line through the corridors of the jail, bumping into one another in
their nervous precipitation.

The door was opened. Under the regulation light Freya was on her bed,
with closed eyes. Upon opening them and finding herself surrounded by
men, her face was convulsed with terror.

"Courage, Freya!" said the prison warden. "The appeal for pardon has
been denied."

"Courage, my daughter," added the priest of the establishment, starting
the beginning of a discourse.

Her terror, due to the rude surprise of awakening with the brain still
paralyzed, lasted but a few seconds. Upon collecting her thoughts,
serenity returned to her face.

"I must die?" she asked. "The hour has already come?... Very well,
then: let them shoot me. Here I am."

Some of the men turned their heads, and so averted their glance.... She
had to get out of the bed in the presence of the two watchmen. This
precaution was so that she might not attempt to take her life. She even
asked the lawyer to remain in the cell as though in this way she wished
to lessen the annoyance of dressing herself before strangers.

Upon reaching this passage in his letter, Ferragut realized the pity
and admiration of the _maitre_ who had seen her preparing the last
toilet of her life.

"Adorable creature! So beautiful!... She was born for love and luxury,
yet was going to die, torn by bullets like a rude soldier...."

The precautions adopted by her coquetry appeared to him admirable. She
wanted to die as she had lived, placing on her person the best that she
possessed. Therefore, suspecting the nearness of her execution, she had
a few days before reclaimed the jewels and the gown that she was
wearing when arrest prevented her returning to Brest.

Her defender described her "with a dress of pearl gray silk, bronze
stockings and low shoes, a great-coat of furs, and a large hat with
plumes. Besides, the necklace of pearls was on her bosom, emeralds in
her ears and all her diamonds on her fingers."

A sad smile curled her lips upon trying to look at herself in the
window panes, still black with the darkness of night, which served her
as a mirror.

"I die in my uniform like a soldier," she said to her lawyer.

Then in the ante-chamber of the prison, under the crude artificial
light, this plumed woman, covered with jewels, her clothing exhaling a
subtle perfume, memory of happier days, turned without any
embarrassment toward the men clad in black and in blue uniforms.