"
"Commandant, the order of the ministers states that you are to obey
Mademoiselle de Verneuil."
"Let her come and give them to me herself and I'll see about it."
"Well, citizen," said Corentin, haughtily, "she shall come. She shall
tell you herself the hour at which she expects the /ci-devant/.
Possibly she won't be easy till you do post the sentinels round the
house."
"The devil is made man," thought the old leader as he watched Corentin
hurrying up the Queen's Staircase at the foot of which this scene had
taken place. "He means to deliver Montauran bound hand and foot, with
no chance to fight for his life, and I shall be harrassed to death
with a court-martial. However," he added, shrugging his shoulders,
"the Gars certainly is an enemy of the Republic, and he killed my poor
Gerard, and his death will make a noble the less--the devil take him!"
He turned on the heels of his boots and went off, whistling the
Marseillaise, to inspect his guard-rooms.
* * * * *
Mademoiselle de Verneuil was absorbed in one of those meditations the
mysteries of which are buried in the soul, and prove by their thousand
contradictory emotions, to the woman who undergoes them, that it is
possible to have a stormy and passionate existence between four walls
without even moving from the ottoman on which her very life is burning
itself away.
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