"The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street in the suburb of saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many wooden shoes." "One tall joker so besmirched... ...scrawled upon a wall with his finger dipped in the muddy wine-lees -BLOOD.
The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all over their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain upon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women’s lace and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through and through.
Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day’s wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine.
"The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the street stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there."