St. Just's first fear had somehow passed away, and an irresistible impulse took possession of him to speak out all that was in his mind. Smarting at the Emperor's contemptuous lashings, boiling over with indignation at his wife's seduction and all that had followed as a consequence, he felt that even the certainty of instant death could not restrain him. He must speak and he would.
He drew himself upright and looked unflinchingly in the conqueror's face.
"It is true that you have spared my life," he said; "but of what value is it, since you have poisoned it? It would have been no misfortune to have died like him, whose grave you can see out yonder, innocent of all, except the attempt to rid France of a despot. I could even have welcomed death, had I succeeded."
The governor was astonished at St. Just's temerity. He stepped forward and drew his sword, and, but for the Emperor's interference, would have cut down the audacious speaker.
But Napoleon waved him back.
"Nay, do not seek to check him," he said calmly. "I would hear him out. When the tongue wags freely, we learn who are our friends and who our enemies. Proceed, Sir," to St. Just.
At the Emperor's words and tone St. Just was greatly discomposed, but, having started, he could not now draw back. For all that, his confidence and rage were waning fast, and he proceeded stumblingly:—
"Was it honorable to seduce the woman to whom I was affianced, and, with that object, to do your best to send me to my death? In such circumstances, would not you strive to be revenged; would not you strike down the man who should dishonor her you love?"
"Tut, tut, man," struck in Napoleon, "I like not generalities. Let us inform ourselves of whom we talk about. Is it Madame de Moncourt of whom you speak?"
"It is."