practised address, and the figure was placed beneath the drop. Down
fell the axe, and Gougon, lifting up the wooden head, paraded it about
the scaffold, crying--

'Behold! an enemy of France. Long live the Republic, one and
indivisible!'

Loud and wild were the shouts of laughter from this brutal mockery; and
for a time it almost seemed as if the ribaldry had turned the mob from
the sterner passions of their vengeance. This hope, if one there ever
cherished it, was short-lived, and again the cry arose for blood. It
was too plain that no momentary diversion, no passing distraction,
could withdraw them from that lust for cruelty that had now grown into a
passion.

And now a bustle and movement of those around the stairs showed that
something was in preparation; and in the next moment the old marquise
was led forward between two men.

'Where is the order for this woman's execution?' asked the dwarf,
mimicking the style and air of the commissary.

'We give it--it is from us!' shouted the mob, with one savage roar.

Gougon removed his cap, and bowed in token of obedience.

'Let us proceed in order, citizens,' said he gravely; 'I see no priest
here.'

'Shrive her yourself, Gougon; few know the mummeries better!' cried a
voice.

'Is there not one here can remember a prayer, or even a verse of the
offices,' said Gougon, with a well-affected horror in his voice.

'Yes, yes, I do,' cried I, my zeal overcoming all sense of the mockery
in which the words were spoken; 'I know them all by heart, and can
repeat them from "lux beatissima" down to "hora mortis"'; and as if to
gain credence for my self-laudation, I began at once to recite, in the
sing-song tone of the seminary--

'Salve, mater salvatoris,
Fons salutis, vas honoris;
Scala coli, porta et via,
Salve semper, O Maria!'

It is possible I should have gone on to the very end, if the uproarious
laughter which rung around had not stopped me.

'There's a brave youth!' cried Gougon, pointing towards me, with mock
admiration. 'If it ever come to pass--as what may not in these strange
times?--that we turn to priestcraft again, thou shalt be the first
archbishop of Paris. Who taught thee that famous canticle?'

'The Pere Michel,' replied I, in no way conscious of the ridicule
bestowed upon me; 'the Pere Michel of St. Blois.'

The old lady lifted up her head at these words, and her dark eyes rested
steadily upon me; and then, with a sign of her h