The idea we have expressed regarding the scaffold seemed to have struck them both.
"See," said Maurice, "how the hideous monster rears her red arms; might it not be said that she calls us, and grins at us through her wicket as if it was her horrid mouth?"
"I," said Lorin, "must confess I do not belong to the school of poetry which sees everything blood-color. I seeeverythingcouleur-de-rose, and even at the foot of that dreadful machine I should sing and hope still. 'Dum spiro spero.'"
"You hope when they murder women?"
"Maurice," said Lorin, "child of the Revolution, do not deny your mother! Ah! Maurice, remain a stanch and loyal patriot. She who is condemned to die is unlike all other women; she is the evil genius of France."
"Oh, it is not she that I regret; it is not for her I weep!" cried Maurice.
"Yes; I understand, it is Geneviève."
"Ah!" said Maurice, "there is one thought that drives me mad! It is that Geneviève is in the hands of those purveyors to the guillotine, Hébert and Fouquier Tinville,—in the hands of the men who sent here the poor Héloïse, and are now sending the proud Marie Antoinette."
"Well!" said Lorin, "it is this very fact that inspires me with hope. When the rage of the people has feasted on two tyrants it will be satiated for some time at least,—like the boa-constrictor, which requires three months to digest what he has devoured. Then the popular rage will swallow no more; and as is said by the prophets of the faubourg, 'the lesser morsels will be no longer palatable.'"
"Lorin! Lorin!" said Maurice, "I am more positive than you, and I say it in a whisper, but am ready to repeat it aloud,—Lorin, I hate the new queen who seems destined to succeed the Austrian, whom she destroys. It is a sad queen whose purple is daily dyed in blood, and to whom Sanson is prime minister."
"Bah! we shall escape her."
"I do not think so," said Maurice, shaking his head; "to avoid being arrested at your house we have no resource but to live in the street."
"Bah! we can quit Paris; there is nothing to prevent us. We need not complain. My uncle will await us at Saint Omer; money, passport, nothing will be wanting. There exists not the gendarme who shall arrest us; what do you think? We remain in Paris because we choose to do so."
"No; that is not correct, excellent friend, devoted and faithful as you are— You remain because I wish to continue here."
"And you wish to remain to discover Geneviève. Well! nothing is more simple, just, or natural. You think she is in prison; nothing more probable. You wish to keep watch over her, and on that account we cannot quit Paris."
Maurice drew a deep sigh; it was evident his thoughts were wandering.
"Do you remember the death of Louis XVI?" said he. "I can see him yet, pale with pride and emotion. I was then one of the chiefs of this crowd, in whose folds I conceal myself to-day. I was greater at the foot of the scaffold than the king upon it had ever been. What a change, Lorin! and when one thinks that nine short months have sufficed to work this change!"
"Nine months of love, Maurice— Love ruined Troy!"
Maurice sighed; his wandering thoughts now took another direction.
"Poor Maison-Rouge," said he; "this is a sad day for him!"
"Alas!" said Lorin, "shall I tell you what appears to me the most melancholy thing about revolutions?"
"Yes," said Maurice.
"It is that one often has for friends those we should prefer as enemies; and for enemies those we would wish—"
"There is one thing I can hardly believe," interrupted Maurice.
"What?"
"It is that he will not invent some project, though the most hopeless, to save the queen."
"What! one man stronger than a hundred thousand!"
"I said, 'though the most hopeless.' I know that to save Geneviève—" Lorin frowned.
"I again tell you, Maurice," said he, "you are wild! No; even were it possible for you to save Geneviève, you would not become a bad citizen. But enough of this, Maurice; they are listening to us. Look how the heads undulate; see! there is Sanson's valet raising himself from under his basket, and looking in the distance. The Austrian arrives."
In short, as if to accompany this undulation which Lorin had remarked, a shuddering, prolonged and increasing, pervaded the crowd. It was one of those hurricanes which commence with a whistle and terminate with a bellow. Maurice raised himself by the help of the lamp-post, and looked toward the Rue Saint Honoré.
"Yes," said he shuddering; "there she is." And another machine now made its appearance, almost as revolting as the guillotine. It was the fatal car.
On the right and left glittered the arms of the escort; while in front marched Grammont, replying with flashes of his sabre to the shouts and cries of some fanatics. But ever as the cart advanced these cries subsided under the haughty courage of the condemned.
Never had a countenance commanded more respect; never had Marie Antoinette looked more the queen. Her proud courage struck terror into those around her.
Indifferent to the exhortations of the Abbé Girard, who despite of her opposition accompanied her, her facemoved neither to the right nor left; her deep thought was as immutable as her look; even the jolting motion of the cart upon the uneven pavement did not by its violence disturb the rigidity of her demeanor. She might have been taken for a marble statue conveyed in the car, had it not been for her brilliant eyes, and her hair waving in the wind.
A silence equal to that of the desert fell suddenly upon the three hundred thousand spectators of this scene, witnessed by the heavens for the first time by the light of the sun.
In the place where Maurice and Lorin were standing they heard the creaking of the axles and the snorting of the horses.
The car stopped at the foot of the scaffold.
The queen, who doubtless was not thinking of this moment, recalled herself, and understood it all; she threw a haughty glance upon the crowd, and again beheld the pale young man she had previously seen standing on the cannon. He was now mounted on a wall, and repeated the respectful salutation he had before offered her as she left the Conciergerie. He then disappeared. Many persons seeing him, it was soon reported, from his being dressed in black, that a priest was in attendance on Marie Antoinette, to give her absolution ere she ascended the scaffold.
Further than that no one disturbed the Chevalier. In moments of highest concern, certain things are treated with marked deference.
The queen cautiously descended the steps from the car, supported by Sanson, who to the last moment, in accomplishing the task to which he himself appeared to be condemned, treated her with the greatest respect.
As the queen walked toward the steps of the scaffoldsome of the horses reared, and several of the foot-guards and soldiers appeared to oscillate and lose their equilibrium; then a shadow was seen to glide under the scaffold; but tranquillity was almost instantaneously re-established, since no one was willing to quit his place at this solemn moment,—no one was willing to lose the minutest detail of the dreadful tragedy about to be accomplished. All eyes were directed toward the condemned.
The queen was already on the platform of the scaffold. The priest still continued to address her; an assistant moved her gently forward, while another removed the scarf from her shoulders.
Marie Antoinette felt the touch of the infamous hand upon her neck, and making a sudden movement trod upon Sanson's foot, who, without her having seen him, was engaged in fixing her to the fatal plank. Sanson drew back his foot.
"Excuse me, sir," said the queen; "I did not do it intentionally."
These were the last words pronounced by the daughter of the Cæsars, the queen of France, the widow of Louis XVI.
As the clock of the Tuileries struck a quarter after twelve, the queen was launched into eternity.
A terrible cry—a cry comprising at once joy, terror, sorrow, triumph, expiation—rose like a storm, drowning a feeble burst of lamentation which at the same moment issued from beneath the scaffold.
The gendarmes heard it notwithstanding, feeble as it was, and advanced some steps in front. The crowd, now less compact, expanded like a river whose dike has been enlarged, threw down the fence, dispersed the guards, and rushed like the returning tide to beat the foot of the scaffold, which was already shaking.
All wished for a nearer view of the remains of that royalty which they believed, root and branch, forever exterminated in France.
But the gendarmes had another object in view,—they sought the shadow which had repassed their lines, and glided beneath the scaffold.
Two of them returned leading between them by the collar a pale young man, whose hand held a blood-stained handkerchief, which he pressed to his heart; he was followed by a little spaniel howling piteously.
"Death to the aristocrat! death to the noble!" cried some men of the people; "he has dipped his handkerchief in the Austrian's blood,—to death with him!"
"Good Heavens!" said Maurice to Lorin, "do you recognize him? Do you recognize him?"
"Death to the royalist!" repeated the madmen; "take away the handkerchief he wishes to preserve as a relic! wrest it from him! tear it from him!"
A haughty smile flitted across the young man's lips, he tore open his shirt, bared his breast, and dropped the handkerchief.
"Gentlemen," said he, "this blood is not the queen's, but my own. Let me die in peace;" and a deep, gushing wound appeared widely gaping under the left breast. The crowd uttered one cry and retired. The young man sank slowly upon his knees, and gazed upon the scaffold as a martyr looks upon the altar.
"Maison-Rouge!" whispered Lorin to Maurice.
"Adieu!" murmured the young man, bowing his head with an angelic smile,—"adieu! or rather,au revoir!" and he expired in the midst of the stupefied guards.
"There is still this expedient, Lorin," said Maurice, "before becoming an unworthy citizen."
The little spaniel turned toward the corpse, terrified and howling lamentably.
"Why, there is Jet," said a man, holding a large club in his hand,—"why, there is Jet; come here, old fellow."
The dog advanced toward him, but was scarcely within arm's length of the man who had called him, when the brutal wretch raised his club and dashed out his brains, at the same time bursting into a hoarse laugh.
"Cowardly wretch!" cried Maurice.
"Silence!" whispered Lorin, "or we are lost. It is Simon."
CHAPTER L.
THE VISIT TO THE DOMICILE.
Lorinand Maurice returned to their home; but the latter, in order not to compromise his friend too openly, usually absented himself during the day, and returned at night.
In the midst of these events, being present at the removal of the prisoners to the Conciergerie, he watched daily for the sight of Geneviève, not having been yet able to discover her place of imprisonment. Lorin, since his visit to Fouquier Tinville, had succeeded in convincing Maurice that on the first ostensible act he was lost, and would then have sacrificed himself without having benefited Geneviève; and Maurice, who would willingly have thrown himself into prison in the hope of being united to his mistress, became prudent from the fear of being separated from her forever.
He went every morning from the Carmelites to Port Libre, from the Madelonnettes to Saint Lazare, from La Force to the Luxembourg; he stationed himself before the prisons to watch the cars as they came out to convey the accused to the Revolutionary Tribunal. Then when he had scanned the victims, he proceeded to the other prisons to prosecute this hopeless search, for he soon became aware that the activity of ten men would prove inadequate to keep watch over the thirty-three prisons which Paris could boast of at this period. He therefore contented himself by going daily to the Tribunal, there to await the appearance of Geneviève.
He was already beginning to despair. Indeed, what hope was there for a person arrested and condemned? Sometimes the Tribunal, whose sittings commenced at ten o'clock, had condemned twenty or thirty people by four o'clock: those first condemned had six hours to live, but the last, sentenced at a quarter to four, fell at half-past beneath the axe. To resign himself to such a fate for Geneviève, would be to grow weary in his battle against destiny.
Oh, if he had known beforehand of the imprisonment of Geneviève, how Maurice would have baffled the blind, human justice of this epoch; how easily and promptly would he have torn Geneviève from prison! Never were escapes more easy; and it may be said, never were they so rare. All the nobles, once placed in prison, installed themselves there as in a château, and died at leisure. To fly was like evading a duel; the women even blushed at liberty acquired at this price.
But Maurice would not have shown himself so scrupulous. To kill the dogs, to bribe a door-keeper, what more simple? Geneviève was not one of those splendid names calculated to attract general attention. She would not dishonor herself by flying, and besides—when could she be disgraced!
Oh, how bitterly he thought of the gardens of Port Libre, so easy to scale; the chambers of Madelonnettes, so easy of access to the street; the low walls of the Luxembourg, and the dark corridors of the Carmelites, where a resolute man could so easily penetrate by opening a window.
But was Geneviève in one of these prisons?
Then, devoured by doubt, and worn out with anxiety, he loaded Dixmer with imprecations; he threatened, and nourished his hatred against this man, whose cowardlyvengeance concealed itself under an apparent devotion to the royal cause.
"I shall find him out too," thought Maurice; "for if he wishes to save the unhappy woman, he will show himself; if he wishes to ruin her, he will insult her. I shall find him out, the scoundrel! and it will be an evil day for him!"
On the morning of the day when the events occurred which we are about to relate, Maurice went out early to take his usual station at the Revolutionary Tribunal, leaving Lorin asleep.
Lorin was suddenly awakened by a loud noise at the door, the voices of women and the butt-ends of guns. He threw around him the startled glance of a surprised man who wished to convince himself that nothing that could compromise him was in view. Four sectionaries, two gendarmes, and a commissary entered at the same moment. This visit was sufficiently significant, and Lorin hastened to dress himself.
"Do you come to arrest me?" said he.
"Yes, Citizen Lorin."
"What for?"
"Because you are suspected."
"Ah, all right!"
The commissary scribbled some words at the bottom of the warrant for arrest.
"Where is your friend?" he inquired.
"What friend?"
"The Citizen Maurice Lindey."
"At home, probably."
"No; he lodges here."
"He! go along! Search, and if you find—"
"Here is the denunciation," interrupted the commissary, "it is plain enough;" offering Lorin a paper invile writing and enigmatical orthography. It stated that every morning the Citizen Lindey, suspected and ordered for arrest, was seen going out of the Citizen Lorin's house. The denunciation was signed "Simon."
"Why," said Lorin, "the cobbler will lose his custom if he follows two trades at the same time,—a spy and boot-mender. He is a Cæsar, this Monsieur Simon," and he burst into a fit of laughter.
"The Citizen Maurice, where is he?" asked the commissary. "We summon you to deliver him up."
"When I tell you he is not here!"
The commissary passed into the chamber adjoining, then ascended to the loft where Lorin's official slept, and at last opened a lower apartment, but found no trace of Maurice. But upon the dining-room table a recently written letter attracted the attention of the commissary. It was from Maurice, who had deposited it there on leaving in the morning without awakening his friend.
"I go to the Tribunal," said Maurice; "take breakfast without me. I shall not return till night."
"I go to the Tribunal," said Maurice; "take breakfast without me. I shall not return till night."
"Citizens," said Lorin, "however anxious I may feel to obey your commands, I cannot follow you undressed. Allow my official to assist me."
"Aristocrat," said a voice, "do you require assistance to put on your breeches?"
"Oh, goodness! yes," said Lorin; "I resemble the Citizen Dagobert,—mind, I did not say king."
"Well, dress," said the commissary; "but make haste!"
The official came down to help his master to dress. However, it was not exactly that Lorin required avalet-de-chambre; it was that nothing might escape the notice of the official, and that consequently he might detail everything to Maurice.
"Now, gentlemen,—pardon, Citizens. Now, Citizens, I am ready, and will follow you; but permit me, I beg, to carry with me the last volume of 'Lettres à Émilie,' by Monsieur Demoustier, which has just appeared, and I have not read. It will enliven the hours of my captivity."
"Your captivity?" said Simon, sharply, now become municipal in his turn, and entering, followed by four sectionaries, "that will not last long. You figure in the trial of the woman who wanted to assist the Austrian to escape. They try her to-day; and to-morrow, when you have given your testimony, your turn will come."
"Cobbler," said Lorin, "you stitch your soles too quickly."
"Yes; but what a nice stroke from the leather-cutting knife!" replied Simon; "you will see, you will see, my fine grenadier!"
Lorin shrugged his shoulders.
"Well," said he, "let us go; I am waiting for you."
As each one turned round to descend the staircase Lorin bestowed on the municipal Simon so vigorous a kick that he sent him rolling and howling down the entire flight of stairs. The sectionaries could not restrain their laughter. Lorin put his hands in his pockets.
"In the exercise of my functions!" cried Simon, livid with rage.
"Zounds!" said Lorin, "are we not all here in the exercise of our functions?"
He got into the carriage, and was conducted by the commissary to the Palais de Justice.
CHAPTER LI.
LORIN.
Iffor the second time the reader is willing to follow us to the Revolutionary Tribunal, we shall find Maurice in the same place where we have already seen him, only now infinitely more pale and agitated.
At the moment our scene again opens upon the lugubrious theatre, whither we are led by a tissue of events rather than by our own inclinations, the jury were deliberating; a cause had just been tried. Two of the accused had already, by one of those insolent anticipations by which they ridiculed the judges, attired themselves for the scaffold, and were conversing with their counsel, whose words somewhat resembled those of a physician who despairs of the life of his patient.
The people of the Tribune were this day in a ferocious mood, calculated to excite the severity of the jury placed under the immediate surveillance of the gossips and inhabitants of the suburbs. The juries under these circumstances became more excited and energetic, resembling an actor who redoubles his efforts beneath the eyes of a censorious public.
Since ten in the morning five condemnations had already taken place under the decisions of these harsh and insatiable juries.
The two individuals who now found themselves on the bench of the accused awaited the decisive moment when"yes" or "no" would return them to life or doom them to death.
The audience, rendered savage by the daily occurrence of these spectacles, now become their favorite pastime, prepared them by exclamations and anticipations for the awful moment.
"There! there! look at the tall one!" said a beldam, who, not having a bonnet, wore a tricolored cockade as large as a hand on her head,—"there! is he not pale? One would swear he was already dead."
The condemned regarded the woman with a contemptuous smile.
"What do you say?" replied her neighbor; "why, he is smiling."
"Yes; on the wrong side of his mouth."
One of the men looked at his watch.
"What is the time?" inquired his companion.
"A quarter to one. This has lasted three quarters of an hour."
"The same as at Domfront, that unfortunate town, where you arrive at noon, and are hung in an hour."
"And the short one! the short one!" cried another person, "will he not be ugly when he sneezes in the sack?"
"Bah! it is done so quickly, you will barely have time to perceive it."
"Then we will demand the head from Sanson; one has a right to see it."
"Look! what a beautiful blue coat he has on. It is rather a pleasant thing that the poor can shorten the rich and well-dressed people."
Indeed, as the executioner had told the queen, the poor inherited the spoils of each victim; they were carried to La Salpêtrière, immediately after the execution, and distributed among the indigent; and there even the clothes of the unfortunate queen had been conveyed.
Maurice heard this whirlwind of words without paying any attention; for he was at this moment occupied by one engrossing thought, to the exclusion of all else. For several days his heart beat only at certain moments, and by fits and starts, as from time to time hope or fear appeared to suspend all vital action, and these perpetual oscillations to bruise the most tender sensibilities of his soul.
The jury returned to their places; and as had been fully anticipated, the president pronounced the condemnation of the two accused, who were directly removed, walking with a firm step and erect bearing,—for at this epoch every one learned to die boldly.
The solemn and sinister voice of the usher was again heard.
"The public prosecutor against the Citizeness Geneviève Dixmer."
A shudder ran through Maurice's frame, and a cold sweat bedewed his brow. The little door by which the accused entered suddenly opened, and Geneviève appeared. She was dressed in white; her ringlets were tastefully arranged, instead of being cut short, hanging in long masses of clustering curls. Doubtless, to the last moment poor Geneviève wished to appear beautiful to her lover, who might perchance be able to see her.
Maurice beheld Geneviève, and felt that all the strength he had collected was inadequate to this occasion, notwithstanding he had expected this blow, since for twelve days he had not omitted a single sitting, and three times already had the name of Geneviève proceeded from the mouth of the public prosecutor, and reached his ear. But there are certain griefs and miseries so profoundthat it is quite impossible to sound the depths of the abyss.
All those who witnessed the appearance of this young female, so lovely, so pale and innocent, uttered a simultaneous cry; some of fury,—for at this period there existed a class of people who detested everything bordering on superiority of beauty, riches, or of birth,—others of admiration, and some of pity. Geneviève, doubtless, among all these cries had recognized one cry, amid all these voices had distinguished one voice, for she turned in the direction of Maurice, while the president, looking up at her from time to time, turned over the law papers of the accused.
At the first glance she discovered Maurice, concealed as his features were under the broad brim of his hat; and turning round with a sweet smile, and a gesture still more engaging, she pressed her rosy but trembling hands upon her lips, and depositing her whole soul with her breath, she gave wings to a last kiss, which only one in this vast crowd had the right to appropriate to himself.
A murmur of interest ran through the hall. Geneviève, recalled, turned toward her judges, but stopping suddenly in the midst of this movement, her eyes dilated, and became fixed with an undefinable expression of horror toward one point of the hall.
Maurice in vain raised himself on his toes; he saw nothing, or rather something of more consequence recalled his attention to the scene that was being enacted,—that is to say, to the Tribunal.
Fouquier Tinville had commenced reading the act of accusation. This act stated that Geneviève Dixmer was the wife of an obstinate conspirator suspected of having assisted the ex-Chevalier de Maison-Rouge in his successive attempts to rescue the queen. She had, besides, been surprised at the feet of the queen, entreating her to exchange garments with her, and offering to die in her stead. This absurd fanaticism, continued the act, merited, no doubt, the admiration of the counter-revolutionists; but in our day every French citizen owes his life to the nation; it is therefore double treason to sacrifice it to the enemies of France.
Geneviève, when asked if she acknowledged that she had knelt before the queen, as stated by the two gendarmes Gilbert and Duchesne, and had entreated her to exchange vestments, simply replied, "Yes."
"Then," said the president, "inform us of your plan, and what hope you entertained of its success."
Geneviève smiled.
"A woman might conceive hopes," said she, "but a woman could not form a plan like this of which I am the victim."
"How came you there, then?"
"Not of my own accord. I was compelled."
"Who compelled you?" demanded the public prosecutor.
"Those who menaced me with death if I did not obey;" and again the agitated look of the young woman was centred on that part of the hall invisible to Maurice.
"But to escape from this death which menaced you, did you not know that you faced that death which must result from your condemnation?"
"When I consented, the knife was at my throat, while the guillotine was only in perspective. I succumbed under present violence."
"Why did you not call for assistance? All good citizens would have defended you."
"Alas! sir," said Geneviève, in a voice at once so sadand sweet that it caused Maurice's heart to beat tumultuously, "I had no one near me."
Commiseration succeeded to interest, as interest had succeeded to curiosity. Many heads were lowered, some to conceal their tears, many to allow them to flow freely.
Just then Maurice perceived on his left an immovable head and an inflexible countenance. It was Dixmer, standing dark, gloomy, and implacable, never for a moment losing sight of Geneviève or of the Tribunal.
The blood rushed to the young man's temples; rage mounted from his heart to his forehead, filling his whole being with intense desire for vengeance. He darted at Dixmer a look so replete with burning hate, so condensed and powerful, that he, as if attracted by the electric fluid, turned his head toward his enemy. Their glances encountered like two flashes.
"Tell us the names of your instigators," said the president.
"There was only one, sir."
"Who?"
"My husband."
"Do you know where he is?"
"Yes."
"Inform us of his retreat."
"He has been brutal, but I will not be cowardly. It is not for me to tell you his retreat, but for you to find him."
Maurice looked at Dixmer. He never moved. One idea flashed through the young man's brain. It was to denounce him at the same time that he denounced himself; but he quickly suppressed the thought.
"No," said he; "it is not thus that he should die."
"Then you refuse to assist us in our search?" said the president.
"I think, sir, I could not do so without rendering myself as contemptible in the eyes of others as he is in mine."
"Are there any witnesses?" demanded the president.
"There is one," replied the usher.
"Call the witness."
"Maximilien-Jean Lorin!" shouted the usher.
"Lorin!" cried Maurice, "Oh, my God! what has happened?"
This scene took place the same day that Lorin had been arrested, and Maurice was in utter ignorance of the fact.
"Lorin!" murmured Geneviève, looking round with anxious solicitude.
"Why does not the witness answer to the call?" demanded the president.
"Citizen President," said Fouquier Tinville, "upon a recent denunciation the witness was arrested at his own house; he will be brought directly."
Maurice started.
"There is another still more important witness," continued Fouquier; "but we have not yet been able to find him."
Dixmer turned toward Maurice smiling. Perhaps the same idea flitted through the mind of the husband which had before entered that of the lover.
Geneviève, pale and horror-stricken, uttered a low groan.
At this moment Lorin entered, followed by two gendarmes.
After him, and by the same door, Simon appeared, who came to take his seat in the judgment-hall, according to his custom in that locality.
"Your name and surname?" inquired the president.
"Maximilien-Jean Lorin."
"Your condition in life?"
"Independent."
"You will not remain so long," muttered Simon, shaking his fist at him.
"Are you related to the prisoner at the bar?"
"No; but I have the honor of being one of her friends."
"Are you aware that she conspired to carry off the queen?"
"How could I be aware of it?"
"She might have confided in you?"
"In me! a member of the section of the Thermopyles? A likely story!"
"Notwithstanding, you have sometimes been seen with her."
"I might have been seen with her often."
"Did you know that she was an aristocrat?"
"I knew her as the wife of a master-tanner."
"But her husband did not in reality follow the business which he pretended to."
"Of that I am ignorant; her husband was not one of my friends."
"Tell us what you know of this husband."
"Oh, very willingly. He is a villain, who—"
"Monsieur Lorin," said Geneviève, "for pity's sake!"
Lorin continued unmoved.
"He is a villain, who has sacrificed his wife, the poor woman before you, not so much to his political opinions as to his private hatred. Faugh! I look upon the brute as lower and more degraded even than Simon."
Dixmer became livid with rage. Simon wished to speak, but a gesture from the president imposed silence.
"You appear to know the whole history, Citizen Lorin," said Fouquier; "continue your testimony."
"Pardon me, Citizen Fouquier," said Lorin, rising; "I know nothing more." He bowed and reseated himself.
"Citizen Lorin," said Fouquier, "it is your bounden duty to enlighten this Tribunal."
"It has received all the light that I can give it. As to this poor woman, I repeat she has only acted under compulsion. Look at her! does she look like a conspirator? What she has done she was compelled to do. That is all."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"In the name of the law," said Fouquier, "I require that the witness Lorin shall be placed before this Tribunal as an accomplice of this woman."
Maurice groaned, while Geneviève buried her face in her hands.
Simon screamed out in a transport of joy, "Citizen Prosecutor, you are the savior of your country!"
As to Lorin, he leaped over the balustrade without making any reply, and seating himself near to Geneviève, took her hand, and respectfully kissed it, saying, "Good-day, Madame," with a coolness which electrified the assembly; "how do you do?"
Then he took his seat on the bench of the accused.
CHAPTER LII.
SEQUEL TO THE PRECEDING.
Allthis scene had passed before Maurice like a fantastic vision. Leaning upon the handle of his sword, which he had never quitted, he saw his friends precipitated one after another into that gulf which never yields back its victims; and this fatal sight so affected him that he asked himself why he, the companion of these unfortunates, should still cling to the brink of the precipice, and not surrender himself to the giddiness which was dragging him with them.
In leaping the balustrade Lorin saw the dark and sneering features of Dixmer.
When, as we have said, he had placed himself near Geneviève, she whispered in his ear.
"Mon Dieu!" said she, "do you know that Maurice is here?"
"Where?"
"Do not look round directly; one look might prove his ruin."
"Calm yourself."
"Behind us, near the door. What a trial for him if we are condemned!"
Lorin regarded the young woman with tender sympathy.
"We shall be," said he. "I conjure you not to doubt it. The deception would be too cruel if you were to permit yourself to hope."
"Oh, my God!" said Geneviève, "pity our poor friend, who will remain alone in the world!"
Lorin then turned round toward Maurice, and Geneviève also could not refrain from glancing at him.
His eyes were fixed upon them both, and one hand was placed upon his heart.
"There is one way to save you," said Lorin.
"Are you sure?" said Geneviève, her eyes sparkling with joy.
"Oh, of that one I am sure," replied Lorin.
"Oh, if you can save me how I will bless you!"
"But this way—" replied the young man.
Geneviève read his hesitation in his eyes.
"You have also seenhim?" said she.
"Yes; I have seen him. Will you be saved? Let him, in his turn, take his seat in the iron arm-chair, and you will be safe." Dixmer, doubtless from Lorin's look and the expression of his countenance, divined what he uttered. He at first turned pale, but soon recovered his gloomy composure and satanic smile.
"Impossible!" said Geneviève; "I can no longer hate him."
"Say that he knows your generous nature, and defies you."
"No doubt; for he is sure of him, of me, of us all."
"Geneviève! Geneviève! I am less perfect than you. Let me bring him here! Let him perish!"
"No, Lorin, I conjure you. Nothing in common with that man, not even death. It seems to me I should be unfaithful to Maurice were I to die with Dixmer."
"But you will not die."
"How can I live when Maurice is to die?"
"Ah!" said Lorin, "Maurice has reason to love you; you are an angel, and heaven is the angels' home. Poor dear Maurice!"
In the mean time Simon, who could not overhear theconversation between the accused, devoured their looks instead of their words.
"Citizen Gendarme," said he, "prevent those conspirators from continuing their plots against the Republic, even in the Revolutionary Tribunal."
"You know, Citizen Simon," replied the gendarme, "that here they conspire no more, and if they do so it will not be for long. These citizens are only conversing together; and since the law does not forbid them to do so in the car, why should it be forbidden at the Tribunal?"
This gendarme was Gilbert, who, having recognized the prisoner taken in the queen's chamber, avowed with his ordinary honesty the interest which he could not help according to her courage and devotion.
The president having consulted the court, at the request of Fouquier Tinville commenced his questions.
"Accused Lorin," demanded he, "of what nature was your acquaintance with the citizen Madame Dixmer?"
"Of what nature, Citizen President?"
"The pure flame of friendship bound us one to another;As a sister she loved me, and I her as a brother."
"Citizen Lorin," said Fouquier Tinville, "your poetry is out of season here, and the rhythm is bad."
"Why so?"
"You have one syllable too many."
"Cut it off! cut it off! Citizen Prosecutor! that is your trade, you know."
The imperturbable countenance of Fouquier Tinville assumed a pallid hue at this horrible pleasantry.
"And in what light," demanded the president, "did the Citizen Dixmer view this liaison of a professed Republican with his wife?"
"As to that I can tell you nothing, declaring that Iwas never acquainted with the Citizen Dixmer, and never had any desire to be so."
"But," resumed Fouquier Tinville, "you did not tell us that your friend Maurice Lindey formed the link of this pure friendship between yourself and the accused?"
"If I did not say so," replied Lorin, "it was because it seemed to me wrong to speak of it; and I think that you might even follow my example."
"The citizen jurors," said Fouquier Tinville, "will appreciate this singular alliance between an aristocrat and two Republicans, and at the very moment when this aristocrat is convicted of the blackest plot that could be concocted against the nation."
"How should I know anything concerning this plot you speak of?" demanded Lorin, disgusted by the brutal stupidity of the argument.
"You were acquainted with this woman; you were her friend; you term yourself her brother; you speak of her as your sister,—and you were not cognizant of her proceedings? Is it then probable, as you have yourself remarked," continued the president, "that she would have committed alone this act imputed to her?"
"She did not commit it alone," replied Lorin, repeating the technical words used by the president; "since, as she has told you, and I have told you, and now repeat, her husband compelled her."
"Then how is it that you are not acquainted with the husband," said Fouquier Tinville, "since the husband was united with the wife?"
It remained only for Lorin to recount the first disappearance of Dixmer; to mention the amours of Geneviève and his friend; and, in short, to relate the manner in which Dixmer had carried off and concealed his wife in some impenetrable retreat,—it needed only this to exculpate himself from all connivance, and to elucidate the whole mystery. But for this he must betray the secrets of his two friends; to do this would be to put Geneviève to shame before five hundred people. Lorin shook his head, as if saying "no" to himself.
"Well?" demanded the president, "what do you reply to the public prosecutor?"
"That his logic is crushing," said Lorin; "and I am now convinced of one thing which I never even suspected before."
"What is that?"
"That I am, as it appears, one of the most frightful conspirators that has ever been seen."
This declaration elicited a roar of laughter; even the jury could not refrain, so ludicrous was the young man's manner in enunciating these words.
Fouquier felt the ridicule; and since with his usual indefatigable perseverance he had managed to know all the secrets of the accused as well as they did themselves, he could not help feeling toward Lorin a sentiment of pity mingled with admiration.
"Come, Citizen Lorin," said he, "speak in your own defence. The Tribunal will lend a willing ear. We are acquainted with your previous conduct, and it has always been that of a stanch Republican."
Simon essayed to speak; but the president made him a signal to remain silent.
"Speak, Citizen Lorin!" said he; "we are all attention;" but Lorin only shook his head.
"This silence is confession," said the president.
"Not so," said Lorin; "silence is silence, that is all."
"Once more," said Fouquier Tinville; "will you speak?"
Lorin turned toward the audience to encounter theeyes of Maurice, and to learn from them what course he would wish him to pursue; but Maurice made no sign to him to speak, and Lorin maintained his former silence. This was self-condemnation.
All that followed was quickly executed. Fouquier summed up his accusation; the president reviewed the evidence; the jury retired, and unanimously returned a verdict of "guilty" against Lorin and Geneviève.
The president condemned them both to suffer the penalty of death.
Two o'clock sounded from the great clock of the Palace.
The president had just time sufficient to pronounce the condemnation as the clock struck.
Maurice heard the two with a sense of confusion and utter bewilderment.
When the vibration had ceased, his strength was utterly exhausted. The gendarmes led away Geneviève and Lorin, who had offered her his arm.
Both saluted Maurice, but in different ways. Lorin smiled; but Geneviève, pale and fainting, wafted him a last kiss upon her fingers, bathed in tears.
She had till the last moment clung to the hope of life, and now wept, not the loss of her life, but of her love, which must perish with her.
Maurice, half mad, had not replied to his friends' farewell. He rose, pale and bewildered, from the bench on which he had fallen. His friends had disappeared.
He felt only one sentiment alive within him. It was the hatred which was gnawing at his heart.
He threw a last look around him and recognized Dixmer, who was leaving with the rest of the spectators, and at that moment stooped to pass under the arched door of the passage.
With the rapidity of a steel spring when it unbends, Maurice sprang from bench to bench, and reached the door.
Dixmer had already passed through, and descended into the darkened corridor. Maurice followed behind him. At the moment Dixmer planted his foot on the pavement of the grand hall, Maurice tapped him on the shoulder.
CHAPTER LIII.
THE DUEL.
Atthis epoch it was always a serious thing to feel a touch upon the shoulder. Dixmer turned, and recognized Maurice.
"Ah! good-day, Citizen Republican," said Dixmer, without evincing any other emotion than an almost imperceptible start, which he immediately repressed.
"Good-day, Citizen Coward," replied Maurice. "You were waiting for me, were you not?"
"That is to say," replied Dixmer, "that, on the contrary, I had ceased to expect you."
"Why was that?"
"Because I expected you sooner."
"I still arrive too soon for you, assassin!" added Maurice, with a murmured growl rather than a voice, since it resembled the grumbling of a storm gathered in his heart, his looks being like the lightning's flashes.
"You fling fire from your eyes, Citizen," replied Dixmer. "We shall be recognized, and followed."
"Yes; and you fear to be arrested, do you not? You dread lest you might be conducted to the scaffold where you send others. Let them arrest us, so much the better; for it seems to me that the life of one guilty wretch was due to national justice."
"As there is one name the less on the list of people of honor. Is it not so—since yours has disappeared?"
"Well, we shall speak about all that again, I hope; but, in the mean time, you are avenged—miserably avenged—upon a woman. Why, since you have waited for me elsewhere, did you not do so at my house, when you stole away Geneviève?"
"You were the first thief, I believe."
"Neither by your wit nor your words have I ever known you, sir. I know you better by your actions,—witness the day when you wanted to murder me. That day your true nature spoke."
"And I have more than once regretted that I did not listen to it," answered Dixmer, coolly.
"Well," said Maurice, touching his sword, "I offer you your revenge."
"To-morrow, if you like, but not to-day."
"And why to-morrow?"
"Or this evening."
"Why not directly?"
"Because I am engaged till five o'clock."
"Another hideous project!" said Maurice; "another ambush!"
"Really, Monsieur Maurice, you are rather ungrateful!" replied Dixmer. "In truth you are. Here, for six months, I have allowed you to make love to my wife; for six months have permitted your meetings, and have not noticed your smiles. Never man, you must confess, has evinced so little of the tiger in his composition as myself."
"That is to say, you thought I might be useful, and you could mould me to your purpose."
"Without doubt," returned Dixmer, calmly, who ruled his own passion as much as Maurice was carried away by his. "Without doubt; while you were betraying your Republic, and were selling it to me for a look from mywife; while you were dishonoring yourselves,—you by your treason, she by her adulterous love,—I remained the sage and hero. I waited, and I triumphed."
"Horrible!" said Maurice.
"Is it not? Yes; you appreciate your own conduct fully, sir. It is horrible!—it is infamous!"
"You deceive yourself, sir; the conduct I term horrible and infamous is that of the man to whom the honor of a woman had been confided, who had sworn to guard this honor pure and unsullied, and who, instead of keeping his word and oath, employed her beauty as a shameful bait to ensnare a feeble heart. It was your sacred duty beyond all others to protect this woman, and instead of protecting her, you have sold her."
"What I had to do, sir," replied Dixmer, "I will tell you. I had to save my friend who united with me in this sacred cause. Even as I have sacrificed my property to this cause, so have I sacrificed my honor. As for me, I have completely forgotten, completely effaced myself. Now my friend is no more; he has died by the poniard. My queen is no more; she has died ignominiously on the scaffold. Now! now! I can think of revenge."
"Say of assassination."
"One cannot assassinate an adulteress; when she is killed, she is but punished for her crime."
"This sin you imposed upon her, therefore it was rendered lawful."
"You think so?" said Dixmer, with a sardonic smile. "Judge from her remorse if she believes she has acted lawfully."
"Those who punish strike openly. You, you do not punish; for while striking you fly, and while casting her head to the guillotine you conceal yourself."
"I fly! I hide myself! when did you see that, pooridiot that you are?" demanded Dixmer. "Is it concealing myself to be present at her condemnation? Is it flying when I go into the Salle des Morts to fling her my last adieu?"
"You are going to see her again,—to fling her a last adieu?" cried Maurice.
"Decidedly you are not expert at revenge, Citizen," replied Dixmer, shrugging his shoulders. "Thus, in my situation you would abandon these events to their strength alone, these circumstances to their natural course; thus, for example, the adulterous woman having merited death, the moment she has received the punishment of death I am quits with her, or rather she is quits with me. No, Citizen Maurice; I know better than that. I have discovered a way to return this woman all the evil she has done me. She loves you, and will die far from you; she detests me, and I will be near her. There!" said he, drawing a pocket-book from his pocket, "do you see this? It contains a card signed by the registrar of the Palace. With this card I can gain near access to the condemned. I will penetrate to Geneviève; I will call her 'Adulteress!' I shall see her curls fall under the hand of the vile executioner, and as they are severed she shall still hear my voice hissing, 'Adulteress!' I will even accompany her to the fatal car, and as she plants her foot upon the scaffold, the last sound that greets her ear shall be the word 'Adulteress!'"
"Take care! she will not have strength to support so much cowardice; she will denounce you."
"No," cried Dixmer, "she hates me too much for that. If she had wished to denounce me she would have done so when her friend urged her so softly. If she did not denounce me to save her life, she will not do so that I may die with her; for she well knows in that case I shouldretard her execution for a day. She well knows that if she denounces me, I shall go with her not only to the lowest step of the Palace, but even to the scaffold; she well knows that instead of leaving her at the foot of the ladder, I shall ascend into the car with her, and that, seated by her side, the whole length of the road I shall constantly repeat the one dreadful word 'Adulteress;' that even on the scaffold I shall continue to do so till the moment she sinks into eternity and the accusation falls with her."
Dixmer was frightful in this state of anger and hatred. He seized Maurice by the hand and shook it with a force unknown to the young man, upon whom this had acted with a contrary effect; as Dixmer became excited, Maurice grew calm.
"Listen!" said the young man, "in your vengeance you have omitted one thing."
"What?"
"That you will be able to tell her, 'On leaving the Tribunal, I have seen your lover, and have killed him.'"
"On the contrary, I prefer telling her that you live, and will suffer for the remainder of your days from the spectacle of her death."
"You shall kill me, notwithstanding," said Maurice; "or," added he, turning round and finding himself nearly master of his position, "I will kill you!"
And pale with emotion, and excited by fury, finding his strength redoubled from the restraint he had imposed upon his feelings while listening to the unfolding of Dixmer's horrible project, he seized him by the throat and drew him backward toward a stair which led to the high bank of the river. At the contact with his hand, Dixmer, in his turn, felt hatred rush over him like hot lava.
"You need not compel me by force, I will follow."
"Come, then. You are armed."
"I will follow you."
"No, go first; but I give you notice, at the least sign or gesture I will cleave your skull with my sword."
"You know I am a stranger to fear," said Dixmer, with a smile rendered frightful from his pallor.
"Fear of my sword," said Maurice, "no; but fear of losing your revenge; and now that we are face to face you may bid it adieu."
They had, indeed, arrived at the water's brink; and had any one seen and followed them, he could not have arrived in time to prevent the duel from taking place, since an equal desire for vengeance now animated both. While speaking, they had descended the short stair leading to the Palace square, and gained the nearly deserted quay; for as the condemnations continued, seeing it was two o'clock at least, the crowd still filled the judgment-hall, the corridors, and the courts.
They appeared equally to thirst for each other's blood.
They plunged under one of those arches leading from the cells of the Conciergerie to the river; at this time drained, but then foul and saturated with blood, serving more than once as a means of conveyance for the corpses, which floated far away from the dungeons, leaving no trace behind.
Maurice placed himself between Dixmer and the water.
"I decidedly think I shall kill you, Maurice," said Dixmer, "you tremble so much."
"And I, Dixmer," said Maurice, taking his sword in hand and carefully enclosing him so as to cut off all retreat,—"I, on the contrary, believe that I shall kill you; and having killed you, shall remove from your pocket-book the pass signed by the registrar of the Palace. Nay, you need not button your coat; my sword shall open it, I will be bound, were it even formed of brass like the cuirasses of old."
"And this paper," roared Dixmer, "you will take it, will you?"
"Yes," said Maurice; "I will use the pass. With this talisman I will secure an entrance to Geneviève. I will sit next her in the car; I will murmur in her ear while her life remains, 'I love thee;' and when the last stroke has fallen, I will murmur still, 'I loved thee.'"
Dixmer made a movement with his left hand to take the pass from his pocket, and together with the pocket-book to cast it into the river, when rapid as a thunderbolt, and trenchant as a hatchet, Maurice's sword fell upon his hand, nearly severing it from the wrist. The wounded man uttered a cry, and shaking his mutilated limb, flung himself furiously on his antagonist.
Then in the obscurity of this gloomy vault the deadly combat commenced. The two men, enclosed in a space so narrow that the sword strokes could not diverge from the line of the body, slid upon the humid pavement, and with difficulty supported themselves by the sides of the arch; the impatience of the combatants caused them to redouble their blows. Dixmer, who, as he felt his life-blood flow, was aware that his strength diminished, charged Maurice so furiously that the latter was compelled to step backward; in so doing he lost his footing, and his enemy's sword grazed his breast. But by a movement rapid as thought, kneeling as he was, he raised the blade with his left arm and turned the point toward Dixmer, who, maddened with rage, darted forward, and impelled by the inclining ground, fell on the sword, the point of which entered his body. He uttered a fearfulimprecation, and the two bodies rolled to the outside of the arch.
One only rose. It was Maurice,—Maurice covered with blood, but with the blood of his enemy.
He drew his sword toward him, and as he drew it the remnant of life which still agitated with a nervous shuddering the limbs of Dixmer, ceased.
Then, when assured that he was dead, Maurice stooped toward the corpse, opened the dead man's coat, withdrew the pass, and hurried away directly.
But on looking at himself he felt assured that in his present state he should not proceed far without being arrested. He was literally covered with blood.
He approached the water's edge, and bending toward the river, washed his hands and coat. He then rapidly ascended the steps, casting a last look toward the arch, from whence a red, smoking stream issued, advancing slowly toward the river.
On approaching the Palace he opened the pocket-book, and there found the pass signed by the registrar.
"Thanks, just God!" murmured he, and he rapidly mounted the steps leading to the Salle des Morts.
It struck three.
CHAPTER LIV.
THE SALLE DES MORTS.
Itwill be remembered that the registrar of the Palace had opened his jailer's book to Dixmer, and had also entered into an arrangement with him which the presence of Geneviève rendered peculiarly agreeable. This man, it may be imagined, was terribly alarmed when the news of Dixmer's plot was communicated to him. He would doubtless be considered as nothing less than an accomplice of Dixmer, his false colleague, and would therefore be condemned to die with the wretched Geneviève. Fouquier Tinville had summoned him to appear before him.
It may easily be understood that this poor man would have some trouble to prove himself innocent in the eyes of the public prosecutor; he had, however, succeeded in so doing, thanks to Geneviève, whose declaration had clearly established his utter ignorance of the plot of her husband. He had succeeded, thanks to Dixmer's flight, and above all from the interest excited in Fouquier Tinville, who wished to preserve his administration free from all stain.
"Citizen," said he, flinging himself upon his knees before Fouquier, "pardon me, for I have been deceived."
"Citizen," replied the public prosecutor, "an employee of the nation who in these days permits himself to be deceived deserves to be guillotined."
"I may have been a blockhead, Citizen," replied the registrar, who was longing to call Fouquier Tinville "Monseigneur."
"Blockhead or not," replied the rigid prosecutor, "no one should allow his love for the Republic to sleep. The spies of the Capitol were only geese, yet they were sufficiently awake to save Rome."
The registrar looked upon this argument as totally unanswerable; he groaned, and remained waiting.
"I pardon you," said Fouquier Tinville. "I will go so far as to defend you, since I do not wish one of my employees to be even suspected; but you will bear in mind that at the least word that reaches my ears, the least revival of this affair, you shall go to the scaffold."
It is scarcely necessary to say with what anxiety this man sought the newspapers, always in haste to tell what they know, and sometimes more than they can certify, even should they cause the heads of ten men to fall by the guillotine.
He sought Dixmer everywhere, to recommend him to keep his own counsel; but Dixmer had very naturally changed his apartments, and was nowhere to be found.
Geneviève had been placed on the bench of the accused, and had already, in her testimony, declared that neither herself nor husband had any accomplices; and he thanked the poor woman with his eyes as she passed before him on her way to the Tribunal.
When she had passed, and he was returning to the office to fetch some law papers for Fouquier Tinville, he all at once saw Dixmer approaching him with a calm and quiet step.
This vision petrified him.
"Oh!" said he, as if he had seen a spectre.
"Do you not know me?" said the new-comer.
"Of course, I do. You are the Citizen Durand, or rather the Citizen Dixmer."
"Just so."
"But are you a dead man, Citizen?"
"Not yet, as you see."
"I mean to say that they will arrest you."
"Who wants to arrest me?—no one knows me."
"But I know you; and it only needs one word from me to send you to the guillotine."
"And two words from me to send you there with me."
"It is shameful of you to say that."
"No; it is logic."
"But what is your business? Make haste,—speak quickly; for the less time we are together the less danger we incur from each other."
"My wife is about to be condemned, is it not so?"
"I greatly fear for her, poor woman!"
"Well, I wish to see her once more, to bid her adieu."
"Where?"
"In the Salle des Morts."
"Would you dare to enter there?"
"Why not?"
"Oh!" said the registrar, like a man whose hair stood on end at the very thought.
"There must be some way," continued Dixmer.
"To enter the Salle des Morts? Without doubt there is."
"How?"
"To procure a pass."
"And where are these passes to be procured?"
The registrar turned frightfully pale, and stammered, "Where are they to be procured, you ask?"
"I inquire where are they to be procured?" replied Dixmer; "the question is plain enough, I think."
"They are procured—here."
"Ah! true; and who usually signs them?"
"The registrar."
"But you are the registrar?"
"Certainly I am."
"Oh, how lucky that is!" said Dixmer, seating himself, "you will sign me a pass."
The registrar made one bound.
"Do you ask for my head, Citizen?" said he.
"No; I ask you for a pass, that is all."