Legouve was frightfully jealous,
and she knew that if she pleaded Dupin's cause before him she would
make matters worse. A sudden thought struck her. She went to
Couthon and demanded an audience.
"'Couthon,' she said, 'are the Dupins to die?'
"'Yes, to-morrow.'
"'Dupin the younger is the father of my child.'
"'And he has deserted you, and you hate him. He shall die.'
"'Pardon me, I do not hate him.'
"'Ah, you love him still; but that is no reason why he should be
spared, my pretty one. We must do our duty. They are plotters
against the Republic, and must go.'
"'Couthon, they must live. Consider; shall that man ascend the
scaffold with the thought in his heart that I could have rescued him,
and that I did not; that I have had my revenge? Besides, what will
be said?--that the Republic uses justice to satisfy private
vengeance. All the women in my quarter know who I am.'
"'That is a fancy.'
"'Fancy! Is it a fancy to murder Dupin's wife--murder all that is
good in her--murder the belief in her for ever that there is such a
thing as generosity? You do not wish to kill the soul? That is the
way with tyrants, but not with the Republic.
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