“Good day, citizen.”

This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had

been established voluntarily some time ago, among the more

thorough patriots; but, was now law for everybody.

“Walking here again, citizeness?”

“You see me, citizen!”

The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of

gesture (he had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the

prison, pointed at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his

face to represent bars, peeped through them jocosely.

“But it’s not my business,” said he. And went on sawing his

wood.

Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the

moment she appeared.

“What! Walking here again, citizeness?”

“Yes, citizen.”

“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”

“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close

to her.

“Yes, dearest.”

“Yes, citizen.”

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“Ah, But it’s not my business. My work is my business. See my

saw! I call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his

head comes!”

The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.

“I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here

again! Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off her head comes! Now, a

child. Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off its head comes. A