back to the daylight, and little Blanchefleure left the dungeon to appear before the tribunal.
The trial room was like a wine shop. Four or five rough men crouched about, dirty and evil of mind like savage peasant dogs.
“Citizeness Blanchefleure Massimel? Widow?” snarled one of them.
“If that is the way you wish—”
“Formerly of the court of citizeness Antoinette Capet?”
“Of whom are you speaking? The Queen, you should say!”
“Ah!—should we? Write that down, Citizen Pouprac. She said Queen.”
“I think that is sufficient,” growled Pouprac. Then he looked up wickedly.
“Why do you laugh, Citizeness? You are insulting the court! Why do you laugh?”
“Good Heavens—how you look!” chattered poor, little Blanchefleure, her face turning deep red.
“When one wears such trousers—as you!” she covered her little face with her hands and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Pouprac glanced at his trousers which were made of red, white and blue cotton. They testified to his republican leanings.
He jumped up in a rage, and stood on his short, widespread tiger legs.
“You are condemned to death, Citizeness Massimel,” he roared. “You are condemned because you have insulted the flag of France!”
