As she sat
sewing, she heard a knock at the front door. Her heart stood still. It
was a knock she had not heard for over a quarter of a century, but it had
an unforgettable touch. She waited a moment, her face pale, her eyes
shining with tortured memory. She waited for the servant to answer the
knock, but presently she realized that the servant probably had not
heard. Laying down her work, she passed into the front hall. There for
an instant she paused, then opened the door.
It was Barode Barouche. Then the memory of a summer like a terrible
dream shook her. She trembled. Some old quiver of the dead days swept
through her. How distant and how--bad it all was! For one instant the
old thrill repeated itself and then was gone--for ever.
"What is it you wish here?" she asked.
"Will you not shut the door?" he responded, for her fingers were on the
handle. "I cannot speak with the night looking in. Won't you ask me to
your sitting-room? I'm not a robber or a rogue."
Slowly she closed the door. Then she turned, and, in the dim light, she
said:
"But you are both a robber and a rogue."
He did not answer until they had entered the sittin-groom.
"I gave you that which is out against me now. Is he not brilliant,
capable and courageous?"
There was in her face a stern duty.
"It was Fate, monsieur. When he and I went to your political meeting at
Charlemont it had no purpose.
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