'Stand back!' said he; and disengaging his arm, he flung his bunch of nettles in the faces of those before him. 'Eat them, you rascals,' he said, and laughed bitterly.
His appearance was hailed with repeated thunders of—'To the lantern!'
'Make him ask pardon of the nation,' was shouted.
'Give me space to make my bow,' said Foulon, calm as ever, though a rope was being attached to his neck.
'Ask pardon of the nation!' was repeated.
'I exceedingly regret, great nation of French,' said the old man, bending ironically, and laying his hand on his heart, 'I deplore, with all my heart, that Providence and the stupidity of your king prevented me from having literally made you munch thistles like an ass.'
A scream of rage from those around him was the response.
Instantly he was seen, high above the people's heads, dangling to the lantern, but only for an instant. The rope broke and he fell. He was again run up, and again the cord gave way. Then his head was hacked off and elevated on a pike.
At that same moment the news flew through La Grève that Berthier was entering Paris by the Porte S. Martin, and the crowd, to a man, rushed in that direction.