"Where do you come from?" he almost hissed.
The young man swayed with the shock, his knees, bent under him.
Monsieur de Pontivy, mad with rage, repeated—"Where do you come from?"
He was strangling him.
Robespierre gave a hoarse scream.
"You are hurting me!" he gasped.
"Hurting you! Hurting you! did you say? What if I kill you, knock out your cursed brains with this"—brandishing the bronze candlestick—"yes, kill you, wretch, for bringing dishonour on my house...."
But just then Monsieur de Pontivy felt a hand laid on his arm arresting the blow.
It was Clarisse, drawn by the noise, half-dressed, her hair hanging in disorder down her back.
"Oh, father!" she sobbed, falling on her knees, as if for pardon.