The clocks in Carentan struck half-past nine as he spoke.  Lanterns were being lit in Mme. de Dey’s antechamber, servants were helping their masters and mistresses into sabots, greatcoats, and calashes.  The card players settled their accounts, and everybody went out together, after the fashion of all little country towns.

“It looks as if the prosecutor meant to stop,” said a lady, who noticed that that important personage was not in the group in the market-place, where they all took leave of one another before going their separate ways home.  And, as a matter of fact, that redoubtable functionary was alone with the Countess, who waited trembling till he should go.  There was something appalling in their long silence.

“Citoyenne,” said he at last, “I am here to see that the laws of the Republic are carried out—­”

Mme. de Dey shuddered.

“Have you nothing to tell me?”

“Nothing!” she answered, in amazement.

“Ah! madame,” cried the prosecutor, sitting down beside her and changing his tone.  “At this moment, for lack of a word, one of us—­you or I—­may carry our heads to the scaffold.  I have watched your character, your soul, your manner, too closely to share the error into which you have managed to lead your visitors to-night.  You are expecting your son, I could not doubt it.”

The Countess made an involuntary sign of denial, but her face had grown white and drawn with the struggle to maintain the composure that she did not feel, and no tremor was lost on the merciless prosecutor.

“Very well,” the Revolutionary official went on, “receive him; but do not let him stay under your roof after seven o’clock to-morrow morning; for to-morrow, as soon as it is light, I shall come with a denunciation that I will have made out, and—­”

She looked at him, and the dull misery in her eyes would have softened a tiger.

“I will make it clear that the denunciation was false by making a thorough search,” he went on in a gentle voice; “my report shall be such that you will be safe from any subsequent suspicion.  I shall make mention of your patriotic gifts, your civism, and all of us will be safe.”

Mme. de Dey, fearful of a trap, sat motionless, her face afire, her tongue frozen.  A knock at the door rang through the house.

“Oh!...” cried the terrified mother, falling upon her knees; “save him! save him!”

“Yes, let us save him!” returned the public prosecutor, and his eyes grew bright as he looked at her, “if it costs us our lives!”

“Lost!” she wailed.  The prosecutor raised her politely.

“Madame,” said he with a flourish of eloquence, “to your own free will alone would I owe—­”

“Madame, he is—­” cried Brigitte, thinking that her mistress was alone.  At the sight of the public prosecutor, the old servant’s joy-flushed countenance became haggard and impassive.