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certain famous _guillotines_ had died. Among these was one with respect

to whom they all agreed, and of whom they spoke as of a great captain, a

hero whose marvellous courage was deserving of immortality. Then, as one

passed along, one caught snatches of horrible phrases, particulars about

the instrument of death, ignoble boasts, and filthy jests reeking with

blood. And over and above all else there was bestial fever, a lust for

death which made this multitude delirious, an eagerness to see life flow

forth fresh and ruddy beneath the knife, so that as it coursed over the

soil they might dip their feet in it. As this execution was not an

ordinary one, however, there were yet spectators of another kind; silent

men with glowing eyes who came and went all alone, and who were plainly

thrilled by their faith, intoxicated with the contagious madness which

incites one to vengeance or martyrdom.

Guillaume was just thinking of Victor Mathis, when he fancied that he saw

him standing in the front row of sightseers whom the guards held in

check. It was indeed he, with his thin, beardless, pale, drawn face.

Short as he was, he had to raise himself on tiptoes in order to see

anything. Near him was a big, red-haired girl who gesticulated; but for

his part he never stirred or spoke. He was waiting motionless, gazing

yonder with the round, ardent, fixed eyes of a night-bird, seeking to

penetrate the darkness. At last a guard pushed him back in a somewhat

brutal way; but he soon returned to his previous position, ever patient

though full of hatred against the executioners, wishing indeed to see all

he could in order to increase his hate.

Then Massot approached the brothers. This time, on seeing Pierre without

his cassock, he did not even make a sign of astonishment, but gaily

remarked: "So you felt curious to see this affair, Monsieur Froment?"

"Yes, I came with my brother," Pierre replied. "But I very much fear that

we shan't see much."

"You certainly won't if you stay here," rejoined Massot. And thereupon in

his usual good-natured way--glad, moreover, to show what power a

well-known journalist could wield--he inquired: "Would you like me to

pass you through? The inspector here happens to be a friend of mine."

Then, without waiting for an answer, he stopped the inspector and hastily

whispered to him that he had brought a couple of colleagues, who wanted

to report the proceedings. At first the inspector hesitated, and seemed

inclined to refuse Massot's request; but after a moment, influenced by

the covert fear which the police always has of the press, he made a weary

gesture of consent.

"Come, quick, then," said Massot, turning to the brothers, and taking

them along with him.

A moment later, to the intense surprise of Pierre and Guillaume, the

guards opened their ranks to let them pass. They then found themselves in

the large open space which was kept clear. And on thus emerging from the

tumultuous throng they were quite impressed by the death-like silence and

solitude which reigned under the little plane-trees. The night was now

paling. A faint gleam of dawn was already falling from the sky.

After leading his companions slantwise across the square, Massot stopped

them near the prison and resumed: "I'm going inside; I want to see the

prisoner roused and got ready. In the meantime, walk about here; nobody

will say anything to you. Besides, I'll come back to you in a moment."

A hundred people or so, journalists and other privileged spectators, were

scattered about the dark square. Movable wooden barriers--such as are set

up at the doors of theatres when there is a press of people waiting for

admission--had been placed on either side of the pavement running from

the prison gate to the guillotine; and some sightseers were already

leaning over these barriers, in order to secure a close view of the

condemned man as he passed by. Others were walking slowly to and fro, and

conversing in undertones. The brothers, for their part, approached the

guillotine.

It stood there under the branches of the trees, amidst the delicate

greenery of the fresh leaves of spring. A neighbouring gas-lamp, whose

light was turning yellow in the rising dawn, cast vague gleams upon it.

The work of fixing it in position--work performed as quietly as could be,

so that the only sound was the occasional thud of a mallet--had just been

finished; and the headsman's "valets" or assistants, in frock-coats and

tall silk hats, were waiting and strolling about in a patient way. But

the instrument itself, how base and shameful it looked, squatting on the

ground like some filthy beast, disgusted with the work it had to

accomplish! What! those few beams lying on the ground, and those others

barely nine feet high which rose from it, keeping the knife in position,

constituted the machine which avenged Society, the instrument which gave

a warning to evil-doers! Where was the big scaffold painted a bright red

and reached by a stairway of ten steps, the scaffold which raised high

bloody arms over the eager multitude, so that everybody might behold the

punishment of the law in all its horror! The beast had now been felled to

the ground, where it simply looked ignoble, crafty and cowardly. If on

the one hand there was no majesty in the manner in which human justice

condemned a man to death at its assizes: on the other, there was merely

horrid butchery with the help of the most barbarous and repulsive of

mechanical contrivances, on the terrible day when that man was executed.

As Pierre and Guillaume gazed at the guillotine, a feeling of nausea came

over them. Daylight was now slowly breaking, and the surroundings were

appearing to view: first the square itself with its two low, grey

prisons, facing one another; then the distant houses, the taverns, the

marble workers' establishments, and the shops selling flowers and

wreaths, which are numerous hereabouts, as the cemetery of Pere-Lachaise

is so near. Before long one could plainly distinguish the black lines of

the spectators standing around in a circle, the heads leaning forward

from windows and balconies, and the people who had climbed to the very

house roofs. The prison of La Petite Roquette over the way had been

turned into a kind of tribune for guests; and mounted Gardes de Paris

went slowly to and fro across the intervening expanse. Then, as the sky

brightened, labour awoke throughout the district beyond the crowd, a

district of broad, endless streets lined with factories, work-shops and

work-yards. Engines began to snort, machinery and appliances were got

ready to start once more on their usual tasks, and smoke already curled

away from the forest of lofty brick chimneys which, on all sides, sprang

out of the gloom.

It then seemed to Guillaume that the guillotine was really in its right

place in that district of want and toil. It stood in its own realm, like

a _terminus_ and a threat. Did not ignorance, poverty and woe lead to it?

And each time that it was set up amidst those toilsome streets, was it

not charged to overawe the disinherited ones, the starvelings, who,

exasperated by everlasting injustice, were always ready for revolt? It

was not seen in the districts where wealth and enjoyment reigned. It

would there have seemed purposeless, degrading and truly monstrous. And

it was a tragical and terrible coincidence that the bomb-thrower, driven

mad by want, should be guillotined there, in the very centre of want's

dominion.

But daylight had come at last, for it was nearly half-past four. The

distant noisy crowd could feel that the expected moment was drawing nigh.

A shudder suddenly sped through the atmosphere.

"He's coming," exclaimed little Massot, as he came back to Pierre and

Guillaume. "Ah! that Salvat is a brave fellow after all."

Then he related how the prisoner had been awakened; how the governor of

the prison, magistrate Amadieu, the chaplain, and a few other persons had

entered the cell where Salvat lay fast asleep; and then how the condemned

man had understood the truth immediately upon opening his eyes. He had

risen, looking pale but quite composed. And he had dressed himself

without assistance, and had declined the nip of brandy and the cigarette

proffered by the good-hearted chaplain, in the same way as with a gentle

but stubborn gesture he had brushed the crucifix aside. Then had come the

"toilette" for death. With all rapidity and without a word being

exchanged, Salvat's hands had been tied behind his back, his legs had

been loosely secured with a cord, and the neckband of his shirt had been

cut away. He had smiled when the others exhorted him to be brave. He only

feared some nervous weakness, and had but one desire, to die like a hero,

to remain the martyr of the ardent faith in truth and justice for which

he was about to perish.

"They are now drawing up the death certificate in the register,"

continued Massot in his chattering way. "Come along, come along to the

barriers if you wish a good view.... I turned paler, you know, and

trembled far more than he did. I don't care a rap for anything as a rule;

but, all the same, an execution isn't a pleasant business.... You

can't imagine how many attempts were made to save Salvat's life. Even

some of the papers asked that he might be reprieved. But nothing

succeeded, the execution was regarded as inevitable, it seems, even by

those who consider it a blunder. Still, they had such a touching

opportunity to reprieve him, when his daughter, little Celine, wrote that

fine letter to the President of the Republic, which I was the first to

publish in the 'Globe.' Ah! that letter, it cost me a lot of running

about!"

Pierre, who was already quite upset by this long wait for the horrible

scene, felt moved to tears by Massot's reference to Celine. He could

again see the child standing beside Madame Theodore in that bare, cold

room whither her father would never more return. It was thence that he

had set out on a day of desperation with his stomach empty and his brain

on fire, and it was here that he would end, between yonder beams, beneath

yonder knife.

Massot, however, was still giving particulars. The doctors, said he, were

furious because they feared that the body would not be delivered to them

immediately after the execution. To this Guillaume did not listen. He

stood there with his elbows resting on the wooden barrier and his eyes

fixed on the prison gate, which still remained shut. His hands were

quivering, and there was an expression of anguish on his face as if it

were he himself who was about to be executed. The headsman had again just

left the prison. He was a little, insignificant-looking man, and seemed

annoyed, anxious to have done with it all. Then, among a group of

frock-coated gentlemen, some of the spectators pointed out Gascogne, the

Chief of the Detective Police, who wore a cold, official air, and

Amadieu, the investigating magistrate, who smiled and looked very spruce,

early though the hour was. He had come partly because it was his duty,

and partly because he wished to show himself now that the curtain was

about to fall on a wonderful tragedy of which he considered himself the

author. Guillaume glanced at him, and then as a growing uproar rose from

the distant crowd, he looked up for an instant, and again beheld the two

grey prisons, the plane-trees with their fresh young leaves, and the

houses swarming with people beneath the pale blue sky, in which the

triumphant sun was about to appear.

"Look out, here he comes!"

Who had spoken? A slight noise, that of the opening gate, made every

heart throb. Necks were outstretched, eyes gazed fixedly, there was

laboured breathing on all sides. Salvat stood on the threshold of the

prison. The chaplain, stepping backwards, had come out in advance of him,

in order to conceal the guillotine from his sight, but he had stopped

short, for he wished to see that instrument of death, make acquaintance

with it, as it were, before he walked towards it. And as he stood there,

his long, aged sunken face, on which life's hardships had left their

mark, seemed transformed by the wondrous brilliancy of his flaring,

dreamy eyes. Enthusiasm bore him up--he was going to his death in all the

splendour of his dream. When the executioner's assistants drew near to

support him he once more refused their help, and again set himself in

motion, advancing with short steps, but as quickly and as straightly as

the rope hampering his legs permitted.

All at once Guillaume felt that Salvat's eyes were fixed upon him.

Drawing nearer and nearer the condemned man had perceived and recognised

his friend; and as he passed by, at a distance of no more than six or

seven feet, he smiled faintly and darted such a deep penetrating glance

at Guillaume, that ever afterwards the latter felt its smart. But what

last thought, what supreme legacy had Salvat left him to meditate upon,

perhaps to put into execution? It was all so poignant that Pierre feared

some involuntary call on his brother's part; and so he laid his hand upon

his arm to quiet him.

"Long live Anarchy!"

It was Salvat who had raised this cry. But in the deep silence his husky,

altered voice seemed to break. The few who were near at hand had turned

very pale; the distant crowd seemed bereft of life. The horse of one of

the Gardes de Paris was alone heard snorting in the centre of the space

which had been kept clear.

Then came a loathsome scramble, a scene of nameless brutality and

ignominy. The headsman's helps rushed upon Salvat as he came up slowly

with brow erect. Two of them seized him by the head, but finding little

hair there, could only lower it by tugging at his neck. Next two others

grasped him by the legs and flung him violently upon a plank which tilted

over and rolled forward. Then, by dint of pushing and tugging, the head

was got into the "lunette," the upper part of which fell in such wise