Old W.—No, Monsieur; none—none—all my relations are dead.
Pres.—Well then, your friends must give you assistance.
Old W.—Ah, Monsieur, I have no friends; and, indeed, I never had but one, in my life; but he too is gone.
Pres.—And who was he?
Old W.—Monsieur de Robespierre—le pauvre, cher homme! (The poor, dear man!)
Pres.—Robespierre!—why what did you know of him?
Old W.—Oh, Monsieur, my mother was one of the tricoteurs (knitting-women) who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine, and I always stood beside her. When Monsieur de Robespierre was passing by, in attending his duties, he used to touch my cheek, and call me (here the old woman shed tears) la belle Marguerite: le pauvre, cher homme!
We must here pause to remind the reader that these women, the tricoteurs, who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine on the mornings when it was at its hideous work, were sometimes called the "Furies;" but only as a grim jest. It is well known, that, although there were occasionally some sanguinary hags among them, yet, for the most part, they were merely idle, gossiping women, who came there dressed in neat white caps, and with their knitting materials, out of sheer love of excitement, and to enjoy the spectacle.
Pres.—Well, Goody; finish your history.
Old W.—I was married soon after this, and then I used to take my seat as a tricoteur among the others; and on the days when Monsieur de Robespierre passed, he used always to notice me—le pauvre, cher homme. I used then to be called la belle tricoteuse, but now—now, I am called la vielle radoteuse (the old dotardess). Ah, Monsieur le President, it is what we must all come to!