Francine was observing
her; she saw the eyes glitter, the cheeks flush; she thought she
perceived a diabolical spirit in the face, stirred by some sudden and
terrible revulsion. But lightning is not more rapid, nor death more
prompt than this brief exhibition of inward emotion. Madame du Gua
recovered her lively manner with such immediate self-possession that
Francine fancied herself mistaken. Nevertheless, having once perceived
in this woman a violence of feeling that was fully equal to that of
Mademoiselle de Verneuil, she trembled as she foresaw the clash with
which such natures might come together, and the girl shuddered when
she saw Mademoiselle de Verneuil go up to the young man with a
passionate look and, taking him by the hand, draw him close beside her
and into the light, with a coquettish glance that was full of
witchery.
"Now," she said, trying to read his eyes, "own to me that you are not
the citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr."
"Yes, I am, mademoiselle."
"But he and his mother were killed yesterday."
"I am very sorry for that," he replied, laughing. "However that may
be, I am none the less under a great obligation to you, for which I
shall always feel the deepest gratitude and only wish I could prove it
to you."
"I thought I was saving an /emigre/, but I love you better as a
Republican."
The words escaped her lips as it were impulsively; she became
confused; even her eyes blushed, and her face bore no other expression
than one of exquisite simplicity of feeling; she softly released the
young man's hand, not from shame at having pressed it, but because of
a thought too weighty, it seemed, for her heart to bear, leaving him
drunk with hope.
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