"Ten straws a point!" exclaimed Bellecour. "Dame, it seems to me I know his face. Where have I met you, sir?"
"De Lincy, pardieu!" Grancey echoed, scrutinising the new-comer's features. "Friend Germain, this is a sorry place to welcome you, but you will find it brighter than you think; there are wit, forgetfulness, society, and some happiness, even in the Conciergerie. Wait until you get up to the corridor to-morrow; you will meet enough of your friends to hold a respectable reception."
Still Germain could not answer. They did not realise his sorrow and embarrassment in the presence of the old friends to whose friendship he felt he had no right. His head remained bent. Of a sudden the candle flickered out and relieved him of the need of speaking. They withdrew wondering to their pile of straw.
He did not move from the bench where he sat. Soon, except for the heavy breathing of his companions, silence enveloped the place. He became absorbed in anxious imaginings.
What had happened when Cyrène and Dominique returned to the house? What accidents overtook them at the Hôtel de Ville? Where was she? What were her thoughts at that moment? And what her sufferings? Then a picture flitted across his consciousness of the early days of their meeting, the life at Fontainebleau, the charm of old Versailles. At the memory of that taste of a beautiful existence, an unearthly, sorrowful, prophetic longing came over him, not for himself but for others, for a clime where falsity, grief, change, and pride should be winnowed completely away from loveliness. He dreamt a world to come wherein the poor, the low-born, the deformed, yes, the debased children of crime itself should become of strong and perfect forms, of sensitive and rich artistic sense, wealthy as imagination in castles, parks, and solitudes, pure and keen of honour, spiritually sweet of thought, and so live serene for ever, for ever, for ever.
As morning grew, a dim light became perceptible from the corridor, and the prisoners one by one awoke. But Lecour was so weary that he fell asleep on the bench.
His shoulder was roughly shaken. "Stand up," said a turnkey. Germain opened his eyes and staggered to his feet.
"Salute the President of the Commune, you——" Before him was a short man in carmagnole and sabre, whom the other prisoners eyed with resentment and alarm.
Lecour bowed.
"You have met me before," the stranger said mockingly. "Once in the Royal hunting grounds of Fontainebleau. It was accidental. Perhaps I should not presume on the acquaintance."