“I have a rash on my face,” he answered; “it will vanish when we see Cipierre, to whom we must go at once. We should be with him in less than an hour. He lives in the Place du Martroi.”
“And here is the barge,” I said, and, entering it, we were taken slowly across the river.
“There is a large crowd there.” I pointed to the opposite bank, where, on the Quai du Châtelet, a good half of the population of Orleans seemed to have assembled, all making in a westerly direction, and swaying backward and forward, like a wind-stirred field, while every now and again, above the murmuring voices that hummed like a thousand hives, a hoarse shout would be raised that was taken up all along the line, to die again as suddenly as it had sprung up.
“It is an expiation,” said our boatman, “a Huguenot who refused to bow to Our Lady of Mercy, in the Rue des Tanneurs, and he is to make expiation there on the quay.”
“On the quay? That is strange!” I said. “Why not before Ste. Croix, or in the Martroi?”
“Monsieur is evidently a stranger,” replied our Charon; “they do not expiate at Ste. Croix, and the Martroi is kept now for the Prince. ’Tis said he dies on the 10th.”
From out the blackness of his mask Marcilly glanced at me, and our eyes met for an instant as he asked:
“And is that known? We, who come from the south, heard that he would not die.”
“All the world knows it,” replied our man; “the barricades, and galleries for the spectators are even now ready in the Martroi, as you will see—but we talk of dangerous things, messieurs, and we have reached the quay. Ah! Thanks! This will buy a brave petticoat for my little Lardille.”