Maurice, at a glance, embraced the entire scene, and thought of what would follow.
In the centre of the hall lay the suicide, from whose breast the gendarme had just torn the weapon of destruction, fearing, probably, it might be used by some of the others.
Around him were several individuals mute with despair and scarcely heeding him, inscribing in their pocket-books some disconnected words, or pressing one another's hands; some repeating, without any intermission, a cherished name, or bathing with tears a portrait, a ring, or tress of hair; some venting imprecations against tyranny, a state of affairs cursed by all, ay sometimes even by the tyrants themselves. In the midst of these unfortunates, Sanson, oppressed less from his fifty years than his melancholy office,—Sanson, as mild, and as much their consoler as his terrible vocation permitted him to be, to this one offered advice, to that one some sad consolation or encouragement, finding some Christian responses to their accents of despair as well as to their bravado.
"Citizeness," said he to Geneviève, "I must remove your scarf, and cut off your hair, if you please."
Geneviève began to tremble.
"Come, dear lady," said Lorin, softly, "take courage!"
"May I remove the lady's hair?" asked Maurice.
"Oh, yes," cried Geneviève; "I entreat you to permit him to do so, Monsieur Sanson."
"He may," said the old man, turning away his head.
Maurice first took off his necktie, and Geneviève, stooping, fell on her knees before the young man, presenting her charming head, appearing more beautiful in her grief than she had ever been in her days of sunshine and happiness.