And still she murmured brokenly: "You will see.... It is impossible! ..." The Recorder of the Revolutionary Tribunal now passed the grating, accompanied by Haly, the concierge, and followed by turnkeys and gendarmes, who, on entering the courtyard, formed themselves in line. The Recorder was a little man, fat and full-blooded, his face twisted into a sly, ugly smile. He seemed highly amused at the spectacle, and seated himself under the acacia, talking to the concierge, who seemed surprised to see him, and said-- "I thought the Tribunal would not sit to-morrow on account of the Festival of the Supreme Being?" "You are right! But they will sit the day after to-morrow. You understand, I want to be free to-morrow and to take part in the festival...." And with a cynical laugh he called for a glass of wine, which he emptied at a draught. "Attention! We must begin business!" he said; and with this he unfolded the paper, the terrible paper, wherein the fate of the victims had been decided in advance. But the day was near its close, the Recorder could not see, and had to ask for a lantern. The courtyard was full now. Prisoners from the neighbouring yards had assembled in answer to the call. All this little world was affected by various feelings; some were resigned, some hopeful, some indifferent or frightened as they looked at the messenger of death, who seemed quite unconscious of his ignominy. What names would fall from his lips? There were some, worn out and weary, looking forward to death as a release, who would have willingly put theirs into his mouth. Others, more feeble, who were undergoing the full horrors of suspense, stood in breathless fear, almost choked with anguish. Oh! that horrible hope of hearing another's name called, rather than one's own! And yet... The Recorder was becoming impatient. "Where is that lantern!" he shouted. "Is every one asleep here?" A few of the prisoners had refrained from joining the anxious crowd; either from habit or indifference, without disturbing themselves, they continued playing or conversing as before. Clarisse and Thérèse were seated at a little distance, their eyes fixed on the dread official, while Olivier, standing near, ready to defend them, watched the affecting scene with strained anxiety. The Recorder was swearing now. "Is that cursed lantern never coming? So much the worse! I shall commence without it." And he rose and tried to decipher the names in the dark. "The first name is Bour ... no, Lour..." Here a voice interrupted him in indignant protest. "Oh! don't read like that! You double their sufferings. It is horrible! too horrible!" It was Olivier. "Who dares to speak here?" thundered the Recorder. Clarisse desperately pulled her son by the arm. "I implore you! ... my child! ... I do implore you!" At that moment some one appeared with a light. "Ah! there's the lantern!" cried the concierge.