They went down the staircases. They crossed the prison-yards. An endless, horrible distance.
And, suddenly, in the frame of the great doorway, the wan light of day, the rain, the street, the outlines of houses, while far-off sounds came through the awful silence.
They walked along the wall, to the corner of the boulevard.
A few steps farther Vaucheray started back: he had seen!
Gilbert crept along, with lowered head, supported by an executioner’s assistant and by the chaplain, who made him kiss the crucifix as he went.
There stood the guillotine.
“No, no,” shouted Gilbert, “I won’t.... I won’t.... Help! Help!”
A last appeal, lost in space.
The executioner gave a signal. Vaucheray was laid hold of, lifted, dragged along, almost at a run.
And then came this staggering thing: a shot, a shot fired from the other side, from one of the houses opposite.