Sauvain did condescend to attend Cimmetiere’s execution. The Afternoon Nap Emperor, thenceforth the Holy Star Emperor, was only now skeletonizing in his vault; the sapphire bottle with his final breath had just been brought out on the feast day.
The man looked thin. Though he trod the steps under his own power, and now and then looked upon the crowd, and square, and peacock-plumed cortege with something like annoyance, the contrivance of his measured step and the slow, blank pan of his stare belied an exasperation of his Sauvain had known on several occasions, and which must have bedevilled him most severely this hour. He had on his vest and trousers, and a yellowed shirt.
He met the headsman, a stout middle-aged man with some poorly-tailored black tatters on his head. The eyes were outlined by monster grommets which made him appear as if in absolute shock at the whole proceeding. Cimmetiere was bid stand where he would while the headsman clambered about the machine some more. He leapt up onto the gantry and felt around, then slid to the platform and bent over, making adjustments. He was like a fisherman outfitting the boat after winter.
Finally, the assistant and the headsman lightly took Cimmetiere’s arms and led him to the machine. They bound his hands and gently prodded him up to the bascule. Down it went, and forward—the lunette reunited about his neck, and five seconds after, the blade fell.
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