"A conspirator against the safety of the Republic—that is all I know," Baudouin answered sullenly.
"Possibly," said Mirande. "But not the less for that my son-in-law!"
"The Vicomte de Bercy!" Baudouin almost shouted. "It is false. I heard of him but yesterday—at Nantes."
"You heard wrongly then!" Mirande answered with a cold sneer. "This is the man whom you met at Meaux, and of whom you lied to me, saying—that you might divide him effectually from my daughter—that he refused to surrender himself to save her."
"It was true—what I told you," the secretary muttered, gazing at Bercy with hatred.
"It was false!" cried the Girondin sternly. "Do I need evidence? I have it. Whom shall I believe, you, who have betrayed me to-day, or he who remained by my side in danger?"
"He could not escape," Baudouin said abruptly. His face was pale, the perspiration stood on his brow. His jealous eyes glared askance at the girl's face. Mirande had said rightly. He had yet the power to wound this traitor.
"He did not attempt it," the Girondin answered. "And besides, I have tried him as gold in the fire! Look you at this. Bercy!" As the name rang through the room the speaker turned to the Vicomte and took his hand, "My friend, I have deceived you. My daughter did not die. I procured her pardon by the use of such influence as I possessed at that time. But having done that, deluded by this villain's tale, I forced her to renounce you and to take her maiden name."
For an instant there was silence in the room.
"She did not die?" the young man muttered, his eyes dilating. Then, before an answer could be given, he plucked his hand from Mirande's grasp and seizing him by the shoulder shook him to and fro.