crown-piece I put in my pocket—not bound
to denounce, deceive, and dog to death other
men, before I can earn my bread, and scrape
together money enough to bury me. I am
ending a bad, base life, harmlessly at last.
It is a poor thing to do, but it is something
done—and even that contents a man at my
age. In short, I am happier than I used to
be, or, at least, less ashamed when I look
people like you in the face."

"Hush! hush!" interrupted Rose, laying
her hand on his arm. " I cannot allow you
to talk of yourself in that way, even in
jest."

"I was speaking in earnest," answered
Lomaque, quietly; "but I won't weary you
with any more words about myself. My
story is told."

"All?" asked Trudaine. He looked
searchingly, almost suspiciously, at Lomaque,
as he put the question. "All?" he repeated.
"Yours is a short story, indeed, my good
friend! Perhaps you have forgotten some of
it?"

Again Lomaque fidgetted and hesitated.

"Is it not a little hard on an old man, to be
always asking questions of him, and never
answering one of his inquiries in return?"
he said to Rose, very gaily as to manner, but
rather uneasily as to look.

"He will not speak out till we are alone,"
thought Trudaine. "It is best to risk nothing,
and to humour him."

"Come, come," he said aloud,. " no grumbling.
I admit that it is your turn to hear
our story now; and I will do my best to
gratify you. But before I begin," he added,
turning to his sister, "let me suggest, Rose,
that if you have any household matters to
settle up stairs"—

"I know what you mean," she interrupted,
hurriedly taking up the work which,
during the last few minutes, she had allowed
to drop into her lap; "but I am stronger
than you think; I can face the worst of our
recollections composedly. Go on, Louis;
pray go on—I am quite fit to stop and hear
you."

"You know what we suffered in the first
days of our suspense, after the success of your
stratagem," said Trudaine, turning to
Lomaque. " I think it was on the evening
after we had seen you for the last time, at
St. Lazare, that strange confused rumours of
an impending convulsion in Paris first
penetrated within our prison walls. During the
next few days, the faces of our gaolers were
enough to show us that those rumours were
true, and that the Reign of Terror was
actually threatened with overthrow at the
hands of the Moderate Party. We had hardly
time to hope everything from this blessed
change, before the tremendous news of
Robespierre's attempted suicide, then of his
condemnation and execution, reached us. The
confusion produced in the prison was beyond
all description. The accused who had been
tried and the accused who had not been tried
got mingled together. From the day of
Robespierre's arrest, no orders came to the
authorities, no death lists reached the prison.
The gaolers, terrified by rumours, that the
lowest accomplices of the tyrant would be
held responsible, and be condemned with him,
made no attempt to maintain order. Some
of them—that hump-backed man among the
rest—deserted their duties altogether. The
disorganisation was so complete, that when
the commissioners from the new government
came to St. Lazare, some of us were actually
half-starving from want of the bare necessaries
of life. To inquire separately into our cases
was found to be impossible. Sometimes the
necessary papers were lost; sometimes what
documents remained were incomprehensible
to the new commissioners. They were obliged,
at last, to make short work of it by calling
us up before them in dozens. Tried or not
tried, we had all been arrested by the tyrant,
had all been accused of conspiracy against him,
and were all ready to hail the new government,
as the salvation of France. In nine
cases out of ten, our best claim to be discharged
was derived from these circumstances.
We were trusted by Tallien and the
men of the Ninth Thermidor, because we had
been suspected by Robespierre, Couthon, and
St. Just. Arrested informally, we were now
liberated informally. When it came to my
sister's turn and mine, we were not under
examination five minutes. No such thing as
a searching question was asked of us; I
believe we might even have given our own names
with perfect impunity. But I had previously
instructed Rose that we were to assume our
mother's maiden name—Maurice. As the
citizen and citoyenne Maurice, accordingly,
we passed out of prison—under the same
name we have lived ever since in hiding here.
Our past repose has depended, our future
happiness will depend, on our escape from
death being kept the profoundest secret
among us three. For one all-sufficient reason,
which you can easily guess at, the brother
and sister Maurice must still know nothing
of Louis Trudaine and Rose Danville, except
that they were two among the hundreds of
victims guillotined during the Reign of
Terror."

He spoke the last sentence with a faint
smile, and with the air of a man trying, in
spite of himself, to treat a grave subject
lightly. His face clouded again, however, in
a moment, when he looked towards his sister,
as he ceased. Her work had once more
dropped on her lap; her face was turned
away, so that he could not see it; but he
knew by the trembling of her clasped hands,
as they rested on her knee, and by the slight
swelling of the veins on her neck, which she
could not hide from him, that her boasted
strength of nerve had deserted her. Three
years of repose had not yet enabled her
to hear her marriage name uttered, or to be