“Well, he is French—from Paris,” she said at last, as we still stood before the bomb-maker’s bench. “He is a chemist, and being an Anarchist, came to us, and joined us in the Revolution. The petards thrown over the barricades to-day were of his make, but he had to fly. He left yesterday.”
“For Paris?”
“Ah! how can I tell? The Cossacks may have caught and killed him. He may be dead,” she added hoarsely.
“Which direction has he taken?”
“He was compelled to leave hurriedly at midnight. He came, kissed me, and gave me this,” she said, still holding the shining little bomb in her small white hand. “He said he intended, if possible, to get over the hills to the frontier at Satanow.”
I saw that she was deeply in love with the fugitive, whoever he might be.
Outside, the awful massacre was in progress we knew, but no sound of it reached us down in that rock-hewn tomb.
The yellow lamp-light fell upon her sweet, dimpled face, but when she turned her splendid eyes to mine I saw that in them was a look of anxiety and terror inexpressible.
I inquired of her father and mother, for she was of a superior class, as I had, from the first moment, detected. She spoke French extremely well, and we had dropped into that language as being easier for me than Russian.