I believe there were tears on his face as he left me. What a riddle was the creature! There is a blind spot in every eye, it is said--and the eyes are the windows of the soul. He had supplied me with soap and water and a razor, and these I found almost as grateful to my wants as the satchel had been. When I was something restored to cleanliness I descended to the corridor below, and, attracted by a sound of movement, entered one of the rooms that opened therefrom. Within, a young woman was engaged in laying one end of a carved-oak table with a white napkin. She looked round as I advanced, stared, gave a twitter of terror, and, retreating to the wall, put an arm up, with the elbow pointed at me, as if I were something horrible in her sight. I had a sharp intuition; for this, I saw, was the little _aubergiste_ of the ‘Golden Lion.’ “You think me responsible for the poor rogue’s hanging?” I said. She whispered “Yes,” with a pitiful attempt to summon her indignation to this ordeal of fear. I went up to her and spoke gently, while she shrunk from me. “Georgette, my child, it is not so. You must take that on my honour, for I am a gentleman, Georgette, in disguise.” “In disguise?” she whispered, with trembling lips; but her eyes wondered. “Truly, little girl; I am a wanderer now, and proscribed because I would not lend myself to thy Michel’s punishment.” “Oh!” she sobbed, “but it was cruel. And the Republic destroys its own children, m’sieu’.” “Thy father----?” “Ah! he, at least, is back, if still under surveillance; otherwise I should not be enabled to come daily to minister to the needs of this poor lonely old man.” “Now thou art a good soul, thou little _aubergiste_. And thy ministrations are meat to him, I perceive.” “Hush, m’sieu’! but if he were to hear? He asks no questions, he accepts all like a child. He would die of shame were he to learn that he owes his dinner to the gratitude of m’sieu’ his father’s dependant.” “Is he so sensitive? Thou great little Georgette! And mademoiselle--she does not return?” She shook her head. “Tell me where she is, child; for I believe you know.” “Oh!” she murmured, obviously in great distress, “m’sieu’ must not ask me.” I took her hands and drew her towards me. “Look in my eyes and tell me what you see there.” She glanced up scared and entreating. “But, is it cruelty, false faith, the currish soul of the liar and informer?” “No, no, m’sieu’.” “Then is it not, rather, the honour of a gentleman, the chivalry that would help and protect a defenceless woman cast adrift in this fearful land of blood and licence?” I gave her my title. “Now,” I said, “you can cast me to the axe with a word. And where is Mademoiselle Carinne, Georgette?” She still hesitated. I could see the little womanly soul of her tossing on a lake of tears. “At least,” I said, “she will not return hither?” “She will never return--oh, monseigneur! she will never return; and it is not for me to say why.”