On the third day our deadman came to us with a copy of the ‘Moniteur’ in his hand. He pointed silently to a name in the list of the latest executed. Carinne turned to me with pitiful eyes. “_Ah, le pauvre Crépin!_” I cried, in great emotion. “What can one hope but that death came to him passionately, as he desired!” * * * * * * * “Citizen Gusman, we are resolved. We must go forth, if it is only to perish. We can endure this damning gloom no longer.” He looked down on us as we sat, this genii of the torch. His face was always framed to our vision in a lurid wreath; was the sport of any draught that swayed the leaping fire. Submitted to daylight, his features might have resolved themselves into expressionlessness and immobility. To us they were ever shifting, fantastic, possessed with the very devils of the underworld. “Well,” he said at length--“I owe the citizeness a debt of gratitude; but--_sang Dieu!_ after all I might repudiate it when the keg threatened to suck dry. I am myself only when I am not myself. That would be a paradox in the world above there, eh? At least the moment is opportune. They hunt counter for thee, Thibaut. For the wench--she is not in their minds, nor associated in any manner with thee. That lends itself to an artifice. The idea tickles me. _Sang Dieu!_ Yes, I will supply thee with a passport to Calais. Wait!” He went from us. We knew better than to interrupt or question him; but we held together during his absence and whispered our hopes. In less than half an hour he returned to us, some papers grasped in his hand. “Observe,” said he. “It is not often, after a harvest of death, that the _glaneurs_ of the Municipality overlook a stalk; yet now and again one will come to me. Citizen Tithon Riouffe, it appears, meditated a descent upon _la maudite Angleterre_. He had his papers, signed and countersigned, for himself, and for his wife Sabine, moreover. It is lucky for you that he proved a rascal, for they shaved him nevertheless. What Barrère had granted, St Just rendered nugatory. But, if they took his head, they left him his passports, and those I found in his secret pocket.” He broke off, with a quick exclamation, and peered down at me, holding the torch to my face. “Mother of God!” he cried--“I will swear there is something a likeness here! I have a mind to fetch the head and set it to thine, cheek by jowl! _Hé bien, comment, la petite babiole_--that disturbs her! Well, well--take and use the papers, then, and, with discretion, ye shall win free!” Carinne caught at the rough hand of our preserver and kissed it. “Monsieur, thou art a deadman angel!” she cried; and broke into a little fit of weeping. His lids fell. I saw his throat working. He examined his hand as if he thought something had stung it. “Yes, she is very pretty,” he muttered. “I think I would give my life for her.” Then he added, vaguely: “_Chou pour chou_--I will take it out in Hollands.” CHAPTER XV. THE SALAD COURSE.