“To-night, M. Thibaut” (such was my name in the prison register)—“to-night, I confess, I am like a ‘Montgolfier.’ I rise, I expand. I am full of thoughts too great for utterance. My transformation must be near.”
The Marquise gave a little cry—
“Je ne puis pas me passer de vous, François!”
The servant—the master—looked kindlily into the faded eyes.
“I will come back and be with you in spirit,” he said.
“No, no!” she cried, volubly. “It is old-wives’ tales—the vapourings of poets and mystics. Of all these murdered thousands, which haunts the murderers?”
I gazed in astonishment. This passive douillette, with the torn lace! I had never known her assert herself yet but through the mouth of her henchman.
“Oh yes!” she went on shrilly, nodding her head. “Death, death, death! But, if the dead return, this Paris should be a city of ghosts.”
“Perhaps it is,” said Gardel.
“Fie, then!” she cried. “You forget your place; you presume upon my condescension. It is insolent so to put me to school. ‘Ma demeure sera bientôt le néant.’ It was Danton—yes, Danton—who said that. He was a devil, but he could speak truth.”