Next he casually turned the page. "Ciel! this calls for eleven. I have left but ten. They will think it a blunder. One will be wanting; that is all."
He used a little melted wax under the large seal, replaced the warrant in the outer cover, and returned the document to the pigeonhole whence he had taken it. This done, he sat down again, and began to write his report.
He found nothing to say, except that those he would have spoken of had been already disposed of; and now he thought again that he would burn the fatal paper. He rose resolute, but at this moment the head keeper came back.
François was sorry, but he was not used to writing, and made excuses until at last the man said impatiently:
"Well, thou must settle all that with Amar and Grégoire. I gave thee time enough." Could he have another chance? He was told that he should have it; but now it was supper-time; better not to be missing. He went out and up-stairs to his place at table.
He had lost his gaiety. Here and there at the table were the doomed men and women. He could not eat, and at last left the room to wander in the corridors. Pierre soon found him. He was eager, anxious, and full of strange news.
"When will that brute marquis be sent for? I was to go out to-day. They have forgotten. There is trouble in the Great Committee. I hear of it from Vaubertrand. Robespierre and Vadier think things go not fast enough; and the rest—the rest, except little cripple Couthon and Saint-Just, are opposing our great Robespierre."
François began to be interested, and to ask questions. The gazettes were no longer allowed in the prisons. The outer world was a blank to all within their walls.
Despard, flushed and eager, told him how daily the exit of the prisoners for trial was met by a mob clamorous for blood. Then he began to exhibit alarm. Did François think that he, Pierre, might by chance miss the execution of the marquis? He would speak to Grégoire, who was coming next morning. They should learn not to trifle with a friend of Robespierre. When François left him he was gesticulating, and, as he walked up and down the deserted corridor, was cracking his knuckles or gnawing his nails.
After supper the varied groups collected in the salon. The women embroidered. A clever artist was busy sketching the head of a girl of twenty for those she loved, who were to see her living face no more. Some played at cards. Here and there a man sat alone, waiting, stunned by the sure approach of death. The marquis was in gay chat with the Vicomte de Beauséjour.