“Charles!” cried his sister, breaking from him and appealing to her husband, “who are these men? What are they here for?”
He gave her no answer.
“Louis Trudaine,” said Lomaque, slowly, drawing the order from his pocket, “in the name of the Republic, I arrest you.”
“Rose, come back,” cried Trudaine.
It was too late; she had broken from him, and in the recklessness of terror, had seized her husband by the arm.
“Save him!” she cried. “Save him, by all you hold dearest in the world! You are that man’s superior, Charles—order him from the room!”
Danville roughly shook her hand off his arm.
“Lomaque is doing his duty. Yes,” he added, with a glance of malicious triumph at Trudaine, “yes, doing his duty. Look at me as you please—your looks won’t move me. I denounced you! I admit it—I glory in it! I have rid myself of an enemy, and the State of a bad citizen. Remember your secret visits to the house in the Rue de Clery!”
His wife uttered a cry of horror. She seized his arm again with both hands—frail, trembling hands—that seemed suddenly nerved with all the strength of a man’s.
“Come here—come here! I must and will speak to you!”