ther, pale as death, and asked: "Have you
seen what there is in the square?"--"Yes."--"Whom is it for?"

It was for Charlet.

The sentence of death had been referred to M. Bonaparte, it had
slumbered a long time at the Elysee; there was other business to attend
to; but one fine morning, after a lapse of seven months, all the world
having forgotten the conflict at Seyssel, the slain custom-house
officer, and Charlet himself, M. Bonaparte, wanting most likely to
insert some event between the festival of the 10th of May and the
festival of the 15th of August, signed the warrant for the execution.

On the 29th of June, therefore, only a few days ago, Charlet was
removed from his prison. They told him he was about to die. He
continued calm. A man who has justice on his side does not fear death,
for he feels that there are two things within him: one, his body, which
may be put to death, the other, justice, whose hands are not bound, nor
does its head fall beneath the knife.

They wanted to make Charlet ride in a cart. "No," said he to the
gendarmes, "I will go on foot, I can walk, I am not afraid."

There was a great crowd along his route. Every one in the town knew him
and loved him; his friends sought his eye. Charlet, his arms fastened
behind his back, bowed his head right and left. "Adieu, Jacques! adieu,
Pierre!" said he, smiling. "Adieu, Charlet!" they answered, and all of
them wept. The gendarmerie and the infantry surrounded the scaffold. He
ascended it with slow and steady steps. When they saw him standing on
the scaffold, a shudder ran through the crowd; the women cried aloud,
the men clenched their fists.

While they were strapping him to the plank, he looked up at the knife,
saying: "When I reflect that I was once a Bonapartist!" Then, raising
his eyes to Heaven, he exclaimed, "Vive la Republique!"

The next moment his head fell.

It was a day of mourning at Belley and through all the villages of the
Ain. "How did he die?" people would ask.--"Bravely."--"God be praised!"

In this wise a man has been killed.

The mind succumbs and is lost in horror in presence of a deed so
damnable.

This crime being added to the rest complements and sets a sinister sort
of seal upon them.

It is more than the complement, it is the crowning act.

One feels that M. Bonaparte ought to be satisfied! To have shot down at
night, in the dark, in solitude, on the Champ-de-Mars, under the arches
of the bridges, behind a lon