She stopped abruptly.  The man was gray, but not on his account did the Vicomtesse stay her speech.  She forgot him as though he did not exist, and by one of those swift transitions which thrilled me had gone to the sobbing Antoinette and taken her in her arms, murmuring endearments of which our language is not capable.  I, too, forgot Auguste.  But no rebuke, however stinging, could make him forget himself, and before we realized it he was talking again.  He had changed his tactics.

“This is my home,” he said, “where I might expect shelter and comfort.  You make me an outcast.”

Antoinette disengaged herself from Helene with a cry, but he turned away from her and shrugged.

“A stranger would have fared better.  Perhaps you will have more consideration for a stranger.  There is a French ship at the Terre aux Boeufs in the English Turn, which sails to-night.  I appeal to you, Mr. Ritchie,”—­he was still talking in French—­“I appeal to you, who are a man of affairs,”—­and he swept me a bow,—­“if a captain would risk taking a fugitive to France for eight hundred livres?  Pardieu, I could get no farther than the Balize for that.  Monsieur,” he added meaningly, “you have an interest in this.  There are two of us to go.”

The amazing effrontery of this move made me gasp.  Yet it was neither the Vicomtesse nor myself who answered him.  We turned by common impulse to Antoinette, and she was changed.  Her breath came quickly, her eyes flashed, her anger made her magnificent.

“It is not true,” she cried, “you know it is not true.”

He lifted his shoulders and smiled.

“You are my brother, and I am ashamed to acknowledge you.  I was willing to give my last sou, to sell my belongings, to take from the poor to help you—­until you defamed a good man.  You cannot make me believe,” she cried, unheeding the color that surged into her cheeks, “you cannot make me believe that he would use this money.  You cannot make me believe it.”

“Let us do him the credit of thinking that he means to repay it,” said Auguste.

Antoinette’s eyes filled with tears,—­tears of pride, of humiliation, ay, and of an anger of which I had not thought her capable.  She was indeed a superb creature then, a personage I had not imagined.  Gathering up her gown, she passed Auguste and turned on him swiftly.

“If you were to bring that to him,” she said, pointing to the bag in my hand, “he would not so much as touch it.  To-morrow I shall go to the Ursulines, and I thank God I shall never see you again.  I thank God I shall no longer be your sister.  Give Monsieur the bundle,” she said to the frightened Andre, who still stood by the hedge; “he may need food and clothes for his journey.”

She left us.  We stood watching her until her gown had disappeared amongst the foliage.  Andre came forward and held out the bundle to Auguste, who took it mechanically.  Then Madame La Vicomtesse motioned to Andre to leave, and gave me a glance, and it was part of the deep understanding of her I had that I took its meaning.  I had my forebodings at what this last conversation with Auguste might bring forth, and I wished heartily that we were rid of him.