He clasped his wife in his arms, uttering endearing words which seemed a promise of new days, full of happiness, and of a perfect union. The Duchess listened rapturously to the husband whom the state and church had given her. Her smothered youth rose in a strong tide. She realized that the grief which had really oppressed her through so many years was the glacial attitude which she and the Duke had maintained towards; each other. Closing her eyes, she leaned upon his; breast. He folded her in his arms and led her into the adjoining apartment, her dormitory, through which they passed into the oratory. They walked to the crimson prie-Dieu and knelt together upon; the velvet cushion. Holding her hand tightly, he solemnly said: "Before God, who hears us, Thérèse,--sole woman that exists on earth for me,--and He knows I speak the truth,--promise me that you will save the royal House of France from perishing, that you will not permit the impious to rejoice nor the enemies of the cause to triumph, that you will prevent the sacred oil from being poured upon the head of this counterfeiter, this incendiary, this heretic. If he be an impostor, 'twould be sacrilegious; if he be not an impostor (to state an impossible case) his accession to the throne would let loose again license and unbridled passions which would precipitate a second Revolution. Promise, Thérèse. Swear!" She raised her eyes to the crucifix. The thorn-crowned face against the dark background seemed, in a sublime melancholy, to murmur: "Father forgive them--" The oath died on her lips. "Swear, Thérèse, my love, my wife!" repeated the Duke. Tears coursed down her face as she groaned: "I swear, my God, I swear," and sank in a nervous paroxysm into her husband's arms. He had triumphed. Sustaining her, he led the Duchess from the oratory. Chapter V THE SISTER In the sitting-room of a small inn whose sign reads "Hotel d'Orleans" sat the five persons whom the Polipheme brought to France. Amélie, no longer a fresh radiant girl, and in deep mourning for her husband, Jean Vilon, sits beside René who whispers: "When shall I see you light-hearted, Amélie? I am jealous of the dead. He robs me of you." "What else may I do than wear black? He was a great heart. Do not wonder at my grief, René." Naundorff's face was almost transfigured. He looked twenty years younger. He seemed to have lost consciousness of his past sufferings. Joy obliterated sorrow and his lips were wreathed in smiles.