“It is, then, that poor old man whom they are leading to the scaffold,” they exclaimed; “and his children are supporting him.”
“Upon your knees, ladies,” said a man, “and pray for him!”
“On your knees,” cried Gondi, “and let us pray that God will deliver him!”
All the conspirators repeated, “On your knees! on your knees!” and set the example to the people, who imitated them in silence.
“We can see his movements better now,” said Gondi, in a whisper to Montresor. “Stand up; what is he doing?”
“He has stopped, and is speaking on our side, saluting us; I think he has recognized us.”
Every house, window, wall, roof, and raised platform that looked upon the place was filled with persons of every age and condition.
The most profound silence prevailed throughout the immense multitude. One might have heard the wings of a gnat, the breath of the slightest wind, the passage of the grains of dust which it raised; yet the air was calm, the sun brilliant, the sky blue. The people listened attentively. They were close to the Place des Terreaux; they heard the blows of the hammer upon the planks, then the voice of Cinq-Mars.
A young Carthusian thrust his pale face between two guards. All the conspirators rose above the kneeling people. Every one put his hand to his belt or in his bosom, approaching close to the soldier whom he was to poniard.
“What is he doing?” asked the Carthusian. “Has he his hat upon his head?”