"He used to be valet in the service of deputy Fabrice. Now he, too, is a member of the National Assembly … he is arrogant and cruel and vile. He hates Arnould Fabrice and he professes himself passionately in love with me."
"Yes, yes!" murmured the old man, "but the letter?"
"It came this morning. In it he says that he has in his possession a number of old letters, documents and manuscripts which are quite enough to send deputy Fabrice to the guillotine. He threatens to place all those papers before the Committee of Public Safety unless … unless I…."
She paused, and a deep blush, partly of shame, partly of wrath, suffused her pale cheeks.
"Unless you accept his grimy hand in marriage," concluded the man dryly.
Her eyes gave him answer. With pathetic insistence she tried now to glean a ray of hope from the old scarecrow's inscrutable face. But he was bending over his writing: his fingers were blue with cold, his great shoulders were stooping to his task.
"Citizen," she pleaded.
"Hush!" he muttered, "no more now. The very snowflakes are made up of whispers that may reach those bloodhounds yet. The English milor' shall know of this. He will send you a message if he thinks fit."
"Citizen—"
"Not another word, in God's name! Pay me five sous for this letter and pray Heaven that you have not been watched."