She desired to prepare for death. Antoinette's sobs and Philip's despair increased in violence.

"Have pity on me!" she entreated. "Before I go, I will call you to bid you a last farewell."

They left her. She remained alone with the other prisoners who had been condemned to death. Among them was the priest of whom we have already spoken; the same who had consoled and blessed her. He was seated in a corner of the room and many of the poor creatures, whose moments on earth were now numbered, had knelt before him to confess their sins and receive absolution. Dolores followed the example of her companions in misfortune. Purified by suffering and sanctified by the approach of death, her full confession revealed such n.o.bility of character that the worthy priest was filled with admiration.

"Now I am ready," she said to Coursegol. "Death may come."

"So young and so beautiful, and to die!" he exclaimed, sadly.

"Are you going to bewail my fate?" she inquired, with a smile. "It is unnecessary, for I am very happy."

"It is the thought of the sacrifice you have accomplished that renders you thus happy!"

"Hush!" she said, quickly. "Who has spoken to you of a sacrifice? It must never be mentioned. Antoinette and Philip must never know that I died in place of another."

"A saint might utter words like those," he murmured. Then beholding her cheerful, courageous and inspired with the holy enthusiasm of the martyrs, he added: "I am glad to die with you. You will open the portals of Heaven for me; and I will cling so closely to you, pure soul, that they will let me follow you in."

Thus were these two souls elevated to the grandest heroism by the very simplicity of their devotion. There was certainly not a drop of n.o.ble blood in the veins of either of them, and yet they went to meet death valiantly, like saints.

It was three o'clock, and a lovely winter's day. The sky was clear and the sun radiant.

"We have fine weather for our journey to the scaffold," thought Coursegol.

Dolores was absorbed in prayer. Her heart ascended to G.o.d in fervent supplication that He would bless her sacrifice, and make it redound to the peace and happiness of the two beloved friends that were left behind. Suddenly, several men entered the hall: the executioner and his a.s.sistants. Moans and cries of terror arose from the condemned.

"Already!" exclaimed a young woman, who had until now borne herself courageously.

She fainted. She was half-dead with fear when she was carried up the steps of the guillotine an hour later. Dolores lost none of her composure on beholding the executioner. She quietly removed her hat; and while the three a.s.sistants cut off the hair of the prisoners around her, she unbound the magnificent golden tresses which enveloped her like a rippling veil. There was a universal shudder when the scissors despoiled that charming head of its superb adornment; and Coursegol could not repress an exclamation of wrath at this act of barbarity. Dolores checked him with a gesture.

"I would like to have my hair," she said to the a.s.sistant executioner, pointing to the tresses lying upon the floor.

"It belongs to me," he responded, roughly. "That is the custom."

"Will this suffice to pay for it?" inquired Dolores, showing him a ring that she wore upon one of her fingers.

"Undoubtedly."

"Very well, I will buy it then."

The man gathered up the golden curls and handed them to Dolores.

"It is a pity," she said, gently and with a tinge of sadness. "They became me well."

It was her only sign of regret for the sad fate to which her youth and beauty were condemned.

When she saw that the moment of departure was near at hand, she asked to see Philip and Antoinette again. They had been standing just outside the door, half-crazed with grief. They entered, followed by Aubry, who, though accustomed to such scenes, was deeply moved. It was to him that she turned first.

"I thank you for all your kindness," she said to him. "On my arrival at the prison, I confided a cross to your keeping."

"Here it is. I return it to you, citoyenne."

"Keep it, my friend; it will remind you of a prisoner to whom you showed compa.s.sion, and who will pray for you."

"Oh, citoyenne, I could have done no less!" faltered the poor man.

Then Dolores turned to Antoinette and Philip. Their despair verged upon madness. That of Antoinette was violent, and vented itself in moans and tears; that of Philip was still more terrible, for the wretched man seemed to have grown ten years older in the past few hours.

"Farewell, my dear friends," said Dolores, cheerfully. "Do not mourn.

Try to think that I am going on a journey, and to a country where you will soon come to join me. In its relations to life, death is nothing more."

But, while she was thus endeavoring to console them, her own tears mingled with theirs. She took them both in her arms, and clasped them to her heart in a close embrace.

"Love each other always, and do not forget me."

These were her last words of counsel.

Coursegol approached. Philip opened his arms.

"Coursegol," said he, "you are a man and an old soldier. Death has no terrors for you; you will lose none of your calmness. Take good care of her to the last, will you not?"

"That she might not be compelled to go alone was why I resolved to die with her," replied Coursegol, simply.

"Dolores, give me your blessing."

It was Antoinette who spoke.

"Yes, my sister, I bless thee!"

And Dolores extended her hand over the grief-stricken head of her friend.

"En route! en route!"

This cry was uttered by a stentorian voice. The moment of parting had come. One last kiss was exchanged.

"Farewell, farewell! We shall meet again in Heaven!"

And Dolores tore herself from their clinging arms. Coursegol followed her, but not so quickly that he failed to see Antoinette swoon with a cry of heart-broken anguish, and Philip spring forward to support her. A cart was awaiting the victims in the court-yard of the prison. The twelve who were doomed to death took their places in it with their hands bound behind their backs. A number of soldiers on horseback and some on foot acted as an escort. They fell into line and the little procession started.

From the Conciergerie to the Place de la Revolution the cart was followed by a hooting, jelling crowd of men, women and children, who sang coa.r.s.e songs and hurled insults in the faces of their victims.

These last seemed insensible to the indignities heaped upon them. On one side of the cart an aged man and a youth were seated side by side.

Crowded close one against the other, they did not, along the entire route, once cease to cry: "Vive le Roi!" One of their companions, a Republican, accused of _Moderantisme_, regarded them with an air of ironical compa.s.sion. A priest stood in the centre of the cart, surrounded by three women, reciting prayers and canticles with them.

Dolores, who was leaning upon Coursegol's shoulder, seemed to be entirely unconscious of what was pa.s.sing around her. Grief, cold, fatigue and the rough jolting of the vehicle had reduced her to a condition of pitiable weakness. Coursegol was distressed to see her in this state, and to be powerless to succor her. He did not think of himself; he thought only of her.

When they came in sight of the Place de la Revolution, where the terrible guillotine towered up grim and ghastly against the horizon, Dolores trembled, and, closing her eyes, whispered:

"I am afraid!"

"Oh! my dearest little one, do not lose courage," said Coursegol, with all a father's tenderness. "I am here, but I can do nothing to save you from these horrors. But be brave and hopeful. Only a moment more and we shall find peace in the grave and in the arms of our blessed Lord."