The dreary stillness, made more depressing by the presence of the two prisoners, whose deep-drawn breathings were the only sounds they uttered, had something unspeakably sad and melancholy in it, and more than once I felt sorry for the few words I had spoken, which separated those whose misfortunes should have made them brothers.
A confused and distant hum, swelling and falling at intervals, now filled the air, and gradually I could distinguish the shouts of people at a distance. This increased as it came nearer; and then I heard the tramping noise of many feet, and of a great multitude of people passing in the street below, and suddenly a wild cheer broke forth, “Vive le Consul!” “Vive Bonaparte!” followed the next instant by the clanking sound of a cavalry escort, while the cry grew louder and louder, and the vivas drowned all other sounds.
“You hear them, Guillaume, you hear them,” said the sailor to the other prisoner; “That shout is our death-cry. Bonaparte comes not here to-day but to see his judges do his bidding.”
“What care I?” said the other, fiercely. “The guillotine or the sabre, the axe or the bayonet,—it is all one. We knew what must come of it.”
The door opened as he spoke, and a greffier of the tribunal appeared with four gendarmes.
“Come, Messieurs,” said he, “the court is waiting for you.”
“And how go matters without, sir?” said the elder, in an easy tone.
“Badly for the prisoners,” said the greffier, shaking his head. “Monsieur Moreau, the general's brother, has done much injury; he has insulted the Consul.”
“Bravely done!” cried the younger man, with enthusiasm. “It is well he should hear truth one day, though the tongue that uttered it should be cold the next.”
“Move on, sir!” said the greffier, sternly. “Not you,” added he, as I pressed forward after the rest; “your time has not come.”