"Mercy! I know nothing."
A wilder cry, half drowned by savage curses and the sound of blows. Still Sabatier paid no heed. He went into the room below, knocked the neck off a wine bottle and poured the contents into a mug and drank, smacking his lips.
A woman, half dressed, rushed down the stairs and into the street.
"Let her go," Sabatier cried, as a man was starting after her. "Maybe she's not too old to find another husband."
Laughing, and cursing, the men came tumbling down the stairs, ripe for deviltry; but for the moment here was wine to be had for the taking, everything else could wait.
When later they left, a woman came rushing toward them.
"Let me in! Let me in!" she cried. "He's not dead."
"Out of it," said one, pushing her roughly aside so that she stumbled and fell upon the road. "He's dead, or will be soon enough. Our work is thorough, and this might be a château instead of a wine shop by the way we've treated it. You watch a while. You'll understand," and he laughed as he closed the door.
The poor soul may have understood his meaning, or she may not, as she rocked herself to and fro in the roadway. The ribald songs of these patriots, these apostles of freedom, had not died as they marched and danced out of Trémont when there was a smell of burning in the air, and first smoke, then flame burst from the tavern, quickly reducing it to a heap of ashes. It was a strange grave for the charred remains of two men who yesterday had been full of life. This was a time when things moved apace and there was no prophesying from day to day.