“Mademoiselle!” he called after her. She stopped, and as she turned, he observed that her lashes were wet. But in her heart there arose now a fresh hope, awakened by the name by which he had recalled her. “Whither are you going?” he asked. “Away, Monsieur,” she answered. “I was realising that my journey had indeed been in vain.” He looked at her a second in silence. Then stepping forward: “Mademoiselle,” he said, very quietly, “your arguments have prevailed, and it shall be as you desire. The ci-devant Vicomte d'Ombreval shall go free.” Her face seemed to grow of a sudden paler, and for an instant she stood still as if robbed of understanding. Then she came forward with hands outheld. “Said I not that you were good and generous? Said I not that you could be noble, Monsieur?” she cried, as she caught his resisting hand and sought to carry it to her lips. “God will bless you, Monsieur--” He drew his hand away, but without roughness. “Let us say no more, Mademoiselle,” he begged. “But I will,” she answered him. “I am not without heart, Monsieur, and now that you have given me this proof of the deep quality of your love, I--” She paused, as if at a loss for words. “Well, Mademoiselle?” he urged her. “I have it in my heart to wish that--that it were otherwise,” she said, her cheeks reddening under his gaze. “If it were not that I account myself in honour bound to wed M. le Vicomte--” “Stop!” he interrupted her. He had caught at last the drift of what she was saying. “There is no need for any comedy, Suzanne. Enough of that had we at Boisvert.” “It is not comedy,” she cried with heat. “It was not altogether comedy at Boisvert.” “True,” he said, wilfully misunderstanding her that he might the more easily dismiss the subject, “it went nearer to being tragedy.” Then abruptly he asked her: “Where are you residing?” She paused before replying. She still wanted to protest that some affection for him dwelt in her heart, although curbed (to a greater extent even than she was aware) by the difference in their stations, and checked by her plighted word to Ombreval. At last, abandoning a purpose which his countenance told her would be futile: “I am staying with my old nurse at Choisy,” she answered him. “Henriette Godelliere is her name. She is well known in the village, and seems in good favour with the patriots, so that I account myself safe. I am believed to be her niece from the country.” “Hum!” he snorted. “The Citoyenne Godelliere's niece from the country in silks?” “That is what someone questioned, and she answered that it was a gown plundered from the wardrobe of some emigrated aristocrats.” “Have a care, Suzanne,” said he. “The times are dangerous, and it is a matter of a week ago since a man was lanterne for no other reason than because he was wearing gloves, which was deemed an aristocratic habit. Come, Mademoiselle, let us gather up your gems. You were going without them some moments ago.”