“Do not misunderstand me,” he cried, as he stood erect over her. “If you would have Ombreval saved and sent out of France you must become my wife.”
“Your wife?” she echoed, pausing in her weeping, and for a moment an odd happiness seemed to fill her. But as suddenly as it had arisen did she stifle it. Was she not the noble daughter of the noble Marquis de Bellecour and was not this a lowly born member of a rabble government? There could be no such mating. A shudder ran through her. “I cannot, Monsieur, I cannot!” she sobbed.
He looked at her a moment with a glance that was almost of surprise, then, with a slight compression of the lips and the faintest raising of the shoulders, he turned from her and strode over to the window. There was a considerable concourse of people on their way to the Place de la Republique, for the hour of the tumbrils was at hand.
A half-dozen of those unsexed viragos produced by the Revolution, in filthy garments, red bonnets and streaming hair, were marching by to the raucous chorus of the “Ca ira!”
He turned from the sight in disgust, and again faced his visitor.
“Citoyenne,” he said, in a composed voice, “I am afraid that your journey has been in vain.”
She rose now from her knees, and advanced towards him.
“Monsieur, you will not be so cruel as to send me away empty-handed?” she cried, scarce knowing what she was saying.
But he looked at her gravely, and without any sign of melting.
“On what,” he asked, “do you base any claim upon me?”