"No! No! Don't pronounce that name in such a way!"
And seeing him look at her in bewilderment, she tried to give him plausible reasons.
"You might be heard, and you would be compromised."
"But how? Here? Where everybody holds his name in execration?"
"Yes; but then there are turnkeys coming and going at every moment. And what if there are spies among the prisoners...?"
And, as if clutching at a straw, she followed up the idea.
"Yes, spies—traitors? You must not betray your feelings before them."
"True! there is no lack of infamy among the populace!"
He then told his mother of the incidents of his wanderings in Paris, of his utter astonishment at the apathy of the crowd round that accursed scaffold which was being transported to the Place de la Bastille, amidst the preparations for the Festival of the Supreme Being.
And yet he knew that much of their indifference must be assumed. How many thought as he did! How many had the long-awaited cry of deliverance on their lips: "Down with the scaffold!" Only they dared not speak out! If but one had the courage to give utterance to that cry, there would be enough brave men found in the crowd to take it up and re-echo it, carrying the more timid along with them. When once a move is made the multitude will quickly follow.