How vividly he recalled the interview in the library, the hurried burning of the compromising papers, and the scattering of their ashes in the moat; the tearful entreaties of the Duchesse (so called) that they should remain there just one more night; and then, last scene of all, the startling summons at the chateau, the tramp of the soldiers through the corridors, when they had gained admission, the rude awakening, the peremptory orders to rise and dress immediately, the journey, in the still, silent night, that had ended at Vincennes.
This was the final picture that was presented to his mind, and it brought him to the present. He was a prisoner in the gloomy fortress, from which death only would release him! Truly his heart was full of anguish and regret; he had sacrificed all for love of Halima, and, notwithstanding, had failed in gaining that for which he had made the sacrifice; for he could not doubt that he had seen her for the last time. The First Consul would not again forgive him; he had warned him on the last occasion.
He moved wearily to the window of his cell and gazed out on the inner moat, pressing his head against the iron bars; it was burning and racked with pain, and the cold was grateful to him.
It was close on dawn, and in the dim gray light, there came in view a party of soldiers with an officer. Some carried torches and lighted lanterns, and others spades and mattocks.
The officer looked around and, presently, pointed to a spot; then the men began to dig there, the watcher at the narrow window speculating, with half-listless curiosity, what could be their object; were they seeking a buried treasure?
Gradually the light of day crept up, and, at its approach, the torches' flare and the feeble glimmer from the lanterns began to wane, until, when the golden sheen, fast spreading over the Eastern sky, announced the birth of another day, they could no longer be discerned.
Then the meaning of what these men were doing flashed all at once upon St. Just, and he became sick with horror. The shape and size of the opening they were making proclaimed with fearful certainty its purpose. It was a grave.
For whom? For him? A great fear fell upon him; a deadly faintness overcame him for the moment, but, with a strong effort, he forced it back. He could not take his eyes away; a sort of fascination seemed to glue them to the scene.
At last the grave was finished and the diggers stood at ease, and began to wipe the sweat from off their foreheads, for the work had been both arduous and rapidly performed. Suddenly their officer gave the word of command, and caps were replaced and the men ranged themselves in a line and stood at attention.
The reason was soon apparent; a file of soldiers wheeled round the corner and were halted at some thirty paces from the grave. Then more soldiers came in sight, and in the midst of them—some before and some behind him—walked a man, wearing only his shirt and pantaloons. The prisoner was marched up to the newly opened grave and halted; his guards fell back and he stood there alone, awaiting death.