"I do understand, Bertrand," she said gently. "And you must never ask my forgiveness, for you and I have loved one another too well to bear anger or grudge one toward the other. There!" she said, and rose to her feet, seemed by that sudden act to gather up all the moral strength of which she stood in such sore need. "It is getting late, and maman will be anxious. Another time we must have a more quiet talk about our future. But," she added, with renewed seriousness, "if I concede you Theresia Cabarrus without another murmur, you must give me back Joséphine and Jacques. If--if I--am to lose you--I could not bear to lose them as well. They are so young. . . ." "Who talks of losing them?" he broke in, once more impatient, enthusiastic--his moodiness gone, his remorse smothered, his conscience dead to all save to his schemes. "And what have I to do with it all? Joséphine and Jacques are members of the Club. They may be young, but they are old enough to know the value of an oath. They are pledged just like I am, just like we all are. I could not, even if I would, make them false to their oath." Then, as she made no reply, he leaned over to her, took her hands in his, tried to read her inscrutable face through the shadows of night. He thought that he read obstinacy in her rigid attitude, the unresponsive placidity of her hands. "You would not have them false to their oath?" he insisted. She made no reply to that, only queried dully: "What are you going to do to-night?" "To-night," he said with passionate earnestness, his eyes glowing with fervid ardour of self-immolation, "we are going to let hell loose around the name of Robespierre." "Where?" "At the open-air supper in the Rue St. Honoré. Joséphine and Jacques will be there." She nodded mechanically, quietly disengaged her hands from his feverish grasp. "I know," she said quietly. "They told me they were going. I have no influence to stop them." "You will be there, too?" he asked. "Of course. So will poor maman," she replied simply. "This may be the turning point, Régine," he said with passionate earnestness, "in the history of France!" "Perhaps!" "Think of it, Régine! Think of it! Your sister, your young brother! Their names may go down to posterity as the saviours of France!" "The saviours of France!" she murmured vaguely. "One word has swayed a multitude before now. It may do so again . . . to-night!" "Yes," she said. "And those poor children believe in the power of their oratory." "Do not you?"