"I answer to that, dearest sister, that there is nothing else for you to do but what I have just indicated. Have you not lived with our parents and with me since the day the Bastille was taken, when you came home to us? Have I not many a time spoken of you to Billaud-Varenne? If he is on intimate terms with Citizen Desmarais, is it not likely that he has spoken to him? In fine, for a last reason, the gravest of all, is it not known in the neighborhood that we live together? Charlotte's father, our neighbor, must be aware of the circumstance. Shall I resign myself to a falsehood, and say that you are not my sister? What would Charlotte and her father think then? What would that young and beautiful woman who shared my lodgings then be in their eyes?" Victoria remained silent. She found, and, in fact, there was, no answer to John's arguments. The latter, triumphing in his brotherly love, rose, tenderly embraced his sister, and said: "You see you are convinced of the necessity of my confidence to Charlotte. Now tell me, darling sister, which do you prefer, to live alone or with us?" The young woman did not answer. Instead, her pale visage was bathed in tears, always so rare in her. After a moment, she pressed her brother to her heart, and murmured in a voice broken with sobs: "Ah, do not fear that the sight of your good fortune will make my chagrin more bitter. On the contrary, perhaps I shall forget it in seeing you happy." John tenderly embraced his sister, and set out for Billaud-Varenne's, whom he wished to see before his interview with advocate Desmarais. Upon being left alone, Victoria pondered long the recent conversation with her brother. Then, lending an ear mechanically to the whistling of the winter's wind without, she bent over the little stove that warmed their humble quarters, and resumed her sewing. Suddenly the young woman uttered a cry of surprise, and jumped to her feet. One of the panes of the dormer window which looked out upon the roof fell with a crash, and as the fragments of glass jangled to the floor, a hand passing through the opening left by the broken pane forcibly shoved the lower sash of the window up in the casing. A great gust of wind filled the room, blew out the lamp, and out of the darkness a muffled, suppliant voice called to Victoria: "Have pity on me. I am an Emigrant; they are searching for me. I have a hundred louis on me; they are yours if you save me!" At the same time that the words were pronounced, Victoria heard on the floor the foot-fall of the fugitive, who had introduced himself by the window. At the sound of the first words Victoria believed she recognized the voice that came from out the shadows. The young woman was frozen with astonishment.