Eleonore Duplay was standing outside. He knew she had been listening, because of the sudden vivacity in her dreary eyes. “Ah, it’s Cornelia,” he said. He had never in his life spoken to a woman in that tone; she would have excited cruelty in a mouse.
“We wouldn’t have let you in if we’d known you were going to upset him. Don’t come again. In any case, he won’t see you.”
She ran her eyes over him. I hoped you would quarrel, they said.
“You and your ghastly family, Eleonore. Do you think you own him? Do you think because he condescends to stay under your roof you have the right to decide who comes and goes? Do you think you are going to keep him away from his oldest friend?”
“You are so sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“With reason,” Camille said. “Oh, Cornelia, you are so transparent. I know exactly what your plans are. I know exactly what you think. You think he’ll marry you. Forget it, my dear. He won’t.”
That was the only spark of satisfaction in the day. Lucile sat waiting for him sadly, her little hands resting on the draped bulk of the child. Life was no fun now. She had reached the stage when women looked at her with lively sympathy: when men’s eyes passed over her as if she were an old sofa.
“There’s a note from Max,” she said. “I opened it. He says he regrets what happened this morning, he spoke hastily and he begs you to forgive him. And Georges called. He said, ‘Sorry.’”
“I had a wonderful row with Eleonore. They’re predatory, those people. I wonder, you know, what would happen to me if Danton and Robespierre ever disagreed?”
“You have a mind of your own.”
“Yes, but you will find it doesn’t work out like that.”
On March 26 the Queen passed to the enemy full details of France’s war plans. On April 20, France declared war on Austria.
April 25, 1792— Scientific and Democratic Execution of Nicolas-Jacques Pelletier, highway robber.
There are bigger crowds than for any ordinary execution, and an air of anticipation. The executioners, of course, have been practicing with dummies; they look quite buoyant, and they are nodding to each other, putting each other on their honor not to make a blunder. Yet there’s nothing to fear, the machine does everything. It is mounted on a scaffold, a big frame with a heavy blade. The criminal ascends with his guards. He is not to suffer, because in France the age of barbarism is over, superseded by a machine, approved by a committee.
Moving quickly, the executioners surround the man, bind him to a plank and slide it forward; swoop of the blade, a soft thud and a sudden carpet of blood. The crowd sighs, its members look at each other in disbelief. It is all over so soon, there is no spectacle. They cannot see that the man can be dead. One of Sanson’s assistants looks up at him, and the master executioner nods. The young man lifts the leather bag into which the head has fallen, and picks out the dripping contents. He holds the head up to the crowed, turning slowly to each quarter to show the empty, expressionless face. Good enough. They are placated. A few women pick up their children so that they can see better. The dead man’s trunk is cut free and rolled into a big wicker basket to be taken away; the severed head is placed between the feet.
All in all, including holding up the head (which will not always be necessary), it has taken just five minutes. The master executioner estimates that the time could be cut almost by half, if time were ever important. He and his assistants and apprentices are divided over the new device. It is convenient, true, and humane; you cannot believe that the man feels any pain. But it looks so easy; people will be thinking that there is no skill in it, that anyone can be an executioner. The profession feels itself undermined. Only the previous year, the Assembly had debated the question of capital punishment, and the popular deputy Robespierre had actually pleaded for it to be abolished. They said he still felt strongly about the question, was hopeful of success. But that deep-thinking man, M. Sanson, feels that M. Robespierre is out of step with public opinion, on this point.
An estimate by M. Guerdon, formerly master carpenter to the Parlement of Paris:
To the steps 1,700 livres To three blades (two in reserve) 600 livres To pulley and copper grooves 300 livres To the iron drop-weight (for the blade) 300 livres To rope and rigging 60 livres To constructing the whole, testing it and time spent discussing it 1,200 livres To a small scale model for demonstrations, to prevent accidents 1,200 livres TOTAL 5,360 livres
Warmly recommending the new invention to the Assembly, the public health expert Dr. Guillotin said: “With this machine I can have your head off in a flash and you won’t suffer at all.” (Laughter.)
Danton: Robespierre called at Camille’s apartment late at night, looking for him. I was there with Lucile. It was harmless enough. The servant Jeanette was about the place, sitting up rather pointedly. Though what they all think I would be doing, with the girl six months pregnant … And where was Camille? Everybody must be in when Robespierre calls. Young Maximilien was faintly annoyed. Lucile caught my eye. She didn’t know where he was.
“I can suggest some places,” I said. “But I wouldn’t advise you to try them, Max, not personally.”
He blushed. What it is to be evil-minded, I thought. In fact I had an idea that Camille was across the river,
