Attired in the shirt worn by condemned criminals, and bearing a placard both in front and behind, with the words “Wilful Poisoner,” Derues descended the great staircase of the Chatelet with a firm step.  It was at this moment, on seeing the crucifix, that he exclaimed, “O Christ, I shall suffer like Thee!” He mounted the tumbril, looking right and left amongst the crowd.  During the progress he recognised and bowed to several of his old associates, and bade adieu in a clear voice to the former mistress of his ’prentice days, who has recorded that she never saw him look so pleasant.  Arrived at the door of Notre Dame, where the clerk was awaiting him, he descended from the tumbril without assistance, took a lighted wax taper weighing two pounds in his hand, and did penance, kneeling, bareheaded and barefooted, a rope round his neck, repeating the words of the death-warrant.  He then reascended the cart in the midst of the cries and execrations of the populace, to which he appeared quite insensible.  One voice only, endeavouring to dominate the tumult, caused him to turn his head:  it was that of the hawker who was crying his sentence, and who broke off now and then to say—­

“Well! my poor gossip Derues, how do you like that fine carriage you’re in?  Oh yes, mutter your prayers and look up to heaven as much as you like, you won’t take us in now.  Ah! thief who said I stole from you!  Wasn’t I right when I said I should be selling your sentence some day?”

Then, adding her own wrongs to the list of crimes, she declared that the Parliament had condemned him as much for having falsely accused her of theft as for having poisoned Madame de Lamotte and her son!

When arrived at the scaffold, he gazed around him, and a sort of shiver of impatience ran through the crowd.  He smiled, and as if anxious to trick mankind for the last time, asked to be taken to the Hotel de Ville, which was granted, in the hope that he would at last make some confession; but he only persisted in saying that he was guiltless of poisoning.  He had an interview with his wife, who nearly fainted on seeing him, and remained for more than a quarter of an hour unable to say a word.  He lavished tender names upon her, and professed much affliction at seeing her in so miserable a condition.

When she was taken away, he asked permission to embrace her, and took a most touching farewell.  His last words have been preserved.

“My dear wife,” he said, “I recommend our beloved children to your care:  bring them up in the fear of God.  You must go to Chartres, you will there see the bishop, on whom I had the honour of waiting when I was there last, and who has always been kind to me; I believe he has thought well of me, and that I may hope he will take pity on you and on our children.”