It was such a very little while ago that he had expected to see the innocent children mounting up those awful steps which lead to the guillotine, whilst he himself was looking death quite near in the face, that all this talk of amnesty and of pardon had not quite fully reached his brain.
But he was quite content that it had all been ordained by le bon Dieu, and very happy at the thought of ringing the dearly-loved Angelus in his own old church once again.

So when he was peremptorily pushed into the room and found himself close to Marguerite, with four or five soldiers standing round them, he quietly pulled his old rosary from his pocket and began murmuring gentle "Paters" and "Aves" under his breath.
Beside him sat Marguerite, rigid as a statue: her cloak thrown over her shoulders, so that its hood might hide her face.

She could not now have said how that awful day had passed, how she had managed to survive the terrible, nerve-racking suspense, the agonizing doubt as to what was going to happen.

But above all, what she had found most unendurable was the torturing thought that in this same grim and frowning building her husband was there...

somewhere...