Outside there was a strange murmuring sound; at first I thought that it was the river, but from the laughter that arose from intervals, I knew it was the crowd. A young man seated near the window, who was writing with a pencil in a note-book, asked the men what they were doing.
“It is the last toilet of the condemned,” was the reply.
I then understood that all this would be read to-morrow in the papers.
All at once one of the assistants took off my waistcoat, whilst the other seized my two hands and brought them behind my back, whilst I could feel a cord being knotted round my wrists. At the same moment the other took off my necktie. My linen shirt, a last relic of bygone days, seemed to make him hesitate for a moment; then he cut off the collar.
At this horrible moment, when the cold steel touched my neck, my elbow quivered, and I uttered a low moan of stilled rage. The executioner’s hand shook.
“Sir,” said he, “forgive me, have I hurt you?”
These executioners have excellent manners.
The crowd outside is yelling louder than ever.
The headsman pressed to my nostrils a handkerchief, strongly impregnated with aromatic vinegar.
“Thank you,” said I, in as firm a voice as I could; “it is useless. I feel better.”