moned to court—to hear their sentence read. Out of the Temple the road lay along a dark street, with only one little window of exit—into eternity—the guillotine. This time the name of the little citizeness Massimel was read.
“Here!” she called; but her face grew white.
“Are you thinking of my offer of marriage?” asked Primus Thaller stepping up behind her. The poor, pale Blanchefleure looked at him with terrified eyes, above which arched her amazing eyebrows.
“Ah!—God, my Friend!” she replied pensively. “You republicans can not even let us enjoy the dance. Over there in the corner sits my little maid, who insisted upon being imprisoned with me. Zénobe! Dance on with this young fellow! Please excuse me on account of this ridiculous interruption—and take her in my stead. She is a charming child. Adieu, my Friend!”
And M. Miradoux, the incorrigible of the ancien regime, began that enchanting melody of Mozart, softly, softly—laughing gently, the couples took their places as before. But little Zénobe did not dare to join them. She wept for terror, and my great grandfather did not care to dance with the little maid. He turned his back coldly on them all.
That was the memorable minuet which Captain Primus Thaller danced with the distinguished nobility of France. It was the last minuet of the rococo period, and its grace and sweetness was interrupted by the summons of the tribunal of the Jacobins. Captain Primus, with a heavy heart, climbed the stairs
