THE night in its pale glory passed, and the morning dawned as fair as if the world were freshly made. The duke waited until seven o’clock for Trimousette to wake; she had slept like an infant since midnight. Then he went and roused her. She arose and dressed quickly, and began those preparations which even the poorest prisoner makes before leaving the world. There were some books to be disposed of and a few clothes, and the pot with the geranium, now bearing three splendid scarlet flowers.
“It is well you have no shoes to leave, except what you are wearing, for there is no woman’s foot in France small enough for your shoes,” said the duke, with an air of compliment, and Trimousette nodded almost gayly.
At nine o’clock Duval came to them. The duke was calmly writing at his table, and Trimousette was smoothing out her white gown upon the bed.
“Ah, Monsieur Duval,” she cried cheerfully, “we have decided to make you our executor. The duke means to leave you his pen and these books. You can sell the books for ten francs perhaps. My clothes are few and very shabby, but you may have a daughter or perhaps a niece whom they will fit, so pray take them. Also, I give you my geranium, but I shall pluck the blossoms—one for the duke to wear to the Place de la Révolution, one for myself, and one for the little Vicomte d’Aronda.”
“Thank you, madame,” replied Duval gruffly. “I—I—have not yet told the boy. I don’t know how he will take it.”
“Have no fear. His name is d’Aronda,” said the duke, looking up from his writing.
At noon the great doors clanged open, and the prisoners, marching out, saw the list of the condemned posted up in the vast, gloomy archway. The list, which was long, was headed with the name of the King’s sister, the gentle and pious Elizabeth. Next came the names of Citizen and Citizeness Belgarde, and the twenty-fourth and last name was that of Louis Frédéric d’Aronda.
At this noontime, as on any other, Trimousette and the duke walked in the garden. They wished to say good-by to their friends among their fellow prisoners, a brave custom, rarely omitted. As the duke and Trimousette passed out into the gloomy corridor, they saw, standing before the posted list in the archway, the little vicomte, quite smiling and composed.
“It is a great honor,” he said, bowing low with boyish bravado, “to go with the King’s sister, and also an honor to go with the Duke and Duchess of Belgarde.”
“Death is nothing,” cried the duke debonairly, laying his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “I have faced him a hundred times in fight, and if you look him straight in the eye and advance upon him, he grows quite amiable to look at.”