It was Barassin returning from the registrar's office. He opened the grating and entered, then drew back in bewilderment at the sight of Robespierre on the ground, his head buried in his hands. The watchman at once thought that he must have fallen asleep on the chair, and slipped on to the paved courtyard. He laid down his lantern, and tried to raise the Incorruptible. Robespierre awoke and lifted his haggard eyes. At sight of the man he violently pushed him away. "I see, you're not quite awake yet!" laughed Barassin. Robespierre rubbed his eyes, and looked anxiously around. "You've had a dream? ... A nightmare, eh?" "Yes!" answered Robespierre, now himself again. "I have had a fearful dream." Then rising with difficulty, he fell exhausted on the chair which the watchman held out to him. Barassin now told Robespierre the result of his quest. They had interrogated the prisoners, from bed to bed. The young man he sought was not among them. Robespierre, still uneasy, and casting anxious and furtive glances in every corner, expressed his thanks. Suddenly he rose and seized Barassin by the arm. "Are we alone, here?" he asked. "Why, yes!" answered the man in some surprise. "Then let us go!" said Robespierre, impatiently, "let us go at once!" Barassin took his lantern, and walked in front. "This way!" he said, opening the wicket through which they had entered. In the gallery Robespierre again seized the man's arm, and bent forward to see if the way was clear; then feeling immense relief, he rushed towards the exit, almost running, and followed with difficulty by Barassin, who with the lantern dangling in his hand could scarcely keep pace with him. "Hallo! Citoyen Robespierre!" he panted, "you're going too fast!" But the Incorruptible continued his headlong flight. CHAPTER XII THE EVE OF THE BATTLE Robespierre could breathe again. He was once more in the open, the silent stars above him, the Seine flecked with white bars of reflected moonlight, flowing at his feet. But he dared not linger there. He turned quickly, and darted along close to the walls, fearing that for him, as once for Fouquier-Tinville, the water would take the crimson hue of blood. By slow degrees he became calmer. Refreshing gusts of cool night air fanned his fevered brow, and restored him to reality. He thought of Olivier again. If he were not in the Conciergerie, where could he be?