It was Antoinette who spoke.  She had risen, and was standing behind Auguste.  She still held the leather bag in her hand.

“Perhaps the sum is not enough,” she said; “he has to get to France.  Perhaps we could borrow more until my father comes home.”  She looked questioningly at us.

Madame la Vicomtesse was truly a woman of decision.  Without more ado she took the bag from Antoinette’s unresisting hands and put it into mine.  I was no less astonished than the rest of them.

“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.”

“It seems to me that Mr. Ritchie and his friends have already brought sufficient misfortune on the family.”

It was a villanous speech.  Antoinette turned away, her shoulders quivering, and I took a step towards him; but Madame la Vicomtesse made a swift gesture, and I stopped, I know not why.  She gave an exclamation so sharp that he flinched physically, as though he had been struck.  But it was characteristic of her that when she began to speak, her words cut rather than lashed.

“Auguste de St. Gre,” she said, “I know you.  The Tribunal is merciful compared to you.  There is no one on earth whom you would not torture for your selfish ends, no one whom you would not sell without compunction for your pleasure.  There are things that a woman should not mention, and yet I would tell them without shame to your face were it not for your sister.  If it were not for her, I would not have you in my presence.  Shall I speak of your career in France?  There is Valenciennes, for example—­”