“But why should I wish for better treatment than my King?” asked the Duc de Trélan. “He had to walk from the Tower.”
Once through the great wall of isolation—at last—they went side by side in silence, the armed guard behind, across the garden to the Palace. Gaston was thinking that if, on their way to the Plaine de Grenelle—the usual spot for such events—they crossed the river by the Pont Neuf, as was most likely, they could hardly avoid passing one end or other of the Rue de Seine, where Valentine lay asleep, or wakeful. He wondered whether she would somehow be aware . . . and whether he could entirely keep his composure as they went so near. . . .
When they came, through the building, in sight of the courtyard, the carriage was drawn up at the foot of the steps. Grouped round it, the remaining hussars sat their horses motionless, holding those of their dismounted comrades, but the frost in the air made the animals impatient, and one perpetual jingle shook from their tossing heads, while their breaths, and the men’s, too, went up like smoke.
Gaston looked back over his shoulder for an instant. Above the low façade of the Palace, to the left of the Tower behind, the sun was now visible, huge and red. It would be a fine day, probably—but one would not know. . . . The dismounted men were already resuming their saddles; a horse was pawing the ground as if eager to be off.
“Lieutenant Soyer,” said the captain, “take the head of the escort!” He turned to his prisoner. “Monsieur de Trélan, pardon me, but someone must drive in the carriage with you. I am very sorry . . . but if you will permit me, I will do so myself, instead of my lieutenant.”
He reminded Gaston of his own three ‘jeunes.’ In such circumstances he would not have wished Roland to carry himself otherwise.
“I should desire your company, Monsieur le Capitaine,” he replied courteously, and put his foot on the step of the high-slung berline. “We journey to the Plaine de Grenelle, I suppose?”
The young man dropped his eyes and reddened. “No,” he said, in a low, ashamed voice, “the orders are . . . Mirabel.”
For the first time since he had learnt that he was to die that morning, Gaston de Trélan showed emotion before a witness. He flushed too, but it was with anger.
“The First Consul’s idea of the dramatic, I suppose! One sees his origin.” He bit his lip and recovered himself. “I have the right, I think, to consider it somewhat misplaced. However, the setting of the last scene is really of small importance to me.”