"And?"
"Ascend the scaffold two days after," said the prisoner in conclusion, apparently resigned to his fate.
"Then it may be one of us, mamma?" asked Thérèse, bursting into tears.
Clarisse tried to master her emotion.
"No..." she said. "It's too soon ... isn't it? ... tell her..."
And she implored Olivier with a look.
"How can one know?" he said, driven to distraction.
"Oh no! ... I assure you! ... You will see.... It is impossible! ..."
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—