“Oh, no, I am not,” answered Diane, with a demure smile. “My father was only the village hatter. Like Napoleon, I am the first of my family.”
“Come you,” cried Egmont, “and bundle into the cart. I shall go with you for the pleasure of your company.”
Then they were all thrown into a cart, and a National Guard, less drunk than the rest, took the reins, while Egmont sat on the tail-board, laughing and jeering at his prisoners.
The night sky was of a frightful crimson, while a gigantic blanket of black smoke many miles in length lay over the city which was blazing on both sides of the river that ran red like blood. On the spot where Diane and Jean had sung La Marseillaise ten months before was a great blazing pyre, the Palace of the Tuilleries, and a ring of huge buildings for miles on either side were sending up enormous masses of smoke and flames. The heat in the May night was terrific, and the smoke was like the smoke of hell.
Jean, who had said nothing, spoke a word to Diane.
“Remember,” he said, “we can die but once.”
“I know that,” responded Diane. “And after all, I have found out one thing before I die, and that is, how much I love you.”
Besides the tumult that raged around them, the noise of the heavy-laden cart traversing the streets was great, but Diane, accustomed to raising her voice so it could be heard afar, could yet be heard clearly. She turned toward Jean with ineffable tenderness in her voice and smile, while the Marquis Egmont de St. Angel heard every word.
“I think I always loved you, Jean, but after I came to Paris and saw the other men, and compared them with you, then I fell in love with you. Don’t you remember last July, the first time you came to my house with me, what I said to you in the garden? I meant it every word. I want you to love me in the way that I love you.”
Egmont, raising his hand, struck Diane’s white cheek a hard blow.