HIS MAJESTY HENRI THE THIRD.
M. Friard was right when he talked of 100,000 persons as the number of
spectators who would meet on the Place de Greve and its environs, to
witness the execution of Salcede. All Paris appeared to have a
rendezvous at the Hotel de Ville; and Paris is very exact, and never
misses a fete; and the death of a man is a fete, especially when he has
raised so many passions that some curse and others bless him.
The spectators who succeeded in reaching the Place saw the archers and a
large number of Swiss and light horse surrounding a little scaffold
raised about four feet from the ground. It was so low as to be visible
only to those immediately surrounding it, or to those who had windows
overlooking the Place. Four vigorous white horses beat the ground
impatiently with their hoofs, to the great terror of the women, who had
either chosen this place willingly, or had been forcibly pushed there.
These horses were unused, and had never done more work than to support,
by some chance, on their broad backs the chubby children of the
peasants. After the scaffold and the horses, what next attracted all
looks was the principal window of the Hotel de Ville, which was hung
with red velvet and gold, and ornamented with the royal arms. This was
for the king. Half-past one had just struck when this window was filled.
First came Henri III., pale, almost bald, although he was at that time
only thirty-five, and with a somber expression, always a mystery to his
subjects, who, when they saw him appear, never knew whether to say "Vive
le Roi!" or to pray for his soul. He was dressed in black, without
jewels or orders, and a single diamond shone in his cap, serving as a
fastening to three short plumes. He carried in his hand a little black
dog that his sister-in-law Marie Stuart had sent him from her prison,
and on which his fingers looked as white as alabaster.
Behind the king came Catherine de Medicis, almost bowed by age, for she
might be sixty-six or sixty-seven, but still carrying her head firm and
erect, and darting bitter glances from under her thick eyebrows. At her
side appeared the melancholy but sweet face of the queen, Louise de
Torraine. Catherine came as a triumph, she as a punishment. Behind them
came two handsome young men, brothers, the eldest of whom smiled with
wonderful beauty, and the younger with great melancholy. The one was
Anne, duc de Joyeuse, and the other Henri de Joyeuse, comte de Bouchage.
The people had for these favorites of the king none of the hatred which
they had felt toward Maugiron, Quelus, and Schomberg.
Henri saluted the people gravely; then, turning to the young men, he
said, "Anne, lean against the tapestry; it may last a long time."
"I hope so," said Catherine.
"You think, then, that Salcede will speak, mother?"
"God will, I trust, give this confusion to our enemies."
Henri looked doubtful.
"My son," said Catherine, "do I not see some tumult yonder?"
"What clear sight you have! I believe you are right. I have such bad
eyes, and yet I am not old. Yes, here comes Salcede."
"He fears," said Catherine; "he will speak."
"If he has strength," said the king. "See, his head falls about like
that of a corpse."
"He is frightful," said Joyeuse.
"How should a man be handsome whose thoughts are so ugly? Have I not
explained to you, Anne, the secret connection of the physical and the
moral, as Hippocrates and Galen understood and expounded them?"
"I admit it, sire, but I am not a good pupil. I have sometimes seen very
ugly men very good soldiers. Have you not, Henri?" said he, turning to
his brother: but he looked without seeing, and heard without
understanding, so the king answered for him.
"Eh, mon Dieu! my dear Anne, who says this man is not brave? He is
brave, pardieu, like a wolf, a bear, or a serpent. He burned in his
house a Norman gentleman, his enemy; he has fought ten duels, and killed
three of his adversaries. He has now been taken in the act of coining,
for which he has been condemned to death."
"That is a well-filled existence, but which will soon finish."
"On the contrary," said Catherine, "I trust it will finish as slowly as
possible."
"Madame," said Joyeuse, "I see those four stout horses, who appear to me
so impatient of their state of inactivity that I do not believe in a
long resistance of the muscles, tendons, and cartilages of M. de
Salcede."
"Yes, but my son is merciful," replied she, with the smile peculiar to
herself, "and he will tell the men to go gently."
"But, madame," said the queen timidly, "I heard you say this morning
that there were only to be two draws?"
"Yes, if he conducts himself well; in that case all will be finished as
soon as possible, and, as you interest yourself so much in him, you had
better let him know as much, my daughter."
"Madame," said the queen, "I have not your strength when looking at
suffering."
"Do not look, then."
The king heard nothing; he was all eyes. They were lifting Salcede from
the car on to the scaffold, round which the archers had cleared a large
space, so that it was distinctly visible to all eyes.
Salcede was about thirty-five years of age, strong and vigorous; and his
pale features, on which stood drops of blood, were animated alternately
by hope and anguish. He was no vulgar assassin; he was of good birth,
and even distantly related to the queen, and had been a captain of some
renown. Those bound hands had valiantly borne the sword, and that livid
head, on which were depicted the terrors of death, had conceived great
designs. Therefore, to many of the spectators, he was a hero; to others,
a victim; some looked on him as an assassin; but the crowd seldom
despises those very great criminals who are registered in the book of
history as well as in that of justice. Thus they told, in the crowd,
that Salcede was of a race of warriors; that his father had fought
against the Cardinal de Lorraine, but that the son had joined with the
Guises to destroy in Flanders the rising power of the Duc d'Anjou, so
hated by the French.
He had been arrested and conducted to France, and had hoped to be
rescued by the way; but unfortunately for him, M. de Bellièvre had kept
such good watch, that neither Spaniards nor Lorraines, nor leaguers, had
been able to approach. In the prison Salcede hoped; during the torture,
on the car, even on the scaffold, he still hoped. He wanted neither
courage nor resignation; but he was one of those who defend themselves
to their last breath. He darted curious glances toward the crowd, but
constantly turned away, with a look of disappointment.
At this moment, an usher, raising the tapestry of the royal tent,
announced that the president Brisson and four councilors desired the
honor of an instant's conversation with the king on the subject of the
execution.
"Good," said the king. "Mother, you will be satisfied."
"Sire, a favor," said Joyeuse.
"Speak, Joyeuse; and provided it be not the pardon of the criminal--"
"Sire, permit my brother and me to retire."
"What! you take so little interest in my affairs that you wish to retire
at such a moment!"
"Do not say so, sire; all that concerns your majesty profoundly
interests me; but I am of a miserable organization, and the weakest
woman is stronger than I am on this point. I cannot see an execution
without being ill for a week; and as I am the only person who ever
laughs at the Louvre, since my brother--I know not why--has given it up,
think what would become of the Louvre--so sad already--if I were sad
also."
"You wish to leave me then, Anne."
"Peste! sire, you are exacting; an execution is a spectacle of which,
unlike me, you are fond. Is not that enough for you, or must you also
enjoy the weakness of your friends?"
"If you will remain, Joyeuse, you will see that it is interesting."
"I do not doubt it, sire; I only think that the interest will be carried
to a point that I cannot bear;" and he turned toward the door.
"Go, then," said Henri, sighing; "my destiny is to live alone."
"Quick! Du Bouchage," said Anne to his brother. "The king says yes now;
but in five minutes he will say no."
"Thanks, my brother," said Bouchage; "I was as anxious as you to get
away."