Instantly the hum of conversation stopped, and an icy chill fell upon the assemblage. Faces that the moment before were wreathed in smiles now became pale and marked with fear.
"The call of to-morrow's list to the guillotine," rang out through the room in harsh notes.
Amid the silence of death, a captain of gendarmerie took a slip of paper from his pocket, while a comrade held a lantern under his nose. Some of those who listened wiped the clammy perspiration from their foreheads, others trembled and sat down. Some affected an air of indifference, and began a forced conversation with their neighbors; but all ears were strained. Each dreaded lest his own name or that of some loved one should be called out by that monotonous, relentless voice.
"Bertrand de Chalons."
An old man stepped forward.
"Annette Duclos."
There was a pause after each name, during which the suspense was intensified.
"Diane de Rémur."
Madame de Rémur laid aside her work and rose.
"Diane! Diane! I cannot bear it!" cried the Countess d'Arlincourt, throwing her arms about her friend's neck. "Oh, sirs, have pity!"