The past fortnight had gone heavily for Mlle de Rochambeau. Since the days of the votings she had not seen Dangeau, for he had only returned late at night to snatch a few hours’ sleep before the earliest daylight called him to his work again. She heard his step upon the stair, and turned from it, with something like a shudder. What times! what times! For the inconceivable was happening—the impossible had come to pass. What, was the King to die, and no one lift a hand to help? In open day, in his own capital? Surely there would be a sign, a wonder, and God would save the King. But now—God had not saved him—he was dead. All the previous day she had knelt, fasting, praying, and weeping, one of many hundreds who did likewise; but the knife had fallen, the blood royal was no longer inviolate—it flowed like common water, and was swallowed by the common earth. A sort of numb terror possessed Aline’s very soul, and the little encounter with Thérèse gave it a personal edge. As she sat, late into the evening, making good her yesterday’s stint of embroidery, there came a footstep and a knocking at her door, and she rose to open it, trembling a little, and yet not knowing why she trembled since the step was a familiar one. Dangeau stood without, his face worn and tired, but an eager light in his eyes. "Will you spare me a moment?" he asked, motioning to his open door. "Is it about the copying?" she said, hesitating. "The copying, and another matter," he replied, and stood aside, holding the door for her to pass. She folded her work neatly, laid it down, and came silently into his room, where she remained standing, and close to the door. Dangeau crossed to his table, asked her a trifling question or two about the numbering of the thickly written pages before him, and then paused for so long a space that the constraint which lay on Mademoiselle extended itself to him also, and rested heavily upon them both. "I am going away to-morrow," he said at last. "Yes, Citizen." It was her first word to him for many days, and he was struck by the altered quality of the soft tones. They seemed to set him infinitely far away from her and her concerns, and it was surprising how much that hurt him. Nevertheless he stumbled on: "I am obliged to go; you believe that, do you not?" "But, yes, Citizen." More distant still the voice that had rung friendly once, but behind the distance a weariness that spurred him. "You are very friendless," he said abruptly. "You said that I might be your friend, and the first thing that I do is to desert you. If I had been given a choice—but one has obligations—it is a trust I cannot shirk." "Monsieur is very good to trouble himself about me," said Mademoiselle softly. "I shall be safe. I am not afraid. See then, Citizen, who would hurt me? I live quietly, I earn my bread, I harm no one. What has any one so insignificant and poor as I to be afraid of? Would any one trouble to harm me?"