“All that we want you to do is to write a letter to M. le Marquis—­one that I myself will dictate to you.  You have written to M. le Marquis before now, on business matters, have you not?”

“Yes, monsieur—­yes, citizen,” stammered Lucile through her tears.  “Father was bailiff to M. le Marquis until he became a cripple and now I—–­”

“Do not write any letter, Lucile,” Etienne suddenly broke in with forceful vehemence.  “It is a trap set by these miscreants to entrap M. le Marquis.”

There was a second’s silence in the room after this sudden outburst on the part of the lad.  Then the man with the pale face said quietly: 

“Citizen Lebel, order the removal of that boy.  Let him be kept in custody till he has learned to hold his tongue.”

But before Lebel could speak to the two soldiers who were standing on guard at the door, Lucile had uttered a loud cry of agonised protest.

“No! no! monsieur!—­that is citizen!” she implored.  “Do not take Etienne away.  He will be silent....  I promise you that he will be silent...only do not take him away!  Etienne, my little one!” she added, turning her tear-filled eyes to her brother, “I entreat thee to hold thy tongue!”

The others, too, clung to Etienne, and the lad, awed and subdued, relapsed into silence.

“Now then,” resumed Lebel roughly, after a while, “let us get on with this business.  I am sick to death of it.  It has lasted far too long already.”

He fixed his blood-shot eyes upon Lucile and continued gruffly: 

“Now listen to me, my wench, for this is going to be my last word.  Citizen Chauvelin here has already been very lenient with you by allowing this letter business.  If I had my way I’d make you speak here and now.  As it is, you either sit down and write the letter at citizen Chauvelin’s dictation at once, or I send you with that impudent brother of yours and your imbecile father to jail, on a charge of treason against the State, for aiding and abetting the enemies of the Republic; and you know what the consequences of such a charge usually are.  The other two brats will go to a House of Correction, there to be detained during the pleasure of the Committee of Public Safety.  That is my last word,” he reiterated fiercely.  “Now, which is it to be?”

He paused, the girl’s wan cheeks turned the colour of lead.  She moistened her lips once or twice with her tongue; beads of perspiration appeared at the roots of her hair.  She gazed helplessly at her tormentors, not daring to look on those three huddled-up little figures there in the corner.  A few seconds sped away in silence.  The man with the pale eyes rose and pushed his chair away.  He went to the window, stood there with his back to the room, those slender white hands of his clasped behind him.  Neither the commissary nor the girl appeared to interest him further.  He was just gazing out of the window.

The other was still sprawling beside the desk, his large, coarse hand—­ how different his hands were!—­was beating a devil’s tatoo upon the arm of his chair.