The wretched woman uttered a cry of despair, and rushed toward the Temple. But when she was a third of the way through Rue Michel le Comte, a man placed himself in front of her, impeding her progress, and concealing his face in his mantle.
"Are you content," said he, "now you have killed your child?"
"Killed my child!" cried the poor mother,—"killed my child! no, no, it is not possible!"
"It is so, notwithstanding, for your daughter has been arrested."
"And where have they taken her?"
"To the Conciergerie; from there she will be sent to the Revolutionary Tribunal, and you know what becomes of those who are sent there."
"Stand aside," said the woman Tison, "and let me pass."
"Where are you going?"
"To the Conciergerie."