"Mercy!" she cried. "Have you forgotten to whom you owe your life? You did not scorn his mercy!"
Instead of the expected explosion, Javogues, without resentment, replied:
"Because I remembered that I did not listen when they told me Barabant was contre-révolutionnaire. I have done a great wrong: I considered myself instead of the Nation." He rose with the glance of the fanatic. "Yes, I am guilty—I, Javogues! But I will denounce myself. If the Nation decides that I must be punished, let my head warn others against moderation!"
"Javogues," cried Nicole, recoiling, "have you not a drop of human blood in you? Have you pity for nothing? Does not the sight of all the blood spilled on the guillotine satisfy you?"
"Satisfy me?" he laughed. He elevated his arms, repeating it with a clap of laughter. "That little pool of blood satisfy me? Only an inundation can purify France. Twenty executions a day would not satisfy me. The guillotine is too merciful for traitors. I would drown them by hundreds—these aristocrats—these rich—these Moderates who have crushed us for ages. If those we smite are not guilty, their fathers were! We must be revenged on the ages."
Then addressing Nicole furiously, he cried: "See here, my girl; if you talk of moderation, you'll go, too!"
There was a moment's silence. Then suddenly, from below, she heard the voice of Dossonville calling:
"Nicole! Ho, Nicole!"
Without was life; within the dim room, martyrdom.