“I don’t know, Mademoiselle,” said Annot, “but he certainly wasn’t so bad last night, for he might have killed them all had he chosen:  and instead of that he didn’t kill any one, or let any of his party kill them either, only he frightened poor old Momont nearly to death.”

“God may have softened his heart,” said Madame de Lescure; “if he has really spared our friends, we will not speak ill of him.”

“If he has done so,” said Marie, “he will have his reward; for I am sure Charles and Henri will spare him now that he is in their power.”

“That’s just what the people say,” said Annot; “they say that it’s M. Henri’s turn to be generous now, and that they’re sure he won’t hurt a hair of this Santerre.  Only they’re determined on one thing—­and it was all Chapeau and Father Jerome could do to stop them till M. Henri came home—­they are determined to hang that horrid wretch Denot, the monster!  I shouldn’t wonder if he were swinging by this time.”

“And is it really true,” said Madame de Lescure, “that it was M. Denot who led the republicans to Durbelliere?”

“Oh! that’s a positive fact,” said Annot, “there’s no doubt on earth about that; and behaved most brutally to Mademoiselle Agatha.  He would have killed her with his own hand, before her father, only M. Santerre wouldn’t let him.  He had his dagger out and all, and M. Santerre took it from him with his own hand, and wouldn’t let him speak another word.  Oh! indeed, ladies, M. Santerre is not half so bad as he looks to be.”

“People say that the father of evil himself is painted blacker than he really is,” said Marie.

“I don’t know about that, Mademoiselle, and I didn’t hear that this Santerre was painted black at all; and if he were so, I think Peter would have told me.  But then, ladies, the little Chevalier Mondyon came in in the middle.  It was he that sent Chapeau over here to bring the red scarfs to the rescue.  He is a little darling, is the Chevalier.  I suppose you know him, Mademoiselle?”

“Indeed I do, Annot, and love him dearly; he is an old sweetheart of mine.”

“He’s too young to have a sweetheart yet, Mademoiselle; but you’ll see some of the ladies will be quarrelling for him yet, when he’s a year or two older.  Well, after sending Jacques over here, he went back as bold as possible into the middle of the republicans, before Santerre and all.  M. Denot was at his worst then.  He had hold of Mademoiselle Agatha, and was dragging her away from the Marquis, in spite of Santerre and the whole of them, when the Chevalier raises his stick, and strikes him across the face.  I warrant you he let go Mademoiselle’s hand when he felt the sharp stick come across his eyes.”

“It must have been a horrid sight for Agatha,” said Madame de Lescure.

“Oh! indeed it was, Madame.  Only fancy that traitor Denot going on in that way, right before her eyes all night, and no one to protect her but the little Chevalier; for when it got late M. Santerre threw himself on the floor, and slept and snored like a hog.  They say it was all for love, Mademoiselle.  They say this Denot was greatly in love with Mademoiselle Agatha, and that she wouldn’t look at him.  Is it true, she was so very scornful to him?”