They were somewhat like our cowboys of the Western plains. Born to the saddle; recruited for the northern cavalry; supremely successful in whirlwind charges and harassing flank attacks that drove back Brunswick’s legions, they were now quartered on well-deserved furlough within the city.
The old lion of Danton’s nature woke again, his indomitable spirit reasserted itself whenever he went to their yard and roused them by his patriotic eloquence.
Alas! within the tribunal and on the execution place at the other side of the city, was that going on which shamed patriotism and mocked liberty.
“La Guillotine”––that fiendish beheading instrument that a deputy named Doctor Guillotin had devised––was become Robespierre’s private engine to tyrannize France.
It stood in a great suburban place, on a scaffolding led up to by a flight of steps: a tall massive upright with high cross piece––uglier than the gallows. A brightly gleaming, triangular knife, about the size of a ploughshare, worked up and down in the channels.
The knife was first raised to the top of the upright, and held there by a lever. The master of the ceremonial raised right hand in token to the executioners to be ready.
As he dropped his hand in a down-sweeping gesture, one of these villains pulled the rope which released the lever. Down fell the heavy knife across the neck opening of a body board to which the victim was strapped. 162 Below the contraption was a huge basket.
A cordon of soldiery guarded the place, keeping back the crowds. The brawny executioners––naked to the waist, like butchers in a stockyard––daily performed their office.
On this day of Henriette and Maurice’s sentence, they were giving it a preliminary trial. “The trigger’s been slipping––not working well,” the head fellow explained to the master of ceremonies. Back and forth the terrible guillotine knife hissed and whistled until they pronounced its action perfect....