Edmé gave a glance toward the door that led down the staircase taken by La Liberté. It stood invitingly open, but to gain it she would have to pass the door that communicated with the tribunal. This also was open. She started on tiptoe across the floor. The words "Bring me a light here, will you?" fell upon her ears in a harsh tone of authority. She started at this sudden command. She had made no noise, yet the mysterious personage seemed to be aware of her presence. "In the next room there, whoever you are, bring in more light; this lamp burns villainously!" Edmé hesitated no longer but caught up the lamp from the table and entered the tribunal chamber. As she obediently placed the light upon the desk the man who was writing there looked up with impatient gesture. Although she had never seen him before, she had heard him described many times, and she knew that he was Robespierre. "Well!" he exclaimed, "who are you?" "I--I am here in place of the Citizeness Privat." "The Citizeness Privat?" "Yes, she cleans up the rooms, and being ill"-- "Cleans!" repeated Robespierre with a laugh, blowing the dust from the top of the table, "Is that what you call it? This Privat is like all the rest, willing to take the nation's pay and give nothing in return. And you are also like the rest, eh?" "I do not know what you mean. I am doing her work as well as I can. With your permission I will hasten to complete my task," replied Edmé. In spite of her abhorrence of him she could not help looking at him intently, her eyes expressing the horror which she felt. To her, he was the embodiment of all that was evil, the very spirit of the Revolution. As her glance rested upon the white waistcoat, fitting close to his meagre figure, and as she thought of the cruel heart that beat beneath it, the vision of Charlotte Corday and the vile Marat flashed before her eyes with startling vividness. What if heaven had decreed that she should be the means of ridding the world of this monster? What if the opportunity was about to present itself? She pushed the thought away from her, with the inward supplication, "God keep me from doing it." Robespierre noticed the look of horror on her face, and attributed it to the fear his presence inspired. His small eyes blinked complacently. "Stay," he said; "you have nothing to fear if you are a good patriotic citizeness. And you may be pardoned if you neglect your work for a few minutes to converse with Robespierre." There was an insinuating softness in his tone as he spoke that made her nerves creep and increased her loathing for him. He sat leaning back negligently in his chair, and she stood looking down upon him like some superb creature from another world. "By the power of beauty," he exclaimed suddenly, "you are a glorious woman! I have always said that only among women of the people is true beauty to be found." She neither moved nor spoke, but stood still as a statue.