"I, then," said Montlouis, "I." And he springs upon the scaffold. But there he stops, his hair bristling; at a window before him he has seen his wife and his children.
"Montlouis! Montlouis!" cries his wife, with the despairing accent of a breaking heart, "Montlouis! look at us!"
At the same moment all eyes were turned toward that window. Soldiers, citizens, priests, and executioners look the same way. Gaston profits by the deathlike silence which reigns around him—springs to the scaffold, and grasps the staircase—and mounts the first steps.
"My wife! my children!" cries Montlouis, wringing his hands in despair; "oh! go, have pity upon me!"
"Montlouis!" cries his wife, holding up afar the youngest of his sons, "Montlouis, bless your children, and one day, perhaps, one of them will avenge you."
"Adieu! my children, my blessing on you!" cries Montlouis, stretching his hands toward the window.
These mournful adieux pierce the night, and reverberate like a terrible echo in the hearts of the spectators.
"Enough," says Waters, "enough." Then turning to his assistants:
"Be quick!" says he, "or the people will not allow us to finish."
"Be easy," says Montlouis; "if the people should rescue me, I would not survive them."