‘Do you leave me?’ gasped Marie hurriedly, as she seized Pirot’s hand. ‘Be with me on the scaffold, even when—— He is coming. It will soon be over.’
‘I will not leave you,’ said Pirot, rising, ‘until you are no more.’
‘Stop!’ cried Marie. ‘One word more. I may not speak to you again. Let me tell you how deeply I feel your patient kindness throughout this fearful trial. They are ready—keep by my side; and when we are on the scaffold, at the moment of my death, say a De Profundis. You promise this.’
Pirot bent his head, and squeezed her hand in token of compliance. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him. His whole frame appeared convulsed, and he offered a strong contrast to the strange calm of his companion.
The executioner came down from the scaffold, and assisted the Marchioness to descend; whilst Pirot also got out, and she went with him up the ladder—hurriedly, as though she was anxious to bring the scene to a conclusion. As she reached the platform, her beauty evidently made an impression on the crowd. They turned one to the other, and murmured; but this soon died away into the same deep, awful silence—so perfect, that the voices of the executioner and Pirot could be plainly heard. Throwing herself upon her knees, Marie submitted to the second dreary toilet she had been obliged to undergo. The assistant cut off the whole of her beautiful hair, throwing the long ringlets carelessly about on the scaffold; and next, tearing down the collar of her dress, rudely turned it back, so as to leave bare her neck and shoulders. Then bandaging her eyes with a small scarf, he retired.
The sun was shining brightly; and at this moment its rays fell upon the glittering blade of a long sword which the headsman had hitherto kept concealed under his garment. Pirot saw it, and his heart sank within him—so much so, that his utterance was choked, and Marie, by whose side he was kneeling, demanded why he had thus finished his prayer. And then, as if aware of the cause, she exclaimed rapidly—
‘Holy Virgin, pray for me, and forgive me! I abandon my body, which is but dust, to the earth. Do thou receive my soul!’
The executioner drew near, and the good Pirot closed his eyes, as with the greatest difficulty, in broken and quivering words, he commenced the De Profundis. But in a few seconds his voice was again checked by the noise of a dull heavy blow at his side, and a strange and sudden sound from the crowd—not a cry of alarm, or triumph, but a rapid expiration of the breath, almost like a hiccough, terribly audible. The next instant a hand was laid on his shoulder. He started, and looking round with an effort, perceived the headsman standing over him.
‘It was well done, monsieur,’ said the man; ‘and I hope madame has left me a trifle, for I deserve it.’
Almost mechanically, following the direction of the man’s finger as he pointed to the platform, Pirot’s eyes fell upon a ghastly head lying in a pool of blood. He saw no more; but fell insensible on the scaffold.