Part 171 (1/2)

”I might have been stopped at the gate of the Louvre, and compelled to raise my cloak. What would they have said if they had seen a head under it?”

”That is right; keep it. I will come for it to-morrow.”

”To-morrow, madame,” said Caboche, ”may perhaps be too late.”

”How so?”

”Because the queen mother wanted the heads of the first victims executed by me to be kept for her magical experiments.”

”Oh! What profanation! The heads of our well-beloved! Henriette,” cried Marguerite, turning to her friend, who had risen as if a spring had placed her on her feet, ”Henriette, my angel, do you hear what this man says?”

”Yes; what must we do?”

”Go with him.”

Then uttering a cry of pain by which great sufferers return to life:

”Ah! I was so happy,” said Henriette; ”I was almost dead.”

Meanwhile Marguerite had thrown a velvet cloak over her bare shoulders.

”Come,” said she, ”we will go and see them once more.”

Telling Gillonne to have all the doors closed, the queen gave orders for a litter to be brought to the private entrance, and taking Henriette by the arm, she descended by the secret corridor, signing to Caboche to follow.

At the lower door was the litter; at the gate Caboche's attendant waited with a lantern. Marguerite's porters were trusty men, deaf and dumb, more to be depended on than if they had been beasts of burden.

They walked for about ten minutes, preceded by Caboche and his servant, carrying the lantern. Then they stopped. The hangman opened the door, while his man went ahead.

Marguerite stepped from the litter and helped out the d.u.c.h.esse de Nevers. In the deep grief which bound them together it was the nervous organism which was the stronger.

The headsman's tower rose before them like a dark, vague giant, giving out a lurid gleam from two narrow upper windows.

The attendant reappeared at the door.

”You can enter, ladies,” said Caboche; ”every one is asleep in the tower.”

At the same moment the light from above was extinguished.

The two women, holding to each other, pa.s.sed through the small gothic door, and reached a dark hall with damp and uneven pavement. At the end of a winding corridor they perceived a light and guided by the gruesome master of the place they set out towards it. The door closed behind them.

Caboche, a wax torch in hand, admitted them into a lower room filled with smoke. In the centre was a table containing the remains of a supper for three. These three were probably the hangman, his wife, and his chief a.s.sistant. In a conspicuous place on the wall a parchment was nailed, sealed with the seal of the King. It was the hangman's license.

In a corner was a long-handled sword. This was the flaming sword of justice.

Here and there were various rough drawings representing martyrs undergoing the torture.

At the door Caboche made a low bow.

”Your majesty will excuse me,” said he, ”if I ventured to enter the Louvre and bring you here. But it was the last wish of the gentleman, so that I felt I”--