Early the next morning three cars drove away from the Conciergerie.

In each of these cars sat eight persons, men and women of the highest aristocracy. They had put on their most brilliant court attire for that day, and arranged themselves as for a holiday. Over the great crinoline the ladies wore the richest silks, adorned with silver and gold lace; they had had their hair dressed and decorated with flowers and ribbons, and carried elegant fans in their hands.

The gentlemen wore velvet coats, brilliant with gold and silver, while cuffs of the finest lace encompa.s.sed their white hands. Their heads were uncovered, and they carried the little three-cornered hat under the arm, as they had done at court in presence of the royal family.

All the aristocrats imprisoned in cells at the Conciergerie had begged for the high honor of being executed on that day, and every one whose request had been granted, had expressed his thanks for it as for a favor.

"What we celebrate to-day is the last court festival," said the prisoners, as they ascended the cars to be carried to the guillotine. "We have the great good fortune of being present at the last great levee, and we will show ourselves worthy of the honor."

All faces were smiling, all eyes beaming, and when the twenty-four condemned persons dismounted from their cars at the foot of the scaffold, one would believe that he saw twenty-four happy people preparing to go to a wedding. No one would have suspected that it was death to whom they were to be united.

There were only two persons in this brilliant and select society who were less elegantly adorned than the others. One was the young girl, with the pale angel face, who sat between the sister of Malesherbes and the wife of the former minister, Montmorin, in a neat white robe, with a simple muslin veil, that surrounded her like a white cloud on which she was floating to heaven. The other was the man who sat behind her, whose firm, defiant countenance gave no token that an hour before he had wept hot, bitter tears as he took leave of his wife and only child. But this was all past, and on that lofty, thoughtful brow not the slightest trace remained of earthly sorrow.

The pains of each had been surmounted, and, even in death, Toulan would do honor to the name which that woman had given him--whom he had loved most sacredly on earth-and he would die as Fidele.

The ladies and gentlemen of this unwontedly solemn company, who were collected here in view of the scaffold, had dismounted from the cars. Above stood the glistening instrument of death, and near it the executioners. They were all left free to decide in what order they would ascend and place the head beneath the axe. The Convention had made the simple order that Madame Elizabeth should be the last but one, and that Toulan should follow her.

Joyous and bright was the countenance of the princess; joyous and bright was the aspect of the improvised court, whose master of ceremonies was Death.

The gentlemen had begged the favor of preceding the ladies upon the scaffold. One after another they ascended the staircase, and in pa.s.sing by they greeted the princess with the same deep bow that would have been given at court. And Madame Elizabeth thanked them with a smile that was not of this world.

When the heads of the twelve gentlemen had fallen, the bodies laid on one side, and the scaffold cleansed a little from blood, the ladies' turn came. Every one of them asked the favor of embracing Princess Elizabeth, and, with the kiss which she pressed upon their lips, a heavenly joy seemed to spring up in their hearts. With smiles they ascended the scaffold, with smiles they placed their heads beneath the axe.

The last of the ladies, the Marchioness de Crussol d'Amboise, had received the parting kiss and ascended the steps of the guillotine.

Only Elizabeth and Toulan now remained at the foot. "Fidele,"

whispered Elizabeth in gentle tones, "I shall soon be with my brother and my sister. Give me your hand, my brother. You shall conduct me to death, and I will give you my hand above, at the opening of the new life, and conduct you to Marie Antoinette.

'Sister,' I will say to her, 'this is the one true and good heart which beat on earth for you, and I bring it to you that you may rejoice in it in heaven.' Toulan, there is only one t.i.tle of honor for all men, and that is Fidele. It is sanctioned even by the word of G.o.d: 'Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.'"

Just at that moment the axe rattled, there was a m.u.f.fled sound, and the head of the Marchioness Crussol d'Amboise fell into the basket.

"Elizabeth Capet, it is your turn--come up!"

"I come."

She ascended the scaffold. Arrayed, as she was, in this white robe, her transparent face was like that of an angel. It seemed to Toulan as if her foot no longer rested on the earth. He followed her to the scaffold; and as she was about to ascend the steps, he laid his hand upon her arm.

"Princess, I have a secret to impart to you. I have promised with a solemn oath that my lips should disclose it to no mortal; but you, Elizabeth, belong already to the immortals, the peace of G.o.d illumines your brow, and I want you to have one last joy before you ascend into heaven. This is my secret: The boy who is confined in the Temple is not the dauphin. I have fulfilled the promise which I gave the queen. I have saved the dauphin, and he is now in Vendee, under the safe care of Prince de Conde."

"Elizabeth Capet, come up, or we must bring you by force."

"I am coming. Farewell, Fidele! you have spoken the truth; you have given me a last joy! I thank you; now kiss my lips; give your sister a parting kiss, Fidele. Farewell, my brother!"

He touched the lips that were illumined with a sad smile--"Farewell, my sister!"

She ascended the steps, and, reaching the scaffold, she calmly laid aside the veil, and prepared her toilet for death.

At the foot of the scaffold Toulan remained upon his knees; his great eyes, which had been directed to Elizabeth, beamed with rapture, and in his heart there were words written with a finger of diamond--words hallowed and comforting, that Toulan read in meditation and prayer: "Love vanquishes death; love is victorious even over life; love, which is the highest friendship, and friendship, which is the highest love, rise so far above every thing earthly, that thou must surrender every thing for them, every thing which thou hast valued upon earth, every thing which has stood to thee in the most tender relations. In this love thou hast lived, and in this love thou shalt die and ascend into heaven."

"Toulan, come up! Do you not hear us calling you? Do you not see that Elizabeth Capet has made place for you?"

He had not seen when the n.o.ble head of the princess fell into the basket, he had not heard the executioner call him; he had only read in his heart the revelation of love.

He ascended the steps, and his countenance beamed with the same light of rapture which had surrounded Elizabeth's brow.

A piercing scream came from the crowd, as a young wife fell senseless into the arms of her neighbors, while the boy who stood near her extended his hands to the scaffold, and called, loudly, "Father, dear father!"

Toulan did not turn to them. No earthly sorrow had place in this soul, which had overcome pain, and received eternal joy into itself.

Calmly he laid his head beneath the axe. "G.o.d is love," he said, aloud. "He that abideth in love, abideth in G.o.d, and G.o.d--"

The axe descended, and left Toulan's last words unspoken.

BOOK VI.

CHAPTER XXIX.

WITHOUT NAME AND RANK.

The Prince de Conde was walking with quick steps up and down his apartment. His brow was cloudy, his eyes wore a sad look, and at times he raised his hand, as if he would remove a veil that darkened his sight.

"It must he," he said, decisively, after a while. "Yes, it must be; I see no other means of saving him from the snares of his enemies and friends. He must leave, and that at once."

He walked hastily to the table, pulled the bell violently, and ordered the servant who came in to bring the boy who came yesterday to him.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and a boy of ten. or twelve years, with great blue eyes, fair hair, graceful form, and delicate complexion, came into the room. At his appearance the Prince de Conde seemed deeply moved. He hastened with open arms to meet the boy, pressed him closely to his heart, and kissed his fair hair and eyes.

"Welcome, a thousand times welcome!" he said, with trembling voice.

"How long have I desired to see this moment, and how happy I am that it has come at last! You are saved, yon are restored to freedom, to life, and there is in store for you, I hope, a great and brilliant future!"

"Then I shall have to thank you for it, my cousin," said the boy, with his sweet, resonant voice. "You have released me from the dreadful prison, and I thank you for life. I am glad, too, that I see you at last, for I wanted so much to express my thanks, and every evening I have prayed to G.o.d to grant me the happiness of greeting my dear cousin, the Prince de Conde."

The joyous light had long since faded from the face of the prince, and a cloud was gathering on his brow, as, with a timid, searching look, he glanced around, as if he feared that some one besides himself might hear the words of the boy.

"Do not call me your cousin," he said, softly; and even his voice was changed, and became cold and husky.

The boy fixed his great blue eyes with an expression of astonishment on the gloomy countenance of the Prince de Conde.

"You are no longer glad to see me here? Is it disagreeable to you for me to call you my cousin?"

The prince made no answer at once, but walked up and down with great strides, and then stood still before the boy, who had calmly observed his impatient motions.

"Let us sit down," said the Prince de Conde--" let us sit down and talk."

He gave his hand to the boy, led him to the divan, and took his own place upon an easy-chair, directly opposite to the child.

"Let us talk," he repeated. "I should like to know, in the first place, whether you have a good memory, for I have been told that your head has suffered, and that you have no recollection of the past."

A gentle, sad smile played around the lips of the boy.