"The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. ’ ‘Believe me, she wouldn’t have cared. The gulf between rich and poor was perhaps greater in France, but by all accounts it was not the canaille who were responsible for the present turmoil. .
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