“I would still wish to hope, Eleanor, that you are truly anxious for the welfare of your country, and the safety of your friend,” said he, still, however, without looking up.

“Indeed I am, most anxious; anxious above all things for your welfare and safety.  I should think little of my life, could I give it to promote the one, or secure the other.”

“Tell me then, I conjure you, who are they who have desired you to beg for the lives of these Vendean rebels,” and as he spoke, he leapt from his chair, and putting his hand upon her shoulder, looked sternly into her face.

“As God is my judge—­”

“Bah! if neither love of your country or of me, nor yet fear of the punishment due to traitors, will keep you true,” (and he slightly shook her with his hand, as he slowly uttered the last fearful words), “the judgment of God will not have much effect upon you.”

“True!” said the poor girl, almost confounded with her horror at the charge against her, amid the violence of the man.  “True!  Oh!  Sir, for mercy’s sake, tell me what it is of which you accuse me—­tell me what it is that I have done.  No man has spoken of you behind your back words which you might not yourself have heard.  No man has desired me to ask you to spare the rebels.  No man has even dared to hint to me, that I should do or say ought in opposition to you.”

“Some woman has done it then,” said he.

“My God! that you should think so foully of me!  No, Sir, neither man, nor woman, nor child.  You said that, were it possible, you would wish that the hand of the executioner might be stayed.  It was your own words that set me on to say what I did.  I did not dream that I should displease you.  Tell me, M. Robespierre, tell me that you are not angry with me, and I will forget it all.”

“Forget it all.  Yes, things trivial and of no concern are long remembered, but matters on which depend the life and death of those we ought to love, are soon forgotten if they are unpleasant.  No, Eleanor, do not forget it all.  Do not forget this—­remember that I never have, and never will, allow my feelings as a private man to influence my conduct as a public functionary.  I have many duties to perform; duties which are arduous, disagreeable, and dangerous, but difficult as they are, I believe that I am able to perform them.  I do not wish for advice, and I will not permit interference.  Now go down, Eleanor; our friends are below, I heard their steps a while since, as they came in.  I have but a few words to write, and I will join you.”

“But you will tell me before I go that we are friends again,” said the poor girl, now weeping.  “You will say that you do not distrust me.”

“I do not believe that you meant evil to me, but you were indiscreet.  Let that be sufficient now, and bear this in mind, Eleanor—­you know the place you hold in my affections, but were you still nearer to me than you are; were you already my wife, and the mother of my children, I would not stand between you and the punishment you would deserve, if you were untrue to your country.”