"Oh, I!" said Dangeau, with an impatient gesture. "It is my wife we are speaking of."
"Yes, yes, of course—a little patience, my dear Dangeau—yes, your wife. Marie here, without being scientific, is a sensible woman, and it's a wonderful thing how common-sense comes to the same conclusions as science. A fascinating subject that, but, as you are about to observe, this is not the time to pursue it. What I mean to say is, that your wife is suffering from severe shock; her brain is overcharged, and Marie is quite right when she suggests that tears would relieve it. Now, my good Dangeau, do you think you can make your wife cry?"
"I don't know—I must go to her."
"Well, well, go. Don't excite her, but—dear me, Marie, how impatient people are. When one has saved a man's life, he might at least let one finish a sentence, instead of breaking away in the middle of it. Get me something to eat, for, parbleu, I 've earned it."
Dangeau had closed the door, and stood looking at his wife.
"Aline," he said, "have they told you? We are safe—Robespierre is dead."
Then he threw back his head, took a long, deep breath, and cried:
"It is new life—new life for France, new work for those who love her—new life for us—for us, Aline."
Aline stood by the window, very still. At the sound of Dangeau's voice she turned her head. He saw that she was smiling, and his heart contracted as he looked at her.
Death had come so close to her, so very close, that it seemed to him the shadow of it lay cold and still above that strange unchanging smile; and he called to her abruptly, with a rough tenderness.