into an
oddly bitter smile at the reflection, as she stepped into her cabriolet,
and bade the driver return to Choisy. Caron was doing this for her.
He was casting away his young, vigorous life, with all its wealth of
promise, to the end that her betrothed--the man whom he believed she
loved--might be spared. The greatness, the nobility of the sacrifice
overwhelmed her. She remembered the thoughts that in the past she had
entertained concerning this young revolutionist. Never yet had she
been able to regard him as belonging to the same order of beings as
herself-not even when she had kissed his unconscious lips that evening
on the Ridge road. An immeasurable gulf had seemed to yawn between
them--the gulf between her nobility and his base origin. And now, as
her carriage trundled out of Paris and took the dusty high road, she
shuddered, and her cheeks burned with shame at the memory of the wrong
that by such thoughts she had done him. Was she, indeed, the nobler? By
accident of birth, perhaps, but by nature proper he was assuredly the
noblest man that ever woman bore.

In the Place de la Revolution a gruesome engine they called the
guillotine was levelling all things, and fast establishing the reign of
absolute equality. But with all the swift mowing of its bloody scythe,
not half so fast did it level men as Mademoiselle de Bellecour's
thoughts were doing that afternoon.

So marked was the disorder in her countenance when she reached Choisy
that even unobservant Ombreval whom continuous years of self-complacency
had rendered singularly obtuse--could not help but notice it,
and--fearing, no doubt, that this agitation might in some way concern
himself--he even went the length of questioning her, his voice sounding
the note of his alarm.

"It is nothing," she answered, in a dejected voice. "At least, nothing
that need cause you uneasiness. They have sentenced La Boulaye to
death," she announced, a spasm crossing her averted face.

He took a deep breath of relief.

"God knows they've sentenced innocent men enough. It is high time they
began upon one another. It augurs well-extremely well."

They were alone in Henriette's kitchen; the faithful woman was at
market. Mademoiselle was warming herself before the fire. Ombreval stood
by the window. He had spent the time of her absence in the care of his
clothes, and he had contrived to dress himself with some semblance of
his old-time elegance which enhanced his good looks