"The same evening!" exclaimed Tournay to himself as he followed St. Hilaire to their cell. "Robespierre has indeed been consistent in that poor devil's case."
The Countess d'Arlincourt drew up a little stool and placed herself at the feet of her friend, Madame de Rémur. The latter was still a woman in the full flush of beauty. She was dressed in black velvet which seemed but little worn, and which set off a complexion so brilliant that it needed no rouge even to counteract the pallor of a prison.
The countess leaned her head against the knees of her friend, allowing the velvet of the dress to touch her own soft cheek caressingly.
"Do not grieve, my child," said Madame de Rémur, laying down her embroidery and placing one hand upon the blonde head in her lap. "Grieve not too much for your husband; there is not one person in this room who has not to mourn the loss of some near friend or relative, and yet for the sake of those who are living they continue to wear cheerful faces. I only regret that you, who were at that time safe, should have surrendered yourself after the count was taken. It has availed nothing, and has sacrificed two lives instead of one."
"Hush, Diane; a wife should not measure her duty by the result. He was a prisoner. He was ill. It was my duty to come to his side."
"Your pardon, dear child. You, with your baby face and gentle manner, have more real courage than I. I hardly think I could do that for any man in the world."
"You always underrate yourself, dear Diane, you who are the noblest and most generous of women!" exclaimed the countess, rising. "Now I am going to speak to that poor little Mademoiselle de Choiseul. It was only yesterday that they took her father." And Madame d'Arlincourt moved quietly across the room.
"I cannot understand the courage and devotion of that child," said Madame de Rémur, addressing the old Chevalier de Creux who stood behind her chair. "I might possibly be willing to share any fate, even the guillotine, with a man if I loved him madly; but"—and Madame de Rémur finished the sentence with a shrug of her shoulders.
"Perhaps the countess loved her husband," suggested the young Mademoiselle de Bellœil who sat near the table, bending over some crochet work, but at the same time lending an ear to the conversation.
"How could she?" said Diane, "he was so cold, so austere, and so dreadfully uninteresting, and then I happen to know she did not, because"—