ade on his head, his sabre by his side, and his pistols in his belt.
He was silent. All were silent. The soldiers stood with their guns grounded, their eyes downcast. Their elbows touched, but they did not speak. They were thinking confusedly about this war,—so many battles, the fusillades of the hedges so bravely faced, the swarms of furious peasants driven before their breath, the citadels taken, the battles won, the victories, and it seemed to them now that all this glory turned to shame. A gloomy expectation oppressed the hearts of all.
On the platform of the guillotine they saw the executioner, walking back and forth. The increasing brightness of the morning majestically filled the sky.
Suddenly there was heard that muffled sound made by drums covered with crape. The funereal rumbling came nearer; the ranks opened, and a procession entered the square, and went towards the scaffold.
At first the black drums; then a company of grenadiers, with arms lowered; then a platoon of gendarmes, with drawn swords; then the condemned,—Gauvain.
Gauvain walked free. Neither his feet nor his hands were bound. He was in undress uniform; he carried his sword.
Behind him came another platoon of gendarmes.
Gauvain still wore that expression of thoughtful joy on his face which had lighted it up when he said to Cimourdain, "I am thinking of the future." Nothing could be more ineffably sublime than this lasting smile.
On reaching the melancholy spot, he first looked towards the top of the tower. He disdained the guillotine.
He knew that Cimourdain would consider it his duty to be present at the execution. His eyes sought him on the platform. He found him there.
Cimourdain was pale and cold. Those near him could not hear him breathe.
When he saw Gauvain, he did not stir.
Meanwhile, Gauvain was approaching the scaffold.
As he walked along, he looked at Cimourdain, and Cimourdain looked at him. It seemed as if Cimourdain strengthened himself with that look.
Gauvain reached the foot of the scaffold. He mounted
