'
'They resembled you,' I said, 'only in two things: in military courage,
and in political cowardice.'
'They had,' she replied, 'perhaps more passive courage than we have.[1]
My great-great-grandmother, my great-grandmother, and my great-aunt, were
guillotined on the same day. My great-great-grandmother was ninety years
old. When interrogated, she begged them to speak loud, as she was deaf.
'Ecrivez,' said Fouquier Tinville, 'que la citoyenne Noailles a conspire
sourdement contre la Republique.' They were dragged to the Place de la
Republique in the same _tombereau_, and sat waiting their turn on the
same bench.
'My great-aunt was young and beautiful. The executioner, while fastening
her to the plank, had a rose in his mouth. The Abbe de Noailles, who was
below the scaffold, disguised, to give them, at the risk of his life, a
sign of benediction, was asked how they looked.
'"Comme si,' he said, 'elles allaient a la messe."'
'The habit,' said Ampere, 'of seeing people die produces indifference
even to one's own death. You see that among soldiers. You see it in
epidemics. But this indifference, or, to use a more proper word, this
resignation, helped to prolong the Reign of Terror.
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