Olivier's whole soul revolted against the injustice of human destiny which placed supreme power in the hands of such a tyrant. The image of his mother and Thérèse, arrested by this man's orders, rose again before his eyes.
Suddenly he stopped.
On the Place de la Révolution, between the statue of Liberty and the entrance to the Tuileries, his astonished sight fell on an erection which, to all appearance, was being taken down—cross-bars of wood, lowered by the aid of ropes and pulleys, and an enormous knife slowly descending.
Olivier turned pale, his knees shaking under him.
It was the guillotine!
The hideous, barbarous word breathing death—a horrible, ghastly death—rang in his ears, and was re-echoed by mock voices of despairing victims, the guil ... lo ... tine—the guil ... lo ... tine—the guil ... lo ... tine.
Yes, this was the guillotine!
There it rose in front of him, the atrocious, abominable machine, which had caused the best blood of France to flow, the instrument of human butchery, which had severed so many heads; there it rose amidst the festive preparations, as a fearful warning!
The knife continued its descent, slowly, silently, mirroring the sun in blue metallic reflections, which seemed to sparkle in its rays. Olivier followed every movement, with fascinated horror.
When the huge blade disappeared the young man shook himself together with an effort, and seeing a woman of the people passing, questioned her—