"Yourself, for instance?" said Ratoneau, staring at her. "And why should you shut yourself up and make the whole world miserable, because your cousin is a fool? But you have not done so." "Because it is impossible, I am not free." "What would you be doing now, if you were free?" Hélène shrugged her shoulders. Ratoneau laughed. "Does Monsieur de la Marinière expect to bring his son back with him?" he asked. His tone was sneering, but Hélène did not notice it. "I do not know, monsieur," she said. "But my cousin will come back. He has done nothing. He has been in no plots. The Emperor cannot punish an innocent man." She looked up suddenly, cheered by repeating what Monsieur des Barres had told her. Her pathetic eyes met Ratoneau's for a moment; surely no one could be cruel enough to deny such facts as these. In the General's full gaze there was plenty of what was odious to her, but no real kindness or pity. She blushed as she thought: "How dares this man look at me so? He is nothing but the merest acquaintance. He is insupportable." "If we were to go back into the ball-room, monsieur," she said gravely, beginning to move away. "My mother will be looking for me." "No, mademoiselle," said Ratoneau, coolly, "I think not. Madame la Comtesse saw me take you this way." He sat down on a sofa, spreading his broad left hand over the gilded sphinx of its arm. With his right hand he pointed to the place beside him. "Sit down there," he said. Hélène frowned with astonishment, caught her breath and looked round. There were two or three people at the other end of the room, but all strangers to her, and all passing out gradually; no one coming towards her, no one to rescue her from the extraordinary manners of this man. The glance she gave him was as withering as her gentle eyes could make it; then she turned her back upon him and began to glide away, alone, down the room. "Mademoiselle--" said Ratoneau; his voice grated on her ears. Was he laughing? was he angry? in any case she was resolved not to speak to the insolent creature again. "Listen, mademoiselle," said Ratoneau, more loudly, and without rising. "Listen! I will bring your cousin back." She wavered, paused, then turned and looked at him. He gazed at her gravely, intently; his look and manner were a little less offensive now. "Yes--I am not an ogre," he said. "I don't eat boys and girls. But I assure you there are people in the Empire who do. And you are quite wrong if you think that an innocent man is never punished. The police may have their reasons--bang--there go the big gates of Vincennes, and the stronger reason that opens them again is hard to find. Innocent or guilty--after all, that pretty cousin of yours has touched a good deal of pitch in the way of _chouannerie_, mademoiselle." "You said--" Hélène waited and stammered. "I said I would bring him back. You want to understand me? Sit down beside me here." The girl hesitated. "Courage! for Angelot!" she said to herself.