ugh the one room, and come to the other. It is a room
with one small barred window. If he is there, I will say a word to him
that I have wait long to say, then shut the door on us both--for I am
sick of life--and watch him and laugh at him till the end comes. If he
is in the other room, then I have another way as sure--"

He paused, exhausted, and I waited till he could again go on. At last he
made a great effort, and continued: "I go back to the first room, and
he is not there. I pass soft, to the treasure-room, and I see him kneel
beside a chest, looking in. His back is to me. I hear him laugh to
himself. I shut the door, turn the key, go to the window and throw it
out, and look at him again. But now he stand and turn to me, and then I
see--I see it is not Bigot, but M'sieu' Doltaire!

"I am sick when I see that, and at first I can not speak, my tongue
stick in my mouth so dry. 'Has Voban turn robber?' m'sieu' say. I put
out my hand and try to speak again--but no. 'What did you throw from the
window?' he ask. 'And what's the matter, my Voban?' 'My God,' I say at
him now, 'I thought you are Bigot!' I point to the floor. 'Powder!' I
whisper.

"His eyes go like fire so terrible; he look to the window, take a quick
angry step to me, but stand still. Then he point to the window. 'The
key, Voban?' he say; and I answer, 'Yes.' He get pale; then he go and
try the door, look close at the walls, try them--quick, quick, stop,
feel for a panel, then try again, stand still, and lean against the
table. It is no use to call; no one can hear, for it is all roar
outside, and these walls are solid and very thick.

"'How long?' he say, and take out his watch. 'Five minutes--maybe,' I
answer. He put his watch on the table, and sit down on a bench by it,
and for a little minute he do not speak, but look at me close, and not
angry, as you would think. 'Voban,' he say in a low voice, 'Bigot was
a thief.' He point to the chest. 'He stole from the King--my father.
He stole your Mathilde from you! He should have died. We have both been
blunderers, Voban, blunderers,' he say; 'things have gone wrong with us.
We have lost all.' There is little time. 'Tell me one thing,' he go on:
'Is Mademoiselle Duvarney safe--do you know?' I tell him yes, and he
smile, and take from his pocket something, and lay it against his lips,
and then put it back in his breast.

"'You are not afraid to die, Voban?' he ask. I answer no. 'Shake hands
with me, my frie