“Mr. Ritchie will keep this until the negotiations are finished,” said the Vicomtesse.
“Negotiations!” cried Auguste, beside himself. “This is insolence, Madame.”
“Be careful, sir,” I said.
“Auguste!” cried Antoinette, putting her hand on his arm.
“Why did you tell them?” he demanded, turning on her.
“Because I trust them, Auguste,” Antoinette answered. She spoke without anger, as one whose sorrow has put her beyond it. Her speech had a dignity and force which might have awed a worthier man. His disappointment and chagrin brought him beyond bounds.
“You trust them!” he cried, “you trust them when they tell you to give your brother, who is starving and in peril of his life, eight hundred livres? Eight hundred livres, pardieu, and your brother!”
“It is all I have, Auguste,” said his sister, sadly.
“Ha!” he said dramatically, “I see, they seek my destruction. This man”—pointing at me—“is a Federalist, and Madame la Vicomtesse”—he bowed ironically—“is a Royalist.”
“Pish!” said the Vicomtesse, impatiently, “it would be an easy matter to have you sent to the Morro—a word to Monsieur de Carondelet, Auguste. Do you believe for a moment that, in your father's absence, I would have allowed Antoinette to come here alone? And it was a happy circumstance that I could call on such a man as Mr. Ritchie to come with us.”