The order for Murat’s execution was sent down by signal telegraph, and, that done, a court-martial was composed to try him! Seven “judges” were chosen, three of whom, besides the Procurator-General, had been raised from poverty and obscurity and loaded with money and honours by Murat himself; and, in order to save themselves from any taint of common gratitude or even decency, which might bring them into disfavour with their present sovereign lord, they first of all thanked the latter humbly for deigning to make use of them, and by their bearing and remarks during the trial made it impossible for Murat to sit in the same room with them even had he desired to do so. In the round tower Joachim spent the last night of his life, mercifully undisturbed by the knowledge of the court which was to go through the farce of trying him. It was long after daylight when Nunziante entered, so softly that the sleeping man did not awaken. Nor did Nunziante arouse him—an act of charity which must surely have been put to his credit when the long roll-call summoned him in his turn. On Joachim’s awakening and opening his eyes, Nunziante broke the news of his approaching trial as gently as possible. “I am lost, then!” exclaimed Murat. There were tears in his eyes, and Nunziante himself was unable to speak for emotion, but he brought his prisoner pen and paper. “MY DEAR CAROLINE,” wrote Murat. “My last hour has struck. Within a few moments I shall have ceased to live and you will have lost your husband. Do not forget me! My life has never been stained by an act of injustice. Adieu, my Achilles, my Letitia, my Lucian, and my Louisa. Show yourselves worthy of me. I leave you without a kingdom, without wealth, in the midst of many enemies. Be united and rise above misfortune. Look upon yourselves as you are, not as you might be, and God will bless your humility. Do not curse my memory. Know that my greatest misery in this last hour of my life is to die far from my children. Receive your father’s blessing—receive my embraces and my tears. May the memory of your unhappy father be ever present with you. “JOACHIM.” In the letter he placed some locks of hair. With infamous cynicism, a defender had been appointed for him before the court, but Murat, rising above his misery, rejected the melancholy foolery with a contempt the expression of which must have cut into the horny feelings of his judges and left them sore for many a long day. He was their King, he told them, but went on to observe: “If I am to be tried in the light of a Marshal of France, I may be tried by a Council of Marshals; if as a General, by Generals. But before I descend so low as to submit to the decision of the judges who have been selected _many pages must be torn from the history of Europe_!”