degrees, even needlework must cease: Plot in the Prison rises,
by Citoyen Laflotte and Preternatural Suspicion. Suspicious Municipality
snatches from us all implements; all money and possession, of means or
metal, is ruthlessly searched for, in pocket, in pillow and paillasse,
and snatched away; red-capped Commissaries entering every cell!
Indignation, temporary desperation, at robbery of its very thimble,
fills the gentle heart. Old Nuns shriek shrill discord; demand to be
killed forthwith. No help from shrieking! Better was that of the two
shifty male Citizens, who, eager to preserve an implement or two, were
it but a pipe-picker, or needle to darn hose with, determined to defend
themselves: by tobacco. Swift then, as your fell Red Caps are heard in
the Corridor rummaging and slamming, the two Citoyens light their pipes
and begin smoking. Thick darkness envelops them. The Red Nightcaps,
opening the cell, breathe but one mouthful; burst forth into chorus
of barking and coughing. "Quoi, Messieurs," cry the two Citoyens, "You
don't smoke? Is the pipe disagreeable! Est-ce que vous ne fumez pas?"
But the Red Nightcaps have fled, with slight search: "Vous n'aimez
pas la pipe?" cry the Citoyens, as their door slams-to again. (Maison
d'Arret de Port-Libre, par Coittant, &c. Memoires sur les Prisons, ii.)
My poor brother Citoyens, O surely, in a reign of Brotherhood, you are
not the two I would guillotine!

Rigour grows, stiffens into horrid tyranny; Plot in the Prison getting
ever riper. This Plot in the Prison, as we said, is now the stereotype
formula of Tinville: against whomsoever he knows no crime, this is a
ready-made crime. His Judgment-bar has become unspeakable; a recognised
mockery; known only as the wicket one passes through, towards Death. His
Indictments are drawn out in blank; you insert the Names after. He has
his moutons, detestable traitor jackalls, who report and bear witness;
that they themselves may be allowed to live,--for a time. His Fournees,
says the reproachful Collot, 'shall in no case exceed three-score;' that
is his maximum. Nightly come his Tumbrils to the Luxembourg, with the
fatal Roll-call; list of the Fournee of to-morrow. Men rush towards the
Grate; listen, if their name be in it? One deep-drawn breath, when the
name is not in: we live still one day! And yet some score or scores of
names were in. Quick these; they clasp their loved ones to their heart,
one last time; with brief adieu, wet-eye