"What do you mean?"
"I mean to say that I,—that is to say an aristocrat,—that I who dream quietly of the defeat of your party and the ruin of your plans; I who plot, even in your house, the return of the ancient régime; I who, recognized, would condemn you to death and dishonor, according to your opinions at least,—I, Maurice, will not remain here as the evil genius of your house; I will not drag you to the scaffold."
"And where will you go, Geneviève?"
"Where shall I go, Maurice? One day when you are out I shall go and denounce myself, without saying where I come from."
"Oh!" cried Maurice, wounded to the heart's core, "already ungrateful?"
"No," cried the young woman, throwing her arms round Maurice's neck; "it is love, and the most devoted love, I swear. I should not wish my brother to be taken and slaughtered as a rebel; I do not wish my lover to be arrested and guillotined as a traitor."
"And you will do this, Geneviève?"
"As truly as there is a God in heaven," replied the young woman; "besides, I not only experience fear but remorse," and she bowed her head as if remorse were a burden too heavy to be borne.
"Oh, Geneviève!" said Maurice.