“Her name is Jeanne Lange,” said St. Just half reluctantly. He had not meant to divulge his secret quite so fully as yet.
“The young actress at the Theatre National?”
“Yes. Do you know her?”
“Only by name.”
“She is beautiful, Percy, and she is an angel.... Think of my sister Marguerite... she, too, was an actress.... Good night, Percy.”
“Good night.”
The two men grasped one another by the hand. Armand’s eyes proffered a last desperate appeal. But Blakeney’s eyes were impassive and unrelenting, and Armand with a quick sigh finally took his leave.
For a long while after he had gone Blakeney stood silent and motionless in the middle of the room. Armand’s last words lingered in his ear:
“Think of Marguerite!”
The walls had fallen away from around him—the window, the river below, the Temple prison had all faded away, merged in the chaos of his thoughts.