"Is there not one here can remember a prayer, or even a verse of the offices," said Gougon, with a well-affected horror in his voice.
"Yes, yes, I do," cried I, my zeal overcoming all sense of the mockery in which the words were spoken; "I know them all by heart, and can repeat them from 'lux beatissima' down to 'hora mortis;'" and as if to gain credence for my self-laudation, I began at once to recite in the sing-song tone of the seminary,
"Salve, mater salvatoris,
Fons salutis, vas honoris:
Scala cœli porta et via
Salve semper, O, Maria!"
It is possible I should have gone on to the very end, if the uproarious laughter which rung around had not stopped me.
"There's a brave youth!" cried Gougon, pointing toward me, with mock admiration. "If it ever come to pass—as what may not in these strange times?—that we turn to priest-craft again, thou shalt be the first archbishop of Paris. Who taught thee that famous canticle?"
"The Père Michel," replied I, in no way conscious of the ridicule bestowed upon me; "the Père Michel of St. Blois."
The old lady lifted up her head at these words, and her dark eyes rested steadily upon me; and then, with a sign of her hand, she motioned to me to come over to her.
"Yes; let him come," said Gougon, as if answering the half-reluctant glances of the crowd. And now I was assisted to descend, and passed along over the heads of the people till I was placed upon the scaffold. Never can I forget the terror of that moment, as I stood within a few feet of the terrible guillotine, and saw beside me the horrid basket, splashed with recent blood.
"Look not at these things, child," said the old lady, as she took my hand and drew me toward her, "but listen to me, and mark my words well."
"I will, I will," cried I, as the hot tears rolled down my cheeks.