"You are wrong," she said—"it is but eight for imprisonment. You give him two more chances of life than there is any need to." "That’s because I love him so well. Is he not Philippe’s cousin?" drawled the other, making the correction. Philippe himself leaned suddenly between them. "I should be jealous, it appears," he said smoothly. "Who is it that you love so much?" The bare white shoulders were lifted a little farther out of their very scanty drapery. "Eh—that charming cousin Veto of yours. Since you love him so well, I am sure I may love him too. May I not?" Philippe’s laugh was a little hoarse, though ready enough. "But certainly, chère amie," he said. "Have I not just proved my affection to the whole world?" Mademoiselle Didier laughed noisily and caught him by the arm. "There, let him go," she said with impatience. "At the last he bores one, your good cousin. We want more bonbons, and I should like coffee. It is cold enough to freeze one, with so much coming and going." Again Dangeau turned to his companion. "An edifying spectacle, is it not?" he asked. Danton shrugged his great shoulders. "Mere scum and froth," he said. "Let it pass. I want to speak to you. You are to be sent on mission." "On mission?" "Why, yes. You can be useful, or I am much mistaken. It is this way. The South is unsatisfactory. There is a regular campaign of newspaper calumny going on, and something must be done, or we shall have trouble. I thought of sending you and Bonnet. You are to make a tour of the cities, see the principal men, hold public meetings, explain our aims, our motives. It is work which should suit you, and more important than any you could do in Paris at present." Dangeau’s eyes sparkled; a longing for action flared suddenly up in him. "I will do my best," he said in a new, eager voice. "You should start as soon as this business is over." Danton’s heavy brow clouded. "Faugh! It stops us at every turn. I have a thousand things to do, and Louis blocks the way to every one. Wait till my hands are free, and you shall see what we will make of France!" "I will be ready," said Dangeau. Danton had called for coffee, and stood gulping it as he talked. Now, as he set the cup down, he laid his hand on Dangeau’s shoulder a moment, and then moved off muttering to himself: "This place is stifling—the scent, the rouge. What do women do in an affair of State?" In Dangeau’s mind rose a vision of Aline de Rochambeau, cool, delicate, and virginal, and the air of the gallery became intolerable. As he went out in Danton’s wake, he passed a handsome, dark-eyed girl who stared at him with an inviting smile. Lost in thought, he bowed very slightly and was gone. His mind was all at once obsessed with the vision he had evoked. It came upon him very poignantly and sweetly, and yet—yet—that vote of his, that irrevocable vote. What would she say to that?