ttempt. Beholding her so virginal and
fair and brave, feeling perhaps that the Tribunal had not had the best
of it, he sought with a handful of revolutionary filth to restore the
balance. He rose slowly, his ferrety eyes upon her.

"How many children have you had?" he rasped, sardonic, his tone a slur,
an insult.

Faintly her cheeks crimsoned. But her voice was composed, disdainful, as
she answered coldly:

"Have I not stated that I am not married?"

A leer, a dry laugh, a shrug from Tinville to complete the impression he
sought to convey, and he sat down again.

It was the turn of Chauveau de la Garde, the advocate instructed
to defend her. But what defence was possible? And Chauveau had been
intimidated. He had received a note from the jury ordering him to remain
silent, another from the President bidding him declare her mad.

Yet Chauveau took a middle course. His brief speech is admirable; it
satisfied his self-respect, without derogating from his client. It
uttered the whole truth.

"The prisoner," he said, "confesses with calm the horrible crime she has
committed; she confesses with calm its premeditation; she confesses its
most dreadful details; in short, she confesses everything, and does
not seek to justify herself. That, citizens of the jury, is her whole
defence. This imperturbable calm, this utter abnegation of self, which
displays no remorse even in the very presence of death, are contrary
to nature. They can only be explained by the excitement of political
fanaticism which armed her hand. It is for you, citizens of the jury, to
judge what weight that moral consideration should have in the scales of
justice."

The jury voted her guilty, and Tinville rose to demand the full sentence
of the law.

It was the end. She was removed to the Conciergerie, the antechamber
of the guillotine. A constitutional priest was sent to her, but
she dismissed him with thanks, not requiring his ministrations.
She preferred the painter Hauer, who had received the Revolutionary
Tribunal's permission to paint her portrait in accordance with her
request. And during the sitting, which lasted half an hour, she
conversed with him quietly on ordinary topics, the tranquillity of
her spirit unruffled by any fear of the death that was so swiftly
approaching.

The door opened, and Sanson, the public executioner, came in. He carried
the red smock worn by those convicted of assassination. She showed no
dismay; no more, indeed, t