THE LAST ON THE LIST As Nicole, in the hall of the Porte-Libre, stopped aghast at this apparition of their enemy, Cramoisin perceived her, and scuttling hurriedly forward, cried in triumph: "Bonjour, Nicole. What luck, eh? Well, aren't you going to say good day?" "Bonjour," she answered hastily. "And Barabant, too," he cried. "Better still, and so glad to see me! Bonjour, Barabant." "Ah, it's you, hypocrite!" Barabant answered scornfully. There was a movement of incredulity and alarm among the prisoners, who hastened to withdraw from them. Cramoisin, as though whipped across the face, fell back, scowling and cursing, while Nicole, seizing Barabant's arm, cried: "Barabant, what have you done?" "Nicole," he answered, "do you remember what Goursac said when they arrested him?" "No." "'They are liberating me.' Well, I too wish to be free. I have lived like a dog for months. That is ended. I will not cringe before this bully, who will send us to-morrow to the guillotine." "Then you are determined to die?" "Yes." "So be it." They took their places at the long table, huddling among the famished and the fever-racked, while the scullions brought in pails the revolting food. Anxious to learn the position of Cramoisin, Nicole was about to question her neighbor, an abbé whose kindly look encouraged her, when Cramoisin, suddenly appearing at her shoulder, exclaimed: "Eh, Nicole, my dear, if you want to know what I am doing here, ask me. I'll tell you. I am the secretary of the Conspiration. I keep a list of all the good conspirators and I see that they are rewarded. I bring good luck. I've been here but a week and we've guillotined forty!" "You know him?" the priest asked as the bully swaggered down the line, and Nicole perceived the slight movement with which he drew away. "He is our bitterest enemy." "Pardon," he murmured, regarding her with compassion. "We expect death," she answered quietly. "What he says is true," he added in a whisper. "Since he has been here they have taken forty of us. He makes out the lists every night. We live at his pleasure." "Does he live among us?" she asked, with a quickened interest. Again Cramoisin returned, strutting with bombastic gestures, crying to the room: "I am the friend of Fouquier. Fouquier promised me to-day that in two more weeks we could put out a sign, 'To let.' Isn't he kind to us, though? He's very sympathetic, is Fouquier. And I am his friend--I, Eugène Franz Cramoisin. He honors me with his confidence. Eat in peace. I'll speak to him about you. Don't worry." He swaggered on, vaunting his intimacy, loudly assuring them he brought good luck. Nicole anxiously repeated her question. "He keeps up the farce of being a prisoner," her neighbor answered. "Where does he lodge?" "Near you, where the new arrivals are put."