"Better then, than to-morrow night, if it is to be. Allons! comrade, another light; for, sang Dieu! my pipe has gone out!"
So passed his last night on earth.
Grey morning came and the great-coated guard got under arms. The chevalier was unchained from the tree and marched to a secluded spot, where his grave, which the pioneers of the 51st had dug overnight, yawned in the damp mould among the bright green grass, he walked calmly round it and looked down with all the curiosity of an amateur or mere spectator. He then stood erect opposite the provost-marshal's guard, with a scornful smile and with folded arms.
"I thank you, M. le Prevot," said he, smiling gaily; "all is as it should be—'tis just my length; five feet ten inches."
The guard, or firing party, which was composed of twenty men of the 61st, were confounded, and, perhaps, disgusted by his unparalleled coolness. He declined to have his eyes bound up.
"Make ready!" said the provost-marshal, and his guard cocked their arms at the recover, according to the position of those days.
"Pardonnes moi," said the unmoved chevalier; "I have a little request to make of you, M. le Prevot."
"What is it, sir?"
"Don't bury that devil of a friar near me."
"You mean your victim?"