The outward movement toward the tumbrels had begun. From the doorway the guards repeated:
"Hurry up, there; hurry up, you cursed aristocrats!"
Dossonville kissed her with more feeling than he had believed possible, and said, through the tears that clouded his eyes, "I would have saved you."
"Do not grieve," she said, touched by his sorrow. She took her scarf and put it into his hand, saying: "Give it to him. Tell him that I am happy—that it is best so. Adieu!"
Then, as though fearing to lose her self-control, she pressed his hand and hurried away.
Dossonville, passing out by a side entrance, hastened to meet the slow procession across the river. The city was in uproar; over the roofs the bells were crying the civil strife, while every street seemed to give forth the thunder of drums. Masses of volunteers, without formation or leader, swept the boulevards, while the air was charged with the conflict of shouts:
"Vive la Commune!"
"À bas les Jacobins!"
"Vive Robespierre!"