“What is this for?” he asked. “Does it mean death?”
With an oath he was bidden to ask no questions.
“If I die,” he assured them, “you will be killing a good republican.”
A tall man with an inflamed countenance and fierce, black eyes, that were somewhat vitreous, now leered down upon him.
“You babbling fool! It's not your life, it's your property we want.”
This was Grandmaison, the fencing-master, who once had been a gentleman. He had been supping with Carrier, and he had only just arrived at Le Bouffay, accompanied by Goullin. He found the work behind time, and told them so.
“Leave that fellow now, Jolly. He's fast enough. Up and fetch the rest. It's time to be going... time to be going.”
Flung aside now that he was pinioned, Leroy sat down on the floor and looked about him. Near him an elderly man was begging for a cup of water. They greeted the prayer with jeering laughter.
“Water! By Sainte Guillotine, he asks for water!” The drunken sans-culottes were intensely amused. “Patience, my friend—patience, and you shall drink your fill. You shall drink from the great cup.”
Soon the porter's lodge was crowded with prisoners, and they were overflowing into the passage.