Santerre seated himself with two of his officers in the largest of the salons, and ordered that the old Marquis should be brought before him.  He was rather perplexed as to what he should next do; his orders were to destroy everything—­houses, property, and life; to spare neither age, sex, nor imbecility; and Santerre, undertaking the commission, had thought, in his republican zeal, that he would find no weakness in himself to militate against the execution of such orders.  He was mistaken in himself, however.  He had led the fierce mobs of Paris to acts of bloodshed and violence, but in doing so he had only assisted with an eager hand in the overthrow of those who he thought were tyrannizing over the people.  He had stood by at the execution of a King, and ordered the drums to beat to drown the last words of the dying monarch; but the King had been condemned by those whom Santerre looked on as the wisest and best of the nation; and in acting as he had done, he had been carried on as well by ideas of duty as excitement.  He found his present a much more difficult task.  Indeed, after sitting still for some few minutes in that easy chair, meditating what he would do next, he found that the work which he had undertaken was one which he literally could not go through with.

“Is the old gentleman there?” said he; and as he asked, the Marquis, with his eyes closed, and his hands crossed on his breast, was wheeled into the room.  Agatha was seated, or rather was crouching, on a sofa in the corner, for Adolphe Denot was standing over her uttering threats and words of love alternately, the latter of which, however, sounded by far the most horrible in poor Agatha’s ears.

“Give me a pen and paper,” said Santerre, and having got them, he continued writing for a minute or two.  “Now, my old friend,” said he, addressing the Marquis, “I am given to understand that you yourself, personally, have never lent a hand to this iniquitous revolt.  Is it so?”

“I am too old and too infirm to carry a sword,” said the Marquis, “but what little I could do for my King, I—.”

“Exactly—­exactly,” said Santerre, interrupting him, “you are a cripple I see.  There is no evidence wanting to show that you haven’t taken up arms.  It is this pestilent son of yours has brought you into trouble.”

“He would have been no son of mine had he not acted as he has done,” said the old man indignantly.

“Will you hold your silly tongue, my friend,” said Santerre.  “He is doting, quite doting, I see,” and he turned round to his brother officers, as though appealing to them to corroborate his opinion.

“Either that, or else he must be very fond of Mademoiselle Guillotine,” said one of them.

“Well, now, old gentleman, answer me this question,” said Santerre, “do you want to die this evening?”

“If I could but think that my daughter was safe, and out of the power of that viper, whom I have warmed in my bosom, death would not be unwelcome to me.”