Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 213: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

166 Pickwick Abroad. ‘** You go, then, Marguerite—you go—and I am to mourn the loss of my daughter’s honour! Oh! Marguerite—my child—my child !” Mademoiselle d’ Ermanville imprinted one more kiss on the lips of her disconsolate mother—the clock at the Loftvre struck the half-hour —she summoned their only domestic to take charge of her parent— and, with a firm step, hastened out of the room. During her short walk to the appointed place of rendez-vous, she did not once waver ve her intentions—her mind was nerved to rescue a father whom she adored ! Arrived on the terrace, Marguerite sank almost exhausted upon a- Seat; and scarcely had she time to collect her scattered ideas, re-in- force her courage by all the arguments her imagination and filial piety could suggest, and prepare herself to receive the addresses of the Pub- lic Accuser, when Fouquier-Tinville made his appearance at her side, “ C’est bien, belle Marguerite,” said the republican functionary, as he took the hand of the trembling girl, who was astonished—even in the intense agony of the moment—to observe that his hand also trem- bled. ‘‘I was afraid—that is, I thought—” and for the first time in his life, Fouquier-Tinville was at aloss to find words to express his ideas. “You were afraid that I should not keep my appointment,” said Marguerite, a ray of hope darting across her mind, when she again remarked the agitation of the Public Accuser. ‘‘ That, in fact, was the subject of my alarm, belle citoyenne,” mut- tered Fouquier-Tinville; “ but I find that—” ‘‘ That your fears were unfounded, citizen,” added Marguerite ; then, in a tone of extreme bitterness, she said, ‘“‘ Knowest thou not that the life of a father is so precious to his daughter that she will make any sacrifice that will eventually contribute to a parent’s welfare 2” ‘* My ears are unused to lessons of morality, jeune demorselle,” said the republican, relinquishing the fair hand he held in his, and rising from the stone bench on which he had been seated; ‘‘ let us make the best of the present moment. I propose that we shall proceed to the Cafe , and there partake of a slight repast.”’ ‘“‘T am ready to obey your orders,” rejomed Marguerite, also rising, and accepting the proffered arm of Fouquier-Tinville, who led her to- wards that extremity of the terrace, whence a flight of steps enabled them to descend upon the quay. ‘“Wherefore take this path?” enquired Marguerite, clinging to the arm of the Public Accuser as if destruction were at her heels. “‘Oh! I had forgotten,” cried the fierce republican, with a species of ironical smile: ‘‘ but, no matter—since we have come so far, it would be ridiculous to turn back :’’—and with these words the heartless ruffian dragged the almost fainting girl across that fatal spot on which the guillotine was erected, and which is to-day known as the Place Louis Nelze. There was the fatal instrument—the bright knife glittering in the rays of the meridian sun—the cords gently waving backward and forward to the breeze—the plank raised perpendicularly, as if in preparation for some victim about to be lashed to the moveable board—the narrow platform raised three feet above the level of the ground—and the heap ECORMICLIOO KS (E(0)