“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the restless hand and the craving air. “The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager attention to the last⁠—to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall, when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was done⁠—why, how old are you?”

“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.

“It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen it.”

“Enough!” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “Long live the Devil! Go on.”