"Ah, j’y suis déjà," she said quickly. "Already I see them in the night. A week ago I wake, cold, wet—and there stands the Citizen Cléry with his head under his arm like any St. Denis. Could I eat next day?—Ma foi, no! And why should he come to me, that Cléry? Was it I who had a hand in his death? These revenants have not common-sense. It is my cousin Thérèse whose nights should be disturbed, not mine." Dangeau looked at her steadily. "Come, come, Rosalie," he said, "enough of this—Edmond Cléry’s head is safe enough." "Yes, yes," nodded Rosalie, "safe enough in the great trench. Safe enough till Judgment day, and then it is Thérèse who must answer, and not I. It was none of my doing." "But, Rosalie—mon Dieu! what are you saying—Edmond——?" "Why, did you not know?" "Woman!—what?" "Ask Thérèse," said Rosalie with a sullen look, and fell to plaiting the border of her coarse apron. "Rosalie!" His voice startled her, and her mood shifted. "Yes, to be sure, he was a friend of yours, and it is bad news. Ah, he ’s dead, there ’s no doubt of that. I saw it with my own eyes. He had been ill, and could hardly mount the steps; but in the end he smiled and waved his hand, and went off as bravely as the best of them. It is a pity, but he offended Thérèse, and she is a devil. I told her so; I said to her, ’Thérèse, I think you are a devil,’ and she only laughed." Dangeau could see that laugh,—red, red lips, and white, even teeth, and all the while lips that had kissed hers livid, dabbled with blood. Oh, horrible! Poor Cléry, poor Edmond! He gave a great shudder and forced his thoughts away from the vision they had evoked, but he sought voice twice before he could say: "All else are well?" She looked sullen again, and shrugged her shoulders. "Ma foi, Citizen, Paris does not stand still." He bit his lip. "But here, in this house?" "I am well, I have said so before." He turned as if to go. "And the Citoyenne Roche?" He had his voice in hand now, and the question had a careless ring. "Gone," said Rosalie curtly. In a flash that veil of carelessness had dropped. His hand fell heavily upon her shoulder. "Gone—where?" he asked tensely. "Where every one goes these days, these fine days. To prison, to the guillotine. They all go there." For a moment Dangeau’s heart stood still, then laboured so that his voice was beyond control. It came in husky gasps. "Dead—she is dead. Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" Rosalie was rocking to and fro, counting on her fingers. His emotion seemed to please her, for she gave a foolish smile. "She has a little white neck, very smooth and soft," she muttered. A terrible sound broke from Dangeau’s ghastly lips; a sound that steadied for a moment the woman’s tottering mind. She looked up curiously, as if recalling something, smoothed the hair from her forehead, and touched the rigid hand which lay upon her shoulder.