"You knew it, then, all the while?" the woman cried, turning fiercely to Dossonville. "I know nothing," Dossonville answered; and seeing that chance had come in somehow to his aid, he demanded curtly of Sans-Chagrin: "What do you know of her?" "A good deal," Sans-Chagrin began, with a smile. "I confessed her when I was a ci-devant curé in the days of fanaticism and error." La Mère Baudrier, very white, extended her hand for permission to Dossonville, who said encouragingly: "Allons, you are going to be reasonable now?" "I will speak." She turned to Sans-Chagrin. "Citoyen Sans-Souci--" "I am Sans-Chagrin now." "Citoyen Sans-Chagrin, they accuse me of having a daughter by an aristocrat--Louison, the bouquetière." "But your little one was called Rose." "I changed the name afterward." For a moment she was thrown into confusion, but rallying, she continued: "You can say if the father was an aristocrat." "I should hope so: it was I that baptized her. Come, now, what was he called? La Gloire--la, le--no, Lajoie, Simon Lajoie, that's it." "Simon Lajoie!" The thunderclap was Dossonville's, who, thrown off his guard, caught Sans-Chagrin by the shoulder, repeating: "Simon Lajoie!" But immediately, by a violent effort, he controlled himself, and dismissing them hurriedly, turned his back on the frightened woman, seeking to regain his composure. When he turned, it was with the calm of intense excitement. "Is that the Simon Lajoie who used to frequent the Café Procopé?" The woman remained dumb. "Is it?" "Yes." "Good. Your explanations are sufficient. You are released." He watched the look of immense relief that spread over her countenance as she rose, with a mumbled thanks, and started for the door. "By the way, citoyenne," he cried carelessly; "one moment. Come back. Sit down. Could the Citoyen Lajoie have been any one in disguise?" Terrified and trapped, the woman sprang up. "For instance, the good Citoyen Charles Sanson?" Her answer was a shriek and the thud of her body falling in a swoon to the floor. XIII DAUGHTER OF THE GUILLOTINE "Certainly, he is demented," Le Corbeau cried when, after a dozen zigzags, Dossonville continued to plunge furiously ahead up street after street. "Decidedly so," grumbled Sans-Chagrin. "Here's three times we've passed the Tour St. Jacques." "What the devil could have happened?" "You know Lajoie?" "Why, of course--a little insignificant man." "It was perhaps his brother." "He hadn't the look." "Anyhow, I say it's time to rest." "My legs are worn out." "If we suggested a halt?" "I don't dare." "Neither do I."