"My father," said Clotilde, "perhaps I did wrong, but you must blame my love for you. When you were arrested I hastened to Strasbourg and asked for your release."
"Of Schneider?"
"Of Schneider."
"Poor child! And at what price did he grant it?"
"Papa, the price is yet to be agreed upon between us. Doubtless, he will tell us the conditions to-morrow."
"We will wait for them."
Clotilde took her prayer-book and went to a little church so humble that it had not been thought necessary to deprive the Lord of it. She prayed there until evening.
The guillotine remained standing all night.
The next day at noon, Schneider presented himself at the Comte de Brumpt's house.
In spite of the advanced season of the year the house was filled with flowers. It would have seemed like a gala day, had not Clotilde's mourning contradicted the impression, as the snow in the street contradicted the spring within.