He dare not go back to Paris, he dare not go on to Bourg-la-Reine; there was nothing but to creep back to the disused quarries and hide there till perhaps the Robespierre tyranny fell; he had hoped at first to find means to fly to England, but without money that had proved impossible. Still, the idea returned to him now; it would be better to risk all on that than to return to the quarries; he resolved to push on to the coast; there were several people on the way who would help him could he but reach them; the food and rest had put new daring into him; under the very eyes of two of the men who would deliver him to instant and horrible death if they knew him did he plan calmly his future means of escape. It occurred to him that this might be the last chance of food for some while and he was again hungry. When the woman re-entered, attending to the wants of the citizens of Bourg-la-Reine, he beckoned to her and asked her in a low tone to prepare him an omelette before he set out on his journey. Then, fearful that she might deny him, under the impression that he could not pay, he took one of his silver pieces out of his pocket and laid it on the table. The woman looked at the money and at him. “You can stay the night, if you wish, for that,” she said. “No, citizeness,” he answered. “I must get on.” “Lodging is dearer in Bourg-la-Reine,” she said. “And what is your need to hasten?” “I was told of a possible place,” he said. “Likely they will take you!” she glanced at him pityingly. Looking beyond her he saw that the two men had stopped their conversation and were watching him. The woman moved away and one of the men (he of the tricolour) stopped her. “The citizen over there is not very prosperous looking,” he remarked. “Who is he?” “A servant looking for a place, citizen.” “He speaks,” was the answer, “like an aristocrat.” “He has lived with them, I believe, citizen.” “Has he?” The important man glanced at his companion, who struck his knee softly and cried– “‘Suspect!’–on the face of it! What did he order–an omelette?” The other stroked his rough chin and spoke to the woman. “Ask the citizen-servant how many eggs go to his omelette!” She stared. “_I_ know, citizen.” “Certainly, citizeness, but does he? Ask him.” Condorcet had not heard this conversation which was spoken very low and in the patois of the neighbourhood; he feared, however, that it might be about him, and was therefore relieved to hear the simple question the woman put to him when she returned to his little table by the window. “How many eggs will you have to your omelette, citizen?” “A dozen,” answered the Marquis. He saw instantly by the expression of the woman’s face that he had said the wrong thing. “A dozen eggs!” she echoed. “Is not that the right number, citizeness?” She retreated from him and went to the other two men with amazement and suspicion in her face. “He said–a dozen eggs,” she repeated. The official smiled.