Caron stood a moment in silent dismay. Here was an obstacle upon which he had not counted when he had passed his word to Suzanne to effect the release of her betrothed. At all costs he must gain it, he told himself, and to that end he now set himself to plead, advancing, as his only argument—but advancing it with a fervour that added to its weight—that he stood pledged to save the ci-devant Vicomte. Robespierre looked up at him with a shade of polite regret upon his cadaverous face, and with polite regret he deplored that Caron should have so bound himself.
So absorbed were they, the one in pleading, the other in resisting, that neither noticed the opening of the door, nor yet the girl who stood observing them from the threshold.
“If this man dies,” cried La Boulaye at last, “I am dishonoured.
“It is regrettable,” returned Robespierre, “that you should have pledged your word in the matter. You will confess, Caron, that it was a little precipitate. Enfin,” he ended, crumpling the document he had signed and tossing it under the table, “you must extricate yourself as best you can. I am sorry, but I cannot give him to you.”
Caron's face was very white and his hands were clenched convulsively. It is questionable whether in that moment he had not flung himself upon the Incorruptible, and enforced that which hitherto he had only besought, but that in that instant the girl stepped into the room.
“And is it really you, Caron?” came the melodious voice of Cecile.
La Boulaye started round to confront her, and stifled a curse at the untimely interruption which Robespierre was blessing as most timely.
“It is—it is, Citoyenne,” he answered shortly, to add more shortly still: “I am here on business with the Citizen, your uncle.”
But before the girl could so much as appreciate the rebuke he levelled at her intrusion, her uncle had come to the rescue.
“The business, however, is at an end. Take charge of this good Caron, Cecile, whilst I make ready for my journey.”