Whether I die here or on the frontiers， scoundrels would kill me all the same， and I will sell my life dearly. But， whether it is done by me or by someone else， the prison shall be cleaned out of those cursed beggars， there， now！" At this a general cry is heard： "He's right！ No mercy！ Let us go in！"All that the crowd assent to is an improvised tribunal， the reading of the jailer's register， and prompt judgment； condemnation and slaughter must follow， according to the famous Commune， which simplifies things -- There is another simplification still more formidable， which is the condemnation and slaughter by categories. Any title suffices， Swiss， priest， officer， or servant of the King， "the 'worms' on the civil list"； wherever a lot of priests or Swiss are found， it is not worth while to have a trial， the throats of the lot can be slit. -- Reduced to this， the operation is adapted to the operators； the arms of the new sovereign are as strong as his mind is weak， and， through an inevitable adaptation， he degrades his work to the level of his faculties.
His work， in its turn， degrades and perverts him. No man， and especially a man of the people， rendered pacific by an old civilization， can， with impunity， become at one stroke both sovereign and executioner. In vain does he work himself up against the condemned and heap insults on them to augment his fury；[101] I he is dimly conscious of committing a great crime， and his soul， like that of Macbeth， "is full of scorpions." Through a terrible tightening up， he hardens himself against the inborn， hereditary impulses of humanity；these resist while he becomes exasperated， and， to stifle them， there is no other way but to "gorge himself on horrors，"[102] by adding murder to murder. For murder， especially as he practices it， that is to say， with a naked sword on defense-less people， introduces into his animal and moral machine two extraordinary and disproportionate emotions which unsettle it， on the one hand， a sensation of omnipotence exercised uncontrolled， unimpeded， without danger， on human life， on throbbing flesh[103] and， on the other hand， an interest in bloody and diversified death， accompanied with an ever new series of contortions and exclamations；[104] formerly， in the Roman circus， one could not tear one's self away from it； the spectacle once seen， the spectator always returned to see it again. Just at this time each prison court is a circus， and what makes it worse is that the spectators are likewise actors.-- Thus， for them， two fiery liquids mingle together in one draught. To moral intoxication is added physical intoxication， wine in profusion， bumpers at every pause， revelry over corpses； and we see rising out of this unnatural creature the demon of Dante， at once brutal and refined， not merely a destroyer， but， again， an executioner， instigator and calculator of suffering， and radiant and joyous over the evil it accomplishes.
They are merry； they dance around each new corpse， and sing the carmagnole；[105] they arouse the people of the quarter "to amuse them，" and that they may have their share of "the fine fête."[106]
Benches are arranged for "gentlemen" and others for "ladies"： the latter， with greater curiosity， are additionally anxious to contemplate at their ease "the aristocrats" already slain；consequently， lights are required， and one is placed on the breast of each corpse. -- Meanwhile， the slaughter continues， and is carried to perfection. A butcher at the Abbaye[107] complains that "the aristocrats die too quick， and that those only who strike first have the pleasure of it"； henceforth they are to be struck with the backs of the swords only， and made to run between two rows of their butchers， like soldiers formerly running a gauntlet. If there happens to be well-known person， it is agreed to take more care in prolonging the torment. At La Force， the Federates who come for M. de Rulhières swear "with frightful imprecations that they will cut the head of anyone daring to end his sufferings with a thrust of his pike"； the first thing is to strip him naked， and then， for half an hour， with the flat of their sabers， they cut and slash him until he drips with blood and is "skinned to his entrails." -- All the monstrous instincts who grovels chained up in the dregs of the human heart， not only cruelty with its bared fangs，[108] but also the slimier desires， unite in fury against women whose noble or infamous repute makes them conspicuous； against Madame de Lamballe， the Queen's friend； against Madame Desrues， widow of the famous poisoner； against the flower-girl of the Palais-Royal， who， two years before， had mutilated her lover， a French guardsman， in a fit of jealousy. Ferocity here is associated with lewdness to add debasement to torture， while life is violated through outrages on modesty. In Madame de Lamballe， killed too quickly， the libidinous butchers could outrage only a corpse， but for the widow，[109] and especially the flower-girl， they revive， like so many Neros， the fire-circle of the Iroquois.[110] -- From the Iroquois to the cannibal， the gulf is small， and some of them jump across it.
At the Abbaye， an old soldier named Damiens， buries his saber in the side of the adjutant-general la Leu， thrusts his hand into the opening， tears out the heart "and puts it to his mouth as if to eat it"； "the blood，" says an eye-witness， "trickled from his mouth and formed a sort of mustache for him."[111] At La Force， Madame de Lamballe is carved up. What Charlot， the wig-maker， who carried her head did， I to it， should not be described. I merely state that another wretch， in the Rue Saint-Antoine， bore off her heart and "ate it."[112]
