The two comedians stared at him aghast. Across the sunlit terrace seemed to have fallen the black shadow of the guillotine.
"I am Jacques Roux," the man went on, "I am 'trying it on the dog' at Appeville-sous-Bois next week, and I have what you gentlemen call 'stage fright'—I, who never knew what nervousness meant before! Is it not queer? As often as I rehearse walking on to the platform, I feel myself to be all arms and legs—I don't know what to do with them. Formerly, I scarcely remembered my arms and legs; but, of course, my attention used to be engaged by the other fellow's head. Well, it struck me that you might consent to give me a few hints in deportment. Probably one lesson would suffice."
"Sit down," said Robichon. "Why did you abandon your official position?"
"Because I awakened to the truth," Roux answered. "I no longer agree with capital punishment: it is a crime that should be abolished."
"The scruples of conscience, hein?"
"That is it."
"Fine!" said Robichon. "What dramatic lines such a lecture might contain! And of what is it to consist?"
"It is to consist of the history of my life—my youth, my poverty, my experiences as Executioner, and my remorse."
"Magnificent!" said Robichon. "The spectres of your victims pursue you even to the platform. Your voice fails you, your eyes start from your head in terror. You gasp for mercy—and imagination splashes your outstretched hands with gore. The audience thrill, women swoon, strong men are breathless with emotion." Suddenly he smote the table with his big fist, and little Quinquart nearly fell off his chair, for he divined the inspiration of his rival. "Listen!" cried Robichon, "are you known at Appeville-sous-Bois?"
"My name is known, yes."