The sound of that name in this spot, without pity, terrified Nicole; she now sought only an excuse to retreat. "What name's that?" cried a little man from the table. "Eugène Barabant? Wait a moment; wait a moment. Let me search." Couthon lounged to the side of the speaker, who, turning to his neighbor, demanded the list of suspects to be arrested, while Nicole, flattened against the wall, dazed by a sudden fear, remained trembling at the snatches of conversation that reached her. "A man offered me one thousand livres to-day if I'd slip in the name of his wife." "That was cheap!" "Héron is becoming insupportable. He's sent in the name of every one in his building. To-day it's the woman above him." "She makes too much noise, no doubt." "What's the difference? The Nation needs the funds. We must coin money on the Place de la Revolution; the guillotine is the mint of the Nation." "You're a financier." "I'm proud of it. Guillotine the rich--there's my finance." Couthon raised his head. "That's strange; I too thought I'd seen the name." The others, attracted by his exclamation, asked: "What name?" "Barabant. Eugène Barabant." A small man spoke up. "Denounced last night by the Citoyen Javogues and an old hag the size of a child. Do you remember?" A chorus of assent greeted him. "Barabant denounced!" Nicole cried. "Barabant denounced!" She extended her hand. "La Mère Corniche?" "That's the name." "Come, Nicole, a lover is easily replaced. I've sacrificed two already to the Nation," Couthon cried. "Don't lose your time; denounce your suspect. We are short to-night." "A pretty patriot like that has right to a dozen suspects," cried another, amid laughter. Overwhelmed, dizzy, and horror-stricken, she shook her head, felt with her hands until she found the door, and, backing from the room, fled from the house--fled back through the ghostly city. Goursac's door was opened; Geneviève herself, with solemn face flushed with the light of her candle, was waiting for her. "Tell me quick!" she cried, apprehending what had happened. "You know, then?" "Know what?" "Barabant has been arrested." She recoiled to the wall shrieking: "Arrested!" "An hour ago." "Where?" "Here." "Here? Then he came back?" "Yes." Without waiting to hear more, she fled to their room. The lantern he had lighted shone over the stone floor, the cheerless walls, and the kinks in the roof. It was all empty--terribly empty. On the bed she perceived the belt and the coat he had left. Forgetting her jealousy, her anger, her mission, remembering only that he had returned, knowing only that her dream was ended, she stretched out her helpless arms and cried: "Barabant! Barabant!" Then, overcome with hunger, weariness, and the ravages of her emotion, she slipped to the floor in a heap. VIII LA FÊTE DE LA RAISON