The Frenchman paused; the perspiration stood in bead-drops on his brow; his face was deadly pale, and I could not fail to feel deeply interested, while thinking at the same time, that the language and bearing of himself and his companion were very different from what one might expect to find in a couple of runaway privateersmen.
"If, on that terrible day," he resumed, "voices were heard, it was the murmur of those at a distance—those who were too far off to see—the thousands who crowded the narrow vistas of the Rue de la Tannerie, the Rue de la Mortellarie, the Rue du Mouton, and the Quai de la Grêve, for all Paris had flocked to witness my brother's execution.
"At five o'clock, just as the grey light of a dull March morning stole over the pale-faced multitude, the punishment began. My brother's right hand was half consumed by fire, and then struck off. Amid the agony, though his limb shrivelled and blood burst forth, O mon Dieu! the poor soul neither winced nor asked for mercy; but when pincers, red hot and glowing, and ladles filled with boiling oil, molten lead and flaming resin, were applied to his arms, thighs, and breast, he uttered shrieks so piercing that every heart grew sick and every face grew pale. On his bones the very flesh was broiled, and his blood hissed in steam around him! He was then disembowelled."
"Assuredly that must have put a period to his sufferings?" said I, in a low voice.
"No—the principle of life was strong within him, for my poor brother was one of the most athletic of our peasants in Artois. These agonies—this butchery were insufficient to glut the rage of the courtiers and the fury of his judges. Four strong young horses were now harnessed to his four limbs, and lashed in opposite directions, but failed to sever his mangled frame, and he had now ceased to cry or moan."
"Failed, say you?" I exclaimed, becoming more and more interested, in spite of myself, by the Frenchman's detail of this revolting execution.
"Yes—so the chief executioner, with a sharp knife, severed the sinews at the joints of the arms and thighs. Anew, the long whips were cracked—again the horses strained upon their traces, and a leg and arm were torn from the body of my brother, who looked—mother of mercy!—yes, looked after them, as they were dragged along the pavement, with the blood spirting from vein and artery; but on the severance of the other two limbs, he expired.
"His remains were then cast into a fire, which was kept burning all day, and all the succeeding night."
"Were you present at this horrible scene?" I asked, after a pause.
"No—I was with Monsieur de Thurot, cruising off the coast of Scotland. On my return to France, I found my brother's family and name, even to the most remote degree, proscribed, and the cottage in which we were all born, at Tieuloy, in Artois, razed to its very foundations in token of infamy, and the place where it stood had been salted and sown with grass. On hearing of all this, some bitter words escaped me, so I was placed in the castle of St. Malo. There I made a vow to achieve both freedom and revenge. I have fulfilled the first part of that vow, and, Dieu-merci! I am here."