“Is it not a further proof against Bruslart?  And to me there is still no actual proof of Barrington’s honor,” Latour went on quickly, as though he were afraid something would happen to prevent his speaking.  “Listen, mademoiselle, this room was prepared for you long before you came, a safe retreat.  Would any one think of seeking an aristocrat close to a hater of aristocrats?  I have thought of everything, planned everything.  The power I have I lay at your feet, now, at this moment.  At your word I will become anything you wish.  Without you, without the hope of you, nothing is of value to me.  With you, there is nothing in the world impossible.  France is not the only land.  Paris is not the world.  There are fairer places on God’s earth where men and women may live at peace.  I have papers which shall make it easy for us to pass the barriers, which shall bring us safely to the sea.  I worship you, words can tell you nothing of that worship, you shall learn it day by day, hour by hour, you shall guide me as you will.  You—­”

“Monsieur, monsieur! what are you saying?  How can I answer such madness?”

“By coming with me, gift for gift, love for love.  Somewhere I will so labor that my wife shall know the depth of my reverence, the greatness of my love.”

“I have no answer, monsieur, for such folly.”

“Not yet, but you will have.  A man does not play for such stakes as I have played for, win them, and then throw them away.”

“If I understand your folly rightly, you have not won.  I could pity—­were there not a tone of threatening in your voice.  To love you is, and always will be, impossible.”

“Has mademoiselle considered all that such a decision means?”

“I know nothing worse that you can do than denounce me to the Convention,” said Jeanne, standing up, and looking straight into his eyes.  “I expect nothing less and have no fear.  You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have sent another innocent person to the guillotine.”

“There is another mademoiselle might wish to save.  I have said Monsieur Barrington is in my hands.”

“I have never seen fear in Richard Barrington.  I do not think he would be afraid of the guillotine.”

“You love him,” said Latour, sharply.

“Yes;” and then she went on passionately, “Have you revolutionaries not yet learned that death is but a passing evil, and that there are men and women who do not fear death?  I love Richard Barrington; his death or mine cannot alter that, and do you suppose I would purchase life by a promise to you or any other man in the world?”

“Yet he shall plead my cause for me.  For himself he may not be a coward, but for the woman he loves he will be.  He would rather see you in my arms than send you to the guillotine.”

“Monsieur, the decision rests wholly with me.  Richard Barrington has already risked his life for me; if necessary, he will give it for me, and he would rather see me dead than give any promise to a man I despise.  You cannot understand such men.”