do not go back to Dagneux, where your family
would not welcome you. Remain at Dijon.
By-the-by," be added, as if an important idea
had struck him, "don't forget to reckon
with Berthet—she owes you for so many days'
work; that will be seventeen francs, less five
sous."

At half-past ten at night, the vehicle which
was to convey Dumollard to Montlael arrived
at the prison. Embracing his wife for the last
time, he quietly mounted, accompanied by his
confessor, and escorted by two gendarmes.

"Ho là!" said the criminal, who seemed to
have a peculiar aversion to cold air. "This is
very annoying. I am chilled to death."

"Here, père Dumollard," said a good-natured
gendarme, "by a lucky foresight I brought my
blanket."

Once made comfortable, the prisoner seemed
to desire nothing more. Through the whole
length of that ghastly journey, his was the only
unruffled spirit of the party. He conversed
incessantly, but without effort or bravado, describing
the localities, the distance from point to point
of places mentioned at the trial, &c. &c; , with
a cool minuteness which, under the
circumstances, and with the accompaniment of sickly
moon-gleams, the howling March wind, and the
dull rumble of the carriage that bore the culprit
nearer and nearer to his doom, struck his
companions with awe.

It was half-past one in the morning as they
entered Chalamont, a mile or two short of
Montlael, and here the crowd had become so
dense as to create some difficulty in passing.
Yells and execrations resounded on every side.
Some women forced their way up to the vehicle,
flashing their lanterns into the face of the
criminal. The Abbé Beroud warmly
remonstrated, rebuking their indecent curiosity, and
exhorting them to be satisfied with the act of
justice about to be done. Thus, through masses
of living beings, miles in length, the cortége
approached Montlael.

The scaffold had been erected during the
night in the widest piece of public ground—the
Place Bourgeat—and now stood ready, in the
centre of a perfect forest of bayonets and drawn
sabres. Beyond the military square, every visible
inch, from ground to chimney-top, was packed
with living beings. How some of these points
of vantage were gained at all, or how descended
from, were questions only to be resolved by
those who saw the process. We were informed
that thousands had been content to pass the
long chill night in these positions.

Dumollard had alighted at the town-hall, and
was warming himself comfortably at the fire in
the council-chamber. A magistrate present,
exhorted him to confess whatever remained upon
his mind in reference to the crimes for which he
was to suffer. The criminal made no other
reply than:

"I am innocent. It is unlucky, but I am
sacrificed for the guilt of others."

M. Carrel, the curé of Montlael, entered.

"Ah, good morning, M. Carrel!" said
Dumollard. "I have heard much good of you.
It was from your hands that, at sixteen, I
received my first communion."

Some further futile efforts were made to
induce him to confess. One singular answer was
noted:

"If others have buried bodies in my vineyard,
I am not responsible for that."

He was offered some refreshment, and took
some coffee and Madeira; after which the
executioners were introduced, and the "toilette"
commenced. The prisoner himself took off his
blouse, and sat down. His feet were tied, but
not sufficiently to prevent his walking, and his
arms secured. They then cut off his hair and
the neck of his shirt. As the steel of the shears
touched him, he gave a convulsive shudder, but
quickly regained his self-command. One final
effort to obtain confession, or at least admission
of his guilt, met with the former result, and
this extraordinary offender, persevering to the
last in his war with justice and society, marched
forth to his doom.

The shout that rent the air, as he appeared,
might have been heard for miles. The silence
that succeeded was the more appalling. Dumollard's
lips moved, as though in prayer. The
priests bent forward, caught, and earnestly
re-echoed the solitary accents:

"Jésus! Marie! Pray for me!"

He knelt for a moment on the lower steps of
the scaffold, and the Abbé Beroud offered to his
white lips the symbol of divine mercy. Then, the
executioners helped him up the remaining steps,
tied him to the plank, pushed the latter to its
place. Quick as lightning, the axe descended,
and, in a few seconds, head and body lay together
in a rude coffin; the body to be interred in, an
obscure nook of the cemetery at Montlael; the
head to be sent to the phrenological professors
at Lyons. There was scarcely time for a trace
of blood to become visible. Never was the
merciful death of the guillotine more skilfully
administered. Never was death punishment
more richly deserved, than by the French wolf,
Dumollard.

          MR. CHARLES DICKENS'S NEW READINGS.
    On Friday Evening, June 6th, at ST. JAMES'S HALL,
                   Piccadilly, at 8 o'clock precisely,
               Mr. CHARLES DICKENS will read his
                          DAVID COPPERFIELD
                              (In Six Chapters),
                                       AND
                     MR. BOB SAWYER'S PARTY,
                            FROM PICKWICK.
               FOR THE LAST TIME THIS SEASON.