I
SIR PERCY EXPLAINS
It was not, Heaven help us all! a very uncommon occurrence these days: a
woman almost unsexed by misery, starvation, and the abnormal excitement
engendered by daily spectacles of revenge and of cruelty. They were to be
met with every day, round every street corner, these harridans, more terrible
far than were the men.
This one was still comparatively young, thirty at most; would have been
good-looking too, for the features were really delicate, the nose chiselled,
the brow straight, the chin round and small. But the mouth! Heavens, what
a mouth! Hard and cruel and thin-lipped; and those eyes! sunken and
rimmed with purple; eyes that told tales of sorrow and, yes! of degradation.
The crowd stood round her, sullen and apathetic; poor, miserable wretches
like herself, staring at her antics with lack-lustre eyes and an ever-recurrent
contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.
The woman was dancing, contorting her body in the small circle of light
formed by a flickering lanthorn which was hung across the street from
house to house, striking the muddy pavement with her shoeless feet, all to
the sound of a be-ribboned tambourine which she struck now and again
with her small, grimy hand. From time to time she paused, held out the
tambourine at arm’s length, and went the round of the spectators, asking for
alms. But at her approach the crowd at once seemed to disintegrate, to melt
into the humid evening air; it was but rarely that a greasy token fell into the
outstretched tambourine. Then as the woman started again to dance the
crowd gradually reassembled, and stood, hands in pockets, lips still sullen
and contemptuous, but eyes watchful of the spectacle. There were such few
spectacles these days, other than the monotonous processions of tumbrils
with their load of aristocrats for the guillotine!
So the crowd watched, and the woman danced. The lanthorn overhead
threw a weird light on red caps and tricolour cockades, on the sullen faces
of the men and the shoulders of the women, on the dancer’s weird antics