The dandified dictator of France fixes fishy eyes on the little person in the dock. One affected hand has raised a double lorgnette 158 through which he peers at her. He muses, strokes a long nostril with his forefinger, recollects something which causes him to curl his lip:
Henriette’s door slam on the obscure Maximilian Robespierre finds its re-echo to day at the gates of Death. Ah, yes, he has placed the girl of the Faubourg lodging now!
“You were an inmate of the prison for fallen women?” he asks coldly.
The clear, unashamed blue eyes would have told innocence if the words had not.
“Yes, Monsieur, but I was not guilty.”
Robespierre’s delicate hand passes in the faintest movement across his throat and toys with the neck ruffle underneath it.
His lips frame a dreadful word though he does not speak it. A nod to Jacques-Forget-Not completes the by-play.
The servant imitates the master’s gesture. This time, the drawing of the hand across the throat is more decisive.
Jacques speaks the word that his master did not vocalize. The other judges confirm it.