"Do you prefer the wedges, chevalier? Here, bring the wedges."
A man brought six wedges and showed them, still stained with blood and flattened at the edges by the blows which had been struck upon them.
"Do you know the way in which these are used? The knees and ankles of the patient are pressed between two wooden slabs as tightly as possible, then one of these men forces a wedge between the knees, which is followed by a larger one. There are eight for the ordinary torture, and two larger for the extraordinary. These wedges, I warn you, chevalier, break bones like glass, and wound the flesh insupportably."
"Enough, enough," said Gaston, "unless you wish to double the torture by describing it; but, if it be only to guide my choice, I leave it to you, as you must know them better than I, and I shall be grateful if you will choose the one which will kill me most quickly."
D'Argenson could not conceal the admiration with which Gaston's strength of will inspired him.
"Come," said he, "speak, and you shall not be tortured."
"I have nothing to say, monsieur, so I cannot."
"Do not play the Spartan, I advise you. One may cry, but between the cries one always speaks under torture."
"Try," said Gaston.
Gaston's resolute air, in spite of the struggle of nature—a struggle which was evidenced by his paleness, and by a slight nervous tremor which shook him—gave D'Argenson the measure of his courage. He was accustomed to this kind of thing, and was rarely mistaken. He saw that he should get nothing out of him, yet he persisted.