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"What?"
"Yes, we could exchange clothes, you and I, and you could leave in my place."
The Comte looked into the Baron's eyes, shining with boyish excitement beyond the folds of fat, a flabby testament to years of excess under the ancien régime. It had always struck the Comte as remarkable that a mind so gifted in the area of scientific inquiry could consistently come up with such tom-fool ideas. These thoughts must have shown in his eyes, for the Baron's excitement drained from his face to be replaced by the kind of expression you might expect to see on a scolded bloodhound. He looked from the Comte's gaunt figure to his own ample belly and muttered, "Yes, yes. Quite so, quite so. Foolish notion."
They sat for a moment, side by side on the cot, in silence but for Leboeuf's wheezing.
"It just seems such a waste," said the Comte quietly.
"Indeed," said the Baron.
"I have no fear of death. Only, it seems absurd to die now."
"Yours is a life which science can ill afford to lose, Comte. Which France and the Republic can ill afford to lose. They'll come to regret it, you mark my words."
"Yes, it's ironic, isn't it Baron. That I should be sacrificed to the irrational lusts of the very men I sought only to serve through science."
"If they only understood what you were trying to do. If only they had fully read your work, your theories of democracy."
"If only they could read. To them I am merely another aristocrat and my death is merited by my birth."
"Robespierre can read."
"That, Baron, is my misfortune. He reads, but does not comprehend. How else could he condemn me as an Hébertiste? Hébert is a fool and a rabble-rouser. I am a man of reason."
The Baron raised himself, not without some difficulty, from the cot and began to pace the cell. Suddenly he turned sharply, knocking over a jug of water that stood on the small rude table that was the cell's only furnishing, aside from the cot and the little stool on which Leboeuf squatted, picking his finger nails.
"He's jealous, you know, Comte. That's why you're here. He fears your brilliance. If only you were fat like me! Nobody is jealous of the fat, or fears them."
"I'll admit, Baron, that at this moment, it is I who am envious of Monsieur Robespierre. He shall have dinner tomorrow, while I shall not."
The reference to dinner seemed to have moved the Baron deeply. He stopped pacing and fell silent. After a few seconds, the Comte rose, walked the few steps to
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