Actors and actresses were always, by tacit consent of the authorities, more immune than the rest of the community.

They provided the only amusement in the intervals of the horrible scenes around the scaffolds; they were irresponsible, harmless creatures who did not meddle in politics.
Jeanne the while was gaily prattling on, her luminous eyes fixed upon the all-powerful enemy, striving to read his thoughts, to understand what went on behind those cruel, prominent eyes, the chances that Armand had of safety and of life.
She knew, of course, that the visit was directed against Armand--some one had betrayed him, that odious de Batz mayhap--and she was fighting for Armand's safety, for his life.

Her armoury consisted of her presence of mind, her cool courage, her self-control; she used all these weapons for his sake, though at times she felt as if the strain on her nerves would snap the thread of life in her.

The effort seemed more than she could bear.
But she kept up her part, rallying Heron for the shortness of his visit, begging him to tarry for another five minutes at least, throwing out--with subtle feminine intuition--just those very hints anent little Capet's safety that were most calculated to send him flying back towards the Temple.
"I felt so honoured last night, citizen," she said coquettishly, "that you even forgot little Capet in order to come and watch my debut as Celimene." "Forget him!" retorted Heron, smothering a curse, "I never forget the vermin.

I must go back to him; there are too many cats nosing round my mouse.