"Here he is."
Bridoul appeared. He had followed his wife in order to see the young Provençale who had been brought into his shop.
"Do you know me?" inquired Coursegol.
"Can it be Coursegol?"
"Yes; I am your brother-in-law; this young girl is your niece. We have just arrived from Beaucaire. I will explain everything by and by."
Bridoul cast a hasty glance around him. No one was observing them. The few who had been sitting at the table had risen and gone to the door, attracted there by the increasing tumult without.
"Take the young lady into the back room," Bridoul whispered to his wife. "There will be a crowd here in a moment."
The latter made haste to obey. It was time. In another moment Dolores would have been obliged to witness an even more horrible spectacle than that upon which her eyes had rested a short while before. The shop was suddenly taken by storm. Several men with repulsive faces, long hair and cruel eyes, and whose clothing was thickly spattered with blood, entered the saloon, followed by a yelling crowd. People mounted on chairs and tables to obtain a look at them. They were the city executioners. They ordered wine which Bridoul hastened to place before them. One carried in his hand the newly decapitated head of a woman, whose fair hair was twined round his bare arm. Before drinking his wine he placed the head upon the counter. Coursegol closed his eyes to shut out the ghastly sight. He had recognized the features of the Princesse de Lamballe. When the men had finished their wine, one said:
"Now we will have the hair of this citoyenne dressed so that Marie Antoinette will recognize her."
And addressing Bridoul, he added: