strength of the soldier, in getting together in one group to
the amount of about fifty men; and that, with the exception
of a dozen stragglers whom he still saw rolling here and
there, the nucleus was complete, and within reach of his
voice. But it was not the musketeers and guards only that
drew the attention of D’Artagnan. Around the gibbets, and
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particularly at the entrances to the arcade of Saint Jean,
moved a noisy mass, a busy mass; daring faces, resolute
demeanors were to be seen here and there, mingled with silly
faces and indifferent demeanors; signals were exchanged,
hands given and taken. D’Artagnan remarked among the groups,
and those groups the most animated, the face of the cavalier
whom he had seen enter by the door of communication from his
garden, and who had gone upstairs to harangue the drinkers.
That man was organizing troops and giving orders.
“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I was not deceived;
I know that man, — it is Menneville. What the devil is he
doing here?”
A distant murmur, which became more distinct by degrees,
stopped this reflection, and drew his attention another way.
This murmur was occasioned by the arrival of the culprits; a
strong picket of archers preceded them, and appeared at the
angle of the arcade. The entire crowd now joined as if in
one cry; all the cries united formed one immense howl.
D’Artagnan saw Raoul was becoming pale, and he slapped him
roughly on the shoulder. The fire-keepers turned round on
hearing the great cry, and asked what was going on. “The
condemned are arrived,” said D’Artagnan. “That’s well,”
replied they, again replenishing the fire. D’Artagnan looked
at them with much uneasiness; it was evident that these men
who were making such a fire for no apparent purpose had some
strange intentions. The condemned appeared upon the Place.
They were walking, the executioner before them, whilst fifty
archers formed a hedge on their right and their left. Both
were dressed in black; they appeared pale, but firm. They
looked impatiently over the people’s heads, standing on
tip-toe at every step. D’Artagnan remarked this. “Mordioux!”
cried he, “they are in a great hurry to get a sight of the
gibbet!” Raoul drew back, without, however, having the power
to leave the window. Terror even has its attractions.
“To the death! to the death!” cried fifty thousand voices.
“Yes; to the death!” howled a hundred frantic others, as if
the great mass had given them the reply.
“To the halter! to the halter!” cried the great whole; “Vive
le roi!”
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “this is droll; I should have
thought it was M. Colbert who had caused them to be hung.”
There was, at this moment, a great rolling movement in the
crowd, which stopped for a moment the march of the
condemned. The people of a bold and resolute mien, whom
D’Artagnan had observed, by dint of pressing, pushing, and
lifting themselves up, had succeeded in almost touching the
hedge of archers. The cortege resumed its march. All at
once, to cries of “Vive Colbert!” those men, of whom
D’Artagnan never lost sight, fell upon the escort, which in
vain endeavored to stand against them. Behind these men was
the crowd. Then commenced, amidst a frightful tumult, as
frightful a confusion. This time there was something more
than cries of expectation or cries of joy, there were cries
of pain. Halberds struck men down, swords ran them through,
muskets were discharged at them. The confusion became then
so great that D’Artagnan could no longer distinguish
anything. Then, from this chaos, suddenly surged something
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like a visible intention, like a will pronounced. The
condemned had been torn from the hands of the guards, and
were being dragged towards the house of
L’Image-de-Notre-Dame. Those who dragged them shouted, “Vive
Colbert!” The people hesitated, not knowing which they ought
to fall upon, the archers or the aggressors. What stopped
the people was, that those who cried “Vive Colbert!” began
to cry, at the same time, “No halter! no halter! to the
fire! to the fire! burn the thieves! burn the extortioners!”