“It is no game, Monsieur... citizen,” she stammered; “nor yet a masquerade.  I have been a street-dancer all my life, and—­”

By way of an answer he took her hand, always with that air of authority which she never thought to resent.

“This is not a street-dancer’s hand; Madame,” he said quietly.  “Nor is your speech that of the people.”

She drew her hand away quickly, and the flush on her haggard face deepened.

“If you will honour me with your confidence, Madame,” he insisted.

The kindly words, the courtesy of the man, went to the poor creature’s heart.  She fell back upon the sofa and with her face buried in her arms she sobbed out her heart for a minute or two.  The man waited quite patiently.  He had seen many women weep these days, and had dried many a tear through deeds of valour and of self-sacrifice, which were for ever recorded in the hearts of those whom he had succoured.

When this poor woman had succeeded in recovering some semblance of self-control, she turned her wan, tear-stained face to him and said simply: 

“My name is Madeleine Lannoy, Monsieur.  My husband was killed during the emeutes at Versailles, whilst defending the persons of the Queen and of the royal children against the fury of the mob.  When I was a girl I had the misfortune to attract the attentions of a young doctor named Jean Paul Marat.  You have heard of him, Monsieur?”

The other nodded.

“You know him, perhaps,” she continued, “for what he is:  the most cruel and revengeful of men.  A few years ago he threw up his lucrative appointment as Court physician to Monseigneur le Comte d’Artois, and gave up the profession of medicine for that of journalist and politician.  Politician!  Heaven help him!  He belongs to the most bloodthirsty section of revolutionary brigands.  His creed is pillage, murder, and revenge; and he chooses to declare that it is I who, by rejecting his love, drove him to these foul extremities.  May God forgive him that abominable lie!  The evil we do, Monsieur, is within us; it does not come from circumstance.  I, in the meanwhile, was a happy wife.  My husband, M. de Lannoy, who was an officer in the army, idolised me.  We had one child, a boy—­”

She paused, with another catch in her throat.  Then she resumed, with calmness that, in view of the tale she told, sounded strangely weird: 

“In June last year my child was stolen from me—­stolen by Marat in hideous revenge for the supposed wrong which I had done him.  The details of that execrable outrage are of no importance.  I was decoyed from home one day through the agency of a forged message purporting to come from a very dear friend whom I knew to be in grave trouble at the time.  Oh! the whole thing was thoroughly well thought out, I can assure you!” she continued, with a harsh laugh which ended in a heartrending sob.  “The forged message, the suborned servant, the