“Citoyenne!” I said, “you are wrong—utterly wrong. Believe me, he loves you passionately. What proof do you desire?” “Let him marry me to-morrow,” said the poissarde, “in this very room, or I shall immediately raise the alarm.” I tried to mitigate the sentence, but the poissarde was perfectly obdurate. “Bagsby, there is no help for it!” said I. “We are in the midst of a revolution, and must go along with it. She insists upon you marrying her to-morrow. The alternative is instant death.” “I’ll do it,” said Bagsby, quietly; “any thing is better than being murdered in cold blood.” The countenance of the poissarde brightened. “Aha!” said she, taking the submissive Bagsby by the ear, “so thou art to be my republican husband after all, _coquin_? Come along. I shall take care that thou dost not escape again to-night, and to-morrow I shall keep thee for ever!” So saying, she conducted her captive to the other end of the hall. CHAPTER VI. A REPUBLICAN WEDDING. “This is great news!” said Destripes, as we mustered round the revolutionary breakfast table. “Hast heard, citizen? Our colleague the Minister of Marine is about to contract an alliance with a daughter of the people. _Corbleu!_ There is no such sport as a regular republican marriage!” “In my early days,” said Jupiter Potard, “we had them very frequently. The way was, to tie two young aristocrats together, and throw them into the Seine. How poor dear Carrier used to laugh at the fun! Oh, my friends! we shall never see such merry times again.” “Come, don’t be down-hearted, old fellow!” cried Destripes. “We never can tell what is before us. I don’t despair of seeing something yet which might make the ghost of Collot d’Herbois rub its hands with ecstasy. But to our present work. Let us get over the business of the day, and then celebrate the wedding with a roaring festival.” “But where are we to find a priest?” asked Saigne-du-nez. “I question whether any of our fraternity has ever taken orders.” “Priest!” cried Destripes ferociously. “Is this an age of superstition? I tell thee, Saigne-du-nez, that if any such fellow were here, he should presently be dangling from the ceiling! What better priest would’st thou have than our venerable friend Potard?” “Ay, ay!” said Pomme-de-terre, “Potard will do the work famously. I’ll warrant me, with that long beard of his, he has sate for a high-priest ere now. But look at Citoyenne Corbeille, how fond she seems of her bargain. _Ventrebleu!_ our colleague is sure to be a happy man!” Whatever happiness might be in store for Bagsby hereafter, there was no appearance of it just then. He sate beside his bride like a criminal on the morning of his execution; and such efforts as he did make to respond to her attentions were rueful and ludicrous in the extreme.