"He is dead," reproved Mlle de Rochambeau. "Tiens, I did not say he was alive! But did you; tell me? What did it feel like to be betrothed?" "Ask Mme de Matigny what is the correct feeling for a young girl to have for her betrothed," said Aline, a hint of bitterness behind her smile. "De grêce!" and Marguerite’s plump hands went up in horror. "See then, Aline, I think it would be nice to love—really to love—do you not think so?" Mlle de Rochambeau shook her head with decision. Something in the light words had stabbed her, and she felt an inward pain. "I do not see why one should not love one’s husband," pursued Marguerite reflectively. "If one has to live with some one always, it would be far more agreeable to love him. But it appears that that is a very bourgeoise idea, and that it is more convenable to love some one else." "Oh, Marguerite!" "Yes, yes, I tell you it is so! Here one hears everything. They cannot send one out of the room when the conversation begins to grow interesting. There is Mme de Créspigny—she is in our room—she weeps much in the night, but it is not because of her husband, oh no; it is for M. le Chevalier de St. Armand, who was guillotined on the same day." "Hush, Marguerite, you should not say such things." "But if they are true, and this is really true, for when they brought her the news she cried out ’Etienne’ very loud, and fainted. M. de Créspigny was our cousin, so I know all his names. There is no Etienne amongst them," and she nodded wisely. "Oh, Marguerite!" "So you see it is true. I find that odious, for my part, though, to be sure, what could she do if she loved him? One cannot make oneself love or not love. It comes or it goes, and you can only weep like Mme de Créspigny, unless, to be sure, one could make shift to laugh, as I think I shall try to do when my time comes." Mlle de Rochambeau looked up with a sudden flame in her eyes. "It is not true that one cannot help loving," she said quickly. "One can—one can. If it is a wrong love it can be crushed, and one forgets. Oh, you do not know what you are talking about, Marguerite." Marguerite embraced her. "And do you?" she whispered slyly. Girls’ talk—strange talk for a prison, and one where Death stood by the entrance, beckoning one and another. One day it was M. de Lancy who was called away in the midst of a compliment to his "Chère Comtesse," called to appear at Fouquier Tinville’s bar, and later, at that of another and more merciful Judge. The next, Mme de Créspigny’s tired eyes rested for the last time upon prison walls, and she went out smiling wistful good-byes, to follow husband and lover to a world where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage. As each departed, the groups would close their ranks, and after a moment’s pause would talk the faster and more lightly, until once more the summons came, and again one would be taken and one left.