“What crime is he charged with?” she asked, without moving.
“He is charged with being a common thief,” I said.
Now there was color enough in her face, and to spare, for the blood-stained neck and cheek, and even the bare shoulder under the torn crape burned pink.
“It is brutal to make such a charge!” she said. “It is shameful!—” her voice quivered. “It is not true! Monsieur, give me your word of honor that the government means what it says and nothing more!”
“Madame,” I said, “I give my word of honor that no political crime is charged against that man.”
“Will you pledge me your honor that if he answers satisfactorily to that false charge of theft, the government will let him go free?”
“I will take it upon myself to do so,” said I. “But what in Heaven’s name is this man to you, madame? He is a militant anarchist, whose creed is not yours, whose propaganda teaches merciless violence, whose programme is terror. He is well known in the faubourgs; Belleville is his, and in the Château Rouge he has pointed across the river to the rich quarters, calling it the promised land! Yet here, at La Trappe, where your creed is peace and non-resistance, he is welcomed and harbored, he is deferred to, he is made executive head of a free commune which he has turned into a despotism ... for his own ends!”
She was gazing at me with dilated eyes, hands holding tight to the balustrade.
“Did you not know that?” I asked, astonished.
“No,” she said.