ind rescuers amongst them. The throng was less
dense than formerly, and the excitement less extreme. Only a few women
screamed, "Death! death!" or mocked those who were to die. The men
mostly shrugged their shoulders, looked another way, and said nothing,
whether out of prudence or from respect of the laws.

A shudder went through the crowd when Athenais emerged from the wicket.
She looked a mere child.

She bowed her head before the monk:

"Monsieur le Cure," she asked him, "give me absolution."

The Pere Longuemare gravely recited the sacramental words in muttered
tones; then:

"My daughter!" he added, "you have fallen into great disorders of
living; but can I offer the Lord a heart as simple as yours? Would I
were sure!"

She climbed lightly into the cart. And there, throwing out her bosom and
proudly lifting her girlish head, she cried "Vive le Roi!"

She made a little sign to Brotteaux to show him there was a vacant place
beside her. Brotteaux helped the Barnabite to get in and came and
placed himself between the monk and the simple-hearted girl.

"Sir," said the Pere Longuemare to the Epicurean philosopher, "I ask you
a favour; this God in whom you do not yet believe, pray to Him for me.
It is far from sure you are not nearer to Him than I am myself; a moment
can decide this. A second, and you may be called by the Lord to be His
highly favoured son. Sir, pray for me."

While the wheels were grinding over the pavement of the long Faubourg
Antoine, the monk was busy, with heart and lips, reciting the prayers of
the dying. Brotteaux's mind was fixed on recalling the lines of the poet
of nature: _Sic ubi non erimus_.... Bound as he was and shaken in the
vile, jolting cart, he preserved his calm and even showed a certain
solicitude to maintain an easy posture. At his side, Athenais, proud to
die like the Queen of France, surveyed the crowd with haughty looks, and
the old financier, noting as a connoisseur the girl's white bosom, was
filled with regret for the light of day.

XXV

While the carts, escorted by gendarmes, were rumbling along on their way
to the Place du Trone Renverse, carrying to their death Brotteaux and
his "accomplices," Evariste sat pensive on a bench in the garden of the
Tuileries. He was waiting for Elodie. The sun, nearing its setting, shot
its fiery darts through the leafy chestnuts. At the gate of the garden,
Fame on her winged horse blew her everlasting trumpet. The newspape