"I cannot, Monsieur, I cannot!" she sobbed.
He looked at her a moment with a glance that was almost of surprise, then, with a slight compression of the lips and the faintest raising of the shoulders, he turned from her and strode over to the window.

There was a considerable concourse of people on their way to the Place de la Republique, for the hour of the tumbrils was at hand.
A half-dozen of those unsexed viragos produced by the Revolution, in filthy garments, red bonnets and streaming hair, were marching by to the raucous chorus of the "Ca ira!" He turned from the sight in disgust, and again faced his visitor.
"Citoyenne," he said, in a composed voice, "I am afraid that your journey has been in vain." She rose now from her knees, and advanced towards him.
"Monsieur, you will not be so cruel as to send me away empty-handed ?" she cried, scarce knowing what she was saying.
But he looked at her gravely, and without any sign of melting.
"On what," he asked, "do you base any claim upon me ?" "On what ?" she echoed, and her glance was troubled with perplexity.

Then of a sudden it cleared.

"On the love that you have confessed for me," she cried.
He laughed a short laugh-half amazement, half scorn.
"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, tossing his arms to Heaven, "a fine claim that, as I live; a fine argument by which to induce me to place another man in your arms.

I am to do it because I love you!" They gazed at each other now, she with a glance of strained anxiety, he with the same look of half-contemptuous wonder.