“The secrets of that box do not concern the government,” she answered, with a tinge of melancholy in her tone and manner.  “When you have read the letters it contains you will, in spite of your infamy, feel ashamed of having read them—­that is, if you can still feel shame at anything,” she added, after a pause.

The abbe looked at her as if to say, “For God’s sake, be calm!”

Peyrade rose.  The bottom of the box, which had been nearly burned through, left a mark upon the floor; the lid was scorched and the sides gave way.  The grotesque Scaevola, who had offered to the god of the Police and Terror the seat of his apricot breeches, opened the two sides of the box as if it had been a book, and slid three letters and two locks of hair upon the card-table.  He was about to smile at Corentin when he perceived that the locks were of two shades of gray.  Corentin released Mademoiselle de Cinq-Cygne’s hands and went up to the table to read the letter from which the hair had fallen.

Laurence rose, moved to the table beside the spies, and said:—­“Read it aloud; that shall be your punishment.”

As the two men continued to read to themselves, she herself read out the following words:—­

Dear Laurence,—­My husband and I have heard of your noble conduct on the day of our arrest.  We know that you love our dear twins as much, almost, as we love them ourselves.  Therefore it is with you that we leave a token which will be both precious and sad to them.  The executioner has come to cut our hair, for we are to die in a few moments; he has promised to put into your hands the only remembrance we are able to leave to our beloved orphans.  Keep these last remains of us and give them to our sons in happier days.  We have kissed these locks of hair and have laid our blessing upon them.  Our last thought will be of our sons, of you, and of God.  Love them, Laurence.

Berthe de Cinq-Cygne. 
Jean de Simeuse.

Tears came to the eyes of all the household as they listened to the letter.

Laurence looked at the agents with a petrifying glance and said, in a firm voice:—­

“You have less pity than the executioner.”

Corentin quietly folded the hair in the letter, laid the letter aside on the table, and put a box of counters on the top of it as if to prevent its blowing away.  His coolness in the midst of the general emotion was horrible.

Peyrade unfolded the other letters.

“Oh, as for those,” said Laurence, “they are very much alike.  You hear the will; you can now hear of its fulfilment.  In future I shall have no secrets from any one.”

  1794, Andernach.  Before the battle.

My dear Laurence,—­I love you for life, and I wish you to know it.  But you ought also to know, in case I die, that my brother, Paul-Marie, loves you as much as I love you.  My only consolation in dying would be the thought that you might some day make my brother your husband without being forced to see me die of jealousy—­which must surely happen if, both of us being alive, you preferred him to me.  After all, that preference seems natural, for he is, perhaps, more worthy of your love than I—­

  Marie-Paul.