"Not of this," returned M. de Maurepas; then, after a moment's pause, and with a grave smile, "Nor at all till it is God's will, Mademoiselle."
Mlle de Rochambeau spent the morning with Marguerite. On her return to her own cell she found an empty place. Mme de Coigny was gone, and the little infant wailed on the peasant woman's lap.
Cléry was better next day. On the third Aline met M. de Maurepas in the corridor. He was accompanied by a rough-looking turnkey, and she was about to pass without speaking, but their eyes met, and on the impulse she stopped and asked:
"How is M. Cléry to-day?"
The young soldier looked at her steadily.
"He has—he has moved on, Mademoiselle," he returned, something of distress in his tone.
The turnkey burst into a loud, brutal laugh.
"Eh, that was the citizen with the ague? At the last he shook and shook so much that he shook his head off—yes—right out of the little window, where his friend is now going to look for it," and he clapped De Maurepas on the shoulder with a dingy, jocular hand.
Aline drew a sharp breath.
"Oh, no," she said involuntarily, but De Maurepas bent his head in grave assent.