She rose from the table, her face very white, her hand pressing upon her corsage. A moment she looked at him. Then: “Do not let us talk of ourselves,” she exclaimed at last. “There is a man in the Conciergerie who dies at noon unless you are forthcoming before then to save him. He himself will not betray you because he--No matter why, he will not. Tell me, Monsieur, how do you, who account yourself a man of honour above everything, intend to deal with this situation?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Once he is dead and done with--provided that he does not first betray me--I trust that, no longer having this subject to harp upon, you will consent to avail yourself of our passport, and accompany me out of France.” “Honour does not for instance, suggest to you that you should repair to the Conciergerie and take the place that belongs to you, and which another is filling?” A sudden light of comprehension swept now into his face. “At last I understand what has been in your mind since yesterday, what has made you so odd in your words and manner. You have thought that it was perhaps my duty as a man of honour to go and effect the rescue of this fellow. But, my dear child, bethink you of what he is, and of what I am. Were he a gentleman--my equal--my course would stand clearly defined. I should not have hesitated a moment. But this canaille! Ma foi! let me beg of you to come to your senses. The very thought is unworthy in you.” “I understand you,” she answered him, very coldly. “You use a coward's arguments, and you have the effrontery to consider yourself a man of honour--a nobleman. I no longer marvel that there is a revolution in France.” She stood surveying him for a moment, then she quietly left the room. He stared after her. “Woman, woman!” he sighed, as he set down his napkin and rose in his turn. His humour was one of pitying patience for a girl that had not the wit to see that to ask him--the most noble d'Ombreval--to die that La Boulaye might live was very much like asking him to sacrifice his life to save a dog's. CHAPTER XXIII. THE CONCIERGERIE It wanted but a few minutes to noon as the condemned of the day were being brought out of the Conciergerie to take their places in the waiting tumbrils. Fourteen they numbered, and there was a woman amongst them as composed as any of the men. She descended the prison steps in nonchalant conversation with a witty young man of some thirty years of age, who had been one of the ornaments of the prerevolutionary salons. Had the pair been on the point of mounting a wedding coach they could not have shown themselves in better spirits.