the sentence of death.

No sooner had Salvat been condemned, however, than he drew himself up to
his full height, and as the guards led him away he shouted in a
stentorian voice: "Long live Anarchy!"

Nobody seemed angered by the cry. The crowd went off quietly, as if
weariness had lulled all its passions. The proceedings had really lasted
too long and fatigued one too much. It was quite pleasant to inhale the
fresh air on emerging from such a nightmare.

In the large waiting hall, Pierre and Guillaume passed Duthil and the
Princess, whom General de Bozonnet had stopped while chatting with
Fonsegue. All four of them were talking in very loud voices, complaining
of the heat and their hunger, and agreeing that the affair had not been a
particularly interesting one. Yet, all was well that ended well. As
Fonsegue remarked, the condemnation of Salvat to death was a political
and social necessity.

When Pierre and Guillaume reached the Pont Neuf, the latter for a moment
rested his elbows on the parapet of the bridge. His brother, standing
beside him, also gazed at the grey waters of the Seine, which here and
there were fired by the reflections of the gas lamps. A fresh breeze
ascended from the river; it was the delightful hour when night steals
gently over resting Paris. Then, as the brothers stood there breathing
that atmosphere which usually brings relief and comfort, Pierre on his
side again became conscious of his heart-wound, and remembered his
promise to return to Montmartre, a promise that he must keep in spite of
the torture there awaiting him; whilst Guillaume on the other hand
experienced a revival of the suspicion and disquietude that had come to
him on seeing Marie so feverish, changed as it were by some new feeling,
of which she herself was ignorant. Were further sufferings, struggles,
and obstacles to happiness yet in store for those brothers who loved one
another so dearly? At all events their hearts bled once more with all the
sorrow into which they had been cast by the scene they had just
witnessed: that assize of justice at which a wretched man had been
condemned to pay with his head for the crimes of one and all.

Then, as they turned along the quay, Guillaume recognised young Victor
going off alone in the gloom, just in front of them. The chemist stopped
him and spoke to him of his mother. But the young man did not hear; his
thin lips parted, and in a voice as trenchant as a knife-thrust he
exclaimed