“Will you kindly permit me to assist madame, my wife, into the cart first? Then I shall submit willingly.”
The ruffian in attendance assented with a grin, and the duke gallantly helped Trimousette into the tumbril, and then putting his hands behind his back, they were tied, after which he jumped lightly in himself and cried:
“Drive on, coachman! Straight ahead, first turning to the right!”
The procession of the twelve carts moved. In one sat a solitary person, in another sat three, the Duke and Duchess de Belgarde and the young Vicomte d’Aronda. The evening was as clear as crystal and the river, like a string of pearls, slipped softly from the green valley of the Seine, under the bridges, the statues looking down upon the silvery stream, past the palaces, in whose windows the sunset blazed blood red. The great city was still and breathless, as it always was when these strange processions started for the great open space where Madame Guillotine held her court. Toward the west, the sky turned from a flame of crimson to an ocean of golden light, and then to a splendor of pale purple and green and rose. Presently, a single palpitating star came out softly in the heavens, now dark blue, and shone with a veiled but steady brilliance, growing larger and brighter as the daylight waned. Trimousette, jolting along upon the rude plank laid crosswise the tumbril, leaned a little toward the duke, who, although pinioned, yet supported her as the cart rattled along the stony street. The boy sat at her feet, his look fixed upon her face. He saw neither fear nor grief, but perfect peace. From Trimousette the lad turned his glance upon the duke, who had a cool and victorious eye even in that hour.
“I said a great many prayers last night,” said the boy, after a pause, “and so that business is finished. I leave all with God, as a gentleman should who treats God as if He were a gentleman and meant to keep His word to us.”
“He will keep His word to us,” answered Trimousette. The boy’s courage charmed her, and she thought, if long life had been given to her she would have wished for such a son as this Louis Frédéric d’Aronda.
“When first I was in prison I rehearsed this scene to myself and concluded there was nothing about it to keep a man awake at night,” said the duke. “I think with you, my young vicomte, if there is a God, He is a gentleman, and will treat us poor devils of mortals fairly. Is not that true, Trimousette?”
“Quite true,” replied Trimousette.
So, with calm and peaceful talk, they made the journey, amid crowds of staring and agitated people, who packed the streets and made black the tops of the houses. A murmur of pity for the little vicomte, sitting in the bottom of the cart, and talking so cheerfully, swept over the multitude. The women in the throbbing crowds asked each other his name and sometimes broke into sobbing as he passed. This agitated compassion troubled the boy, and he said, with his lips trembling a little:
“I wish they would not say ‘Poor lad! Poor little boy!’ I am afraid it will make me weep, and that is what I should hate to do.”