“I am quite ready to grant it, citizen, provided it involves no risk to the security of the Republic.”
André smilingly replied—
“The service I ask you to do me is not in the least compromising to the safety of either the Republic or yourself.”
At a sign from Lardillon, André sat down. “Citizen deputy,” he said, “you are aware that for the last two years I have been conspiring against your friends, and that I am the author of the pamphlet entitled, The Altars of Fear. You will not be doing me a favour in having me arrested. You will only be doing your duty. Moreover, that is not the service I ask at your hands. But listen: my mistress, to whom I am devoted, is in prison.”
Lardillon nodded his head to indicate that he approved of the devotion André confessed to.
“I am sure that you are not unfeeling, Citizen Lardillon. I beg you to procure my reunion with the woman I love, and to have me conveyed to Port Libre as speedily as may be.”
“Come, come,” said Lardillon, and a smile played upon his lips, which were both delicate and firm, “it is a greater boon than life that you demand of me. You require me to bestow happiness on you, citizen!”
He stretched out the arm nearest to the bedroom, and called—
“Epicharis! Epicharis!”
A big, dark woman entered, her arms and throat still bare, for she had only got as far with her toilette as a chemise and petticoat, though a cockade was fastened in her hair.