He made no resistance when his knees and legs were bound, and endured the torture courageously.  Only, in a moment of agony, he exclaimed: 

“Accursed money! has thou reduced me to this?”

Thinking that pain would overcome his resolution, the presiding magistrate bent towards him, and said: 

“Unhappy man! confess thy crime, since death is near at hand.”

He recovered his firmness, and, looking at the magistrate, replied: 

“I know it, monseigneur; I have perhaps not three hours to live.”

Thinking that his apparently feeble frame could not endure the last wedges, the executioner was ordered to stop.  He was unbound and laid on a mattress, and a glass of wine was brought, of which he only drank a few drops; after this, he made his confession to the priest.  For, dinner, they brought him soup and stew, which he ate eagerly, and inquiring of the gaoler if he could have something more, an entree was brought in addition.  One might have thought that this final repast heralded, not death but deliverance.  At length three o’clock struck the hour appointed for leaving the prison.

According to the report of credible persons whom we have consulted, Paris on this occasion presented a remarkable appearance, which those who saw it were never able to forget.  The great anthill was troubled to its very lowest depth.  Whether by accident or design, the same day had been fixed for a function which ought to have proved a considerable counter attraction.  A great festival in honour of a German prince was given on the Plaine de Grenelle, at which all the court was present; and probably more than one great lady regretted missing the emotions of the Place de Greve, abandoned to the rabble and the bourgeoisie.  The rest of the city was deserted, the streets silent, the houses closed.  A stranger transported suddenly into such a solitude might have reasonably thought that during the night the town had been smitten by the Angel of Death, and that only a labyrinth of vacant buildings remained, testifying to the life and turmoil of the preceding day.  A dark and dense atmosphere hung over the abandoned town; lightning furrowed the heavy motionless clouds; in the distance the occasional rumble of thunder was heard, answered by the cannon of the royal fete.  The crowd was divided between the powers of heaven and earth:  the terrible majesty of the Eternal on one side, on the other the frivolous pomp of royalty—­eternal punishment and transient grandeur in opposition.  Like the waters of a flood leaving dry the fields which they have covered, so the waves of the multitude forsook their usual course.  Thousands of men and women crowded together along the route which the death-cart would take; an ocean of heads undulated like the ears in a wheatfield.  The old houses, hired at high rates, quivered under the weight of eager spectators, and the window sashes had been removed to afford a better view.