The girl lifted her eyes to the face of her questioner. It was the man who had twice told her of his love in the ruins of the Bastille—who had helped her wreathe those pretty garlands in her attic-room, which, since that day, had been the brightest corner in Paradise to her. “Will I sell flowers to you?” she faltered, blushing brightly as her own roses. “Yes! No! Pray help yourself! Dame Doudel would be angry if I took money.” “And I should hardly know how to give it—so we will arrange that with the good dame. Only you must make up my little bouquet with your own hands.” Marguerite slid the handle of the basket back on her arm, and went to work robbing different bouquets of their choicest flowers. “Dear me! how my hands shake, the basket is so heavy,” she said. “Let me hold the basket.” “What, you? Well, there, hold it, I will not be long; but my hands have got such a trick of trembling.” With an amused smile St. Just watched those fluttering hands as the girl plucked the most fragrant flowers from her store, robbing her prettiest merchandise for his sake. “The dew is all off them,” she said, regretfully. “If I had only known this morning; but the jasmines are all gone; and I had some lovely white roses, pink at the heart, as if a red rose had left its shadow there; but I put the last into Monsieur Mirabeau’s bouquet.” “Who? What name was that?” “Monsieur la Count Mirabeau!” “And you know _him_?” “Know him? Oh, yes! It was the count who would have me go before the king and queen.” “And you gave him flowers to-day?” “Gave? Well, I suppose so, for he forgot to pay my poor little sous.” The young man laughed. “Yes, yes; there is no doubt of its being Mirabeau. He usually does forget to pay!” “But he meant to. Only I would not take the Louis d’or he offered, for that was worth more than I had in my basket.” “So he offered you a Louis d’or; the last he had, I dare say. Oh, yes! it was sure to be Mirabeau; there was no necessity of telling his name. So he ran away with your flowers, thinking his pretty speeches payment enough. Oh! you blush. May I ask——But no, that would not be quite fair.” Marguerite stood before him, downcast and blushing with the unfinished bouquet in her hands. “You seem to know citoyen Mirabeau better than I thought of,” said the young man, so coldly that the girl looked up with a guilty and startled expression in her eyes. “But I know him so little,” faltered the poor girl, thinking guiltily of the conversation she had just held. Still the young man fixed his eyes on Marguerite’s face, where it was not difficult to read the restless secret which disturbed her. He saw those frank blue eyes sink under his scrutiny. In order to hide her embarrassment, she searched with both hands among the flowers. “Oh! here is one left. See! it blushes clear through the heart.” “Yes, I see it blushes,” said the young man, coldly.