So unnatural was her attitude that Barabant could not have averted his eyes had not the hand of Goursac recalled him to the drama before him. He sought in the gloom and the shadows, seeing nothing, until suddenly out of the darkness came the shoot and the thud of the knife.
A woman, with a cry, caught his arm, burying her head in his sleeve. Another woman, holding a baby, was shouting wildly:
"Bravo! Bravo!"
A tottering veteran, in the costume of the Invalides, questioned him eagerly:
"Is it over? Tell me, citoyen, is it over?"
The woman on his arm continued to gasp hysterically. Himself recoiling at this death out of the darkness, he returned to the contemplation of Louison.
Her pose had relaxed, while a slight smile of disdain appeared as she watched the frantic crowd acclaim the head which a bourreau held to them. On her face was neither horror nor anger, neither disgust nor passion. As calmly as though before her own mirror, she smoothed out her dress and replaced the cockade, torn by the contact of the crowd, with a fresh one from her basket, scenting first its perfume. She raised her eyes, and her glance met that of Barabant, overcome with disgust. She frowned, and turning her shoulder, was lost in the crowd which now flowed out in widening circles.
"What is there about her!" Barabant exclaimed, turning to Goursac.
"About whom?"