The little Marquise took her hands down from her face and looked at him. She sniffed with her little nose, and arched her brows.
“You—you would judge me! Go wash yourself—and put on hose—before you can be of any service whatever to me!”
And she went away. They say she laughed upon the scaffold.
My great grandfather heard that she was not willing to have her hair cut off.
“Is that really necessary?” she asked. “The headsman can use my hair as a handle to hold my head up to show it to the crowd—as is the custom.”
When the Sans-culotte, in his huge apron, stood before her, she shrugged the sweetest little shoulders and declared: “I don’t care! I knew, of course, when you came to cut my head off, that you had no aesthetic sense. And I have always been right.”
After these last inspired words, she died, the poor, little, trembling woman. She died, and all they who would have wept for her were dead, too, or preparing to die.
So no one knew what became of beautiful Blanchefleure, who had always been right. And my poor, great grandfather he had never understood her. Only I—only I! I understand her, I who bought her picture from the second-hand dealer—as a sort of revenge upon them of a later day who did not care to be a great, great grandmother.
