it. The officer commanding the grenadiers followed him. He unfastnened his sword and gave it to the officer, he took off his cravat and gave it to the executioner.
He was like a vision. Never had he looked so beautiful. His brown hair floated in the wind; it was not the custom to cut off the hair at that time. His white neck was like a woman's, his heroic, sovereign eye was like an archangel's. He was on the scaffold, deep in thought. This place, too, is a summit. Gauvain stood there, superbly calm. The sun wrapped him about as with a halo of glory.
It was necessary, nevertheless, to bind the criminal. The executioner came with a rope in his hand.
At this moment, when the soldiers saw their young captain so evidently destined to the knife, they could contain themselves no longer; the hearts of these warriors burst. That enormous thing, the sob of an army, was heard. A shout arose,—
"Mercy! mercy!"
Some fell on their knees; others threw down their guns and raised their arms towards the platform where Cimourdain was.
A grenadier mounted the steps to the guillotine, crying, "Will you receive a substitute? Take me." All repeated frantically, "Mercy! mercy!" and if this had been heard by lions, they would have been moved or frightened, for soldiers' tears are terrible.
The executioner stopped, not knowing what to do.
Then a short, low voice, which could be heard by all, it was so gruesome, cried from the top of the tower,—
"Enforce the law!"
They recognized that inexorable tone. Cimourdain had spoken. A shudder passed over the army.
The executioner hesitated no longer. He approached, holding his cord.
"Wait," said Gauvain.
He turned towards Cimourdain, with his right hand, which was still free, waved a farewell to him, and then let it be bound.
After it was bound, he said to the executioner,—
"Pardon. One moment more."
And he cried,—
"Long live the Republic!"
