THE EXECUTION OF FIESCHI, MOREY, AND PEPIN.
About one o'clock on a cold winter night in 1835, a party of four persons were seated in the coffee-room of the Hôtel Meurice, at Paris. It was chilly, sloppy, miserable weather; half-melted snow, mixed with the Paris mud, and a driving, sleety rain hissed against the ill-fitting windows.
Our four convives were drinking—not the wines of sunny France, but something much more appropriate and homely—a curiously-fine sample of gin, artfully compounded into toddy, by Achille, the waiter.
When the clock struck one, three of the party made a show of retiring; but the fourth, a punchy gentleman from Wolverhampton, entreated that the rest would not all desert him while he discussed one glass more—nay, perhaps, would join him! But here Achille was inexorable: the master was in bed, and had taken the keys.
Our four friends have taken their candles, and are moving from the room, when a cab drives rapidly to the door—there is a smart ring at the bell, and a gentleman in full evening dress, and enveloped in a Spanish cloak, hastily enters the room.
"Who is inclined to see Fieschi's head chopped off?" said the stranger, unfolding himself from the cloak. "The execution is to take place at daylight—I had it from a peer of France, and the guillotine has been sent off an hour ago."
"Where?"
Our informant could not tell. It was known only to the police—there was an apprehension of some attempt at a rescue, and ten thousand troops were to be on the ground. It will be either the Place St. Jaques, or the Barrière du Trône—the first, most likely; let us try that to begin with, and there will be plenty of time to go on to the other afterward: but we must be early, to get a good place.
We are not of those who make a practice of attending executions with a morbid appetite for such horrors. Under any circumstances, the deliberate cutting off a life is a melancholy spectacle. The mortal agony, unrelieved by excitement, is painful in the extreme to witness, but worse still is reckless bravado. Rarest of all is it to see the inevitable fate met with calm dignity. Here, however, was a miscreant, who, to gratify a political feeling—dignified, in his opinion, with the name of patriotism—deliberately fired the contents of a battery of gun-barrels into a mass of innocent persons, many of whom, it was quite certain, would be killed, for the chance of striking down one man, and, probably, some of his family. That this family, with their illustrious father, should have escaped altogether, is an instance of good fortune as remarkable as the attempt was flagitious. But the magnitude of the crime invested the perpetrators with a terrible interest, which overcame any lingering scruples, and the whole party decided upon setting out forthwith. We made for the nearest coach-stand, which was that upon the quay, near the Pont Neuf.