Caboche raised a corner of it, and, lowering the torch:
"See, madame," said he.
In their black clothes lay the two young men, side by side, in the strange symmetry of death. Their heads had been placed close to their bodies, from which they seemed to be separated only by a bright red circle about the neck. Death had not disunited their hands, for either from chance or the kind care of the hangman the right hand of La Mole rested in Coconnas's left hand.
There was a look of love under the lids of La Mole, and a smile of scorn under those of Coconnas.
Marguerite knelt down by the side of her lover, and with hands that sparkled with gems gently raised the head she had so greatly loved.
The Duchesse de Nevers leaned against the wall, unable to remove her eyes from that pale face on which so often she had gazed for pleasure and for love.
"La Mole! Dear La Mole!" murmured Marguerite.
"Annibal! Annibal!" cried the duchess, "so beautiful! so proud! so brave! Never again will you answer me!"
And her eyes filled with tears.
This woman, so scornful, so intrepid, so insolent in happiness; this woman who carried scepticism as far as absolute doubt, passion to the point of cruelty; this woman had never thought of death.