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Leboeuf chuckled in his corner. The priest's face reddened. "You will answer to God," he muttered. "All your science will not save you when he looks into your heart and finds no repentance."
"I will not repent of my intelligence, sir. Now, I have taken up too much of your time, and I also must be jealous of what time remains to me. There are others who will die tomorrow. Attend to them and leave me to my reflections."
The old man took a step towards the Comte, emerging from the shadowy corner of the cell into the bright shaft of light cast by the tiny window in the western wall. Now, bathed in this light, he sparkled, taller, straighter, his robes lighter, his face younger, smoother, his gray hairs tinged yellow. He drew the sign of the cross, which seemed to hang for a moment in the bright dusty air. Then he turned and shuffled through the door.
"Tiresome fellow!" said the Baron.
The Comte stood watching the space where the priest had stood.
"Amazing," he said softly.
"What's that, Comte?"
"Amazing, the need people have for a god. Even people who ought to know better. Hébert and his radicals, they say, have created a cult of the 'Goddess Reason.' Even Robespierre, I have heard, plans to have the Convention recognize something he calls the 'Supreme Being.'" He turned to face his friend. "While we seek the truth through the application of science and our capacity for reason, they are convinced they already have it. They have a monopoly of the truth."
"The future will belong to science, Comte, not to the likes of that priest."
"The head, not the heart."
"What?"
"You know, Baron, if it were that priest who was to die tomorrow, condemned for his beliefs, they would call him a martyr. Perhaps even a saint."
"You are a martyr for reason, Comte."
"A saint of science, eh Baron? Little comfort, I'm afraid. My death is pointless. Living I could still achieve much. Dying I achieve nothing."
The two men stood in silence for a long minute, the Comte's words hanging heavy in the air, adding to the gloom of the dingy cell. When at last the Baron spoke, it was slowly, hesitantly.
"There is a way."
"A way to what, old friend?"
"A way in which your...", the Baron hesitated, "...your death might be given meaning."
The Comte looked into the Baron's sad, fat face. The small round eyes shone with an intensity he had never seen before. He thought how strange it was that he, a man whose entire philosophy was built upon keen observation of the world, had never noticed the color of his friend's eyes. They were a deep liquid blue. "Go on," he said.
"Your dinner, monsieur." Neither of them had noticed Leboeuf leave. Now he had returned carrying a wooden tray, which he placed on the table, causing it to wobble unsteadily on the uneven stone floor. "And a bottle of the finest claret." He put his face close to the Comte's and his thin lips cracked into a broad grin, revealing his two yellow teeth. "Good health!" he breathed noxiously, and his grin spread wider across his leathery face.
"Excuse me, Baron," said the Comte. He took one step back to give himself room, raised his right arm and swung his fist hard into the jailer's face. The old man recoiled and slumped to the floor.
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