adorned with broad gold lace, and with large embroidered sleeves, covered
him from the neck to the waist, somewhat in the fashion of a woman's
corset; the rest of his vestments were in black velvet, embroidered with
silver palms. Gray boots with red heels, to which were attached golden
spurs; a scarlet cloak with gold buttons--all set off to advantage his
elegant and graceful figure. He bowed right and left with a melancholy
smile.

An old servant, with white moustache, and beard, followed with his head
bent down, leading two chargers, richly comparisoned. The young ladies
were silent; but they could not restrain their sobs.

"It is, then, that poor old man whom they are leading to the scaffold,"
they exclaimed; "and his children are supporting him."

"Upon your knees, ladies," said a man, "and pray for him!"

"On your knees," cried Gondi, "and let us pray that God will deliver
him!"

All the conspirators repeated, "On your knees! on your knees!" and set
the example to the people, who imitated them in silence.

"We can see his movements better now," said Gondi, in a whisper to
Montresor. "Stand up; what is he doing?"

"He has stopped, and is speaking on our side, saluting us; I think he has
recognized us."

Every house, window, wall, roof, and raised platform that looked upon the
place was filled with persons of every age and condition.

The most profound silence prevailed throughout the immense multitude. One
might have heard the wings of a gnat, the breath of the slightest wind,
the passage of the grains of dust which it raised; yet the air was calm,
the sun brilliant, the sky blue. The people listened attentively. They
were close to the Place des Terreaux; they heard the blows of the hammer
upon the planks, then the voice of Cinq-Mars.

A young Carthusian thrust his pale face between two guards. All the
conspirators rose above the kneeling people. Every one put his hand to
his belt or in his bosom, approaching close to the soldier whom he was to
poniard.

"What is he doing?" asked the Carthusian. "Has he his hat upon his head?"

"He throws his hat upon the ground far from him," calmly answered the
arquebusier.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE FETE

"Mon Dieu! quest-ce que ce monde!"

Dernieres paroles de M. Cinq-Mars

The same day that the melancholy procession took place at Lyons, and
during the scenes we have just witnessed, a magnificent fete was given at
Paris with all t