“Paydi!” Charlot continued, “I have a mind for a frolic. Does not justice give me the right to claim that these aristocrats shall amuse me?” With an oath he turned abruptly, and pulled the casement open. “Guyot!” he called, and a voice from below made answer to him. “You will make my compliments to the citoyennes in the coach, Guyot, and tell them that the Citizen-captain Tardivet requests the honour of their company to supper.” Then he went to the door, and calling Dame Capoulade, he bade her set two fresh covers; in which he was expeditiously obeyed. La Boulaye stood by the fire, his pale face impassive now and almost indifferent. Charlot returned to the window to learn from Guyot that the citoyennes thanked the Citizen-captain, but that they were tired and sought to be excused, asking nothing better than to be allowed to remain at peace in their carriage. “Sacred name of a name!” he croaked, a trifle thickly, for the wine he had taken was mastering him more and more. “Are they defying us? Since they will not accept an invitation, compel them to obey a command. Bring them up at once, Guyot.” “At once, Captain,” was the answer, and Guyot went about the business. Charlot closed the window and approached the table. “They are coquettish these scented dames,” he mocked, as he poured himself out some wine. “You are not drinking Caron.” “It is perhaps wise that one of us should remain sober,” answered the Deputy quietly, for in spite of a certain sympathy with the feelings by which Charlot was actuated, he was in dead antipathy to this baiting of women that seemed toward. Charlot made no answer. He drained his goblet and set it down with a bang. Then he flung himself into a chair, and stretching out his long, booted legs he began to hum the refrain of the “Marseillaise.” Thus a few moments went by. Then there came a sound of steps upon the creaking stairs, and the gruff voice of the soldier urging the ladies to ascend more speedily. At last the door opened and two women entered, followed by Guyot. Charlot lurched to his feet. “You have come, Mesdames,” said he, forgetting the mode of address prescribed by the Convention, and clumsily essaying to make a leg. “Be welcome! Guyot, go to the devil.” For a moment or two after the soldier's departure the women remained in the shadow, then, at the Captain's invitation, which they dared not disobey, they came forward into the halo of candle-light. Simultaneously La Boulaye caught his breath, and took a step forward. Then he drew back again until his shoulders touched the overmantel and there he remained, staring at the newcomers, who as yet, did not appear to have observed him. They wore no headgear, and their scarfs were thrown back upon their shoulders, revealing to the stricken gaze of La Boulaye the countenances of the Marquise de Bellecour and her daughter.