"The mood is gone, now that you are here." She took his arm, smiling up into his face. They strolled through the alleys of chestnut and maple, Nicole drawing her skirt across her, placing her feet daintily, shaking her head in pretended anger as from time to time a leaf fluttered against her cheek.
"And the Girondins, mon ami? You have told me nothing of them."
"It grows worse and worse for them. The Jacobins are relentless."
"Don't identify yourself too much with them, then."
"But that is cowardice."
"No. If the Girondins fall, all the more will the Nation need the Moderates," Nicole answered anxiously, for her one dread was of his impulsive nature. "Why play into the hands of our enemies?"
Leaving the gardens, they entered the Place de la Revolution. The vast square that had swarmed with the multitude on the day of the execution of the king was devoid of movement, except where a few curious, wandering toward the emplacement of the absent guillotine, streaked like insects across the placid expanse.
Nearing the plaster statue of Liberty, Nicole was attracted by the lank figure of a man.
"Look over there," she said, drawing Barabant's attention. "Wouldn't you say that it was Dossonville?"