Suddenly a shadow glided past upon the wall. “No, no!” I muttered. “Name it, name it!” chuckled the jailer. The grinning _sans-culottes_ at the door echoed his demand vociferously. “Gardel!” I murmured faintly. The leading spirit had, characteristically, been the first to enter the breach. “Good,” croaked Cabochon, referring to his list. “Citizen shadow, you are marked for judgment.” I rose hurriedly from the stool. “I will no more of it!” I cried. “What!--already? My faith! a nerveless judge.” Instantly a figure pressed forward and took my place. “Pass, pass, good people!” it cried, “and _I_ will call the tale!” She sat there--the Marquise--her lips set in an acrid smile. Neither look nor word did she address to her forfeited servant. Another shadow passed. “Darviane!” she cried shrilly. “_Encore bien_,” roared Cabochon amidst shrieks of laughter. My God, what laughter! Milet, De Mérode, Fontenay--she named them all. They took their places by the door, skipping--half-hysterical. D’Aubiers, Monville--I cannot recall a moiety of them. It was a destructive list. Clélie also was in it--poor Clélie, the frail, I fear, but with the big heart. I fancied I noticed a harder ring in Madame’s voice as she identified her. I stood stupidly in the background. Presently I heard Cabochon-- “Enough! enough! The virtuous citizens would forestall the Executive.” He numbered up his list rapidly, counted his prisoners. They tallied. “To be repeated to-morrow,” he said. “It is good sport. But the guessers, it seems, remain.” He treated us to a grin and a clumsy bow, gave the order to form, and carried off his new batch to the baking. As the door clanged upon them I gave a deep gasp. I could not believe in the reality of my respite. For the thinned company the reaction had set in immediately: women were flung prostrate, on the table, over the benches, wailing out their desperate loss and misery. Madame made her way to me. The strange smile had not left her mouth. “You were on the list. I saw it in your face.” “I was at the bottom--the very last.” “But how----?” “As Cabochon struggled with me, I turned my name down and tore it off.” “But the number?” “It tallied. It was enough for him.” “They must find it out--to-morrow, when the prisoners are arraigned.” “Probably. And in the meantime we will drink to our poor Gardel’s acquittal.” “No,” she said, shrinking back, with an extraordinary look. “If I wish him well, I wish him eternal forgetfulness.” It was the evening of the day succeeding. Shorn of our partners in “Quadrille,” Madame and I had been playing “Piquet.” We were only two, but the four lights flickered in their bottles. La Marquise de Kercy had been musing. Suddenly she looked up. Her eyes were full of an inhuman mockery. “The candles!” she said, with a little laugh. “We are no longer using them. To save my pocket, François!”