Ange paced the room, brushing away hot tears.
"It is for the future, for the new generations, that we make these sacrifices, these terrible sacrifices," she cried.
"Oh, my dear!" said Marthe quickly, and then added with a shrug: "For me, I never felt any vocation for reforming the world; and if I were you, my Angel, I would let it alone. The devil has too much to do with things in general, that is my opinion."
"There is nothing I can do," said Ange, at her saddest.
"Thank Heaven for that!" observed her sister piously. "But I will tell you one thing—you need not talk of noble sacrifices and such-like toys in front of Jacques's wife."
"I would not hurt her," said Ange; "but, chérie, she is a Republican's wife—she must know his views, his aims. Why, he voted for the King's death!"
"Just so," nodded Marthe: "he voted for the King's death. I should keep a still tongue, if I were you."
"You still think——?"
"Think?" with scorn. "I am sure."
A few days later there was a letter from Dangeau, just a few lines. He was well. Lyons still held out, but they hoped that any day might end the siege. He begged to be commended to his aunts. Aline read the letter aloud, in a faltering voice, then laid it in her lap, and sat staring at it with eyes that suddenly filled, and saw the letters now blurred, now unnaturally black and large. Mlle Ange went out of the room, leaving her alone under Marthe's intent regard; but for once she was too absorbed to heed it, and sat there looking into her lap and twisting her wedding-ring round and round. Marthe's voice broke crisply in upon her thoughts.