One morning the jailer had read his list, and sixteen gentlemen and ladies of the aristocracy had consequently to leave the hall of the Conciergerie to enter both wagons now ready at the gate.  As they were starting for the fatal journey a second turnkey appeared, to say that through some accident only one of the wagons was ready, and that consequently only eight of the sentenced ones could be driven to the guillotine.  This meant that the accident nullified eight death-warrants and saved the lives of eight sentenced persons.  For it was not probable that these eight persons would next morning be honored with an execution.  Their warrants were signed, their names had been called; neither the tribunal of the revolution nor the jailer could pay special attention whether their heads had fallen or not.  The next day would bring on new condemnations, new lists, new distinctions for the wagons, new heads for the guillotine.  Whoever, on the day appointed for the execution, missed the guillotine, could safely reckon that his life was saved; that henceforth he was amongst the forgotten ones, of whom a great number filled the prisons, and who expected their freedom through some favorable accident.

To-day, therefore, only eight of the sixteen condemned were to mount the wagon.  But who were to be the favored ones?  The two turnkeys, with cold indifference, left the choice to the condemned.  Only eight could be accommodated in the wagon, they said, and it was the same who went or who remained.  “Make your choice!”

A strife arose among the sixteen condemned ones—­not as to who might remain behind, but as to those who might mount into the wagon.

The ladies declared that, according to the rules of common politeness, which allowed ladies to go first, the choice belonged to them; the gentlemen objected to this motion of the ladies on the plea that to reach the guillotine steps had to be ascended, and as etiquette required that in going up-stairs the gentlemen should always precede the ladies, they were also now entitled to go first and to mount the steps of the scaffold before the ladies.  At last all had to give way to the claims of the Duchess de Grammont, who declared that at this festival as at every other the order of rank was to be observed, and that she, as well as all the gentlemen and ladies of superior rank, had the undisputed privilege now, as at all other celebrations, to take the precedency.

No one ventured to oppose this decision, and the Duchess de Grammont, proud of the victory won, was the first to leave the room and mount the wagon.

Another time the turnkey began to read the list:  every one listened with grave attention, and at every call a clear, cheerful “Here I am!” followed.

But after the jailer, with wearied voice, had many times repeated a name from his list, the accustomed answer failed.  No one came forward, no one seemed to be there to lay claim to that name and to the execution.  The jailer stopped a few minutes, and as all were dumb, he continued, indifferent and unmoved, to call out the names.