Murat made an impatient movement.

“Will you receive them?” continued the general.

“Yes; bring them in.”

The general went out.  A moment later, two priests appeared in the doorway.  One of them was called Francesco Pellegrino, uncle of the man who had caused the king’s death; the other was Don Antonio Masdea.

“What do you want here?” asked Murat.

“We come to ask you if you are dying a Christian?”

“I am dying as a soldier.  Leave me.”

Don Francesco Pellegrino retired.  No doubt he felt ill at ease before Joachim.  But Antonio Masdea remained at the door.

“Did you not hear me?” asked the king.

“Yes, indeed,” answered the old man; “but permit me, sire, to hope that it was not your last word to me.  It is not, the first time that I see you or beg something of you.  I have already had occasion to ask a favour of you.”

“What was that?”

“When your Majesty came to Pizzo in 1810, I asked you for 25,000 francs to enable us to finish our church.  Your Majesty sent me 40,000 francs.”

“I must have foreseen that I should be buried there,” said Murat, smiling.

“Ah, sire, I should like to think that you did not refuse my second boon any more than my first.  Sire, I entreat you on my knees.”

The old man fell at Murat’s feet.

“Die as a Christian!”

“That would give you pleasure, then, would it?” said the king.

“Sire, I would give the few short days remaining to me if God would grant that His Holy Spirit should fall upon you in your last hour.”

“Well,” said Murat, “hear my confession.  I accuse myself of having been disobedient to my parents as a child.  Since I reached manhood I have done nothing to reproach myself with.”

“Sire, will you give me an attestation that you die in the Christian faith?”

“Certainly,” said Murat.

And he took a pen and wrote:  “I, Joachim Murat, die a Christian, believing in the Holy Catholic Church, Apostolic and Roman.”

He signed it.

“Now, father,” continued the king, “if you have a third favour to ask of me, make haste, for in half an hour it will be too late.”

Indeed, the castle clock was striking half-past three.  The priest signed that he had finished.

“Then leave me alone,” said Murat; and the old man went out.

Murat paced his room for a few moments, then he sat down on his bed and let his head fall into his hands.  Doubtless, during the quarter of an hour he remained thus absorbed in his thoughts, he saw his whole life pass before him, from the inn where he had started to the palace he had reached; no doubt his adventurous career unrolled itself before him like some golden dream, some brilliant fiction, some tale from the Arabian Nights.

His life gleamed athwart the storm like a rainbow, and like a rainbow’s, its two extremities were lost in clouds—­the clouds of birth and death.  At last he roused himself from this inward contemplation, and lifted a pale but tranquil face.  Then he went to the glass and arranged his hair.  His strange characteristics never left him.  The affianced of Death, he was adorning himself to meet his bride.