AFTER DARK [56]
had already made her stoop a little when she walked. Her manner had lost its maiden shyness, only to become unnaturally quiet and subdued. Of all the charms which had so fatally, yet so innocently, allured her heartless husband, but one remained--the winning gentleness of her voice. It might be touched now and then with a note of sadness, but the soft attraction of its even, natural tone still remained. In the marring of all other harmonies, this one harmony had been preserved unchanged. Her brother, though his face was careworn, and his manner sadder than of old, looked less altered from his former self. It is the most fragile material which soonest shows the flaw. The world's idol, Beauty, holds its frailest tenure of existence in the one Temple where we most love to worship it.
"And so you think, Louis, that our perilous undertaking has really ended well by this tim e?" said Rose, anxiously, as she lighted the lamp and placed the glass shade over it. "What a relief it is only to hear you say you think we have succeeded at last!"
"I said I hope, Rose," replied her brother.
"Well, even hoped is a great word from you, Louis--a great word from any one in this fearful city, and in these days of Terror."
She stopped suddenly, seeing her brother raise his hand in warning. They looked at each other in silence and listened. The sound of footsteps going slowly past the house--ceasing for a moment just beyond it--then going on again--came through the open window. There was nothing else, out-of-doors or in, to disturb the silence of the night--the deadly silence of Terror which, for months past, had hung over Paris. It was a significant sign of the times, that even a passing footstep, sounding a little strangely at night, was subject for suspicion, both to brother and sister--so common a subject, that they suspended their conversation as a matter of course, without exchanging a word of explanation, until the tramp of the strange footsteps had died away.
"Louis," continued Rose, dropping her voice to a whisper, after nothing more was audible, "when may I trust our secret to my husband?"
"Not yet!" rejoined Trudaine, earnestly. "Not a word, not a hint of it, till I give you leave. Remember, Rose, you promised silence from the first. Everything depends on your holding that promise sacred till I release you from it."
"I will hold it sacred; I will indeed, at all hazards, under all provocations," she answered.
"That is quite enough to reassure me--and now, love, let us change the subject. Even these walls may have ears, and the closed door yonder may be no protection." He looked toward it uneasily while he spoke. "By-the-by, I have come round to your way of thinking, Rose, about that new servant of mine--there is something false in his face. I wish I had been as quick to detect it as you were."
Rose glanced at him affrightedly. "Has he done anything suspicious? Have you caught him watching you? Tell me the worst, Louis."
"Hush! hush! my dear, not so loud. Don't alarm yourself; he has done nothing suspicious."
"Turn him off--pray, pray turn him off, before it is too late!"
"And be denounced by him, in revenge, the first night he goes to his Section. You forget that servants and masters are equal now. I am not supposed to keep a servant at all. I have a citizen living with me who lays me under domestic obligations, for which I make a pecuniary acknowledgment. No! no! if I do anything, I must try if I can't entrap him into giving me warning. But we have got to another unpleasant subject already--suppose I change the topic again? You will find a little book on that table there, in the corner--tell me what you think of it."
The book was a copy of Corneille's "Cid," prettily bound in blue morocco. Rose was enthusiastic in her praises. "I found it in a bookseller's shop, yesterday," said her brother, "and bought it as a present for you. Corneille is not an author to compromise any one, even in these times. Don't you remember saying the other day that you felt ashamed of knowing but little of our greatest
"And so you think, Louis, that our perilous undertaking has really ended well by this tim e?" said Rose, anxiously, as she lighted the lamp and placed the glass shade over it. "What a relief it is only to hear you say you think we have succeeded at last!"
"I said I hope, Rose," replied her brother.
"Well, even hoped is a great word from you, Louis--a great word from any one in this fearful city, and in these days of Terror."
She stopped suddenly, seeing her brother raise his hand in warning. They looked at each other in silence and listened. The sound of footsteps going slowly past the house--ceasing for a moment just beyond it--then going on again--came through the open window. There was nothing else, out-of-doors or in, to disturb the silence of the night--the deadly silence of Terror which, for months past, had hung over Paris. It was a significant sign of the times, that even a passing footstep, sounding a little strangely at night, was subject for suspicion, both to brother and sister--so common a subject, that they suspended their conversation as a matter of course, without exchanging a word of explanation, until the tramp of the strange footsteps had died away.
"Louis," continued Rose, dropping her voice to a whisper, after nothing more was audible, "when may I trust our secret to my husband?"
"Not yet!" rejoined Trudaine, earnestly. "Not a word, not a hint of it, till I give you leave. Remember, Rose, you promised silence from the first. Everything depends on your holding that promise sacred till I release you from it."
"I will hold it sacred; I will indeed, at all hazards, under all provocations," she answered.
"That is quite enough to reassure me--and now, love, let us change the subject. Even these walls may have ears, and the closed door yonder may be no protection." He looked toward it uneasily while he spoke. "By-the-by, I have come round to your way of thinking, Rose, about that new servant of mine--there is something false in his face. I wish I had been as quick to detect it as you were."
Rose glanced at him affrightedly. "Has he done anything suspicious? Have you caught him watching you? Tell me the worst, Louis."
"Hush! hush! my dear, not so loud. Don't alarm yourself; he has done nothing suspicious."
"Turn him off--pray, pray turn him off, before it is too late!"
"And be denounced by him, in revenge, the first night he goes to his Section. You forget that servants and masters are equal now. I am not supposed to keep a servant at all. I have a citizen living with me who lays me under domestic obligations, for which I make a pecuniary acknowledgment. No! no! if I do anything, I must try if I can't entrap him into giving me warning. But we have got to another unpleasant subject already--suppose I change the topic again? You will find a little book on that table there, in the corner--tell me what you think of it."
The book was a copy of Corneille's "Cid," prettily bound in blue morocco. Rose was enthusiastic in her praises. "I found it in a bookseller's shop, yesterday," said her brother, "and bought it as a present for you. Corneille is not an author to compromise any one, even in these times. Don't you remember saying the other day that you felt ashamed of knowing but little of our greatest