th a young girl, a daughter of the middle
classes; her death, and the little child she had left to his care,
were all touched upon by him and listened to attentively--indeed,
absorbingly. And so, at last, he came to the summons to Paris, to his
setting forth, to his stay at Dijon, and the attack made upon him and
Boussac.

To both women this portion of his narrative caused great excitement.
For, stately as the marquise was, environed, so to speak, by all the
dignity of the _haute noblesse_ of the days of the Great King, she
could not prevent her agitation from being apparent to him. Her white,
jewelled hand quivered as she raised it to her breast; her eyes
sparkled as they might have sparkled when she was her daughter's age;
while, as for that daughter, her bosom rose and fell with her rapid
breathing, her colour came and went--once she was as pale as death,
the next moment her face suffused.

"The cowards!" exclaimed the marquise; "the base, cowardly dogs, to
attack two men thus, and one hampered with a defenceless child! _Quel
tour de lache!_ Oh! sir, I would to God your brand or that of your
brave companion had struck the poltroon, the craven who sheltered
himself behind his visor, his death blow! I would to God one of your
swords had found out his heart as they found out the hearts of his
mercenaries!"

The sympathy of this graceful woman--sympathy that roused her from the
well-bred calmness which was her natural state, to one of almost
fury--earned the deepest respect and gratitude of St. Georges; yet he
looked at her almost with amazement as he bowed and murmured some
words of appreciation. For there was no acting here, he knew; yet she
was De Roquemaure's stepmother, the kinswoman of the man whom he
believed to be his and his child's attempted assassin!

And Aurelie de Roquemaure, too--what of her? A glance from under his
eyes showed him that still the beauteous face was agitated as it had
been before, that all which her mother had said was re-echoed by her.

Again the marquise spoke, though now she rose from the table as she
did so.

"Sir," she said, "never rest until that man and you stand face to
face, point to point; since, until that happens, your child's life
will not be safe. For you, a man, a soldier, it matters not--is best,
indeed, that you should meet him and end his miserable existence
forever. I pray you may do ere long. And, when you do meet him, slay
him like a dog! It is the only way."