“Ah!” said Favras.

  “Condemned to death, you will be hung: a very disagreeable thing, I am sure, to a gentleman who does not fear death, but only dislikes the mode of it.”

  “M. le Baron,” said Favras. “have you only come here to inform me of this bad news, or have you something else better left to tell me?”

  “I came to tell you that all is ready for your escape, and to assure you that in ten minutes, if you wish, you can be out of your prison, and in twenty-four hours out of France.”

  Favras reflected a moment, without letting the baron see that it caused him any emotion; then, addressing his questioner: “Does this offer come from the king, or his royal highness?”

  “No, sir! it comes from me.”

  Favras looked at the baron.

  “From you, sir,” said he, “and why from you?”

  “From the interest I take in you, marquis.”

  “What interest can you have in me?” asked Favras; “you have seen me but twice.”

  “One does not require to see a man twice in order to know him, my dear marquis. True gentlemen are rare, and I wish to save one, I will not say for France, but for humanity.”

  “You have no other reason, then?”

  “There is another reason. Having negotiated a bill of two millions for you, money which has been spent in promoting the affair which brought you here to-day, I feel myself implicated in your death — that I have contributed to it.”

  Favras smiled. “If you have not committed a worse crime than that, you may sleep easily,” said he, “I pardon you.”

  “What?” cried the baron, “you refuse to fly?”

  Favras stretched out his hand to him. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, M. le Baron,” replied he; “I thank you in the names of my wife and my children, but I refuse.”

  “Because, perhaps, you think our measures ill-taken, and you are afraid to trust to an escape which, if discovered, would aggravate your offence?”

  “I believe, sir, that you are a prudent man. I will say more — that you are adventurous, since you yourself come to propose this escape to me; but I repeat, I do not wish to fly.”

  “Without doubt, you think, monsieur, that forced to fly from France, you will leave your wife and children in misery there. I have foreseen that, and offer you this pocketbook, in which you will find one hundred | thousand francs in bank notes.”

  Favras looked at the baron with a kind of admiration. Then, shaking his head: “It is not that, monsieur,” said he, “upon my word, and without your having had to offer me this pocket-book, if it had been my intention to leave France, I should have fled. But once more, my mind is made up; I will not fly.”

  The baron looked at him who gave this firm refusal, as if he doubted whether he possessed his senses.

  “This astonishes you,” said Favras, with a singular degree of serenity, “and you ask yourself, without daring to ask me, whence arises this strange determination to wait to the end, and to meet death, if necessary, whatever that death may be.”

  “I confess so, monsieur.”

  “I will tell you. I am a royalist, monsieur, but not of that kind who emigrate, or remain dissimulating at Paris. My opinion is not founded upon a sordid calculation of interest — it is a faith, a religion, and kings are no more to me than a bishop or a pope; that is to say, it is of the visible representatives of this faith, this religion, I am speaking now. If I fly, it will be said that the king or Monsieur have caused me to escape; if they have let me escape, they were my accomplices. Religions fall, my dear baron, when there are no longer any martyrs; I will rouse up mine by dying for it! This shall be a reproach cast upon the past, an advertisement offered to the future!”

  “But think of the kind of death which awaits you!” urged the baron.

  “The more infamous the death, the more meritorious will be the sacrifice. Christ died on a cross between thieves.”

  “I could understand that, monsieur,” said the baron, “if your death would have the same influence on royalty as that of Christ had on the world. But the sins of kings are so great, that so far from thinking that the blood of a simple gentleman will wash them away, I do not think that even the blood of a king can do it!”

  “That will be as God pleases, M. le Baron; but at a time when so many are wanting in their duty, I shall die with the consolation of having fulfilled mine.”

  “Ah, no, monsieur!” said the baron, with an air of impatience; “you may die with the simple regret that your death is of no use.”

  “When the disarmed soldier will not fly, when he awaits the enemy, when he braves death, when he receives it, he knows perfectly well that his death is useless — he can only say that flight were cowardly, and that he had rather die!”

  “Monsieur,” said the baron, “I cannot stay to argue.”

  He drew out his watch; it was three o’clock in the morning.

  “We have yet one hour,” continued he. “I will sit at this table and read for half-an-hour; during this time reflect. In half-an-hour you will give me a definite answer.”

  And taking a chair, he sat down against the table, his back turned to the prisoner, and began to read.

  “Good-night, monsieur,” said Favras.

  And he turned his face to the wall, without doubt to reflect more undisturbedly.

  The reader drew his watch from his pocket two or three times; more impatient than the prisoner, when the half hour was gone, he rose and went toward the bed. But he had waited in vain — Favras did not turn.

  The baron leant over him, and discovered from his regular and calm breathing that the prisoner slept.

  “Aliens!” said he, speaking to himself, “I am conquered, but judgment is not yet pronounced; perhaps he still doubts.”

  And not wishing to awake the unhappy marquis again, he seized a pen and wrote upon a sheet of white paper the following:

  “When sentence is passed, and M. de Favras is condemned to death, when he has no hope either in the judges or Monsieur, should he change his opinion, M. de Favras has only to call the jailer, Louis, and say to him: ‘I am decided to fly’ and means will be provided to assist his flight.

  “When M. de Favras is in the fatal wagon, when M. de Favras begs pardon in front of Notre-Dame, when M. de Favras traverses, with naked feet and bound hands, the short space that separates the steps of the Hotel de Ville from the gallows on the Greve, he has only to pronounce the words: ‘I wish to be saved!’“ and he shall be saved.

  “CAGLIOSTRO.”

  When he had written the above, the visitor took the lamp, and advanced to the bed a second time to see if Favras still slept. He then regained the door of the cell, but not without returning several times, behind which, with the imperturbable resignation of those disciples who are ready to sacrifice everything to gain their end, Louis, the jailer, was standing immovable.

  “Well, master,” he asked, “what shall I do?”

  “Remain in the prison, and do whatever M. de Favras commands thee.”

  The jailer bowed his assent, took the lamp from the hand of Cagliostro, and walked respectfully before him, as a valet who lights his master.

  The same day the chief jailer, about an hour after mid-day, descended with four armed men into the prison of M. de Favras and announced to him that he must prepare to appear before his judges. M. de Favras had been forewarned of this during the night by Cagliostro, and at nine in the morning by the sub-lieutenant to the Chatelet. The general hearing of the trial commenced at nine, and was still proceeding at three o’clock. Since before nine in the morning the Salle had been crowded with persons curious to see him whose sentence was about to be pronounced.

  Forty judges were arranged in a circle at the end of the salle, the president upon a dais, a painting representing the crucifixion of our Saviour was immediately behind him, and at the other end of the hall, just opposite, was the portrait of the king.

  A number of the Grenadiers of the National Guard guarded the Hall of Justice, both within and without. Four men kept watch at the door.

  At a quarter to three the judges ordered the accused to be brought. A detachment of a dozen grenadiers, who waited in the middle of the salle for this order, immediately marched off.

  After this, every head, even including those of the judges, was turned towards the door through which M. de Favras would enter. At the end of about ten minutes, four of the grenadiers re-appeared. Behind them marched the Marquis de Favras. The other eight grenadiers followed after him.

  The prisoner’s face was perfectly calm; his toilet had been attended to with evident care: he wore an embroidered coat, a white satin vest, a culotte of the same material and workmanship as his coat, silk stockings, and buckled shoes, with the cross of St. Louis in his hat. His hair was carefully dressed and powdered.

  During the short time it took M. de. Favras to pass from the door to the place which the prisoners generally occupied, every breath in the hall was suspended. Some moments elapsed between the arrival of the accused in his place and the first words being addressed to him. At last the judges made with their heads their useless but habitual sign for silence.

  “Who are you?” asked the president.

  “I am the prisoner,” answered Favras with the greatest calmness.

  “What is your name?”

  “Thomas Mahi, Marquis de Favras.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “From Blois.”

  “What is your station?”

  “Colonel in the service of the king.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Place Royal, No. 21.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Forty-six.”

  “Sit down.”

  The marquis obeyed.

  Then only did respiration return to the spectators, and it seemed like a respiration of vengeance.

  The prisoner looked round him: every eye was full of hate, every finger threatening; one felt that he must fall.

  In the midst of all these angry countenances, the accused recognised the calm face and friendly eye of his visitor on the previous night. He saluted him with an imperceptible nod, and continued his review. “Accused,” said the president, “be ready to answer.”

  Favras bowed. “I am at your orders, M. le President,” said he.

  Then commenced the second examination, which the prisoner went through as calmly as he had done the first. Then the witnesses were summoned. Favras, who refused to save his life by flight, wished to do so by discussion and argument; he had summoned fourteen witnesses to answer the charge. The witnesses to prove the charge were heard, and he expected his own to be brought forward now, when, all at once, he heard the following words pronounced by the president: “Gentlemen, the case is closed.”

  “Pardon, monsieur,” said Favras, with his habitual courtesy, “you have forgotten one thing — of little importance, it is true, — but you have forgotten to examine the fourteen witnesses summoned at my request.”

  “The court,” replied the president, “has decided that they will not hear them.”

  A slight cloud passed over the face of the accused. “I thought I was to be tried at the Chatelet of Paris,” said he, “but I was wrong — I am tried, it appears, by a Spanish Inquisition.”

  “Remove the prisoner,” said the president.

  Favras was reconducted to his prison. His calmness, courtesy, and courage had made some impression upon those spectators who had come to this trial without prejudice. But these were but a small number. The departure of Favras was accompanied with cries, menaces, and howls.

  “No pardon! no pardon!” cried five hundred voices, as he passed along.

  Such cries accompanied him from the court to his prison.

  Then, as if speaking to himself, he murmured, “See what it is to plot with princes.”

  As soon as their prisoner had gone, the judges commenced their deliberations.

  At his usual hour Favras went to bed. Towards one in the morning somebody entered his prison and awoke him — this was the turnkey, Louis. He had seized the opportunity to bring a bottle of wine to the marquis. “M. de Favras,” said he, “the judges have this moment pronounced your sentence.”

  “My friend,” said the marquis, “was it simply to tell me that that you awoke me? You might have let me sleep.”

  “No, monsieur, I roused you to inquire whether you had nothing to say to the person who visited you last night.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Reflect, M. le Marquis; when judgment is pronounced, you will be more strictly guarded, and however powerful that person may be, yet he may not afterwards be able to effect your escape.”

  “Thanks, my friend,” said Favras; “but neither now, nor at any time, shall I have to ask him for anything.”

  “Then I am sorry,” said the jailer, “that I disturbed you; but you would have been roused in another hour’s time.”

  “Well,” said Favras, “according to your opinion, it’s scarcely worth while going to sleep again, then?”

  “Listen,” said the turnkey; “judge for yourself.”

  There was a great noise in the corridors above: doors opened and shut — arms were presented.

  “Ah! ah!” said Favras, “all this bother is for me, then?”

  “They are coming to read the sentence, M. le Marquis.”

  “Diable! they must give me time to dress.”

  The jailer immediately went out, fastening the door behind him.

  During this time M. de Favras hurriedly dressed himself.

  He was still at his toilet when the door opened.

  He looked well — his head thrown back, his hair half dressed, his lace shirt open at the breast.

  At the moment the clerk of the court entered his cell he was turning down the collar of his shirt on to his shoulders.

  “You see, monsieur,” said he to the clerk, “I am prepared for you, and ready for the combat.”

  And he passed his hand over his uncovered neck — ready for the aristocratic sword or plebeian cord.

  “Speak, monsieur,” he said; “I listen.”

  The clerk read, or rather lisped out, the sentence.

  The marquis was condemned to death, he was to make the amende honorable in front of Notre-Dame and immediately to be hanged at the Greve.

  Favras listened with the greatest calmness, and did not even raise an eyebrow at the word hanged, a word that grates on the ear of a gentleman.

  He said, only after a minute’s silence, and looking the clerk in the face:

  “Oh! monsieur, how sorry I am you have been compelled to condemn a man upon such slight proof.”

  The clerk avoided answering.

  “Monsieur,” said he, “you are aware that there is no hope for you, except what religion offers — shall I send you a confessor?”

  “A confessor at the hands of those who are about to assassinate me? No, sir, I should be suspicious of him. I am quite willing to give you my life, but I set some value on my safety hereafter. I should like to see the priest of Saint Paul’s.”

  Two hours afterwards this venerable priest was seated with the Marquis de Favras.

  A tumbril, surrounded by a numerous guard, was waiting at the gate of the Chatelet. A lighted torch was in the tumbril. When they saw the condemned, the multitude clapped their hands. Since six o’clock in the morning, when the sentence had been made known, the people had been collecting together.

  Favras got into the tumbril with a firm step. He sat down on the side where the torch was, for he knew that the torch was meant for him. The priest of Saint Paul’s got in directly afterwards, and sat on the left. The executioner mounted last, and sat behind him. Before sitting down, the executioner passed the rope around Favras’ neck. He held the other end in his hand.

  Just as the tumbril commenced to move, there was a movement in the crowd. Favras naturally turned his head and looked in that direction. He saw some people pushing their way into the front rank, and getting better places. All at once he started, in spite of himself; for, in the first rank, and in the midst of five or six of his companions, who were about to make a rush through the crowd, he recognised the visitor who had said that to the very last moment he would watch over him.

  The condemned made him a sign with his head — one only, a sign of acknowledgment.

  The tumbril continued on its way, and did not stop until it reached Notre Dame. The road through the middle of the crowd was open, and the principal altar, brilliantly lit by wax candles, could be seen for some distance.

  “It is necessary to descend here in order to make the amende honorable,” said the executioner.

  Favras obeyed, without answering.

  The priest descended first, then the prisoner, and lastly the executioner, always retaining the end of the cord in his hands.

  His arms were bound at the elbow: this left the hands of the marquis free. In his right hand they placed the torch, in his left the judgment. He then walked to the porch of the church, and knelt down.

  In the front rank of those that surrounded him he recognised the same men who had startled him when he first mounted the tumbril. This perseverance seemed to touch him, but no word escaped from his mouth.

  A jailer of the Chatelet seemed to be waiting for him there. “Read, monsieur,” said he, in a loud voice. Then, in a low tone, he added: “M. le Marquis, you know if you wish to be saved you have only one word to say!”

  Without answering, the condemned began reading.

  He read in a loud voice, and nothing in tone or manner showed the least emotion. When he had done reading, he addressed those around him:

  “Ready to appear before my God,” said he, “I pardon the men who, against their conscience, have found me guilty. I love my king; I die faithful to him. I am setting an example which I hope will be followed by other noble hearts. The people ask for my death; they want a victim. I had rather that the fatal choice should fall upon me than upon another, who might not be able to undergo unmerited punishment without despair. And now, if there is nothing else to be done, let us be proceeding, gentlemen.”