At No. 38 they groped into the entrance, feeling the walls with their hands. The crow set up a raucous crying, while la Mère Corniche appeared at the door, shading her candle to discover their approach. They passed on through the first court to the bottom of the staircase, where a single torch flickered in its bracket. Nicole held out her hand, averting her face. "Good night, Barabant, and until to-morrow." The hour, the place, the torch that allowed her body to melt into the shadow and illuminated only the eyes, the lips, and the smile that tempted him with the mystery of what it hid, overcame his resolutions. He caught her by the wrists and drew her toward him. Nicole gave a little cry, resisting feebly. "I cannot understand you," he cried fiercely. "What are you? What do you feel? Do you love me or do you not?" She answered faintly, struggling against his arms: "Let me go." "Nicole, dear Nicole, I love you, I adore you." "No, no, no!" He released her, and throwing himself at her feet, he stretched up his hands to her, crying: "Look, look!" Nicole, with her hand to her cheek half turned from him, could not but believe. In his eyes she saw the tears appear, and moved, despite herself, by his emotion, she took his forehead between her palms, saying softly: "Calm thyself, Barabant." "You love me; you do, you do!" he cried. He caught her hand in his and repeated, as only the lover knows how: "I love you! I love you! I love you!" She pressed her hands to her eyes to steady herself. "And how long will it last?" she said solemnly, her voice reverberating in the hollow of the silent hall. "Three months, Barabant? And then--" "For life--forever!" Nicole shook her head incredulously, but her breast rose in long, tumultuous breaths, trembling with the memory of the word. He mounted the stairs, turned and held out his hand to her. She dared not look at him, for victory was in his eyes. "Nicole, Nicole!" Then she looked at him, her hands to her throat, fallen back against the wall. He smiled to her, waiting confidently. Up the dark ascent was love, mystery, anguish, jealousy, doubt,--but always love. She moved a step toward him, fascinated and drawn on, until their fingers touched. Then suddenly she shrank away, and with a cry, spreading out her hands to screen him from her sight, she fled. Only the instinct had survived, but the instinct had conquered. XI THE MAN WITH THE LANTERN Then between Nicole and Barabant began one of those subtle conflicts of the sexes in which the one who loves the more unselfishly is foredoomed to defeat. Until the night of the execution Nicole had combated the very thought of love. Her flight at the staircase was the last spark of resistance. She had drunk of the cup, the poison was in her veins. The next morning she resigned herself to the bitter, determined, cost what it might, to have her hour of happiness.