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On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils,

stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them:

not there. He looks into the second: not there. He already asks

himself, "Has he sacrificed me?" when his face clears, as he

looks into the third.

"Which is Evremonde?" says a man behind him.

"That. At the back there."

"With his hand in the girl's?"

"Yes."

The man cries, "Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all

aristocrats! Down, Evremonde!"

"Hush, hush!" the Spy entreats him, timidly.

"And why not, citizen?"

"He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes

more. Let him be at peace."

But the man continuing to exclaim, "Down, Evremonde!" the face of

Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees

the Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.