"That's what I am doing. I've been to Beauvais, playing the aristocrat, and doing it so well that one cursed head is already being carried to Paris by its owner, and others will follow."
Jeanne crouched on the stairs, holding her breath.
"Long live Mercier!" came the cry.
There was an instant's silence, then a thud as a man jumped from a cask, overturning it as he did so.
"The woman upstairs! The peasant woman! There are plenty of heads in Paris. Why not to-night, here, outside the Lion d'Or? Madame Guillotine is not the only method for aristocrats."
There was a shout of acclamation, a sudden rush to the room door. A man staggering with the drink in him, fell upon the threshold, bringing two or three companions down with him.
"Stop!" Mercier cried, suddenly sober, it seemed. "She's a peasant, my witness against an aristocrat. I'll shoot the first man who goes to her."
This was dangerous acting surely.
Jeanne had started back as the rush was made. Should she make an attempt to reach the inn door and flee into the night, or rush to her room and lock herself in? Her room, it was safer. They would fight among themselves, whether she was to be disturbed or not. Locked in her room she would at least have a moment for thought. The decision came too late. She had not seen any one reach the stairs, but even as she turned a man was beside her—touching her.