Then, while la Mère Corniche and the three were silent in helpless rage, the crowd, which adored Barabant, surrounded him, slapping him on the shoulders, shaking his hand, congratulating him. With one accord the shout went up: "Vive Barabant!" When the shouting died, Nicole heard the rasping voice of Goursac saying to his captors with triumphant sarcasm: "I see no further need of delay; proceed." VII THE MADNESS OF JEALOUSY The victory was to the woman, but it was a victory fraught with menace. Nicole understood her danger, but in her anxiety she adopted the wrong defense. On the stairway she infolded Barabant with her arm, seeking to communicate to his depressed body the gaiety and relief in hers, while with all the artifices of the woman who feels herself menaced she sought to belittle the importance of the scene, little realizing the deep wound to the pride of Barabant. "It was for me you did it," she whispered. "You would not leave me. I alone understood." He did not answer, and once in their room, fell into a chair, burying his head in his hands. Alarmed at his obstinate silence, Nicole, groping for the right attitude, began to reason, walking the floor in her earnestness. "After all, mon ami, that is what the Terrorists want--to guillotine the Moderates. Goursac was foolish; he played into the hands of his enemies. You are wise. The duty of the Moderates is to keep silent, to preserve themselves for the good of the Nation. How can you serve the Nation without your head? The times will change, mon ami, and you'll be here to help set things aright." "Oh, that voice," cried Barabant, "I hear it always." "Mon ami, you are suffering!" she exclaimed. "I know. I understand." She threw herself at his feet, trying to separate his hands, seeking to take his head upon her shoulder; but Barabant resisted, saying: "No, Nicole, no; leave me to myself." "Don't put me away," she begged. "You are suffering; let me share it." He took her hands from his neck and compelled her to rise. She went to the window, twice turning to look at the dejected figure that remained unaware of her glances. "I have made a blunder. Yes, I have made a blunder," she said to herself, pressing her hand against her lips to quell the rising sob. "He blames me." The next morning she received another shock when he informed her that he wished to be alone all day. "Then we don't lunch together?" she cried, frightened. "Not to-day." Not daring to contradict him, she let him go without a word. "He blames me. He blames me," she told herself, until all at once, like a thunderclap, came the thought: "Or is it only a pretext?"