“So my father always said,” replied the boy, “and none of my family, monsieur, knew fear. Even my sister, only twenty, was as cool as any soldier, and surely a gentleman cannot let his sister surpass him in valor. Oh, if I die bravely, my father will praise me, and my mother will smile upon me, and so will my sister when we meet; and if I show the white feather, I should be afraid to face them.”
“You shall go in the cart with us,” said Trimousette, “and we will tell Madame Elizabeth that you are a brave boy, a real d’Aronda.”
That day, too, was bright and cloudless, and one of the most peaceful Trimousette ever spent.
At six o’clock there resounded through the great stone corridors of the prison a loud, echoing voice, calling the condemned to appear, and at the same moment the tumbrils rattled into the courtyard. Duval unlocked the doors of the cells, and the Duke and Duchess of Belgarde came forth, and at the same moment the little vicomte appeared. He had made as much of a toilet as he could, and carried carefully in his hand a new, though coarse, white handkerchief.
Trimousette wore upon the breast of her white gown a vivid red geranium blossom, and another blazed upon the lapel of the duke’s threadbare brocade coat. The third blossom Trimousette pinned upon the little vicomte’s breast, and he kissed her hand for it.
Once in the courtyard, the guards objected to the boy going in the same cart with Trimousette and her husband—the cart would be too heavy.
“But he is so small—he takes up so little room,” urged Trimousette, with soft pleading in her eyes. And then, the lad, without waiting for permission, jumped into the cart and folded his arms defiantly, as much as to say:
“Turn me out if you dare.”
They allowed him to remain.
There were twelve tumbrils in all for the twenty-four condemned persons. The very last to appear was a gentle, middle-aged lady, the dead King’s sister, Madame Elizabeth. Each of the condemned persons made her a low bow, the little vicomte scrambling out of the cart to make his reverence. The eyes of Madame Elizabeth grew troubled as she looked at the lad; the women and men could die, but the little lads—ah, it was too hard! The Duke of Belgarde, as the man of highest rank present, had the honor of assisting Madame Elizabeth into the cart, for which she thanked him sweetly. Her hands were the first tied, the guards knowing well she would make no resistance, and that the rest would do as the King’s sister did. When it came to the duke’s turn, he said: