Part 169 (1/2)

”Can you keep your head steady?” inquired Caboche, holding his sword behind La Mole, who was on his knees.

”I hope so,” said the latter.

”Then all will go well.”

”But,” said La Mole, ”you will not forget what I asked of you? This reliquary will open the doors to you.”

”Be easy. Now try to keep your head straight.”

La Mole raised his head and turned his eyes towards the little tower.

”Adieu, Marguerite,” said he; ”bless”--

He never finished. With one blow of his sword, as swift as a stroke of lightning, Caboche severed the head, which rolled to the feet of Coconnas.

The body fell back gently as if going to rest.

A great cry rose from thousands of voices, and, among them, it seemed to Coconnas that he heard a shriek more piercing than all the rest.

”Thank you, my good friend,” said Coconnas, and a third time he extended his hand to the hangman.

”My son,” said the priest, ”have you nothing to confess to G.o.d?”

”Faith no, father,” said the Piedmontese; ”all that I had to say I said to you yesterday.”

Then turning to Caboche:

”Now, executioner, my last friend, one more favor!”

Before kneeling down he turned on the crowd a glance so calm and serene that a murmur of admiration rose, which soothed his ear and flattered his pride. Then, raising the head of his friend and pressing a kiss on the purple lips, he gave a last look toward the little tower, and kneeling down, still holding the well-loved head in his hand, he said:

”Now!”

Scarcely had he uttered the word before Caboche had cut off his head.

This done, the poor hangman began to tremble.

”It was time it was over,” said he. ”Poor fellow!”

And with difficulty he drew from the clinched fingers of La Mole the reliquary of gold. Then he threw his cloak over the sad remains which the tumbril was to convey to his own abode.

The spectacle over, the crowd dispersed.

CHAPTER LXI.

THE HEADSMAN'S TOWER.

Night descended over the city, which still trembled at the remembrance of the execution, the details of which pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth, saddening the happy supper hour in every home. In contrast to the city, which was silent and mournful, the Louvre was noisy, joyous, and illuminated. There was a grand fete at the palace, a fete ordered by Charles IX., a fete he had planned for that evening at the very time that he had ordered the execution for the morning.