Charlot turned away slowly, with bent shoulders. As he passed the window he glanced outside and stopped short. Day was just beginning to break, making the wan light of the street lamps still more wan. From the window a view could be obtained of a kind of platform at the corner of the boulevard Arago which was bounded by the high wall of the Santé prison. This spot, usually deserted, was crowded with people; a moving mob, swarming and struggling behind some hastily erected barriers. Charlot stretched a trembling hand towards the spectacle, in sudden comprehension.
“Good heavens!” he cried, “that must be where they are putting up the scaffold. Yes, I can see the planks and uprights; it is the guillotine! The exe—”
The old man’s words ended in a sudden cry, and almost simultaneously there was a heavy thud.
Struck from behind, Charlot fell like a log to the floor, while Lady Beltham recoiled in terror, clenching her fists to prevent herself from screaming.
Seizing the opportunity presented by Valgrand’s faithful servant standing so still, hypnotised by the gruesome spectacle being prepared outside, Gurn had drawn a knife from his pocket, and, springing on the unfortunate old man, had driven the blade up to the hilt behind his neck.
Charlot fell prone and rigid, the weapon remaining in the wound and stopping the flow of blood.
Lady Beltham was staring at the victim in horror, but Gurn seized her roughly by the arm.
Without troubling to alter the appearance of his face, but horrified as she was by the tragedies which had succeeded one another in such appalling and rapid succession during this awful night, Gurn drew the half-fainting woman to him, and hurried her away.
“Come quick!” he muttered hoarsely. “Let us get out of this!”
XXXII
On the Scaffold
It was still dark.
In the keen morning air a crowd came hurrying along the pavements, flowing over into the roadways. The boulevards were black with people, all marching briskly towards one common goal. And it was a lighthearted, singing crowd, chanting the choruses of popular songs and swarming into the open restaurants and wine-shops and drinking dens.
And it was noticeable that all these late birds belonged to one of two sharply divided classes. They were either rich, or miserably poor; they either came from the night clubs, or they were the poor devils with no homes or hearths who roam about the city from one year’s end to another. There were crooks whose faces shone with the evil excitement of alcohol, out-of-works of all kinds, beggars, and young men—all young men—with sleek oiled hair and shiny boots, in whose eyes and demeanour theft and crime could be seen.
By a curious coincidence the great news seemed to have reached all, toffs and crooks alike, at exactly the same time. About midnight the rumour had run round the town; it was certain, definite this time; the official steps had been taken, and the guillotine was going to raise her bloodstained arms towards the sky; at earliest dawn, Gurn, the man who had murdered Lord Beltham, was to undergo the supreme punishment, and expiate his murder with his life.
No sooner had the great news become known than all prepared, as for a holiday, to go to see the man’s head fall. At Montmartre carriages were requisitioned and taxicabs were at a premium. Women in gorgeous toilets and sparkling with jewels streamed from the open doors into the carriages which should bear them swiftly towards the Santé prison, and the place of execution. In the faubourgs likewise, the bars were emptied of their customers, and men and women, linked arm-in-arm, set forth on foot, with songs and ribaldries upon their lips, for the spectacle of blood and the boulevard Arago.
Around the Santé prison an atmosphere of pleasure reigned as the people, massed together in tight ranks, produced bottles of wine, and ate sausages, and gaily enjoyed an improvised supper in the open air, while speculating about the details of the sight they had come to see. And so the crowd amused itself, for Gurn’s head was going to fall.
Worming his way through the crowd, François Bonbonne, the landlord of the Saint-Anthony’s Pig, led a little company of friends who took advantage of his great stature to find the best path to take.
The landlord was half-drunk already in honour of the occasion.
“Come along, Billy Tom,” he shouted. “Catch hold of the tail of my coat and then you won’t lose us. Where is Hogshead Geoffroy?”
“He’s coming along with Bouzille.”
“Good! Just fancy if Bouzille had tried to get through here with his train! There are some people about, eh?”
Two men passed the landlord of the market inn just then.
“Come along,” said one of them, and as the other caught him up, Juve added: “Didn’t you recognise those fellows?”
“No,” said Fandor.
Juve told him the names of the men whom they had passed.
“You will understand that I don’t want them to recognise me,” he said, and as Fandor smiled Juve went on: “It’s a queer thing, but it is always the future customers of the guillotine, apaches and fellows like that, who make a point of seeing this ghastly spectacle.” The detective stopped and laid a hand upon the journalist’s shoulder. “Wait,” he said, “we are right in front now: only the men who are holding the line are ahead of us. If we want to get through and avoid the crush we must make ourselves known at once. Here is your pass.”
Jérôme Fandor took the card which Juve held out to him, and had got for him as a special favour.
“What do we do
