"There are two things," he said insinuatingly, "which you could do, Theresia, either of which would place Robespierre under such lasting obligation to you that he would admit us into the inner circle of his friends, trust us and confide in us as he does in St. Just or Couthon."
"Trust you, you mean. He never would trust a woman."
"It means the same thing—security for us both."
"Well?" she rejoined. "What are these two things?"
He paused a moment, appeared to hesitate; then said resolutely:
"Firstly, there is Bertrand Moncrif . . . and his Fatalists——"
Her face hardened. She shook her head.
"I warned Robespierre about to-night," she said. "I knew that a lot of young fools meant to cause a fracas in the Rue St. Honoré. But the whole thing has been a failure, and Robespierre has no use for failures."
"It need not be a failure—even yet."
"What do you mean?"