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heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such
glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close
their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together.
Only one, and he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so
shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to
dance. Not one of the whole number appeals by look or gesture, to
the pity of the people.

There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked
some question. It would seem to be always the same question, for,
it is always followed by a press of people towards the third cart.
The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in
it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he;
he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to
converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds
his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and
always speaks to to the girl. Here and there in the long street of St.
Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move him at all, it is
only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely
about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his arms being

On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils,
stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them:
not there. He looks into the second: not there. He already asks
himself, “Has he sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks
into the third.

“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.
“That. At the back there.” “With his hand in the girl’s?” “Yes.” The
man cries, “Down, Evremonde To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
Down, Evremonde!” “Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.
“And why not, citizen?”

“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
Let him be at peace.” But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down,
Evremonde!” the face of Evremonde is for a moment turned
towards him. Evremonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively
at him, and goes his way.

The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed
among the populace is turning round, to come on into the place of
execution, and end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now
crumble in and close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all
are following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in
a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily
knitting. On one of the foremost chairs, stands The Vengeance,
looking about for her friend.
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