“Good morning, monsieur, I wish the roses were mine to give,” she said, moving away almost with a sob. The young man followed her a step or two, then turned back muttering to himself. “Can it be that the women of our clubs were like that? Is it possible that any thing will make her one of them? Does liberty demand that women, lovely and gentle as she is, should debase themselves?” “Ha, St. Just, is it you? We missed your eloquence at the club last night.” The speaker was a low-browed, heavy featured man, ill dressed and unwashed, coarse in his person, and rough in his speech. St. Just lifted his hat, thus unconsciously rebuking the rude manner of his companion, which seemed to challenge rather than salute him. “Good morning, citizen Marat, I was busy elsewhere last night.” “And especially busy this morning,” answered the demagogue with a coarse laugh. “Do not look so black, citizen, or your frown may wither the favor in your bosom. A dainty piece of mischief that. We must have her at the clubs. How that Theraigne de Merecourt is exiled, there is great need of fresh beauty and spirit there.” St. Just clenched his hand with a sharp desire to knock the brutal man down; but checked his wrath, and moved away with absolute loathing. As Marat stood with a hand on each hip, laughing till his uncombed hair shook like a fleece over his shoulders, a young woman came up the street, dressed in the loose fashion of her class, and addressed him. “Who was it, citizen, you were talking with a moment ago?” “A gentleman whose name I will not give, he carried a white rose in his bosom, which I saw him take from the prettiest flower girl you ever saw. She has but just passed out of sight.” “Ha! tell me, for I will know. Was it Mirabeau?” A malicious pleasure came into the rude face of the demagogue, and he answered warily: “You must not tell him that I said so, _citoyenne_ Brisot, but there is an excuse. The flower girl was so beautiful.” “Ha! but just passed out of sight, and she went this way. Good morning, _citoyen_.” Fierce and swift the woman left Marat, and threw herself like a hound on the track of that poor girl. CHAPTER XV. IN THE DUNGEONS OF THE BASTILLE. “There is silver for your flowers, and I thank you for bringing the first choice here. So you are Doudel’s daughter; I wonder he never gave me a sight of you before. A faithful man is Doudel. So you wish to speak with him,—have a message from his dame. Well, there is no treason in that; few women can pass from this court across the ditch of the Bastille; but you shall go with your flowers and brighten the gloomy shadows, if that is possible. Ho! there! Pass this girl and her basket across the draw-bridge, and find the guard Doudel; he is her father.”