La Boulaye remained a moment by the door after Cecile's departure; then he moved away towards his desk, striving to master the tumultuous throbbing of his pulses. His eye alighted on Cecile's roses, and, scarce knowing why he did it, he picked them up and flung them behind a bookcase. It was but done when again the door opened, and his official ushered in Mademoiselle de Bellecour. Oddly enough, at sight of her, La Boulaye grew master of himself. He received her with a polite and very formal bow--a trifle over-graceful for a patriot. “So, Citoyenne,” said he, and so cold was his voice that it seemed even tinged with mockery, “you are come at last.” “I could not come before, Monsieur,” she answered, trembling. “They would not let me.” Then, after a second's pause: “Am I too late, Monsieur?” she asked. “No,” he answered her. “The ci-devant Vicomte d'Ombreval still lies awaiting trial. Will you not be seated?” “I do not look to remain long.” “As you please, Citoyenne. I have delayed Ombreval's trial thinking that if not my letter why then his might bring you, sooner or later, to his rescue. It may interest you to hear,” he continued with an unmistakable note of irony, “that that brave but hapless gentleman is much fretted at his incarceration.” A shadow crossed her face, which remained otherwise calm and composed --the beautiful, intrepid face that had more than once been La Boulaye's undoing. “I am glad that you have waited, Monsieur. In so doing you need have no doubts concerning me. M. d'Ombreval is my betrothed, and the troth I plighted him binds me in honour to succour him now.” La Boulaye looked steadily at her for a moment. “Upon my soul,” he said at last, a note of ineffable sarcasm vibrating in his voice, “I shall never cease to admire the effrontery of your class, and the coolness with which, in despite of dishonourable action, you make high-sounding talk of honour and the things to which it binds you. I have a dim recollection, Citoyenne, of something uncommonly like your troth which you plighted me one night at Boisvert. But so little did that promise bind you that when I sought to enforce your fulfilment of it you broke my head and left me to die in the road.” His words shook her out of her calm. Her bosom rose and fell, her eyes seemed to grow haggard and her hands were clasped convulsively. “Monsieur,” she answered, “when I gave you my promise that night I had every intention of keeping it. I swear it, as Heaven is my witness.” “Your actions more than proved it,” he said dryly. “Be generous, Monsieur,” she begged. “It was my mother prevailed upon me to alter my determination. She urged that I should be dishonoured if I did not.”