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 Bellievre 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.”