"Yes, Monsieur le Docteur?"

"You asked me a straight question just now, and I ought to have answered it at once, knowing you to be proud and brave. But I wanted you to collect yourself a little. You are young and have gone through a great deal. Naturally enough, you are slightly unnerved. At the same time I feel that it is best for you and for you all that you should know the truth."

"The truth?"

"The authorities at Choisy have decided on the arrest of your mother, your brother, yourself and your two servants. Directly I learned their decision I ran up here to see what I, as a single individual, could do to save you. I was on my way up already, because I knew that I could do a great deal to prevent a lot of irresponsible women and weaklings from doing more than, perhaps, frightening you, and I would have been here earlier only I could not leave the hospital, where I was attending a really serious case. I thank Heaven that I could not leave sooner, and that I was obliged to call in at the Town Hall, where I learned, by the merest chance, that the Committee of Public Safety had ordered your arrest at the instance of one of its members, the order to executed within the next twenty-four hours."

Cécile had listened to all this without making any movement or any sign that she understood the meaning of what Pradel had just told her. She had turned to face him and while he talked, her glance never wavered. She looked him straight in the eyes. It was quite dark in the room now, only here in the window embrasure the last lingering evening light sent its dying shaft on the slim figure of Dr. Pradel. Never for one second did Cécile de la Rodière doubt that he spoke the truth.

She could not have explained even to herself how it was she knew, but she was absolutely convinced that when he spoke of this awful danger of death to those she cared for, he was speaking the truth.

For some time after Pradel had finished speaking Cécile said nothing and made no movement. Slowly the purport of what he said penetrated into her brain. Arrest! Within twenty-four hours! It meant death, of course. The guillotine for them all. For maman and François and for Paul and Marie. The guillotine! The horrible thing that happened to others, even to the King. And now to oneself!

Pradel waited, of course, for her to speak. The world for him, as for her, had faded from his ken. Time was standing still. Every thing around them was wrapped in darkness, was merged in a stupendous silence. And suddenly through the silence there came a curious sound, the harsh scraping of catgut on a common fiddle:

"Au clair de la lune

Mon ami Pierrot!"

The old ditty played very much out of tune by an inexperienced hand loosened the strain on Cécile's nerves. She was so young, had been so happy till this awful calamity had descended upon them all. It had begun four years ago with the death of her father whom she had adored, and then the home-coming after his funeral and finding the home a wreck and all the old servants gone except Paul and Marie. Then the murder of the King. And now this. Surely, surely something could be done to save those she loved from disaster and death.

"Docteur Pradel," she murmured appealingly, "can nothing be done?"

"Yes, Citizeness," he replied coldly; "something can be done, and it rests with you. I have told you the worst, but I earnestly believe that it is in my power to get you and your family and your two servants out of this trouble. If I am right in this belief, then I shall thank God on my knees for the privilege of being of service to you. May I proceed?"

"If you please, Monsieur."

"I am afraid that what I am about to say will shock you, wound you, perhaps, in your most cherished prejudices. Believe me, if I could see any other way of averting this terrible calamity, I would take it. I have, as perhaps you know, a certain amount of influence in the commune, not great enough, alas! to obtain a safe-conduct for you and those you care for now that an order for your arrest has been issued by an actual member of the Committee of Public Safety, but I could demand one for my wife."

Cécile could not suppress a gasp nor smother a cry:

"Your wife, Monsieur?"

"I pray you do not misunderstand me," Pradel rejoined calmly, even though at the sound of that cry of protest a shadow had spread over his face, leaving it more wan, more stern, too, than it had been before. "By a recent decree of the existing government marriage between citizens of this country only means going before the Mayor of the Commune and there reciting certain formulas which will bind them in matrimony for as long or as short a time as they desire. Should you decide to go through this ceremony with me, I swear to you that never through any fault of mine will you have cause to regret it. Once you are nominally my wife, I, as an important member of this commune, can protect you, your family and your servants until such time as I find it expedient and safe to convey you all out of this unfortunate country into Switzerland or Belgium, where you could remain until these troublesome times are past. Until then you will all live under my roof as honoured guests. I am a busy man, hardly ever at home. You will hardly ever see me; you need never speak to me unless you wish. And now, with your permission, I will leave you to think it all over quietly and, perhaps, to consult with your family. To-morrow at ten o'clock I will be back to receive your answer. We will then either go at once to the Mairie or I will offer you and the citizeness, your mother, my respectful adieux."

And he was gone. Cécile never heard him cross the room to go downstairs. All she heard were the strains of that ramshackle fiddle and the soft, wordless humming of the old, old tune:

"Ma chandelle est morte,

Je n'ai plus de feu,

Oubre moi ta porte,

Pour l'amour de Dieu!"

Well! the door was open for her to pass through from the fear of death to promised security for all those whom she loved. Oh! if it had only been a question of herself, she would not have wasted a moment's reflection on that outrageous proposition.

Outrageous? Was it really outrageous? A proposition couched in terms of dignified respect, and one calculated to safeguard the lives of all those she cared for, could not in all fairness be stigmatized as outrageous. Bold, perhaps, unique certainly: no girl, she supposed, had ever had such a remarkable proposal of marriage. But then the man who made it was nothing if not bold, and the situation was, of course, unique. Nor did she doubt him for an instant. From the first there had been something in his attitude and in the way he spoke that bore the imprint of absolute truth. No, she assuredly did not doubt him. The danger, she knew, was real enough; the way out of it she was convinced, was the only one possible. She was quite sorry now that Pradel had gone so quickly. There were so many thing she would have liked to have asked him. The decision which she would have to make was one that should be made on the spur of the moment. The delay would give her a long, sleepless night and a great deal of nerve strain. And then there was the great question. Should she consult maman or confront her with the accomplished fact? And there was François, too. He, with the impulse of youth and prejudice, would say: "Better death than dishonour," and would continue to look on the transaction as a perpetual blot on the escutcheon of the la Rodières.

It was all terribly puzzling. A deep, deep sigh came from Cécile's heart, not a sorrowful sigh really. She did not understand her own feelings. Not entirely. All she knew was that she wished Pradel had not gone away quite so quickly.