"What a beautiful ending," cried Mademoiselle de Belloeil, and the exclamation on the part of the audience showed that her sentiment was echoed generally. "Continue," said Madame de Rémur. "I was afraid it was going to end unhappily." The chevalier took a pinch of snuff and settled himself back in the arm-chair which was accorded to him as a tribute to his advanced age; and the poet unfolded his manuscript and began to read. It was an intensely appreciative audience that listened to the dramatic work of the poet. They followed with breathless interest the meeting of the young lovers in the hall of the Luxembourg; assisted smilingly at their rendezvous in the corridors and shadowy corners of the old prison; and sighed gently during the most tender passages. At the scene of separation, tears of regret flowed freely, and in the meeting in the last act, tears of joy and sorrow mingled together in sympathetic unison. As the young poet ended he folded up his manuscript and bowed his blushing acknowledgments to the storm of applause that greeted him. The wave of approbation had not ceased to resound through the room when the outer door opened, and the jailer and some half a dozen gendarmes entered abruptly. Instantly the hum of conversation stopped, and an icy chill fell upon the assemblage. Faces that the moment before were wreathed in smiles now became pale and marked with fear. "The call of to-morrow's list to the guillotine," rang out through the room in harsh notes. Amid the silence of death, a captain of gendarmerie took a slip of paper from his pocket, while a comrade held a lantern under his nose. Some of those who listened wiped the clammy perspiration from their foreheads, others trembled and sat down. Some affected an air of indifference, and began a forced conversation with their neighbors; but all ears were strained. Each dreaded lest his own name or that of some loved one should be called out by that monotonous, relentless voice. "Bertrand de Chalons." An old man stepped forward. "Annette Duclos." There was a pause after each name, during which the suspense was intensified. "Diane de Rémur." Madame de Rémur laid aside her work and rose. "Diane! Diane! I cannot bear it!" cried the Countess d'Arlincourt, throwing her arms about her friend's neck. "Oh, sirs, have pity!" "Hush, my dear," replied Madame de Rémur soothingly. "Chevalier, look to the poor child; she is hysterical." The chevalier gently drew the countess aside, then took Madame de Rémur's hand and silently bending over it, put it to his lips. "Take your place in the line, citizeness," called out a gendarme, and Madame de Rémur stood with the others. "André de Blois!" As de Blois' name was called, a shrill cry echoed through the room, and Mademoiselle de Belloeil fell back into the chair from which she had just risen. She did not swoon, but sat like one in a dream, staring with wide-open eyes. The count stepped to her side.