“She is coming to Paris!” Bruslart exclaimed, half rising.

“Have you taken any steps to prevent her doing so?” asked Latour.

“Do you suppose I would have called her here on my account?  She is not a patriot.  She would come to her death.”

“That might be a way in which you could serve your country; a decoy to attract lovers and friends.”

“Are you serious?  Is this the meaning of your visit?”

“What is your answer to it?”

“Rather the guillotine, citizen.  Is the answer short and definite enough?”

“Short enough and well spoken,” said Latour, with a smile.  “You will rejoice to hear that your messenger never reached mademoiselle.”

For an instant Bruslart seemed surprised, but it was impossible to tell whether it was at the failure or at the fact that his visitor knew so much.

“If you can assure me this is true, I shall rejoice,” he said.  “I have been imprudent.  It did not occur to me that she might come to Paris.”

“A woman who loves will do much.”

“If she loves.  Women sometimes deceive themselves and us.  But tell me how you are able to bring me this news.”

“You were an aristocrat, citizen, therefore suspected and watched.  Your servants were watched, too, and this man’s movements were noted.  He was followed out of Paris.  He was caught upon the road and questioned.  Some patriots have rough manners, as you know, and your servant was faithful, perchance showed fight.  All I know for certain is that he is dead.”

“Poor Rouzet,” said Bruslart, covering his face with his hands for a moment.  “Poor Rouzet, I believe his family has been attached to ours for some generations.”

“And were more faithful than their masters, doubtless.  No, citizen, the words do not refer to you, you are no longer an aristocrat,” Latour went on quickly.  “Still, a word of friendly advice, you talk too much like one.  I understand, but the people are ignorant.”

“Thank you for your advice.  I must be myself whatever else I am.”

“As a patriot it would be well to think no more of mademoiselle,” Latour went on.  “Such love is unnatural the people will affirm.  Are there not women in Paris as beautiful?  Find one to love and there will be proof of your patriotism.”

“You take much interest in me,” said Bruslart.

“Is there not a kind of friendship between us?” was the reply.  “Were I Lucien Bruslart, I should leave Paris.  I know a man who would do something to help him.”

Bruslart looked at him steadily for a moment.  “Again I thank you,” he said quietly, “but, my friend, you are not the only man who is competent to prophesy in what direction things may turn.  You have set yourself a goal to win, so have I. It would almost seem that you expect our aims to clash.”

“Diable!  Is that all you can see in good advice,” said Latour.  “I thought your wit went deeper.”