“The citizen is a little weak in the legs–he will have a little business to transact in Paris; supper and a bed for the citizen.”
“Who is he?”
“Condorcet, citizen.”
“Ah, at last–manifestly for the guillotine–without a trial.”
“Without a trial, surely, citizen.”
The heavy door closed on him; the key turned; they went away and drank, and in their drink forgot him.
For a while he lay face downwards on the cold mud floor; the rope had been loosened from his hands; presently he shook them free and sat up.
The cell was half underground and almost entirely dark; the high-placed window was heavily barred across and evidently looked out on some close courtyard, for the light that came from it was pale and uncertain.
Condorcet rose, shuddering strongly; the damp of the place was bitter and insistent, after the heat without the chill was horrible.
He staggered against the door and flung his weight against it.