e rate of eight francs a
day, get only fifty sous at the Force. They work with undiminished
zeal, even at this reduction. If necessary, they would work for
nothing. To drink wine and shed blood is the essential thing. The
negro Delorme, servant to Fournier "the American," distinguishes
himself among them all. His black skin, reddened with blood, his white
teeth and ferocious eyes, his bestial laugh, his ravenous fury, make
him a choice assassin. There is work too at the Conciergerie, at the
great and little Chatelet, the Salpetriere, and the Bicetre. A great
number of those detained are people condemned or accused of private
crimes which had absolutely nothing in common with politics. No
matter; blood is wanted; they kill there as elsewhere. At the Grand
Chatelet, work is so plenty, and the assassins so few, that they
release several individuals imprisoned for theft, and impress them into
their service. One of these unfortunate accidental executioners begins
in a hesitating way, strikes a few undecided blows, and then throws
down the hatchet placed in his hands. "No, no," he cries, "I cannot.
No, no! Rather a victim than a murderer! I would rather receive death
from scoundrels like you, then give it to innocent, disarmed people.
Strike me!" And at once the veteran murderers kill the inexperienced
cut-throat. There was a woman, known on account of her charms as the
Beautiful Flower Girl, who was accused of having wounded {368} her
lover, a French guard, in a fit of jealousy. Theroigne de Mericourt,
an amazon of the gutters, was her rival. She pointed her out to the
assassins. They fastened her naked to a post, her legs apart and her
feet nailed to the ground. They burned her alive. They cut off her
breasts with sabre strokes. They impaled her on a hot iron. Her
shrieks carried dismay as far as the outer banks of the Seine.
Theroigne was at the height of felicity.

At the Salpetriere there was still another spectacle. This prison for
fallen women is a place of correction for the old, of amendment for the
young, and an asylum for those who are still children. More than forty
children of the lower classes were slain during these horrible days.
The delirium of murder reached its height. Gorged with wine mingled
with gunpowder, intoxicated with the fumes and reek of carnage, the
assassins experienced a devouring, inextinguishable thirst for blood
which nothing could quench. More blood, and yet more b