LUCILE CLAMETTE."
The pen dropped from the unfortunate girl's fingers. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed convulsively. The children were silent, awed and subdued—tired out, too. Only Etienne's dark eyes were fixed upon his sister with a look of mute reproach.
Lebel had made no attempt to interrupt the flow of his colleague's dictation. Only once or twice did a hastily smothered "What the—-!" of astonishment escape his lips. Now, when the letter was finished and duly signed, he drew it to him and strewed the sand over it. Chauvelin, more impassive than ever, was once more gazing out of the window.
"How are the ci-devant aristos to get this letter?" the commissary asked.
"It must be put in the hollow tree which stands by the side of the stable gate at Montorgueil," whispered Lucile.
"And the aristos will find it there?"
"Yes. M. le Vicomte goes there once or twice a week to see if there is anything there from one of us."
"They are in hiding somewhere close by, then?"
But to this the girl gave no reply. Indeed, she felt as if any word now might choke her.
"Well, no matter where they are!" the inhuman wretch resumed, with brutal cynicism. "We've got them now—both of them. Marquis! Vicomte!" he added, and spat on the ground to express his contempt of such titles. "Citizens Montorgueil, father and son—that's all they are! And as such they'll walk up in state to make their bow to Mme. la Guillotine!"