“If you are a man, you will not weep,” answered the duke, who knew what chord to touch. “You should say to them: ‘Ladies, I would take off my hat to you if my hands were not tied.’”
The boy’s eyes sparkled; he loved to play the man and the gallant; so he spoke to the crowd as the duke had told him, and was innocently vain of his own coolness.
At last, the carts, jolting steadily onward, reached the vast clear space of the Place de la Révolution, crammed with people, and in the open place in the middle a great Thing, black and gaunt, reared itself high in the air. At the top a blade of blue steel blazed in the sunset glow.
The first to dismount from the carts was gentle Madame Elizabeth. She seated herself placidly on one of the twenty-four chairs ranged around in the circle. For the first time it was noted of this simple and kindly creature, once known as a Child of France, something majestic in her demeanor. She looked about her calmly, as much as to say: “It matters little to me, Elizabeth, a Daughter of France, what you may do.”
Another woman, who had also been meek all her life, showed a stateliness of bearing which might well become a duchess. This was Trimousette, Duchess of Belgarde. She was the next to alight, after Madame Elizabeth, and took her place of rank, next the royal princess, first making her a low curtsey, which the princess rose and returned. Each lady present made two curtseys to this royal lady and each man two bows, one on dismounting from the cart, and another before ascending the rude stairs to the platform where the glittering ax worked in its groove. The most graceful bow of all was made by the Duke of Belgarde; the most debonair by the Vicomte d’Aronda.
The condemned persons passed in the order of their rank; those of the lowest rank going first. The little vicomte being last of all, except the Duke and Duchess of Belgarde, passed before the royal lady, sitting still and stately in her rough wooden chair. Twenty persons mounted the stairs to the platform, and twenty times the ax flashed up and down in its groove. From the surging multitudes around came occasionally gaspings and sobbings, and even sometimes a wild shriek cut the twilight air. But not one sob or shriek came from those who went to their death, each passing bravely and silently.
The twenty-first name to be called was that of Citizen d’Aronda, and the little vicomte, standing up, cried:
“I am here—Louis Frédéric, Vicomte d’Aronda!”
He went first to Trimousette and kneeled to kiss her hand.
“Au revoir, madame,” he cried; “we meet again shortly, but meanwhile I shall have seen madame, my mother.”