She put her hand on my arm and looked up with a wonderful tenderness in her face.
“Remember your own words, Philippe,” she said softly; “we can die together.”
I clasped her in my arms, and we stood listening to the tumult below; the mob was loose, and the house was being searched. Their cries of rage and triumph came up to us, and all the while the smoke increased. How long could it last? And which would find us first? A sudden noise at the other end of the hall startled us; doors were opened and closed, and an uneven step came rushing on. They were coming. We looked into each other’s eyes. “Now, Philippe!” she whispered, touching my weapon.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” I cried, “how can I do it?”
“It is better,” she said, her white face quivering; “you swore it, Philippe. Oh, my love, adieu!”
She kissed me of her own accord and then stepped back. “Be quick, Philippe!” she cried.
The footsteps were near at hand. Even in my agony, I listened; there was but one man. If she must die, her life should cost them dear. I made a sign to her, and kept my eyes upon the door; my pistol was ready cocked. The first rioter who crossed that threshold would be a dead man. At that instant I heard a voice, a familiar voice:—
“M. de Brousson! M. le Vicomte!” it called almost at the door; and in a moment Pierrot stood before us,—Pierrot, covered with dust and blood, but stolidly respectful still.
“The saints be praised!” he cried; “we had given you up for lost.”
The relief was so great that at the first I had no words to utter. At the sound of a friendly French voice Zénaïde had broken down, and stood there quivering from head to foot.