“M. Gardel, you remind me of a gnat-maggot.” “How, sir?” says Gardel. “It is without offence. Once, as a boy, I kept a tub of gold-fish. In this the eggs of the little insect would be found to germinate. I used to watch the tiny water-dragons come to the surface to take the air through their tails--my faith! but that was comically like the France of to-day. Now touch the water with a finger, and _pouf!_ there they were all scurried to the bottom in a panic, not to rise again till assured of safety.” “That is not my way,” says Gardel. “Wait, my friend. By-and-by, nearing their transformation, these mites plump out and lose their gravity. Then, if one frights them, they try to wriggle down; their buoyancy resists. They may sink five--six inches. It is no good. Up they come again, like bubbles in champagne, to burst on the surface presently and fly away.” “And shall I fly, monsieur?” “To the stars, my brave Gardel. But is it not so? One cannot drive you down for long.” “To-night, M. Thibaut” (such was my name in the prison register)--“to-night, I confess, I am like a ‘Montgolfier.’ I rise, I expand. I am full of thoughts too great for utterance. My transformation must be near.” The Marquise gave a little cry-- “_Je ne puis pas me passer de vous, François!_” The servant--the master--looked kindlily into the faded eyes. “I will come back and be with you in spirit,” he said. “No, no!” she cried, volubly. “It is old-wives’ tales--the vapourings of poets and mystics. Of all these murdered thousands, which haunts the murderers?” I gazed in astonishment. This passive _douillette_, with the torn lace! I had never known her assert herself yet but through the mouth of her henchman. “Oh yes!” she went on shrilly, nodding her head. “Death, death, death! But, if the dead return, this Paris should be a city of ghosts.” “Perhaps it is,” said Gardel. “Fie, then!” she cried. “You forget your place; you presume upon my condescension. It is insolent so to put me to school. ‘_Ma demeure sera bientôt le néant._’ It was Danton--yes, Danton--who said that. He was a devil, but he could speak truth.” Suddenly she checked herself and gave a little artificial titter. She was not transfigured, but debased. A jealous scepticism was revealed in every line of her features. “And what is death to M. Gardel?” she said ironically. “It is an interruption, madame.” She burst forth again excitedly-- “But Danton saw further than thee, thou fool, who, like a crab, lookest not whither thou art going, and wilt run upon a blind wall while thine eyes devour the landscape sidelong. I will not have it. I do not desire any continuance. My faith is the faith of eyes and ears and lips. Man’s necessities die with him; and, living, mine are for thy strong arm, François, and for thy fruitful service. My God! what we pass through! And then for a hereafter of horrible retrospection! No, no. It is infamous to suggest, foolish to insist on it.”