"Ma foi! but I know these ruffians.

There is not an ounce of honour in the whole National Convention." "Fool!" she blazed, rising and confronting him with an anger before which he recoiled, appalled.

"Do you dare to stand there and prate of honour--you?
Do you forget why he stood his trial?
Do you forget why he is dying, and can you not see the vile thing that you are doing in arguing flight, that you talk of honour thus, and deny his claim to it?
Mon Dieu! Your effrontery stifles me! La Boulaye was right when he said that with us honour is but a word--just so much wind, and nothing more." He stared at her in uncomprehending wonder.

He drew away another step.
He accounted her mad, and, that he might humour her, he put by his own fears for the moment--a wonderful unselfishness this in the most nobly-born Vicomte d'Ombreval.
"My poor Suzanne," he murmured.

"Our trouble has demoralised your understanding.