of this copy in the first instance. The duplicate
will be compared with the original, and
possibly with the copy too, either by
Robespierre himself, or by some one in whom he
can place implicit trust, and will then be sent
to St. Lazare without passing through my
hands again. It will be read in public the
moment it is received, at the grating of the
prison, and will afterwards be kept by the
gaoler, who will refer to it as he goes round
in the evening with a piece of chalk, to mark
the cell doors of the prisoners destined for
the guillotine to-morrow. That duty happens,
to-day, to fall to the hunchback whom you
saw speaking to me. He is a confirmed
drinker, and I mean to tempt him with such
wine as he rarely tastes. If—after the reading
of the list in public, and before the marking
of the cell doors—I can get him to sit down
to the bottle, I will answer for making him
drunk, for getting the list out of his pocket,
and for wiping your names out of it with the
prescription you have just written for me. I
shall write all the names, one under another,
just irregularly enough in my duplicate to
prevent the interval left by the erasure from
being easily observed. If I succeed in this,
your door will not be marked, and your names
will not be called to-morrow morning when
the tumbrils come for the guillotine. In the
present confusion of prisoners pouring in
every day for trial, and prisoners pouring out
every day for execution, you will have the
best possible chance of security against
awkward enquiries, if you play your cards
properly, for a good fortnight or ten days at
least. In that time—"

"Well! well!" cried Trudaine eagerly.

Lomaque looked towards the tribunal door,
and lowered his voice to a fainter whisper
before he continued: " In that time,
Robespierre's own head may fall into the sack!
France is beginning to sicken under the
Reign of Terror. Frenchmen of the
Moderate faction, who have lain hidden for months
in cellars and lofts, are beginning to steal
out and deliberate by twos and threes together,
under cover of the night. Robespierre has
not ventured for weeks past to face the
Convention committee. He only speaks among
his own friends at the Jacobins. There are
rumours of a terrible discovery made by
Carhot, of a desperate resolution taken by
Tallien. Men watching behind the scenes, see
that the last days of the Terror are at hand.
If Robespierre is beaten in the approaching
struggle, you are saved—for the new reign
must be a Reign of Mercy. If he conquers, I
have only put off the date of your death and
your sister's, and have laid my own neck
under the axe. Those are your chances—
this is all I can do."

He paused, and Trudaine again
endeavoured to speak such words as might show
that he was not unworthy of the deadly risk
which Lomaque was prepared to encounter.
But once more the chief-agent peremptorily
and irritably interposed. "I tell you, for
the third time," he said, " I will listen to no
expressions of gratitude from you, till I know
when I deserve them. It in true that I recollect
your father's timely kindness to me—
true that I have not forgotten what passed,
five years since, at your house, by the riverside.
I remember everything, down to what
you would consider the veriest trifle—that
cup of coffee, for instance, which your sister
kept hot for me. I told you then that you
would think better of me some day. I know
that you do now. But this is not all. You
want to glorify me to my face for risking my
life for you. I won't hear you, because my
risk is of the paltriest kind. I am weary of
my life. I can't look back to it with pleasure.
I am too old to look forward to what
is left of it with hope. There was something
in that night at your house, before the
wedding—something in what you said, in what
your sister did—which altered me. I have
had my days of gloom and self-reproach, from
time to time, since then. I have sickened at
my slavery, and subjection, and duplicity, and
cringing, first under one master, then under
another. I have longed to look back at rny
life, and comfort myself with the sight of
some good action, just as a frugal man
comforts himself with the sight of his little
savings laid by in an old drawer. I can't do
this; and I want to do it. The want takes
me like a fit, at uncertain intervals,—
suddenly, under the most incomprehensible
influences. A glance up at the blue sky—starlight
over the houses of this great city, when I
look out at the night from my garret window
—a child's voice coming suddenly, I don't
know where from—the piping of my
neighbour's linnet in his little cage—now one
trifling thing, now another, wakes up that
want in me in a moment. Rascal as I am,
those few simple words your sister spoke to
the judge went through and through me like
a knife. Strange, in a man like me, isn't it?
I am amazed at it myself. My life? Bah!
I've let it out for hire, to be kicked about by
rascals from one dirty place to another, like a
football! It's my whim to give it a last kick
myself, and throw it away decently before it
lodges on the dunghill for ever. Your sister
kept a good cup of coffee hot for me, and I
give her a bad life in return for the compliment.
You want to thank me for it? What
folly! Thank me when I have done
something useful. Don't thank me for that!"
He snapped his fingers contemptuously as he
spoke, and walked away to the outer door,
to receive the gaoler, who returned at that
moment.

"Well," inquired the hunchback, " has
anybody asked for me?"

"No;" answered Lomaque, " not a soul
has entered the room. What sort of wine did
you get?"

"So-so! Good at a pinch, friend—good at
a pinch."