The occupants in the tumbrils had seen their last hope of deliverance vanish in the Rue Vaugirard. They were fully prepared for death. One after another they mounted the fatal scaffold and were led to the guillotine.
Some went bravely forward to meet their fate. Others almost fainted and were nearly dead from fear by the time they reached the hands of Sanson.
La Liberté came forward with a firm step. As she did so, the crowd set up a deafening shout. It was a shout of genuine astonishment at the sight of this well-known figure, though mingled with it were cries of satisfaction from those who had been jealous of her popularity. Some thought it was a new escapade on her part, and they applauded it all the louder because of its daring nature.
Even the red-handed Sanson opened his huge bull's-mouth with surprise as she appeared before him.
"Bon jour, Sanson," said she airily; "you did not look for me to-day, I imagine. Do not touch me," she exclaimed as he stretched out his large hand towards her. "I have sent too many along this road, not to know the way myself, alone." Then walking down until she stood under the very shadow of the knife she looked out over the sea of faces.
The mighty yell was repeated.
The pallor of approaching death was on her face, but unflinchingly she met the gaze of thousands, while with a toss of her chestnut curls she surveyed them proudly, taking the shouts as a tribute to herself.
Suddenly her face became animated and the color rushed back to her cheeks.
"Well done, my compatriot!" she exclaimed aloud; she no longer saw the crowd at her feet, but stood transfixed, her gaze on the further corner of the square.
There Robert Tournay, at the head of some of his own men, charged upon Henriot's troops. Steel clashed upon steel, and Tournay's men pressed on.