Instantly Lagroin wheeled to summon any stray men of his little army, but Valmond laid a hand on his arm, stopping him. It would have been the same in any case, for the people had scattered like sheep, and stood apart. They were close by the church steps. Valmond mechanically saw the mealman, open-mouthed and dazed, start forward from the crowd; but, hesitating, he drew back again almost instantly, and was swallowed up in the safety of distance. He smiled at the mealman’s hesitation, even while he said to himself: “This ends it--ends it!” He said it with no great sinking of heart, with no fear. It was the solution of all; it was his only way to honour. The soldiers were halted a little distance from the two; and the officer commanding, after a dull mechanical preamble, in the name of the Government, formally called upon Valmond and Lagroin to surrender themselves, or suffer the perils of resistance. “Never!” broke out Lagroin, and, drawing his sword, he shouted: “Vive Napoleon! The Old Guard never surrenders!” Then he made as if to rush forward on the troops. “Fire!” called the officer. Twenty rifles blazed out. Lagroin tottered back, and fell at the feet of his master. Raising himself, he clasped Valmond’s knee, and, looking up, said gaspingly: “Adieu, sire! I love you; I die for you.” His head fell at his Emperor’s feet, though the hands still clutched the knee. Valmond stood over his body, one leg on either side, and drew a pistol. “Surrender, monsieur,” said the officer, “or we fire!” “Never! A Napoleon knows how to die!” was the reply, and he raised his pistol at the officer. “Fire!” came the sharp command. “Vive Napoleon!” cried the doomed man, and fell, mortally wounded. At that instant the Cure, with Medallion, came hurrying round the corner of the church. “Fools! Murderers!” he said to the soldiers. “Ah, these poor children!” Stooping, he lifted up Valmond’s head, and Medallion felt Lagroin’s pulseless heart. The officer picked up Valmond’s pistol. A moment afterwards he looked at the dying man in wonder; for he found that the weapon was not loaded! CHAPTER XVII “How long, Chemist?” “Two hours, perhaps.” “So long?” After a moment he said dreamily: “It is but a step.” The Little Chemist nodded, though he did not understand. The Cure stooped over him. “A step, my son?” he asked, thinking he spoke of the voyage the soul takes. “To the Tuileries,” answered Valmond, and he smiled. The Cure’s brow clouded; he wished to direct the dying man’s thoughts elsewhere. “It is but a step--anywhere,” he continued; and looked towards the Little Chemist. “Thank you, dear monsieur, thank you. There is a silver night-lamp in my room; I wish it to be yours. Adieu, my friend.”