“Good!” said he.  “Now open the gates, and all may enter.”

The gates were thrown open, and then horses, mules, and carts, men, women, and children, pressed into Paris, at the risk of suffocating each other, and in a quarter of an hour all the crowd had vanished.

Robert Briquet remained until the last.  “I have seen enough,” said he:  “would it be very advantageous to me to see M. Salcede torn in four pieces?  No, pardieu!  Besides, I have renounced politics; I will go and dine.”

CHAPTER IV.

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.