“There is no help for it,” said Lomaque, looking at Trudaine; “leave it to me—­it is fittest that I should speak.  I was present,” he continued, in a louder voice, “at the trial of Citizen Trudaine and his sister.  They were brought to the bar through the denunciation of Citizen Danville.  Till the confession of the male prisoner exposed the fact, I can answer for Danville’s not being aware of the real nature of the offenses charged against Trudaine and his sister.  When it became known that they had been secretly helping this lady to escape from France, and when Danville’s own head was consequently in danger, I myself heard him save it by a false assertion that he had been aware of Trudaine’s conspiracy from the first—­”

“Do you mean to say,” interrupted the general, “that he proclaimed himself in open court as having knowingly denounced the man who was on trial for saving his mother?”

“I do,” answered Lomaque. (A murmur of horror and indignation rose from all the strangers present at that reply.) “The reports of the Tribunal are existing to prove the truth of what I say,” he went on.  “As to the escape of Citizen Trudaine and the wife of Danville from the guillotine, it was the work of political circumstances, which there are persons living to speak to if necessary; and of a little stratagem of mine, which need not be referred to now.  And, last, with reference to the concealment which followed the escape, I beg to inform you that it was abandoned the moment we knew of what was going on here; and that it was only persevered in up to this time, as a natural measure of precaution on the part of Citizen Trudaine.  From a similar motive we now abstain from exposing his sister to the shock and the peril of being present here.  What man with an atom of feeling would risk letting her even look again on such a husband as that?”

He glanced round him, and pointed to Danville, as he put the question.  Before a word could be spoken by any one else in the room, a low wailing cry of “My mistress! my dear, dear mistress!” directed all eyes first on the old man Dubois, then on Madame Danville.

She had been leaning against the wall, before Lomaque began to speak; but she stood perfectly upright now.  She neither spoke nor moved.  Not one of the light gaudy ribbons flaunting on her disordered head-dress so much as trembled.  The old servant Dubois was crouched on his knees at her side, kissing her cold right hand, chafing it in his, reiterating his faint, mournful cry, “Oh! my mistress! my dear, dear mistress!” but she did not appear to know that he was near her.  It was only when her son advanced a step or two toward her that she seemed to awaken suddenly from that death-trance of mental pain.  Then she slowly raised the hand that was free, and waved him back from her.  He stopped in obedience to the gesture, and endeavored to speak.  She waved her hand again, and the deathly stillness of her face began to grow troubled.  Her lips moved a little—­she spoke.