"Good Heavens!" said Maurice to Lorin, "do you recognize him? Do you recognize him?"
"Death to the royalist!" repeated the madmen; "take away the handkerchief he wishes to preserve as a relic! wrest it from him! tear it from him!"
A haughty smile flitted across the young man's lips, he tore open his shirt, bared his breast, and dropped the handkerchief.
"Gentlemen," said he, "this blood is not the queen's, but my own. Let me die in peace;" and a deep, gushing wound appeared widely gaping under the left breast. The crowd uttered one cry and retired. The young man sank slowly upon his knees, and gazed upon the scaffold as a martyr looks upon the altar.
"Maison-Rouge!" whispered Lorin to Maurice.
"Adieu!" murmured the young man, bowing his head with an angelic smile,—"adieu! or rather, au revoir!" and he expired in the midst of the stupefied guards.
"There is still this expedient, Lorin," said Maurice, "before becoming an unworthy citizen."
The little spaniel turned toward the corpse, terrified and howling lamentably.
"Why, there is Jet," said a man, holding a large club in his hand,—"why, there is Jet; come here, old fellow."