"Confound it! you are difficult."
And now, as François recalled their talk, his task was not more easy. He nibbled the end of his quill, and looked around him. At last, as he walked to and fro, he began to exercise his natural inquisitiveness. It was never long quiet. He stared at the barred windows. A set of pigeonholes attracted him. He glanced hastily over their contents. "Tiens!" he exclaimed.
Every day or two, about 3 P.M., a clerk of the Committee of Safety brought a great envelop stamped with the seal of the republic. Within was a paper on which were clearly set out the names and former titles of the citizen prisoners selected for trial the night before in joint counsel by the Great Committee and that of Security. The keeper copied each name on to the space in the blank summons kept for this use, and these fatal papers were then duly delivered after supper.
François looked at the packet. It was sealed. He knew well what it meant. It was labeled: "Mandate of the Tribunals Nos. 4 and 5."
"Toto, we may be among them; we must see." He looked about him. Here were all the writing-table implements then in use. He heated a knife, and neatly loosened the under wax of the seal. The death-call lay before him. He ran over it with shuddering haste.
"Dieu! we are not there. But, mon ami, here is the marquis!" His was the last name at the foot of the first page. François sat still, his face in his hands. At any moment he might be caught. He did not heed.
"I must do it," he said. He saw, as it were before him, the appealing face of the dead woman, and felt in remembrance the hand the great seigneur had given him on the stair. He had a glad memory of a moment which had lifted him on to the higher levels of self-esteem and manhood.
"I will do it, Toto; 't is to be risked; and, mon Dieu! the rest—the rest of them!" Some he knew well. Some had been kind to him. One had given him clothes when these were greatly needed. He was profoundly moved.
"If I burn it, 't is but to give them a day, and no more—if I burn it!"
He took scissors from the table, and carefully cut off the half-inch at the foot of the paper. It was now without the name "Ste. Luce, ci-devant marquis." He tore up the strip of paper, and put the fragments in the fireplace, behind the unkindled logs.