Part 49 (1/2)

”That one's not _Sans-culotte_ enough for me,” called out a young woman in a red bonnet, and crossing over with the stride of a Grenadier to Cyrene, stood before her, arms akimbo, and cried shrilly, ”Saint Guillotine for your patron, my delicate Ma'mselle.”

The use of the prescribed address ”ma'mselle” was evidently regarded as a witticism, for shouts of laughter filled the place.

Just then the President rang his bell, and as he did so he looked at Cyrene significantly. Shrink as she might from his leer, she could not but feel grateful, for he had evidently rung purposely.

A secretary began the minutes, which consisted of resolutions of Jacobin joy at the capture of a once idolised patriot who had lately been denounced by Robespierre for counselling mercy to prisoners.

The name of Robespierre excited enthusiastic applause.

A set of benches facing those of the applicants had stood thus far empty. They were now filled by the entry of a body of representatives furnished by certain of the forty-eight sections of the City, whereupon the ”Ma.r.s.eillaise” was again beat, and several of the councillors lit their pipes.

The princ.i.p.al sections represented were those of the Pikes and the Fish-market.

Some one called for ”ca ira.” It was succeeded by a harangue of the Admiral against the captured ex-patriot. Cyrene followed with horror every word of his oratory, every movement of his declamation, the air of pride with which he played upon the pa.s.sions of the _Sans-culottes_, and the wicked sweep of the principles he announced.

”That all mankind deserve ma.s.sacre,” he cried, smiling, ”is the philosophic general rule; the sole exceptions are the true patriots. By t.i.tle of liberty, the possessions of all belong to them alone. And how can we know the true patriot? _By his red cap and his red hand._”

Finally the long suspense of the applicants was brought to a close; the secretary called the first on the list.

”Citizeness Montmorency.”

At the once great name a silence fell over the place.

Then a murmur ran through the benches of the Jacobin women, while Cyrene summoned her courage. The murmur was not long in taking shape.

”The Montmorencys are a brood of monsters,” energetically called the young Jacobiness, rising in her place.

”The aristocrat to the guillotine!” shouted a drunken man.

”The guillotine!”

”Yes, yes--to La Force immediately!”

These and similar cries resounded. They fell upon Cyrene's ears like thunders of hostile artillery in a battle. Dominique sat quite still.

His mistress rose. Now that the instant of danger had actually come she felt an inconquerable courage well up in her, which, as she stood with brilliant eye and glowing cheek, made her very beautiful. This was not in her favour with the envious knitters; but while they commented in frightful language on her gentle build, the secretary said--”Are you the person?”

”I am,” she answered clearly.

”Are you not,” he continued glancing at the audience for approbation, ”the late aristocrat Baroness of that name?”

”I am,” she replied, in a tone still clearer and more fearless.

The President's face gleamed with admiration. He rang his bell sharply and the clamours subsided. His glittering eyes devoured her features, while he said--

”Does anybody know the citizeness and answer for her civism?” He hurriedly added, ”Adjourned; call the next.”

Dominique caught her by the arm to make their exit, for though he could not a.s.sign a reason for the Admiral's device of favour, he was ready to take advantage of it.