I merely state that another wretch, in the Rue Saint-Antoine, bore off her heart and "ate it."[31112] They kill and they drink, and drink and kill again.

Weariness comes and stupor begins.

One of them, a wheelwright's apprentice, has dispatched sixteen for his share; another "has labored so hard at this merchandise as to leave the blade of his saber sticking in it"; "I was more tired," says a Federate, "with two hours pulling limbs to pieces, right and left, than any mason who for two days has been plastering a wall."[31113] The first excitement is gone, and now they strike automatically.[31114] Some of them fall asleep stretched out on benches.
Others, huddled together, sleep off the fumes of their wine, removed on one side.

The exhalation from the carnage is so strong that the president of the civil committee faints in his chair,[31115] the fumes of the tavern blending with those from the charnel-house.

A heavy, dull state of torpor gradually overcomes their clouded brains, the last glimmerings of reason dying out one by one, like the smoky lights on the already cold breasts of the corpses lying around them.