“Has Edward no influence then?”
“Not now. Duport is no longer a man, but a machine—deadly, mysterious, as yonder guillotine. He would denounce me, his wife, if the Republic demanded it.”
“God forbid! for you are our last friend.”
Then there was another pause, and the man spoke again. He was evidently broken-down by terror, and engrossed in his own safety.
“My fear now is,” he said, “that, if Sillery is doomed, the messenger should deliver Edward’s letter to Duport at all. It will only make matters worse for us.”
“Very true. It is no time for appeals to mercy,” said Madame Duport. “But you said you expected a letter for yourself.”
“Ay; money to escape with. That’s all I live for.”
“Money from Edward?”
“No. From my kinswoman, Alice Gorman.—Hush! what was that?” he cried, breaking into a whisper.
“Only a falling leaf.—How was she to reach you?”