“And before me, Basile de St Denys?”
He whipped about, and uttered a cry like a trapped hare.
“It is enough,” said the judge, with admirable intuition. He was by this time so far sated with his feast of blood that a nicely balanced “situation” was like an olive to his wine. He would not cheapen the flavour by unduly extending it.
“The citoyenne Théroigne pronounces sentence,” he said. “I wash my hands of the matter. Let the prisoner be enlarged.”
He took a gulp from a glass at his side, and bent to write in his book. His guards laid hands on their victim. With a shriek, St Denys tore himself free, and fell at the feet of the woman.
“Théroigne!” he cried, abasing himself before her—clutching at her skirt, “don’t let them take me—me, that have lain in your arms!”
Grovelling on the floor, he turned his agonised face to the president.
“She did not denounce me, monsieur! your generosity misinterpreted her motive.” (He caught again at the dress, writhing in his dreadful shame.) “Say you did not mean it! Give me a little time to repent. I have wronged you, Théroigne; but I never ceased to love you in my heart. Give me time, in mercy, and I will explain. You have not seen. You don’t know the foulness and the horror of it!—Théroigne!”
Looking up, he saw the stony impassibility of her face, and sank upon the boards, moaning “Pardon—pardon!”
She stood gazing down upon this poor revealed baseness—this idol self-deposed.