“Viper!” said Denot, curling his lips, and speaking through his closed teeth.  “Warmed in your bosom!  I have yet to learn, old man, that I owe you ought; but if it be a comfort to you to know it, know that no worse evil awaits your daughter than to become the wife of a true Frenchman.”

“True!” said the Marquis.  “Yes, as true as the Prince of Darkness.”

“Come, old man,” said Santerre,” we know nothing about Princes, nor yet about Marquises.  You must be content now to call the devil by his plain name, though I rather believe it has already been decided in Paris, that the gentleman is nothing but a foul fiction of the aristocrats.  Come, if you wish to save your neck, put your signature to this little document.”

“I will sign nothing that is put before me in such a manner,” said the Marquis.

“Why you have not even read it.  Take the pen in your hand, I tell you; it is only a proclamation of the truth, that you have not taken up arms against the republic.”

Agatha understood the object of the republican General, though her father did not.  She sprang from the corner in which Denot had placed her, and coming close to her father, whispered to him.

“The gentleman means well to you, father, though his words are rough.  He wishes to save us.  He will save both of us, father, if he can.  Read the paper, and if there be nothing absolutely untrue in it, put your name to it.”

“Read it yourself, Agatha,” said he, “and if you then tell me to sign it, I will do so.”

Agatha took up the paper which Santerre had written, and read, but not aloud, the following words: 

“I hereby proclaim myself a true son of the Republic, and a citizen brother of all free Frenchmen.  I declare that I have never carried arms against the Convention myself, and demand that I may not be accounted responsible for any misguided members of my family, who may have done so.”

Twice Agatha read the words, and as she did so, her father’s eyes rested anxiously on her face.  “Well, my child,” said he, “your father’s honour is in your hands; tell me what I am to do,” and he mechanically held the pen within his fingers, which Santerre had thrust into his hand.

“We will die, father,” said she, “if these men please it,” and she put down the document on the table on which it had been written.  “I cannot ask you to denounce our dear, our gallant Henri.  I cannot bid you to deny your King.  Death at any rate will not dishonour us.  We will only beg of this gentleman that in his mercy he will not separate us,” and putting her arm round her father’s neck, she fastened her hand upon the folds of his coat, as though determined that nothing should again separate her from his side.