"Did you flatter yourself it was about you?" said Hébert brutally. "Not much, my girl; I've fresher fish to fry. But he came up to me an hour ago, and informed me he had been looking for me everywhere to tell me my pursuit of that pattern of virtue, our good Dangeau's mistress, must cease, or I 'd have him to reckon with, and what I want to know is, have you a hand in this, or not?"
Thérèse was heavily flushed, and her eyes curiously veiled.
"What! Cléry too?" she said in a deep whisper. "Dangeau, and you, and Cléry. Eh! I wish her joy of my cast-off clouts. But she shall pay—Holy Virgin, she shall pay!"
Hébert caught her by the shoulder and shook it.
"What are you muttering? I ask you a plain question, and you don't answer it. What about Cléry—did you set him on?"
She threw back her head at that, and gave a long, wild laugh.
"Imbécile!" she screamed. "I? Do you hate him? Well, think how I must love him when he too goes after this girl—goes to her from me, from swearing I am his goddess, his inspiration? Ah!"—she caught at her throat,—"but at least I can give you his head. The fool—the fool to betray a woman who holds his life in her hands! Here is what the imbecile wrote me only a week ago. Read, and say if it 's not enough to give him to the embraces of the Guillotine?"
The paper she thrust at Hébert came from her bosom, and when he had read it his dull eyes glittered.
"'The King's death a crime—perhaps time not ripe for a Republic.' Thérèse, you 're worth your weight in gold. I don't think Edmond Cléry will write you any more love-letters."
Thérèse drew gloomily away.