“More brilliant than ever,” answered she. “He is a great actor, Citoyenne.” A shade of annoyance crossed her face. “Why do you always address me as Citoyenne?” she asked, with some testiness. He turned at last and looked at her a moment. “We live in a censorious world, Citoyenne,” he answered gravely. She tossed her head with an exclamation of impatience. “We live in a free world, Citizen. Freedom is our motto. Is it for nothing that we are Republicans?” “Freedom of action begets freedom of words,” said he, “and freedom of words leads to freedom of criticism--and that is a thing to which no wise woman will expose herself, no matter under what regime we live. You would be well-advised, Citoyenne, in thinking of that when you come here.” “But you never come to us, Caron,” she returned, in a voice of mild complaint. “You have not been once to Duplay's since your return from Belgium. And you seem different, too, since your journey to the army.” She rose now and approached him. “What is it, cher Caron?” she asked, her voice a very caress of seductiveness, her eyes looking up into his. “Is something troubling you?” “Troubling me?” he echoed, musingly. “No. But then I am a busy man, Citoyenne.” A wave of red seemed to sweep across her face, and her heel beat the parquet floor. “If you call me Citoyenne again I shall strike you,” she threatened him. He looked down at her, and she had the feeling that behind the inscrutable mask of his countenance he was laughing at her. “It would sort well with your audacity,” he made answer coolly. She felt in that moment that she hated him, and it was a miracle that she did not do as she had threatened, for with all her meek looks she owned a very fiercest of tempers. She drew back a pace or two, and her glance fell. “I shall not trouble you in future,” she vowed. “I shall not come here again.” He bowed slightly. “I applaud the wisdom of your resolve--Cit--Cecile. The world, as I have said, is censorious.” She looked at him a second, then she laughed, but it was laughter of the lips only; the eyes looked steely as daggers and as capable of mischief. “Adieu, Citizen La Boulaye,” she murmured mockingly. “Au revoir, Citoyenne Deshaix,” he replied urbanely. “Ough!” she gasped, and with that sudden exclamation of pent-up wrath, she whisked about and went rustling to the door. “Citoyenne,” he called after her, “you are forgetting your flowers.” She halted, and seemed for a second to hesitate, looking at him oddly. Then she came back to the table and took up her roses. Again she looked at him, and let the bouquet fall back among the papers. “I brought them for you, Caron,” she said, “and I'll leave them with you. We can at least be friends, can we not?” “Friends? But were we ever aught else?” he asked.