Dangeau recognised him with a movement of half-contemptuous pity. It was Duval, the actor who had taken to politics and drink, and sold his soul for a bribe of Robespierre's.
Tinville plucked him down with a curse.
"Tiens, Duval, you grow too mad," he said angrily. "You and your beyond. What should there be?"
"If there were,—Hell," muttered Duval, with shaking lips. Tinville banged the table.
"Am I to have all the Salpêtrière here?" he shouted. "Have n't we cut off enough priests' heads yet? I tell you we have abolished Heaven, and Purgatory, and Hell, and all the rest of those child's tales."
A murmur of applause ran round. Duval's hand went to his breast, and drew out a flask. He drank furtively, and leaned back again.
Dangeau was moving away, but he turned for a moment, the old sparkle in his eyes.
"My felicitations, Tinville," he observed with a casual air.
"On what?"
Dangeau smiled politely.