"What woman?"
"The woman of the Rue Saint Honoré,—the woman of the patrol, the unknown, the woman for whom you and I risked our heads last night."
"Oh, yes," said Maurice, who knew perfectly well what his friend would say, and only feigned ignorance, "the unknown."
"Well, who was she?"
"I know nothing about her."
"Was she pretty?"
"Pshaw!" said Maurice, pouting his lips disdainfully.
"A poor woman forgotten in some love adventure.
"Yes; weak creatures that we are,
'Tis Love that ever tortures man."
"Possibly," said Maurice, to whom such an idea was at this moment peculiarly repugnant, and who would have much preferred finding the unknown to be even a conspirator rather than a light woman.