St. Hilaire gripped his arm. "I don't care how much you expose your own life, but as I do not wish to bring insult or danger upon the ladies under my roof, perhaps you had better refrain from expressing your opinions for the present."
"Do you think they would dare attack this house?" demanded de Lacheville, turning pale.
"Men who have successfully stormed a prison are not likely to hesitate before the walls of a house, even though it does belong to a marquis," replied St. Hilaire. "Look at that!" he exclaimed suddenly, pointing up the street. Then turning to d'Arlincourt, he said, "Get the ladies inside as quickly as possible." The count had no sooner followed his directions, than along the street, borne on long poles on a level with the very eyes of those on the balcony, appeared two heads dripping with blood.
"Dear me, whose are those?" exclaimed the chevalier, adjusting his eyeglasses. "By my soul, it's poor Delaunay's head. They have treated him most shabbily. Can you make out the other, St. Hilaire?"
"No," answered the marquis, "I was never good at recognizing faces," and he stepped to the window to reassure the ladies in the salon.
The chevalier leaned over the railing and called out to one of the men in the crowd:—
"My good fellow, will you have the kindness to tell me whose head they are carrying on the second pole?"
The man, thus addressed, looked up. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with face browned from exposure to the sun. With one arm he supported a member of the French Guards who had been wounded.
"Flesselle's," he answered. "He has betrayed the people again and again. He has received a terrible punishment."
The man who had given the chevalier this answer did not move on immediately, but stood looking up at the balcony. The old nobleman, following this look, saw that it rested on the Marquis de Lacheville.