His hands were quivering, and there was an expression of anguish on his face as if it were he himself who was about to be executed.

The headsman had again just left the prison.

He was a little, insignificant-looking man, and seemed annoyed, anxious to have done with it all.

Then, among a group of frock-coated gentlemen, some of the spectators pointed out Gascogne, the Chief of the Detective Police, who wore a cold, official air, and Amadieu, the investigating magistrate, who smiled and looked very spruce, early though the hour was.

He had come partly because it was his duty, and partly because he wished to show himself now that the curtain was about to fall on a wonderful tragedy of which he considered himself the author.