s,
as beautiful, more beautiful than this emigre aristocrat, a woman who is
a patriot, a true daughter of France, marry her, prove yourself and see
how the shouting crowds will welcome you. Latour might have known this
part of my scheme, so aptly did he describe it. I have found the woman,"
and he stretched out his hand to her.

"Lucien!"

She let him draw her down beside him, his caress was returned with
interest.

"Together, you and I are going to climb, Pauline. For me a high place in
the government of France, not the short authority of a day; brains and
money shall tell their tale. Citizen Bruslart shall be listened to and
obeyed. Citizeness Bruslart shall become the rage of all Paris. Listen,
Pauline. I have cast in my lot with the people, but I have something
which the people have not, a line of ancestors who have ruled over those
about them. Revolution always ends in a strong individual, who often
proves a harder master than the one the revolution has torn from his
place. I would be that man. Two things are necessary, money and you."

"And your messenger has failed to reach mademoiselle," she whispered.

"Another messenger may be found," he said, quietly. "Besides, it is just
possible that Latour was lying, too."

"Perhaps you are right;" and then she jumped up excitedly, "I believe
you are right. What then? Other men may be scheming for her wealth as
well as you."

"And others besides Latour have spies in the city," Bruslart answered.

"You are wonderful, Lucien, wonderful, and I love you."

She threw herself into his arms with an abandon which, like all her
other actions, was natural to her; and while he held her, proud of his
conquest, not all Lucien's thoughts were of love. Could Pauline Vaison
have looked into his soul, could she have seen the network of scheming
which was in his mind, the chaotic character of many of these plans,
crossing and contradicting one another, a caricature, as it were, of a
man's whole existence in which good and evil join issue and rage and
struggle for the mastery, even then she would not have understood. She
might have found that one end was aimed at more constantly than any
other--self, yet in the schemes of most men self plays the most
prominent part, and is not always sordid and altogether despicable. She
would not have understood her lover; he did not understand himself. He
was a product of the Revolution, as were thousands of others walking the
Paris streets, or