"Tell me about the letter--quickly," he interrupted her with some
impatience. "I'll be writing something--but talk away, I shall hear
every word. But for God's sake be as brief as you can."

He drew some paper nearer to him and dipped his pen in the ink. He
appeared to be writing under her dictation. Thin, flaky snow had begun
to fall and settled in a smooth white carpet upon the frozen ground, and
the footsteps of the passers-by sounded muffled as they hurried along.
Only the lapping of the water of the sluggish river close by broke the
absolute stillness of the air.

Agnes de Lucines' pale face looked ethereal in this framework of white
which covered her shoulders and the shawl crossed over her bosom: only
her eyes, dark, appealing, filled with a glow of immeasurable despair,
appeared tensely human and alive.

"I had a letter this morning," she whispered, speaking very rapidly,
"from citizen Heriot--that awful man--you know him?"

"Yes, yes!"

"He used to be valet in the service of deputy Fabrice. Now he, too, is a
member of the National Assembly... he is arrogant and cruel and vile. He
hates Arnould Fabrice and he professes himself passionately in love with
me."

"Yes, yes!" murmured the old man, "but the letter?"

"It came this morning. In it he says that he has in his possession a
number of old letters, documents and manuscripts which are quite enough