“Even if you could prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are not a spy, what you have heard while standing here is enough to condemn you to death. Knowing that you know what you do, they would not let you escape for fortunes.”
“Very pleasant information, indeed!” thought the boy, but he did not whisper the words for her to hear.
From that moment Frank’s impatience grew. The delay in escaping from the building might be fatal. If he could get out without further delay—if he could inform the police that these men were gathered here. Such a move might crush anarchy in Paris, and it was for his interest to have those men captured, executed, or imprisoned. Even if he escaped, they would not forget him, and they might follow like hounds on his track if he were to flee from France.
The anarchists were growing impatient. Some of them glanced toward the door, which was in the shadow of a heavy curtain. Why was Durant so long in the cellar? Surely he had taken time enough to finish his work twice over.
Novesky finished speaking and sat down. There was no applause, but the strange band fell to conversing in a subdued way. They did not drink, and they had the air of scholars and scientists.
Lenoir got upon his feet, and they gave him their attention. He flung back his long hair, struck an attitude, and recited a poem. It was about the wrongs of the masses and the red day that was coming when anarchy should triumph and the blood of aristocrats should flow like crimson rivers in the streets of Paris.
He sat down, and it was plain that his fiery words had wrought upon them. They showed it in their eyes, their faces, and their words and gestures. They shook hands with each other, and they nodded over what they had heard.
Then somebody asked for Durant, and all fell to wondering why he did not return from the cellar.
“He has had time enough twice over to finish the spy, drop him through the manhole into the sewer, and return,” said Vaugirad.
“That is true—quite true,” purred Montparnasse.