The sprightly companion of princesses was begging her bread. Her wit and beauty had disappeared, the once bright eyes were sharp, the once blooming cheeks were wrinkled and shrunk.
"Ladies, remember the spies," said Dominique.
"Go to our house, my dear," Cyrène whispered hastily. "It is No. 409, Rue Honoré, you will get supper there, and await us."
"409, Rue Honoré," the other repeated, and hastened to the promised food.
Continuing, the two reached the Hôtel de Ville at seven o'clock. Though early, the spacious building was lighted from attic to basement, and slipping in through a swarm of Sans-culottes who surrounded the doorsteps, they entered the great hall. As they were going in the "Marseillaise" began to be pounded, and the entry, from the opposite direction, of persons of much more importance than they, attracted the eyes of the men and women who smoked and knitted round the hall. The incomers were the President and heads of the Commune of Paris, each arrayed in his tricolor carmagnole, red bonnet, and great sabre.
The President was the Admiral. His glittering eyes swept the chamber, and singling out Cyrène as by premeditation, rested upon her face. He was unknown to her, but at his smile she shuddered.
These exalted personages—robbers, murderers, tavern-keepers, kettle-menders—sat down on their raised tribune, while Cyrène and Dominique were pushed by the guards into some rows of benches in front of but not facing them. The individuals on these benches were as yet few, and Cyrène looked apprehensively around the place, while Dominique took mental notes. They saw, forming the sides of the hall, two amphitheatres filled with Jacobin women knitting, patching trousers or waistcoats, and watching the benches of supplicants for the cards of civism, and made remarks to one another aloud.
"That one's not Sans-culotte enough for me," called out a young woman in a red bonnet, and crossing over with the stride of a Grenadier to Cyrène, stood before her, arms akimbo, and cried shrilly, "Saint Guillotine for your patron, my delicate Ma'mselle."
The use of the prescribed address "ma'mselle" was evidently regarded as a witticism, for shouts of laughter filled the place.
Just then the President rang his bell, and as he did so he looked at Cyrène significantly. Shrink as she might from his leer, she could not but feel grateful, for he had evidently rung purposely.