Steps were heard advancing, and the turnkey made his reappearance. The registrar had gone away and taken the keys with him. It was impossible to get at the prison register. He then suggested that Robespierre should go with him to the men's ward. "Let us awake the prisoners. If the man you seek is there you will easily recognize him." The Incorruptible refused, starting involuntarily. He had no wish to be seen by the prisoners. Then, there was but one course left. Barrassin might accompany him, and speak to the men's turnkey, who would look for this Germain from bed to bed, and Barassin would bring back to Robespierre the result of the inquiry, as he himself had to return to his post. Robespierre would have to wait a little while, of course. And Collas moved the watchman's chair towards him. "Very good! I will wait, but be quick!" The two men went away, turning to the left, through the small gate, which Barassin carefully closed behind him. Robespierre followed the watchman with his eyes. "Happy brute! He can sleep in peace!" he exclaimed. So this man's sleep was not disturbed by such horrible visions as haunted Robespierre! But then, as the watchman said, _he_ had not killed the victims; his name had not been inscribed on these walls as a term and brand of infamy and hatred. That writing on the wall seemed to be dancing before his eyes. "Robespierre, assassin; your turn will come!" So this was the cry which rose from every breast! If he was vanquished in the morrow's struggle, if he had to ascend the scaffold without having accomplished the act of social regeneration of which he had so long dreamt, he would leave behind him the execrated memory of a despot and bloodthirsty tyrant! His name would be coupled with all the monsters of history! Robespierre would be cited by posterity side by side with Nero, Caligula, Tiberius! Stepping slowly towards the watchman's seat, he sat down sideways, his eyes fixed, like a somnambulist's, and his arm resting on the back of the chair, as he repeated in a low murmur-- "Your turn will come!" Almost the same dread, ominous words had the night before forced him to start up suddenly, and impelled him to rush towards the window of his room. "Arise, Robespierre, arise? Your hour has come!" It was the shade of Camille Desmoulins that had uttered the grim summons! Camille, accompanied by his wife, the pale and sweet Lucile, sought to draw him to them, to drag him along with them on the blood-strewn way to which they had been doomed! But the phantoms had all vanished with the refreshing dawn. It was fever, of course! He was subject to it; it peopled his sleep with harrowing visions and fearful dreams. But these were nothing but excited hallucinations, creatures of his overwrought brain....