’"Are you not Monsieur B—?”

’He flinched.  “I am—­in Paris,” he said.  “But here I am Monsieur G—.”

’"That is trivial.  You are the man I say you are.”

’"How did you know my real name, Mademoiselle?”

’"I saw you in years gone by, when you did not see me.  You were formerly Member of the Committee of Public Safety, under the Convention.”

“I was.”

’"You guillotined my father, my brother, my uncle—­all my family, nearly, and broke my mother’s heart.  They had done nothing but keep silence.  Their sentiments were only guessed.  Their headless corpses were thrown indiscriminately into the ditch of the Mousseaux Cemetery, and destroyed with lime.”

’He nodded.

’"You left me without a friend, and here I am now, alone in a foreign land.”

’"I am sorry for you,” said be.  “Sorry for the consequence, not for the intent.  What I did was a matter of conscience, and, from a point of view indiscernible by you, I did right.  I profited not a farthing.  But I shall not argue this.  You have the satisfaction of seeing me here an exile also, in poverty, betrayed by comrades, as friendless as yourself.”

’"It is no satisfaction to me, Monsieur.”

’"Well, things done cannot be altered.  Now the question:  are you quite recovered?”

’"Not from dislike and dread of you—­otherwise, yes.”

’"Good morning, Mademoiselle.”

’"Good morning.”

’They did not meet again till one evening at the theatre (which my mother’s friend was with great difficulty induced to frequent, to perfect herself in English pronunciation, the idea she entertained at that time being to become a teacher of English in her own country later on).  She found him sitting next to her, and it made her pale and restless.

’"You are still afraid of me?”

’"I am.  O cannot you understand!”

’He signified the affirmative.

’"I follow the play with difficulty,” he said, presently.

’"So do I—­now,” said she.

’He regarded her long, and she was conscious of his look; and while she kept her eyes on the stage they filled with tears.  Still she would not move, and the tears ran visibly down her cheek, though the play was a merry one, being no other than Mr. Sheridan’s comedy of “The Rivals,” with Mr. S. Kemble as Captain Absolute.  He saw her distress, and that her mind was elsewhere; and abruptly rising from his seat at candle-snuffing time he left the theatre.

’Though he lived in the old town, and she in the new, they frequently saw each other at a distance.  One of these occasions was when she was on the north side of the harbour, by the ferry, waiting for the boat to take her across.  He was standing by Cove Row, on the quay opposite.  Instead of entering the boat when it arrived she stepped back from the quay; but looking to see if he remained she beheld him pointing with his finger to the ferry-boat.