Passez par chez nous!”—
and so comes the rascal Cabochon, our jailer, with his lowering huissiers, and the ‘Evening Gazette’ in his hand.
“So-and-so, and So-and-so, and So-and-so, to the Conciergerie.”
Then, if the runner had been singing, would succeed some little emotions of parting—moist wistful eyes, and the echo of sobs going down the corridor.
Yet, more often, Cabochon would interrupt a romp, to which the condemned would supplement a jocund exit.
“Adieu, messieurs! adieu! adieu! We cannot keep our countenances longer. We kneel to Sanson, who shall shrive us—Sanson, the Abbé, the exquisite, in whose presence we all lose our heads!”
And so the wild hair and feverish eyes vanish.
But it is of Gardel and the Marquise I speak. While many went and many took their places, these two survived for a time. To the new, as to the old, the rogue was unflagging in his attentions. His every respite inspired him with fresh audacity; from each condemned he seemed to take a certain toll of animation.
Presently Madame and her emancipated servant, with Clélie and I, would make a nightly habit of it to join forces in a bout of “Quadrille.” We appropriated an upper corner of the long table, and (for the oil lamps on the walls were dismally inadequate) we had our four wax candles all regular—but in burgundy bottles for sconces. A fifth bottle, with no candle, but charged with the ruddier light that illuminates the heart, was a usual accompaniment.
We chattered famously, and on many subjects. Hope a little rallied, maybe, as each night brought Cabochon with a list innocent of our names.