“Come to my bosom, my Augustine! Lucille, where art thou?”
Lucille ran to him.
“Thy father is an ogre. Oh, no, no; no more! Thou shalt have thy lieutenant, the choice of thine own heart, my child, and thy father’s blessing a thousand thousand times. Nothing shall come between us again, Augustine. Thy Danton is thine, and thine only—thine and Lucille’s.”
“Thou wilt not mind what they will say at the ‘Vieux Corsaire,’” murmured Madame between her sobs.
“Vieux diable! Vieux sac-à-papier. No more cares thy Danton what they say. Que mon nom soit flétri—là bas—que mes chéries soient heureuses!”
“That’s my good Danton,” said Madame, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief and disengaging her ample form from the little man’s fond embrace.
“Then Madame will wear to-day the black passementerie instead of the costume Ninth Thermidor,” said Julie, the bonne, discreetly at the door.
“Yes, Julie, we will witness the procession this morning, clothed in our right clothes—and in our right mind, eh, my Danton.”
“Mon chou!”