“What for, citizen?”
“I wish the Citizen Cléry to cut off my hair; it is the only legacy I have to leave my family.”
“’Tis well,” said the gaoler.
And Cléry performed this ghastly office.
Cléry, turning to the commissaires, said, “And now, citizens, I beg that I may be allowed to accompany the Citizen Louis Capet”—he dared not call him King; to do so would have terminated his own life—“to the scaffold. I seek permission to perform this last office, and that it may not be left to the executioner.”
“Bah! The executioner is good enough for him!” cried one of the more influential commissaires.
The King turned away.
The Abbé, following him some moments afterwards, found the King calmly warming himself near the stove, and evidently contemplating his approaching end with a certain calm joy which was to be envied by very many of those who had condemned him.
“Good heavens!” he cried, “how glad I am that while on the throne, I maintained my faith in the Eternal! What now would be my sufferings, if I had not steadfast hope in the world to come! Oh, yes; above there is a Judge of courage, who cannot be influenced or threatened—who will judge me honestly, and accord to me that justice which has been denied me in this world.”
The winter day now broke, and light struggled between the bars and planks which combined to shut out light from the royal prisoners, one of whom was now destined soon to be free.