ut there was further inquiry still, more subtle questioning. Lucien
Bruslart was condemned to die; to-morrow, a week hence, no one knew yet
when it would be, but certain it was that one day soon his name would be
in the list; then the last ride and the end. He was in despair one
moment, mad for revenge the next. Latour had come at his bidding to
defend him, not for his sake but for his own, and he had failed. He
could ruin Latour probably, why should he not do so? For one instant the
good that is in every man, deep buried though it be, struggled to the
surface and he shrank back from the thought, yet again revenge filled
his soul, and there came the lust to drag others down with him, Latour,
Jeanne, Pauline, and this cursed American. He hated them all. Why should
they live if he was to die?

Why should he die? Perhaps there would be no need. It was a subtle
suggestion in his ears, no fancy whispering to him, but a real voice. A
man in authority had entered his prison to talk to him. True, Citizen
Bruslart had been condemned, and justly, for he had not acted as a true
patriot should, but mercy was always possible. His prison doors might
yet open again if he would tell the whole truth. There were many
questions asked; many answers given; true answers some of them, but all
fashioned to save Lucien Bruslart from the guillotine, no matter who
else they might send to it. Yes, that was all he knew; was it enough to
save him? Patience. He must wait a little. It seemed enough. So there
was hope in the mean little soul of Lucien Bruslart, even though the
prison doors were still closed upon him.

With the gathering night came a cyclone. Against Pauline Vaison there
could be no accusation, no matter what the prisoner Bruslart had said,
she was the darling of the mob; but for the others, the deputy, the
aristocrat, and the American, there could be no mercy. Somewhere in
Paris the American was hiding, he would be found presently. Latour had
slunk away that day, many had seen him go; it was a pity he had not been
stopped then, the hunt for him must begin at once. As for the woman,
this emigre, they knew where she was. Pauline Vaison had suggested the
place, so had the prisoner Bruslart. Forward, citizens! Here are the
officers who will arrest her; patriots may well go with them and
rejoice. There will be no mistake this time.

Dancing, singing, filling the roadway and making the night hideous, the
mob passed along the Rue Valette, f