“We have had our honeymoon, and no price can be too dear for that.”
For the hundredth time the duke begged her pardon for those early years of neglect, and Trimousette, answering his burning kisses, whispered:
“It does not matter now. All the great joys and griefs color the past as well as the present. Since you were to love me, I could wait.”
The perfect day had a sunset of unearthly beauty. Together at the low-arched window in the great prison wall Trimousette and her best beloved watched the rosy sunset glow give way to the keen flashing stars shining in the deep blue heavens. They talked a little, softly, but presently an eloquent silence fell between them. Trimousette’s head was upon her husband’s shoulder, and after a time she slept. The duke drew her mantle about her and held her close. And thus, in warmth and peace and love, Trimousette slept an hour. It was close upon nine o’clock and a great vivid moon flooded the little cell with its silvery radiance when the duke heard the key turning quietly in the heavy lock. Duval, the turnkey, entered, and obeying a sign from the duke, walked noiselessly toward him. The turnkey’s coarse face was pale, and his rough hands shook. He said in a whisper to the duke:
“It is to-morrow—at seven in the evening—sunset time.”
The duke nodded coolly. The hour being at hand he was all courage.
The turnkey pointed to the sleeping Trimousette, then turned away putting his sleeve to his face. Trimousette stirred, and withdrawing herself from the duke’s arm, looked with calm, wide-open eyes from her husband to the turnkey and back again. In the strong white moonlight she saw clearly the faces of both men.
“It is to-morrow, I think,” she said.
“It is to-morrow,” replied the duke, without a tremor.
“Monsieur Robespierre—” began the turnkey, and then in terror and rage stopped, shaking his fist in the direction of the Rue St. Honoré, where Robespierre lodged.