A horse, Citizen, stands ready saddled for you, and you are free to depart, with the one condition, however, that you will consent to become my courier for once, and carry a letter for me--a matter which should occasion you, I think, no deviation from your journey." The old dandy, in whose intrepid spirit the death which he had believed imminent had occasioned no trembling, turned pale as La Boulaye ceased.
His blue eyes were lifted almost timidly to the Deputy's face, and his lip quivered.
"You are not going to have me shot, then ?" he faltered.
"Shot ?" echoed La Boulaye, and then he remembered the precise words of the request which Des Cadoux had preferred the night before, but which, at the time, he had treated lightly.

"Ma foi, you do not flatter me!" he cried.

"Am I a murderer, then?
Come, come, Citizen, here is the letter that you are to carry.

It is addressed to Mademoiselle de Bellecour, at Treves, and encloses Ombreval's farewell epistle to that lady." "But, gladly, Monsieur," exclaimed Des Cadoux.
And then, as if to cover his sudden access of emotion, of which he was most heartily ashamed, he fumbled for his snuff-box, and, having found it, he took an enormous pinch.
They parted on the very best of terms did these two--the aristocrat and the Revolutionary--actuated by a mutual esteem tempered in each case with gratitude.
When at last Des Cadoux had taken a sympathetic leave of Ombreval and departed, Caron ordered the Vicomte to be brought before him again, and at the same time bade his men make ready for the road.
"Citizen," said La Boulaye, "we start for Paris at once.

If you will pass me your word of honour to attempt no escape you shall travel with us in complete freedom and with all dignity." Ombreval looked at him with insolent surprise, his weak supercilious mouth growing more supercilious even than its wont.