wonderful sight—so like the Revolution! Madame Dupin, in her silks and satins, had often passed the ragged Victorine in the streets, and, of course, had never taken the slightest notice of her. Now Madame was kneeling to her! Respectability was in the dust before that which was not by any means respectable; the legitimate before the illegitimate! Oh, it was, I say, a wonderful sight in Victorine’s wretched garret! She was touched with pity, and, furthermore, the memory of her old days with Dupin and her love for him revived. Legouvé was frightfully jealous, and she knew that if she pleaded Dupin’s cause before him she would make matters worse. A sudden thought struck her. She went to Couthon and demanded an audience. “‘Couthon,’ she said, ‘are the Dupins to die?’ “‘Yes, to-morrow.’ “‘Dupin the younger is the father of my child.’ “‘And he has deserted you, and you hate him. He shall die.’ “‘Pardon me, I do not hate him.’ “‘Ah, you love him still; but that is no reason why he should be spared, my pretty one. We must do our duty. They are plotters against the Republic, and must go.’ “‘Couthon, they must live. Consider; shall that man ascend the scaffold with the thought in his heart that I could have rescued him, and that I did not; that I have had my revenge? Besides, what will be said?—that the Republic uses justice to satisfy private vengeance. All the women in my quarter know who I am.’ “‘That is a fancy.’ “‘Fancy! Is it a fancy to murder Dupin’s wife—murder all that is good in her—murder the belief in her for ever that there is such a thing as generosity? You do not wish to kill the soul? That is the way with tyrants, but not with the Republic.’ “Thus Victorine strove with Couthon, and he at last yielded. Dupin and his father were released that night, and before daybreak they were all out of Paris and safe. In the morning Legouvé found that they were liberated, and on asking Couthon the reason, was answered with a smile that they had an eloquent advocate. Victorine had warned Couthon not to mention her name, and he kept his promise; but Legouvé conjectured but too truly. He went home, and in a furious rage taxed Victorine with infidelity to him, in favour of the man who had abandoned her. He would not listen to her, and thrust her from him with curses. I say nothing more about her history. I will only say this, that Pauline is that child who was born to her after Dupin left her. I say it because I am so proud that Pauline has had such a mother!” “Pauline her daughter!” said Zachariah. “I thought she was your daughter.” “She is my daughter: I became her father.” Everybody was silent. “Ah, you say nothing,” said Caillaud; “I am not surprised. You are astonished. Well may you be so that such a creature should ever have lived. What would Jesus Christ have said to her?” The company soon afterwards rose to go.