"He saw that you were poor, citizen Rateau," she said with conviction; "and that you were tired. He wished to help and comfort you."
"And where did you say you lived, citizen?" the young matron went on, in her calm, matter-of-fact tone.
"I live far from here, the other side of the water. Not in an aristocratic quarter like this one—what?"
"You told Him that you lived there?" the girl still insisted. Any scrap or crumb of information even remotely connected with her idol was manna to her body and balm to her soul.
"Yes, I did," citizen Rateau assented.
"Then," the girl resumed earnestly, "solace and comfort will come to you very soon, citizen. He never forgets. His eyes are upon you. He knows your distress and that you are poor and weary. Leave it to him, citizen Rateau. He will know how and when to help."
"He will know, more like," here broke in a harsh voice, vibrating with excitement, "how and when to lay his talons on an obscure and helpless citizen whenever his Batches for the guillotine are insufficient to satisfy his lust!"
A dull murmur greeted this tirade. Only those who sat close by the speaker knew which he was, for the lights were scanty and burnt dim in the open air. The others only heard—received this arrow-shot aimed at their idol—with for the most part a kind of dull resentment. The women were more loudly indignant. One or two young devotees gave a shrill cry or so of passionate indignation.
"Shame! Treason!"
"Guillotine, forsooth! The enemies of the people all deserve the guillotine!"