"Ah," she breathed, leaning forward a little.
"He declared that he died innocent, and wishing France—nobody knows what; for Santerre ordered the drums to be beaten, and we could not hear the rest. I owe him a grudge, that Santerre, for cutting the spectacle short. What, I ask you, does he imagine one goes to the play in order to miss the finest part, and I with a front place, too! But they say he was afraid there would be a rescue. I could have told him better. We are not fools!"
"And then——?"
"Well, thanks to the drums, you couldn't hear; but there was a whispering with the Abbé, and Sanson hesitating and shivering like a cat with a wet paw and the gutter to cross. Everything was ready, but it seems he had qualms—that Sanson. The National Guards were muttering, and the good Mère Garnet next to me began to shout, 'Death to the Tyrant,' only no one heard her because of Santerre's drums, when suddenly he bellowed, 'Executioner, do your duty!' and Citizen Sanson seemed to wake up. It was all over in a flash then; the Abbé whispered once, called out loudly, and pchtt! down came the knife, and off came the head. Rose Lacour fainted just at my elbow, the silly baggage; but for me, I found it exciting—more exciting than the theatre. I should have liked to clap and call 'Encore!'"
Rosalie leaned back, fanning, her broad face a shade paler, whilst the girl went on:
"His eyes were still open when Sanson held up the head, and the blood went drip, drip, drip. We were all so quiet then that you could hear it. I tell you that gave one a sensation, my cousin!"
"Blood—ouf!" said Rosalie; "I do not like to see blood. I cannot digest my food after it."
"For me, I am a better patriot than you," laughed Thérèse; "and if it is a tyrant's blood that I see, it warms my heart and does it good."
A shudder ran through Rosalie's fat mass. She lifted her bulky knitting and fanned assiduously with it.
Her companion burst into a loud laugh.