" Lomaque spoke in a surprisingly brisk and airy manner. His
eyes were suffering under a violent fit of weakness and winking;
but he smiled, notwithstanding, with an air of the most
inveterate cheerfulness. Those old enemies of his, who always
distrusted him most when his eyes were most affected, would have
certainly disbelieved every word of the friendly speech he had
just made, and would have assumed it as a matter of fact that his
visit to the head jailer had some specially underhand business at
the bottom of it.
"How am I getting on?" said the jailer, shaking his head.
"Overworked, friend--overworked. No idle hours in our department.
Even the guillotine is getting too slow for us!"
"Sent off your batch of prisoners for trial this morning?" asked
Lomaque, with an appearance of perfect unconcern.
"No; they're just going," answered the other. "Come and have a
look at them." He spoke as if the prisoners were a collection of
pictures on view, or a set of dresses just made up. Lomaque
nodded his head, still with his air of happy, holiday
carelessness. The jailer led the way to an inner hall; and,
pointing lazily with his pipe-stem, said: "Our morning batch,
citizen, just ready for the baking."
In one corner of the hall were huddled together more than thirty
men and women of all ranks and ages; some staring round them with
looks of blank despair; some laughing and gossiping recklessly.
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