"Certainly; but that is much easier said than done."
At this moment the queen's file grated so forciblyupon the iron bars that the turnkey feared it might be heard, notwithstanding all his efforts to drown the sound. He hastily trod upon the paw of the nearest of his dogs, which uttered a prolonged howl of pain.
"Oh, poor beast!" said Gilbert.
"Bah!" said the turnkey, "he had not put on his clogs. Be quiet, Girondin; will you be quiet?"
"Is your dog named Girondin, Citizen Mardoche?"
"Yes; that is the name I have given him."
"But pray go on with what you were telling us," said Duchesne, who, imprisoned himself, took that lively interest in news that all prisoners feel.
"I was telling you that in the Citizen Hébert you see a good patriot; and Hébert has made a motion to return the Austrian to the Temple."
"And why so?"
"Faith! because he pretends that she was only withdrawn from the Temple to remove her from the immediate inspection of the Commune of Paris."
"Yes; and from the attempts of that cursed Maison-Rouge," said Gilbert; "it seems too that the subterranean passage still exists."
"That was the reply the Citizen Sauterre made; but Hébert said, the instant that was defeated there was no more danger; that at the Temple, fewer precautions were requisite for the security of Marie Antoinette than here; and finally, that the Temple was a much more secure place than the Conciergerie."
"Faith!" said Gilbert, "for my part, I wish they would remove her again to the Temple."
"I understand; you are tired of the confinement?"
"No; but it makes me melancholy."
Maison-Rouge coughed loudly, as the noise of the file biting through the iron bar was distinctly heard.
"Well, what have they decided on?" said Duchesne, when the turnkey's cough had subsided.
"It is settled that she shall remain here, but that her trial shall take place immediately."
"Poor woman!" said Gilbert.
Duchesne, whose sense of hearing was no doubt more acute than that of his colleague, or his attention less engrossed by the recital of Mardoche, stooped down to listen on the left side of the compartment.
The turnkey saw the movement.
"So you see, Citizen Duchesne," said he, in an animated tone, "the attempts of the conspirators will become the more desperate from the fact of their having less time before them for their execution. They are going to double the guards of the prisons; so look out, Citizen Gendarme, since the matter in question is nothing less than the irruption of an armed force into the Conciergerie. They will murder all, sacrifice every impediment, till they effect an entrance to the queen,—to the widow of Capet, I mean to say."
"Ah! bah! How can these conspirators of yours get in?"
"Disguised as patriots, they will pretend to recommence the 2d of September, the rascals! and when once the gates are open, good-night!"
There was an instant's silence, produced by the astonishment of the guards.
The turnkey heard with emotions of joy and terror the continued grating of the file. Nine o'clock struck.
At the same moment there was a knock at the wicket, but the gendarmes, preoccupied, did not reply.
"Well, we shall watch, we shall watch!" said Gilbert.
"And if necessary, will die at our post like staunch Republicans," added Duchesne.
"She must soon be done," said the turnkey to himself, wiping the drops of perspiration from his face.
"And you on your side," said Gilbert, "keep on the lookout, I presume? They would spare you no more than us, were such an event as you have been talking of to take place."
"I should think so," said the turnkey. "I pass the night in going the round; thus I am always on the alert. The rest of you at least relieve each other, and can sleep every other night."
At this moment a second summons at the wicket was heard. Mardoche started; any event, however trifling, might mar the execution of his project.
"What is it, then?" demanded he, in spite of himself.
"Nothing, nothing!" said Gilbert; "it is only the registrar of the Minister of War. He is going now, and comes to inform me of it."
"Oh, very well!" said Mardoche.
The registrar still continued to knock.
"All right!" cried Gilbert, without leaving the window. "Good-night! Adieu!"
"I think he is speaking to you," said Duchesne, turning toward the door. The voice of the registrar was then heard.
"Come here, Citizen Gendarme," said he; "I wish to speak to you."
This voice, which appeared affected by some strong emotion which deprived it of its natural accent, startled the turnkey, who fancied he recognized it.
"What do you want, Citizen Durand?" asked Gilbert.
"I wish to speak a word with you."
"Well, you can tell me to-morrow."
"No, this evening; it must be this evening," replied the same voice.
"Hah!" murmured the turnkey, "what is about to happen now? It is Dixmer's voice."
Sinister and vibrating, this voice seemed to borrow something funereal from the far-off echoes of the gloomy corridor.
Duchesne turned round.
"Well," said Gilbert, "if he wishes it I must go," and he directed his steps toward the door.
The turnkey availed himself of this moment when the attention of the two gendarmes was thus occupied by this unforeseen circumstance. He ran toward the window of the queen.
"Is it done?" said he.
"I have more than half finished," said the queen.
"Oh, for the love of God!" murmured he; "make haste! make haste!"
"Hallo! Citizen Mardoche," said Duchesne, "what has become of you?"
"Here I am," said the turnkey, returning quickly to the window of the first compartment.
At that very moment, and as he turned to resume his former station, a frightful cry resounded through the prison, then an oath, and the ring of a sword snatched from its scabbard.
"Villain! brigand!" cried Gilbert, and the sound of a struggle was heard in the corridor.
At the same moment the door opened, displaying to the eyes of the turnkey two shadows struggling in the wicket, and thus affording free passage to a female, who, pushing aside Duchesne, rushed into the queen's chamber.
Duchesne, without noticing the woman, ran to his comrade's assistance.
The turnkey sprang toward the other window, and beheld the female on her knees before the queen, prayingand supplicating her Majesty to exchange clothes with her.
He lowered his burning eyes, endeavoring to gain a clearer view of this woman whom he feared he had already recognized too well. All at once he uttered a dreadful cry.
"Geneviève! Geneviève!" murmured he.
The queen had dropped the file from her hand, and seemed transfixed with despair. Here, alas! was another abortive attempt.
The turnkey seized the bar with both hands, shook it with all his strength; but the file had not accomplished its work, the bar of iron would not yield to his efforts.
Meanwhile Dixmer had hurled Gilbert back into the prison, and would have entered with him, but Duchesne, leaning against the door, prevented him. But he was unable to close it, for Dixmer, in despair, had placed his arm between the gate and the wall.
In his hand he still retained the poniard, which in the contest, checked by the buckle of the belt, had glided over the gendarme's breast, tearing open his coat and lacerating his flesh.
The two gendarmes encouraged each other to reunite their efforts, at the same time calling loudly for assistance.
Dixmer felt his arm must break; he placed his shoulder against the door, shook it violently, and succeeded in withdrawing his bruised arm.
The door closed with a great noise; Duchesne pushed the bolts, while Gilbert turned the key.
A rapid step was heard in the corridor, then all was over. The two gendarmes looked at each other, and searched everywhere around them.
They detected the sound of the assumed turnkey wrenching the bar.
Gilbert rushed into the queen's chamber, where he found Geneviève entreating her Majesty on her knees to exchange clothes with her.
Duchesne seized his gun and ran to the window; he discovered a man hanging to the bar, which he shook with rage, and tried in vain to scale.
He pointed his gun.
The young man saw it levelled at him.
"Oh, yes! yes!" cried he, "kill me! kill me!" and sublime in his despair, he bared his breast to the bullet.
"Chevalier," said the queen,—"Chevalier, I entreat you to live."
At the sound of the queen's voice the Chevalier sank upon his knees. The gun was discharged, but this movement saved him; the ball passed over his head. Geneviève, imagining her friend was dead, fell upon the ground without sense or motion. When the smoke disappeared, no one was seen in the women's court.
Ten minutes afterward, thirty soldiers, led by two commissioners, searched the Conciergerie even to its most inaccessible retreats.
They discovered no one; the registrar had passed, calm and smiling, before Father Richard's arm-chair.
As to the turnkey, he had gone out crying, "Alarm! alarm!"
The sentinel opposed his egress with his bayonet, but his two dogs seized the soldier by the throat.
Geneviève alone was arrested, interrogated, and imprisoned.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE INQUIRY.
Wecan no longer leave in forgetfulness one of the principal personages of this history, he who, during the accomplishment of the various incidents of the preceding chapter had suffered most of all, and whose anxieties merit the liveliest sympathy on the part of our readers.
The sun shone gloriously in the Rue de la Monnaie, and the gossips were discoursing merrily at their doors, as if for the last ten months a mist of blood had not hung over the city, when Maurice returned home, bringing, as he had promised, the cabriolet with him. He gave the bridle of the horse to a shoeblack, on the pavement of Saint Eustache, and hastily ran upstairs, his heart filled with joy.
Love is a vivifying sentiment. It animates hearts long deadened to every other sensation; it peoples the desert; it resuscitates before the eyes the shade of the beloved one; it causes the voice which sings in the soul of the lover to display before him the entire creation illumined by the brilliant rays of hope and happiness,—at the same time it is egotistical, blinding him who loves to all but the existence of the beloved object.
Maurice neither saw these women nor listened to their commentaries; he saw only Geneviève preparing for a departure which was at last to bring them durable happiness; he heard only Geneviève singing carelessly her customary song, and this little song trilled so sweetly inhis ear that he might have sworn he was listening to the varied modulations of her voice, mingled with the less harmonious sound of closing locks.
Upon the landing Maurice stopped; the door was half open; it was generally kept closed, and this circumstance surprised Maurice. He looked all around, thinking Geneviève was in the corridor. She was not there. He entered, looked in the antechamber, the dining-room, the parlor, the bed-chamber; but anteroom, parlor, and bed-chamber were all empty. He loudly called. No one replied.
The official, as he knew, had gone out. Maurice imagined that during his absence Geneviève had perhaps required some cord to fasten her trunk, or some refreshments to store in the carriage, and had gone out to purchase them. He thought it imprudent; but although every moment his anxiety increased, he as yet feared nothing serious.
Maurice waited for some time, walking up and down the room with long impatient strides, and occasionally leaning out of the window, which, half opened, admitted puffs of air charged heavily with rain.
But soon he believed that he heard a step upon the staircase; he listened, it was not that of Geneviève; he ran to the landing, looked over the palisade, and recognized the official, who leisurely mounted the stairs after the manner of domestics.
"Scævola!" cried he.
The official raised his head.
"Ah! is it you, Citizen?"
"Yes. Where is the lady?"
"The lady?" demanded Scævola, with much surprise, as he continued mounting the stairs.
"Certainly! Have you seen her below?"
"No."
"Go down, then, and ask the porter, and inquire of all the neighbors!"
Scævola descended.
"Quicker! quicker!" said his master; "do you not see I am burning with impatience?"
After waiting five or six minutes, and Scævola not having made his appearance, Maurice re-entered the apartment and again leaned out of the window. He saw Scævola enter several shops, and leave them without having gained any fresh intelligence. He called him. The official raised his head, and saw his master impatiently looking from the window. Maurice signed to him to come up.
"It is impossible that she has gone out," said Maurice to himself, and again he called, "Geneviève! Geneviève!"
All was silent as death; even the solitary chamber appeared no longer to have an echo. Scævola reappeared.
"Well?" demanded Maurice.
"The porter is the only person who has seen her."
"The porter has seen her; how was that?"
"He saw her go out."
"She has gone out, then?"
"It seems so."
"Alone! It is impossible Geneviève would go out alone."
"She was not alone, Citizen; she had a man with her."
"How! a man with her?"
"That is what the porter says, at least."
"Go and seek him. I must find out who this man was."
Scævola made a step toward the door, then, turning, "Wait," said he, appearing to reflect.
"What is it?" said Maurice. "Speak, or you will be the death of me!"
"Perhaps it was the man who ran after me."
"What for?"
"To tell me that you wished the key."
"What key, stupid! will you not tell me?"
"The key of your apartment."
"You gave the key of the apartment to a stranger?" cried Maurice, seizing the official by the collar with both hands.
"It was not to a stranger, sir; it was to one of your friends."
"Ah, yes! to one of my friends. It is Lorin, no doubt. She has gone out with Lorin," and smiling a ghastly smile Maurice wiped away the drops of agony which had gathered on his brow.
"No, sir; no, it was not he. Zounds! I think I should know Monsieur Lorin."
"Who was it, then?"
"You know the man who came here one day?"
"What day?"
"The day when you were so sad; and he took you away with him, and you returned so happy."
Scævola had remarked all these things.
Maurice regarded him with a bewildered air; a cold shudder ran through his body. Then after a long silence:
"Dixmer!" cried he.
"By my faith! yes. I think it was he, Citizen."
Maurice tottered, and fell back upon a chair.
"Oh, my God!" murmured he.
When he re-opened his eyes they encountered the violets, forgotten, or rather left there by Geneviève.
He rushed toward them, seized and kissed them; then, remarking where she had placed them,—
"There is no longer any doubt," said he, "these violets—It is her last adieu."
When Maurice turned round he perceived for the first time that the trunk was half full, the rest of the linen was on the floor, or in the half-opened wardrobe.
The linen which lay upon the floor had no doubt fallen from Geneviève's hand at the appearance of Dixmer.
It was all explained now. The scene rose vivid and terrible before his eyes, between these four walls that had lately witnessed so much happiness.
Till now Maurice had remained crushed and heart-broken. Now the reaction was fearful. His rage bordered on frenzy.
He rose, closed the window, took from the top of his desk a pair of pistols, ready loaded for their intended journey, looked to the priming, and finding all right placed them in his pocket.
He also furnished himself with two rolls of louis, which notwithstanding his patriotism he had thought it prudent to conceal at the bottom of a drawer, and taking his sabre in his hand,—
"Scævola," said he, "you are attached to me, I think; you have served my father and myself for fifteen years."
"Yes, Citizen," replied the official, terrified at the pallor and nervous trembling he had never before remarked in his master, who had always been justly considered one of the most courageous and vigorous of men,—"yes; what are your orders for me?"
"Listen! if this lady who lived here—" He stopped; his voice trembled so much in pronouncing these words that he was unable to proceed. "If she should return," continued he, after a moment's pause, "receive her, close the door after her, take this gun, and station yourself uponthe staircase; and for your head, for your life, for your soul, do not permit a single person to enter here! If any one should try to break through the door, defend it! Strike! kill! kill! and fear nothing, Scævola, for I will answer for all."
The young man's impetuous harangue, his vehement confidence, electrified Scævola.
"I will not only kill, but will even suffer death for the Citizeness Geneviève," said he.
"Thanks. Now attend! This apartment is odious to me, and I shall not enter it again until I find her; if she has been able to effect her escape, if she return, place before the window the Japan vase with the china-asters, which she loved so much. That is, during the day. At night, put a lantern. Every time I pass the end of the street I shall know, and if I see neither vase nor lantern I shall still continue my researches."
"Be prudent, sir! Oh, pray be prudent!" continued Scævola.
His master made no reply, but rushing from the chamber flew down the staircase as if possessed of wings, and ran toward Lorin's house.
It would be difficult to paint the astonishment and rage of our worthy poet when he heard the news; we might as well attempt to indite the touching elegies with which Orestes inspired Pylades.
"And you do not know where she is?" he repeated, incessantly.
"Lost! disappeared!" shrieked Maurice, in accents of despair, "he has killed her, Lorin! he has killed her!"
"No, my dear friend; no, Maurice; he has not killed her; it is not after so many days of reflection that he would be likely to kill a woman like Geneviève. If he had thought of doing so, he would have done it on thespot, and have left her corpse there in token of his just vengeance. No, no; he has taken her away, only too happy at having regained his lost treasure."
"You do not know him, Lorin; you do not know him! This man had something fatal in his look."
"You are mistaken," said Lorin; "he always struck me as a brave man. He has taken her as a sacrifice. He will get himself arrested with her; and they will die together. Ah, there is the danger!"
These words redoubled Maurice's fury.
"I will find her! I will find her, or perish in the attempt!" cried he.
"Oh, as to that, we are certain to find her," said Lorin; "only calm yourself. They fail in success who do not reflect, and when agitated as you are, we reflect badly and unwisely."
"Adieu, Lorin, adieu!"
"Where are you going, then?"
"I am going."
"You will leave me, then? Why is that?"
"Because this concerns me only. I alone should risk my life to save Geneviève's."
"Do you wish to die?"
"I will face all. I will find out the president of the Committee of Surveillance. I will speak to Hébert, to Danton, to Robespierre. I will avow all; but she must be restored to me."
"Very well," said Lorin; and without adding another word he rose, adjusted his belt, put on his military cap, and as Maurice had done, provided himself with a pair of pistols, ready loaded, which he put in his pocket.
"Let us go," said he, simply.
"But you will compromise yourself," said Maurice.
"Well! what of that?"
"Where shall we seek her first?" asked Maurice.
"We will first search in the old quarter, you know,—the old Rue Saint Jacques; then we will watch for Maison-Rouge, as where he is, doubtless Dixmer will be also; then we will draw near the houses in the Vieille Corderie. You know they talk of transferring Marie Antoinette to the Temple; believe me, men like them will not, till the last moment, abandon the hope of saving her."
"Yes," repeated Maurice; "you are right—Maison-Rouge, do you think he is in Paris?"
"Dixmer is certainly."
"It is true, it is true; of course they will be together!" said Maurice, to whom these vague ideas seemed partially to restore reason.
The two friends commenced their search immediately, but all in vain. Paris is large and well adapted for concealment. Never was a pit known to conceal more obscurely the secret confided to its keeping by crime or misery.
A hundred times Maurice and Lorin passed over the Place de Grève, a hundred times passed the house that contained Geneviève, watched incessantly by Dixmer, as the priests watch the victim destined for sacrifice.
Geneviève on her side, seeing herself destined to perish, like all generous souls accepted the sacrifice, and only wished to die quietly and unnoticed; besides, she dreaded less for Dixmer than for the cause of the queen the publicity that Maurice would not fail to give to his vengeance.
She kept, then, a silence as profound as if death had already sealed her lips.
In the mean time, without saying anything to Lorin, Maurice had applied to the members of the terrible Committee of Public Safety; and Lorin, without speaking to Maurice, had, on his part, determined to adopt similar proceedings.
Thus on the same day a red cross was affixed by Fouquier Tinville to both their names, and the word "Suspects" united them in a sanguinary embrace.
CHAPTER XLVI.
THE SENTENCE.
Onthe twenty-third day of the month of the second year of the French Republic, one and indivisible, corresponding to the 14th of October, 1793, old style, as it was then called, a curious crowd had since the morning invaded the galleries of the hall where the revolutionary sittings were held.
The passages of the Palace, the avenues of the Conciergerie, were lined with greedy and impatient spectators, who made over one to another their reports and passions, as the waves transmit their froth and foam.
Notwithstanding the curiosity with which each spectator was agitated, and perhaps even on account of this curiosity, each wave of this sea, swaying, pressed between two barriers,—the outer barrier which urged it forward, the inner barrier which urged it backward,—each wave kept, in this flux and reflux, almost the same position which it had at first taken. Thus those more conveniently situated, comprehending it was necessary they should obtain forgiveness for their good fortune, kept this object in view by transmitting to their neighbors less comfortably and commodiously placed than themselves, and who in their turn recounted to others, the first words they heard, and all they saw.
Near the door of the Tribunal a group of men was collected, rudely disputing for ten lines of space in width and height,—for ten lines in breadth sufficed to see between two shoulders the corner of the hall and the form of the judges; for ten lines in height was sufficient to overlook the entire hall and see the face of the accused.
Unfortunately, this entrance to the passage of the hall, this narrow defile, was almost entirely filled by a man with broad shoulders, and his arms akimbo, who most effectually excluded the wavering crowd ready to drop into the hall if this rampart of flesh were to give way.
This immovable man was young and handsome; and at every push bestowed on him by the crowd, he shook his head of hair, thick as a lion's mane, under which gleamed a dark and resolute expression; then, when either by a look or a movement he had repelled the crowd and resisted their violent attacks, he fell back into his attentive immobility.
A hundred times this compact mass had, notwithstanding, striven hard to overthrow him,—as, from his great height, to see anything behind him was utterly impossible,—but, as we have said, firm as a rock, he stood his ground.
In the mean time, at the other extremity of this human sea, in the midst of the crushing crowd, another man was forcing a passage, with a perseverance almost amounting to ferocity. Nothing impeded his indefatigable exertions,—neither the blows of those he left behind, the fearful imprecations of those he almost stifled in passing, nor the wails of the women, for there were many females in this crowd.
To blows he responded with blows; to imprecations, by a look before which the most courageous quailed; to complaints, by a carelessness bordering on disdain.
At last he arrived behind the powerful young man who, so to speak, closed the entrance to the hall. In the midst of the general expectation—for all were anxiousto see how the contest between two such rude antagonists would terminate—he essayed his peculiar method, which consisted in planting like wedges his elbows between two spectators, and thus breaking through the thickest of the crowd.
He was, notwithstanding, a short young man, whose wan face and emaciated appearance betokened latent illness.
His elbows had scarcely touched the young man before him, when he, indignant at the aggression, turned sharply round, at the same moment raising his clinched fist, which threatened, in falling, to crush the slender form of the intruder.
The two antagonists now found themselves face to face, when a cry of recognition escaped from each.
"Ah, Citizen Maurice," said the delicate young man, with an accent of inexpressible anguish, "permit me to pass; only let me see her, I entreat you; you may kill me afterward."
Maurice—for it was indeed he—felt himself affected by admiration and compassion for this ceaseless devotion, this adventurous daring.
"You here!" murmured he. "How imprudent!"
"Yes; but I am exhausted—O God! she speaks. Let me see her; let me hear her!"
Maurice drew aside, and the young man passed before him, and being at the head of the crowd there was nothing now to intercept the view of him who had undergone so many blows, so much buffeting, to attain his end.
All this scene, and the murmurs it occasioned, aroused the curiosity of the judges.
The accused also turned round, and immediately perceived and recognized the Chevalier.
A shudder ran through the queen's frame, seated in the iron arm-chair. The examination, conducted by the President Harmand, interpreted by Fouquier Tinville, discussed by Chauveau Lagarde, the counsel for the queen, lasted as long as the strength of the judges and the accused permitted.
During all this time Maurice remained motionless in his place, while several times already the concourse was renewed both in the hall and the corridors.
The Chevalier leaned against a pillar. He was no less pale than the marble that supported him.
The day was succeeded by a dark night; some lighted candles on the tables of the jurors, and some smoky lamps on the walls of the hall threw a red and sinister expression on the noble face of that woman who had been the cynosure of all eyes at the splendid fêtes at Versailles.
She was alone there, replying in brief and dignified language to the questions of the president, and occasionally addressing some words to her counsel in a low voice.
Her white and polished forehead retained all its wonted haughtiness. She was attired in a black dress, which she had worn ever since her husband's death.
The judges retired from the hall. The sitting had terminated.
"Have I evinced too much contempt for them, sir?" said she, addressing herself to Chauveau Lagarde.
"Ah, Madame," replied he, "you are always right when you act like yourself."
"How proud she is!" cried a woman among the audience, as if a voice from the people had replied to the question of the unfortunate queen to her advocate.
The queen turned and looked at her.
"Yes," repeated the woman, "you are proud, Antoinette; and I tell you, pride has been the ruin of you."
The queen blushed. The Chevalier turned toward the female who had uttered these words, and replied softly, "She was queen."
Maurice seized him by the wrist, saying, in a low tone, "Take care; do not forget yourself!"
"Oh, Monsieur Maurice!" replied the Chevalier, "you are a man yourself, and you know you are speaking to a man. Tell me, oh, tell me! do you think they will condemn her?"
"I do not think it," said Maurice; "I am sure of it."
"What! a woman!" said the Chevalier, with a deep groan.
"No, a queen," said Maurice; "you have yourself said so."
The Chevalier in his turn seized Maurice by the wrist, and with a force of which he appeared incapable compelled him to bend his ear. It was half-past three in the morning. Many vacuums were visible among the spectators; and a few lights burning here and there served only to render darkness visible. In one of the most obscure parts of the hall were the Chevalier and Maurice, the latter listening to what the former was telling him.
"Why are you here? What brings you here?" demanded the Chevalier; "you, sir, who have not a tiger's heart?"
"Alas!" said Maurice, "to discover what has become of an unfortunate woman."
"Yes, yes," said Maison-Rouge; "she whom her husband forced into the queen's cell? The female who was arrested before my eyes?"
"Geneviève?"
"Yes, Geneviève."
"Then Geneviève is a prisoner, sacrificed by her husband, killed by Dixmer? Oh, I comprehend all; I understand all now! Chevalier, tell me all that has occurred; tell me where she is; tell me where I can find her! Chevalier, this woman constitutes my life; do you hear me?"
"I witnessed all. I was there when she was arrested. I was there also to effect the escape of the queen; but our different projects not having been communicated to each other, injured instead of assisting our mutual cause."
"Why did you not save her, at least—your sister, Geneviève?"
"How could I when an iron bar divided us? Oh, if you had only been there, if you had united your efforts with mine, the bar must have yielded, and both might have been saved!"
"Geneviève! Geneviève!" murmured Maurice. Then regarding Maison-Rouge with an indefinable expression of hatred and rage,—
"And Dixmer, where is he?" demanded he.
"I know not; he saved himself, as I did also."
"Oh!" said Maurice, grinding his teeth, "if ever I meet him—"
"Yes; I understand. But there is nothing yet to despair about concerning Geneviève," said Maison-Rouge; "her case is not yet desperate; but the queen—Oh! stop, Maurice, you are a man of feeling, an influential man; you have friends—Oh! I pray to you as I would pray to my God—Maurice, help me to save the queen! Maurice, Geneviève supplicates you through me!"
"Pronounce not that name, sir! Who knows but that, like Dixmer, you may have sacrificed this unhappy woman?"
"Sir," replied the Chevalier, haughtily, "when I attach myself to a cause, I know better than to sacrifice any one but myself."
Maurice was about to reply, when the door of the chamber of debate opened.
"Silence, sir! silence!" said the Chevalier, "the judges are returning," and Maurice felt the hand tremble which Maison-Rouge had placed upon his arm. "Ah!" murmured the Chevalier, "my heart fails me now!"
"Have courage and constrain yourself, or you are lost!" said Maurice.
The Tribunal re-entered; and the news of its return spread rapidly through the corridors and galleries. The crowd again congregated in the hall, and even the dim lights appeared to burn brighter at this solemn and decisive moment. The queen rose and stood erect, haughty and immovable, her eyes fixed, her lips closed. The decree was then read which doomed the queen to death. She heard her sentence without even turning pale or uttering a sigh; her countenance evinced not the slightest emotion. Then turning toward the Chevalier, she regarded him with a long and eloquent look, as if to indicate her gratitude to this man whom she had ever seen a living statue of devotion, and supported on the arm of the officer of the gendarmes who commanded the forces, with a calm and dignified demeanor she quitted the court.
Maurice drew a deep sigh. "Thank God!" said he, "nothing in this declaration can compromise Geneviève; there is yet hope."
"Thank God!" murmured the Chevalier on his side, "it is all finished, and the struggle at length terminated. I have not strength to go further."
"Courage, sir!" said Maurice, in a low voice.
"I will take courage, sir," replied the Chevalier; andhaving shaken hands, they disappeared by different outlets. The queen was reconducted to the Conciergerie; the large clock struck four as she entered. At the end of Pont Neuf, Maurice was stopped by Lorin.
"Halt!" said he; "you do not pass here!"
"Why?"
"First, where are you going?"
"I am going home. I can return there now, since I know what has become of her."
"So much the better; but you must not enter there."
"For what reason?"
"The reason is, that two hours ago the gendarmes went there to arrest you."
"Ah!" cried Maurice. "Well, that is the greater reason why I should go!"
"Are you mad? And Geneviève?"
"You are right. But where are we to go?"
"Zounds! To my house."
"But I shall ruin you!"
"The more reason, then, that you should come," said Lorin, dragging Maurice away with him.
CHAPTER XLVII.
THE PRIEST AND THE EXECUTIONER.
Onleaving the court, the queen had been conducted back to the Conciergerie. On reaching her chamber she had taken a pair of scissors, and cut off her long and beautiful ringlets, rendered still more so from the absence of powder, which she had not used for a year; she enclosed them in a packet, on which was inscribed, "For my son and daughter." She then seated herself, or rather sank into a chair, and worn out with fatigue, the trial having lasted eighteen hours, she fell asleep. At seven o'clock the noise of the opening screen roused her suddenly, and turning round, she beheld a man perfectly unknown to her.
"What do you want?" demanded she.
He approached and saluted her as respectfully as if she had not been the queen.
"I am called Sanson," said he.
The name was sufficient. The queen slightly shuddered and rose up.
"You are here early, sir; could you not have made it rather later?"
"No, Madame," replied Sanson; "I received orders to come."
As he uttered these words, he advanced still nearer to the queen. At this moment everything about this man was expressive and terrible.
"I understand," said the prisoner; "you wish to cut off my hair?"
"It is necessary, Madame," replied the executioner.
"I knew it, sir; and I wished to spare you the trouble. My hair is on the table."
Sanson followed the direction of the queen's hand.
"Only," said she, "I should like my hair sent to my children to-night."
"Madame," said Sanson, "this does not concern me."
"However, I thought—notwithstanding—"
"Oh, I get nothing," replied the executioner; "the clothes, the jewels—unless formally made over to me—all go to La Salpêtrière, and are allotted to the poor of the hospital. The Committee of Public Safety has so arranged these things."
"But, sir," persisted Marie Antoinette, "may I at least depend upon this packet being forwarded to my children?"
Sanson remained silent.
"I will endeavor to send it," said Gilbert.
The prisoner cast upon him a look of deep gratitude.
"I came," said Sanson, "to cut off your hair; but since you have done so, I can, if you wish it, leave you for a moment alone."
"I entreat you to do so, sir. I wish to collect my scattered thoughts, and offer up a prayer."
Sanson bowed and retired, when the queen once more found herself in solitude. While the condemned knelt on a low chair which served her as aprie-dieu, a scene no less terrible was passing in the parsonage of the small church of Saint Landry, in the city. The curé had just got up; the old housekeeper had prepared the humble morning meal, when a loud summons at the gate was heard. Even in our day, an unexpected visit to a clergyman is in general the precursor of some serious event,—either a baptism, a marriage "in extremis," or a last confession; but at this epoch the visit of a stranger announced some matter of far graver import. Indeed, at this period the priest was no longer the mandatary of God, but rendered his account to man.
However, the Abbé Girard was of the number of those who had least cause for fear, as he had sworn to abide by the Constitution,—in him conscience and probity had spoken louder than either self-love or religious spirit. No doubt the Abbé Girard admitted the possibility of improvement in the government, and much regretted the abuses committed under the name of the Divine will, and had, while retaining his God, accepted the fraternity of the Republican régime.
"Go and see, Dame Jacinthe," said he, "who disturbs us at this early hour; and if the business is of no very pressing nature, say that this morning I have been sent for to the Conciergerie, and must go there directly."
Dame Jacinthe, formerly called Madeleine, had accepted this flowery appellation in lieu of her own, as the Abbé Girard had taken the title of citizen instead of that of curé. At the suggestion of her master, Jacinthe hastened down the steps of the little garden leading to the entrance gate. She drew back the bolts, when a thin, pale young man, much agitated, but with a frank and amiable expression, presented himself before her.
"Monsieur l'Abbé Girard?" said he.
Jacinthe, not slow to remark the disordered dress, the neglected beard, and the nervous tremor of the new-comer, augured unfavorably of him.
"Citizen," said she; "there is here neither 'Monsieur' nor 'abbé.'"
"Pardon me, Madame," replied the young man; "I meant to say the Curé of Saint Landry."
Jacinthe, notwithstanding her patriotism, was struck by the title "Madame," with which the Republicans would not have honored an empress. She, however, replied,—
"You cannot see him now; he is repeating his breviary."
"In that case I will wait," replied the young man.
"But," said Jacinthe, in whom this obstinate persistence revived her first unfavorable impression, "you will wait in vain; for he has been summoned to the Conciergerie, and must go there immediately."
The young man turned frightfully pale, or rather from pale to livid.
"It is then true!" murmured he; then raising his voice, "This, Madame, is the business which brings me to the Citizen Girard."
And in spite of the old woman he had, while speaking, effected an entrance; then coolly but firmly closing the bolts, and notwithstanding the expostulations and even menaces of Dame Jacinthe, he not only entered the house, but also the chamber of the curé, who on perceiving him uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Forgive me, Monsieur le Curé," immediately said the young man; "I wish to speak to you on a very serious subject; permit us to be alone."
The aged priest had experienced deep sorrow, and knew what it was to endure. He discerned deep and devouring passion in the confusion of the young man, and intense emotion in his fevered tones.
"Leave us, Dame Jacinthe!" said he.
The visitor impatiently followed with his eyes the receding steps of the housekeeper, who, from being accustomed to the confidence of her master, hesitated to comply; then when at length the door was closed,"Monsieur le Curé," said the unknown, "you will first wish to know who I am. I will tell you. I am a proscribed man, doomed to death, who only at this moment lives from the power of audacity; I am the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."
The abbé started in horror from his arm-chair.
"Fear nothing!" said the Chevalier, "no one has seen me enter here; and even those who might have seen me would never know me. I have altered much these last two months."
"But what do you wish, Citizen?" asked the curé.
"You are going this morning to the Conciergerie, are you not?"
"Yes; the porter has sent for me."
"Do you know why?"
"To perform the duties of my sacred office to an invalid, or some dying person, perhaps even to one condemned."
"You are right; it is to one condemned."
The old priest regarded the Chevalier with undisguised astonishment.
"But do you know who this person is?" demanded Maison-Rouge.
"No, I do not know."
"This person is the queen!"
The abbé uttered an exclamation of grief.
"The queen! Oh, my God!"
"Yes, sir; the queen! I made inquiry as to the priest who would attend her, and learned it was you. I therefore came directly to seek an interview."
"But what do you require of me?" asked the priest, alarmed at the wild accents of the Chevalier.
"I wish—I wish nothing, sir. I implore, I entreat, I supplicate you!"
"For what, then?"
"To allow me to enter with you into the presence of her Majesty?"
"You are mad!" exclaimed the curé; "you would not only ruin me, but would sacrifice yourself."
"Fear nothing."
"The poor woman is condemned, and that is the end of her."
"I know it, and it is not to make any attempt to save her that I wish to see her; it is—But listen to me, my father; you are not listening."
"I do not listen to you, since what you ask is impossible; I do not listen to you, since you act like a man bereft of his senses," said the aged man. "I do not listen to you, because you terrify me."
"Father, reassure yourself," said the young man, endeavoring to calm himself; "believe me, Father, I am in my senses. The queen, I know, is lost; but if I could only for an instant prostrate myself at her feet, it would save my life. If I do not see her I shall kill myself; and as you will have caused my despair, you will at the same moment destroy both body and soul."
"My son! my son!" replied the priest, "you ask me to sacrifice my life for you! Old as I am, my existence is still necessary to the unfortunate; old as I am, to precipitate my own death is to commit suicide."
"Do not refuse me, Father," replied the Chevalier; "you must have a curate, an acolyte; take me, let me go with you."
The priest tried to maintain his firmness, which was beginning to give way.
"No, no!" said he; "this would be a dereliction of duty; I have sworn to the Constitution, and I am bound heart, soul, and conscience. The unhappy woman condemned to death is a guilty queen. I would accept death, if by so doing I could benefit a fellow-creature; but I will not depart from the path of duty."
"But," cried the Chevalier, "when I tell you, and again repeat, even swear to you, I do not want to save the queen; here by the Gospel, by the crucifix, I swear I do not go to the Conciergerie to prevent her death!"
"What is your motive, then?" said the old man, affected by such undisguised accents of despair.
"Hearken!" said the Chevalier, whose soul seemed to speak from his lips; "she was my benefactress; she is attached to me; to see me in her last moments will I feel sure prove a consolation to her."
"And this is all that you desire?" demanded the curé, yielding to these irresistible accents.
"Absolutely all."
"And you have woven no plot to attempt to rescue the condemned?"
"None. I am a Christian, Father; and if there rests in my heart a shadow of deceit; if I entertain any hope of her life, or try in any way to save it,—may God visit me with eternal damnation!"
"No, no!" said the curé; "I can promise nothing," as the innumerable dangers attendant on an act so imprudent returned to his mind.
"Now listen to me, Father!" said the Chevalier, in a voice hoarse with emotion; "I have spoken like a submissive child; I have not uttered one bitter word or uncharitable sentiment; no menace has escaped my lips. Yet now my head whirls; fever burns in my veins; now despair gnaws my heart; now I am armed. Behold! here is my dagger." And the young man drew from his bosom a polished blade which threw a livid reflection on his trembling hand. The curé drew back quickly.
"Fear nothing," said the Chevalier, with a mournful smile; "others, knowing you to be so strict an observer of your word, would have terrified you into an oath. But no! I have supplicated, and I still continue to supplicate, with hands clasped, my forehead in the dust, that I may see her for a single moment. Look! here is your guarantee!" And he drew from his pocket a billet which he presented to Girard, who opened it and read as follows:—
I, René, Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, declare by God and my honor, that I have by threats of death compelled the worthy curé of Saint Landry to convey me to the Conciergerie, notwithstanding his refusal and great repugnance to do so. In proof of which I have signed—Maison-Rouge.
I, René, Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, declare by God and my honor, that I have by threats of death compelled the worthy curé of Saint Landry to convey me to the Conciergerie, notwithstanding his refusal and great repugnance to do so. In proof of which I have signed—
Maison-Rouge.
"It is well," said the priest; "but swear to me once again that you will be guilty of no imprudence. It is not sufficient that my life is saved, I am answerable also for yours."
"Think not of that," said the Chevalier. "Then you consent?"
"I must, since you so absolutely insist. You can wait outside, and when she comes to the wicket you will see her."
The Chevalier seized the hand of the old priest and kissed it with all the ardor and respect he would have kissed the crucifix.
"Oh!" murmured the Chevalier, "she shall die at least like a queen, and the hand of the executioner shall never touch her!"
CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE CART.
Immediatelyafter having obtained this permission from the curé of Saint Landry, Maison-Rouge withdrew into a cabinet, the door of which, being half opened, he had recognized as the priest's dressing-room. There his long beard and mustachios speedily disappeared under the stroke of the razor; and then only he was fully aware of his frightful pallor and altered appearance. It was terrible to behold. He re-entered perfectly calm, and seemed to have forgotten that notwithstanding the absence of his beard and mustachios, he might still probably be known at the Conciergerie. He followed the abbé, whom, during his momentary absence, two officials were seeking; and with the cool audacity which disarms suspicion, entered the iron gate at this time opening into the court of the Palace. He was, like the Abbé Girard, dressed in black,—sacerdotal habits at that period being abolished.
In the register-office they found about fifty persons assembled; some employed about the prison, some deputies, some commissaries, all waiting in the expectation of seeing the queen pass; there might be some mandataries and many idlers. Maison-Rouge's heart beat so violently when he found himself opposite the wicket that he heard not even the parley that ensued between the abbé, the gendarmes, and the porter. Only a man with a pair of scissors in his hand and a piece of stuff newly cut pushed against Maison-Rouge upon the threshold. He turned round and recognized the executioner.
"What do you want, Citizen?" demanded Sanson.
The Chevalier endeavored to repress the shudder which, in spite of himself, ran through his veins.
"You see, Citizen Sanson," replied the Chevalier, "that I accompany the curé of Saint Landry."
"Oh, very well!" said the executioner, drawing himself on one side, and giving orders to his assistant.
During this time Maison-Rouge had passed into the interior of the office, and from there into the compartment inhabited by the two gendarmes.
These men were overcome by contending emotions. Proud and haughty as she had been to others, she had ever been gentle and condescending to them. They seemed more like her servants than her guards.
In his present position the Chevalier could not obtain a view of the queen,—the screen was closed. It had been opened to give entrance to the curé, but directly closed behind him. When the Chevalier entered, the conversation had already commenced.
"Sir," said the queen, in a clear and firm voice, "since you have sworn allegiance to the Republic—in whose name they have condemned me to death—I have no confidence in you. We do not even worship the same God!"
"Madame," said Girard, struck by this disdainful profession of faith, "a Christian about to die should dismiss all hatred from her heart, and ought not to repulse her God, under whatever form he may be presented to her."
Maison-Rouge advanced a step to open the screen, hoping that when she saw him, and knew what brought him, she would change her opinion in regard to the curé; but the gendarmes detected the movement.
"But," said Maison-Rouge, "I am the acolyte of the curé—"
"Then, since she refuses the curé," said Duchesne, "she does not require you."
"But still, perhaps she may accept me," said he, raising his voice; "it is impossible she would refuse me." But Marie Antoinette was too much engrossed by the sentiment which agitated her either to hear or recognize the Chevalier's voice.
"Go, sir!" continued she; "leave me!" addressing Girard; "since at this time we in France live under the régime of liberty, I claim the right to die according to my own fashion."
Girard offered some resistance.
"Leave me, sir!" said she. "I desire you to leave me."
Girard endeavored to speak.
"I will not hear you; leave me!" said she, with the gesture of Marie Thérèse.
Girard went out.
Maison-Rouge essayed to gain a glimpse of her through the opening in the screen; but the prisoner had turned her back. The executioner's assistant crossed before the curé; he came in holding a cord in his hand. The two gendarmes pushed the Chevalier toward the door; amazed, despairing, and utterly bewildered, before he had been able to utter a cry or make the slightest movement to effect his purpose, he found himself with the curé in the corridor of the turnkey. This corridor brought them again into the register-office, where the news of the queen's refusal had already circulated, and where the Austrian pride of Marie Antoinette was to some the pretext of the coarsest invectives, and to others the subject of secret admiration.
"Go!" said Richard to the abbé, "return home, since she repulses you, and let her die as she likes."
"Well, she is in the right," said Richard's wife, "and I would act in the same way."
"Then you would do wrong, Madame," said the curé.
"Be silent," said the keeper, opening his eyes very wide; "what does it concern you? Go, Abbé, go!"
"No," said Girard, "no; I will, notwithstanding all, accompany her; one word, only one word, if she will listen, might bring her back to duty; besides, I am sent by the order of the Commune, and I must discharge my office."
"Send back your sexton, then," brutally observed the adjutant-major, commandant of the armed forces. He was a former actor at the Comédie Française, named Grammont. The eyes of the Chevalier flashed lightning, as he mechanically thrust his hand into his breast, where Girard knew he had the poniard. He checked him with a suppliant look.
"Spare my life," said he, in a low voice; "you see that your cause is ruined; do not destroy yourself with her. I will mention you to her on the route; I swear to you I will tell her you risked your life that you might see her once more on earth."
These words calmed the effervescence of the young man, and the ordinary reaction taking place, he sank into a state of quiescence. This man of heroic mind, of marvellous power, had arrived at the termination of both strength and will, and glided irresolute, or rather exhausted and vanquished, into a state of torpor that might have been imagined to be the precursor of death.
"Yes, I believe," said he, "it should be thus: the cross for Jesus, the scaffold for her,—gods and kings drink deep of the chalice presented to them by men." This thought produced resignation; and now, totally prostrated, he allowed himself to be pushed without offeringany resistance, except an occasional involuntary groan, to the outer gate, passive as Ophelia when, devoted to death, she found herself borne away by the remorseless waves.
At the bottom of the gates and at the doors of the Conciergerie, a crowd was assembled, which unless once seen it was impossible to describe. Impatience ruled every passion; and each passion spoke its own language; and these combined formed an immense and prolonged uproar, as if the whole noise and the entire population of Paris were on this occasion concentrated in the quarter of the Palais de Justice.
In front of this crowd the whole army was encamped, with guns intended to guard the procession, and also to secure the privilege of those who came to witness the last act of the tragedy.
It would have been vain to attempt to pierce this deep rampart, increasing gradually, since the condemnation of the queen was now known not only at Paris, but by the patriots of the faubourgs.
Maison-Rouge, expelled from the Conciergerie, naturally found himself in the first rank among the soldiers, who instantly demanded who he was. He replied, "he was the vicar of the Abbé Girard, but having bound himself by the same oath, he, like the curé, had been dismissed and refused by the queen;" on which the soldiers, in their turn, pushed him into the first row of spectators, where he was again compelled to repeat what he had previously told them.
Then the cry arose, "He has just left!" "He has seen her!" "What did she say?" "What did she do?" "Is she as haughty as usual?" "Is she cast down?" "Does she weep?" The Chevalier replied to all these questions in a feeble but sweet and affable tone; as if thisvoice was the last manifestation of life suspended on his lips. His answer was couched in the language of truth and simplicity. It contained an eulogium on the firmness of Marie Antoinette; and that which he recounted with the simplicity and faith of an evangelist cast sorrow and remorse over many hearts.
When he spoke of the little dauphin, and of Madame Royale; of this queen without a throne; of this wife without a husband; this mother bereft of her children; this woman alone and abandoned, without a friend, surrounded by executioners,—more than one face here and there assumed a sad expression, and more than one tear of regret was clandestinely wiped from eyes a moment before animated by hatred.
The Palace clock struck eleven. All murmuring at this moment ceased. One hundred thousand human beings counted these strokes, echoed by the pulsations of their own hearts.
When the last vibration had ceased and died away in the distance, a loud noise was heard within the gates, and at the same time a cart, advancing from the side of the Quai aux Fleurs, broke through the crowd, then the guards, and drew up at the bottom of the steps.
The queen soon appeared at the top of the staircase. Looks expressive of all kinds of passion were bent upon her; the mob stood in breathless expectation. The queen's hair was cut short; the greater portion had turned gray during her captivity, and this shade of silver rendered still more delicate the mother-of-pearl pallor which at this moment lent an almost angelic beauty to this daughter of the Cæsars. She was attired in a white robe, and her hands were fastened behind her back. When she appeared with the Abbé Girard on her right, who notwithstanding all opposition would still accompany her,and the executioner on her left, both dressed in black, there ran throughout the crowd a murmur, of which God alone, who reads all hearts, could comprehend and sum up the truth.
A man passed between the executioner and Marie Antoinette; it was Grammont. He conducted her to the fatal car. The queen recoiled.
"Mount!" cried Grammont.
This word was distinctly heard by all. Emotion held every breath suspended on the lips of the spectators. A blush suffused the face of the queen, mounting even to the roots of her hair, but it immediately disappeared, and her face resumed its former death-like hue.
"Why a car for me," said she, "when the king had a carriage to convey him to the scaffold?"
The Abbé Girard advanced, and addressed a few words to her in a low tone; doubtless he condemned this last utterance of royal pride. The queen remained silent, but tottered so much that Sanson held out his arms to support her; but she recovered her self-possession before he could touch her. She then descended the staircase, while the assistants placed a foot-board behind the car. The queen entered first; the abbé followed her.
When the car was in motion it caused a great movement in the assemblage; and the soldiers at the same time, ignorant of its cause, united their efforts to push back the crowd, and consequently, a large space was cleared between the people and the vehicle of death, when suddenly a mournful howling was heard. The queen started, and instantly rose, looking around her. She then saw her little dog, which had been lost for two months, and which, unable to follow her into the Conciergerie, regardless of kicks, blows, and thrusts, now rushed toward the car; but almost directly poor Jet, emaciated,starving, and bruised, disappeared under the horses' feet. The queen followed him with her eyes; she could not speak, for her voice was drowned in the noise; she could not point her finger toward him, for her hands were tied; and had she been able to do either, who would have regarded her? Having closed her eyes for an instant, she soon revived. He was in the arms of a pale young man, who, standing on a cannon, was conspicuous above the crowd, and whose natural stature seemed enlarged from the unspeakable elevation of the sentiments with which he was animated, while he saluted the queen and pointed to heaven. Marie Antoinette looked upward and smiled sweetly.
The Chevalier uttered a groan, as if this smile had broken his heart; and as the fatal car turned toward the Pont-au-Change, he fell back among the crowd, and disappeared.
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE SCAFFOLD.
Uponthe Place de la Révolution, leaning against a lamp-post, two men were waiting. Of those who followed with the crowd, some were carried to the Place du Palais, others to the Place de la Révolution, while the rest spread, impatient and tumultuous, over the whole road separating the two places. They were waiting until the queen should reach the instrument of punishment, which, defaced by the sun and storm, worn by the hand of the executioner, and, most horrible! blunted by too frequent contact with its victims, reared its head with a sinister pride over the subjacent mass, like a queen ruling her people. The two men, arm-in-arm, and speaking by fits and starts, with pale lips and contracted brows, were Lorin and Maurice. Lost in the crowd, but not in a way calculated to excite suspicion, they continued in a low tone their conversation, which was perhaps not the least interesting one then circulating among the various groups which, like an electric chain, a living sea, was agitated from the Pont-au-Change to the Pont de la Révolution.