SISTERS DEATH AND TRUTH
At a second-story window, in an unpretentious part of the Rue St. Honoré—known just then as the Rue Honoré, for the saints had been abolished, together with the terrestrial aristocracy—a young woman was sitting one late July afternoon employed in sewing. She was pale, thin, and poorly clad. Her fingers were very nervous as she hurried on with her work.
For three years the surges of the Revolutionary deluge had succeeded one another with ever-increasing rapidity, and at last threatened to swallow the entire inhabitants of the city. "The generation which saw the monarchicalrégimewill always regret it," Robespierre was crying, "therefore every individual who was more than fifteen years old in 1789 should have his throat cut." "Away with the nobles!" was shouting another vicious leader, "and if there are any good ones so much the worse for them. Let the guillotine work incessantly through the whole Republic. France has nineteen millions too many inhabitants, she will have enough with five." "Milk is the nourishment of infants," announced another; "blood is that of the children of liberty."
The new doctrine was not merely being shouted; it was being carried into practice as fast as the executioner could work, and sometimes in a single afternoon the life-stream of two hundred hearts gushed out through two hundred severed necks on the Place de la Révolution. The King, and at last the Queen, were among the slaughtered. None knew but that his or her turn, or that of his dearest ones might come next. A too respectable dress, a thoughtless expression, the malice of an extortionate workman, or the offending of a servant, meant death. Even the wickedest were betrayed by their associates to the Goddess of Blood, and citizens, as they hurried along the deserted and filthy streets, looked at each other with suspicious eyes. On the throne of France's ancient sovereigns sat a shadowy monarch from hell, and all recognised his name and reign—The Reign of Terror.
In the midst of that thunder-fraught atmosphere sat this poor girl, mechanically glancing down the street from time to time at the silent houses, each with the legal paper affixed stating the names of the inmates, for the information of the revolutionary committees.
Her bearing, though humble, announced her as one of the hated class, and by scrutinising her thin features we see that she is "the Citizeness Montmorency, heretofore Baroness."
She was absorbed in thought. Recollections, one by one, of the changes which had made her an old woman in experience at the age when most maidens become brides, were crossing her mind. She recalled the alarming news brought to the Hôtel de Noailles of the march of the viragoes on Versailles, and with that news her suspense for the safety of Germain; the entry of General Lafayette (who was married to a Noailles) into the hotel towards morning, smilingly assuring the family that all was well; her agony upon word of the attack on the royal apartments; the deadly illness of Germain at the Hôtel-Dieu Hospital, whither some National Guards had taken him; the pauper bed and gown in which the Sisters of the Hospital kept him hidden from the roused populace who searched the wards for him; her own assumption of the humble dress of a servitor to nurse him; his pretended death and burial by substitute; his long delirium, her joy at his return to life; his gratitude and convalescence; the forced dispersal of the Sisters, and with it her removal of her charge to the half-deserted Hôtel de Poix; the mob sacking mansion after mansion around them and their inexplicable exemption; an anonymous warning at length to flee, and the subterfuges of Dominique to cover their removal to the present house.
She thought also of the faithfulness of Germain to the King throughout his misfortunes, and how in order to be ready for service in case of a royalist opportunity, he had refused even her own entreaties to flee.
And sewing on and looking with habitual apprehension down the street, she thought of the blanks in the old circle—sadly, but without tears, for she had grown beyond tears over memories, so often had she been called to shed them for events.
With sorrowful recollection she saw again her good friend, Hélène de Merecourt, and her own sister Jeanne, disappear out of life.
There was that terrible day when the King was beheaded, and that other when the Queen followed him; Bellecour, d'Amoreau, the Canoness, Vaudreuil, the Guiches, the Polignacs, were in exile. Others were concealed, scattered, outlawed, some perhaps included in the massacres; some perhaps lost among the immense number crowded into the seventy prisons of the City. When wouldherturn arrive? When Germain's?
A distant sound made her lips part in alarm. It was the too well-known surging murmur of a mob approaching. She hastily rose and closed the window. The Rue Honoré was one of the highways particularly exposed to persecution, for its chief portion was lined with mansions where dwelt many of the "aristocrats." The greatporte cochèreand street wall of one were in full view of her window, coated with insulting placards and painted in huge letters, "NATIONAL PROPERTY—Liberty, Equality, Fraternity." How far the property had become national may be inferred from the fact that the patriot commissioner who took its chattels into his charge, and whose name was signed with a mark at the bottom of the placard, was—Gougeon.
In this quiet part of the street, however, the smaller houses usually passed unscathed, and the neighbourhood had the advantage of its residents not being so prying as in quarters still poorer. So that by aid of some bribery of patriots of the section, discreetly done by Dominique, their slender stores of money had thus far seemed to suffice to obtain them immunity. We say seemed to suffice, because there was something very remarkable, after all, in the escape of a Montmorency, and particularly one so intimate with the obnoxious Maréchale de Noailles.
The mob of women and red-capped men swarmed up the street, led by a drum, and singing "Ça ira"—
"Ah, on it goes, and on it goes, and on it goes!—The aristocrats to the lantern!Ah, on it goes, and on it goes, and on it goes!—The aristocrats, we'll hang them."
In front of the confiscated hotel theSans-culottesstopped, and, joining hands in a circle, whirled around in the wild Revolutionary dance, "the Carmagnole," singing the words—
"Madame Veto had pledged her word,Madame Veto had pledged her wordTo put all Paris to the sword,To put all Paris to the sword,Thanks to our canoneers.Dance, dance the Carmagnole,Hurrah for the sound,Hurrah for the sound,Dance, dance the Carmagnole,Hurrah for the sound of the cannon!"
She watched the dancers, involuntarily fascinated. All at once an object tapped against the window, and she noticed many eyes turned up to her in malicious amusement. The object was pushed up to her on a long pole and again tapped on the window; she dropped her sewing and sprang back with a scream. It was a human hand. A shout of coarse laughter met her ears, and the hand was withdrawn. She sank back in her chair and burst into tears.
"Wretches!" cried a woman, darting forward from behind her and shaking a fist at the window.
"Oh, be careful," Cyrène gasped, pulling back the arm. "Have they seen you?"
"I fear so," was the answer, as dismayed as her question; and a number of blows and thrusts sounded against the door below. But it was only a momentary diversion; the crowd had work cut out for it somewhere else and the drum drew them onwards.
"Oh, Germain," she said hysterically, "why do you risk your life so?"
"Because it is worthless," replied the apparent woman, pulling off his hood and throwing aside the rest of his disguise. But I am a fool to endanger you that way. Oh my darling, you who saved my life, is it not rather to comfort you at times like this that I live?" and he knelt and kissed her hand.
"Dearest," she answered softly, "you make my life happy in the very midst of horrors."
"I am unworthy of your love," he returned mournfully, rising to his feet.
"You say that too often; but have not the old reasons lost their force? Even here we could make a home. Let us defer our marriage no longer."
"We cannot marry," he said slowly.
She thought he spoke of the prohibition of Christian rites by the law, and said—"But Dominique knows of a priest, who is hidden in a cellar at his cousin's."
He shook his head and she read a soul of infinite sorrow in his eyes as they rested on her face.
"It is the thought of his own death," was the interpretation that flashed upon her.
A rap was heard.
"Come in, Dominique," said he.
The list of inmates affixed to the front of the house would have explained Germain's disguise. It read—
"The Citizen Dominique Levesque, boarding-house keeper.
"The Citizeness Marie Levesque, his wife.
"The Citizeness Montmorency, sempstress."
"Citizeness Levesque" was sometimes observed about the house by the neighbours, but the family, like many others, cultivated no intercourse. Wearing the garb only whenever absolutely necessary, he took part each day in whatever work was obtained to support the household, and at night went out to keep track of what was happening.
At the time of the guillotining of the Queen, he was restrained with difficulty from throwing his life away in an insane rush upon the murderers.
"My Lady Baroness," Dominique said, clinging to all the old delicate form of his respect—for the faithful servitor was as chivalrous as any knight—"I regret to report that there is a new law compelling everybody to take out cards of civism, as they call them, at the Hôtel de Ville. During the trouble at our door a few moments ago, some of theSans-culottesthreatened to return. I consider it absolutely necessary that Madame and I should go at once and obtain these credentials."
"Is there no way of getting them without Madame? It looks to me dangerous," Lecour said.
"The demand must be made in person, Monsieur le Chevalier. I have thought that question over very carefully."
"If is the most dangerous thing yet."
"I do not conceal the risk, Monsieur."
"Dear Dominique," Cyrène put in firmly, "I am ready to do all you say."
"Yes, our more than parent," Lecour added in tears, "she is ready to trust her life in your hands," and going over to Dominique he put his arm upon his shoulder and kissed him.
The old man's lip trembled and he withdrew, and at the same time Cyrène also left the chamber to prepare for the ordeal.
Then did Germain fully realise the sharpness of dread. She whom he loved was in the direst peril. He saw the gulf which had swallowed so many others yawning for her life, and he trembled as he had never trembled before. It must be said for him that he had always valued his own life little and had been willing to risk it for another on more occasions than one. It was when not he but his heart's beloved was in such danger that his eyes were opened to the greatness of the fact of death. Moreover he felt that he was helpless to lessen the peril. For him to accompany her to the Hôtel de Ville was to make her fate absolutely certain. That charge must be left to Dominique, and—God!
God! He had not dared to think of God for years; yet now the Divine Face appeared through the dissolving vision of things mortal, and he suddenly saw it looming dim and awful as the one changeless Reality.
Her step sounded returning and he composed himself. Both tried to be brave. Both were thinking of the other's happiness.
"Have no anxieties, my dear one," she exclaimed, coming close to him, her eyes moistened and voice trembling slightly, "I have our good Dominique to take care of me, and we shall soon return."
"I do not doubt it," he replied as cheerily as he was able, bending and gently kissing her forehead. "Prudence and Courage!—all shall go rightly."
But at the touch of his lips she started, threw her arms around his neck and passionately drew him to her.
"And what, my beloved, if it shouldnotgo rightly?—what for you to be left behind?"
"Darling, darling, do not say it," he cried, fervently returning her embraces. "All must and will go rightly. We cannot live without each other. Trust in Providence."
Ah, what those words meant for him!
"I do," she murmured, "but would that Dominique's priest were here. I long for the eternal union of our souls."
He pressed her to his breast in great emotion, then loosed his arms and stood looking sorrowfully at her again, as for the last time.
"Au revoir," she whispered, her eyes intensely searching into his.
"Au revoir, ma chère," he answered, mastering his voice with all his strength.
Then she and Dominique left the house.
CIVIC VIRTUE
Dominique and the citizeness proceeded as unobtrusively as they could along the Rue Honoré. He hurried her past the Rue Florentin, down which he knew, without looking, was to be seen the tall machine of execution on the Place de la Révolution.
At first they passed few people, but on approaching the centre of the City they saw numbers in front of thecafésand even going to the theatre. Flashy carriages of thievish men who had enriched themselves under the new conditions, rolled frequently by. The basis of their power, the squalid element with jealous, insolent eyes, also increased on the pavements.
At the Rue de la Monnaie they turned towards the Quays. Just as they were turning, a young woman, whose head was covered with a shawl, glided from a gateway and addressed them.
They both started suspiciously, but the poor creature proved to be only seeking charity, and Cyrène, struck by a certain desperation in her tone, turned to give her a couple ofsous. In passing the coins their eyes met, and the mendicant started.
"Great God! Madame Baroness, you do not know me?"
The voice, though altered in quality, recalled other times. Her features became recognisable, and the identity of their owner came over Cyrène.
"Mademoiselle de Richeval!" she gasped.
The sprightly companion of princesses was begging her bread. Her wit and beauty had disappeared, the once bright eyes were sharp, the once blooming cheeks were wrinkled and shrunk.
"Ladies, remember the spies," said Dominique.
"Go to our house, my dear," Cyrène whispered hastily. "It is No. 409, Rue Honoré, you will get supper there, and await us."
"409, Rue Honoré," the other repeated, and hastened to the promised food.
Continuing, the two reached the Hôtel de Ville at seven o'clock. Though early, the spacious building was lighted from attic to basement, and slipping in through a swarm ofSans-culotteswho surrounded the doorsteps, they entered the great hall. As they were going in the "Marseillaise" began to be pounded, and the entry, from the opposite direction, of persons of much more importance than they, attracted the eyes of the men and women who smoked and knitted round the hall. The incomers were the President and heads of the Commune of Paris, each arrayed in his tricolorcarmagnole, red bonnet, and great sabre.
The President was the Admiral. His glittering eyes swept the chamber, and singling out Cyrène as by premeditation, rested upon her face. He was unknown to her, but at his smile she shuddered.
These exalted personages—robbers, murderers, tavern-keepers, kettle-menders—sat down on their raised tribune, while Cyrène and Dominique were pushed by the guards into some rows of benches in front of but not facing them. The individuals on these benches were as yet few, and Cyrène looked apprehensively around the place, while Dominique took mental notes. They saw, forming the sides of the hall, two amphitheatres filled with Jacobin women knitting, patching trousers or waistcoats, and watching the benches of supplicants for the cards of civism, and made remarks to one another aloud.
"That one's notSans-culotteenough for me," called out a young woman in a red bonnet, and crossing over with the stride of a Grenadier to Cyrène, stood before her, arms akimbo, and cried shrilly, "Saint Guillotine for your patron, my delicate Ma'mselle."
The use of the prescribed address "ma'mselle" was evidently regarded as a witticism, for shouts of laughter filled the place.
Just then the President rang his bell, and as he did so he looked at Cyrène significantly. Shrink as she might from his leer, she could not but feel grateful, for he had evidently rung purposely.
A secretary began the minutes, which consisted of resolutions of Jacobin joy at the capture of a once idolised patriot who had lately been denounced by Robespierre for counselling mercy to prisoners.
The name of Robespierre excited enthusiastic applause.
A set of benches facing those of the applicants had stood thus far empty. They were now filled by the entry of a body of representatives furnished by certain of the forty-eight sections of the City, whereupon the "Marseillaise" was again beat, and several of the councillors lit their pipes.
The principal sections represented were those of the Pikes and the Fish-market.
Some one called for "Ça ira." It was succeeded by a harangue of the Admiral against the captured ex-patriot. Cyrène followed with horror every word of his oratory, every movement of his declamation, the air of pride with which he played upon the passions of theSans-culottes, and the wicked sweep of the principles he announced.
"That all mankind deserve massacre," he cried, smiling, "is the philosophic general rule; the sole exceptions are the true patriots. By title of liberty, the possessions of all belong to them alone. And how can we know the true patriot?By his red cap and his red hand."
Finally the long suspense of the applicants was brought to a close; the secretary called the first on the list.
"Citizeness Montmorency."
At the once great name a silence fell over the place.
Then a murmur ran through the benches of the Jacobin women, while Cyrène summoned her courage. The murmur was not long in taking shape.
"The Montmorencys are a brood of monsters," energetically called the young Jacobiness, rising in her place.
"The aristocrat to the guillotine!" shouted a drunken man.
"The guillotine!"
"Yes, yes—to La Force immediately!"
These and similar cries resounded. They fell upon Cyrène's ears like thunders of hostile artillery in a battle. Dominique sat quite still. His mistress rose. Now that the instant of danger had actually come she felt an inconquerable courage well up in her, which, as she stood with brilliant eye and glowing cheek, made her very beautiful. This was not in her favour with the envious knitters; but while they commented in frightful language on her gentle build, the secretary said—"Are you the person?"
"I am," she answered clearly.
"Are you not," he continued glancing at the audience for approbation, "the late aristocrat Baroness of that name?"
"I am," she replied, in a tone still clearer and more fearless.
The President's face gleamed with admiration. He rang his bell sharply and the clamours subsided. His glittering eyes devoured her features, while he said—
"Does anybody know the citizeness and answer for her civism?" He hurriedly added, "Adjourned; call the next."
Dominique caught her by the arm to make their exit, for though he could not assign a reason for the Admiral's device of favour, he was ready to take advantage of it.
As they started, one of the section members sprang up and exclaimed—
"I answer for the citizeness."
He was a man of less than thirty, and of open, enthusiastic expression, and wore the uniform of a National Guard.
"You, citizen la Tour?" the Admiral exclaimed.
Cyrène eyed the member in grateful but intense wonder. She had never to her knowledge seen him before.
"Yes, citizen President," he replied earnestly, "I answer for the citizeness because she saved my life."
The crowd hushed by a common impulse.
"You all know me, brothers," he cried, "my record for the Revolution, my passion for liberty—Liberty, Liberty, Liberty! It has been my dream under the stars, my labour under the sun, my love and my desire. I was, as all know, a patriot proscribed and condemned to death before the Revolution began. I was of the first at the hanging of Foulon, at the sacking of Reveillon, and at the walls of the Bastille. I was wounded in the stand against the Dragoons of Lambesc, and all know my scars in the battles of the North. I name these things only to prove the claim of this woman to civic rights. By her pity she saved my life in the old days, at the last moment before my breaking on the wheel. Imagine to yourselves that moment. Ask how I can feel other than gratitude and devotion to my benefactress. In the evil days of the aristocrats she was a friend of the poor. I present her now to you when it is in our power to confer liberty upon her who set at liberty, life upon her who saved life. I, the child of the Revolution, pray this as my right; she claims it also for herself as a heroine of civic virtue. Give your suffrages."
"Vive la Tour! vive the citizeness!" resounded in shouts through the hall. Once more the Admiral rang his bell, and silenced followed.
"Yes, citizeness," he said, addressing her, "your courage is French courage, your virtue French virtue, and the good heart of the nation sees in you a daughter of the people. Incarnating the spirit of the race, be welcome at the tables of fraternity, and accept the homage of all hearts."
At a motion of his hand the secretary hastily filled in her certificate, and Dominique, without waiting for his own, hurried her away. Even as they left they heard Wife Gougeon scream—
"Death to the aristocrat!"
They hastened across the Place de Grève, but had not yet reached the corner of the street beyond, when in the dusk Cyrène heard the sound of rushing wheels, felt herself choked by a gag from behind, and was pushed helpless by rough hands into a coach and driven away. Behind her she heard a sound of scuffle and the voice of Dominique cry aloud in anguish—
"They have finished me!"
"Be quiet, my lady," spoke the voice of Abbé Jude.
She knew no more till she woke in darkness.
JUDGMENT DAY
Germain, left alone in the house, bolted the door, returned with trembling limbs to the room above and threw himself down in his chair blanched and nerveless. They who have experienced the minutes when a well-loved one hangs between life and death can alone know what he suffered. It was now that the fleeting poverty of the ideals he had been following became visible. The elegance, the pride, the historic glamour, the fine breeding of the OldRégime, by which he had been fascinated, had they not fallen to pieces like a flower whose petals are scattered in the tempest? Even the burning hope of his heart, the dream of a life of earthly bliss with his love, was showing its insecurity and dropping asunder. His ship was sinking in the ocean of Eternity. How futile his intrigue, how mean his deceptions, how insufficient his excuses. The Everlasting Presence gazed through them, and in its all-illumining blaze they fell and sank away. He saw that that which underlies life and death and all that is, is a living Conscience, to which all must perforce conform. Pride, deception, selfishness, uncontrol of passion, the taking of that which was not his, and the injuring of honourable men—these excrescences he saw upon his soul, and that without their surgery it would never be divine. He remembered the prophetic warning of his father that "Eternal Justice calls us to exact account"; and the pertinacity of Retribution in the matter of the Golden Dog. He saw that the justice of this life and the next are one, and are absolutely complete in their demands. One great conclusion came to him with overwhelming force; he saw that it was the plan of Heaven thatno man must profit by any fruit of his wrong. He now himself must meet that justice and make that retribution.
At length, leaving the room, he dragged himself up the stair leading to his own chamber, a cramped place in the flat above, bearing small resemblance to his luxurious apartments of former days; yet around it were hung the de Lincy family portraits; his sword of the Bodyguard lay on the mantel; and in the space behind the door were the old Chevalier's iron-bound muniment-chest and his own little portmanteau gilded with his arms.
With fevered face and icy hands he opened the latter and sought out the packet of his proofs ofnoblesse. Then turning to the fireplace beneath the mantel, he threw the papers one by one into it—his falsified birth-certificate, his father's altered marriage-contract, the letter of the gentlemen of Montreal, the apology of Councillor de Léry, the will of the Chevalier de Lincy and the attestation of the Genealogist of France. He took a flint and steel from the mantel and quickly struck spark after spark into them until they sprang into flames. Then he added his great genealogical tree of the de Lincys, whose branches withered and quivered, like his heart, as the fire attacked the broad folds of the parchment. Packet after packet the precious archives of the Lecours de Lincy went upon the pile until he had emptied the muniment-chest; the fire raged and reddened into a solid mass, and they were irrevocably gone. Next he took up de Bailleul's will—sorrowfully and hesitatingly, for it was his title to Eaux Tranquilles—but the following instant he threw it also on the flames. Then he deliberately cast in his Grand Cross of St. Louis and the insignia of the Order of the Holy Ghost. HisDiamond Armorialfollowed, he tore his seal, cut with the pretended coat-of-arms, from his watch-chain, broke up with his foot his little portmanteau, and tearing down the de Lincy portraits one by one watched all blaze up and consume together. At last, on the top of the heap, he mournfully laid his sword of the Bodyguard and saw its golden handle and delicate blade begin to glow and discolour.
"Disappear, old dreams;" he murmured, "Eternal Justice visit me for all! But afflict nother; spare thine angel for her own sake. Oh, spareher."
One packet remained, which he had intentionally not destroyed. When the fire settled down a little he took a strong paper and cord, wrapped and sealed it, and addressed it for mailing as follows—
Humbly he descended the stair once more, and placing the package on the table of the sitting-room, sank again feverishly into his chair, prepared to confess all should Cyrène safely return.
A knocking sounded in the lower part of the house. He went to the door; the wicket showed a beggar woman, but on Mademoiselle Richeval mentioning her name he recognised her and let her in. His mind was so absorbed that he felt no surprise. As food was what she wanted he set before her everything in their little larder; and while she was eating like one famished he forgot her presence completely. The two once so sociable persons were for a while dumb to each other.
At length, however, having satisfied her ravenous hunger, she commenced to speak of the changes which the Revolution had brought to them and to wonder at his strange want of interest, when the noise of a mob crowding around the door was heard.
Lecour saw what might happen.
"Fly, Mademoiselle," he said; "in the courtyard there is a door on the left, take it and pass into the next house where are good people who will not abandon you. I must stay here."
He then went to the door at which pikes and gun-stocks were beating.
"Citizens, I am the only person in the house," said he, at an opening they had broken in one of the panels. "What do you wish?"
For answer several pikes were thrown in; he stepped back beyond their reach, calmly fronting the fierce faces.
"Tell me what you want. I am ready to do your will."
There was a short period of indecision outside. A muscular man in a carmagnole swinging a formidable axe pushed forward and the others fell back at his rough order.
"I arrest you, citizen Répentigny," said Hache, for it was he. "We mates of Bec and Caron that you quartered have had it in for you for a long time. I am a commissioner now, and they call this my domiciliary visit. If you will come, I will see, on the faith of a brigand, that you get to prison safely; if not, I will see that you don't. Do you come?"
Germain calculated the seconds he had been able to save for Mademoiselle Richeval. They were ample.
He opened the door and gave himself up.
LOVE ENDURETH ALL THINGS
Cyrène, when she found herself in darkness, had a confused idea that she was waking from a dream and lying in her bed at the house in the Rue Honoré. Under that impression she drew a breath of relief. A curse from a woman's voice somewhere near by made her realise the truth; the cry of Dominique, "They have finished me!" and the circumstances of his disappearance from her side returned vividly, and her heart sickened. But misery is like a thermometer; after reaching a particular degree it can fall but slightly lower. The death of Dominique only benumbed her brain. Her next impression was that this place in which she lay must be a dungeon, and as her eyes could make out nothing whatever in the darkness she concluded that the woman she heard must be a prisoner in an adjoining cell.
In a short time a stealthy step approached. It stopped, a wooden door swung back, and a band of greyish light showed a low room of rough beams without a window. At the door Wife Gougeon peered in, and behind her was the cheerless perspective of the shop, additionally cheerless in the grey of early morning.
"Well, wench, how do you like being aSans-culotte? You slept too soft in the OldRégime."
Cyrène had not noticed how she had been sleeping; she now saw that her bed was a pile of straw on a box.
"Get up, you sow, and sweep my floor!" exclaimed the ragman's wife. "Get up!"
Cyrène's first instinct was to lie still in tacit disdain. The recollection of Germain, however, crossed her mind. Rather submit to anything than exasperate his enemies; so she rose, with an effort. Her limbs felt heavy.
"Out now, take this broom, you sot, and sweep the floor."
Cyrène came out and proceeded to brush aside the dust between the piles of metal. Wife Gougeon sat back on a block of wood and laughed, in immense enjoyment.
"So you were a baroness once, one of the heretofores? Well, I like baronesses to do my dirty work for me and Montmorencys for my sweeps. You never thought the people would arrive at this, eh? You thought, you aristocrats, that you could have the fine houses and we could do all the scullery work. How do you like it? Oh, I have dirtier work than that that I will make you do. This is only the commencement. Sweep that board clean, you pig!"
The woman fumed at Cyrène's silence.
"Have you no tongue, animal? Why don't you answer when I speak? I'll teach you," and, her eyes glittering, she picked up an iron bolt and threw it at her victim. It struck Cyrène's arm, bruising it severely. The girl winced, but continued wielding the broom as meekly as before.
"Ah," went on Wife Gougeon, "do you know what I will do with you? I will have your head sliced off. What nice necks you 'heretofores' have. I've seen many a one chopped through."
"Hush, hush, dear citizeness Gougeon," said the Abbé, appearing near by. "I brought the citizeness to you for protection; I wish to speak to her apart—say in the chamber there."
Cyrène looked at him in sorrowful relief.
"Citizeness," he said, making the greatest effort at ingratiation, "I have a few things to speak to you. You will excuse us, citizeness Gougeon?"
"Republicans do not excuse and excuse like you 'heretofores.' If it were not for the Galley, I would slice your neck to-morrow too. Go, and be quick about it, Blacklegs, while I wait to see her sweep for me again."
Cyrène staggered after him in her weakness into her chamber again, and, while she sat upon her pallet, he shut the door, took a candle down from a beam, and lit it.
"Do not mind her," he said while doing so. "She is a Jacobiness."
She looked at him as closely as her fevered sight permitted, and saw that he was shivering with excitement and his long face and downcast eyes contorting.
She sat speechless, unable to comprehend him.
"Madame Baroness," said he, "have you never wondered at your long escape from the perils of these times? When the mansions of others were burned, your house has been free from molestation; when their goods were appropriated by the nation, yours have been left intact; when all aristocrats have been sent to the guillotine, you have slept in safety. Have you not thought this strange?"
The questioning seemed to be lost upon her, except for a nod.
"Did you never," he went on, "suspect that some power was protecting you, and ask by whose influence you were thus surrounded and your peace secured? Did you never recognise a faithfulness which relaxed at no moment, a care which was unlimited—in a word, a secret friend at the source of affairs? Madame, I was that friend."
He stopped and looked at her, his increasing excitement overcoming his stealth. She was moved, and tears brimmed in her eyes.
"I am grateful, Abbé Jude; let me say it from my heart. You have been wronged by us. We believed you were different."
At the tribute his eager look intensified itself into a piercing gaze which made her feel dread of him.
"Yes, I was that secret friend," he cried. "It was I who protected you at the sections, I struck your name from the lists of proscriptions, I diverted the marches of the patriots from your portals. Do you think all this would be done for three years without true faithfulness?"
"You have indeed proved yourself a loyal friend."
"More than that," he exclaimed; "it was more than loyalty, it was worship! Madame, believe me your name has always been to me a sacred adoration, a passion, an affection beyond expression. Do you doubt it? Know that I loved you from the first moment I saw you in the house of the Princess de Poix. I loved you, I adored you secretly, I sought for a favourable time to declare my passion."
Her eyes opened wide as she listened, and she would have given worlds to escape, yet her feeling was mainly of pity.
"This is very unfortunate. Calm yourself, Abbé. I will ever have a lively feeling of gratefulness for your devotion. Think of me on those terms."
"Ah, Madame, those were the only terms which might have been possible in former days; but they do not belong to the newrégime. We are all equal now. Nothing will satisfy me short of possessing you entirely."
"Abbé, you are excited."
"No, citizeness, I have long been determined you shall be my mate." She shrank from the word and the uncanny passion of his gaze.
"When you will have reflected a few hours you will see that this is impossible."
"What! impossible? And why impossible? Ah, yes, I know, it is because of your pretty-faced lover Répentigny. I know all about that. I could have crushed him between my fingers; and I will crush him yet. What!—that man between myself and you! Why, then, did I bring you here? Was it to allow his interference with my object? After all I have done for you, am I to be met with answers of this sort?"
"I appreciate entirely your services, Abbé; they are too great to be underrated."
"They shall be more, citizeness. In these days it ismyturn to dictate."
"Am I to understand that this has been your aim all along?"
He hesitated, but replied boldly, "It has, and were it not for that, I might long ago have pointed out both you and your doll-head lover to the Committee of Public Safety."
"Then your whole service has been abstention from positive treachery for your own ends?"
"You dare me? Caution, citizeness! You are in my power."
"In your power? You are a coward as well as a knave, then?"
"Remember still more," he hissed, losing all control of himself, "that your lover also is in my power; he is captured."
"My God! you have brought us to this!" she cried.
The door creaked and the Admiral entered.
"Be off, you cur!" said he, standing sternly over the Abbé, who shrank as if struck. "Go to your work, you——"
A look of terror upon his countenance, Jude precipitated himself through the doorway.
The Admiral closed it, and returning, sat down by the candle and began to talk to Cyrène. Seeing his features so close and large and accentuated by the candle-light, their coarseness and horror filled her with wonder.
"So that fellow boasts of his fidelity!" he exclaimed, in a repulsively modulated and familiar tone. "What a wealth of tenderness such a kidnapping shows! Possibly you knew his profession, citizeness?—that of salaried spy. Your protector he claims to be? Excellent—when he could not turn a straw in your favour. He has deprived you of your freedom; that was easier in these times. I, on the other hand," he added, smiling yet more hideously, "am here to return it to you."
"I thank you," she replied wearily, without hope.
"I shall reveal to you the true reason of your immunity for so long from the wrath of the people. It was because of Répentigny, not of yourself. I arranged it, and you were then unknown to me. Through him Bec and Caron, two friends of the people, had died six years ago, in the days of the tyrant. It was I, as avenger, not the worm Jude as lover, who watched over your household in the Rue Honoré, reserving Répentigny for prolonged punishment. It was I whose power surrounded you as it has surrounded all Paris." He paused proudly.
"Citizeness, last night I saw you for the first time. Your wonderful courage, your astonishing beauty, overcame the most martial of hearts."
She started and shivered violently. Was she to endure two proposals within the hour, from such revolting creatures, and at what violence would their outrages end?
"Come," he said, offering to embrace her. She started back in terror.
"Do not tremble," he went on patronisingly; "you have nothing to fear from me, everything to expect. I am able to give you whatever you ask—mansions, carriages, jewels, pleasures, unlimited wealth, unlimited power. These are in my hands. I rule Paris—yes, France—and shall rule Europe. You shall sit by my side, and the whole world shall serve you. They shall fear or love you as you will, but I am able to see that they obey you or sink under my hand. Do not fear the squalor of these brutes whom I govern; you shall see nothing of them, for we shall sit upon the heights of the Revolution. Around us Paris shall always be gay and fascinating. Tell me your slightest wish, citizeness; it shall be yours."
"You will grant me a wish?" she exclaimed.
"Assuredly," he answered.
"Take me, then," said she, "to him you call Répentigny."
"Répentigny or Lecour?" he said, pointing to the name. "Citizeness, he is unworthy of you—totally unworthy."
"Maligner!"
"Keep your coolness, Madame; the man has long deceived you. The story that he is a plebeian is true. I can prove it."
"I asked you nothing of that sort; take me—only take me to him. Keep your promise."
"Very well, citizeness, there is but one condition. He is in the Conciergerie—in going to him you must, like him, be committed to be condemned."
"Gladly! gladly! Take me to him—take me to him—for the love of heaven."
"I love not heaven very much, citizeness, but, curse you, you seem fool enough to be granted what you ask. Look out of this door."
Obeying, she saw that a crowd ofSans-culotteshad filled the shop.
Carmagnoled and sabred, they lounged in slothful consultation and obscured the air with bad tobacco-smoke. On the Admiral opening the door, they rose in a disorderly way and made him a sort of salute.
"Arrest her," he ordered, beckoning the two foremost and waving his skinny hand back to Cyrène. They came forward and grasped her arms.
"To the Conciergerie!" he said, "and each of you answers for her with your head."
As terrified as she, the two guards tied her hands and marched her off through the Street of the Hanged Man.
In times of great misery strange things bring us happiness; the thought of her condemnation to death lifted her like an aerial tide, because being with Germain went with it.
THE SUPREME EXACTITUDE
Whoever passed within the walls of the Conciergerie was counted lost. Of the prisons of the Revolution, it was that to which the accused were transferred from the others on the eve of sentence; and underneath it was the hall of the pretended court infamous to all time as "the Tribunal of Blood." Thefiacrecontaining Germain and the National Guards in whose charge Hache placed him, was followed by the mob to the doors, and at times it appeared as if he would certainly be torn away and hanged to a lantern rope. In front of the Conciergerie, whose portal was lit luridly by two torches, a delighted audience ofSans-culottesreceived his approach with clapping.
"Another!" they shouted.
And, as an arrest was brought in from the opposite direction just afterwards, they clapped again and repeated their shout of "Another!"
His guards dragged him into the presence of the concierge, who eyed him from his arm-chair with a drunken glance.
"Dungeon," he muttered.
With a banging of bolts and a creaking of doors, two turnkeys led Lecour down into a region of darkness. The turnkeys, like their chief, were surly sots. They took him along a low passage where mastiffs which patrolled it eyed him, threw back a cell door, thrust him in, and disappeared with their lanterns.
Shut in by low, dark walls, and a roof and floor of stone, reeking with damp and filth, the cell, though but twenty feet by ten or twelve, was already the habitation of at least a score of persons.
Their features could not be easily discerned, since the only light in the obscurity was that of a single candle.
"Comrade, the floor is soft," exclaimed one of the group nearest him—a man of one eye lying on a pile of straw. "Let me present you to ourconfrère, the parricide."
"Shut your gob, thief," shouted a voice, and a heavy scuffle ensued.
Germain leaned against the wall to recover his nerves.
The other inmates had been holding a mock revolutionary trial and condemning one of their number to execution. Some acted the part of judges, some of jury-men, two of guards.
The man on trial turned indignantly on the criminals who had first accosted Lecour.
"I pray you, Monsieur," said he courteously to the latter, "Do not take that for your reception here. Those men are the disgrace of the cell. The rest of us have been used to a happier condition. Let us introduce ourselves. I am the Baron de Grancey; my friend, the judge president, is the Count de Bellecour."
Germain's surprise would have been great had he been less in misery. As it was he was surprised at nothing. Here it was but another stab in his heart. Unable to answer he sat down on a stone bench.
"Friends, we must change the diversion," Grancey said sympathetically. "Perhaps our comrade might feel better over a hand at picquet."
"Ten straws a point!" exclaimed Bellecour. "Dame, it seems to me I know his face. Where have I met you, sir?"
"De Lincy,pardieu!" Grancey echoed, scrutinising the new-comer's features. "Friend Germain, this is a sorry place to welcome you, but you will find it brighter than you think; there are wit, forgetfulness, society, and some happiness, even in the Conciergerie. Wait until you get up to the corridor to-morrow; you will meet enough of your friends to hold a respectable reception."
Still Germain could not answer. They did not realise his sorrow and embarrassment in the presence of the old friends to whose friendship he felt he had no right. His head remained bent. Of a sudden the candle flickered out and relieved him of the need of speaking. They withdrew wondering to their pile of straw.
He did not move from the bench where he sat. Soon, except for the heavy breathing of his companions, silence enveloped the place. He became absorbed in anxious imaginings.
What had happened when Cyrène and Dominique returned to the house? What accidents overtook them at the Hôtel de Ville? Where was she? What were her thoughts at that moment? And what her sufferings? Then a picture flitted across his consciousness of the early days of their meeting, the life at Fontainebleau, the charm of old Versailles. At the memory of that taste of a beautiful existence, an unearthly, sorrowful, prophetic longing came over him, not for himself but for others, for a clime where falsity, grief, change, and pride should be winnowed completely away from loveliness. He dreamt a world to come wherein the poor, the low-born, the deformed, yes, the debased children of crime itself should become of strong and perfect forms, of sensitive and rich artistic sense, wealthy as imagination in castles, parks, and solitudes, pure and keen of honour, spiritually sweet of thought, and so live serene for ever, for ever, for ever.
As morning grew, a dim light became perceptible from the corridor, and the prisoners one by one awoke. But Lecour was so weary that he fell asleep on the bench.
His shoulder was roughly shaken. "Stand up," said a turnkey. Germain opened his eyes and staggered to his feet.
"Salute the President of the Commune, you——" Before him was a short man in carmagnole and sabre, whom the other prisoners eyed with resentment and alarm.
Lecour bowed.
"You have met me before," the stranger said mockingly. "Once in the Royal hunting grounds of Fontainebleau. It was accidental. Perhaps I should not presume on the acquaintance."
Lecour perfectly recalled the visitor to the cave. That face once seen could never be forgotten, and he was overcome by the ominousness of the meeting. However, he recovered enough to answer sternly—
"Take your revenge; my neck is in your power."
"Judgment must be pronounced on you first. Listen to your judgment, Sieur de Lincy, or Répentigny. Inasmuch as, years ago, you hunted brave men who through you were condemned to death, which they suffered on the wheel; inasmuch as you wickedly murdered the starving peasants of the parishes of Eaux Tranquilles while in the pursuit of liberty; inasmuch as you resisted the sovereign people and sided with the cut-throats of Versailles, when you participated in the crimes of the Bodyguard; inasmuch as you have been of the party of conspirators against the Revolution, and have plotted with the tyrant Capet and his widow for the Counter-revolution; inasmuch as you are a suspect, inasmuch as you are anemigré; inasmuch as you are a rich and an aristocrat; inasmuch as you, Germain Lecour, son of François Xavier Lecour, peasant of Canada, and grandson of a butcher of Paris, did thus oppress the people without the excuse of hereditary illusion, but were a cheat and adventurer sprung from their own bosom; inasmuch as in order to do so you have broken many laws of the land and natural rights of mankind, have outraged the sacred names of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, and have brought, especially upon yourself, the retribution of that Order of the Galley-on-Land, part of which was assembled before you in the cave of Fontainebleau; know now then, for the first time, that through all these dealings you have been tracked by them in your every movement; that your misdeeds were collected, not forgotten; that our vengeance was on your path and waited but the time that suited us; that to hundreds unknown to you it will be a day of feasting to see you die; that they will drink wine for your blood and eat bread for your flesh, and when your head drops into the basket, they will regret the days of tyranny for this only—that the humanity of these times does not allow of breaking you in turn on the wheel."
"You are frank," returned Germain bitterly.
The Admiral was taken aback. He had counted on more effect for his harangue.
"I have one more 'inasmuch,'" said he, with a sting in his tone and a gleam in his eye. "Inasmuch as by your imposture you deceived and misled a heart too pure and lofty for such as you to have dared towards——"
This shaft was aimed to strike deep, and so it did. Germain's defiant bearing fell, he dropped his head and groaned.
"Strike him!" roared Grancey. "You must die anyway. Strike, in default of a sword to run him through!"
"He dares not!" the Admiral exclaimed to the group of aristocrats. "You take him for one of yourselves. You are his dupes like the others."
"You admit thisinasmuch?" he inquired triumphantly of Lecour.
"It is true, true, true," moaned Germain. "I may not deny it—the greatest crime of all my crimes."
The Admiral turned with a snort to Lecour's former companions. They were aghast.
"Had he denied it here are the proofs, absolutely beyond question!" the Admiral exclaimed, waving the Record, which he held in his hand.
"By the saints! what a conclusion," Bellecour exclaimed, curling his lip. As for Grancey he slowly turned his back, threw himself down on the straw on his face, and did not move. The Admiral again faced Germain.
"Shall I tell you something?"
Lecour's heart leaped. His eyes bespoke his suspense. Everything this man had to say seemed of such import that what went before faded for the moment.
"She is here."
"Here? Merciful God! alas, alas, poor Cyrène!"
The Admiral allowed him some moments. Ultimately he said, eyeing him keenly—
"You love her—would you like to save her?"
"Is there a hope?" Lecour said hoarsely, looking up with bloodshot eyes.
"Certainly, if you will do what I demand."
"Anything God will permit."
"The condition is this. That you make her with your own lips, in my presence, a confession of your imposture, of which, remember, I besides hold the proofs. Otherwise she dies to-morrow. Are you willing?" And the Admiral bent eagerly towards him with eyes full of flaming lights.
Lecour's heart stopped. His head flushed to bursting, the shame of years overcame him. His assent was expressed by more a groan than a word. The frightful thought was that she would repulse him for ever.
Yes, that too must be faced and done with—bitterness of bitterness. The old dream so marvellously won by deception must be shattered in every point. The Eternal Justice said to him: "No man who has profited by a wrong shall keep its fruits." Ah, what fruit of fruits, her love!
"It will finish him with her," the Admiral muttered, watching him. But Lecour did not hear. TheSans-culottePresident rapped on the iron door with his boot, a turnkey replied, and in a few minutes four of these men appeared with Cyrène. As soon as she saw Germain she clasped her hands to her bosom and uttered a strange cry, a cry full of wild gladness and fierce agony, such as a soul writhing in the flames of purgatory might give at a sudden opening of the gates of both heaven and hell, and she sprang forward to press him to her breast.
Not such was the will of the Admiral. As quick as she, he interposed himself, and standing in front of Germain grasped her arm and said to her firmly—
"This fellow has something to say to you first."
Then, turning to Lecour, who stood with head down and feelings worse than those of his condemnation to death—
"Speak, butcher's grandson!"
He withdrew a step to allow Germain to face Cyrène.
The condemned man fell upon his knees and broke into sobs.
"Speak, housekeeper's son!" the Admiral cried exultantly.
"You are a devil!" screamed Cyrène to him, and bent down her arms to Germain.
To her bitter surprise the latter shrank back, and seizing her hand covered it with kisses instead.
"No," he sobbed, "no, Madame Baroness; it is all true—I am not your equal. I am baseborn, an impostor, an adventurer, the son of the peasant and the servant, the grandson of the butcher. I am no de Lincy nor Répentigny. My titles were false, my credit stolen, my position came to me by accident, and my defence was one long falsehood. De Léry was right. In him I wronged a man of honour, and my retribution is the judgment of God. Forgive me all the awful wrong I have done you. Forgive me as a creature whose only excuse has been an irresistible worship of even your footsteps."
"Stop!" the Admiral cried. "Citizeness, ponder your treatment by this varlet, who has deceived you, besmirched your life, and contaminated your hand. Another career is yours; leave him to his punishment."
The words of the two men reached her, but their meaning was not credible. Her lover—her Germain, her knight—a deceiver, an impostor? She could not realise it. Then the truth of the scene rushed over her; its logic became inescapable.
"Oh," she wailed in one long, agonised moan, sobbing and writhing in the intensity of her torture, "how can I bear this?"
"Come," said the Admiral, but she was oblivious to all except the storm of her distress.
"Come," repeated the Admiral, but she heard not.
"Come," repeated he once more impatiently; but her tear-filled eyes were fixed upon Germain. The horror of his falsity was strong within her, but his chivalry and tenderness throughout their long association could not be so quickly forgotten, nor the bonds of her affection so instantly blotted out. The mystery of his long sorrow dawned upon her, and his utter self-accusation appealed to her pity. Their differences of rank became as nothing.
"Come away," said the Admiral again, with soft-uttered persuasiveness.
Cyrène's nature, in those moments, had felt, thought, concluded with lightning swiftness. Her soul swept through a great arc of intuition.
"No, no, there is something I do not understand!" she cried. "My Germain, God has made you for me. You loved me and were led astray, but you are honourable and faithful in the sight of heaven, my eternal love. Let us kiss each other. Let us press each other to our breasts and die; in a few hours we shall be together for ever."
Before the Admiral could prevent it they were clasped in a passionate, feverish, last embrace.
"Very well," the Admiral sneered frigidly. "I keep my promises. Apothecary's apprentice, to-day you die. As for you, citizeness, I give you your freedom."
"I reject it—I will die with him," she answered.
"Not at all," he returned. "I promised him your liberty. I keep my promises."
"Wretch! you would separate the betrothed from the dying?"
"Go, beloved," said Germain, releasing her. "It is just that I should die, but not you. I shall love you in the grave. Remember not my errors."
"No, I will never leave you, Germain. Oh, Germain, I will die with you."
"Take the woman off!" growled the Admiral to the turnkeys. They obeyed him instantly.
Germain rushed after them to the door of the cell, but it was closed upon him, and he caught only a shadow through the grating and heard her last cry of grief.
RETRIBUTION ACCOMPLISHED
When Cyrène was pushed out of the outer portal of the prison she was met by her good friend the patriot Hugues la Tour.
"Do not despair," said he. "My influence is great; he shall yet be saved."
"Oh, for the love of God, try, citizen," she sobbed. Supporting her he signed for afiacreand drove her to his room not far away, where he left her with the housekeeper, and bidding her trust in him, flew back and obtained an interview with Lecour in his cell. He explained the object of his visit and the history of his connection with Cyrène.
"And now I am come to return her life for life," he ended.
"But mine is not worth it," Germain answered soberly. "Save hers. How can you risk yourself for me? I was once the cause of your condemnation."
"What matters that. It was but what was believed right at the time. In our glorious Revolution we do not think of revenge; we only seek to strike at the enemies of human rights. You are not really an aristocrat. Plead that before the judges: your liberty will not be hard for me to obtain."
"Noble-hearted man——"
"Take care—the word 'noble' is forbidden."
"You are generous, citizen. My conscience tells me it would be base to do as you urge. After plucking life's blossoms as an aristocrat I must grasp the thorns."
Nothing could save him from his determination. He had lived as an aristocrat—it was incumbent on him, he said, not to shirk death as one.
At last la Tour left him and sought for the Admiral. He could not find the latter until about two o'clock, and then at the prison. The concierge said he was in the courtyard and la Tour found him engaged in a singular business.
The women's courtyard was separated by an iron railing some fifteen feet long from the men's. Here the imprisoned ladies communicated with their male friends as gaily as if each were not foredoomed. The Faubourg St. Germain was transferred to the Conciergerie. The toilets were the freshest and the manners most well-bred in Paris. The guillotine was the subject of facetious remarks up to the very hour of parting for the mockery of the trial below, and at evening vows of love were breathed between the bars. La Tour found a crowd on both sides enjoying the cramped promenade. Amid this crowd was a "sheep"—one of those vile spies who acted the part of pretending to be a fellow-prisoner of the rest in order that he might entrap them into unguarded expressions and denounce them.
TheSans-culottescommissioners were selecting their daily list of victims at random. In doing so they seized the "sheep." The Admiral was present and the "sheep" appealed to him, protesting his occupation. The Admiral only laughed at him.
"Correct," said he to the guard, chuckling, and the guard needed no more. They began to drag the "sheep" away.
The "sheep" was Jude.
"I am yours—you promised me my life," he desperately screamed back. The Admiral smiled contemptuously; his eyes were very bright and hard.
"I promised that Répentigny should die first; you afterwards; I grant you the privilege of going second." TheSans-culottes, their noisy laughs resounding through the corridor and echoed by the baying of the mastiffs, dragged the spy away.
La Tour could not move the Admiral to any leniency for Germain. The bandit followed each of his prayers by a sinister silence. At length la Tour was compelled by lack of time to give him up and speed to the revolutionary tribunal itself, in session underneath. He was just in time to make his appeal, for Lecour was already brought before the jury and the five judges.
The strenuous efforts of Hugues were nullified by the persistent refusal of the Canadian to take advantage of the device proposed to him, by his would-be preserver—of declaring himself a non-aristocrat. La Tour vehemently urged him at least to cry—"Vive la Republique!" At that Lecour seemed to conceive an idea, and stepping forward cried instead in a voice of decision—
"Long live the King!"
His sentence was signed immediately.
Sanson's death-carts rolled into the courtyard. The hour for the daily public show had arrived. The rest of the prisoners on trial were peremptorily shoved through the mill of condemnation and all were hustled up to the toilette of the executioner. Hands tied, hair cut, feet bared, half a dozen were pushed up into each cart, seated three on a side, and the carts set out. Seven in the line, the roughest, rudest vehicles in the town, they jerked over the uneven cobbles, rumbled across the Pont-Neuf, and crept along the Rue de la Monnaie and then along the Rue Honoré, regardless, both they, their carters, their executioner's men, and their Dragoon escorts, of the agony they freighted. The streets themselves wore unfeeling faces. The merchants had closed their shutters and across the façades of many houses were large inscriptions such as, "The Republic One and Indivisible," "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity,or Death." And the sun poured down its untempered rays on the condemned. But more pitiless than carts or streets or sun were the coarse Jacobins who ran alongside.
With what fine wit they shouted—
"Long live the razor of the Republic!"
A newsvendor began to sing, and was joined in chorus—
"Doctor Guillotin,That greatmédécinLove of human kindPreoccupies his mind."
As to the company of the lost in the carts, they consisted of a strange variety. In the first, the principal persons were a majestic woman and her two daughters, sitting erect, with hands tied, costumed freshly and invested still with the old carefulness of manner; but the eyes of the youngest were staring with horror. There was a large dog in the same cart, condemned for carrying despatches. In the next a National Assembly-man, betrayed by Robespierre, tore his hair and raved on his fate. Opposite him two poor sewing-women, falsely accused by a neighbour, sat helplessly, their eyes shut, their lips incessantly repeating prayers; by their side, a boy of eight, with bright, fair features, sobbing, his little hands tied, as the executioner's man showed the crowd with a laugh. His crime was that his father had been a Count. Third came the cart containing Germain, to whom all eyes were directed. On the seat opposite him was Jude, frantically entreating the saints, the driver, the guards, and the crowd to take pity on his soul.
"Buy the bulletin of the revolutionary tribunal; judgements of to-day! The horrible aristocrat Répentigny brought to justice! Here he is! here is the one who defied the jury!"
"Bodyguard of Capet!"
"Here is the one who killed Bec and Caron!" shrilled Wife Gougeon.
"Long live the Galley-on-Land!"
These cries gradually roused Lecour, and for the first time, putting it all together and recognising faces, he realised the truth of the Admiral's boast that he had been pursued all these years by the crew about him—the organisation of the cave of Fontainebleau. The long-lit hatred of so many eyes stabbed his heart to the quick. Yet of the inward Passion of his journey there was no outward appearance. He sat quiet of visage, clinging to the one underlying thought that he had been able to free Cyrène. Alas! how long even yet could it be before she would be riding the same ride?
Suddenly Abbé Jude in front of him lost his frantic gestures and sobbed violently. Germain put aside his own concerns, and bending over whispered gently, "Courage, my brother, for a little."
"Admit even now that you are not an aristocrat," cried Hughes from beside the cart, "and I will move heaven and earth to reprieve you."
But Germain went steadily forward.
The Place de la Révolution, now completely transformed into the Place de la Concorde, that ornament of Paris, was then unpaved and unfinished. In the middle stood a plaster statue of Liberty and near it the gaunt machine of fear—a plank platform reached by a narrow stair having a single handrail, and, pointing out of it towards the sky a pair of tall beams between which, on touching a spring, the knife fell on the neck of the condemned.
From early morning Cyrène had been waiting, racked with fear, at the house of la Tour on one of the small streets not far from the Place. At the sound of the shouts which showed that an execution had begun, she flew there and by despairing force crushed her way through thousands of spectators, towards the guillotine, on whose platform figures could already be seen appearing and falling one by one. She moaned and gasped at each fresh obstacle to her frantic efforts. Her lips were white, her eyes staring.
The patriotesses, who sat knitting on the stand erected near the machine for their daily delectation, agreed that she was an excellent diversion.
All at once her difficulty in pushing forward ceased and the brutes around her made way.
"Give her a good place," she heard one cry, and many hands impelled her to the foot of the guillotine. Bloated faces, wicked jests, fists grasping pipes and bottles, a tumult of the coarse and passionate, swayed, about her, organised under one being, the Admiral, jeering in his low power. Never had his head, his face, shown more completely their resemblance to a skull.
As he stretched up his arm with a gesture of ferocious, gleeful malice, the wretches around the scaffold, as one man, broke into intoxicated laughter, joined hands and swayed in and out in the popular dance—
"Hurrah for the soundOf the cannon."
Meanwhile two of his henchmen held Cyrène before him.
"Look!" he cried to her. "See!" and pointed up to the guillotine. Her eyes involuntarily followed.
She saw the flash of the descending blade. Wild and speechless, she hung petrified on the arms of the two men holding her. But now she was oblivious of everything except that another head, another form, far above all else to her, was on the platform. His face was pallid, his bearing sweet, solemn, and brave.