“Alas! no,” she said to herself, whilst aloud she murmured: “I thought that you would like them. Your room has such a gloomy, sombre air, and a few roses seem to diffuse some of the sunshine on which they have been nurtured.” “You are too good, Cecile” he answered, and, for all his coldness, he was touched a little by this thoughtfulness. She looked up at the altered tone, and the expression of her face seemed to soften. But before she could make answer there was a rap at the door. It opened, and Brutus stood in the doorway. “Citizen,” he announced, in his sour tones, “there is another woman below asking to see you.” La Boulaye started, as again his thoughts flew to Suzanne, and a dull flush crept into his pale cheeks and mounted to his brow. Cecile's eyes were upon him, her glance hardening as she observed these signs. Bitter enough had it been to endure his coldness whilst she had imagined that it sprang from the austerity of his nature and the absorption of his soul in matters political. But now that it seemed she might have cause to temper her bitterness with jealousy her soul was turned to gall. “What manner of woman, Brutus?” he asked after a second's pause. “Tall, pale, straight, black hair, black eyes, silk gown--and savours the aristocrat a league off,” answered Brutus. “Your official seems gifted with a very comprehensive eye,” said Cecile tartly. But La Boulaye paid no heed to her. The flush deepened on his face, then faded again, and he grew oddly pale. His official's inventory of her characteristics fitted Mademoiselle de Bellecour in every detail. “Admit her, Brutus,” he commanded, and his voice had a husky sound. Then, turning to Cecile, “You will give me leave?” he said, cloaking rude dismissal in its politest form. “Assuredly,” she answered bitterly, making shift to go. “Your visitor is no doubt political?” she half-asked half-asserted. But he made no answer as he held the door for her, and bowed low as she passed out. With a white face and lips tightly compressed she went, and half-way on the stairs she met a handsome woman, tall and of queenly bearing, who ascended. Her toilette lacked the elaborateness of Cecile's, but she carried it with an air which not all the modistes of France could have succeeded in imparting to the Citoyenne Deshaix. So dead was Robespierre's niece to every sense of fitness that, having drawn aside to let the woman pass, she stood gazing after her until she disappeared round the angle of the landing. Then, in a fury, she swept from the house and into her waiting coach, and as she drove back to Duplay's in the Rue St. Honore she was weeping bitterly in her jealous rage. CHAPTER XVII. LA BOULAYE'S PROMISE