“If you had but the will you would do it, Monsieur,” she answered him. “It is not mine to enlighten you; I know not how.” “I have the very best will in the world, Citoyenne,” said he. “Of that I think that I am giving proof.” “Aye, the will to do nothing that will shame your manhood,” she rejoined. “That is all you think of. It was because your manhood bade you that you came to my rescue--so you said when you declined my thanks. It is this manhood of yours, I make no doubt, that is now prevailing upon you to deliver two unprotected women out of the hands of these brigands.” “In Heaven's name, Citoyenne,” quoth the astonished Deputy, “out of what sentiment would you have me act, and, indeed, so that I save you, how can it concern you by what sentiment I am prompted?” She paused a moment before replying. Her eyes were downcast, and some of the colour faded from her cheeks. She came a step nearer, which brought her very close to him. “Monsieur,” she faltered very shyly, “in the old days at Bellecour you would have served me out of other sentiments.” He started now in spite of himself, and eyed her with a sudden gleam of hope, or triumph, or mistrust, or perhaps of all three. Then his glance fell, and his voice was wistful. “But the old days are dead, Mademoiselle.” “The days, yes,” she answered, taking courage from his tone. “But love Monsieur, is everlasting--it never dies, they say.” And now it was La Boulaye who drew closer, and this man who had so rigidly schooled himself out of all emotions, felt his breath quickening, and his pulses throbbing faster and faster. To him it seemed that she was right, and that love never died--for the love for her, which he believed he had throttled out of existence long ago, seemed of a sudden to take life as vigorously as ever. And then it was as if some breeze out of the past bore to his nostrils the smell of the violets and of the moist earth of that April morning when she had repulsed him in the woods of Bellecour. His emotion died down. He drew back, and stood rigid before her. “And if it were to live, Citoyenne,” he said--the resumption of the Republican form of address showed that he had stepped back into the spirit as well as in the flesh “what manner of fool were I to again submit it to the lash of scorn it earned when first it was discovered?” “But that belonged to the old days,” she cried, “and it is dead with the old days.' “It is vain to go back, Citoyenne,” he cut in, and his voice rang harsh with determination. She bit her lip under cover of her bent head. If she had hated him before how much more did she not hate him now? And but a moment back it had seemed to her that she had loved him. She had held out her hands to him and he had scorned them; in her eagerness she had been unmaidenly, and all that she had earned had been humiliation. She quivered with shame and anger, and sinking into the nearest chair she burst into a passion of tears.