“Gentlemen,” said he, “I go to my death! I die with all my heart! But let no one approach me or I shall shoot him—except this gentleman,” he continued, pointing to the executioner. “This is an affair that concerns us alone and merely needs a certain understanding between us.”
This concession was readily accorded, for there was no one present who was not suffering from the prolongation of this horrible tragedy, and anxious to see it finished. Perceiving their assent, he placed one of his pistols between his teeth, and drawing a dagger from his belt, plunged it in his breast up to the hilt. He still remained standing and seemed greatly surprised. There was a movement toward him.
“Very well, gentlemen!” cried he, covering the men who sought to surround him with his pistols, which he had seized again, while the blood spurted freely from the wound in which he had left his poniard. “You know our agreement; either I die alone or three of us will die together. Forward, march!” He walked straight to the guillotine, turning the knife in his breast as he did so.
“Faith,” said he, “my soul must be centred in my belly! I cannot die. See if you can fetch it out.”
This last was addressed to his executioner. An instant later his head fell. Be it accident or some peculiar phenomenon of the vitality, it rebounded and rolled beyond the circle of the scaffolding, and they will still tell you at Bourg, that Hyvert’s head spoke.
Before I had finished reading I had decided to abandon René d’Argonne for the Companions of Jehu. On the morrow I came down with my travelling bag under my arm.
“You are leaving?” said Alexandre to me.
“Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Bourg, in Bresse.”