The good dame poured out her lamentations with all the loose-lipped volubility her halting tongue was capable of, so as to get them all finished by the time her son, whose pride would not brook such whining, should reappear. She was bent on attaining her object in the shortest possible time,--that of touching a lady whom she deemed rich and influential, and enlisting her sympathy in her boy's future. She felt sure that Evariste's good looks were an asset on her side to move the heart of a well-born lady. And so they were; the _citoyenne_ Rochemaure proved tender-hearted and was melted to think of Evariste's and his mother's sufferings. She made plans to alleviate them; she had rich men amongst her friends and would get them to buy the artist's pictures. "The truth is," she added, with a smile, "there is still money in France, but it keeps in hiding." Better still, now Art was ruined, she would obtain Evariste a post in Morhardt's bank or with the Brothers Perregaux, or a place as clerk in the office of an army contractor. Then she reflected that this was not what a man of his character needed; and, after a moment's thought, she nodded in sign that she had hit the nail on the head: "There are still several jurymen left to be appointed on the Revolutionary Tribunal. Juryman, magistrate, that is the thing to suit your son. I have friendly relations with the Committee of Public Safety. I know Robespierre the elder personally; his brother frequently sups at my house. I will speak to them. I will get a word said to Montane, Dumas, Fouquier." The _citoyenne_ Gamelin, bursting with excitement and gratitude, put a finger to her lip; Evariste was coming back into the studio. He escorted the _citoyenne_ Rochemaure down the gloomy staircase, the steps of which, whether of wood or tiled, were coated with an ancient layer of dirt. On the Pont-Neuf, where the sun, now near its setting, threw a lengthened shadow from the pedestal that had borne the Bronze Horse and was now gay with the National colours, a crowd of men and women of the people gathered in little groups were listening to some tale that was being told them. Consternation reigned and a heavy silence, broken at intervals by groans and fierce cries. Many were making off at a rapid pace in the direction of the Rue de Thionville, erstwhile Rue Dauphine; Gamelin joined one of these groups and heard the news--that Marat had just been assassinated. Little by little the tidings were confirmed and particulars became known; he had been murdered in his bath by a woman who had come expressly from Caen to commit the crime. Some thought she had escaped; but the majority declared she had been arrested. There they stood like sheep without a shepherd, thinking sadly: