Barabant, recommencing his tedious pacing, returned to the Rue St. Antoine, where the sound of light footsteps warned him of the approach of a woman or a child. "Can it be Nicole?" he thought hopefully, but his spirits fell as the woman came on doubtfully in a wavering line. "Good evening, citoyenne," he said gallantly. "There are not many of your sex abroad to-night, and alone." The woman gave the countersign, "The 10th of August." Barabant, seeing that she was not inclined to enter into a conversation, cried: "Take pity on the patriot, citoyenne. The hours are dull." But the woman, with only a slight shake of her head, passed quickly on. Barabant, thus repulsed, grumbled to himself: "She is neither young nor pretty or she would have stopped." But remembering the sentry he had left, he continued: "Perhaps it is the fair one with the broken head. If it is, she doesn't seem any too eager. No, she's turned away." Suddenly he drew himself up with an exclamation. He saw the woman halt as with the twinkle of a lantern the figure of a man joined her, while to his astonishment she drew back in evident shrinking from her new companion. Barabant, who had followed this scene with such intentness as to have become unaware of his surroundings, suddenly bounded back at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. "What vigilance, Citoyen Barabant! What a model sentry!" It was Louison who had stolen on him silently, and now stood mocking him. To Barabant the apparition was so in keeping with the strange impression which the girl had made on him that he was too startled to answer immediately. "Why are you always afraid of me?" Louison said impatiently. "It isn't pleasant to inspire terror." Barabant excused himself, recounting the scene he had just witnessed; but Louison, not to be put off, returned to her question. "So I inspire you with fear?" "The expression is exaggerated," Barabant returned evasively. "Come, frankly, there is something about me that has repelled you?" She continued seeking the answer herself. "Was it the day we went to the flower-market and I pretended anger? That was but play." Her eyes sought his face, as though she could find its expression despite the darkness. All at once she said, "It was at the guillotine?" "That's true." "I knew it; but why? I don't understand," she said almost angrily. "What is there about me that gives such an impression? I am not conscious of it." "First, answer me this," Barabant said, "and frankly. At an execution you have no feeling of pity or horror, have you?" "No," she answered thoughtfully. "Why?" "Because it is too evident." "How do I seem?" she said quickly. "You seem utterly indifferent to any human suffering." "That is true," she said slowly. "It is not only that," Barabant continued, "but--how shall I say it? There seemed to be almost a fascination to you in the spectacle that ordinarily sickens the human heart."