"What, after this evening?" "Citoyen," she cried, "he is in a delirium! It was the fever." "Yes, indeed." "Citoyen, he admitted to me that it was unjust." "He shall go. You I'll keep." "Citoyen Cramoisin," Nicole said coldly, "you can never make me belong to you, if that is your purpose. You are not Javogues, and I killed Javogues. Do you understand?" Before the fire in her eyes Cramoisin shrank away, mumbling: "You are more difficult than the women of the aristocrats." "I give you my secret!" Nicole cried in despair. "Use it for your own good. I did not kill Javogues because he pursued me; I killed him to destroy a tyrant. Place my name there instead of Barabant's, and I will affirm it before the Tribunal. You will have the credit of discovering a plot. Fouquier will reward you." "Is that your secret?" Cramoisin said contemptuously. "Nothing new in that." "What! You knew," she cried, "and held back my name?" "Bah! When one is dead, one is no longer a patriot." "Citoyen Cramoisin, listen. If you will put my name on the list instead of Barabant's, I'll give you all the money I have." To her joy, he looked up with a sudden interest. "How much have you?" "Twenty livres." At the mention of this amount, which Nicole had managed to preserve, his eye became eloquent; but suddenly controlling himself, he asked: "Paper?" "Gold." "You have it with you?" "Yes." "Let's see it." "When you agree." "It is right to be merciful," he said at last, with a sigh. "But I cannot spare him more than one day." "For a week?" she pleaded. He shook his head. "Six days--five?" "Impossible!" "Cramoisin, for pity's sake, four?" "Never, never!" "Cramoisin, by your hope of salvation!" "I'll give you three; not another hour." He stretched out his hand. "No; erase first." He took off the name of Barabant and substituted, "The woman Nicole." "What did you write?" "The woman Nicole." "Put the Citoyenne Nicole Barabant." "What! You are his wife?" "Put it down." "There! Give me the money." "And you will keep Barabant's name until the 10th of Thermidor?" she said solemnly. "Yes." "Swear it." "I swear it." "On your honor." "There, on my honor, then! Give me the money." She gave it to him, and suddenly casting herself on her knees, she cried hysterically: "Thanks, thanks! You have a heart, I know. You will keep your word. You can pity. You can be merciful. Thanks! Thanks!" Catching the ugly, cruel hands in hers, she covered them with her kisses and her tears. Then, escaping, she fled down the corridor, returning to bed, but not to sleep. * * * * * In the morning Barabant awoke, to find her eyes open and the sunlight in the room. "How well I slept!" he said, springing up. Going to the window, he spread his hands into the beam of the sun that entered. "That feels good. Tiens, you have a strange look! What is it? You are not afraid?" "No," she answered, smiling. "Well, what then?"