“The chevalier, then, has, we will say, made my lord’s acquaintance; has excited the libidinous old man; has proposed a trip to Paris. The two travel to Dover; and here an unforeseen difficulty supervenes. My lord hears of the Reveillon riots. He refuses to proceed. The chevalier is in despair. She is, however, let us conclude, taking advantage of her position to note the disposition of the new fortifications, when chance puts into her hands the very opportunity for which she has vainly manœuvred. One day there lands from the packet a countrywoman of hers--a beautiful peasant-girl of Liége, whose seduction and abandonment by a rascal aristocrat have made her amenable to any unscrupulous design upon the class that is responsible for her ruin. To the protection of my lord the viscount, the chevalier--by whatever _ruse-de-guerre_--is happy to commit the demoiselle Théroigne Lambertine, who, poor fool, chances into her hands at the crucial moment.” Madame, uttering what sounded like a blazing oath, dashed, in an uncontrollable fit of passion, the little beast she held in her arms upon the ground. The poor wretch whipped across the fender and lay screaming with its back broken. She ran and trod upon it with a heavy foot, stilling its cries. “It is a De Querchy!” she shrieked. “It is so I crush my enemies!” Then she came towards the bed, her mouth mumbling and mowing, as if the ghost of the departed brute were entered into her. “You are the devil!” she hissed, “and you will tell me how you shall use your knowledge.” “In no way,” said Ned. His throat drummed with nausea. His whole nature rose in revolt against this exhibition of infernal cruelty; but he kept command of himself and of his cold aloofness. “In no way?” she said thickly. Her jaw seemed to drop. She stared at him. “You will do noting?” “No more than you,” he said. “You are welcome to your plot for me.” Her eyes rather than her lips questioned him. “Because,” said he, “I am convinced there is nothing to find out; and you will be occupied in hunting a chimera when you might be more mischievously engaged elsewhere.” She nodded a great number of times. The sweat stood on her forehead. “You had no thought to interfere?” she said. “_Vous êtes à plaindre_. I might have left you alone after all. But I dreaded you would stand by, and comprehend, and upset my plans, did I find a _sujet_ fitting to my pu-repus.” “Indeed, you had no reason to fear, madame. I am not so attached to my uncle’s company as that I should have been tempted to linger in it beyond the term prescribed by etiquette; and this time, be assured, I found in it no additional attraction.” She made a deprecating motion with her shoulders, then seated herself again--but away from the bed--as if in exhaustion. “At least,” she murmured, “I have been your _camarade de chambre_. And it seem I have nurse a viper in my bosom.” Ned could only bow to this quite typically French example of moral obliquity.