Mademoiselle took up her pen.
"I am very slow over my work," she answered, smiling. "See how I waste my time! You should scold me, Citizen."
They wrote for awhile, but Dangeau's pen halted, the merriment died out of his face, leaving it stern and gloomy. These were no times to foster even an innocent gaiety. Abruptly he began to speak again.
"You see only flowers and innocence upon your altars, but I have seen them served by cruelty, blood, and lust."
Aline looked up, startled.
"I could not tell you the tales I know—they are not fit." His brow clouded. "My mother was a good woman, good and religious. I have still a reverence for what she reverenced; I can still worship the spirit of her worship, though I have travelled far enough since she taught me at her knee. I have seen too many crimes committed in the name of Religion," and he broke off, leaning his head upon his hand.
Mlle de Rochambeau's eyes flashed.
"And in the name of Liberty, none?" she asked with a sudden ring in her voice.
A vision of blood and horror swept between them. Dangeau saw in memory the gutters of Paris awash with the crimson of massacre. Dead, violet eyes in a severed head pike-lifted stared at him from the gloom, and under his gaze he thought they changed, turned greyer, darker, and took the form and hue of those which Aline raised to his. He shuddered violently, and answered in a voice scarcely audible:
"Yes, there have been crimes."