigny's face: &quot;low, unwashed, and ignorant, but men
for all that. For centuries your cast denied us the right to live
as we desired, to share in what goodness the world holds - the
right to hold our homes sacred, our wives and daughters inviolate.
But now we are your masters at last. We're butchered, we've despoiled,
we've killed, but the measure of justice is not yet full. Hundreds
of you have mounted the guillotine, and hundreds more shall do
the same until we get what we demand - justice!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
All that he said and more, while Charles de Marigny's face expressed
nothing but disgust at being in such close contact with this filthy
horde.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">And now the crowd came pouring into
the ch&acirc;teau. Pierre had been made to open the gate, and
they all rushed up the marble staircase. They invaded the hall
and the vast reception rooms. Awed at first by so much magnificence
of which they had no conception, by the gliding and the crystals
and the damask chairs, and by the mirrors which reflected their
dark faces and their rags and made their numbers seem so much
greater than they were.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But the awe soon wore off. So much magnificence! And there were
the Louvet children homeless; and Marianne Vallon lay dead in
her ruined home.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Well, Andr&eacute;!&quot; one of the men asked. &quot;What
says the <I>aristo?&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not much to say, I imagine,&quot;
said another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I am for slitting his throat at once and have done with
him.&quot; This from Tarbot, the ex-butcher, who always kept a
knife in his belt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I prefer the guillotine,&quot; declared Mol&eacute; sententiously.
&quot;It's more effective. An example to others, what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Let's hear what he's got to say first, and then we'll see.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
De Marigny's fine white hand felt in his pocket and drew out a
lace-bordered handkerchief, which he raised to his nose. With
a rough gesture Andr&eacute; tore it out of his hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Play-acting, Marigny!&quot; he said with a sneer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Let me slit his throat, Andr&eacute;!&quot; Tarbot demanded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Murder, by all means,&quot; De Marigny retorted coolly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Murder? No,&quot; Andr&eacute; declared. &quot;I too am
for the guillotine. The people want to see you die a dog's death.
Murder? Bah! Will one moment's anguish in your miserable life
give us back our youth spent in toiling so that you might feast;
gives us back our health impaired by starvation while you ate
and drank your fill? The last drain of your life's blood, Marigny,
cannot make good your tyranny. It cannot! It cannot! You cannot
make good, for you have nothing now - no power, no riches, none
of the claptrap that made you think you were a creature apart
while we were just swine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
His words acted like a gust of wind on a smouldering flame. Some
were for immediate murder, others like the thought of the more
protracted agony of the guillotine, but all wanted this man's
death. They hungered for it. They ached for a sight of his blood.
There was not a man or a woman there who did not see that pale,
proud face through a veil of crimson. But they still help their
breath like wild beasts when they have sighted their prey and
are ready to spring. Like felines they were, licking their jaws,
enjoying to its full the sublime sense of power over the life
and death of a fellow man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Strike him, Andr&eacute;!&quot; one of the men shouted.
&quot;I am for instant death.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Remember your mother, Andr&eacute;!&quot; yelled another.
&quot;Why wait for the guillotine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And suddenly the door behind De Marigny flew open, and Aurore
rushed in, a vision pale and ethereal, with fair hair loose and
eyes as dark as the midnight sky in June. In an instant she was
beside her father, her arms were round him, her head was against
his breast. Her slendor body was a shield between him and his
enemies.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; had uttered one loud, savage oath, and then remained
dumb, staring at the girl, while the crowd, taken aback for a
few seconds, soon began to laugh and jeer. A fresh spectacle this:
this fine lady with her laces and her frills. The wolves in expectation
of the slaughtered sheep rejoiced at sight of the lamb.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;For God's sake, Aurore, go back!&quot; Monseigneur exclaimed.
At first he had been half dazed, hardly believed his eyes when
he saw Aurore. He was like a man in a trance, not fully wakened
from a dream. &quot;Monsieur l'Abb&eacute;, take her away!&quot;
he added, vainly trying to perceive the Cur&eacute;'s face in
the midst of the crowd. He himself did what he could to drag Aurore's
arms away from his shoulders, whilst the old priest made a vain
effort to reach her. But all this was of no avail. It was Mol&eacute;,
the wheelwright, who seized hold of Aurore by the waist and dragged
her away from her father. In a moment she was surrounded. The
women in the forefront pulled at her gown and tore at the lace
of her sleeve.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;How much did your gown cost, my cabbage?&quot; one of them
jeered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;As much as would keep a family in food for a year,&quot;
declared another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Strip it off,&quot; suggested one of the men with a coarse
laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
One of the women grabbed at her fichu; another tugged at the ribbon
in her hair; the older ones lifted her dress and pulled at the
lace petticoats, the dainty stockings and silk garters. Obscene
jests went round:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Strip off her clothes!&quot; called Legendre, the young
imp with the game leg.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Pigs! Curs! Let her go!&quot; De Marigny cried at the top
of his voice, and tried to reach his daughter, but the whole crowd
was in the way, laughing and jeering, pressing round the girl
with shouts of derision and of glee. They elbowed De Marigny out
of the way. One of the men struck him on the face with his fist,
and he fell bleeding to the ground. He tried to drag himself up
again until another man kicked him and he lost consciousness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore gave an agonized cry of horror, the first she had uttered
since she had faced the crowd. Wildly, like a young animal at
bay, she looked about her, and her eyes met those of Andr&eacute;
Vallon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He as outside the crowd, had stood there ever since she first
came into the room, vaguely retracing in his mind the childish
features of ten years ago in that lovely face, contorted with
fear. With a mechanical movement his hand went up to his breast,
where all those years ago her head had rested for one brief moment,
on the very spot where they empty sleeve was now attached. Her
soft fair hair had tickled his cheeks; the scent of violets and
roses had risen to his nostrils. He had been in a dream until
the rough blow on his face from the hand of an insolent fop had
awakened him and kept him awake all those years with the memory
of a crowning insult.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He had been in a dream then; he was in a dream now, until her
eyes met his. Then suddenly he pushed his way through the crowd.
With his one arm he seized Aurore round the waist and lifted her
off her feet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The wench is mine!&quot; he called aloud.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Holding her closely to him, he pushed his way back as far as the
door of the boudoir to the accompaniment of vociferous shouts
and laughter from the astonished crowd. Here was a novel spectacle,
forsooth!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;He was always a madcap, that Andr&eacute;!&quot; the women
declared, while laughter brought tears to their eyes. Laughter,
perhaps, or something a little softer, more gentle: a vague sense
of romance never quite absent from the hearts of a Latin race.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; had allowed the girl to slide out of the shelter
of his arm. She collapsed on the floor right against the door
like a pathetic bundle of laces and frills. She was not quite
conscious. Terror and horror combined had obscured her senses.
With her small trembling hands she grasped the corner of a console
as she slid down on her knees, and through her bloodless lips
came pitiful moans and whispered murmurs, &quot;Father! My father!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; stood guard over her like a desert beast over its
prey. He stood, tall and erect, with head thrown back and legs
wide apart, a vivid presentment of the conquering male. The crowd
was certainly amused. Some of them tried to push forward to peer
once again closely at the <I>aristo</I>, her silks and her laces,
but Andr&eacute; with his stentorian voice kept them all at bay.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Hands off! The wench is mine!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What will you do with her, Andr&eacute;?&quot; a voice called
laughing out of the crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Take her for wife, <I>pardi,&quot;</I> Andr&eacute; retorted.
&quot;I must have someone to wash and cook for me. The wench pleases
me. She's mine!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This sally was greeted with a wealth of coarse jests from the
men, but the women were all on the side of Andr&eacute;. They
liked his looks, his flashing eyes, darker than ever in his pale,
determined face. They liked his full red lips which showed a glimmer
of white teeth like those of a young cat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Let him be, he was always a madcap!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;If he wants the wench, why shouldn't he have her?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And whisperings went the round: stories of Andr&eacute; Vallon's
pranks before he left the village to seek fortune in Paris. Not
a boy for leagues around he had not licked, not a pretty girl
whom he had not kissed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Let him have her if he wants her.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The men agreed. Even Tarbot, whose lust for killing had a few
moments ago turned him into a savage brute, shrugged his wide
shoulders and said coolly with a coarse jest:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Better than the guillotine, anyway!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
One of the men who had worked at the maire in Nevers added sententiously:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;If he likes to take her for wife there would be no guillotine
for her.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Is that so?&quot; the others asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The new law,&quot; the man from Nevers declared curtly.
&quot;A patriot may save an <I>aristo</I> from the guillotine
if he chooses to marry her.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
They discussed this matter from several points of view. Those
big-wigs up in Paris were always framing new laws, but this was
not a bad one. France was in need of children. The men, at any
rate, were all in its favour beacause, forsooth, they were well-favoured,
those <I>aristos</I> - soft skins, fluffy hair, better nourished
than the poor village wenches. The women, on the other hand, liked
the romance of it, especially if the patriot was young and handsome,
like Andr&eacute; Vallon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; himself listened to all the comments and the murmurings
with a vague smile on his lips. Perhaps he only half heard what
was said. His glance more often than not wandered round to that
motionless figure, crouching against the door, and when a pitiful
moan came to his ears, a look almost of ferocity flashed out of
his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The priest had contrived to get near to Aurore. He stooped and
put his hand on her shoulder. He whispered comforting words to
her, but the only response she gave was a pathetic murmur: &quot;My
father? Where is he?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute;, at sight of the priest, had become more and more
impatient, and suddenly, like a man who has come to the end of
his tether, he turned and kicked open the door. the small withdrawing
room beyond was in semidarkness. Jeannette was in there, squatting
on a low stool, weeping into her apron which covered her face.
There was a book on the floor, an open workbox, a piece of embroidery
on the table with a thimble and scissors beside it. The room looked
cozy in the half light with all these little intimacies. Andr&eacute;
glanced into it, then down on the crouching figure at his feet.
God in heaven! how he hated it all! The beauty, the cosiness,
and the perfume as of a bouquet of flowers that seemed to dull
his senses!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Stop your mumblings,&quot; he said roughly to the priest,
&quot;and take her in there.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore wouldn't move, though she looked up for a moment when she
heard the door open behind her. Not seeing her father, she turned
on Andr&eacute;.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My father!&quot; she demanded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He took her by the wrist and dragged her roughly into the boudoir.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I'll look after your father,&quot; he said curtly. &quot;He's
safe enough for the moment.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The Abb&eacute; Rosemonde slipped in after them and closed the
door. Strangely enough, the crowd did not attempt to follow. They
stood outside jeering and sniggering, vastly amused at the turn
of events. So unexpected this romance of the <I>aristo</I> and
that madcap Andr&eacute;! It might turn to tragedy, some of them
thought, but even so, it was better than the guillotine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Some of the men gazed down on De Marigny lying unconscious in
a corner of the room with a bleeding wound on his face: Bah! he
was hardly worth a kick now. A miserable rag of humanity, trampled
in the dust as he had been wont to trample those whom he despised.
His very life he owed to one of the despised rabble, and his daughter,
who was his pride and joy, would be the property of a man whom
in the past he would have looked on as lower than his dog. She
would have to cook and wash for him as Marianne Vallon had cooked
and washed up at the ch&acirc;teau. It was that, or the guillotine
for the lot of them. Ah! this revolution was indeed a great thing.
It had turned the tables on those proud <I>aristos</I> with a
vengeance. More power to its elbow, and long life to Georges Danton
and all its makers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Long life above all to the child of the Revolution, Andr&eacute;
Vallon.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXIII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">At first Aurore had made futile efforts
to free herself from Andr&eacute;'s grasp. Then, feeling helpless,
she gave up the struggle, whereupon he immediately released her
wrist. She turned at once to the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Open, M. l'Abb&eacute;!&quot; she called. &quot;I must find
Monseigneur.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The priest would have obeyed, but Andr&eacute; barred the way.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I said that I would look after Marigny,&quot; he said curtly.
&quot;You stay here with her.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore's hand was on the door knob.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Wait here, M. l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; she said, &quot;while
I speak with Monseigneur.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; was quite close to her, looking down on her half
quizzically, yet wholly in scorn. She threw back her head and
returned his mocking glance with defiance and cold contempt, and
when he put his hand over hers she withdrew it quickly, as if
she had been touched by some noisome animal. A grim smile curled
round Andr&eacute;'s set lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;If you go out through this door,&quot; he said coolly, &quot;it
means death to your father, to this priest, to your servants and
to you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Defiance in her eyes gave way to horror. She did not know what
had become of her father. The turmoil in the next room had subsided
to such an extent that she had not realized there was still danger
there from the crowd. This male ruffian here, with his brute strength
and mocking ways, seemed to be the only living creature that she
need fear. Apparently he had divined her thoughts, for without
another word he turned the knob and gently opened the door. A
murmur of many voices came to Aurore's ears. There were no longer
any shouts, no imprecations or threats - only that steady murmur,
and now and then a laugh. Just as the moment a man's voice rose
above the rest, and a phrase, coarse and hideously offensive,
accompanied by a cruel laugh, brought a blush of indignation and
of shame to the girl's face. It suffused her cheeks, her forehead
to the roots of her hair; only her lips remained bloodless. The
glance which she cast up at Andr&eacute; was almost one of appeal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Miserable and helpless, she gazed round the room, longing to find
something - weapon, anything wherewith to end this terrible situation.
Again he seemed to divine her thoughts, gave a light laugh and
a shrug, then pointed to one of the chairs across which lay Monseigneur's
elegant sword, with its jewelled hilt and chiselled scabbard.
As she made no movement - indeed, she could not have moved a limb
just then - he went over to the chair and picked up the sword.
He made pretense to examine it; with his one hand he worked the
blade out of the scabbard, and with that irritating, quizzical
glance of his held the hilt out to her.<BR>
&quot;Will this answer your purpose?&quot; he asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Strangely fascinated by that blade from which, at the moment,
the evening light drew dull fantastic rays, she raised her hand
and took hold of the hilt. Here was the weapon to her hand: what
should she do with it? The brute stood there, waiting and mocking:
oh, for the strength to plunge this blade into his cruel, callous
heart!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Aurore, my child!&quot; the priest exclaimed, for, acting
on blind impulse, Aurore had stretched out her arm and was holding
the point of the blade to her throat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Let her be, Citizen Cur&eacute;,&quot; Andr&eacute; said
coolly. &quot;Reason has already told her that with her death
my wish to save her father - and you - will vanish. Look, what
did I tell you? Even proud ladies listen to reason sometimes.
And, anyhow, that sword was both futile and ridiculous.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The sword fell out of Aurore's hand. Futile and ridiculous! How
true and how humiliating! Helpless, hopeless, and ashamed, she
buried her face in her hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Andr&eacute;, my son!&quot; the priest entreated, &quot;you
must have pity on us all.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Pity?&quot; Andr&eacute; retorted lightly. <I>&quot;Pardi!</I>
Am I not showing you all pity of which any man is capable? Have
I not snatched her and her miserable father, and you, my good
friend, out of the jaws of death? Has not my pity for her stayed
the murderous hand of our friend Tarbot and saved her from outrage?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes, my son,&quot; the Cur&eacute; admitted, &quot;and of
a certainty God will reward you; but surely you do not intend
to carry your cruel intention to its end?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What cruel intention? I have no other intention with regard
to this wench save to take her for wife.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But, Andr&eacute;, my son, that is impossible.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Impossible? Why?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Look at her, my child. Does she look like the wife of-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;-of a rapscallion?&quot; Andr&eacute; broke in with a sneer.
&quot;That is as may be and for her to decide. If the prospect
is so very displeasing, all she need do is to open this door and
let the rest of the canaille have its way with her, with her father,
her servants, and with you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then, as neither Aurore nor the Cur&eacute; spoke another word,
he went on, with an impatient shrug:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Perhaps you are right, Citizen Cur&eacute;: the scheme will
not work. It is impossible, as you say, and I'd better let our
friend Tarbot have his way with you all.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Once more he turned to the door; but it was Aurore this time who
barred the way. A dull, half-choked cry came involuntarily from
her throat:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;No! no!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She put out her hand, and he seized it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ah!&quot; he said with a sigh of satisfaction, &quot;reason
has spoke more loudly this time. Well! which is it to be, my fine
lady? Death at the hand of Tarbot or marriage with the <I>canaille?&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">The grip on her waist was like a tentacle
of steel, but she welcomed the physical pain almost as a solace
to the mental agony of the moment. She would not look at him,
but turned appealing eyes to the old priest, who, of a truth,
could offer neither advice nor consolation. It was for her to
decide and he, for one, was content to leave it all in the hands
of his Maker. He clasped his hands and prayed as he had never
prayed before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Look at me, Aurore,&quot; Andr&eacute; commanded. &quot;The
decision rests with you and not with the priest.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
With what seemed like a refinement of cruelty, he once more gently
opened the door. they were still laughing and jeering out there.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My father!&quot; she murmured.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And then added under her breath:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;For his sake, if you'll sear-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She could say no more, for she was on the point of swooning. Andr&eacute;'s
powerful arm encircled her drooping body, while an immense sigh
of satisfaction rose from his breast.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
<I>&quot;Par Dieu!&quot;</I> he said lightly. &quot;I had no idea
you were so beautiful, <I>ma mie!&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">And of a truth she was exquisitely
beautiful, with those deep, unfathomable eyes of hers filled with
terror and with hate, her red lips parted in a final appeal for
mercy. She had been on the point of swooning, but now that he
raised her to him - that she saw his face, his dark eyes, his
cruel, sneering mouth closer and ever closer, a moment's consciousness
returned to her with the horror of it all.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Let me go!&quot; she gasped. &quot;I hate you!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Of course you do, my dear,&quot; he retorted. &quot;We hate
each other - that is understood. But Fate has decided to link
us together until, like two wildcats, we shall have torn one another's
soul to shreds. In the meanwhile, in the presence of our friend,
the Citizen Cur&eacute;, we will seal our mutual promise to one
another with a kiss.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She felt helpless and stifled as his arm held her closer and closer;
with her two hands she tried to push against him - his face, his
breast. But her struggles only seemed to amuse him; his eyes flashed
mockery instead of passion, while they seemed to search the very
depths of her soul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You are beautiful!&quot; he reiterated slowly - very slowly
- while those mocking eyes of his drank in every detail of her
loveliness: her blue-veined lids, her perfect mouth, the exquisite
contour of throat and chin. &quot;You are beautiful, but, on second
thoughts, <I>ma mie</I>, I'll not kiss you yet. Not to-day. I'll
wait,&quot; he added with a light laugh, &quot;till those perfect
lips ask mine for a kiss.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And suddenly he slackened his hold on her, lifted her off the
ground, and carried her to the sofa. He called peremptorily to
Jeannette, who was whimpering under cover of her apron, and ordered
her to look after her mistress.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then, without another word, he strode out of the room.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXIV:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">The crowd in the meantime had worked
its will in the old ch&acirc;teau. With the exit of the hero and
heroine of a brief romance, reaction had set in. The fury of reprisal,
merged for a moment in laughter and coarse jests, reasserted its
domination. The <I>aristos</I> were ashamed and punished; the
<I>ci-devant</I> Marigny lay half dead on the floor; but this
seemed hardly compensation enough for two smouldering cottages
and the death of a valiant woman. Not enough, of a truth, with
all this magnificence flaunted in these gorgeous halls, with tapestries
and sconces and mirrors, all accessible to eager, needy hands.
Not much notice was taken of Marigny. Once kicked conveniently
aside, he was allowed to remain lying there. Dead or alive? Who
cared, when there were damask curtains to be had for the taking?
- useful things to replace shawls and blankets long since worn
to rags. Down came the curtains, one after the other, torn down
by vigorous hands. In the vast banqueting halls there was not
much that was useful, but there were chairs and tables to replace
humble ones that had been used for fuel when other wood was so
dear. And in the bedrooms there were beds and mattresses and pillows
and blankets; there was china and there were carpets. The crowd
wandered from room to room, from stately hall down to pantries
and kitchens and bakehouses. The cellars were empty, and so were
the larders, but there were pots and pans galore. Where silver
and gold were hidden they knew not. Perhaps they never even thought
of such things. It was the chairs and the tables, the curtains
and the pots and pans that they needed and that they took.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Who shall judge them? Who condemn? They had nothing, and they
took. For generations successive governments had taken from them
all that they had. Human nature will always try and hit back when
it has the chance. They were not evil, these people here; they
were not really cruel and rapacious by nature: hunger and want
had made them so, and the sense of oppression and injustice. Who,
of a truth, shall condemn them?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
When they were tired of looking and had their arms full, when
they were wearied with the day's work and emotion, they wandered
homeward. The evening was drawing in, and squalid homes called
to them, and the longing to gloat over stolen treasure and find
use for it all. One by one, or in groups of twos and threes, they
trudged back through the vast halls, shorn now of much glory,
down marble stairs, and across the forecourt. Their naked feet
were sore with tramping; they wanted to get home.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; stood for a long time by the door, listening and
watching. The great reception room was deserted by now, but he
could heard the crowd wandering about the ch&acirc;teau; he could
hear cries of delight and laughter and guessed what was going
on. He made his way across the room to the window, staggering
in the darkness like a man drunk. Leaning against the window frame,
he gazed out into the fast-gathering gloom. From the distance,
now and then, there still came the dull rumbling of faraway thunder,
and from time to time the treetops were lit up with the reflex
of distant lightning. but the storm never broke over Marigny on
that never-to-be-forgotten day in July.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; watched the crowd, as, one by one, they came through
the gate, bearing their loot - furniture, tapestries, clothes.
The women staggered under their loads; the men looked like beasts
of burden, dragging their shoeless feet over the paved forecourt.
Slowly, wearily, they made their way down the wooded slope. Andr&eacute;,
through the darkness, could still distinguish some of them: the
women in their faded kirtles; the naked bodies of little children;
Tarbot and his red cap, Mol&eacute; and his ragged shirt. He thought
of his mother, lying on the old paillasse, with a ragged shawl
to cover her body, and all around her the ruins of her home. And
with thoughts of her there came into his soul an immense wave
of shame.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The large empty room with its torn tapestries and gilded chairs
lying topsy-turvy about the floor became filled all at once with
imps and demons who hopped all around him and cried, &quot;Shame!&quot;
in his ears. They called him a fool and coward. Why not have allowed
the mob to have its way with the <I>aristos?</I> Were they not
his friends? Riffraff, like himself? Then why have interfered?
There might have been some satisfaction in seeing justice done.
A life for a life! Those miserable <I>aristos</I> for the saintly
woman who lay silent and stark in her devastated home.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
With a rough gesture he brushed those imaginary demons away. Shame
had brought the blood beating in his temples. &quot;Coward!&quot;
and &quot;Traitor!&quot; he called himself, and then signed with
a great unexplainable longing. &quot;Justice! Truth! My God! where
are they now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The room was so still! So still! Andr&eacute; strained his ears
to hear any sound that might come from the boudoir. After a moment
or two he heard a soft grating; the door was opened very gently,
a narrow shaft of light pierced the gloom, and the old priest
tiptoed stealthily into the room. Andr&eacute; listened without
stirring: the old man had left the door slightly ajar and now
groped his way cautiously about in the darkness. A moment or two
later soft murmurings came to Andr&eacute;'s ears; then a sigh
- a struggle. And the priest's kindly words:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Lean on my arm, monseigneur...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And then another sigh. A whisper: &quot;Aurore!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;She is safe, monseigneur. Shall we go to her?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Has that <I>canaille</I> gone?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;There is no one here now, monseigneur...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My head! My head! May God punish those ruffians!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Do lean on me, monseinguer.... I am quite strong.... Don't
be afraid.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute;'s eyes, accustomed to the gloom, could now perceive
the two old men moving slowly towards the door. Instinctively
he stepped back from the window farther into the shadows, and
thus, hidden from view, he waited until the priest had piloted
De Marigny back into the boudoir.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
As the Cur&eacute; was about to follow, Andr&eacute; called to
him:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Citizen Rosemonde!&quot; The priest paused with his hand
still on the door knob, and Andr&eacute; called again: &quot;Close
that door. I want to speak with you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The voice was low, scarcely above a whisper, but so peremptory
that the priest, after a few seconds' hesitation, closed the door
and came across the room. With the passing of immediate danger
to Monseigneur and Aurore he seemed to have recovered something
of his natural dignity. He approached Andr&eacute; not as a servant
beckoned to by his master, but as a minister of God, with a mission
to mediate between warring souls.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What is it you wish, my son?&quot; he asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Only to give you a word of warning, citizen,&quot; Andr&eacute;
replied curtly. &quot;You must understand once and for all that
my mind is made up. I have decided to take that woman in there
for my wife. As you have taken the oath of allegiance to the Republic,
you are bound in law to perform the marriage ceremony. You know
that, do you not?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I know it, my son, but-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;There is no 'but' about it. If you refuse you forfeit every
privilege which your oath of allegiance has conferred upon you.
Your church will be closed, and you may or may not escape with
your life. But even that is beside the question, for if the marriage
is not solemnized in your church it will be done in the <I>maire</I>
which, as you also know, is all that the law requires.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Andr&eacute;, my child,&quot; the priest protested, &quot;I
implore you to think over what you propose doing. I beg it of
you in your mother's name-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Do not speak of my mother, Citizen Cur&eacute;,&quot; Andr&eacute;
broke in harshly, &quot;or I swear to you that I will call the
worst of that rabble back and hand over that damned assassin to
them to be dealt with as they choose.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But such a marriage is an outrage, Andr&eacute;!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Was not the eviction of two defenceless women and a pack
of starving children an outrage? Was not the ruin of their homes
an outrage? My mother's death - was that not a murder most foul?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ah!&quot; the priest exclaimed, &quot;then you admit it,
Andr&eacute;?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Admit what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That your whole purpose is one of revenge.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Call it justice, Citizen Cur&eacute;. You'll be nearer the
mark.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And you, my son, will be the first to suffer.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; shrugged with cynical indifference.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Bah!&quot; he said. &quot;Your friend Marigny would tell
you that muckworms such as I are made to suffer.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The priest was silent for a moment or two. His heart ached for
this man whom he had seen grow up in this village - a merry, care-free
lad whom the cruelty of fate, and perhaps of men, had rendered
bitter and cynical. But it ached also for the exquisite girl whose
every instinct of pride and aloofness would be outraged by this
monstrous union.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You will kill her, Andr&eacute;,&quot; he sighed, &quot;if
you persist.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Bah!&quot; Andr&eacute; retorted drily. &quot;She's young.
She will get used to being the wife of a caitiff. And anyhow,
her life and that of her father will be safe. I can see to that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Alas!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Why alas?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;They would sooner be dead.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; gave a scornful laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The <I>aristo's</I> sword,&quot; he said, &quot;is still
handy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I forbid you to mock, Andr&eacute;,&quot; the priest retorted
with energy. &quot;Religion which you choose to ignore still holds
sway in the hearts of many, and religion forbids-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Suicide,&quot; Andr&eacute; broke in. &quot;Yes, I know!
Well, the rabble only needs recalling-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Andr&eacute;, in Heaven's name, don't talk like that! I
am appealing to your pity-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Pity? Would you call it pity to let a pack of snarling hyenas
loose once again on this house, to stand by and see that arrogant
old madman in there massacred before his daughter's eyes, to see
her brutalized and outraged as a prelude to death? Is that what
you would choose for her, Citizen Rosemonde?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The old priest's head fell upon his breast. He felt utterly helpless
and ashamed of his helplessness. A little while ago he believed
in his mission of conciliation, but that mission had failed. his
simple faith in divine interference had received a rude shock,
as did his earnest belief in the justice of the Royalist cause.
For here was a rebel who gloried in his rebellion, who demanded
justice from God and man with as much right as the most earnest
adherent to the old r&eacute;gime. Like Andr&eacute; himself awhile
ago, the Abb&eacute; Rosemonde could have signed with unutterable
longing, &quot;Truth? Justice? Where are they now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I suppose,&quot; he said with a doleful shake of the head,
&quot;that you've said your last word, and that nothing which
I can say-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;No, citizen,&quot; Andr&eacute; broke in impatiently, &quot;nothing.
I have said my last word. Go down into the village, if you have
a mind, and talk to the men there. Tell them that religion bids
them forego revenge, and that if a man smite you on the cheek,
to hold out the other so that he might smite you again. Tell that
to men who have toiled and starved and sweated and seen their
wives and children die for want of food, while the tax collector
stood at the door and seized the few sous that would have bought
them bread. Tell it to men who have seen their brides dragged
from their arms to satisfy the caprice of their seigneur. Talk
to them of forgiveness, Citizen Cur&eacute;, now that they are
the masters of France and have the power to give back blow for
blow the and outrage for outrage.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Again the priest was silent. There was so little that he could
say. Never before had he been made to feel that there was something
after all to be said for those terrorists who had earned for themselves
the obloquy of half the world, but who had, of a truth, been the
first to instill into a downtrodden people a sense of their power,
both as men and as guardians of their families' welfare and of
their family honour. Demagogues they were, and stirrers up of
infinite trouble. They had let loose on the sacred soil of France
a horde of savage brutes bent on ruin and persecution. All that
was true enough, but there had been such an infinity of wrong
to put right that nothing short of this immense upheaval could
possibly have done it all. But dominating all other thoughts and
fears in the old man's heart were those for Aurore.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You will be kind to her, Andr&eacute;,&quot; he implored,
&quot;if she consents.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I care not if she consents or no,&quot; Andr&eacute; retorted.
&quot;Either she is mine or I let loose the floodgates of the
people's wrath on this house till there remains nothing of it
but a few blackened stones like those of my mother's cottage,
nothing but a memory of all the arrogance and the cruelty which
have tuned us all into the wild beasts that we are.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Andr&eacute; had spoken all along in a kind of hoarse murmur and
without making a single gesture. Now his voice broke into a sob.
He stood there in the darkness by the open window with the last
glimmer of the western light outlining his clear-cut profile,
the firm jaw and noble forehead with its crown of chestnut hair.
And while he spoke he looked out into the distance, where far
away in the peaceful valley below a puff of smoke still hung in
the heavy storm-laden air. Just a puff of smoke there where the
cottage once stood, where he, Andr&eacute;, had spent the thoughtless
years of childhood, where he had first learned the bitter lesson
of manhood, where he had dreamed and planned and waited for this
hour which had struck at last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You have not yet told me, Andr&eacute;&quot; the Cur&eacute;
said at last, &quot;what you wish me to do.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I want you to be prepared to give my bride and me the nuptial
blessing in your church to-morrow.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Blessing!&quot; the priest exclaimed with the nearest approach
to sarcasm he had ever in his life expressed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;As you please, of course - or as she pleases, for the matter
of that. I am satisfied with the <I>maire,</I> as the law directs.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I will do as God wills,&quot; the priest concluded with
gentle dignity. &quot;But let me tell you this, my son: your union
with Aurore de Marigny is on the understanding that her life and
that of her father and servants will be safe. God is long-suffering,
remember, but believe me that He will know how to punish you if
you should break your word.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He turned and slowly groped his way across the room. Andr&eacute;
watched him till the door of the boudoir finally closed upon him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then he, too, went his way.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXV:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">In an angle of the staircase Andr&eacute;
came across Pierre, concealed behind a marble column, crouching
there in the dark like a frightened rabbit.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Come and lock the gate after me, citizen,&quot; he said,
and with scant ceremony dragged the man out of his hiding place.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Pierre, trembling but obedient, followed him. When the great gates
fell to with a clang behind him, Andr&eacute; stood for a moment
on the perror, breathing in the heavy air of this summer's night.
It seemed as if he longed to be rid of the scent of perfume and
of flowers which clung to his nostrils and made his head ache
with its cloying fragrance. Once or twice he passed his hand across
his brow and through the thick mop of his hair. His talk with
the priest which had resolved itself into a kind of profession
of faith had left him in a state of bewilderment. He felt that
he had become a puzzle to himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Am I a brute?&quot; he murmured. &quot;A wild beast - a
pitiless savage beast? Or just a man who has lost the being dearest
to him in all the world and has nothing left in his heart but
the very human desire for some measure of revenge?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He wondered what his dead mother would have said had her precious
life been spared and she had been a witness to this afternoon's
tragedy. She, with her quiet philosophy and sober common sense,
what would she have said in face of the homeless Louvet children
and her own ruined home? Would she still have preached her favourite
doctrine that evil cannot be cured with more evil? And would she
still be hugging the fond belief that those <I>aristos</I> &quot;up
there&quot; had learned something from the terrible events which
had precipitated their king from his throne and left him and their
kindred to the guillotine? If he had eyes to see and ears to hear,
would that arrogant madman &quot;up there&quot; have infuriated
the people to the point of seeing his daughter insulted before
his eyes?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;They have learned nothing,&quot; Andr&eacute; murmured to
himself. &quot;The lesson has, it seems, not yet been driven home.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He cast a look back on the stately pile, majestic still, in spite
of approaching decay. All the windows were dark save one at the
end, and here a feeble light glimmered behind a drawn curtain.
They were in there. All of them. The <I>aristo</I>, the priest,
and the girl. The priest had told him by now of the ultimatum
which meant life and safety in exchange for union with one of
the <I>canaille</I>. And Andr&eacute; then pictured to himself
what they would all say: imagine Marigny's vituperations, the
priest's exhortations, and the girl's tears. She would weep, of
course, and protest; beat her wings like a bird caught in a trap;
and Andr&eacute; wondered how she looked when she wept. Women
were usually ugly when tears trickled down their cheeks and their
noses became red. Did those great unfathomable eyes become red
and swollen, he wondered, or did the tears make their depths more
mysterious still?<BR>
&quot;Bah!&quot; he exclaimed impatiently, &quot;as if I cared!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He strode down the steps and across the flagged forecourt. He
was on the point of turning into the bridle path which led down
to the valley through the woods when he spied a dark figure which
slipped quickly past him and then through the gates into the forecourt.
Andr&eacute; watched the figure as, presently, it mounted the
perron and, in a moment, disappeared through the great gates into
the ch&acirc;teau.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Now the gates had been locked by Pierre when Andr&eacute; left
the ch&acirc;teau a few minutes ago. Pierre must have opened them
again almost directly, which meant that the nocturnal visitor
was a familiar of the house and was apparently expected.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Talon, of course,&quot; Andr&eacute; thought. &quot;Now
I wonder what the rascal is up to. He gave us the slip this afternoon.
Then why has he come now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The result of his cogitation was that he retraced his steps and
turned back into the forecourt just at the moment when a dim light
travelled past the row of windows on the front of the ch&acirc;teau
and stopped short at the door of the boudoir, where it was suddenly
extinguished.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXVI:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">Andr&eacute; was wrong in his supposition.
Talon was not expected at the ch&acirc;teau: it was by chance
that Pierre had stood for a time by the gate, busy with lighting
a couple of laterns which he usually carried with him about the
house. He had spied Hector Talon and opened the gate for him.
He gave him a lantern, and Talon made his way across the hall
and up the stairs with a catlike tread. He was one of those men
who have carried the trick of walking noiselessly to a fine art:
he made no sound as he went across the great reception room and
came to a halt outside the boudoir door. Here he extinguished
the lantern, then waited. Stooping, he glued first an eye and
then an ear to the keyhole. What he heard seemed to please him,
for his hatchet face broadened into a leer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He knocked softly at the door, heard Monseigneur's voice and Jeannette's
shuffling tread. The door was opened, and with a timid: &quot;May
I enter?&quot; he stepped into the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Monseigneur was half sitting, half lying across the sofa: his
cravat was undone. Aurore was behind him, intent on placing a
white linen bandage over his forehead. M. l'Abb&eacute; de Rosemonde
was sitting at the table in the window with his breviary open
before him. No one said a word to Talon as he entered, but after
a moment or two Jeannette, still at the door, turned to Aurore
and asked: &quot;Can I see about supper now, mademoiselle?&quot;
Aurore nodded, and Jeannette went away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon ventured a step or two farther into the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Monseigneur...&quot; he began in his most obsequious tone.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
De Marigny raised his head slightly, half opened his eyes, and
looked Talon up and down as if he did not know who he was.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Why are you here?&quot; he asked at last. &quot;Get out!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Monseigneur,&quot; Talon reiterated in a gentle, persuasive
voice, &quot;you know you can command my devotion. I am here to
offer you my services.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;There is nothing you can do,&quot; Charles de Marigny said
wearily. &quot;Go away.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon glanced from one face to the other. The Abb&eacute; appeared
absorbed in his breviary. Aurore had not once glanced at him.
Talon thought the Abb&eacute;'s attitude looked the least uncompromising.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;M. l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; he pleaded, &quot;do, I entreat
you, persuade Monseigneur that it is in his best interests and
those of Mademoiselle Aurore to listen to me. I have come with
the best and most loyal intentions.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Thus directly appealed to, the Abb&eacute; said, not unkindly:
&quot;Even so, my good Talon, I don't see what you can do. I don't
suppose you know all that happened here this afternoon. You were
so very safely out of the way.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I do know, M. l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; Talon rejoined. &quot;Everything.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
At which Aurore's tired, swollen eyes shot a quick, suspicious
glance at him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I met that blackguard Andr&eacute; Vallon just now,&quot;
Talon went on glibly, &quot;coming away from here... alone. He
chose to jeer at me for my loyalty to Monseigneur, and to threaten
me with denunciation as a traitor if I did aught to cross his
villainous schemes.&quot; He paused a moment, measuring the effect
of his outrageous lies, and then went on, dropping his voice almost
to a whisper: &quot;He openly boasted before me of - of his coming
marriage with Mademoiselle Aurore.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Again he paused, waiting for a word, a sign, either from Monseigneur
or from the girl. He felt sick with apprehension and found it
terribly difficult to keep up this appearance of obsequiousness,
the habit of which he had lost in these past few years. He also
felt very tired. he had had a very trying day, both physically
and emotionally. His head ached, and his feet were sore; his knees
scarcely bore him. He wanted to sit down, to fall back into the
easy familiarity to which he had accustomed himself of late, but
he had too much at stake to dare risk offending Monseigneur or
Mademoiselle. He had garnered scraps of information from the crowd
as he met them wending their way homeward, but had scarcely believed
his ears when, with much jeering and laughing and obvious satisfaction,
they told him of Citizen Vallon's extraordinary project to marry
the daughter of the <I>aristo.</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">The last thing in the world Talon could
have foreseen! The last thing in the world he would have wished.
De Marigny's daughter married to a man like Vallon - well known
in influential places as a friend of Danton - and &quot;good-bye&quot;
to his beloved scheme of obtaining possession of the estates.
There would no longer be the slightest need to emigrate or to
transfer the property for worthless bonds to him. The situation
was perilous because it was imminent. The women in the crowd had
talked of the legal marriage taking place on the morrow. Talon
had hurried up to the ch&acirc;teau. He wanted to clear up this
dangerous situation. If Aurore de Marigny had indeed agreed to
the marriage in order to save her father's life and her own, she
must as quickly as possible be made to realize that such a sacrifice
was unnecessary while there was a faithful and loyal bailiff at
hand to show an easier and more dignified way out.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It was a little disconcerting to see her so calm and silent, and
Monseigneur more disdainful than ever, when he had thought to
find them both distraught and verging on despair. In spite of
his aching feet and tired back Talon did not sit down, and as
the Abb&eacute; appeared to be more approachable than the others,
Talon kept his attention fixed on him:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Monsieur l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; he began, &quot;you are a
holy man; your loyalty to Monseigneur is as great as my own. Surely
you will not allow this monstrous union to take place.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You know as well as I do,&quot; the Abb&eacute; replied
simply, &quot;that I am powerless to prevent it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I know nothing of the sort, M. l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; Talon
retorted with well feigned vehemence. &quot;Anyone who, like yourself,
has Monseigneur's complete confidence can prevent it. You especially.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My ministration,&quot; the Abb&eacute; said, &quot;is not
imperative. Andr&eacute; Vallon is a lawyer, and he knows that.
If I refuse-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I did not mean that, M. l'Abb&eacute;!&quot; Talon broke
in impatiently. &quot;We are none of us lawyers here, and yet
we all know that by the new marriage laws a declaration before
the <I>maire</I> is all that is necessary. I did not mean anything
so futile.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Then what did you mean, my good Talon?&quot; the Cur&eacute;
asked, na&iuml;vely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That Monseigneur and Mademoiselle must get away while there
is still time.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Get away?&quot; The old man was puzzled, for he had never
heard of Monseigneur's half-formed project to emigrate. &quot;Get
away? How? Where?&quot; He closed his breviary and leaned forward,
listening eagerly, while even Monseigneur seemed to forget his
pain and weariness and sat up to gaze inquiringly on Talon, and
Aurore's great tired eyes seemed indeed to probe to the very depths
of the man's soul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Talon glanced round, satisfied. He thought he time had come when
he might sit down, and he sank into a chair with a great sigh
of satisfaction. He beamed on Monseigneur, with arms outspread,
like a kind and benevolent father talking to weeping children:
<I>&quot;Voyons,</I> monseigneur,&quot; he said, &quot;mademoiselle!
did you really think that Talon would abandon you in the hour
of your greatest need? Why, ever since that awful rabble set out
to intimidate you up here, I have been scheming and planning to
encompass your safety.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Don't talk so much drivel, Talon,&quot; Monseigneur put
in drily, &quot;but tell us what you want.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;To get you away from here as soon as possible.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Too late,&quot; Monseigneur sighed involuntarily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Why too late? It wants three more hours before midnight
and eight before the dawn.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What do you mean, Talon?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That I will have a covered cart here at your door about
three o'clock of the morning. One of my farm hands will drive
you to Nevers. There you can get the diligence to Bourges. it
starts soon after dawn. At Bourges you can easily get a further
conveyance as far as Tours.... You have money, I suppose?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes, some - but no papers, no passports - nothing!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I have both,&quot; Talon continued eagerly. &quot;I have
papers and passports which were made out six months ago for my
brother-in-law, who was a widower, and his daughter. He died before
he could undertake the journey, and she has gone to live with
relatives somewhere in the South. I found the papers among his
effects without ever thinking that they would be of use. They
are yours, if you like to use them. You can easily make up to
look like the owner of the passport, Achille V&eacute;rand: he
was about your age and build; and young ladies,&quot; he concluded
jocosely, &quot;can always be made up to look like one another.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The whole thing was a lie, of course. It was more than six months
since Hector Talon had nursed hopes that Charles de Marigny would
one day decide to emigrate. He had forged or stolen the papers,
or mayhap just acquired them from some influential friend. Men
like Talon always contrive to get what official documents they
want. Anyway, there they were, the blessed, blessed passports!
Talon laid them on the table, and the table was then dragged across
to the sofa so that Monseigneur could look at them at his ease.
Monseigneur, Mademoiselle, and M. l'Abb&eacute; all pored over
them. Those blessed, blessed passports!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
They were made out in the dame of Achille V&eacute;rand, doctor
of philosophy, aged sixty, native of Vanzy in Ni&egrave;vre, and
of Marigu&eacute;rite V&eacute;rand his daughter, spinster, aged
twenty-two. The descriptions? Well, they certainly did tally in
a wonderful - an unexplainable manner. And all the papers had
the official seal of the <I>maire</I> of Vanzy and the countersign
of the local member of the Committee of Public Safety which sits
at Nevers. Everything was in perfect, in absolute order. It was
a most marvellous, a most heaven-sent coincidence that Monseigneur
and Mademoiselle could make up so easily to resemble Achille and
Margu&eacute;rite V&eacute;rand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aurore, even Aurore, in her eagerness forgot all her prejudices
against Talon. He was no longer to be suspected of evil intentions.
He was the harbinger of hope. Captives, they were being shown
he way to deliverance; drowning, they felt a hand stretched out
to drag them to the shore. M. l'Abb&eacute; was once more getting
convinced that God was on the side of the Royalist cause. And
Talon was entirely in his element. Easy, familiar, jocose, he
propounded his plan, satisfied that at last, not only was he in
sight of the life's desire, but actually held the prize in his
hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You could go too, M. l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; he said, &quot;if
you wish. I can arrange papers for you also.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He had friends in Paris, he explained. Certain services which
he had rendered the country had forced men in high places to recognize
his worth, so if M. l'Abb&eacute; desired... But M. l'Abb&eacute;
gently shook his head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;While the altar of God stands in Val-le-Roi,&quot; he said,
&quot;I shall be there to administer the Holy Sacraments. But,
monseigneur,&quot; he exclaimed in no ecstasy of hope, &quot;my
dear Aurore, to think that freedom can, with the will of God,
be yours!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She talked of not going without him, but he said earnestly: &quot;Your
father is your first consideration, my child. It is his life and
your honour that are in peril. Your father must be your first
and, indeed, your only thought.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And frankly, Monseigneur agreed with him. Probably he did not
think that the Abb&eacute; would be in any danger, once he and
Aurore were out of the way. It was against them that the fury
of the mob and of that brutish ruffian Vallon was directed. And
to his proud spirit any human life was worth the sacrifice to
save the daughter of De Marigny from the outrage of a union with
an Andr&eacute; Vallon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Presently some of the excitement subsided, and Talon's plan was
soberly discussed. Aurore went out of the room to put a few necessities
together for herself and her father. The cart, Talon explained,
would be at the gate one hour before the break of dawn. Two hours'
drive, and they would be in Nevers. At six o'clock the diligence
started for Bourges. Talon had thought of everything, and the
farm hand who would drive the cart was loyal and reliable.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Only one more matter had to be settled: the assignment of the
Marigny estates to Hector Talon, bailiff, native of Val-le-Roi
in Ni&egrave;vre, for the sum of two million livres, payable in
State assignats, receipt of which was hereby acknowledged by the
vendor Charles Henri Marigny, <I>ci-devant</I> Duc de Marigny.
Monseigneur hardly did more than glance at the papers. The horrors
which he had gone through that afternoon had somewhat sobered
that arrogant sense of possessio and prerogative which theoretically
he would have guarded with his life. But when it came to Aurore's
future - her future with that brutish ruffian - by God! Charles
de Marigny would have assigned all his worldly belongings, without
counting the cost, to any man who saved her from such a fate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He signed the papers, and Talon solemnly laid on the table assignats
with the face value of two million livres. He had sufficient self-control
not to show too plainly how intense was his satisfaction. He folded
up the papers most carefully and tucked them inside his coat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;This is a step which you will never regret, my friend,&quot;
he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Perhaps not,&quot; De Marigny retorted drily, &quot;but
let me assure you of one thing, my man, and that is that you will
regret it - bitterly - if in any way you play me false.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My dear sir,&quot; Talon protested. &quot;How can you think-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh! I know more about the laws of this hellish government
than you suppose. I know, for instance, that these assignments
are not valid if the assignor dies within the year. The State
in that case takes possession of the property. So it is not in
your interest, you rascal, to play the traitor, and you know it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My good friend-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Enough! Mademoiselle and I are safe from your double dealings
for one year. Long before then, please God, we shall be in Belgium.
And when sanity once more reigns in this demented land, and the
King - God save him! - comes back into his own, your rule over
my property will automatically cease.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I know that, my good sir!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;A sound-minded government will soon make you disgorge.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I am taking that risk.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Well, so long as you know that you are taking it... I only
wanted you to understand that I am not the fool you fondly imagine.
I am taking a risk, I know - but I am banking on the not far distant
future when rascals such as you and ruffians like that Vallon
will get their deserts.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;In the meantime,&quot; Talon concluded with undisguised
sarcasm, &quot;you deign to accept the use of my cart and horse,
my farm hand, and the passports which I obtained for you at my
own risk and peril to help you to flee this country and seek safety
in Belgium.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
To this Charles de Marigny vouchsafed no reply. The shaft had
probably gone home. He despised this man, called him at pleasure
a rascal and a thief, but he was at this moment the only being
in the whole land who could save him and his daughter from death
and worse than death. Talon, having had his say, was now ready
to go.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;We meet in happier times, my friend,&quot; he said drily,
&quot;times happier for you, I mean. When you are safe in Belgium
you will, perhaps, remember to whom you owe your safety. I will
administer this estate as if it were my own for good and all.
The wretched brat whom you call your king may come into his kingdom
some day. Personally I doubt it, or I would never have done this
deal. The cart will be here at the hour I have named. Good-night!
Pleasant dreams! M. l'Abb&eacute;, your servant.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He shuffled out of the room, and for some time his footsteps,
gradually dying away in the distance, were the only sound that
broke the stillness of the night.</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXVII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	The Abb&eacute; Rosemonde had resumed
his orisons. Monseigneur was lost in a brown reverie from which
the creaking of the massive gate as it was opened and then shut
again roused him after awhile. He lent an ear to Talon's footsteps
as they echoed faintly along the flagstones of the forecourt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	A moment or two later Aurore came back.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;That awful Talon gone?&quot; she asked with a sigh of satisfaction.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Yes, thank God!&quot; De Marigny replied. &quot;I hate
the sight of the rogue.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;He has saved us-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I know that,&quot; De Marigny was ready to admit, &quot;but
he has done it for his own ends. He has saved us, as you say,
my dear. And for this I suppose we should be grateful.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;There is no possibility,&quot; Aurore queried anxiously,
&quot;of his playing us false?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;It would be entirely against his own interests if he did,&quot;
De Marigny replied drily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And at three o'clock we go!&quot; she said with a long-drawn-out
sigh. And then added under her breath: &quot;I am glad that it
will still be dark. I hope it will be very dark.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;It will make it safer, of course.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Not because of that,&quot; she murmured.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Then why...?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I would rather not see Marigny when I go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You will see it when you return, my child,&quot; the Abb&eacute;
put in cheerily. &quot;This state of things cannot last. It will
not last. I believe in God, and He will soon be avenged.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore smiled on the kindly old man and quickly wiped her eyes.
She loved Marigny and dreaded the long farewell - dreaded, even
now, going into the unknown. The priest had risen and was looking
for his hat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I don't think you had one, M. l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; Aurore
said, smiling at him through her tears.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But suddenly both tears and smile vanished. She looked frightened.
Her eyes dilated, her cheeks became the colour of ashes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What was that?&quot; she murmured hoarsely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What, my dear?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What is it, Aurore?&quot; Monseigneur asked frowning.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She seemed to be listening and put up her hand with her finger
pointed towards the window.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Didn't you hear?&quot; she whispered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Both the men shook their heads. She tiptoed to the window and
softly pushed aside the curtain. Again she listened. The two men
remained silent, for she had put her finger to her lips. But no
sound came from outside, and after a little while Aurore allowed
the curtain to fall back in its place. She still looked very white,
and her knees appeared to be shaking under her, for she sank into
a chair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;But what was it, Aurore?&quot; her father asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I thought I heard a sound,&quot; she murmured, &quot;just
outside the window, as if-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;As if what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I don't know. As if someone had been there - listenening.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;It was Talon's footsteps you heard going across the forecourt.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Perhaps,&quot; she admitted reluctantly, and once more
tried to smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The Abb&eacute; had finally turned to go.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You are going, M. l'Abb&eacute;?&quot; she asked, trying
to speak calmly, though her lips were still quivering and bloodless.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Yes, yes, my child. I'll go home now and prepare everything.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Prepare what, M. l'Abb&eacute;?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;To celebrate for you both,&quot; the old priest replied
with fervent earnestness. &quot;The church will be quite ready
for you directly you pull up. You will tell the driver to stpp
at the churchyard gate. I will say Mass and give you both Holy
Communion. After that, you can go on your long journey fortified
by God's blessing. Now, if there's anything else I can do...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Monseigneur also had risen. In spite of his vaunted self-possession,
he, too, was feeling keenly the separation from his ancestral
home. He felt that in going away from Marigny, in joining the
large crowd of <I>&eacute;migr&eacute;s</I> who had turned their
backs on their country and found refuge in foreign lands, he would
leave behind him something of his pride of caste, something of
his dignity, something subtle and indefinable which, even if he
came back one day, he would never again recapture. The old priest
no doubt knew what went on in the heart and mind of his old friend.
He took his leave in silence, grasping the hand which, perhaps,
he would never touch again. Aurore continued to smile as she bade
him farewell.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Soon after three o'clock,&quot; she said, &quot;we'll be
outside the church door.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The hand which she gave him felt cold, and her eyes still looked
dark and filled with terror. The priest patted her hand reassuringly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;There was no one, I am sure,&quot; he said, nodding in
the direction of the window. &quot;But I'll have a good look as
I go out and shoo the malefactor away. Don't be frightened, my
child. I have the feeling that you are under the special protection
of the holy angels this night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He looked so serene and so reassuring that Aurore felt comforted.
She found a candle and lighted it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I'll see you to the gate,&quot; she said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Together they went out of the room, Aurore holding the candle
high above her head. As she crossed the threshold, she could not
repress a shudder: all that she had gone through that afternoon
in this great gilded room came back to her with a rush of memory.
Pierre had closed the window, but the night was no longer dark
outside. The storm clouds had drifted away, and the waning moon
had risen and tipped the treetops with her silvery light.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;It won't be so dark, after all,&quot; the priest remarked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	They had gone down the stairs and crossed the hall. The priest
opened the gate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Go back, my little Aurore,&quot; he said as he once more
bade her good-night. &quot;You must have lots to do, and your
father will be getting anxious.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	After he had gone she stood for a moment at the gate, watching
while the priest walked briskly across the forecourt. A soft breeze
fanned the flame of the candle, and she shielded it with her hand
so that the light fell on her face and the loose golden strands
of her hair. And suddenly she had the feeling that a pair of eyes
was watching her out of the gloom. Hastily she blew out the candle.
She was ashamed of her nervousness, for, in very truth, she was
shaking with terror, while her reason told her there was nothing
to fear. The Abb&eacute;'s serenity put her to shame, as did her
father's coolness; she tried to steel herself against this humiliating
weakness, but her teeth chattered persistently, while her head
felt heavy and hot. At last she heard Pierre's voice behind her;
he came shuffling across the hall, carrying a lantern. Aurore
left him to close the gate and ran back as fast as she could across
the hall.<!--SELECTION--><!--/SELECTION--></FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXVIII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	Aurore had considerable difficulty
in getting together the few necessities which she and her father
would need for their long journey. With acting heart and burning
indignation she beheld the havoc which vandal hands had wrought
in the ch&acirc;teau. Her bed had been stripped, her clothes stolen,
her father's belongings had all been looted. Fortunately, there
were attics and hidden recesses in the old mansion where, in the
days of plenty, many things had been stowed away. With the help
of Jeannette, Aurore searched for and found dark travelling clothes
for herself and her father, also some changes of linen; and together
they dragged down a couple of old valises in which they packed
the travellers' most pressing future needs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore and her father did, after this, contrive to snatch a few
hours' sleep - he on the sofa, she in an armchair. At three o'clock
they were both up; washed and dressed. Half an hour later the
covered cart was at the gate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Pierre and Jeannette were going as car as Val-le-Roi to assist
at the service of Holy Communion which M. le Cur&eacute; had promised
to hold in his little church. They wept copious tears while they
hoisted the valises into the cart and then climbed in, in the
wake of Monseigneur and Mademoiselle Aurore.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Precisely at half-past three Monseigneur le Duc de Marigny and
his daughter looked their last upon their stately home. Slowly
the cart lumbered down the wooden slope. A quarter of an hour
later the driver pulled up at the gate of the churchyard of Val-le-Roi.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The waning moon was low in the western sky, and over in the east
the first faint streak of dawn tinged the horizon with silver.
The little church was dimly lighted from within. Aurore jumped
down lightly from the cart, and Charles de Marigny followed. After
them came Pierre and Jeannette. The little procession thus formed
went through the gate and across the flagged path through the
churchyard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	They were within a few metres of the porch when a dark figure
came out of the shadow and then stood still, as if waiting for
them. Aurore gave a quickly smothered cry of alarm and clung,
trembling, to her father.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Who is there?&quot; she called in a hoarse whisper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Only the bridegroom, citizeness,&quot; came a mocking voice
in reply, &quot;waiting for his bride.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore and De Marigny, numbed with terror, had come to a halt.
Neither of them felt able to move. Andr&eacute; Vallon emerged
fully out of the shadow and came a step or two nearer to them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Come, <I>ma mie!&quot;</I> he said coolly. &quot;The church
is ready. The Cur&eacute; waits. Shall we proceed?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He put out his hand to take hers. De Marigny, shaking himself
free of his torpor, tried to interpose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Do not touch her!&quot; he cried peremptorily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But Andr&eacute; seemed not to notice him. He glanced over his
shoulder, called aloud: &quot;Citizen Tarbot!&quot; and calmly
took Aurore's cold, limp hand in his.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Then only did she perceive that there were other people here,
moving in the shadows. A man came forward. It was that awful Tarbot.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;My witnesses for our wedding, <I>ma mie,&quot;</I> Andr&eacute;
said coolly. &quot;You're servants will do for yours. Come!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	A small group of people had emerged from under the porch. Aurore
felt like a dumb animal, helpless in a poacher's trap. She couldn't
see her father, for those awful men were all around him, but she
heard his voice, peremptory at first, then hoarse and smothered.
She felt herself lifted off her feet and carried into the church.
The flickering tallow candles on the altar showed her the Abb&eacute;
Rosemonde on his knees with his head buried in his hands. Behind
her there was the sound of feet shuffling along the flagstones.
The voice she dreaded most in all the world whispered in her ear:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You didn't think, <I>ma mie</I>, that I should be such
a fool as to let you run away?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She realized then how futile had been this attempt to flee, how
she had never really believed in its possibility. Even during
those few moments of sleep she had been conscious of Fate that
was both inevitable and relentless. It was no use praying to God:
God was cruel and meant her to go through with this sacrifice.
She had thought to escape, and the trap had closed on her once
more, more firmly, more inexorably than before. All she could
long for now was her father's safety - the certainty that this
awful sacrifice would not be in vain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	As once before, Andr&eacute; seemed to divine her thoughts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;There are friends here,&quot; he said coolly, &quot;looking
after your father's safety. And,&quot; he added, &quot;once the
knot is tied between us, you need have no fear whatever for him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She glanced up into the face of this man whom she hated with
the intensity of a suffering martyr for a ruthless tormentor.
She saw nothing in his eyes but cruelty and mockery. She had the
feeling that, try how she might, she could not combat his will;
that, like a ferocious brute, he had marked her for his prey,
and that she was his thing, his property, the trophy of his victory
not only over her but over her kindred and her caste. Nothing
but death could ever set her free again. Were it not for her father,
how gladly would she have welcomed death, if death could have
been swift and sudden, an act of God without the agency of that
brutish crowd, whose gibes and snarls and insults still rang in
her ears.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Through the stillness she heard a distant rumble of wheels and
a driver's call to his horses, and then her father's voice once
more, uttering that awful word <I>&quot;Canaille!&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">	In a moment she would have turned,
ready to run back to him, but Andr&eacute; had her by the wrist,
and she could not move.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;They are taking him back to Marigny,&quot; he said drily.
&quot;He was doing no good here and might have come to harm. When
Pierre and Jeannette have done their duty as witnesses, they can
go and join him there and serve him as they did before.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Let me go with him,&quot; she pleaded involuntarily. &quot;Give
me one more day, and I'll swear-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You are going to swear loyalty to me at the altar first,
<I>ma mie,&quot;</I> he rejoined lightly. &quot;After that, we
shall see.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He led her to the altar rails, where a couple of chairs had been
placed ready for them. Aurore followed as if she were in a trance,
hypnotized by this powerful will which dominated her and broke
her spirit. She despised herself for a coward, and yet knew that
she was, in fact, utterly helpless, caught in toils which no power
on earth could now sever until this monstrous sacrifice had been
offered up on the altar of filial devotion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The Abb&eacute; Rosemonde was already waiting for them at the
rails. He had his breviary in his hand. He had prayed to God for
guidance, and God had remained dumb. Half an hour ago Andr&eacute;
Vallon had come to him and demanded his services for his marriage
with Aurore de Marigny as the law ordained, and the priest, as
a citizen of the new Republic, was forced to obey this law which
his heart condemned.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Prayers and admonitions were all in vain. Even the old man could
not fail to realize that the sacrifice of Aurore was the only
means to save her life and that of her father. With heart half
broken with pity he began to read the Latin prayers which his
church prescribes for the blessing of those who desire its ministrations
when entering the bonds of matrimony.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	<I>&quot;Deus Israel conjugat vos....&quot;</I> - &quot;May the
God of Israel unite you....&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It would be impossible to say what went on in Aurore's heart.
She stood at the altar, mute and passive. Her lips murmured no
prayer, nor did she glance in the direction of the tall, motionless
figure by her side. She was only conscious of that intense fear
of him which at moments caused her teeth to chatter and her hair
to cling matted to her moist forehead. Close beside her Jeannette
and Pierre were weeping and mumbling, while a small crowd of village
folk - women and men - clustered around the bridegroom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Surely a more strange pair never stood before God's altar for
such a purpose. Victim and tormentor, with hearts overflowing
with resentment and bitterness. To Andr&eacute; the Latin words,
the Gospel, the Creed, the Offertory prayers seemed like sounds
out of dreamland, phrases belonging to the land of memory, to
a land which he had not visited since boyhood and which seemed
divided from the present by an ocean of injustice and wrong.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Anon the Abb&eacute; Rosemonde came down the altar steps. He
had a small plate in his hand which, as he arrived at the rails,
he held out to the bridegroom. Andr&eacute; sought in the pocket
of his coat for the two gold circlets which in the midnight hour
he had taken off his dead mother's fingers. Her wedding ring and
that of his father, dead when he, Andr&eacute;, was still a baby.
She was lying so still, so still in her ruined cottage, with a
peaceful smile around her lips. What Andr&eacute; had thought
and felt when he knelt down beside her and forced those stark
fingers to yield up those tiny gold emblems of a happy union he
himself scarcely knew. All that he remembered afterwards was that
bitterness seemed for the moment to give way in his heart to the
immense sorrow in which he had not yet been able to indulge. Just
for those few moments he felt free to give rein to tears. There
was no one there to see him, no one to pity him or, perchance,
to mock. And now, when he took the rings out of his pocket and
put them on the plate, it was only by the greatest effort of will
that he choked back those tears which again rose insistent to
his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	A sound like a long sigh came to Aurore's ears. She heeded it
not, did not know whence it came. She was staring - staring at
those two gold circlets, the material presentment of what her
self-immolation would mean for the rest of her life. Jeannette
and Pierre were sobbing audibly; the crowd of village folk were
down on their knees, trying to recollect forgotten orisons.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Abb&eacute; Rosemonde took the small, cold white hand and the
other, strong and rough, and placed one within the other. Aurore
felt a shudder pass through her body; every drop of blood fled
from her cheeks and gushed back to her head, and Andr&eacute;
felt her hand in his, fluttering like the wings of a captive bird.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	With a steady hand he slipped the ring upon Aurore's finger and
in the clear voice echoed the Latin words murmured by the old
Cur&eacute;. They were the old familiar words, heard so often
at the weddings of friends, a good deal about love, something
about sickness and death. Then came Aurore's turn. The crowd of
village folk craned their necks to see what she would do. Would
she recoil at the last moment in the face of the magnitude of
the sacrifice? There were women there who vaguely understood what
went on in her soul and who marvelled if at the last she would
rebel. But with a mighty effort of will Aurore held herself erect
and did not flinch. Something had occurred during the past quarter
of an hour while she knelt at the alter rails which gave her the
strength to go through with this holocaust of herself until the
end. Perhaps it was a retrospective vision of what she had endured
yesterday, of the outrage from which she had been rescued by the
man beside her, of her father's arrogance and madness which had
brought all those horrors about. Certain it is that she did not
flinch, not even when she in turn echoed the words murmured by
the Cur&eacute;. She murmured the Latin words not understanding
them altogether, and the Abb&eacute; Rosemonde in the simplicity
of his heart barely mumbled those wherein she should have sworn
to cherish her tyrant, the cruel wrecker of her happiness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Soon it was all over. Andr&eacute; Vallon, the demagogue, the
child of this bloody revolution, was the lawful lord and master
of Aurore de Marigny, the descendant of kings. The village folk
gave a sigh of satisfaction. They felt that now they were the
equals of those great people up in Paris whose will was law, whose
voice was the voice of God. Abb&eacute; Rosemonde whispered a
few last words in Aurore's ears. He placed his hand in reverent
benediction upon her head. Andr&eacute; stood by, obviously impatient.
His friends pressed round him and tried to grasp his hand. The
women wept, why they knew not. Through the coloured window glass
the dawn was creeping in, and the tallow candles on the altar
flickered more and more dimly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You will be kind to her, Andr&eacute;,&quot; were the last
words the good priest spoke before he left the sanctuary.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute; gave an impatient shrug.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Come, <I>ma mie,&quot;</I> he said Curtly, and with his
habitual peremptory gesture he put his arm round Aurore's waist
and led her out of the church.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The waning moon was nothing now but a half circle of filmy white
vapour. Out in the east a July dawn had already set the fires
of heaven alight. The horizon was aglow with crimson and gold,
with emerald and chrysoprase, and tiny fleecy clouds, blood red
and splendent, lay like streaks of flame across the sky.<BR>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Book III:<BR>
Chapter XXIX:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	When Aurore awakened from a long dreamless
sleep it was evening. She was lying in a bed, the soft whit sheets
of which smelt of dried roses and lavender. Facing her were two
tall windows masked by delicate lace curtains through which the
light of a street lamp came dimly peeping.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	For a long time she lay here, with aching head buried in the
sweet-smelling downy pillow, while, one by one, the events of
this fateful day came back to her mind on the wings of memory.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The market cart. The last glimpse of the old home. The little
church of Val-le-Roi. The figure that came out of the shadows.
The bridegroom awaiting his bride. After that there was something
of a bank, a veil through which floated the figure of Abb&eacute;
Rosemonde, the altar, the flickering tallow candles, and a dark
face with compelling eyes and cruel, mocking mouth. Spirit voices
echoed words which her ears at the time had only vaguely heard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	<I>&quot;Deus Israel conjugat vos....&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">	&quot;You are going to swear loyalty
to me first, <I>ma mie....&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">	&quot;Wilt thou take this man to be
thy lawful husband?...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Once the knot is tied between us you need no longer fear....&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Then the ring upon her finger. Jeannette's weeping farewells.
The murmurings of the village folk. The carriole outside the churchyard
gate. The long drive in silence, with her eyes fixed on the strong
brown hand close to her which handled the reins and the whip -
the hand of Andr&eacute; Vallon, her husband!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Yes, it all came back now! She had slept for awhile and had mercifully
forgotten, but now it all came back. After the interminable drive
in the carriole over the jolting roads they had reached Nevers
when the sun was already high in the heavens. In the fields just
outside the town there was a stretch of ripening corn, from which
a lark suddenly rose with joyful song up to the sky.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The carriole came to a halt in a nice broad street outside a
house, the door of which bore on a metal plate the names JULES
MIGNET and below it DOCTEUR EN MED&Eacute;CIN. Andr&eacute; put
up his whip, threw the reins over the horses' backs, and jumped
lightly down from the carriole.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Come, <I>ma mie,&quot; </I>he said, and held out his arm
to help her descend.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	In answer to the clanging of a bell, a neatly dressed maid opened
the door and greet Andr&eacute; with a smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;The Citizen Doctor?&quot; Andr&eacute; asked. &quot;Is
he in?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;He is busy at the hospital just now,&quot; the girl replied,
&quot;but the Citizeness is upstairs.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The small paved hall and stone staircase smelt of ripe apples
and of soap. Andr&eacute; ran up the stairs. This time he didn't
say, &quot;Come!&quot; but Aurore nevertheless followed. She had
no longer any will of her own. It seemed as if that strong brown
hand was driving her with whip and reins as it had done the two
horses in the carriole.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Double doors on the first landing were wide open, as Andr&eacute;'s
firm footsteps rang out on the tiled floor an elderly woman came
out of the room beyond. She was small and frail-looking and had
slender white hands which she held out to Andr&eacute; with the
friendliest of greetings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Had a good journey?&quot; she asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute; kissed her hand and then stood aside, disclosing
Aurore.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And that is your young wife!&quot; the old woman exclaimed,
and this time her two arms extended towards Aurore, and a sweet
smile lit up her pale wrinkled face. &quot;You are right welcome,
citizeness,&quot; she said. And Aurore felt two kindly arms encircling
her shoulders and a friendly kiss pressed on both her cheeks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;This is the Citizeness Mignet, <I>ma mie,&quot;</I> Andr&eacute;
said. &quot;A dear, kind friend who has offered us hospitality
until we can continue our journey to Paris.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;For as long as you will stay in my house, my dear,&quot;
the old lady said, fondling Aurore's hand but gazing on Andr&eacute;
with eyes full of deep affection. &quot;I don't suppose he ever
told you, but your husband saved my son's life at Valmy. He lost
his arm while he carried him to safety under the fire of Prussian
cannon. Not only my house, but all I possess in the world is his
and yours for the asking.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But while she spoke Andr&eacute; had made good his escape. Aurore
heard him clattering down the stairs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;He is always like that,&quot; the old lady said, with her
gentle smile. &quot;He can't bear me to say a word about what
we owe him, Jules and I. But one day when Andr&eacute; is not
there my son shall tell you about it, and you will be prouder
of your handsome husband than you ever were before.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;But you are tired, my dear,&quot; she went on, &quot;and
here I am chattering away instead of looking after you. Come and
sit down here in the sunshine while I get you a nice cup of hot
coffee, or would you rather have some nice sweet chocolate?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She led Aurore to an armchair placed by the window, through which
the warm July sun came in smiling. Aurore thanked her with a wan
smile, and she was not really tired and that she would prefer
coffee, whereupon the old lady tripped out of the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And Aurore had remained sitting there with the sunshine caressing
her hair and cheek, looking about her as in a dream. The room
had not a great deal of furniture in it, but the few pieces that
were there revealed a fastidious taste. Fine work of the Louis
XIV period was displayed in a splendid bureau and a fine Boulle
table, in the Aubusson carpet and tapestried chairs. There were
two or three pictures on the wall which suggested the fantastic
brush of Lancret, and above the fireplace a delicate mirror which
must have hailed from Venice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore had the feeling that this could not be reality; that this
was some kind of dreamland out of which she would presently emerge
fully awake. Did people who were country doctors and bourgeois
possess Boulle furniture and Lancret pictures? Of course not.
At least, Aurore had never supposed that they did. Louis XIV bureaus
and Aubusson carpets were to be found in ancestral ch&acirc;teaux
and not in the plebeian houses of small provincial towns. And
this old lady, who now came tripping back in her dress of soft
gray silk with the exquisite lace fichu round her shoulders and
beautiful cap covering her gray hair, she of a certainty was not
the mother of an obscure country leech, the sort of man who, if
he had been called in to attend a sick person at Marigny in the
olden days, would not have been admitted to eat at Monseigneur's
table. &quot;Citizeness Mignet!&quot; That awful word &quot;citizeness,&quot;
which had the power to arouse the most bitter resentment in the
heart of every aristocrat, could surely not be applied to her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She held in her fine which hands a cup of exquisite S&egrave;vres
china from which arose the delicious scent of steaming Mocha.
Aurore took the cup with a grateful if pale little smile. She
drank the coffee eagerly and felt a little better after it. only
with half an ear did she listen to the old lady's pleasant chatter,
out of which only a few disjointed sentences penetrator to her
inner consciousness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Your room is quite ready, my dear.... I shall take an old
woman's privilege and call you Aurore.... When you wake up in
the morning... How proud you must be of your husband.... Prodigies
of valour at Valmy... My son says...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Surely, surely, none of that could be real! The old lady was
just one of those fairies of which Aurore had read when she was
a child in the books of M. Perrault - the fairy godmother in &quot;Cinderella&quot;
or &quot;The Sleeping Beauty.&quot; She would vanish presently,
and she, Aurore, would wake to find herself back in her bed with
the blue damask curtains in her room at Marigny. Dear, dear Maringy!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Nor was the gold ring on her finger real. There was no such person
as Andr&eacute; Vallon, who had dared to call her <I>&quot;ma
mie&quot;</I> and looked down on her with such a cruel, mocking
glance. She gazed down on her own hands, her left hand with that
narrow gold circlet round the fourth finger; and oddly, with her
right hand, she toyed with the ring, twisting it round and round.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And now I shall take you to your room,&quot; the old lady
said in her smooth, gentle voice. &quot;Come with me, my dear.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She smiled, and her old eyes twinkled as she gave Aurore's cheeks
a little pat. &quot;You will want to be alone with your husband,&quot;
she said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And now, after all those hours, and lying on this sweet-scented
bed, Aurore supposed that she did then follow the old lady out
of the room and up some stairs. But of that she remember nothing.
She did not even recall her first impression of this room with
the tall windows veiled behind delicate lace curtains and hangings
of rose Du Barry damask. Here again memory registered a blank
until the moment when Andr&eacute; Vallon came into the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXX:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	Memory can be terribly cruel!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore, lying numb and tired after a few hours' heavy sleep,
felt the full force of this cruelty.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	One by one, pictures which she would long all her life to blot
out from her mind rose before her aching senses. Visions of shame
and of cowardice which she felt would forever after leave a stain
upon her soul. Even now memory most cruel brought the blush of
humbled pride to her cheeks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She, Aurore de Marigny, daughter of one of the proudest houses
in France, claiming kinship with Royalty, the apple of her father's
eyes, the worshipped mistress of a regal ancestral home, she had
grovelled at a plebeian's feet; on her knees she had begged him
to set her free, entreated him with words that in the past she
would only have spoken to her King.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She had begged him, on her knees, with hands clinging to his
rough clothes, to let her go back to Marigny and to her father;
begged him to look on his vengeance as complete, since he had
broken her spirit and humiliated her so that she would never dare
look one of her own caste in the face again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And memory mocked her with that picture of herself, lying like
a crumpled heap of silk and laces at the feet of the man whom
she hated and loathed and despised beyond what she would have
thought herself capable of feeling. And through it all he had
remained cool, sarcastic, indifferent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Do not cry, <I>ma mie,&quot;</I> he had said once: &quot;you
will make your eyes red.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And another time: &quot;In Heaven's name, do not raise your voice.
You don't want our friends down below to know that we have already
embarked on matrimonial quarrels.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But the words that memory recalled more insistently were more
fateful than all:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;While you are my submissive wife no one dare touch your
father or you; but if you choose to leave me, no power on earth
will save either of you from the guillotine. I care naught,&quot;
he added presently, &quot;about that arrogant father of yours:
let him die a dog's death, for aught I care, but I do not choose
to see my wife's pretty head roll into the same basket as those
of the enemies of France.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I hate you,&quot; she had murmured once. &quot;I shall
always hate you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I have no love for you, either,&quot; he had retorted coolly,
&quot;but we shall get used to each other.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And when in her agony of mind she had cried out, &quot;Why -
why have you done this? You hate me, you say - then why not let
me go?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Because...&quot; The word had escaped him, vehement and
fierce; the cruel expression she had learned to fear had flashed
for a few seconds out of his eyes. But the next moment he pulled
himself together, seemed, indeed, to shed his fury like a mantle.
A mocking smile chased away the ferocious glance, and he said
lightly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Because you are beautiful, <I>ma mie;</I> you are my wife
and I wish to keep you. That is all.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	In the olden days Aurore de Marigny, even when she was little
more than a child, had been wont to despise the airs and graces,
the megrims and mild hysterics in which her elegant friends so
often indulged. She had always been a fearless child: at games,
on horseback, nothing frightened her. In an age when women affected
the weaknesses of their sex as a sign of aristocratic birth, she
would find joy in breaking in an untamed colt or accompanying
her father in his shooting expeditions after wolf or wild boar
in the forests of Ardennes. She had never known fear until now,
when a beggarly caitiff held her like a slave in thrall. But with
memory's cruel insistence there came back to her the knowledge
that she was afraid; that there was one man in the world the sight
of whom caused a quiver of abject fear to go right through her
body, the sound of whose footfall caused every drop of blood to
flow back to her heart. Why, she couldn't say.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was that despicable fear which at this fateful hour had taken
such hold of her that, even while his formidable arm encircled
her waist and raised her from the ground where she had been cowering
like a frightened beast, her senses suddenly forsook her, her
head fell back, her teeth chattered as if in ague, her limbs felt
as cold as ice. Broken and bruised by the terrible mental and
physical struggle, she was numb and limp, had not one spark of
fight left in her, or the strength of a kitten. She felt herself
lifted off the ground and laid down somewhere, where it was soft
and warm and sweet smelling. She heard the dreaded footfall receding
from her, the opening of a door, and then a call.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	There were other people in the room presently - a man and a woman.
Aurore couldn't see them; she had not the energy to raise her
eyelids; but gentle kindly hands undressed her, took off her shoes
and stockings, combed her hair and moistened her face with sweet-smelling
water. She felt herself being tucked up in a soft downy bed, and
soft murmurs that sounded pitiful and motherly soothed her throbbing
senses.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	A man's voice, persuasive and authoritative, said, &quot;Try
and drink this, citizeness, it will make you sleep.&quot; She
obeyed and drank the slightly bitter liquid that was held to her
lips. After that she lay placid and quiet and, presently, must
have dropped off to sleep.<!--SELECTION--><!--/SELECTION--></FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXXI:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	The stay in Nevers was made endurable
for Aurore through the absence of her husband.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Her husband!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The Mignets explained to her that Andr&eacute; had left for Paris
on the very day of their arrival, while she was lying asleep.
He wouldn't have her disturbed. He had gone in order to make arrangements
for their new home, and he had gone full of joy and hope, because
Citizen Danton had sent a courier over from Paris confirming the
happy tidings already sent to Val-le-Roi a few days ago, that
he would be overjoyed to see his old friend and colleague Andr&eacute;
Vallon again. There was work and to spare for young hands and
young brains who had the welfare of the people at heart. The education
of the young and the reclaiming of the unfit were the two questions
that occupied the minds of the committees at the present moment,
and Danton held out hopes of an important post for Andr&eacute;
in connection with these questions.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;It is the sort of work that will appeal to your clever
husband, citizeness,&quot; the Doctor said, &quot;now that the
loss of his arm has compelled him to leave the army. The illiterates
in France have been reckoned by the million in the past. Whatever
else the present great upheaval may do, it will certainly remedy
that crying evil.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;They are opening schools all over France,&quot; the old
lady continued, &quot;not only for the young, but also for the
afflicted: the deaf and dumb and the blind.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Schools?&quot; Aurore remarked with a slight lifting of
the eyebrows. &quot;To teach what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;The elements of education,&quot; Madame Mignet replied
quietly. &quot;These must no longer remain the privilege of the
few.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And is my - my husband taking a hand in this scheme of
education for the million?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Indeed, yes,&quot; the Doctor said. &quot;I understand
that Citizen Danton has obtained an important post for him in
connection with the schools for the blind.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Citizen Danton is the most influential man in France,&quot;
Madame Mignet went on to explain to the somewhat bewildered Aurore.
&quot;He has a charming young wife. Madame Roland is one of their
intimate friends. You and your husband will move among the most
brilliant and most intellectual society in Paris.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore was indeed bewildered. She gazed on this fastidious-looking
old lady with the aristocratic features and delicate hands, who
talked so calmly of Danton, the hideous master butcher of this
awful slaughterhouse, the man whose large plebeian hands were
stained with the blood of hundreds of his fellow men. Madame Mignet,
or Citizeness Mignet as she preferred to be called, could talk
of that man and his circle as &quot;intellectual&quot; and &quot;brilliant,&quot;
and took it for granted that she, Aurore, daughter of Monseigneur
le Duc de Marigny, would find pleasure in their society. Pleasure?
Aurore could only marvel whether she would have sufficient courage
to show her horror and loathing should the hands of those butchers
be extended in friendly welcome to her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It seemed impossible that people like the Mignets should look
complacently on the wholesale butcheries which were turning the
fair city of Paris into a shambles; that they could condone the
hideous crime of regicide about to culminate in the still more
deadly sin of the execution of the Queen; that they could utter
such names as Danton or Robespierre, Carrier or Desmoulins without
a shudder. And when, after a few days of quiet intimacy, Aurore
ventured to put the question to Madame Mignet, the old lady replied
with strange earnestness:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;My dear, since the beginning of all times men have perpetrated
horrors against one another. It is the devil in them, but the
devil would have no power over men if God did not allow it. Could
He not, if He so willed, quell this revolution with His Word?
Must we not rather bow to His will and try to realize that something
great, something good, something, at any rate, that is in accordance
with the great scheme of the universe must in the end come out
of all this sorrow?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;But, surely,&quot; Aurore protested, &quot;you must look
with horror on these wholesale murders.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I look with horror on every act of violence committed by
man against his fellow creatures. I look with horror on every
war where men are trained and encouraged to kill or maim one another.
I look with horror upon the slave owners in our colonies, where
men drive their fellow creatures with whip lash and torture to
toil so that they themselves may reap. All these, my dear child,
are horrors which we women condemn and shudder at. But wars there
will always be, because man will always defend his property against
aggression, and there will be revolutions in this world so long
as men use their power in order to enslave others.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore hotly defended her caste. On her father's estate the people
were content and prosperous.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I am sure they were,&quot; Madame Mignet admitted, with
an indulgent smile, &quot;but throughout the history of the world,
the innocent have suffered together with the guilty. Great evils
need desperate remedies. The children of France, egged on by centuries
of misery and spurred by starvation, have struck blindly about
them in their scramble for food. In the m&ecirc;l&eacute;e noble
heads have fallen along with some that were heavy with guilt.
But it is God's will, and we must have patience. France is a great
and glorious country. This is the period of her travail. From
it she will bring forth liberty and progress which, as the years
roll on, will cause her children to forget what they have endured
in the cause.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was amazing to hear a woman of refinement talk so placidly
about it all. In fact, Aurore could not help remarking to herself
how strangely like this old lady's philosophy of life was that
of Abb&eacute; Rosemonde. Resignation to the will of God. Contentment
in leaving everything in His hands. She felt a kind of mild contempt
for this placidity, and yet, what right had she to scorn anyone?
She, the miserable coward who shrank from the hurt that her father's
death would cause her, and to save herself and him had grovelled
at the feet of one whom she despised?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But it was only toward the end of her stay at Nevers that she
spoke of all this to Madame Mignet. She wondered how much of her
history the old lady and the Doctor knew; if they realized that
as far as she was concerned the greatest horror she had ever experienced
was when she found herself the wife of one whom her father had
so justly dubbed <I>&quot;Canaille!&quot;</I> They, of course,
would not understand how her entire being was in revolt against
this slavery. Andr&eacute; Vallon was admittedly a poor man, which
would mean that she, Aurore de Marigny, would be little better
than a servant to a despicable knave. Ignorant of the commonest
elements of household work, she would be a constant suffering
victim to his gibes and his tyranny. But it was not the work that
she feared, it was the mental, the moral, the physical contact
with one whom she hated.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And all the while that she was at Nevers, her ears were constantly
filled with his name. Though absent, he seemed always to be there
in this home of culture and refinement, as he was ever present
apparently in the hearts of his friends. From beginning to end,
Aurore was forced to listen to the story of Andr&eacute;'s heroism
when he carried Doctor Mignet on his back out of range of the
Prussian cannon; how a chance musket shot had shattered his arm
and he had dragged himself and his swooning comrade back to the
French lines, only to return to the scene of danger and bring
to safety half a dozen more of his wounded comrades until, stricken
with a raging fever, more dead than alive, he in his turn had
completely lost consciousness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	With a wealth of detail and a plethora of exciting incidents
did Doctor Mignet recount not only this story, but others in which
Andr&eacute; Vallon was the hero and had accomplished prodigies
of valour.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Four citations, citizeness,&quot; he said with undisguised
enthusiasm. &quot;Dumouriez, before his abominable treachery,
always spoke of Vallon as the bravest soldier he had ever had
under his command; and when the crash came, when Dumouriez, whom
the whole of France trusted as an able general and a loyal patriot,
when he sold his sword to the enemies of his country, Vallon was
one of those who put heart into the troops, who revived their
courage and led them to a series of victories which culminated
in that glorious day of Valmy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And the old lady would then conclude with a happy little sigh:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Indeed, citizeness, Andr&eacute; is a man to be proud of
as a husband and as a friend.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And Aurore wondered if all those stories could possibly be true.
Valour, loyalty, selflessness, these were the attributes of her
caste. Caitiffs like Andr&eacute; Vallon surely were not capable
of such noble impulses. They had no educations to guide them,
no tradition, none of the examples which formed the glorious history
of a noble race such as hers. It couldn't be true. The whole thing
was an exaggeration on the Doctor's part. He was blinded by his
affection for a comrade in arms, by dangers passed together, by
suffering endured for the sake of France, when the whole of Europe
raised its hand against her, and the Prussian hordes invaded her
sacred soil.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I look with horror on every war,&quot; the old lady had
said. And for the first time in all these miserable years Aurore
was conscious of a vague feeling of shame that so many of her
kindred had turned their sword against their country in the hour
of her greatest peril, or sought refuge and safety on foreign
soil.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;France, my country!&quot; an unconscious poet had once
sung. &quot;She may have erred, she may have sinned, but still
she is my country!&quot;<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXXII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	Indeed, these few days in Nevers in
the company of two charming and intellectual people were both
pleasant and peaceful. It was years since Aurore had the opportunity
of listening to conversation other than the somewhat na&iuml;ve
philosophy of Abb&eacute; Rosemonde and her father's somewhat
monotonous if fully justified diatribes against the new r&eacute;gime;
and though she felt that she could never agree with the opinions
and ideals expounded so eloquently by the Mignets, yet she could
not help feeling interested, taken out of herself, made to feel
that at any rate the original makers of this terrible revolution
were men of high ideals actuated by the purest of motives.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The day of departure came, alas! all too soon. Andr&eacute; came
to Nevers to fetch his wife. The sight of him revived in Aurore's
memory all the terrible times she had lived through. All the quietude
of the past few days seemed to fly from her soul At once she felt
irritated, with her nerves all tingling and on edge. She watched
the carriage drive up to the door and saw him jump down and take
his valise from the driver. She thought he looked ill, but supposed
that perhaps the journey had been trying. It was only later that
she heard that he had actually come from Val-le-Roi, whither he
had gone first from Paris in order to see after his mother's grave
in the churchyard there.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was not till late afternoon that Aurore found herself along
in her room with her husband. She certainly thought that he looked
different, somehow: older perhaps, but certainly different. He
had been to Marigny and spoke to her about his visit there.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Your father refused to see me,&quot; he told her, &quot;which
I suppose was natural. But I questioned Pierre and Jeannette and
also the Citizen Cur&eacute;. They all told me that physically
he was well, but not quite normal in his mind.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	<I>&quot;Mon Dieu!...&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">	&quot;It is nothing to be alarmed
about. I spoke to the leech-Citizen Journet - whom you know. They
used to call him in the olden days if any of the servants were
sick. Your father, it seems, condescended to let him feel his
pulse and to take the potion which he prescribed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;If I could only see him...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You wouldn't do him any good. On the contrary, if you were
there he would let loose the floodgates of his resentment and
work himself up into a delirium of fury. I put the question to
the Citizen Doctor and Abb&eacute; Rosemonde: they both thought
it best that he should be kept very quiet for a time, under the
care of Pierre and Jeannette.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You seem to have been very kind,&quot; she said, feeling
grateful yet loth to acknowledge her gratitude.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Only seemingly,&quot; he replied lightly, in that flippant,
mocking tone of his which still had the power to irritate her.
However, she kept sufficient control over herself for the moment
to swallow the sharp retort which hovered on her lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	There was a moment's silence between them, and then he mentioned
Talon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I have got the deeds of sale out of that thief, at any
rate,&quot; he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;The deeds?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Why, yes! The deeds of sale of Marigny and of all the estates
registered in your father's name to Hector Talon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I had forgotten,&quot; she murmured.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;He hadn't,&quot; Andr&eacute; replied drily, &quot;not
your father's.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What does that mean?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;That I had the title deeds registered in your name, under
the plea that your father was <I>non compos mentis.&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">	&quot;But I couldn't allow-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I should be defrauding my father.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Would you rather Talon had possession?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Rather he than you,&quot; she retorted coldly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	At the moment she hoped, rather than thought, that a slight shadow
passed over his face. They had both been standing during this
brief conversation, carried on with a kind of casual indifference
on his side and with thinly veiled animosity on hers. She had
intended to wound him with the sharpness of her tongue, and having,
as she hoped, succeeded, she turned coolly away from him and sat
down in the winged armchair by the window. With ostentatious care
she disposed the folds of her gown about her, fiddled at her fichu,
allowed her daintily shod foot to peep from beneath her skirt.
Then she took up a piece of embroidery and started to ply her
needle with the appearance of being deeply engrossed in her work.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute; watched her in silence for a moment or two. Had
she looked up she would have seen the mocking smile which curled
round his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I suppose,&quot; he said after a while, &quot;that my wits
are specially dull this afternoon. Would you be so gracious as
to explain just what you mean by 'rather he than you'? It sounds
enigmatic to me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore kept her eyes fixed on her embroidery frame, drawing the
thread in and out as if the destinies of France rested on the
success of her work. With her head slightly tilted to one side,
her fair hair free from powder, like a golden halo above her smooth
forehead, a look of concentration in her deep blue eyes, she looked
perfectly adorable. She knew it, and felt a great measure of strength
in the knowledge. A woman is soon conscious of victory when she
knows that she is beautiful, and Aurore, young and inexperienced
as she was, was no exception to this rule. What worried her was
that she could not keep her hands entirely steady or still the
beatings of her heart. She knew that if she spoke her voice would
betray the fact that she was vaguely frightened. She had hit out
rather blindly and thoughtlessly because his cool indifference
had exasperated her, but now she was afraid of what he might do.
He was cruel and vengeful, she knew that, and she felt frightened,
like a child who has been naughty and knows that it is going to
be punished.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But she would not for worlds let him see that she was anything
but indifferent, and so she remained silent and went on drawing
her embroidery thread in and out with cool ostentation. But, suddenly,
and without any warning, he came up close to her and, with an
impatient oath, snatched the work out of her hand and threw it
on the ground.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Please answer my question,&quot; he said coldly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The needle, it seemed, had slightly grazed her finger, drawing
a drop of blood. She put the finger to her mouth. Then she rose
from her chair and stooped to pick up her work. He put his foot
on it. As she straightened again she found herself quite close
to him, looking up into his face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I meant just what I said,&quot; she said, as coolly as
she could, though she felt that her nerves were beginning to give
way; &quot;that I would sooner any man in the whole of France
had Marigny rather than you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;A very natural sentiment on your part, no doubt,&quot;
he rejoined calmly, &quot;seeing that you honour me with such
active hatred. But had you equally honoured me by listening to
me just now you would have heard me say that the title deeds of
Marigny are not inscribed in my name but in yours.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She broke into a harsh, derisive laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;A pretty bit of sophistry, forsooth,&quot; she retorted.
&quot;You must think me a food, indeed, if you imagine I do not
see through your tricks. A marriage with the <I>aristo, pardi!</I>
to humiliate her, what? and to avenge wrongs in which she had
no share? Your precious friends believe that tale, do they not?
But they are the fools, not I. I know enough of the laws of your
murdering government. A wife's property belongs to her husband,
and that is the reason why you forced this monstrous union upon
me. It was in order to feather your nest, to obtain possession
of the lands and ch&acirc;teau which if my dear father and I had
perished on the guillotine would have become the property of the
State. Marry the aristocrat, forsooth, to avenge a mother's death!
<I>Par Dieu!</I> 'twas a pretty story to cover the grasping avarice
of an upstart out for loot!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She had succeeded in working herself up into a state of uncontrolled
fury. Fear had given way to a kind of nervous exultation at her
own power to wound. All unknowing, he had put the flail in her
hand wherewith to chastise him. And chastise she did. Whether
she believed in what she said or no didn't seem to matter: all
she knew was that her words must hurt him. They must, even though
he stood there close to her, entirely motionless, looking down
into her glowing face with eyes the expression of which she could
not entirely fathom. But that was because she was excited, unable
to reason and to think, only to strike with words that must hit
at what pride he possessed, as a whip lash would have struck at
his face. It was only when she was forced to pause in order to
draw breath that that awful mocking smile which she hated worse
than his cruelty curled once more around his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	This goaded her beyond endurance. Her nerves were completely
unstrung. She couldn't have controlled them even if she would.
She was just longing for an actual whip wherewith to strike, longing
with all her soul to make him cringe and suffer at last as he
had so often made her suffer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	With a strange cry, as much of pain as of triumph, she suddenly
raised her hand and strike him in the face....</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You little fool!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	That was what she heard. The voice did not sound quite like his.
Perhaps she had expected a roar, a cry of rage, a savage oath
- he was a beast, and beast usually bellowed when they were hurt;
but all she did hear was a low, contemptuous laugh and those three
words, &quot;You little fool!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But what happened was quite another matter. His formidable arm
shot out, and in an instant both her wrists were tightly held
together as in a manacle of steel. She felt as if her arms were
wrenched out of their sockets, and in the agony of it her knees
gave way under her. She felt herself sinking to the ground, and
through a mist of semiconsciousness she saw his face quite close
to hers - a cruel, mocking face with a gleam of ferocity in the
eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;On your knees, you little fool!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	What a harsh voice it had become! And then that laugh! Mockery!
Contempt! Mild amusement! The whole gamut of what was most humiliating
and most riling.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Let go my wrists,&quot; she said as steadily as she could,
though she was ready to cry with pain. &quot;Let go! You hurt
me!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Hurt you?&quot; he went on coolly. &quot;By God! I mean
to hurt you, you infuriating little vixen! I am going to keep
you here on your knees until those red lips of yours have begged
for pardon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Let me go!&quot; she cried aloud. &quot;Brute! Brute! Let
me go!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;As soon as you have begged for pardon!&quot; he retorted
grimly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Never!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;We shall see!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He sat down in the winged chair and still held her by the wrists.
She was on her knees, crouching at his feet, for there he held
her pinioned with one foot on the edge of her gown. She could
not move.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Coward! Let me go!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Not I! Coward,&quot; he continued coolly, &quot;is an attribute
of mudlarks such as I, but so is obstinacy you'll find, <I>ma
mie.</I> Anyway, you are going to stay here on your knees until
your sweet lips have claimed and received a kiss of forgiveness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Just for a few seconds she had an uncontrollable desire to scream
at the top of her voice in the hope that some member of the Mignet
household would come to her rescue. But her pride revolted at
the idea of being found in this humiliating position, and with
all their adoration for this brutish husband of hers they might
even take his part against her, and ridicule might then be piled
on humiliation - a thing too awful to contemplate. She thought
that he would tire; those fingers of his, which felt more and
more like iron clamps around her wrists, were bound, she thought,
to loosen their hold a little after a time. Manlike, he would
grow weary of sitting still. The slightest movement on his part,
and the tension would relax. That would be her opportunity for
escape, and, of course, she would not be caught unawares again.
If only she could have closed her ears to his voice, to his gibes
and his sneers and, worse still, to this scornful admiration.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;So you thought out that pretty story for yourself,&quot;
he said at one time: &quot;that I schemed to marry you in order
to obtain possession of your impoverished estates. Name of a name!
you have imagination as well as beauty, <I>ma mie&quot;;</I> and
then he added irrelevantly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;When you sue for pardon I shall kiss you, Aurore, for your
lips just now look as luscious as two cherries.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Involuntarily a sob rose to her throat, her pretty head fell
forward, and great hot tears fell from her eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Don't cry, <I>ma mie,&quot;</I> he said gaily. &quot;I
didn't cry when that charming cousin of yours struck me in the
face just because you happened to fall into my arms one day. I
was only a boy, and you were a child. Do you remember that day,
<I>ma mie?&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">	His voice seemed to die away somewhere
in space. The shades of evening were drawing in. It was quite
dark in the remote corners of the room. Aurore felt faint and
sick, dreading, yet longing for, unconsciousness. At one moment
hope revived. There was a knock at the door, and she heard Andr&eacute;'s
voice calling:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What is it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Supper is ready, citizen,&quot; came the servant girl's
voice in reply. &quot;Will you be coming down?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Not to-night, Marie,&quot; Andr&eacute; replied. &quot;My
wife is fatigued, and I will stay with her. Pray the Citizen Doctor
and the Citizeness to excuse us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	After that Aurore sobbed like a child. She was tired and hungry
and in pain. She sobbed, and through her sobs she heard the hated
voice saying quite lightly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Give in, <I>ma mie</I>. You won't regret it. If I had a
hand to spare I would put a finger under your pretty chin and
try and teach you that it is quite good to kiss.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She did give in, in the end. She felt ashamed, abjected, cowardly.
A brief while ago she would have scorned the idea of any woman
giving in under such humiliating conditions. But it was not only
physical pain that compelled her. It was something more than that,
and she knew it. It was the enforcement of a will greater than
her own, the absolutism of physical, moral, and mental strength
which seemed to rob her surrender of its most galling sting. She
raised her head and almost with an air of defiance she threw out
the word, &quot;Pardon!&quot; At once her wrists were released,
but her whole body was imprisoned instead. Weak and broken, with
head thrown back and eyes closed, she remained motionless in the
crook of his arm. For a long, long time she remained thus, expecting
and dreading that kiss. She felt that his eyes were on her, revelling
- she had no doubt of that - in her beauty. And for this she hated
and despised him as much as she hated and despised herself. For
one instant she opened her eyes and looked into his. What had
compelled her to open them she didn't know. It was still that
immense power which appeared to be in the very air about her,
bending her will and breaking her spirit. Had she read fury, passion,
or hatred in his eyes she might, she felt, have forgiven him in
her turn, have felt less ashamed of her cowardice; but all she
encountered was a kind of gentle, indulgent mockery, mild amusement
at what to her meant the uprooting of all that she had held inviolate,
the surrender of what she held far deeper than life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He was amused at her humiliation and could laugh at her distress.
She gave him one look and then said loudly and quite steadily:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I never knew what hatred meant until now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;We'll call it that if you like,&quot; he retorted lightly,
&quot;but isn't it good?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And then he kissed her.<!--SELECTION--><!--/SELECTION--></FONT></P>

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<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXXIII:</FONT></B></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	Since that day many months had gone
by, and Aurore, sitting once more in the large winged chair by
the window in that pretty room at Nevers and watching the snowflakes
slowly fluttering down from the leaden sky thought of the long,
long time that separated her from the past, and of the interminable
days that still lay, wearisome and monotonous, before her, until
she was an old woman, too old to recollect and too old to feel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She had been very sorry at the time to leave the quietude of
the house at Nevers, not thinking that she would ever see it again.
The Mignets had been so kind! So king! She marvelled often just
how much they knew. She had dreaded the journey to Paris in the
company of her husband, had dreaded the life that lay before her
- the great unknown! the leap into a future which she pictured
to herself as dark and lonely and laden with sorrow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But things in life have a way of not being either quite so pleasant
or so unpleasant as one anticipates; and Aurore's first impression
of the apartment in Paris which was destined to be her home was
certainly not so unpleasant as she had imagined. It certainly
was spacious and sunny. Situated on the Quai de la Ferraille,
high above the noises of the street below, it had a fine view
over the river and the towers of Notre Dame. She wondered who
it was who had presided over the furnishing of it, but didn't
like to ask. She thought that she detected a feminine hand and
a woman's taste in her bedroom, with its muslin curtains and flowered
chintz hangings. All very simple, even Spartan, but with nothing
to jar on her fastidiousness. In an adjacent small boudoir she
found a comfortable armchair, a work table, many appurtenances
necessary for needlework. These only a woman could have selected,
so Aurore thought, and wondered who it could have been.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	There were also a number of books ranged on shelves on one side
of the room. As soon as she had an opportunity Aurore looked to
see what they were. Rousseau, of course, and Diderot, and also
Voltaire and D'Alembert; the speeches of Mirabeau and reprints
of the early numbers of <I>L'Ami du Peuple.</I> But there were
others too: the poets and essayists of the Grand Si&egrave;cle,
Moli&egrave;re, Coidorcet, Bossuet, and many more. somehow she
felt that each one had been chosen specially for the moulding
of her mind. Herein she suspected her husband, and wondered how
any man could be so dense or so arrogant as to suppose that she
would swerve one iota from the principles and the faith, which
she had been taught to believe were the only possible rules of
life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But apart from such rebellious thoughts and during those early
days of August, Aurore set out resolutely to live the life which
she believed was to be hers to the end of time. She wondered how
she was every going to live and to endure. And yet other people
did it; other women in this awful city of Paris had learned how
to live and how to suffer. How amazing that was! Amazing and ununderstandable!
The Reign of Terror was at its height. The glorious revolution,
which was going to regenerate the world and bring about the millennium
with unbroken happiness for all, could now be best described as
a conjugation of the verb &quot;to fear&quot;: I fear, thou fearest,
he fears, we fear, you fear, they fear! Men and women in Paris
went daily, hourly, in fear of their lives; in fear of the lives
of those near and dear to them. Every day accusations, trials,
condemnations, and the procession of victims to the guillotine.
Terror, indeed, was the order of the day, the darlings of the
crowd to-day were the execration of the mob on the morrow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And yet, life went on just the same.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	People walked about the streets, met each other and talked over
the events of the day - the death of this man, imminent arrest
of that other; Robespierre's latest speech; the news from the
front. They went to the theatre and the opera; they dined at restaurants.
Young people made love; old people died; babies were born. Life
went on just the same.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore saw very little of the outside world. She went daily to
market with the pleasant middle-aged woman who helped her with
her m&eacute;nage; she stood in the queues, waiting her turn to
purchase the few ounces of bread which the law allowed, and spent
the money which Andr&eacute; had given her for the purchase of
such food as was obtainable. Her life was Spartan in the extreme,
but she had no rough task to perform. There was no question of
washing and scrubbing - the nice middle-aged woman did all that;
but Aurore soon found herself strangely interested in keeping
her new home dainty and comfortable and her table as free from
monotony as possible. The feeling gradually came to her that this
was more of a real home to her than stately Marigny had ever been.
There, during its days of splendour, everything was ordained and
arranged by an army of servants without any reference to her own
special wishes. Probably she had no special wishes in those days,
as everything went on in its own perfect routine. There was never
any hitch: housekeepers and major-domos saw to it that Mademoiselle
was not troubled with such trifles as the arrangement of flowers
in her room or the composition of a menu.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But here, in the sunny rooms of the Quai de la Ferraille, everything
depended on her, and the thrill was very real when there were
a few asters to be bought in the market, or there was a possibility
of obtaining a thin old fowl that made excellent soup.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore heard vague rumours from time to time that men in high
places kept rich tables in their homes while the people starved;
that certain restaurants in the Rue St. Honor&eacute;, patronized
by Robespierre, the Incorruptible, and his friends on the influential
committees, served their customers with the richest of food and
choice wines bought for a song from the cellars of dispossessed
aristocrats. She heard that in the country there was no shortage
of luxury; that Danton's house at Arcis was noted for its good
cheer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	All that she heard and more, but she had soon schooled herself
to know nothing, to listen to nothing, to comment on nothing.
She never went to a theatre; she had never set foot inside a restaurant.
She only walked for exercise, and then only in the fields round
about St. Martin and Passy. It was the only way to endure life.
Strangely enough, quite apart from the interest in her home, she
was not really unhappy. What sorrow and anxiety she felt was purely
outside herself. The fate of the unfortunate Queen caused her
immense grief, but she never spoke of it; through gossip gleaned
in the streets, or through the placards at street corners which
she could not fail to see, she learned of the condemnation and
death of many whose names had been familiar to her since childhood:
relatives, friends, acquaintances. Many she knew had found shelter
abroad, and more than once she half broke her heart with regret
that her father had always set his face so obstinately against
emigration. They would be together now - she and he - secure in
England or Belgium, with only the echo of all these horrors to
disturb their peace, instead of this daily agonizing contact with
it all.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She remembered that a year or less before this she had heard
rumours of an organization of English gentlemen, headed by a mysterious
chief who was known as &quot;The Scarlet Pimpernel,&quot; who
risked their lives in order to help those who were in danger of
death, who were unhappy and innocent, and who longed to flee from
this terror-stricken land. She remembered that her father had
obstinately refused to get in touch with these gallant Englishmen.
He hated the English, he said, and would not owe his life to any
of them. Aurore, at the time, thought no more about it. She did
not hate the English, but she didn't want to leave Marigny, and
in that remote country district the danger to her father and herself
did not appear imminent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Until that awful day in July, which seemed now like a nightmare,
she had no realized how hated she and her father were in the villages,
and how intense was the enmity of the people against her caste.
But here, in Paris, her eyes were soon opened to much that she
had never fully understood before: she soon realized how miserable
and ignorant the people were, and how easy it was to arouse in
them passions of hatred, of resentment and cruelty. She also realized
how helpless now were those men who, with the highest possible
ideals to spur them, and an infinite understanding of the injustice
under which the poor had groaned for centuries, had let loose
the floodgates of this titanic revolution. They were helpless
now, and, one by one, paid toll with their lives for all those
dreams of liberty and justice which were going to make this word
regenerate and happy, and only succeeded in making it more miserable
and more foul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Her husband, Andr&eacute; Vallon, was one of these. He had come
back from the war full of enthusiasm and of hope. Since he could
no longer fight the enemies of his country abroad, he would fight
them within its borders: traitors, who would sell France to her
foes, who would allow the Prussian heel to tread her sacred soil;
upstarts, who filled their pockets and their bellies while others
groaned and starved. They were the enemies whom men like Andr&eacute;
Vallon were ready to denounce to an outraged people. The people
were ready enough to have those traitors thrown to them as bait
for their revenge, but, having tasted the sweets of retaliation,
they soon cried for more. And Aurore watched clouds of anxiety
gather over her husband's brow. Day by day he became more absorbed,
more silent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	When first they had settled down in Paris he had often talked
to her of the great upheaval which was convulsing the country:
he spoke with great moderation, careful not to outrage her principles
or her belief. He brought her books to read, pamphlets that interested
her even though they could never convince. Andr&eacute; could
talk well when he liked; he knew his Rousseau and discussed him
with Aurore in a manner which opened up her mind to social questions
of which she had never dreamed before. She was intelligent and
responsive. She had a great desire to learn, and, in spite of
herself, she caught herself more than once looking forward to
a quiet evening in the Quai de la Ferraille, t&ecirc;te-&agrave;-tet&ecirc;
with her husband, listening to his talk while she worked. He would
speak very freely of the social ideals that had brought about
the Revolution, of men like Lafayette and Mirabeau, of the original
Legislative Assembly, the Constitution of '89, and the Declaration
of the Rights of Man. But it was always of the past that he spoke.
Of the present and the future he never uttered a word, and Aurore,
through innate delicacy of feeling, never mentioned the names
of those demagogues who had been Andr&eacute;'s colleagues and
friends at one time, and who had since been hurled down the steep
path of enormity and of crime by the avalanche which they had
let loose and no longer could control. She never once uttered
the name of Danton, the master butcher who had been Andr&eacute;'s
friend.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	From time to time she had news of her father, and Andr&eacute;
held out hopes to her that she would see him soon; but he never
spoke again of Marigny, though she had a strong suspicion that
he was administering the estate through an agent whom he had placed
there for the purpose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Soon she had the conviction that he was taking her presence in
his home absolutely for granted. She was his wife and looked after
his comfort. Sometimes she was also a pleasant companion with
whom he could talk of extraneous subjects. He had never once set
foot inside her room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He taught her to play chess, and now and then they would have
a game in the evening. The lamp, set on a tall stand behind Aurore's
chair, lit up the tender gold of her hair, the curve of her shoulder
peeping through the folds of her lace fichu, her delicate hand
supporting her chin. She was beautiful, and she knew it. But whenever
she looked up from her game she invariably saw his head bent,
intent upon the next move, and his eyes fixed upon the board.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He had never once kissed her since that evening at Nevers.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXXIV:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	Towards the end of September Andr&eacute;
announced to Aurore his intention to take her to Nevers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;The Mignets,&quot; he said, &quot;will be very happy to
have you with them, and there will be a chance for you of seeing
your father.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	A quick cry of protest came involuntarily to her lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I would rather stay here!&quot; she said, and then could
have cried with vexation, for at once that mocking smile which
she hated came curling around his mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I would not wish to burden Madame Mignet with my presence,&quot;
she went on, as coolly as she could. &quot;I know from experience
how difficult housekeeping has become, and a visitor must be a
burden in any house.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;The Citizeness has been longing to see you again, she tells
me, and Paris is not the place for you just now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was not often that he assumed this air of authority over her,
but Aurore was sensible enough to know that when he did any kind
of resistance would be useless. In this great era of liberty a
married woman was still entirely dependent on her husband. She
had no money or property apart from him, and he had complete control
over her affairs and over her movements. Aurore, who had a great
regard for her own personal dignity, would never have demeaned
herself by argument or resistance which could only result in defeat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	As a matter of fact, she knew quite well why she was being sent
out of Paris, and in her innermost heart could not help feeling
thankful that there were some kind friends with whom she could
stay, away in a quiet provincial town, until the terrible events
which were looming ahead had come about and vanished into the
past. The trial of the unfortunate Queen had been decreed by the
Convention. This, of course, would be nothing but hideous mockery
and would inevitably end in her condemnation and her death. Andr&eacute;
did not wish his wife to be in Paris when that occurred.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He took her over to Nevers on one of the last days in September.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The drive in the diligence through the beautiful valleys of the
Ni&egrave;vre and the Allier, where the trees that bordered the
road were already clothed in the gorgeous russet and gold mantle
of autumn, was strangely soothing. More than once Aurore fell
asleep in spite of the roughness of the road, the heat inside
the diligence, the querulous murmur of conversation of her fellow
passengers. When a sudden jerk aroused her from these fitful slumbers
she usually found that in her sleep her head had fallen sideways
and come to rest on her husband's shoulder. She would look up
at him, half dazed and with a beating heart, only to find that
he was sitting bolt upright, staring straight out in front of
him, and had not apparently as much as noticed her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The Mignets were, as usual, more than kind, and did all they
could to make their guest happy. But a strange restlessness now
had possession of Aurore, and the peaceful atmosphere of this
refined household seemed to irritate rather than soothe her nerves.
Very little news from Paris penetrated as far as this sleepy cathedral
town. The diligence to and from the capital only plied once a
month now, and the meagre sheets which it brought were at once
snapped up by a privileged few. As Aurore never spoke with anyone
outside the household she could only learn what the Mignets chose
to tell her. She more than suspected that news was being kept
from her when it was more than usually horrible or alarming. She
did hear of the condemnation and death of the Queen, and this
caused her unmitigated grief. she also heard of the wholesale
execution of the Girondists, the brilliant party whose members
were the first to try and cry halt to the holocaust which they
themselves had set in motion. The &eacute;lite of intellectual
Paris perished on the guillotine on that awful last day of October,
and with them perished the last of the moderatists who might have
stemmed the tide of butchery nine months before the surfeit of
carnage put an end to it at last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore could not help wondering at times how her husband would
fare though all the turmoil that followed the execution of the
Girondists. It was obvious, even to her who knew so little, that
no man's head was safe upon his shoulders if he expressed the
slightest desire to see the end of all the slaughter, or showed
anything but satisfaction at the orgy of blood that went on day
after day. And Aurore, with all her hatred and dread of Andr&eacute;,
knew him to be entirely fearless and disdainful of his life where
his ideals and his beliefs were at stake. As in the days of his
youth, when he had boldly expressed his views on the Rights of
Man and the iniquity of the old social system that allowed two
thirds of humanity to starve so that the remaining third might
feast, as later on he had joined Danton in the denunciation of
those tyrants who had learned nothing from the lesson taught them
by an outraged people, so now he would with equal boldness tilt
against the assassins, who through sheer fear for their own lives
were vying with one another in atrocities and had turned the beautiful
land of France into a gigantic shambles.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Sooner or later, thought Aurore, he would fall a victim to his
moderatism. It would be a pity, she thought, because there must
be so few men of sane fews and true patriotism left in the country
now. Once or twice she spoke about Andr&eacute; to the Mignets
and showed an anxiety on his behalf which she hoped would please
them. It did. And as usual the Doctor and the old lady at once
embarked on their wonted eulogy of their friend.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;They daren't touch him,&quot; the Doctor said decisively.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Why not?&quot; Aurore retorted. And then added: &quot;It
seems to me that, as they dared raise their guilty hand against
the Queen, they would dare anything.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;That was different,&quot; the Doctor asserted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Why different?&quot; she demanded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Andr&eacute;'s life is consecrated to the service of the
poor and the afflicted. One could hardly say that of the unfortunate
Marie Antoinette.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;She never had the opportunity,&quot; Aurore protested hotly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Perhaps not. But, anyway, while she lived she was a constant
inducement to a handful of hotheaded traitors to betray their
country for her sake. You would be surprised, citizeness, if you
knew the number of conspiracies, of intrigues, of treacheries
that were daily hatches in order to overthrow the Republic and
replace the Austrian woman on her son on the throne.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Then do you mean to tell me that you-&quot; Aurore retorted
vehemently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Don't ask me that question, citizeness,&quot; the Doctor
broke in with earnestness. &quot;I am no politician, nor am I
the guardian of my country's laws. I only wanted to point out
to you that the execution of Marie Antoinette in no way suggest
danger to your husband.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Unless things chance very much for the worse,&quot; the
old lady put in, &quot;the country cannot afford to lose its Andr&eacute;
Vallon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Why not?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It seemed a strange question for a wife to ask. Madame Mignet,
for the first time since the beginning of their friendship, cast
a disapproving eye on Aurore.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;My dear,&quot; she said coldly, &quot;you know better than
we do that your husband is the only man in France at this present
moment who has thoroughly mastered the system of teaching the
deaf and dumb. By means of signs, which he does with his one hand,
he has taught scores of such poor afflicted souls how to exchange
and assimilate ideas. And the same with the blind. Surely you
knew all that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore's silence was her reply. She felt ashamed. How could she
own to these dear, kind friends that she had not yet been on such
terms of intimacy with her husband that he could speak to her
about himself or his work? She had only been a pleasant acquaintance
in the sunny home of the Quai de la Ferraille, one with whom a
busy man could discuss the abstract theories of Rousseau or the
speeches of Mirabeau. To her husband she had only been an intelligent
opponent at chess or piquet, but never a confidant. Not hers the
sympathetic ear into which a man could pour the tale of his struggles,
his strivings, his disappointments. Not hers the loved voice whose
gentle tones could soothe the nerves jaded by fatigue.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Much against her will, a few hot tears rose to Aurore's eyes.
She rose quickly and turned away lest those kind friends should
see them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But after that she no longer tried to disguise from the Mignets
the fact that she and Andr&eacute; were two beings apart. They
had guessed it, of course, but out of delicacy had never given
her a hint that they knew. The full circumstances of her marriage
were, of course, unknown to them, but it was very clear that the
ideals of a Royalist and those of a child of the Revolution were
as far apart as the poles. Love alone might in time have bridged
over the distance, but alas! as Madame Mignet remarked to her
son one day when they talked the matter over together, there is
no love between them on either side. Womanlike, she put the blame
for this on Aurore.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;She is beautiful,&quot; was her comment on the situation,
&quot;but I am afraid that she has no temperament; and Andr&eacute;
ought to have had either a clinging, affectionate little wife,
who would have mothered him, or else...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The old lady paused and put on a demure expression. She knew
what she meant, and so did her son, and between them they decided
that Aurore of the wonderful eyes and the cherry-red mouth did
not possess any of the attributes which would have made Andr&eacute;
happy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Unless...&quot; Madame Mignet added, who was nothing if
not enigmatic. And then she said with a hopeful little sigh, &quot;One
never knows.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And Aurore, sitting in the large-winged chair by the window in
the pretty room at Nevers, watched the snowflakes slowly fluttering
down from the leaden sky. She also watched other things from that
pleasant point of vantage - people hurrying by with heads bent
against the cold wind, the poor little half-frozen children hurrying
home from school, the gossips at the street corner, and the itinerant
menders of tin pots or earthenware, and, once a month, when the
diligence came in from Paris, her husband, Andr&eacute; Vallon,
with a small valise in his hand, pausing a moment at the door
to ring the bell.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXXV:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	It was on one of the first days of
March that Aurore had the surprise of her life. Andr&eacute;,
in the course of his visit, announced to her the early arrival
of her father at Nevers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;He will be safer here,&quot; he explained, in response
to Aurore's little cry, half of joy and half of alarm. &quot;The
people in the villages suffered terrible privations during the
protracted winter, and tempers over there are none too placid
in consequence. Some few hotheads might engineer a regrettable
<I>coup.&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">	&quot;But-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;But what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;This will not entail any unpleasantness?&quot; she suggested
tentatively.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Unpleasantness?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;For you, I mean, or-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;No, why should it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Or danger?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Danger? For him? Certainly not. He will be much safer here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I didn't mean for him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;For you, then?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Of course not!&quot; she retorted, and then added with
a shrug, &quot;As if I mattered.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Then I don't understand what you do mean by danger. Danger
to whom?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;To you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He said nothing for a moment or two, but she felt that those
searching eyes of his were seeking to find some hidden thought,
some unexplainable motive in those two words which she had murmured
below her breath. After a few seconds' silence he gave a light
shrug and said drily:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I can but echo your own words - as if I mattered!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He turned to go out of the room. Involuntarily she called out:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Andr&eacute;!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The first time, the very first time that she had called to him
by name. He paused at the door with his hand already on the knob
and half turned to her:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;At your service, citizeness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	His voice was quite harsh and his tone cold, so cold that the
impulse which had made her call to him seemed frozen suddenly
into a kind of miserable shyness. He was not the sort of man to
whom one could offer sympathy or comfort. Nevertheless, Aurore
was conscious of an intense pity for her husband. All of a sudden
he appeared to her so lonely! Introspective, too, probably through
being so very much alone. And young, scarcely older than herself,
and with all his hours spent amid the afflicted, the blind, the
deaf and dumb, the miserable poor! In constant contact with everything
that was most wretched and most squalid!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And with all his ideals of a regenerated world lying shattered
around him! Lonely and disappointed! And she, his wife, could
do nothing to comfort or cheer him. When she tried to find the
right words with which to touch his heart, she was stupid and
tongue-tied. Even now, when she felt so desperately sorry and
so deeply grateful, she could not find those words which perhaps
might have brought a faint gleam of pleasure to his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	All she could do now was to murmur a few words that were quite
unintelligible and apparently failed to reach him. She made a
great effort to control herself and her voice and finally contrived
to say fairly steadily:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I only wished to ask you about the arrangements for my
father. When does he come?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;To-morrow,&quot; he replied equally steadily, &quot;by
carriole. I have secured a nice apartment for him close by here
in the Rue de la Monnaie. Pierre will drive him over, and he and
Jeannette will look after him as they have done all along at Marigny.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You are very kind,&quot; Aurore murmured. &quot;I wish-&quot;
she paused and then went on more glibly &quot;-I wish I could
show you in some way that I - that I am not ungrateful.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;There is no question of gratitude,&quot; he said drily.
&quot;I made you a promise that while you are my wife your father's
safety would be my care. I am trying to keep my promise, that
is all.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You are ungracious,&quot; she rejoined. &quot;Does not
the English poet say that 'Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove
unkind'?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I would not for the worlds have you think me unkind.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Then tell me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;How I can best repay you for the trouble my father has
been to you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I assure you-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Andr&eacute;,&quot; she insisted, &quot;please!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Again his name on her lips. Once upon a time she had hit at him
with a moral whip lash and she had also struck him in the face.
Neither morally nor physically had she hurt him then, and he had
not even winced at the time. Then why, at sound of his name on
her lips, did that frown appear upon his brow as if he were trying
to keep back something, to control some movement - or was it words?
- while an unmistakable look of pain crept into his eyes? Only
for an instant, though. Within the space of a second the look
of pain as well as the frown had vanished, and there was that
mocking smile - that hateful, hateful mocking smile which she
so dreaded, curling again around his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Since you desire it, citizeness,&quot; he said drily, &quot;I
will tell you that you would earn my deep gratitude if you refrained
from listening too patiently to your father's diatribes on the
present political situation. Believe me, we all know it to be
terrible. But words won't mend it, not just yet. Your father very
naturally hates me, he will-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I shouldn't allow him-&quot; she broke in hotly, and then
paused, her impulse once more check by that miserable, unexplainable
shyness. He put up his hand as if to deprecate anything else that
she might say.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And now,&quot; he said, &quot;I am more than repaid.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He went out of the room, and she was left standing there with
a big, big ache in her heart, an ache that she could not very
well account for, but it forced tears up to her eyes. Tears of
anxiety? Of pity? Of regret? She did not know. She only knew that
she was desperately miserable and that not even the prospect of
seeing her father again so soon had the power to console her.</FONT></P>

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	But had her eyes been gifted with the power to see through material
objects she would have made her own heartache seem light and easy
to bear. She would have seen a man, strong of will and of iron
purpose, broken down by the force of a passion he could no longer
control. Gone were resentment and bitterness, pride was torn to
shreds. Here was just a man madly - passionately in love. Slowly
he fell on his knees; his arm rested against the door; his face
was buried in the crook of his arm; and a mighty sigh came from
the overburndened heart and broke in a convulsive sob.<BR>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXXVI:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	Charles de Marigny arrived the following
afternoon. Aurore had been full of eager joy to see him. All morning
she had been busy in the apartment of the Rue de la Monnaie, putting
it to rights, making it look as comfortable and as gay as she
could. The house was at the end of the street, and the windows
of the parlour commanded a beautiful view over the Grande Place,
the Ducal Palace, and the river beyond. The room was flooded with
sunshine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	After an exceptionally severe winter the spring had come in early,
with warm days and an absence of cold winds. The shrubs in the
gardens of the Palace were covered with tender green. Lilac, syringa,
and jasmine were in bud. Aurore went about her task humming the
old chansons:</FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Il &eacute;tait une Berg&egrave;re,
et ron - et ron, petit Pataplon!&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">and</FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nuage, beau Nuage, qui passe Triomphant!&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">	She couldn't sit still. At every sound of
wheels or clatter of hoofs she ran to the window to see if the
carriole was in sight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But at sight of her father her high spirits quickly sank. Looking
down on him from the window, as he got out of the carriole, he
appeared to her to be years older. She ran down, and he embraced
her with passionate effusion, but the very next moment he pushed
her away from him as if the sight of her horrified him. He followed
her upstairs, however, leaving Pierre and Jeannette to deal with
the carriole and luggage. He did not so much as give a glance
round the sunlit room, but threw himself into a chair like a man
wearied to death. He had not yet uttered a single word.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore came and knelt down beside him. She would not admit to
herself how appalled and disappointed she was. She, who had been
the apple of her father's eye, felt as if he were a stranger to
her, a stranger whom she almost feared. Her anxious glance searched
the face that she had loved so dearly, vainly seeking for that
expression of almost passionate tenderness wherewith he had been
wont to regard her. But now there was a kind of fierce glitter
in his eyes which would suddenly die down and give place to a
dull, vacant stare. Aurore felt intensely sorry for him, for his
face betrayed the suffering which he must have endured throughout
this long autumn and winter, brooding over his wrongs, all alone
up at Marigny, and seeing the horrors and the outrage of this
terrible revolution pass like a nightmare before his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He said very little that first afternoon, and never once touched
upon his daughter's marriage or asked either after her husband
or the kind friends in whose house she was staying.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But the next day he appeared more loquacious, was apparently
happy at the thought that he would no longer be parted from his
darling little Aurore, and fell in with all her plans for spending
as much time together as possible. They would drive out into the
country, or go up the river, and they would spend long evenings
together, talking over old times.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He spoke quite rationally, but Aurore could not help noticing
that his movements were jerky and that while he talked his hands
kept on shaking and his fingers fidgeting with anything that was
handy. And suddenly he mentioned Andr&eacute; Vallon by name,
quite dispassionately at first. Aurore was at her favourite place
on a low stool beside his chair, with one arm over his knees.
He took hold of her hand, and she noticed that his was burning
hot. Carefully, insidiously, he invited her confidence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Tell me, my little Aurore,&quot; he said, and his tone
was gentle and soothing. &quot;Don't be afraid to tell me how
unhappy you are. I know you are unhappy, my beloved child, but
our troubles always seem less, you know, when we tell of them
to a sympathetic ear.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;When you were little,&quot; he went on, as Aurore made
some evasive reply, &quot;I was your mother as well as your father.
You used to tell me everything - all your childish troubles. Tell
me your troubles now, my darling. Tell me everything. That cruel,
inhuman beast! I'd like to know to what lengths his brutality
could go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And as Aurore still continued to parry his direct questions he
put down her reticence to the desire to spare him pain. His tone
became more insinuating still, and a look of deep cunning came
into his eyes. He leaned forward in his chair till his mouth nearly
touched her ear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I'll rid you of him, my little Aurore,&quot; he whispered.
&quot;I have thought it all out. That's why I consented to come
to this miserable hole. You trust me. I know! I know just what
to do. You needn't tell me anything. I can guess. The brute! The
beggarly knave! I know! But I'll rid you of him. Never fear!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore did all she could to soothe him, but, in spite of herself,
her heart was filled with a great and nameless dread. There was
something dangerous in the fanaticism of her father's hatred,
and although the Mignets and Andr&eacute; himself did all they
could to reassure her, she had the growing conviction that there
was method in her father's apparent madness. He took to roaming
about the streets for hours at a time, and Jeannette told Aurore
that when he returned he usually brought back with him a lot of
news sheets over which he pored and pondered for the rest of the
day. Jeannette and Pierre both said that Monseigneur slept very
little; they heard him pacing up and down the room half the night
through and muttering to himself. Aurore questioned the two faithful
souls as to what Monseigneur said when he muttered like that,
but it seemed that those mutterings were mostly unintelligible;
the only words they ever heard clearly were: &quot;Quite simple
- quite easy! That is what I must do,&quot; which certainly did
not tend to reassure Aurore.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	One day, when she came to see the old man, Jeannette told her
that he had just gone out, but had spent all morning poring over
some news sheets. One in particular he had been intent on for
more than an hour, Jeannette said; it was still lying on the table
beside his chair. Aurore went into the parlour and had a look
at the news sheet. It was an old number of the <I>Moniteur,</I>
bearing a date in September of last year. it contained the full
text of Merlin's abominable <I>&quot;Loi Relatif aux Gens Suspects.&quot;</I>
The Law of the Suspect! Obviously, De Marigny had been perusing
it; the page with the text lay uppermost; there were notes in
the margin in his handwriting. Certain passages were underlined;
for instance:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">	Art I: Immediately after the publication of
this Decree, all suspected persons on the territory of the Republic
who are still at large will be arrested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And below that there was:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">	<I>Are reputed suspect I&deg;:</I> Those who,
either by their conduct or by their relations with former tyrants
or <I>aristos</I>.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the last have dozen words were underlined.<!--SELECTION--><!--/SELECTION--></FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXXVII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	At what precise moment the first dart
of a horrible suspicion entered her heart Aurore did not know.
All she realized was that an awful danger threatened her husband
at the hands of her father.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The horror of such a thing!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She knew, as did everyone these days, that one denunciation,
even if it came from an irresponsible person, was often sufficient
to bring about the arrest of a fellow creature - arrest which
almost invariably was the precursor of death! And with her mind
fixed upon this fact she recalled her father's wild rambling words:
&quot;I'll rid you of him.... I know what to do.... Quite simple....
That is what I must do....&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Quite simple!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Now Aurore's mind worked more quickly. Something had to be done,
and done at once. But what? Firstly, where was the unfortunate
madman now? Had he already set out on his proposed trail of treachery
and crime? Aurore called to Jeannette and to Pierre. She questioned
them and questioned them. Where was Monseigneur? They did not
know. Where did he go when he went out aimlessly like this? Just
about the streets, sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another.
He was fond of the river bank. The river! Great God in heaven!
For one moment Aurore caught herself almost hoping that he had
courted the river in a mad desire to put an end to all his misery.
Almost hoping! Heavens above! was she going mad, too? She was,
unless she could get a more definite idea of whither her father
had gone. But for the moment, since they knew nothing, Pierre
and Jeannette must go back to their work. She, Aurore, wished
to be left alone to think, to find out something - something!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She looked about her in the small sunlit parlour, feeling helpless
and her soul in darkness. She beat her hands together in a wild
longing for inspiration. What about money? Had he taken any with
him? Aurore knew where he kept it - in the drawer of the small
escritoire. She had often seen him take out a livre or two to
give to Jeannette. Now she went to look. The pocketbook that was
usually in the drawer was no longer there. There were two packets
instead. One was addressed to Pierre and obviously contained money,
paper and coins. The other was addressed &quot;To my little Aurore.&quot;
She opened it. There was a letter written in his familiar careful
hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">	My Darling Little One [it said]:<BR>
	     I promised you that I would rid you of the inhuman monster
who has blighted your young life, and I am going to do it. By
the time you get this I shall be on my way to Paris. That arch-rogue
Talon, who is as useful fortunately as he is servile, has made
all necessary arrangements. His wife has relatives in Paris, and
I shall stay with them. For the first time in my life I shall
accept hospitality in a plebeian house, but I have no alternative.
What I want to do can only be done in Paris, but there it can
be done quickly. Do not try and find out what I am about to do
or how. Wait patiently for a further letter from me. Talon will
bring it you. I may be caught in my own toils, but I care not
so long as I have made you happy and free.<BR>
							Your devoted Father.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">	Aurore read the terrible lucubration until
the end. Then she refolded the letter and slipped it in the bosom
of her gown. She had no doubt now as to what she meant to do,
but she wouldn't leave anything to chance. So she hunted through
the drawer again and through the whole of the escritoire for some
written trace of Hector Talon, that awful, miserable, obsequious
Talon! So it was he who was at the bottom of this abominable treachery!
Aurore hunted for a letter, a sign of him, as a careful gardener
would hunt for the trail of the slug that had impaired his plants.
But she found nothing. Talon was a man - no, a worm - who worked
underground in the darkness and left no trace of his slimy way.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Then Aurore once more questioned Jeannette and Pierre. Had they
seen - did they know anything of Hector Talon? And she wrung the
truth out of them, poor miserable wretches! Talon had been in
Nevers two days. He had visited Monseigneur. He had bribed them
to say nothing to Mademoiselle of these visits. He had been here
early this morning, and he and Monseigneur then went out together,
Talon carrying a small valise which Pierre had packed with a few
necessities at Monseigneur's orders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And then Aurore saw red. She felt like a tigress in a fury, would
gladly with her two feeble hands have seized those two fools by
the throat. They had taken money, money to hold their tongue,
while Monseigneur le Duc de Marigny, who bore one of the greatest
names in France, and was own cousin to her martyred king, accomplished
the vilest act of treachery that had ever disgraced a <I>canaille.</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">	But what was the good of fury, what
the good of vituperations, now that the crime was on the point
of accomplishment? One fact she did wring out of the trembling
lips of Pierre. Lucile Talon's relatives lived in No. 67 of the
Rue St. Honor&eacute;. Well, that, at any rate, was something.
Aurore knew now where she could find her father.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She was half-dazed when she reached the Mignets' house. Without
circumlocution, straight to the point, she told them what had
happened.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I must go to Paris,&quot; she concluded calmly, &quot;at
once. How can I do it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;My dear child,&quot; the old lady protested, &quot;you
cannot go to Paris like this, all in a moment.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I have my papers, money, everything,&quot; she said. &quot;Help
me to find a conveyance, as the diligence does not leave till
next week.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;But what can you do, child?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Warn my husband before it is too late.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	To every protest, every objection she gave the same reply: &quot;I
must go to my husband before it is too late.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And then she said at last, &quot;If you will not help me I will
find a way somehow, but I am going before the day is out.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Help her? Of course they would help her! Were they not the kindest
people on God's earth, and was not Andr&eacute; Vallon the beloved
friend of their heart? Doctor Mignet would, of course, accompany
Aurore as far as Paris, and while she went to put a few things
together he set out to find coach and horses which would take
them as far as Auxerre, where they could pick up another conveyance
to take them on to Melun and to Paris. That was probably the route
chosen by Talon for Monseigneur, and Aurore would be close on
her father's heels.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXXVIII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	To anyone returning to Paris in this
awful year 1794, after an absence of several months, the aspect
of the once gay and lovely city must have been appalling. Streets
half deserted; furtive, ill clad figures slouching about the open
places; aspects of dire poverty in a blatant contrast with brilliantly
lighted restaurants or theatre porticoes; sounds of strident laughter
alternating with heart-rending moans. Laughter and tears, and
words scarcely whispered lest they be overheard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	This great, this sublime revolution which was to bring universal
freedom and universal happiness, how immense has been its toll
of misery and of crime! Penury is terrible; certain necessities
like soap and sugar are hardly obtainable. Bread is more and more
scarce; the queues outside the bakeries line up during the small
hours of the morning and last all day.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The wolves of the Revolution are busy tearing one another to
pieces. After the Girondins, the Dantonists. Danton, the great
Georges Danton, the lion of the Revolution, who for five years
has held the snarling, screaming pack on the leash, has atoned
for his weaknesses as well as for his crimes, on the insatiable
guillotine. Too weak to stem the flood which he himself had let
loose, he perished as he had allowed others to perish - his king,
his queen, his comrades, his friends. Too weak! The great, the
virile Danton, with the resonant voice and tempestuous eloquence,
too weak to combat his cunning, slimy adversary, the Sea-green
Incorruptible with the ascetic face and the pale eyes! Then what
chance had others against the all powerful dictator who with one
word hissed through his thin lips could send any adversary without
trial to the scaffold?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was a month and more since the Dantonists had perished on
the guillotine, and Maximilien Robespierre was sovereign master
of France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore, sitting inside the diligence which had brought her and
the Doctor over from Melun, had no eyes for outward things. Whether
Paris was changed or not since last she had been in the city,
whether the streets looked dismal and the restaurants lively,
she neither knew nor cared. It was a lovely day in May: the chestnut
trees in the Tuileries gardens were full of blossom; the sun shone
and the sky was blue; but Aurore say nothing of these beauties
of nature. Now that the time was so near when she would see her
husband her febrile impatience was such that it was only by a
mighty effort of will that she was able to sit still in the crowded
coach and not allow her fellow passengers to become aware of the
state of her nerves. They might have thought her demented. Doctor
Mignet sat beside her and now and then gave her hand a slight
pressure, which comforted her for the moment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	At last the lumbering coach came to a halt at the Cheval Blanc,
the posting inn close to the Pont Neuf. The Quai de la Ferraille
was quite close. Aurore elected to walk while Doctor Mignet would
look after the luggage. He announced his intention of putting
up at the Cheval Blanc, if he could get a room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I shall be within five minutes' walk,&quot; he said kindly,
&quot;so you can call on me, my dear, whenever you want me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was then three o'clock in the afternoon. The usual crowd swarmed
round the Palace of Justice, waiting to see the prisoners being
hustled out after their condemnation, or the well known advocates
or members of the Convention sally forth after the grim work of
the day was done.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore paid no heed to anything round her; wrapped in her travelling
cape with the hood pulled over her head she walked rapidly, looking
neither to right nor left. But suddenly the crowd surged along
the bridge, and she found herself hustled and pressed against
the parapet: a couple of tumbrils surrounded by men in uniform
were forging their way through the throng. They were the prisoners
who had just stood the mockery of a trial and were being taken
back to La Force or the Temple for their final toilette before
their ultimate journey to the guillotine. A few tatterdemalions
in the crowd shouted: <I>&quot;A la guillotine!&quot;</I> Others
hurled insults at the prisoners, but the bulk of the people looked
on with a kind of stolid indifference, showing neither joy nor
horror.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore, pressed against the parapet, saw the tumbrils pass along
quite close to her; she saw the prisoners standing with hands
tied behind their backs; and suddenly the full force of the horror
which she saw reached her consciousness. She searched those faces
in the tumbrils, realizing for the first time that perhaps she
had come too late and that Andr&eacute; might be standing there
in the tumbril - standing there on his way to death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	When the tumbrils had passed and the crowd drifted away in their
wake she remained for a long time there, leaning against the balustrade
with eyes blind to everything save to the vision that had just
passed by, and lips parted by the cries of horror which she had
been at such pains to repress. Andr&eacute; had not been one of
those poor wretches that were being dragged through the streets
of Paris for the delectation of the mob: but the vision of that
ghastly exhibition had conjured up the possibility of another,
so awful, so terrible, so infernal that Aurore was left wondering
if she was not indeed going the way of her father and losing her
reason at the foresight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	After a little while she recovered herself, and without glancing
to right or left she hurried along the quay. Soon she reached
the house wherein she had spent the first few months of her married
life! What peace there seemed to be in it! Aurore felt it almost
as soon as she passed under the <I>porte-coch&egrave;re</I> and
made her way up the familiar stone staircase. She rang the bell
of the apartment as she had done so often in the past, and the
same pleasant middle-aged woman opened the door to her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The woman's eyes looked ready to fall out of her head at sight
of Aurore.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;But, citizeness...!&quot; she exclaimed, and clasped her
hand together in amazement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Citizen Vallon? Is he in?&quot; Aurore almost gasped, and
staggered into the vestibule.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The semi darkness indoors after the dazzling sunshine of the
street dazed her and made her feel as if she were blind. The woman
ran to her and put her arms round her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You are ill, citizeness,&quot; she murmured. &quot;What
can I get you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore shook her head: &quot;Nothing!... I am not ill.... Where
is Citizen Vallon?&quot;<BR>
	&quot;At the Blind School, citizeness. He does not usually come
home before evening.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You expect him home, then?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;But of course, citizeness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The woman, with gentle solitude, relieved Aurore of the heavy
travelling cape. She was obviously puzzled and not a little frightened,
but tried to speak as unconcernedly as she could.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;We were not expecting you, citizeness,&quot; she said:
&quot;at least the Citizen said nothing to me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;No,&quot; Aurore replied more calmly: &quot;he does not
expect me. I came with Doctor Mignet.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The woman opened the parlour door. How inviting it looked! The
bright sunny room with the muslin curtains, the armchair and her
own work table beside the window; the books, the footstool, the
chessmen ranged on the board. Aurore's tired eyes roamed round
the room and, in spite of the agony of dread which was gnawing
at her heart, an infinite peace seemed to descend on her soul.
With a weary little sigh she sank into the armchair, and a wan
smile lit up her face in response to the woman's anxious, puzzled
gaze.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What would you like, citizeness?&quot; the woman asked,
a little reassured. &quot;A glass of wine, or some hot coffee?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Coffee, please, Marie. Some of that lovely coffee you used
to make for my breakfast.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;It won't be quite so nice now, citizeness,&quot; Marie
said with a sigh; &quot;and we have no milk.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Whatever it is, Marie, I shall love it,&quot; Aurore assured
her. The woman went away, and she snuggled down into the big chair.
How lovely and peaceful it was! The quay below was half deserted;
hardly a sound came to disturb the quietude of this serene abode.
Leaning her head against the back of the chair Aurore felt a flood
of tears rise to her eyes - tears that were not wholly of sorrow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She drank eagerly the coffee which Marie presently brought her.
After which the kind woman persuaded her to lie down on the sofa
and saw her comfortably settled with a couple of pillows under
her head. Poor little Aurore! She was so tired, so infinitely
weary! Physically and mentally weary. Her limbs ached, and her
head. And she had a great big heartache.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And lying there snugly against the pillows she presently fell
asleep.<!--SELECTION--><!--/SELECTION--></FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XXXIX:</FONT></B></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	The sound of the door and a murmur
of voices roused Aurore from sleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The next moment Andr&eacute; came into the room. She sat up on
the sofa, her hands clasped tightly together, her fair hair slightly
tousled, and her cheeks flushed after sleep. The shades of evening
were drawing in, and the rosy light of sunset had crept into the
room. Andr&eacute;, at the door, had not yet moved. He was looking
his fill on the exquisite vision which had transformed this simple
room into a mansion of paradise.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	At last he asked the obvious questions:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Why are you here? Has anything happened?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Yes, Andr&eacute;,&quot; she replied, &quot;a very great
deal has happened. My father, poor wretch, has completely lost
his reason!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Heavens above!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;No,&quot; she said, &quot;I don't mean in that way, though
I do think Doctor Mignet would actually pronounce him mad.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She paused a moment. Her throat felt so dry that she could hardly
speak. There were a carafe and a glass on the side table. Andr&eacute;
filled the glass with water and brought it to her. While she drank
he stood beside her, and when she was about to put the glass down
he took it from her, and his hand touched her fingers, which were
trembling and cold.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You are overwrought,&quot; he said gently. &quot;Don't
try and talk now. I will call Marie and she-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;No! no!&quot; she broke in quickly. &quot;I don't want
anyone. I am only tired from the journey, and I must tell you-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Yes? What is it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Spurred by his insane hatred against you, my father has
denounced you-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;How do you know that?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Never mind how I know: I know it. I swear to you that it
is so. One day I will tell you just how I found out, but not now.
There is no time. I came to warn you before - before-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You came to warn me?&quot; he asked, frowning, evidently
puzzled.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Yes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Why?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	They looked at each other, he uncomprehending, not daring to
comprehend, and she, seized with that awful shyness which almost
paralyzed her will and her tongue.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Why?&quot; he insisted, but this time he came nearer her,
and his voice was hoarse and broken like that of a man gasping
for breath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Because,&quot; she murmured, &quot;because-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was her eyes that answered him. Her lips refused her service.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Because you cared?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Was there ever a cry uttered by man more exultant than this which
rose like a paean of joy from Andr&eacute; Vallon's throat? In
a moment he was beside her on one knee, not daring to touch her
yet, but with ardent, passionate gaze trying to read the secret
of her soul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Because you cared?&quot; he insisted. &quot;Tell me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Andr&eacute;!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Because you cared what became of me? Say it! Say it! Say
the word, <I>ma mie!</I> Tell me that you came,&quot; he entreated,
&quot;because you cared.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	How could she speak? The whole world, the sordid, ugly world,
lay suddenly shattered at her feet, and in the gaze that sought
and held her own she had a glimpse of such a vision of Elysian
fields as human mind could scarcely conceive. She returned his
gaze and her eyes, which had always seemed unfathomable, revealed
to him the secret which she had thought would remain forever buried
in her heart. It was Love that had spurred her to come. Love that
had so often made her heart ache almost to breaking point. Love!
and the longing to feel once more that dear strong arm around
her, to pillow her head against that loyal breast, to hear that
great and simple heart beat only for her. He loved her, and she
did not know it! And now that the heavenly knowledge had come
to her at last it came hand-in-hand with the agonizing dread for
his life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Andr&eacute;!&quot; she said suddenly, all the joy in her
heart smothered in this awful dread, &quot;you must leave Paris
at once.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He did not seem to hear. He had had his answer from her eyes,
and his soul was no longer on this earth. It had gone a-roaming
in paradise.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You came,&quot; he murmured, &quot;because you cared.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But, womanlike, she thought only of him, of the terrible danger
which every minute as it sped by brought nearer and nearer to
their door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You don't understand, Andr&eacute;,&quot; she insisted.
&quot;My father is in Paris. It was only after he left that I
suspected-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And then you came because you cared.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Andr&eacute;, at this very hour, perhaps-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;At this very hour I am adoring you, Aurore-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;There's time to get away,&quot; she entreated feverishly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And I want eternity in which to tell you how I worship
you-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;In God's name, Andr&eacute;!&quot; she cried. &quot;It
may mean death if you stay-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But his hand was buried in her hair and forced her dear head
closer and closer to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;My exquisite Aurore!&quot; he whispered in her ear, &quot;you
are the most perfect being God ever made. I was a fool not to
tell you this before, but I will not die, Dawn of my Soul, before
I have taught you how good it is to love, how sweet it is to kiss.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He held her so close that she could no longer struggle. His lips
were on hers, and she could no longer warn, and he asked the great,
the immortal question which lovers have asked since the beginning
of time, and the answer to which will open for them the gates
either of paradise or of hell.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Do you love me, my wife?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And Aurore's eyes and lips answered softly, &quot;Yes.&quot;<!--SELECTION--><!--/SELECTION--><BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XL:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	The hours flew by on the wings of
an overwhelming happiness, and Love reigned supreme while evening
faded into night. The awakening came when the two lovers scarce
had finished dreaming. The tramp of feet on the stairs, the knock
on the door, the raucous call: &quot;Open in the name of the Law!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was quite dark in the room now - quite dark, only through
the chink under the door there came a narrow streak of light from
the candle which Marie had put on the table of the vestibule,
and through the thin muslin curtains over the window the pale
flicker of the street lamp cast the objects in the room into deeper
gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Open, in the name of the Law!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And Aurore, waking from her dream of happiness and love, was
suddenly thrust out of the gates of her paradise and hurled back
into the hideous world of grim reality. In a moment she was on
her feet and across the room. Like a statue of despair she stood
against the door with arms outstretched and head thrown back -
a statue of despair but also of fury - a woman in defence of her
lover.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Come and kiss me, Aurore!&quot; came a happy voice, broken
with yearning, and in the gloom the arm she loved was stretched
out in longing to her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She babbled hoarsely, incoherently, like one half demented:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You must fly, Andr&eacute;! you must... you must... for
my sake... there's time... through the window in the next room.
The back yard... no one will see you... Andr&eacute;... Andr&eacute;...
you must!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Come to me, Aurore... one more kiss,&quot; he said slowly;
&quot;ten more if there's time....&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;But they are here,&quot; she insisted. &quot;Andr&eacute;,
can't you hear?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Just then there was a timid knock at the door, and Marie's trembling
voice called aghast: &quot;In the name of God, Citizen Vallon,
tell me what to do.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Why, open the door, Marie,&quot; Andr&eacute; replied quietly,
&quot;else they will break it open.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Then, as Marie's hesitating footsteps were heard shuffling across
the vestibule, he murmured softly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;There's time for one more kiss.... Come to me, Aurore.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Obviously she could not move. Horror, despair, had paralyzed
her will and her limbs. The woman defending her lover! how could
she move from that door, from that thin, futile barrier, the only
thing that stood between her lover and death? The next instant
Andr&eacute; was beside her; she felt again that dear, strong
arm around her, her head once more lay upon his breast, she felt
the beating of that heart which she knew now was filled with her
image. His lips eagerly devoured her eyes, her throat, her hair,
and then in one long, impassioned kiss their lips met once more
in enduring, all-conquering immutable love.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Outside in the vestibule there was bustle and noise and tramping
of feet; hoarse commands and a murmur of voices, and Marie's wailing
sobs. Then a knock at the door. A terrible cry rose to Aurore's
throat, but it was smothered before it reached her lips, for Andr&eacute;'s
hand was across her mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Open, in the name of the Law!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Three minutes, Citizen Soldiers,&quot; Andr&eacute; replied
glibly, &quot;while I get a light.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And Aurore, clinging to him with convulsive hands, her face bathed
in tears, her voice broken with sobs, whispered hoarsely:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Kill me, Andr&eacute;!... For mercy's sake kill me... I
cannot live without your love.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Look at me, sweet, and listen,&quot; he murmured hurriedly;
and obediently she opened her eyes and looked up at him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was quite dark in the room, quite dark; but the feeble light
of the street lamp faintly illuminated his face, and she could
see that it was irradiated with a wonderful happiness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What you want now, my sweet,&quot; he said more slowly,
&quot;is courage.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I have none, Andr&eacute;,&quot; she murmured feebly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You will have when you remember that God in His mercy will
give you someone else to care for, perhaps, instead of me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Someone else? I don't understand.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He pressed his lips close to her ear and whispered a few words
very low, so that she could scarcely hear, but which brought a
rush of colour to her pale cheeks. Then he looked once more into
her eyes and smiled: the happiest, lightest of smiles.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And if it is a boy,&quot; he said earnestly, but still
with that happy smile, &quot;do not teach him to hate all those
Frenchmen who were his father's friends, with whom he dreamed
dreams of making this old world new and happy, and who died for
their ideals because they were men and not gods.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He raised her gently from the ground as he had so often done
before, carried her into the next room, and there laid her down
on the bed. She had partly lost consciousness, but her arms were
twined round his neck, and her fingers so tightly linked together
that he had some difficulty in getting them apart. She lay very
still, but her eyes were open and her lips parted; her body was
shaken with heart-rending sobs. He knelt down beside the bed and
kissed her once more on the lips, drank the salt tears that lay
upon her cheek; he kissed her ice-cold hands, her throat, her
feet above the shoe, then slowly rose and went out of the room,
closing and locking the door behind him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She gave one terrific cry: &quot;Andr&eacute;!&quot; and jumped
up from the bed, her senses alert; she ran to the door - it was
locked; with her hands she beat against the panels, she fell on
her knees, clinging to that cruel door which hid him from her
view, and calling, calling insistently, piteously, like a bird
that has lost its mate. And all the while she heard the murmurs
of voices, Andr&eacute;'s calm response: &quot;Quite ready, Citizen
Captain.&quot; A loud cry from Marie. The opening and shutting
of the front door; the tramp of feet slowly... slowly... slowly
dying away down the stairs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And then - nothing more.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Marie coming in a few moments later found her in a dead swoon
across the floor.<BR>
<!--SELECTION--><!--/SELECTION--></FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Book IV:<BR>
Chapter XLI:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	She became known as &quot;Our Little
Lady of Sorrows&quot; - <I>Notre Petite Dames des Douleurs.</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">	She could be seen daily wending her
way from the Quai de la Ferraille to the Palais de Justice in
the early morning, waiting in the queue until the gates were opened,
and thereafter taking her place in the vast hall, always in the
front row of the balcony that faced the prisoners at the bar.
At first the other habitu&eacute;s of the grim spectacle looked
on her as one of themselves, fond, as they were, of watching the
prisoners file in, seeing them take their place on the benches
facing the judges, with the chief prisoner in the iron armchair
in the immediate centre. Women in ragged shawls and tattered kirtles,
with dishevelled hair under soiled lace caps, or scarlet berets,
who had brought their knitting with them to while away the waiting
hours, would nudge Aurore when a well known name was called out
or if they recognized a noted prisoner.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;That's Amisal over there, citizness, the third from the
end. He tried to assassinate the patriot Collot in the Rue Favart,
you remember? Lucky he missed fire, the brigand! Oh! and if it
isn't that young scrub C&eacute;cile Renaud! She was for murdering
the Incorruptible himself. They found two knives in her market
basket, you know. Well, her way to the guillotine is clear enough.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But soon they found that she was not interested in their talk.
She didn't listen: she only looked. She had great eyes of a colour
impossible to define, and wore a dark travelling cape with a hood
over her fair hair. She would look and look while the batch of
prisoners filed in, but as soon as they were seated and the Prosecutor
Tinville began his indictment, she would lean back in her seat
and take no more notice of what went on in the hall below.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Until another batch was called, when she would sit up and again
look on each face as the prisoners filed in. She never spoke and
she never cried, but she looked so sad that a woman one day, seeing
her come in rather later than usual, made a place for her by squeezing
her fellow spectators and said at the same time, &quot;Here comes
the Little Lady of Sorrows. Come and sit by me, my dear. You'll
get a splendid view, better than the one you had yesterday.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And so the name stuck to her. And she came, day after day, to
the Palais de Justice to watch the prisoners file into the hall,
there to receive their sentence of death. There was no alternative.
The very fact of being suspected of treason, of being denounced
by an enemy or a fool, of being brought to the bar of this travesty
of justice, was tantamount to a sentence of death. And Aurore
came, day after day, to watch this grim spectacle, because she
could not find out to what prison they had take Andr&eacute; and
could find no other way of knowing what became of him. The prisons
were crowded, the jailers overworked and harassed. Vainly had
she tried to get sight of the list of prisoners in every House
of Detention in and around Paris.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;We've no orders,&quot; was the response she invariably
got from the conci&egrave;rge or the captain in command. &quot;Get
an order from the Committee, and you can see the list.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What Committee?&quot; she would ask insistently. &quot;And
how can I get such an order?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Bah! Leave me in peace!&quot; the man - whoever it was
- would reply with a savage oath. &quot;You don't think you are
the only female who comes bothering us in this way, do you? If
I had to attend to all of you-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	He would then turn his back on Aurore and have her ejected from
the room and the door slammed in her face. The rules governing
prison discipline had became very severe of late. The visits from
outside, which used to be allowed and were a great feature of
prison life in the past, were now strictly forbidden. The government
had persuaded itself that plots of all sorts were being hatched
in the Houses of Detention, and prisoners, in consequence, were
not allowed to see anyone. Thus frustrated at every turn, Aurore
took to haunting the Palais de Justice. There, at last, she would
be bound to see Andr&egrave; when he was brought to trial. She
would see him when that awful tumbril took him to his death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She had no hope. None. Though she held but little communication
with anyone except, of course, Marie, she could not help knowing
that the fate of every prisoner these days was a foregone conclusion.
It was only a question of time. Some languished weeks in prison,
others even months, some few were hurried through the ghastly
process of arrest, trail, condemnation, and death in a few days.
Aurore knew that and watched in the Palais de Justice every day.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She had written him a letter, just a few words in which she had
poured out her every soul. They were words which, she knew, would
give happiness to his heart and bring a smile to his dear lips.
This precious paper she inserted in a heavy gold locket which
she always held tightly in her hand ready to fling it to him if
such a blessed opportunity arose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	May had long since yielded to June. June passed on, serene and
warm, with its wealth of blossom in the gardens and a bird song
in the summer air. All nature seemed to smile while men hated
and destroyed one another and dared to mock God with their horrible
Mumbo-Jumbo, the feast of the Supreme Bring, with the arch-murderer,
Robespierre, parading in azure-blue coat and white breeches as
the arch-priest of the new deity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	That was on the 8th of June, less than a fortnight after Andr&egrave;'s
arrest. Doctor Mignet, who had been with Aurore during the first
few days of her misery and had attempted the impossible in trying
to find out wither they had taken Andr&eacute;, had been obliged
to return to his duties in Nevers. She hardly noticed his absence.
Her heart was dead to all save to an infinity of grief.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	It was in the early days of June that she saw her father again.
She was walking across the Pont des Arts when suddenly she found
herself face to face with Hector Talon. She thought nothing of
the meeting at the moment; indeed, she hoped that he had not recognized
her. But what he did was to halt for a minute or two as soon as
she had passed by and then to follow her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The next afternoon, when she came home from her daily pilgrimage,
she found Marie bursting with what she thought was gladsome news.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;An elderly gentleman has come to see you, citizeness,&quot;
she said mysteriously. &quot;He is waiting in the parlour.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Oh, Marie!&quot; Aurore exclaimed involuntarily. &quot;You
shouldn't have-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Not admitted him!&quot; Marie retorted with the easy familiarity
of her kind. &quot;But it's your father, citizeness, your dear
old father!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore listened no further. With a heavy heart she went through
into the parlour and saw her father sitting there on the end of
the sofa close to the window, the sofa beside which Andr&eacute;
had knelt that late afternoon when first he had told her of his
love. It seemed like a supreme insult, this old man sitting just
there complacently gazing out of the window. When she entered
he put out his arms and exclaimed with joy and tenderness:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;My little Aurore! At last! At last!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She had not moved from the door. At sight of him her gorge rose
in horror. What kind of a miscreated daughter was she that she
should hate her own father? Would she, at least, have sufficient
will power not to allow the full flood of her loathing to surge
out of her overburdened heart? He, on the other hand, did not
appear conscious of her enmity. As she did not rush into his arms
he let them drop and went on talking in a glib, matter-of-fact
way:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You have no idea, <I>ma ch&eacute;rie,&quot;</I> he said,
&quot;how anxious I have been. I suppose your letter in answer
to mine miscarried. I never received it, you know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What letter?&quot; she asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I wrote to tell you the joyful news. You never replied.
But it was a good idea to come yourself instead.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;What joyful news?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Why, that I have fulfilled my promise, <I>ma ch&eacute;rie</I>,
to rid you of the inhuman monster who had blighted your life.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You mean that you wrote to tell me that you had committed
the most loathsome act of treachery that ever called down the
vengeance of God on a miscreant's head.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Even now he looked surprised, bewildered at her vehemence, thinking
that his beloved daughter, like so many women in these terrible
times, had perchance lost her reason.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Aurore, my child!&quot; he exclaimed soothingly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I am not your child!&quot; she retorted coldly, &quot;no
longer the child of so vile a worker of iniquity as you. You have
brought upon me such immeasurable sorrow as no man has ever brought
on woman since the beginning of time. The very sight of you turns
my heart to stone, and I can but pray to God that I may never
set eyes on you again. And now, I entreat you to go before I quite
forget that you are old and that you are my father.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She threw open the door and stood aside, pointing to it. De Marigny
tried to speak. He rose and came a step or two towards her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Do not come near me,&quot; she said hoarsely. &quot;My
God! Can't you see that I am at the end of my tether?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You are overwrought, Aurore,&quot; he rejoined coolly.
&quot;Heaven knows what is going on in your poor distracted mind
at this moment. You have spoken words that I shall find hard to
forgive, but a father's heart is full of indulgence. I cannot,
of course, stay now and plead with you, for the devil apparently
has possession of your mind. It will take all our good Abb&eacute;'s
piety to exorcize him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Marie was hovering in the vestibule. She looked scared to death
as De Marigny came out of the parlour and took up his hat and
stick.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Has she been long like this?&quot; he asked her, indicating
Aurore and then touching his forehead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Marie was indignant.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;There is nothing wrong with the Citizeness's brain,&quot;
she said hotly. &quot;It is her heart that is broken because she
worshipped her husband, and he is like to perish on that awful
guillotine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	De Marigny shrugged. How ignorant, how unobservant were people
of that class! He looked back once over his shoulder. Aurore had
not moved. The hood had fallen back from her head, and her delicate
profile, with the wealth of fair hair above it like a golden aureole,
looked like an exquisite cameo against the dark porti&egrave;re.
She looked a living statue of high breeding, of blue blood and
age-old descent - the perfect aristocrat. De Marigny shrugged
again. Worshipped her husband, indeed? What nonsense! What a lie!
Her mind was slightly unhinged, he concluded, that was all. Once
all these horrible times were over and he had her back at Marigny
she would be the first to laugh at this woman's foolish talk.
And he went away entirely unperturbed.<BR>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XLII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	It was on the 26th of July that the
last blow fell. Aurore sitting at her accustomed place in the
Hall of the Palais de Justice saw the prisoners file in, and the
first to enter was Andr&eacute;.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Our Little Lady of Sorrows! She gave one gasp - a sob that rent
her heart and caused even those deadened hearts around her to
beat with sudden pity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Thou hast seen him, eh, my cabbage?&quot; the woman next
to her asked. &quot;Which is he?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Two or three of them put down their knitting. They were interested.
They meant to be kind. Their hearts were dulled by all the miseries
and the horrors which they had witnessed - dulled but not dead.
Our Little Lady of Sorrows! They were very, very sorry for her!
She was so pretty and so young! And she had been watching here
day after day for well-nigh two months to catch a last glimpse
of her man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Don't try and point him out, my pigeon,&quot; the woman
went on softly; &quot;only nod 'yes' if I guess right.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The woman on the other side said:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I believe it is that handsome fellow with the one arm.
Well, it is a shame that such a fine soldier-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Hush, citizeness,&quot; someone at the back broke in, &quot;you
are talking treason.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	That was so. No one was allowed to express pity for the prisoners
at the bar, for such pity was a sign of counter-revolutionary
tendencies and, as such, punishable by death. Even so, one woman
said pointing to Andr&eacute;: &quot;He taught the blind to read
and the dumb to speak. My daughter, who is blind-&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Hush! Silence!&quot; came from the rest of the crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Our Little Lady of Sorrows sat and watched, her whole soul in
her eyes. She say Andr&eacute; as the chief prisoner of the batch
sitting in the iron chair immediately facing the judges. His face
looked perfectly serene. He looked older, of course, and wan;
prison life had no suited his vigorous temperament; but his dark
eyes shone brightly, and around his mouth there was that mocking
smile which Aurore had so dreaded once, but which since she had
learned to love. Unlike his fellow prisoners Andr&eacute; had
obviously taken great pains with his appearance. He wore his old
military tunic, which, though very worn and shabby, had been carefully
brushed. He was neatly shaved, and his chestnut hair was tied
back with a bow at the nape of his neck.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Our Little Lady of Sorrows watched him and marvelled that God
in His mercy did not allow her heart to break. She listened to
the indictment read by Prosecutor Tinville. She heard every lying
word, every monstrous accusation. She listened and watched, drawing
his soul to hers with the magnetism of her eyes. She threw back
her hood so that he should see her better. And suddenly he looked
up and saw her. Such a look of joy and happiness and love came
into his face, as surely only shines on the faces of the blessed.
Thereafter he looked neither to right nor left. Only at her. The
Prosecutor finished his indictment, the advocate began to plead.
Obviously Andr&eacute; heard neither. Yet the advocate pleaded
with fevour, even with passion. Even the crowd murmured approval
at the defence, but what was the good? Prisoners were condemned
long before they faced their judges. The advocate was silenced
even in the very middle of his peroration, cut short when he was
halfway through an eloquent sentence; and the prisoners were not
allowed one word in their own defence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	They were all condemned in a body. Traitors all to the Republic!
Conspirators against the State! The sentence was that they be
guillotined. And that was all! The mock trial was at an end. They
were ordered to rise and make way for others. Some of them screamed
and wrung their hands; some called loudly to the people and to
the Supreme Being to witness their innocence, some took the blow
in sullen silence. But Andr&eacute; took it with a gently mocking
smile. It had to come, and he was prepared. Death theses days
was stalking every man: it was bound to be his turn one day, and
he was prepared. From the hour when Robespierre and his horde
of jackals had attacked Danton the Lion and brought him down,
from that hour Andr&eacute;, the child of this revolution, knew
that he, too, would be its victim. For two months he had languished
in prison waiting his turn for the only possible release and dreaming
of that wonderful afternoon when first he knew that the woman
he worshipped, worshipped him too. So happy, so entrancing had
been those hours of supreme joy and love that he felt that Fate
and he were quits. God had given him everything, every joy, every
happiness, supreme contentment when He gave him this perfect mutual
love. So what did anything else matter? Death would only mean
a union more perfect - more enduring than anything that Life could
give.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	All this he tried to convey to Aurore with the last glance which
he was able to cast on her. &quot;Do not grieve, my beloved! The
happiness which you gave me was too perfect for this earth, too
perfect to last.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore watched him until he too disappeared down the stairs that
led to the guardroom. Then quickly she rose. There was one more
hope of seeing him, when that awful cart took him back to prison.
She could follow the cart, she could see him again, she could
throw him her last message of love in the gold locket which she
always carried - perhaps, even, she could touch his hand. Hastily
drawing the hood back over her head, she rose to go. The others
made way for her, helped her all they could. They murmured sympathetic
words as she stepped over the tribunes to find her way out:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Our Little Lady of Sorrows! So young! So pretty!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And that handsome husband!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Ah, me!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Where will it all end?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	There was a great crowd outside the gates, greater than usual,
Aurore thought, as feverishly she forged her way down the great
staircase and into the courtyard. The carts were there, ranged
in a file to the left of the gates which were wide open. The crowd
was dense round the carts. One had just gone with its batch of
condemned: the other was waiting by the postern gate. It was round
this one that the crowd was thickest. Aurore, with the determination
and courage of despair, pushed and struggled to get near. But
it was impossible: she was jostled and elbowed out of the way
until she found herself pressed against the iron railing, on the
stone base of which some of the throng had scrambled to get a
better view. The open gates were close by. From such a point of
vantage it would be possible to get a view of the prisoners in
the cart over the heads of the crown, and then, when the cart
moved away, to slip out by the gate in its wake. Some kindly person
helped Aurore to hoist herself up on the stone parapet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	There she stood and waited, all eyes, and with the locket grasped
tightly in her hand. She heard the people about her talking.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Those are the ones from the Blind Institution.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And those from the School for the Deaf and Dumb.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	They were pointing to a small group of men and women, two or
three score of them, who were gathered close around the cart.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;One of the prisoners taught in those institutions.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Citizen Vallon. I knew him. A nephew of mine is blind.
Vallon did wonders with him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;He taught the blind to see.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And the deaf to hear.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I suppose they have come to see the last of him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Poor creatures! What will become of them now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Hush! Here they come!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The prisoners were filing out of the building and were being
hustled into the cart. There were eight of them, five men, three
women. The men's coats were tied by the sleeves round their necks.
All had their arms tied with cord behind their backs. Andr&eacute;
was the last to step into the cart: at sight of him one part of
the crowd set up a cry, weird and inarticulate, the cry peculiar
to the tongue-tied and the dumb: it was taken up by the blind,
who had not seen but could guess. The blind called out piteously:
&quot;Do not leave us in darkness, Citizen Vallon!&quot; but the
dumb could only utter their hideous, inarticulate shrieks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute; stood up in the cart with his old military tunic
tied round his neck; his one arm was tied behind his back to the
empty sleeve of his shirt. His glance swept the crowd in search
of his beloved, and like a magnet her eyes drew his and held them
for an instant. Only a few seconds, though, for the next moment
he saw those poor afflicted wretches about him, and for the first
time his aching heart drew tears to his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Vallon!&quot; they moaned and cried. &quot;Vallon!&quot;
like children calling in distress to their mother.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The soldiers jostled them, tried to silence them by threats,
but they would not be moved, nor would they be silenced, until
suddenly out of the crowd behind them there rose a louder cry:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;You scurvy knave! You abominable hypocrite! At last, at
last you get your deserts! Scoundrel! Hellhound! Take that in
remembrance of those whom you have outraged!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore saw it all! It was her father, and Hector Talon was with
him. Charles de Marigny seemed to have cast all weakness aside,
to have suddenly found the vigour of youth through the power of
his hatred. It was amazing how he pushed his way through the crowd,
right up to the tumbril, and then, with a sudden spring, he put
on foot on the hub of the nearest wheel. He was brandishing a
stick with the obvious purpose of hitting at Andr&eacute;, when
the crowd, taken aback for the moment, seized him and dragged
him down.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore put her hand up to her mouth to smother a cry. Her father
had fallen backward, dragging Hector Talon down with him in his
fall. She could see nothing more than that, for the crowd was
all over him, and everything seemed confusion - confusion made
hideous by weird cries and imprecations. The people in the rear
of the crowd declared: <I>&quot;C'est bien fait!&quot;</I> It
served the miscreant right for trying to hit at a brave soldier
who had lost one arm in the defence of his country. The soldiers
tried to restore order and only succeeded in keeping back the
crowd - the poor afflicted - at the point of the bayonet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore's eyes wandered back to the tumbril in search of Andr&eacute;.
She clutched the gold locket with her last message of love, ready
to fling it to him. But she couldn't see him; be must have been
struck by the old maniac and fallen down, perhaps, on the floor
of the cart. She fingered the thing in her hand feverishly - and
suddenly was aware that the thing she fingered as unfamiliar in
shape and in weight. She looked down upon it. The gold locket
was not there; she had instead a crumpled, soiled piece of paper
in her hand; it was wrapped around something hard and rough, possibly
a stone. She couldn't think what it meant. What abandoned thief
had dared to filch her locket? And then a swift recollection went
though her mind like a flash. When she saw her father spring up
on the hub of the cart-wheel she had tried to smother a cry of
horror and had felt a firm, kindly hand grasping hers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She had thought nothing of it at the moment, merely thought that
some gentle soul was trying to express mute sympathy. Instead
of this mysterious substitution! What could it mean? Was it? Could
it be from Andr&eacute;? Oh! if she could only see him. But there
was the crowd, the poor, miserable, afflicted crowd, trying in
a futile way to avenge an insult done to the man they revered.
The soldiers, reinforced by comrades, had pushed them well away.
Aurore could not see what had become of her father. Had he been
trampled underfoot by the infuriated mob? Had punishment overtaken
him at the very culmination of his treachery?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Just then there was another commotion. A wild, terrified shriek,
and Hector Talon was hoisted aloft by half-a-dozen strong arms
and then flung, still yelling, into the cart. Some people laughed.
The deaf and dumb who had seen gave a weird cry of content. The
sergeant in command cast a final glance on the tumbril.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	<I>&quot;Allons!&quot;</I> he called with stolid indifference.
&quot;The batch is complete! Eight sheep for Citizen Samson to-morrow.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Then he gave the word of command: <I>&quot;En avant,&quot; </I>and
the cart-wheels creaked on their axles as the horses began to
move.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And Andr&eacute;! Aurore could not see Andr&eacute;! Not even
now when the tumbril turned out of the gates so close to her.
The crowd surged in its wake, mostly in silence, though the poor
blind who were nearest to the cart continued to call on Vallon,
while the tongue-tied, uttering unintelligible sounds, hung on
to them and tried hard to explain that Vallon, Vallon, their father
and their mother and their friend, was no longer there.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Aurore, more dead than alive, had scrambled down fro the parapet.
The crowd was perceptibly thinner. A few soldiers were rounding
up the poor afflicted. The others, for the most part, hung about
waiting to see the next batch of prisoners file out. Only a few
followed the tumbril, from which could still be heard the agonized
yells of Hector Talon. In a few more minutes the vast courtyard
seemed almost peaceful. Just a few people waiting about in small
groups here and there. The spectacle of the day was not yet over.
There would be at least another five tumbrils to watch. The blind
and the deaf and dumb, the wretched and the poor, had drifted
away. Wither? No doubt this fraternal government knew. Was this
not the millennium so confidently foretold?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	The soldiers had restored order. They had done it at the point
of the bayonet, driving the afflicted away like useless sheep
unfit even for the knacker. They had also apparently dragged away
the inaniment and lifeless bodies of those who had been unfortunately
or luckily succumbed in the m&ecirc;l&eacute;e. Among these was
the body of a man who had once been styled Monseigneur le Duc
de Marigny, one of the proudest names in France, who once had
power of life and death over his fellow men and could toy with
the honour of any poor wench who happened to please his eye. His
mangled body lay now in the guardroom of the Palace, so-called
of Justice; the naked feet of a score of unwashed rabble had trampled
the life out of him. Not even decently covered with a sheet, the
illustrious remains of a descendant of kinds was destined for
a pauper's grave.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	But all this Aurore only found out later. Her thoughts, for the
moment, were far enough away from her father who had done her
such a great - such an irreparable injury. She had found a deserted
corner in an angle of the building, and here, unseen by prying
eyes, she unfolded the paper which had so mysteriously been thrust
into her hand. And this is what was written thereon:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">	Andr&eacute; is safe! Go home and wait for
him. Silence and discretion above all.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">	And below there was the device of a small
five-petalled flower roughly tinted scarlet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And that was all. Aurore, dazed and puzzled, marvelled if she
were dreaming now or if the rest of this day had been a hideous
nightmare. If, when she woke anon, she would find herself inside
the gates of an earthly paradise or of an unendurable hell? Andr&eacute;'s
safe! Where? When? How? BY whose agency had he been snatched from
out the jaws of death? How and why had God interfered to prevent
the monstrous holocaust?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute; safe? Could it be true? Did such heavenly things
happen in these days of darkness, of doubt and misery?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And all the while that these doubts, fears, conjectures, alternated
in Aurore's mind, with the wildest, most unbelievable hope, she
was running home, running like one urged by hope or driven by
despair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Andr&eacute; safe! And Paris looked just the same! The quays,
the river, the pavements, the people passing by as if nothing
had happened. Was life going on just the same, then? If so, surely
it could not be true that Andr&eacute; was safe.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Marie wondered what had happened to the Citizeness. Her habitual
sadness have given place to a febrile restlessness. She seem unable
to sit still. For hours she wandered from room to room, up and
down, taking no rest. She tried to eat, but food, apparently,
choked her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Marie asked questions but received no answer. She feared, indeed,
that the Citizeness was sick with the fever. She suggestion bed,
and toward ten o'clock Aurore agreed to lie down, but only on
condition that Marie herself went to bed. She certainly was in
a fever then, with cheeks aflame and hands cold as ice. But she
did make pretence to go to bed, drank the orange-flower water
which Marie had prepared, and promised to go to sleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	She waited, quiet as a mouse, until no sound save a comfortable
snore came from Marie's room. The good soul had taken to snoring
of late, and many a time had the sound set Aurore's nerves on
edge. But to-night she welcomed it. Half-past ten. She crept noiselessly
out of bed and put on her clothes again. She lit a candle and
with it tiptoed out to the vestibule. She set the candle on the
table, and she drew the bolt of the front door, leaving it ajar.
She pulled a chair close to the door, sat down and waited....
Waited, wide-eyed and expectant, as she had waited, day after
day, these two months past in the Hall of the Palais de Justice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	A few minutes after midnight she heard a footstep on the stairs.
No need to make a guess as to whose it was: she would have known
it among hundreds of thousands. She left the door ajar and went
back into the parlour. she sat down in the big armchair. The room
was all dark save for the dim light cast in by the flickering
candle in the vestibule.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And thus he found her, waiting for him and ready, with arms held
out so that he could pillow his tired head against her warm bosom.
She gathered him in her arms with that loving tenderness which
is the essence of a good woman's passionate love. Her first kiss
was on his hair; then only did her lips find his.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Of danger and death, of rescue or safety, there was no talk.
All that he said was, <I>&quot;Ma mie!&quot;</I> as, cheek, to
cheek, they sat there in the big armchair, forgetful of the world,
forgetful of everything save of their love.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter XLIII:</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">	Two days later Maximilien Robespierre
and his satellites perished in their turn on the guillotine; that
26th day of July which had meant life or death to Aurore and Andr&eacute;
had also meant life or death to the most bloodthirsty tyrant the
civilized world has ever known. It was the first eclipse of his
power and of his popularity. Swift as had been his rise, his fall
from the giddy heights of dictatorship was swifter still. The
same throats, which less than a couple of months ago had yelled
themselves hoarse with praise of Robespierre as second only to
the Supreme Being, now shouted execrations on the fallen tyrant.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	Terrified for their own lives his enemies had made a super-human
effort to drag him down. It was he or they, his head or theirs.
In the pocket of his coat taken off at the club because the night
was very hot had been found a list of names to be indicted on
the morrow, names of men to be accused, tried, and condemned.
They were the names of the most influential men in the National
Convention, Tallien's at the head. It was their life or his, and
they put forth all their strength, all their terror, and all their
eloquence to bring him down. And they succeeded. On the 26th of
July the tyrant was indicted for treason against the Republic;
on the 27th, he was dragged, wounded and almost dying, to the
bar of the accused; on the 28th, at even, he died on the guillotine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	His death was inglorious and sordid, but it marked an epoch.
As if by a magic wand the whole aspect of France was changed.
Terrorism died in as many days as it had taken years to maintain
itself. Within twenty-four hours the Convention, free from tyranny
and from fear of death, passed a law that every man or woman indicted
for treason and conspiracy must be served with a Writ of Accusation
so that they might know of what they were accused. Prisoners were
liberated by the hundred. Houses of Detention were emptied. Justice
once more put on the semblance of a bandage over he eyes and held
the scales with a steady hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	And while Andr&eacute; and Aurore dreamed their dream of love
in the sunny apartment of the Quai de la Ferraille, the aspect
of France was changed. Life went on, but no longer the same, for
there was hope in every heart, even though hope was often linked
with incurable sorrow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">	<I>And that is the end of the story which
Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., told to His Royal Highness that evening
in the Assembly Rooms at Bath.</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;A fine fellow, your Andr&eacute; Vallon,&quot; His Royal
Highness remarked. &quot;What became of him?&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;He was duly served with a Writ of Accusation, brought to
the bar, and acquitted. He has taken up his work again with the
blind and the deaf and dumb.&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;And he and your lovely Aurore spin the thread of perfect
love in their apartment on the Quai de la Ferraille, is that it?&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I should say as perfect as I have ever seen, sir,&quot;
Blakeney remarked with a smile.</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Outside your own, you lucky dog!&quot; His Royal Highness
rejoined with a sigh. &quot;But what happened to that rascal,
Hector Talon?&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;He was indicted for false accusations against a patriot.
His name appeared below that of Charles de Marigny on the letter
which denounced Vallon to the Committee of Public Safety which
has now ceased to exist. He died a very inglorious death just
a week after he had hoped to see his old enemy go up the steps
of the guillotine.&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Did the daughter ever recover her father's body for decent
burial?&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;I believe so.&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
	&quot;Ah, well!&quot; His Royal Highness concluded. &quot;I'll
grant you, Blakeney, that for a child of that awful revolution,
your friend Vallon has come out of the flames unscathed.&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">					<B>The end.</B></FONT></P>

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