Volume III Part 68 (1/2)

”Sir,” said the veteran to Martial, approaching him with interest, ”do not remain here. Come, come.”

Martial, stupefied, with horror and alarm, mechanically followed the soldier. Two of the a.s.sistants had carried the wretched Calabash to the other chair; one of them sustained the almost lifeless body, while the other, by means of whip-cord, exceedingly fine but very strong, tied her hands behind her back, and also fastened her feet together by the ankles, allowing slack enough to enable her walk slowly. The executioner and his other a.s.sistant performed the same operation on the widow, whose features underwent no alteration; only from time to time she coughed slightly. When the condemned were thus prevented from offering any resistance, the executioner, drawing from his pocket a long pair of scissors, said to her with marked politeness, ”Have the goodness to bend your head.”

The widow obeyed, saying: ”We are good customers; you have had my husband; now here are his wife and daughter.”

Without replying, the executioner gathered in his left hand the long gray hair of the condemned, and commenced cutting it short--very short, particularly about the neck.

”This makes the third time that I have had my hair dressed in my lifetime,”

said the widow, with a horrible laugh: ”the day of my first communion, when they put on my veil; the day of my marriage, when they put on my orange blossoms; and now to-day--the head-dress of death.”

The executioner remained silent. The hair of the condemned being thick and coa.r.s.e, the operation was so long in being performed, that Calabash's lay strewed upon the ground before her mother's was half finished.

”You do not know of what I am thinking?” said the widow, after having looked at her daughter again.

The executioner continued to keep silent. Nothing could be heard but the snipping of the scissors and the kind of rattling which from time to time escaped from the throat of Calabash. At this moment was seen in the corridor a priest of venerable appearance, who approached the governor, and spoke a few words to him in a low tone. The chaplain came to make a last effort to soften the heart of the widow.

”I think,” resumed the widow at the end of some moments, and seeing that the executioner did not reply, ”I think that at five years old, my daughter, whose head is to be cut off, was the handsomest child that I ever saw. She had flaxen hair and rosy cheeks. Then, who would have told me that,--” After a pause, she cried, with a burst of laughter, and an expression impossible to be described, ”What a comedy is fate!”

At this moment the last locks of the condemned fell upon her shoulders.

”It is finished, madame,' said the executioner, politely.

”Thank you. I recommend to you my son Nicholas,” said the widow; ”you will dress his hair some of these days.” A keeper came and whispered a few words to her.

”No; I have already said no,” answered she, roughly. The priest heard these words, raised his eyes toward heaven, clasped his hands, and disappeared.

”Madame, we are going to set out; will you take something?” said the executioner, obsequiously.

”Thank you; to-night I will take a drink of sawdust.”

And the widow after this new sarcasm stood up erect. Although her step was firm and resolute, the executioner obligingly wished to a.s.sist her; she made a gesture of impatience and said, in a harsh and imperious tone:

”Do not touch me; I have a firm step and a good eye. On the scaffold you will see I have a good voice, and if I speak words of repentance.”

And the widow, leaving the dungeon, escorted by the executioner and an a.s.sistant, entered the corridor. The two other a.s.sistants were obliged to carry Calabash in a chair; she was dying. After having traversed the whole length of the corridor, the funeral procession ascended the same staircase, which conducted to a court on the outside. The sun, with its warm and golden light, gilded the tops of the high white walls which surrounded the court, and strangely contrasted with the pure blue of the sky. The air was soft and balmy; never was a spring morning more smiling, more magnificent.

In this court were seen a detachment of police, a cab, and a long, narrow vehicle, painted yellow, drawn by three post horses, which neighed gayly, shaking little bells on their harness. This vehicle was entered from behind like an omnibus. This was the cause of a last joke from the widow.

”The conductor will not say full?” said she, as she mounted the step as lightly as the cord which confined her ankles would allow.

Calabash, expiring, sustained by an a.s.sistant, was placed in the carriage opposite her mother, and the door was closed. The hackney-coachman had fallen asleep; the executioner shook him.

”Excuse me, citizen,” said he, descending hastily from his seat; ”but a night in Mid-Lent is rough. I had just taken to Vendanges de Bourgogne a load of maskers, who were singing, '_La mere G.o.dichon_,' when you engaged me by the hour. I--”

”Enough. Follow this vehicle to the Boulevard St. Jacques.”

”Excuse me, citizen. An hour ago I was going to the 'Vendanges;' now to the guillotine! That proves that, as the saying is, there are queer ups and downs in life!”

The two vehicles, preceded and followed by the gendarmes, left Bicetre and took the road to Paris.