156CHAPTER XXIVVENGEANCE COME TO JUDGMENT
“I myself accuse you, Citizen de Vaudrey!” says the Judge, rising and pointing to the culprit.
“I accuse your family and all aristocrats of oppression and murder through countless generations!”
A yell of approval––the savage howl of the Mob Beast––resounds from the rabble whose passion is played upon. It is followed by the general roar:
“Guillotine!Guillotine!GUILLOTINE!”
With a smile Forget-Not records the death sentence given by his compliant fellow judges, in his book. Chevalier de Vaudrey is hustled back to the rear of the hall.
Poor trembling Henriette is next. The horrors of Maurice’s condemnation and the thought of her little lost sister nearby, rack her with a stinging pain in which is commingled little thought of self.
“You sheltered this aristocrat?” questions the Judge.
“Of course––I––love him!”
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“The penalty for sheltering an emigre is death!” replies Forget-Not shrilly, again playing to the Jacobins.
But Henriette is thinking of the suffering Louise. She strives to direct the Judge’s attention to the blind girl.
“She might hear!” says Henriette softly. “Please––not so loud!”
The Judge turns the pages of his book in studied indifference.
“Please––my sister––we have just met after a long time––she––she is blind!” The little voice breaks off in sobs.
The idea strikes her that, if they can only see the helpless creature, they will have pity. She calls:
“Louise, stand up––they want to see you!”
The cripple Pierre aids Louise to her feet. She stands there alone, a picture of abject misery.
“You see!” cries Henriette. “Blind––no one to care for her!”
The dandified dictator of France fixes fishy eyes on the little person in the dock. One affected hand has raised a double lorgnette158through which he peers at her. He muses, strokes a long nostril with his forefinger, recollects something which causes him to curl his lip:
Henriette’s door slam on the obscure Maximilian Robespierre finds its re-echo to day at the gates of Death. Ah, yes, he has placed the girl of the Faubourg lodging now!
“You were an inmate of the prison for fallen women?” he asks coldly.
The clear, unashamed blue eyes would have told innocence if the words had not.
“Yes, Monsieur, but I was not guilty.”
Robespierre’s delicate hand passes in the faintest movement across his throat and toys with the neck ruffle underneath it.
His lips frame a dreadful word though he does not speak it. A nod to Jacques-Forget-Not completes the by-play.
The servant imitates the master’s gesture. This time, the drawing of the hand across the throat is more decisive.
Jacques speaks the word that his master did not vocalize. The other judges confirm it.
“GUILLOTINE!”
Henriette is borne shrieking out to the159death chamber––“One hour with her––only one hour––then I will go with him!”
But she and the Vaudrey are already being taken out together by the attendants.
160CHAPTER XXVTHE VOICE OF DANTON
We have explained that Danton took little part in the Government after the repelling of the foreign foe and the commencement of the Terror. He had no sympathy with the excesses of his former colleagues, but on the other hand was subject to strange lassitudes or inhibitions that oft paralyzed his spirit except at the supreme hour.
Saving France had been his real job.
Among these petty and mean minds seeking power or pelf or the repayment of some ancient grudge, Danton had nothing to do! He loved his frontier fighters––men who, the same as himself, dared all for France.
They were somewhat like our cowboys of the Western plains. Born to the saddle; recruited for the northern cavalry; supremely successful in whirlwind charges and harassing flank attacks that drove back Brunswick’s legions, they were now quartered on well-deserved furlough within the city.
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The old lion of Danton’s nature woke again, his indomitable spirit reasserted itself whenever he went to their yard and roused them by his patriotic eloquence.
Alas! within the tribunal and on the execution place at the other side of the city, was that going on which shamed patriotism and mocked liberty.
“La Guillotine”––that fiendish beheading instrument that a deputy named Doctor Guillotin had devised––was become Robespierre’s private engine to tyrannize France.
It stood in a great suburban place, on a scaffolding led up to by a flight of steps: a tall massive upright with high cross piece––uglier than the gallows. A brightly gleaming, triangular knife, about the size of a ploughshare, worked up and down in the channels.
The knife was first raised to the top of the upright, and held there by a lever. The master of the ceremonial raised right hand in token to the executioners to be ready.
As he dropped his hand in a down-sweeping gesture, one of these villains pulled the rope which released the lever. Down fell the heavy knife across the neck opening of a body board to which the victim was strapped.162Below the contraption was a huge basket.
A cordon of soldiery guarded the place, keeping back the crowds. The brawny executioners––naked to the waist, like butchers in a stockyard––daily performed their office.
On this day of Henriette and Maurice’s sentence, they were giving it a preliminary trial. “The trigger’s been slipping––not working well,” the head fellow explained to the master of ceremonies. Back and forth the terrible guillotine knife hissed and whistled until they pronounced its action perfect....
Danton and three of his friends had an errand at the Government that day that took them past the death chamber. A little frightened face amongst the condemned drew his notice.
“Killing aristocrats, yes!” he was thinking. “But these poor huddled folk are not the public foe. Would I might summon the legions to put an end to slaughter––but that Robespierre has inflamed all France with the lust of blood!”
He was startled from the reflection by the woe-begone, distrait little thing who163seemed hypnotized by terror. The tall man bent down and peered at the girl.
Like the other condemned, her hands had just been pinioned behind her. She stood forlorn and helpless.
Horror froze him.... The Child who had saved his life from the spadassins––the dear little face the memory of which he had always treasured! He asked her a mute question, she mutely nodded.
So black-hearted murder was to snuff her out too––yes, and that young man nearby, Maurice de Vaudrey whom he knew.
Not if Danton could protect and save!
Stern was his voice as he said to the jailer:
“There is some mistake. Keep her––and her friend––until I return!” He was on his heel and striding to the courtroom.
A follower sensed his purpose. He laid hand on Danton’s shoulder, saying: “No, Danton––you endanger your own life!”
“What if I do? She must be saved.”
As we see him pass into the Tribunal, let us stop for a moment and watch the procedure in the death chamber. Outside, the tumbrils of death clatter up to receive their load. A functionary calls the names164of the condemned whilst a court officer identifies them. Each in turn is bundled off to the carts. The men hesitate over Henriette and Maurice.
“The ex-Minister of Justice,” said one, “asked that this case be delayed.”
“Her name is here,” said the master functionary, a creature of the Dictator. “She goes––”
“We might as well take the other too,” said the court officer, pointing to de Vaudrey....
Superbly the Lion of the Revolution faced the judges and the mob, and demanded a hearing. Robespierre uplifted eyebrows and half-smiled, vulpinely. His rapid exchange of looks with the Court seemed to say: “Well, we have got to listen to this crazy man, but be on guard!”
The president, Jacques-Forget-Not, took the cue and acceded to Danton’s request.
“A great injustice has been done,” cried Danton, “to the innocent and helpless. I ask the lives of Henriette Girard and Citizen de Vaudrey!”
The judges did not need to answer.
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A savage cry of “No! No!” swelled from the infuriated “Mountain.”
The sansculottes half rose from their benches, shaking minatory fists, yelling, gesticulating. Faces were contorted in fury. The mob––the same that had once acclaimed Danton in chair of state––was not to be balked of blood.
The orator continued: “These sufferers are friends of you who demand their death. The girl once savedme––the organizer of your victory––from spadassins. The boy was ever known as the people’s benefactor––I have seen him buy loaves to keep you from starving! Now through trumped-up charges they are to be hurried away to death––”
“You question the justice of the people’s Tribunal?” interrupted Judge Forget-Not shrilly, with obvious play at the mob.
“Hell’s bells!” replied the indignant Thunderer. “I established this Tribunal. Did not I as Minister of Justice set it in being, and shall I not speak when crimes are done in its name!”
... In the death chamber Henriette and Maurice were trying to kiss each other good-by. The guards had separated them.166Vaudrey was going in one death cart, Henriette in another....
He had silenced the querulous Forget-Not, was waking the echoes with the same thunders that had nerved France to resist the foe. “I ask for their lives not only, but for MERCY and JUSTICE to wipe out the tyranny and cruelty that are befouling all of us. I ask for a regenerated nation, purged of these vile offences.”
Robespierre was sinisterly serious now.
The group of judges sat amazed.
“Give Danton a hearing!” was the murmur among the sansculottes, half awed by his old witchery.
The impassioned orator swung upon them, his old supporters.
“My heart––my brain––my soul––my very life! Do they mean anything to you––to France?”
“YES! YES!” shouted the answering mob, caught by the personal appeal.
Alarmed at the swiftly changing tide, the Chief Judge sought the Dictator’s eye. The orator’s eyes were far away, his frame was convulsed by emotion as he cried: “My very life––everything––I owe to one of these victims!” The mob identified its cause with Danton’s, submerged their personalities with his own!
DANTON AND MEN RIDE TO THE RESCUE PAST THECORRUPT AND DEGENERATE ORGY OF THE “FEAST OF REASON.”
DANTON AND MEN RIDE TO THE RESCUE PAST THECORRUPT AND DEGENERATE ORGY OF THE “FEAST OF REASON.”
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Robespierre answered Forget-Not’s look. He indicated the speaker by a slight motion of the head, then drew his right hand across the throat, played with the lace ruffles––and smiled! Forget-Not understood. Not then––but later, only a little later––would come the time to snuff out this disturber!
Danton turned from the mob, swinging the peroration to the judges in the one impassioned cry of “JUSTICE!” Lion-like he glanced from those mean, denying souls to the rabble, and held out his hands.
Like an avalanche, the “Mountain” swept down from benches to hall and on, on toward the judges. Murder was in their eyes. A word from the Thunderer would have sealed Forget-Not’s fate.
“His wish! Give Danton his wish!” they roared.
Like a monkey the man Forget-Not leaped and cowered behind his bar, imploring Robespierre for a sign. The Dictator nodded to yield. But again was there not the very slightest motion of hand past neck, the eyes side-glancing at the Thunderer?
Danton stilled the tempest as Chief Judge168Forget-Not wrote the reprieve and the other affrighted Judges confirmed it.
... Outside, the tumbrils were already on their way to the guillotine. Henrietta and de Vaudrey were approaching the gates of death....
169CHAPTER XXVIREPRIEVE OR AGONY
The man Forget-not, directly the paper was signed, rushed past the speaker and out of the hall into the lobbies. He was followed presently by the Court’s messenger. There was here some trickery or other that Danton sensed.
He could not stop the Chief Judge leaving, but he pounced on the messenger and yanked the reprieve out of his hand. “I will deliver it!” said Danton. The people applauded the act. Everyone knew that he dared greatly.
Quick as he had been, Jacques-Forget-Not had already given his orders.
“Stop Danton if you can!” had been Jacques’ word to the outer guard. To his inspectors of defences, he had said: “The barriers to the guillotine––close them!” He ran forth to see that the orders were obeyed. None of Robespierre’s party wanted to see Danton achieve his errand of mercy––least of all, the vengeful Jacques-Forget-Not!....
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The pock-marked Thunderer wasn’t stopped beyond the door. His giant strength threw off the minions who would have blocked him. He hastened to the yard where his beloved troopers were quartered.
Henriette and Maurice’s route lay past an obscene and sacrilegious rite.
Mocking at religion, the more fanatical had thrown off every vestige of decency and indulged in Bacchanalian worship of a so-called “Goddess of Reason.” This was a lewd female from the Paris half-world, flower-chapleted, flimsily draped, prancing in drunken frenzy atop a table surrounded by her “worshippers.”
The Feast of Reason included hundreds of revelers grouped around the open-air tables for the “supper of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity,” and between long lines of these they were obliged to pass.
“Drink a toast to the Goddess!” cried the revelers, offering the winecup to the victims.
“Curses on them!” said others. “Death is too good for vile aristocrats.”
“Tra-la-la-la!” sang drunken wenches,171“La Guillotine will soon hold ye in her sharp embrace––”
The blasphemy of burlesquing a far greater Scene of Sorrows occurred to drunken Carmagnole dancers. The notion was applauded, carried into effect at once.
A tall sansculotte reached over betwixt the guards and placed a Crown of Thorns on the girl’s brow. Another dashed a cupful of vinegar in the girl’s face.
“Can’t you see she’s helpless?” said a centurion, pointing to her pinioned arms. He yanked off the chaplet and threw it back in the crowd. They roared with merriment at the farce....
But, in the stable yard of the Northern cavalry, Danton from a horseblock was addressing the fiery spirits who knew and loved him.
“Will you dare with Danton?” he cried. “Will you risk Death to open a Nation’s eyes?”
The head Cavalryman embraced the Thunderer and kissed him on both cheeks.
“We are with you to the last man––to the last ounce of our strength to save this girl and boy!” he said while the others cheered.
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Danton had got a gallant white mount, the Captain was on a noble black Arabian charger; the others had leaped astride their ever ready army steeds––the ride with the reprieve was in full course!
173CHAPTER XXVIITHE FAREWELL
Louise, guided by her faithful attendant Pierre, had left the courtroom directly after the condemnation. Leaning heavily upon him, the blind girl had staggered out, or pressed by the awful knowledge that her sister Henriette was doomed to die. “Oh, take me to her!” she had cried.
There was only one thing to do: to follow the route of the death tumbrils, in the slight hope of overtaking her. The crippled Pierre could not walk fast, and the steps of Louise had to be most carefully directed. Now and again Pierre could see the death carts a long way ahead, he tried to hasten their steps, but presently the transports of death were out of sight again.
A traffic tie-up and street delay that halted the tumbrils just beyond the scene of the bacchanalian Feast of Reason, gave them their opportunity. Here the revelers had burlesqued Henriette as the “Woman of Sorrows,” and here the guardsman had thrown off the chaplet and rebuked the crowd.
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During the halt Pierre and his companion came up with what speed they could; he led Louise to the back of the death cart, and placed her hands on the bound and standing figure of poor little Henriette.
“It is your sister!” said Pierre softly.
Gently the blind girl’s fingers traveled up to the wet face of her little foster-mother, now bending towards her. With a handkerchief Louise tenderly wiped it, her fingers gave loving little pats of the heaving neck and bosom, she kissed the stained cheeks, and then the girls’ lips met––met long and passionately! No words were spoken, none was needed for a reunion that was also a farewell.
The cart moved. The loving lips were parted. Now one might see Louise’s imploring arms still held out toward the sad receding little figure.
It was indeed a busy day for the executioners. Batches of men and women preceded Henriette and Maurice. Two of these were beautiful young girls who, in default of priest, were saying the last offices of the Church as they knelt on the bare ground. In tragic glory Faith’s clear175credo rang out: “I am the Resurrection and the Life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live!”
Their lovely heads dropped in the basket as the knitting women clicked their needles and cried “Two!” Henriette, with a physical retch at the sight, fell back half-fainting on Maurice. Roughly the soldiers yanked them asunder.
“Citizeness, your time is come!” said one of the brawny butchers. He half led, half supported her up the steps of the guillotine....
The Chief executioner turned Henriette about, inspecting her fine points as an equine connoisseur would inspect a filly. He gloated over her not yet budded form, the swan-like neck, unlined piquant features, the golden head-curls that fell in ringlets.
“A pretty one––eh, Jean?” he commented to his assistant.
Between the two, they had strapped her unresisting on the board. They lowered it below the razor edge of the knife, so that she lay prone with her neck directly underneath. The finale was to fasten on the neck piece, a round-holed cross board176which prevented the head from drawing back....
Alas! what avails it that five miles away––in the heart of the city––the hoofbeats of a company of cavalry resound rhythmically over the flagstones?
Danton and his Northern riders are straining every nerve, galloping their steeds furiously––eyes fixed on the seeming-impossible goal. Rather are they modern centaurs, each rider and steed a unit of undivisible will and energy: Danton a furious resistless hippogriff, fire-striking, fire-exhaling, in unity with his white charger; the lean-jawed, sternly set Captain on his lean galloping Arabian, cyclonic, onrushing like some Spectral Horseman; the rest riding like the Valkyries––as it were, twixt Heaven and earth––their galloping beats scorning the ground as they rush by to the hissing of the cleaved and angry winds.
But what avails it?...
Even on the straightway ’twere a quarter-hour ride to the outer-suburban locality where the guillotine does its dreadful work. Ancient Paris with its tortuous streets delays them. Ahead, are Jacques-Forget-Not––Jacobin177troops––barriers––gates.
Poor little Henriette’s golden head!
Is it not fated to drop in the basket long, long before they can appear?
178CHAPTER XXVIIIMANIAC WITH A DAGGER
A sansculotte soldier, less brutal than his fellows, had allowed Louise and Pierre to approach one side of the scaffold. They were more privileged than the frantic Picard, who could not get near his young master and mistress. Revolutionary infantry guarded every side of the public square. Intermingled among them were the favored hoodlums of the Jacobin party, execrating the victims and howling with glee whenever the dread axe fell.
Among the riff-raff, Mere Frochard and her precious son Jacques Frochard were conspicuous. For no particular reason they were gloating over the cutting-off of aristocrats, whilst indulging in rough horseplay at the expense of the friends of the condemned. Picard’s quaint look of helpless sympathy excited ready mirth.
“Sniveling over those good-for-nothings, eh?” La Frochard curled her heavy moustachioed lip in scorn.
“We’ll find a way to make that sensitive179young man feel something––” she confided to Jacques. A moment later she had pulled over a sansculotte’s bayonet, with which she executed a neat jab into Picard’s anatomy.
Picard leaped in the air like a jumping jack. When he descended to earth and turned to survey the cause of his torment, he faced but an impassive trooper with weapon at parade rest and the grinning countenances of Mere and Jacques Frochard, convulsed with laughter.
Picard decided the vicinity of the guillotine was almost as dangerous for him as for his master. He edged out of range, biding the occasion for a counter-thrust....
Pierre and Louise stood on the other side of the scaffold, the heavy structure of which quite hid the ruffian Frochards and their horseplay with Picard.
Henriette had been borne up the steps of the guillotine a few moments before Pierre and Louise reached the scene. The cripple, terribly excited, was telling Louise of Henriette’s being strapped to the board and shoved toward the knife vent.
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“That big murderer is going to kill her!” hissed Pierre.
Louise’s blind features became contorted with agony. Large tear drops fell from her eyes. Both arms were extended toward her sister above, then clawed convulsively at Pierre.
“They-have-put-her-head-in-the crossboard-and––oh, oh!––fastened-it-down!
“The-executioner-is-all-ready.” Pierre was gesticulating like a madman. He seemed to be raising despairing hands to high Heaven, in token of helplessness.
Above––around––everywhere, he looked for succor; found none. A glance from Henriette’s doomed form to Louise’s bitter anguish converts him into a maniac.
“HE’S ASKING THE MASTER FOR THE SIGNAL TO PULL THE ROPE!”
Pierre shouts the words in a fury that is rapidly growing uncontrollable. Spectators for the first time notice his strange actions. But neither the expectant executioner nor the self-important master of ceremonial looks down, or distinguishes the cry in the babel of savage sounds.
The wild youth now disengages himself181from Louise’s clutch. With his right hand he pulls a dagger from his hip pocket. Look! As the master’s signalling hand is upraised high and begins to lower, the boy leaps up the steps of the guillotine, and attacks the executioner whose fingers are already on the death rope....
Ride on yet more fiercely, O Danton and ye fierce Cavalrymen––ride on, e’en past the barrier, if Jacques-Forget-Not and his men do not stay thee. Yes, thank God! there may yet be time, should this maniac with the dagger provide sufficient respite!
... The brawny butcher is too astonished to defend himself. His nerveless fingers are no longer on the rope; he stands like a stalled ox in front of his homicidal assailant. With the rapidity of lightning Pierre plunges his long Provencal dirk in the executioner’s side. The butchered butcher falls with a single bawling outcry and a groan. The crowd is thunderstruck, and the pinioned de Vaudrey is wild with joy. Though bound and helpless, he tries to leap up to his prostrate Henriette.
But the master of ceremonial, at first too panic-stricken to intervene, now summons182the sansculotte guards from the ground below. Up the steps on the double-quick they rush with fixed bayonets. As the huge victim falls back into the arms of his assistant, the bayoneting soldiers corner the dirk-waving Pierre.
The brief contest is quite unequal. In less time than it takes to tell it, one of the men plunges his bright, long steel in Pierre’s side. The latter falls like a lump of clay on the scaffold flooring. Several of the bayonets speed toward the inert lump, with the intent on the part of their owners to fling the body contemptuously from the scaffold to the floor.
But a more refined cruelty speaks: “Save him for the guillotine!” The soldiers leave the crumpled-up, desperately wounded Pierre, dooming him yet to taste La Guillotine’s embrace. They subdue de Vaudrey and truss him up anew.
The roars of the crowd die down. Comparative order is again restored. The master of ceremonial, having recovered the habit of command, orders Jean, the remaining executioner, to complete the stricken one’s job.
HENRIETTE SAVED FROM THE GUILLOTINE’S KNIFE.
HENRIETTE SAVED FROM THE GUILLOTINE’S KNIFE.
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Fortunately for our heroine under the knife, the second executioner is slow and awkward. He has seen butchery come quite too close to his own flesh! Still somewhat unnerved, he prepares himself for the task with clumsy movements and halting fingers. The master bids him hurry––Jean takes his time, he’s not going to bungle the job....
As the supreme moment nears, it is well that we should note what is happening with Danton and his Centaurs––
184CHAPTER XXIXDANTON’S RIDERS
About half way of the journey through the City, Jacques-Forget-Not and his men take up a stand in front of the onrushing cavalry.
They wave orders and prohibitions.
They yell to the horsemen to draw rein.
Resistlessly the troopers keep their careering course––the talk and gestures are but as the East Wind to tensed Danton, stern-set Captain, and the rest.
Forget-Not’s tribe escape the deadly horse hoofs by quick side jumps.
Within the next few minutes––even while the head executioner is making the little victim ready––Danton and his riders reach the barrier on the Guillotine side of Paris. Orders had already been received to close the gates at the cavalry’s approach.
“Quick! there is not a moment to lose,” yells the Jacobin commander as he sights the oncoming host. He hastens to deploy his soldiers with spears and pikes across the barrier, whilst the keepers bring the heavy gates to.
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The barred gates and the opposing fighters threaten to dash Danton’s every hope of saving by reprieve his “dear one of treasured memory.” Indeed, as we have seen, but for frenzied Pierre’s maniacal slaughter of the headsman, the fatal blow would now be falling! Neither Danton nor his men, of course, know that. Theirs to struggle on, to confront and conquer fortune, never to despair! Within those iron souls is no such thought as “Defeat.”
Hurrah!
One foremost rider has managed to squeeze through the mighty gates before they clang. Danton and the rest of his men face a small army on the closed barrier’s City side.
The superb horses would charge against a stone wall if bade to! They charge against the living wall of foot soldiers; kicking, pounding, trampling in the narrow space, while the riders strike.
Some footmen perish under the hoofs. Others save themselves by leaping, scrambling out over the side parapets. The attack becomes a rout. Hip-hip-hurrah! The lone rider on the guillotine side has succeeded in unloosing the bar. The gates186fly open. Danton’s cavalry dash madly down the straight and unobstructed road that leads to the Place de la Execution, still a few furlongs distant!
Can they even yet save her? For now it would appear as if the supremely tragical moment might anticipate them––by seconds!
During the final furlongs––the executioner now in readiness––Henriette looks up with gaping mouth at the awful knife edge. A terrible cry escapes her. Wracked with agony, she gazes about at the sea of hostile faces––not one stray iota of sympathy in that Dark Hour. Missing is de Vaudrey, missing the loved blind sister! As the down-dropping gesture of Death is again begun by the grim master of ceremonial, Henriette with a low cry of “Louise!” shuts eyes and drops head to receive the stroke!
But the clatter of myriad hoofbeats assails the Master’s ears; the hoarse cries of Danton’s riders, and the astonished roars of the populace. His hand falters. He turns to look at the tumult. The executioner takes his hand off the rope.
The cavalrymen are dashing down the187roadway, from which quick clearance has been made by the sansculotte guards and the loaferish spectators. At their head gallops Danton, the Thunderer of old, thundering at the officials, waving in his free hand a State paper!
In front of the death machine he halts and dismounts––then taking the steps in two bounds, puts the reprieve of Henriette and Maurice in the hands of the master of ceremonial!
The Savior of France––the Organizer of Victory––brings such a show of power at his back and compels such respect that none dare question him. He strides to the guillotine, bades the trembling executioner release Henriette––himself personally unstraps her from the death board. So ensues a scene that would wring even a heart of stone: the delivery of a demented girl from Death’s very passion and utmost pang!
Danton takes the little form in his arms, looks in her eyes, kisses her and tries to make her understand.
“For the honor of France,” he cries to the assembled multitude, as he still upholds her swaying figure, “a monstrous188injustice is righted. This girl, and that young patriot,” signifying to the attendants that de Vaudrey should be unloosed, “are reprieved by the order of the Revolutionary Tribunal!” The multitude––caught by Danton’s tensely dramatic announcement––applauds, even as it had jeered and mocked a few moments since.
But the girl, kept from falling by his protective left arm, still gazes upon him idiotically. She had died, was it not true ? How then, she lives? What are these crowds, and who is this stranger? The gallant rescuer fears that her reason is gone!
“Release that boy!”
He has seen the wounded Pierre trussed in the far corner of the scaffold, guessed that some wild deed of the lad’s stayed the judicial murder. His tones to the officials are sharp, imperative. The outraged superior of the hacked executioner looks around the assemblage for some prop of resistance––finds none––trembles––and is all bows and scrapes to do Danton’s will. Pierre crawls painfully across the platform. He kisses the hem of his Savior’s garment.
Danton has brought Henriette to the ground. He is looking for her friends now.189Catching sight of blind Louise starting up the steps, he brings her around and puts the loved sisters in front of one another.... Slowly the light of understanding comes into the eyes of her who had most loved and most suffered. She embraces Louise.... Danton is looking for yet another figure, the affianced of Henriette. He draws over de Vaudrey, places the latter’s right hand within the free hand of Henriette.
“Take her,” he says kindly to de Vaudrey. “It is enough for me that I have saved France from this foul blot!...”
... Down in the crowd, too, the fortunes of war have changed. The wicked Frochards, who have been egging on the crowds to jeer the victims, have become distinctly unpopular. It is Picard’s turn to jest the Frochards now.
A grenadier offers a little friendly assistance with the bayonet, pricking the old hag in a tender part as if by accident. She jumps and squeals. Sly Picard watches another chance, shoves forward his friend’s bayonet to prick her again.
... Both she and her precious Jacques the Good-for-Nothing take it on the run,190enduring the buffets of the railing soldiery. Yes, Picard––our genial rogue of a body servant––gets in the last bayonet pricks and body wallops of this story!
191CHAPTER XXXTHE AFTERMATH
Danton later suffered the dark hour and the snapping of Life’s thread through Robespierre’s cruelty, but the glory of that valiant soul is eternal.
His plea for the ways of Mercy––his gallant deeds (like this particular one) of risking all for the life of a friend––were as signposts to bewildered humanity. He foresaw the precipice down which the Terrorists were headed for the pit:
“This time twelvemonth I was moving the creation of that same Revolutionary Tribunal. I crave pardon for it of God and man. They are all Brothers Cain––I leave the whole business in a frightful welter. Robespierre will follow me; I drag down Robespierre!”
Of a verity, the following Thermidor or hot July saw the fate come true. Universally execrated, the Tyrant was himself dragged down and guillotined. Fell with him the rest of the murdering crew. Black hatred––foul suspicion––wicked vengeance vanished like departing plagues.
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There dawned happier days wherein justice bore sway, and little gardens of flowers and love and happiness again sprang up and flourished. Among these blooming gardens let us seek the refuge of Count and Countess de Linieres after the Storm has abated and the kinsfolk it has sundered are united. The sisters of our story are their especial care, daughter and foster-daughter of the exquisite chatelaine.
Young Maurice de Vaudrey is their pride. The old gentleman has reconciled himself to the passing of the Ancient Regime, and through his nephew’s good office has made his peace with the State.
On a bright and beautiful day as Henriette is flitting about the garden, the Doctor––none other than our old friend of La Force––comes with a precious gift.
“The removal of the cataract has been successful,” he says, presenting Louise. “Is it not a joy that she can see?”
The girls intertwine arms and laugh happily. The parents approach. Henriette and Louise embrace the Count, now their foster parent and protector. Back of the Count limps the devoted Pierre, now fully restored from his old hurt of the bayonet193thrust. Pierre is to be the Countess’s especial care.
That lovely lady has received her daughter Louise within her arms, a daughter who for the first time can look upon the mother of whose loving care she was deprived for a score of years. In a few moments Henriette summons her sister to her side as a young man, whom we should all recognize, joins the little company.
“Allow me to present to your new eyes Monsieur Maurice de Vaudrey––” then with a shy smile and a glance back and forth, Henriette adds:
“Do you approve of him?”
Recurs the memory of that almost forgotten incident in the Normandy home––Henriette’s promise to stay single till the blind sister should win sight and approve the suitor. Louise is so happy that she decides to tease. She is about to shake her small head and her lips to frame “NO!” But in another moment she uses her new gift to inspect the marvelous young man of whose perfections she had so often heard.
She looks at Maurice from top to toe; the shapely head covered with luxuriant locks, the fine brown eyes, the Apollo features194comely yet sensitive, the elegant form, small hands and feet, the graceful and chivalrous carriage––the MAN who is looking at her with a kindly affectionate smile. Really, Henriette hadn’t told her half enough! She clasps her sister with one hand, Maurice with the other, cries: “YES!”
We may leave our hero and heroine there––as Louise and the oldsters presently left them––to taste the exquisite happiness of mutual love. For Love is stronger than Death, and must prevail. And the kisses of Maurice and Henriette blotted out all the wrack and nightmare of the “Orphans of the Storm!”
THE END
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