"Come forward then. Do any accuse me?"
There was a prolonged hush. The jury growled amongst themselves, but no one coveted the part of spokesman.
Once Hébert started forward, cleared his throat, then reflected for a moment on Danton and his ways—reflected, too, that this transaction would hardly bear the light of day, cursed the universe at large, and fell back into his chair choking with rage.
It appeared that no one accused Dangeau. Far in the crowd a pretty gipsy of a girl laughed loudly.
"Handsome Dangeau for me!" she cried. "Vive Dangeau!"
In a minute the whole hall took it up, and the roof rang with the shouting. The girl who had laughed had been lifted to her lover's shoulders, and stood there, flushed and exuberant, leading the cheers with her wild, shrill voice.
When the noise fell a little, she waved her arms, crying, with a peal of laughter:
"Let's have a wedding, a wedding, mes amis! If she 's the Daughter of the Revolution, let the Revolution give away the bride, and we 'll all say Amen!"
The crowd's changed mood tossed the new suggestion into instant popularity. The girl's cry was taken up on all sides, there was bustling to and fro, laughter, gossip, whispering, shouting, and general jubilation. A fête, a spectacle—something new—oh, but quite new. A trial that ended in the bridal of the victim, to be sure one did not see that every day. That was romantic. That made one's heart beat. Well, well, she was in luck to get a handsome lover instead of having her head sliced off.
"Vive Dangeau! Vive Dangeau and the Daughter of the Revolution!"