The Execution of Damiens

Sprawled in leather chairs they sat in the lobby of the Spa Hotel and smoked. Music drifted to them from the ballroom.

Erhardt drew out his watch and yawned. "Late enough," he said. "They could stop now."

At this moment the young Baron Gradel walked up. "I have become engaged, gentlemen!" he yapped.

"To Evelyn Ketschendorff?" asked fat Dr Handl. "It took long enough."

"Congratulations, Cousin," cried Attems. "Wire Mother." But Brinken said: "Take care, my boy! She has pinched, set, English lips."

The handsome Gradel nodded: "Her mother was an Englishwoman."

"I thought so," said Brinken. "Take care, my boy!"

But the Baron did not listen; he placed his glass on the table, and ran back to the ballroom.

"You don't like Englishwomen?" asked Erdhardt.

Dr Handl laughed; "Don't you know that? He hates all women with a bit of race and class; especially if they're English! Only fat, dumb, silly women find favour in his eyes - geese and cows."

Aimer une femme intelligence est un plaisir de pederaste! cited Count Attems.

Brinken shrugged his shoulders. "Whether it is just that, I don't know. Besides, it is not quite right to say that I hate intelligent women; if they have nothing else, they can appeal to me, too. It is those who have soul, feeling, fantasy that I fear in the affairs ofl ove. Cows and geese are respectable animals: they eat corn and hay, and not their fellows."

The others were silent, so he continued:

"I can explain further, if you like. Early this morning I went for a walk through the morning sun; there, in Val Madonna, I saw a pair of lovesick snakes: two steel-blue fat adders; each a metre and a half long. It was a pretty game. They glided between the stones, went back and forth, hissed at each other. At length they intertwined, and stood rocking on their tails, upright, closely embraced. The heads pressed against each other, the jaws opened wide, the forked tongues darted through the air. Oh, nothing is more beautiful than such nuptial play! The golden eyes shone - it seemed to me as if they both carried scintillating crowns on their heads!

"Then they fell away from each other, exhausted by their wild play; lay there in the sun. The female soon recovered; slowly she moved towards the dead-tired bridegroom, seized him by the head, and devoured him, powerless as he was. Choked, choked, millimetre by millimetre, infinitely slowly she devoured the body of her mate. It was a frightful work; one saw how all her muscles worked to swallow the animal which was larger than herself. The jaws jerked almost from their sockets; she bent herself back and forth, drew her husband even deeper within. At last only his tail stuck out a hand's length from her mouth - farther he could not go. She lay plump, ugly, unable to stir."

"Was there no stick or stone?" cried Dr Handl.

"What for?" said Brinken. "Should I punish her? Nature, after all, is the devil's work, not God's - Aristotle already said that. No, I seized the tail sticking out of the mouth and drew the miserable lover out of his too gluttonous idol. They lay then half an hour next to each other in the sun: I would like to know what they thought the while. Then they crept into the bushes, he to the left, she to the right; for even a snake-lady cannot eat her spouse twice. But perhaps the poor fellow, after this experience, will take care when he wanders again awooing."

"That was nothing out of the ordinary," said Erhardt;"every female spider devours her male after the mating."

Brinken continued, "The mantis religiosa, the Worshipper­of-God, doesn't wait first for the end. You can observe this here on the Adriatic island every day. She skilfully turns her neck round, seizes with her terrible pincers the head of the lover seated upon her, and calmly begins to consume him - in the midst of the mating. Nowhere, gentlemen, will you find more atavism in mankind than in sexual life. I, for my part, have no use for the soulful paroxysms of the most beautiful houri, who suddenly discloses herself as a snake, spider, or Worshipper-of-God."

"I have never met one!" remarked Dr Handl.

"That doesn't mean that you may not meet her tomorrow," answered Brinken. "Have a look at the anatomy collection of any university: there you will find crazier combinations of atavistic monstrosities than the fantasy of the average man could picture. You can find in human shape the entire animal kingdom. Many such creatures live seven years, twelve years, and still longer. Children with a hare-lip, with a split palate, with tusks, and those with pigs' heads; children with webs between all their fingers, between their arms and their legs, with a frog's mouth, or frog's head, or frog's eyes; children with horns on their heads, not only stag's horns, but with the pincer horns of a stag-beetle. If you can see such monstrous atavisms everywhere, is it to be wondered at that a few singular characteristics of this or that animal be repeated in human soul life?

"When you see such wild atavism everywhere, is it astonishing that some peculiar qualities of this or that animal should also be found in human souls ? It is only remarkable that we don't stumble over them more often; but the reason may lie in that no one speaks willingly about them. You can associate intimately with a family for years without learning that one of the sons is a complete cretin put away in some institution."

"Granted!" said Erhardt. "But still you haven't explained your grudge against dangerous women. Tell us, who was your Worshipper-of-God?"

"My Worshipper-of-God," said Brinken, "prayed to God every morning and every evening, and even succeeded in get­ ting me to pray with her. Don't laugh, Count, it is literally as I say. My Worshipper-of-God went twice every Sunday to church, and to chapel every day. Three days a week she visited the poor. My Worshipper-of-God-"

He interrupted himself, mixed a whisky, and drank. Then he continued:

"I was just eighteen years old, an undergraduate on my first vacation. During my years at school and at university my mother always sent me abroad for my holidays - she believed it good for my education. This time I was stayiµg in England with a schoolmaster in Dover, where I was thoroughly bored. By chance I made the acquaintance of Sir Oliver Bingham, a man of forty, who invited me to visit him at his place in Devonshire. I accepted at once, and departed with him a few days later.

"Bingham Castle was a magnificient country seat, four hundred years or more in the possession of the family. There was a large and well-cultivated park with golf-links and tennis­courts; a little river, where row-boats lay, flowed through the grounds. Two dozen hunters in the stables. And all this at the disposal of the guests. It was the first time I had enjoyed English hospitality with its liberality; my youthful joy was boundless.

"Lady Cynthia was the second wife of Sir Oliver. He had two sons by the first marriage; both were at Eton. I perceived at once that this wife was a wife only in name. Sir Oliver and Lady Cynthia lived side by side as two complete strangers; between them there was nothing but an extremely careful and often somewhat unnatural politeness, which, nevertheless, was scarcely forced. Inborn and acquired convention helped both easily over all stiles.

"Not until much later did I understand that Sir Oliver, before he presented me to his wife, had intended to warn me. At that time I did not notice it. He said: 'Look here, my boy! Lady Cynthia, now see - well, take care of yourself!' He could not quite speak openly what he thought; and, as I said, I did not understand him.

"Sir Oliver was a real country gentleman of the old style, as you may find in a hundred English novels: Eton, Oxford, sport and a little politics. He took pleasure in his estate and was a capable farmer. Everybody at Bingham Castle loved him - men, women and animals. He was a powerful blond, brown and healthy, large and open-hearted. For his part he loved no less those around him, and demonstrated this kind of rural love more especially and rather indiscriminately to the younger female servants. This happened without the slightest hypocrisy and quite obviously: Lady Cynthia alone seemed not to notice it.

"It was this unconcealed faithlessness to his wife which deeply grieved me. If ever a woman, it seemed to me, had earned the full and implicit love of a man, she was this Lady Cynthia; if ever adultery was a treacherous and repulsive crime, so it was against this woman.

"She must have been about twenty-seven years old. If she had lived during the Renaissance in Rome, or Venice, one would see her portrait today in many a church. I never saw another woman who was solike a Madonna. She wore her gold­ shimmering brown hair parted in the middle. Her features were of perfect regularity. Her eyes seemed to me like seas of amethyst dreams; her long, narrow hands were of an almost transparent whiteness; her throat, her neck - ah, it seemed to me as if this woman were scarcely earthly. You never heard her step. It was as though she floated through the rooms.

"No wonder I fell in love. At this time I wrote sonnets by the dozen; at first in German, then in English. They were probably extremely poor - but if you coul read them no":', gentlemen, you would certainly be able to picture, from therr minute descriptions, Lady Cynthia's unusual beauty and at the same time my state of soul.

"And this woman was deceived by Sir Oliver, who did not even give himself the trouble to conceal the fact. I couldn't prevent it, I had to hate him. He noticed that: once or twice he attempted to speak to me about it, but he could not find the right opening.

"I never saw Lady Cynthia laugh - nor weep. She was unusually silent; like a shadow she glided through the park and the house. She did not ride, nor play golf, nor did she mdulge in any sport. Neither did she ever trouble herself with the household; this was left entirely to the old butler. But, as I have said, she was very religious - attended church regularly and visited the poor of three villages. She said grace before every meal. Every morning and every evening she went into the castle chapel and knelt down to prayers. Never did I see her read a paper, and seldom a book. On the other hand, she embroidered a great deal, made laces, rosepoint and edging. At times she sat at the piano in the music-room, played also the organ in the chapel. While she plied her needle she would often sing softly, almost always a sunple folk-tune. Only many years later clid it occur to me how absurd it was that this woman, who had never had a child, should prefer to sing cradle-songs. At the time I took it for dreamy wistfulness, which I found fascinating.

"Our relationship was determined from the first day: she was the mistress, and I was her obedient page, hopelessly enamoured, but very well behaved. At times she let me read to her - Walter Scott's novels. She suffered me about her while she played or sewed, and she often sang for me. At meal­times I sat next to her. As Sir Oliver was often away, we were frequently alone. Her sentimentality had taken possession of me: she seemed to be sorrowing silently over something; and I held 1t to be my duty to sorrow with her.

"Often late in the afternoon she stood at the narrow window of the tower room. I could see her from the park: sometimes I went into the room at this hour. A boyish shyness kept me from speaking; I_crept on tiptoes down the stairs into the garden, hid myself behind a tree, and sent longing glances to the window fro the distance. She would stand there a long time, not moving. Often she would clench her hands, and a quiver would fly over her face; but the deep, amethyst eyes would stare out motionless. She seemed to see nothing, her glance sped over trees and bushes strangely possessed.

"Once, I know, I dined alone with her at night. We talked long after the meal, then went into the music room. She played for me. It was not the music which made me flush.· I stared at those white hands, those fingers which were not human. As she finished, she half turned to me. I seized her hand, bent over it and kissed her finger-tips. At this moment Sir Oliver walked in. Lady Cynthia, polite as always, wished him good evening. Then she went out.

"Sir Oliver had seen my movement, he also saw my excited eyes, which cried aloud how it stood with me. He strode up and down the room once or twice with Jong strides, suppressing with diffculty a few good curses. Then he came to me, clapped me on the shoulder, said: 'For Heaven's sake, my boy, take care! I tell you — no, I beg you, beseech you — take care. You—'

Here Lady Cynthia returned to the room to fetch her rings, which she had left on the piano. Sir Oliver broke Off abruptly, squeezed my hand strongly, bowed to his wife and went out. Lady Cynthia came to me, slipped, one after another, her rings on her fingers. Then she held out both her hands to me for a goodnight kiss. She said not a word, but I felt what she commanded. I bent down and covered her hands with hot kisses. She let me hold them long, finally she freed herself and left. had a feeling that I had committed a grievous wrong to Sir Oliver, as if I were in honour bound to tell him about it. It seemed to be easier to do it in writing; so I went into my room and sat down at the desk. I wrote one letter, two letters, three letters; each seemed more stupid than the other. At length I decided to speak to him, so I went out to look for him. To avoid losing my courage again, I ran up the steps as fast as I could; before the door of his smoking-room, which was wide open, I suddenly stopped. I heard voices in there: first the jovial, somewhat broad laugh of Sir Oliver, then a woman's voice. But, Sir Oliver... said the voice.

'Go on, don't be a little fool,' laughed Sir Oliver, 'don't take on so.'

"I turned on the spot, crept down the steps. It was Millicent's voice - that of one of the parlourmaids.

"Two days later, Sir Oliver went to London. I remained alone at Bingham Castle with Lady Cynthia.

At this time I was in wonderland, in an Eden that the Deity created for me alone. It is diffcult to describe the witchery of the dream in which I lived. I tried to describe it in a letter to my mother. When I visited her, a few months ago, she showed me the old letter, which she had faithfully preserved. The envelope bore on the back the words 'I am very happy!' The letter itself contained this astonishing gush of feeling; 'Dear mother: you ask how I feel, what I do? Oh, mother! Oh, mother, mother!' And a dozen times more, 'Oh, mother!' Nothing more.

"With these words, of course, one might express the deepest pain, the wildest despair, as well as the extremest delight; but something superlative it must be!

I remarked early in the morning when Lady Cynthia went into chapel, which lay a short distance from the castle by the side of a stream. Then I waited until she came out, and accom-panied her to breakfast. One morning she made a sign; I understood it, without her having to speak. I followed her, therefore, into the chapel; she knelt to pray, and I knelt behind her. From that time I always went with her into the chapel. At first I did nothing but stare at her; but, gradually, I did what she did — prayed. Just imagine, gentlemen, I praying — a German student! And surely a heathen! I don't know what or to whom I prayed; but it was some sort of thanksgiving for so much happiness and a shower of burning wishes for this woman.

"I rode a good deal; somehow or other my foaming blood had to calm down. Once I had ridden out fairly early, lost myself in the country, and was in the saddle for many hours. When at last I found my way back to the castle a raging thunderstorm broke, a regular cloud-burst. I came back to the Stream and found the wooden bridge washed away; to get to the nearest stone bridge I would have had to make a considerable detour. I was wet through as it was, so I jumped into the swollen stream. I got across, though I had considerably overestimated the strength of my wornout mare, and was carried downstream a good way.

"Lady Cynthia awaited me in her sitting-room. I hurried, therefore, to my room, bathed and changed. Perhaps I looked a Ettle tired; at all events, she insisted that I should lie on the couch. Then she sat beside me, stroked my forehead, and sang:

Rockaby, Baby, on the tree-top—
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
Down will come baby, cradle and all!

"She stroked my forehead and sang; it was as though I lay in magic cradle, which hung on the high bough of a tree. The wind blew and sang, and my cradle rocked in the breezes. If only the bough does not break! I thought.

"Well, gentlemen, my bough broke; and I fell down, hard enough. At any time Lady Cynthia would give me her hands -but only her hands. I trembled for her shoulders, her forehead oh! of her lips I dared not think. I never spoke about it, but my glances offered her my heart and my soul - everything, every day and every hour. She took everything, and gave me her hands.

"Sometimes on late afternoons when I had sat for hours at a time with her, when my blood screamed from all my pores, she would stand up and say quietly: 'Now go riding.' She went to her tower room, and softly I followed her, peered through the hangings. She took a little book bound in old brocade, then she sat down, read only for a few minutes, then stood up again, went to the window, stared out. I went into the stables, saddled my horse, rode through the park, then out into the fields. Like a madman I galloped through the dusk. A cold bath when I returned; thus found a little rest before supper.

"Once I had ridden out earlier and came back at tea-time. I met her in the hall, as I was going to my bath.

"'Come,' she said, 'when you are ready! Hurry; tea awaits in the tower.' I was in my kimono.

"'I must dress myself,' I answered.

"'Come as you are,' she said.

"I jumped into the tub, turned On the shower; in a few minutes I was ready. I went into the tower room. She sat on the couch, her little book in her hand; she laid it aside as entered. She was, like myself, in a dressing-gown — a wonderful kimono, purple, with flowers of dull gold. She poured my tea, buttered my toast. Not a word did we say. I gulped down the toast, poured down the hot tea. I trembled in every limb. At length tears ran to my eyes. I knelt before her, took her hands, buried my head in her lap. She let me do it.

"At length she stood up. 'You may do everything — everything. But you must not utter a word. Not a word, not a word!

"I did not understand what she meant: but I got up and nodded. Slowly she went to the narrow window. I hesitated, did not quite know what I should do. Finally I followed her, stood behind her. I knew I must not speak.

I stood undecided, motionless like her. I heard her light breathing. Then I bent down, very slowly; I touched her neck with my lips. Oh, so tenderly: no butterfly could kiss more tenderly. Then I felt she felt this kiss. A gentle shiver ran over her skin.

"I kissed her shoulder, her scented hair, her sweet ear — only gently, very softly, page-like, embarrassed. My fingers sought, found her arms, caressed them up and down. A sigh escaped her lips, floated far out into the evening.

"I saw the high trees without, heard the song of a late nightingale.

"1 shut my eyes. Nothing was between us but a little silk. I breathed deeply and heard her breathing. My body thrilled down to the toes, and I felt how she trembled in my arms. Faster went her breath, and faster; a hot quivering seized her body. Then she seized my hands, pressed them against her breast.

"I embraced her, clasped her tightly, held her, I don't know how long. Then her hands dropped, she threatened to swoon, and hung for a while in my arms. Then she pulled herself together.

"'Go,' she said Softly.

"I loosened my hands as she commanded; left her, crept outside on tiptoe.

"That evening I did not see her again, I was alone for supper. Something had happened, but I did not know what it was. I was rather young in those days.

"Next morning I waited before the chapel. Lady Cynthia nodded to me as she went in. She knelt down and prayed as she did every morning.

"A few days later — and then again and yet again — she Said, 'Come tonight!' But she did not forget to add, 'Not a word must you speak, not a word!'

"Eighteen years old I was, and very gauche and inexperienced. But Lady Cynthia was very wise, and all happened as she wished. Her mouth spoke no word and my mouth spoke no word — only her blood spoke to my blood.

"Then Sir Oliver returned. We sat at supper, Lady Cynthia and I: I heard Sir Oliver's voice in the hall. I let my fork drop; I believe I was whiter than the damask table-cloth. Not fear — it was certainly not that! But I had, by this time, completely forgotten that this man was still in the world - Sir Oliver!

"Sir Oliver was in a good humour this evening. He certainly noticed my embarrassment; but he did not betray this know-ledge by the slightest gesture. He ate, drank, talked of London, spoke of theatres and horses. He excused himself immediately after the meal, clapped me on the shoulder, bade his wife, in a chosen phrase: goodnight. Yet he waited a moment or so as if he were observing me. I did not know what to do, so I stammered that I was tired, kissed Lady Cynthia's hands, and went.

"That night I didn't sleep a wink. I had a continuous feeling that Sir Oliver would come to me: I listened for every step in the castle, certain that he would come. But he did not come. At length I undressed and went to bed. I contemplated what now must happen - what had happened during his absence.

"One thing seemed to be clear: I must tell Sir Oliver everything, must place myself at his disposal. But, to what end? I knew that there was no more duelling in England, that he would laugh at me if I just mentioned such a thing. But — what else? Would he drag me before a Court of Justice? He - me? That was even more laughable, and quite certainly no satisfaction for him. Fisticuffs? He was much bigger, much broader and stronger than I, one of the best amateur boxers in the country. I hadn't the slightest idea of this sport: the little I knew he, himself, had taught me. Nevertheless, I ought to let him challenge me, come what might.

"But then, if I spoke, wasn't it an infamous betrayal of Lady Cynthia? If he crippled me, what did it matter! But she -sweet, holy woman, she— What would become of her ? For she was not guilty. All the guilt was mine, mine alone; I felt that in every fibre of my being. I had come into her house. I had loved her from the first moment. I had stalked her, lain in wait for her, followed her wherever she went. Not content that she gave me her white hands, I had desired her more and more, more ardently every day - until -

"True, I had not spoken. But had not my blood cried for her every hour? What use were words, when my eyes sang, when my body trembled at the very sight of her ? She, brutally flung aside by her husband, betrayed every day and insulted before all eyes, tortured and bearing these tortures and insults like a saint — oh, not a shadow of guilt fell upon her! Small wonder that she had finally fallen to the temptations of a seducer, who followed her step after step—

"'And even then, even then she remained the saint she was. She gave her body more out of goodness of heart, out of pure pity for the youth who was devoured by longing for her. She gave herself to me as she gave to the poor she visited, and, in spite of it, remained pure. And so great was her sweet shame that she forbade me to speak in those hours, that she did not once turn around, did not once look in my eyes—

"I understood everything now. I alone bore all the guilt. I was the seducer, the wretched scoundrel. And I was now to crown this work, stand before Sir Oliver and tell him— No, no! Then, again, something had to be done! I did not know what. The night passed — I found no way!

"I breakfasted in my room. Then the butler came: Sir Oliver inquired whether I would play golf with him. I nodded, dressed myself, went down, met him outside.

"I have never played good golf. But this time I dug holes in the turf instead of hitting the ball.

"Sir Oliver laughed. 'What's the matter ?' he said.

"I said something. But as my shots became worse, he grew serious.

"Suddenly he came to me and asked, 'Is it— Were you — at the window, young man?'

"Now it had gone too far. I let my golf club fall; he might as well kill me with his iron.

"I nodded. 'Yes,' I said, tonelessly.

"Sir Oliver whistled. He tried to talk — but said nothing. He whistled again. Then he turned, went slowly to the castle. I followed him at some distance.

"I did not see Lady Cynthia that morning. When the gong rang for lunch, I forced myself to go down.

"Before the dining-room I met Sir Oliver; he came to me and said, 'I would rather you did not speak alone with Lady Cynthia today.' Then he waved me through the door.

"During the meal I spoke scarcely a word to Lady Cynthia. Sir Oliver led the conversation, what there was of it. Afterwards, Lady Cynthia ordered the carriage: she was going to visit her poor.

"She gave me her hand, which I kissed, and said: 'Tea at five o'clock!'

She did not return until six: I stood at my window as her carriage drew up. She looked up to me. 'Come,' said her glance.

At the door I met Sir Oliver.

"'My wife is back,' he said; 'we'll have tea with her.'

"'Now it's coming,' I thought.

"Only two cups stood on the little table. It was obvious that Lady Cynthia awaited me only, and not her spouse. But she rang at once and had another cup brought. Again Sir Oliver endeavoured to carry on the conversation, but his efforts were even less successful than at luncheon. At length no one said a word.

Then Lady Cynthia went. Still Sir Oliver did not speak; silently he sat there, whistling lightly through his teeth. Finally he sprang up, as if he had a sudden idea. 'Please wait for me!' he cried, and hurried out.

"I did not have to wait long; after a few minutes he was back. He beckoned me to go with him. We went through a few rooms — to the tower room. Sir Oliver drew back the curtains, looked into the room; then he turned to me and said: 'Bring me the little book lying on that stool.'

"I obeyed. I slipped through the hangings. At the window stood Lady Cynthia. I felt I was committing treachery, but I could not grasp how or why. Very softly I went to the stool, took the tiny brocade-bound book, that I had so often seen in her hand, crept back again, and gave it to Sir Oliver. He took it, slipped his arm through mine, and whispered: 'Come along, my boy!'

"I followed him down the steps, across the courtyard, into the park.

"He seized my arm, his other hand gripping the red book. At length he began: 'You love her? Very much? Very much, my boy?' But he did not wait for an answer. 'It is not necessary to speak! I also loved her — perhaps more than you; I was twice as old as you. Not for Lady Cynthia's sake am I speaking to you: but for your own sake!'

"'Again he was silent, led me through the avenue, then to the left up a small side-path. There stood a bench under the old elms, he sat down and motioned me to sit beside him. Then he raised his hand, pointed upwards: 'Look! There she stands.'

"I looked up. There stood Lady Cynthia at her window. 'She will see us,' I said.

"Sir Oliver laughed aloud. 'She won't see us. Not if a hundred people sat here — she would see none, hear none! This book she sees, this she feels - and nothing else!'

"He gripped the little volume in his strong fingers, as if he would crush it; pressed it into my hands. 'It is cruel to show it to you, my poor youth — very cruel, I know. But it must be for your own sake. Then - read! _

"I opened the book. It only held a few pages of strong hand-made paper. It was not printed, but written, and it was in Lady Cynthia's handwriting.

"I read:

'The Execution Of Robert Francois Damiens
On The Place De Greve In Paris
May 28th, 1757
According To The Testimony Of An Eye-Witness
The Duke Of Croy'

"'The letters flickered before my eyes ; what, what had that to do with the woman who stood at the window? I stuttered. I could not recognize the words; I let the book fall.

"Sir Oliver picked it up, and began to read in a loud voice:

"'According to an eye-witness, the Duke of Croy—'

"I rose. Something drove me. I had a feeling I must fly, hide myself in the thickest bushes like a wounded animal. But the strong hand of Sir Oliver seized my arm. And his inexorable voice went on:

"'Robert Damiens, who on January 5th, 1757, attempted to assassinate His Sacred Majesty King Louis XV of France, and on that day at Versailles wounded him in the left side with a dagger thrust, was compelled to expiate his guilt on May 28th, 1757.

"'The same sentence was executed upon him as upon the murderer of King Henri IV, Francois Ravaillac, on May 17th, 1610.

"'On the morning of the day of execution, Damiens was stretched on the rack; his arms, thighs and calves were ripped open with red-hot hooks, and into the wounds was poured molten lead, boiling oil and burning pitch, mixed with wax and sulphur. At three in the afternoon, the muscular delinquent was led to the Cathedral of Notre Dame and thence to the Place de Gréve. The streets were filled with a mob which took sides neither for nor against the criminal. The aristocratic world, ornamented and dressed as for a festival, elegant ladies and gentlemen of nobility, crowded the windows, playing with their fans and holding their smelling salts in case of fainting. At half past four the great spectacle began. In the middle of the square a stage had been erected, to which Damiens was brought. With him, the executioners and two father confessors ascended the platform. This huge man betrayed neither surprise nor fear, but merely expressed a wish to die quickly.

"'Six assistant executioners now bound his trunk to the boards with iron chains and rings, so that he could not move his body. Then his right hand was seized and burned slowly in a fire of sulphur, while Damiens gave voice to a horrible shrieking. It was seen that the hair on his head stood up stiffly, while his hand was being burnt. The iron hooks were made glowing hot, and with them large pieces of flesh were ripped out of arms, legs and breast. In the fresh wounds were poured liquid lead and boiling oil. The atmosphere on the whole square was befouled by the stench of burning.

"'Now, strong ropes were bound round the upper arm and upper thigh, the wrists and ankles, to which were harnessed four strong horses, one at each of the four corners of the stage. The horses were then whipped forward, with the intention of tearing the wretch apart. For a full hour the horses were spurred and whipped, yet they did not succeed in wrenching off either an arm or a leg. Above the blows of the whips and the shouting of the executioners could be heard the terrible yells of pain of the man in his sickening torment.

"'Then six more horses were harnessed on, and all the horses were whipped up together. The cries of Damiens increased to mad bellowing. At length the executioners obtained permission from the judges present to make incisions in the joints, in order to lighten the work of the horses. Damiens raised his head to see what was being done to him, but he did not cry out while they cut through his joints. He turned his head to the crucifix held before him and kissed it while two confessors exhorted him to repent. Then blows once more rained on all the horses at once, and at last, after one and a half hours, they succeeded in pulling off the left leg.

"The people in the square and the aristocrats in the win-dows clapped their hands. The work was continued.

"When the right leg was torn off, Damiens once more began to scream wildly. The shoulder-joints were then cut, and the horses were again whipped up. As the right arm was wrenched off, the cries of the wretch grew weaker. His head began to droop, but only when the left arm was detached did his head fall right backward. Now only the palpitating trunk remained, with the head upon which the hair had turned white. But this trunk and this head lived yet.

"'Now his hair was cut off and his limbs collected together, while the father confessors approached him once more. Henri Samson, the chief executioner, held them back, however, saying that Damiens had drawn his last breath. Thus was the believing criminal denied the last spiritual consolation, for the trunk could be seen turning itself here and there, while the lower jaw moved itself to speak. This trunk still breathed: the eyes turned upon the bystanders.

"'What remained was burned upon a pyre and the ashes scattered to the winds.

"'Thus was the end of a wretch who suffered the greatest torment that ever a man suffered; in Paris, before my own eyes and those of many thousands of people, including those of many noble and beautiful women who stood at the windows.”

"Do you wonder, gentlemen,” Brinken concluded, "that since that evening I have been a little frightened of women who have feelings, souls, imagination? And especially if they are English?”