“Free me that I may kill some one!” he shrieked. “I am mad to groove my fingers in flesh! The time for concessions is past. I was as wax in their hands till they unearthed my plate, my coins, my riches. Now, now----” He was indeed beyond himself, a better man--or devil--in his despair than the money-conscious craven who had palpitated over that little “_Vive le roi!_” once upon a time. Crépin regarded the struggling creature with harsh contempt. This plebeian soul also was translated, but not to his moral promotion. It was evident he had enlarged the scope of his anticipations greatly in view of his prisoner’s promise; and his disappointment brought the spotted side of him uppermost. “Take the dog,” he cried in a hoarse voice (signifying Michel by a gesture), “and whip him to the lair! At least we will look to see if the wolves have left a bone or two for our picking.” “_M. le Représentant_,” I ventured to say, “be just to consider that the prisoner is by all rights my prisoner. Anyhow he has stuck to his side of the bargain. Let me hold you in fairness responsible for his safe-conduct.” He turned upon me like a teased bullock. “In fairness!” he cried--“in fairness! But you presume, citizen, on your position.” He looked as if he could have struck me; all the beast in the man was prominent. Then he gave the order to march, and I found myself left alone with the little grotesque in the chair. I was hot and indignant; but the passion of the other seemed to have exploded itself into a rain of emotion. His dry cheeks quivered; the tears ran down them like moisture on an old wall. “Monsieur,” I said, softly, “I know not whether to applaud or upbraid you. And where is Mademoiselle Carinne?” He seemed quite broken in a moment--neither to resent nor to be surprised at my mention of the girl’s name. “She is fled,” he whimpered--“the little graceless cabbage is fled.” “To safety, I hope?” “To the devil, for all I care.” “Monsieur, I hold your wretchedness an excuse, even if you have been careless of----” He caught me up, staring at me woefully. “Careless? but, my God! I have pampered and maintained her ever since her brown head was a crutch to my fingers; and this is how she repays me.” “What has she done?” “She has condemned me to beggary for a prudish sentiment--me, in my old forlorn age. From the first I saw that the test might come--that she might be called upon to employ the privileges of her sex on my behalf. Free-thought, free-love! Bah! What are they but a self-adaptation to the ever-changing conditions of life. The spirit need not subscribe to such mere necessities of being; and a little gratitude at least was due to me. She has none, and for that may God strike her dead!” “What has she done?”