Charles, before leaving Besançon, had learned all that he could concerning his future preceptor, Euloge Schneider, and his habits. He knew that he rose every morning at six o'clock, worked until eight, breakfasted at that hour, smoked a pipe, and resumed work until he went out, which was at one or two o'clock.
He therefore judged it expedient not to go to sleep again. Daybreak is late in Strasbourg in the month of December, and the narrow streets keep the light from the ground floors. It must be about seven. Supposing that it took him an hour to dress and to go to M. Schneider's house, he would arrive there just about breakfast time. He finished an elegant toilet just as Madame Teutch entered.
"Lord!" she cried, "are you going to a wedding?"
"No," replied the boy, "I am going to see M. Schneider."
"What are you thinking of, my dear child! You look like an aristocrat. If you were eighteen years old instead of thirteen, they would cut off your head on account of your appearance. Away with your fine clothes, and bring out your travelling suit of yesterday; it is good enough for the Monk of Cologne."
And citizeness Teutch, with a few dexterous movements, soon had her lodger clothed in his other garments. He let her do it, marvelling at her quickness and blushing a little at the contact of her plump hand, whose whiteness betrayed her innate coquetry.
"There, now go and see your man," she said; "but be careful to call him citizen, or else, no matter how well you are recommended, you will come to grief."
The boy thanked her for her good counsel, and asked her if she had any other advice to give him.
"No," she said, shaking her head, "except to come back as soon as possible, for I am going to prepare a little breakfast for you and your neighbor in No. 15, the equal of which he has never eaten, aristocrat as he is. And now go!"
With the adorable instinct of maternity which exists in the hearts of all women, Madame Teutch had conceived a tender affection for her new guest, and took upon herself the direction of his conduct. He on his side, young as he was and feeling the need of that gentle affection which makes life easier for all, was willing to follow her instruction, as he would have obeyed the commands of a mother.
He therefore let her kiss him on both cheeks, and, afterinquiring the way to Euloge Schneider's house, left the Hôtel de la Lanterne to take the first step in the wide world, as the Germans say—that first step upon which the whole future life often depends.
He passed the cathedral; but as he was not looking about him, he came near receiving his death-blow. A saint's head fell at his feet, and was almost immediately followed by a statue of the Virgin embracing her Son.
He turned in the direction whence the double missile had come, and perceived a man, hammer in hand, astride the shoulders of a colossal apostle, who was making havoc with the saints, the first fruits of which labor had fallen at the boy's feet. A dozen men were laughing and approving this desecration.
The boy crossed the Breuil, stopped before a modest little house, went up a few steps, and rang the bell.
A crabbed old servant opened the door and subjected him to a severe cross-examination. When he had replied satisfactorily to all her questions, she grumblingly admitted him to the dining-room, saying: "Wait there. Citizen Schneider is coming to breakfast, and you can talk to him then, since you say you have something to tell him."
When Charles was left alone, he cast a rapid glance around the room. It was very plain, being ceiled with wood and having for sole ornament two crossed sabres.
And then the terrible judge-advocate of the Revolutionary Commission of the Lower Rhine entered behind the old woman.
He passed near the boy without seeing him, or at least without appearing to notice him, and seated himself at the table, where he bravely attacked a pyramid of oysters, flanked by a dish of anchovies and a bowl of olives.
Let us profit by this pause to sketch in a few lines the physical and moral portrait of the strange and terrible man whose acquaintance Charles was about to make.
Jean-Georges Schneider, who had either given himself or had been endowed with the name of Euloge, was a manof thirty-seven or eight years of age, ugly, fat, short, common, with round limbs, round shoulders, and a round head. The most striking thing about his strange appearance was that he had his hair cut short, while he let his enormous eyebrows grow as long and as thick as they pleased. These eyebrows, bushy, black and tufted, shadowed yellow eyes, bordered with red rims.
He had begun by being a monk, hence his surname of the Monk of Cologne, which his name of Euloge had not been able to efface. Born in Franconia, of poor laboring parents, he had by his talents won the patronage of the village priest in his childhood, and the latter had taught him the elements of Latin. His rapid progress enabled him to go to the Jesuit college at Wurzburg. He was expelled from the illustrious society on account of misconduct, sank to the depths of misery, and finally entered a convent of Franciscans at Bamberg.
His studies finished, he was thought competent to become professor of Hebrew, and was sent to Augsburg. Called, in 1786, to the court of Duke Charles of Wurtemburg as chaplain, he preached there with success, and devoted three-fourths of the revenues which accrued to him to the support of his family. It is said that it was here that he joined the sect of the Illuminated, organized by the famous Weishaupt, which explains the ardor with which he adopted the principles of the French Revolution. At that time, full of ambition, impatient under restraint, and devoured by ardent passions, he published a catechism which was so liberal that he was obliged to cross the Rhine and establish himself at Strasbourg, where, on the 27th of June, 1791, he was appointed episcopal vicar and dean of the theological faculty; then, far from refusing the civic oath, he not only took it, but preached in the cathedral, mingling together comments on political incidents and religious teachings with singular zeal.
Before the 10th of August, he demanded the abdication of Louis XVI., the while protesting against being styled aRepublican. From that moment he fought with desperate courage against the royalist party, which had in Strasbourg, as well as in the neighboring provinces, many powerful adherents. This struggle earned him, toward the end of 1792, the post of mayor of Haguenau.
Finally he was appointed to the post of public accuser of the Lower Rhine on the 19th of February, and was invested on the 5th of the following May with the title of Commissioner of the Revolutionary Tribunal of Strasbourg. Then it was that the terrible thirst for blood, to which his natural violence drove him, burst forth. Urged on by feverish excitement, when he was not needed at Strasbourg, he went about the neighborhood with his terrible escort, followed by the executioner and the guillotine.
Then, upon the slightest pretext, he stopped at towns which had hoped never to see his fatal instrument, set up the guillotine, established a tribunal, tried, judged, and executed. In the midst of this bloody orgy he brought the paper money up to par, money that had hitherto been worth only eighty-five per cent. He also, by his own unaided efforts, procured more grain for the army, which was in need of almost everything, than all the other commissioners in the district put together. And finally, from the 5th of November to the 11th of December, he had sent at least thirty-one persons to their death in Strasbourg, Mutzig, Barr, Obernai, Epfig, and Schlestadt.
Although our young friend was ignorant of most of these things, and especially of the latter, it was not without a feeling of genuine terror that he found himself in the presence of the formidable pro-consul. But, reflecting that he, unlike the others, had a protector in the man by whom so many were menaced, he soon regained his composure, and after seeking how best to open the conversation, he thought he had found a way in the oysters that Schneider was eating.
"Rara concha in terra," he said, in his clear, flute-like voice, smiling as he spoke.
Euloge turned his head. "Do you mean to insinuate that I am an aristocrat, baby?" he asked.
"I do not mean to say anything at all, citizen Schneider; but I know you are a scholar, and I wanted to attract your attention to a poor little boy like me, and I thought to do it by quoting a language that is familiar to you, and a saying from an author whom you like."
"Faith, that is well said!"
"Recommended to Euloge much more than to the citizen Schneider, I ought to speak as well as possible in order to be worthy of the recommendation."
"And who recommended you?" asked Euloge, wheeling his chair so as to face the boy.
"My father. Here is his letter."
Euloge took the letter and recognized the handwriting.
"Ah, ha! an old friend." He read it from one end to the other; then he said, "Your father certainly writes the purest Latin of any one living." Then, holding out his hand to the boy, he asked, "Will you breakfast with me?"
Charles glanced at the table, and his face probably betrayed his lack of appreciation of a fare at once so luxurious and so frugal.
"No, I understand," laughed Schneider; "a young stomach like yours needs something more solid than anchovies and olives. Come to dinner; I dine to-day informally with three friends. If your father were here he would make the fourth, and you shall take his place. Will you have a glass of beer to drink your father's health?"
"Oh! with pleasure," cried the boy, taking the glass and clinking it against that of the scholar. But as it was an enormous one, he could only drink half.
"Well?" asked Schneider.
"We can drink the rest a little later to the welfare of the Republic," answered the boy; "but the glass is too big for me to empty at a single draught."
Schneider looked at him with something akin to tenderness. "Faith! he is very nice," he observed. Then, as theold servant brought in the French and German papers at that moment, he asked: "Do you know German?"
"Not a word."
"Very well; then I will teach you."
"With the Greek?"
"With the Greek. So you are ambitious to learn Greek?"
"It is my only wish."
"We will try to satisfy it. Here is the 'Moniteur Français'; read it while I look over the 'Vienna Gazette.'"
There was a moment's silence as they both began to read.
"Oh, oh!" said Euloge, as he read. "'At this hour Strasbourg will have been taken, and our victorious troops are probably on the march to Paris.' They are reckoning without Pichegru, Saint-Just, and myself."
"'We are masters of the advanced works of Toulon,'" said Charles, also reading; "'and before three or four days will have passed we shall be masters of the entire town, and the Republic will be avenged.'"
"What is the date of your 'Moniteur'?" asked Euloge.
"The 8th," replied the child.
"Does it say anything else?"
"'In the session of the 6th, Robespierre read a reply to the manifesto of the Allied Powers. The Convention ordered it to be printed and translated into every language.'"
"Go on," said Schneider. The child continued:
"'The 7th, Billaud-Varennes reported that the rebels of the Vendée, having made an attempt upon the city of Angers, were beaten and driven away by the garrison, with whom the inhabitants had united.'"
"Long live the Republic!" cried Schneider.
"'Madame Dubarry, condemned to death the 7th, was executed the same day, with the banker Van Deniver, her lover. The old prostitute completely lost her head before the executioner cut it off. She wept and struggled, and called for help; but the people replied to her appeals withhoots and maledictions. They remembered the extravagances of which she and such as she had been the cause, and the public misery that had resulted.'"
"The infamous creature!" said Schneider. "After having dishonored the throne, nothing must do but she must dishonor the scaffold also."
Just then two soldiers entered, whose uniforms, though familiar to Schneider, made Charles shiver in spite of himself. They were dressed in black, with two crossbones above the tri-color cockade on their caps. White braid on their black cloaks and jackets gave the effect of the ribs of a skeleton; and their sabre-taches were ornamented with a skull and crossbones. They belonged to the regiment of "Hussars of Death," in which no one enlisted without having first vowed not to be made a prisoner. A dozen soldiers from this regiment formed Schneider's bodyguard, and served him as messengers. When he saw these men, Schneider rose.
"Now," said he to the young boy, "you can stay or go as you please. I must go and send off my couriers. Only do not forget that we dine at two o'clock, and that you dine with us."
Then, bowing slightly to Charles, he entered his study with his escort.
The offer to remain did not appear to be particularly attractive to the boy. He rose as Schneider left the room, and waited until he had entered his study, and the door had shut upon the two sinister guards who accompanied him. Then, seizing his cap, he darted from the room, sprang down the three steps at the entrance, and, running all the way, reached good Madame Teutch's kitchen, shouting: "I am almost starved! Here I am!"
At the call of her "little Charles" as she called him, Madame Teutch came out of a little dining-room which opened upon the courtyard and entered the kitchen. "Ah, there you are, thank God!" she cried. "Then the ogre did not eat you, poor little Tom Thumb!"
"He was charming, on the contrary; and I don't believe that his teeth are as long as they say."
"God grant that you never feel them! But if I heard right, yours are the long ones. Come in here, and I will go call your future friend, who is working as usual, poor child!"
And the citizeness Teutch ran upstairs with a youthfulness which indicated an excess of exuberant force.
In the meantime Charles examined the preparations for one of the most appetizing breakfasts that had ever been placed before him. He was diverted from his occupation by the sound of the door opening. It admitted the youth of whom the citizeness Teutch had spoken. He was a lad of fifteen, with black eyes and curly black hair which fell over his shoulders. His attire was elegant, and his linen of unusual whiteness. In spite of the efforts that had evidently been made to disguise it, everything in him betrayed the aristocrat. He approached Charles smilingly and held out his hand to him.
"Our good hostess tells me, citizen," he said, "that I am to have the pleasure of spending some time with you; and she added that you had promised to like me a little. I am very glad of that, for I am sure I shall become very much attached to you."
"And I, too," cried Charles, "with all my heart."
"Bravo, bravo!" cried Madame Teutch, coming in atthis juncture. "And now that you have greeted each other like two gentlemen—a very dangerous thing to do in these days—embrace each other like two comrades."
"I ask nothing better," said Eugene; and Charles sprang into his arms.
The two boys embraced with the cordiality and frankness of youth.
"Now," continued the elder of the two, "I know that your name is Charles; mine is Eugene. I hope that since we know each other's name there will be no more monsieur or citizen between us. Shall I set you the example? Will you come to table, my dear Charles? I am dying of hunger and I heard Madame Teutch say that you also had a good appetite."
"Heigho!" said Madame Teutch, "how well that was said, my little Charles. These aristocrats, these aristocrats, they know what is right!"
"Do not say such things, my dear Madame Teuton," said Eugene, laughing; "a worthy inn like yours should lodge nothing but sans-culottes."
"In that case I should have to forget that I had the honor of lodging your worthy father, Monsieur Eugene; and, God knows, I pray night and morning for him."
"You may pray for my mother at the same time, good Madame Teutch," said the youth, wiping away a tear, "for my sister Hortense writes me that she has been arrested and confined in the prison of the Carmelites. I received the letter, this morning."
"My poor friend," said Charles.
"How old is your sister?" asked Madame Teutch.
"Ten."
"Poor child! send for her to come to you at once; and we will take care of her. She can't stay alone in Paris."
"Thanks, Madame Teutch, thanks; but fortunately she is not alone. She is with my grandmother at our Château de la Ferté-Beauharnais. But here I have made you all sad, and I had resolved to keep this news to myself."
"Monsieur Eugene," said Charles, "when one has such notions one does not ask for people's friendship. Now, to punish you, you are to talk of nothing but your father and your mother and sister during all the breakfast."
The two boys sat down at table, Madame Teutch remaining to serve them. The task imposed on Eugene was an easy one for him. He told his young friend that he was the last descendant of a noble family of Orléanais; that one of his ancestors, Guillaume de Beauharnais, had married Marguerite de Bourges in 1398; that another, Jean de Beauharnais, had been a witness at the trial of La Pucelle (Joan of Arc); that in 1764 their estate of la Ferté-Aurain had been elevated to a marquisate under the name of la Ferté-Beauharnais; that his uncle François had emigrated in 1790, had become a major in the army of Condé, and had offered himself to the president of the Convention to defend the king. As for his father, who was at the present time under arrest on charge of conspiracy with the enemy, he had been born at Martinique, and there had married Mademoiselle Tascher de la Pagerie, and had brought her to France, where they had been received at court.
Elected to the States-General by the jurisdiction of Blois, he had, on the night of the 4th of August, been one of the first to favor the suppression of titles and privileges. Elected a secretary of the National Assembly, and a member of the military commission, he had, during the preparation of the Federation, worked eagerly at the levelling of the Champ de Mars, harnessed to the same cart as the Abbé Sièyes. Finally he had been detailed to the Army of the North as adjutant-general; he had commanded the camp of Soissons, refused the Ministry of War, and accepted the fatal command of the Army of the Rhine. The rest is known.
But it was when he spoke of the beauty, goodness, and grace of his mother that the youth was most eloquent; and he declared that he would now work all the more eagerly for the Marquis de Beauharnais, because in so doing he was also working for his good mother, Josephine.
Charles, who felt a deep affection for his own parents, found infinite delight in listening to his young companion, and did not tire of asking him about his mother and sister. But in the midst of this conversation, a dull report shook the window-panes of the hotel, and was immediately followed by others.
"The cannon! the cannon!" cried Eugene, who was more accustomed to the sounds of war than his young companion. And leaping from his chair, he cried: "Alarm! alarm! the city is attacked!" Just then they heard the beating of drums in several directions.
The two youths ran to the door, where Madame Teutch had preceded them. There were already signs of great disturbance in the streets. Riders, dressed in different uniforms, crossed each other in all directions, probably carrying orders, while the townsfolk, armed with pikes, sabres, and pistols, were rushing toward the Haguenau gate, crying: "Patriots, to arms! the enemy is upon us!"
From moment to moment came the dull roar of the cannon, signalling better than the human voice could have done that the city was in danger, and its inhabitants had need to defend it.
"Come to the ramparts, Charles!" said Eugene, darting out into the street; "and if we can't fight ourselves, we can at least watch the battle."
Charles caught his enthusiasm and followed his companion, who, more familiar than himself with the topography of the city, led him by the shortest way to the Haguenau gate. As they passed a gunsmith's shop, Eugene paused.
"Wait," said he, "I have an idea." He entered the shop, and asked the master, "Have you a good rifle?"
"Yes," replied the latter, "but it is dear."
"How much?"
"Two hundred livres."
The youth drew a handful of paper money from his pocket and threw it on the counter.
"Have you ball and powder?"
"Yes."
"Give me some."
The gunsmith chose twenty balls that fitted the rifle, and weighed out a pound of powder which he put in a powder-flask, while Eugene counted out the two hundred livres in assignats, and six more for the powder and ball.
"Do you know how to use a gun," Eugene asked Charles.
"Alas! no," replied the boy, ashamed of his ignorance.
"Never mind," said Eugene, laughing, "I will fight for us both." And he hastened on toward the threatened spot, loading his rifle as he went.
For the rest, it was curious to see how every one, no matter what his opinion, seemed fairly to spring upon the foe. From each gate came armed men; the magic cry, "The enemy! the enemy!" seemed to evoke defenders on the spot.
Near the gate the crowd was so dense that Eugene saw he could never gain the rampart except by making a detour. He hastened to the right and soon found himself on that part of the rampart which was opposite Schiltigheim.
A great number of patriots were gathered here discharging their guns. Eugene had much difficulty in making his way to the front, but at last he succeeded, and Charles followed him.
The road and the plain presented the appearance of a battlefield in the greatest confusion. French and Austrians were fighting pell-mell with indescribable fury. The enemy, in pursuit of a French corps which had been seized with one of those unaccountable panics which the ancients attributed to the fury of the gods, had almost succeeded in forcing an entrance into the city with the fleeing Frenchmen. The gates, shut just in time, had left part of the latter outside, and it was they who had turned with fury against their assailants, while the cannon thundered and the rifles cracked from the summit of the ramparts.
"Ah!" cried Eugene, waving his rifle, joyously, "I knew a battle would be a fine sight!"
Just as he said this a ball passed between Charles and himself, cutting off one of his curls and making a hole in his hat; then it stretched in death a patriot who had stood just behind them. The wind of its passage blew upon the face of each.
"Oh! I know who it was. I saw him! I saw him!" cried Charles.
"Who, who?" asked Eugene.
"There, that one there, the one who is tearing his cartridge in order to reload his gun."
"Wait! wait! Are you perfectly sure?"
"I should think so!"
"Well, then, look!"
The youth fired. The dragoon's horse leaped forward; he had no doubt involuntarily put spurs to it.
"Hit! hit!" cried Eugene.
And, indeed, the dragoon tried to sling his musket into place, but in vain; the weapon soon slipped from his grasp. He put one hand to his side, and trying to guide his horse with the other endeavored to escape from the combat; but after a few steps he swayed backward and forward and then fell headlong to the ground. One of his feet caught in the stirrup, and the frightened horse set off at a gallop, dragging him along. The two boys followed him with their eyes for a moment, but both horse and rider soon disappeared in the smoke.
Just then the gates opened and the garrison marched forth with drums beating and bayonets levelled. It was the final effort of the patriots and the enemy had not expected it. The trumpets sounded the retreat, and the cavalry, scattered over the plain, formed together at the road, and galloped off toward Kilstett and Gambelheim. The cannon were fired awhile longer at the fugitives, but the rapidity of their retreat soon put them out of range.
The two boys returned to the city exultant, Charles at having seen a battle, Eugene at having taken part in one.Charles made Eugene promise that he would teach him to use the rifle which he handled so skilfully. And then, for the first time, did they learn the cause of this alarm.
General Eisemberg, an old German campaigner of the school of Luckner, who had waged a war of partisans with a certain success, had been charged by Pichegru with the defence of the advance-post of Bischwiller. Either through carelessness, or a desire to oppose Saint-Just, instead of taking the precautions directed by the representatives of the people, he had allowed his troops and himself to be surprised, and he and his staff had barely saved themselves by flight. At the foot of the walls, finding himself supported, he had turned, but too late; the alarm had been given in the city, and every one knew that the unfortunate officer might just as well die or let himself be taken prisoner, as to seek safety in a city where Saint-Just commanded. And in fact he had scarcely entered the gates before he, and all his staff, were arrested by order of the Representative of the People.
When they returned to the Hôtel de la Lanterne, the two young friends found poor Madame Teutch in a state of the greatest anxiety. Eugene was beginning to be known in the town where he had spent a month, and some one had told her that the young fellow had been seen near the Haguenau gate with a rifle in his hand. At first she had not believed it, but when she saw him return with the rifle, she was seized with a retrospective terror that doubled the interest of Charles' story. The boy was as enthusiastic as a conscript who has just seen his first battle.
But all this enthusiasm did not make Charles forget that he was to dine with citizen Euloge Schneider at two o'clock. At five minutes of two, having ascended the steps more slowly than he had descended them in the morning, he knocked at the little door to which they led.
At the first sound of the cannon the Society of the Propaganda had assembled and declared its session to be permanent as long as Strasbourg was in danger.
Although Euloge Schneider was a fanatical Jacobin, being in relation to Marat what Marat was to Robespierre, he was excelled in patriotism by the Society of the Propaganda As a result the public prosecutor, powerful as he was, had to reckon with two powers, between which he was obliged to steer his course. That is to say, with Saint-Just, who, strange as it must seem to our readers of the present day, represented the moderate Republican party, and with the Propagande, which represented the ultra-Jacobins. Saint-Just held the material power, but citizen Tétrell possessed the moral power.
Euloge Schneider therefore did not dare to absent himself from the assemblage of the Propagande, which met to discuss the best means of saving the country; while Saint-Just and Lebas, the first to gallop out of Strasbourg into the midst of the firing—where they were easily recognized as the people's representatives by their uniforms and their tri-color plumes—had ordered the gates to be shut behind them, and had taken their places in the first ranks of the Republicans.
When the enemy had been routed, they had immediately returned to Strasbourg and gone to their hotel, while the Propagande continued their debate, although the peril had ceased. This was the reason why Euloge Schneider, who was so particular to admonish others to punctuality, was half an hour late himself.
Charles had profited by this delay to become acquainted with the other three guests who were to be at table with him. They, on their side, having been notified by Schneider, welcomed kindly the boy who had been sent to him to be made into a scholar, and to whom they had each resolved to give an education according to their individual knowledge and principles.
These men were three in number, as we have said; their names were Edelmann, Young, and Monnet.
Edelmann was a remarkable musician, the equal of Gossec in church music. He had also set the poem of "Ariadne in the Isle of Naxos" to music for the stage, and the piece was played in France, in 1818 or 1820. He was small, with a melancholy countenance. He always wore spectacles, which seemed to have grown to his nose; he dressed in a brown coat, which was always buttoned from top to bottom with copper buttons. He had cast in his lot with the Revolutionary party with the violence and fanaticism of an imaginative man. When his friend Diedrich, mayor of Strasbourg, was accused of moderation by Schneider and succumbed in the struggle, he bore witness against him, saying: "I shall mourn for you because you are my friend, but you are a traitor, therefore you must die."
As for the second of the trio, Young, he was a poor shoemaker, within whose coarse exterior Nature, as sometimes happens by caprice, had concealed the soul of a poet. He knew Latin and Greek, but composed his odes and satires only in German. His well-known Republicanism had made his poetry popular, and the common people would often stop him on the street, crying, "Verses! Verses!" Then he would stop, and mounting upon some stone, or the edge of a well, or some adjacent balcony, would fling his odes and satires to the skies like burning, flaming rockets. He was one of those rarely honest men, one of those revolutionists who acted in all good faith, and who, blindly devoted to the majesty of the popular principle, thought of the Revolution only as the means of emancipation for all the human race, and who died like the ancient martyrs, without complaint, and without regret, convinced of the future triumph of their religion.
Monnet, the third, was not a stranger to Charles, and the boy welcomed him with a cry of joy. He had been a soldier, a grenadier, in his youth, and when he left the service had become a priest and prefect of the college in Besançon, where Charles had known him. When he was twenty-eight years of age, and had begun to regret the vows he had taken, the Revolution came to break them. He was tall and stooped a little, was full of kindness and courtesy, and possessed a melancholy grace which attracted strangers to him at first sight. His smile was sad and sometimes bitter; one would have thought that he concealed in the depths of his heart some mournful mystery, and that he besought of men, or rather of humanity, a shelter from his own innocence—the greatest of all dangers at such a time. He had been thrown, or rather had fallen, into the extreme party of which Schneider was a member; and now, trembling because of his share in the popular fury, and because he had been an accomplice in crime, he drifted, with his eyes shut, he knew not whither.
These three men were Schneider's inseparable friends. They had begun to feel alarmed by his prolonged absence, for each of them realized that Schneider was his pillar of strength. If Schneider toppled, they fell; if Schneider fell, they were dead men.
Monnet, the most nervous and consequently the most impatient of them all, had already risen to go for news, when they suddenly heard the grating of a key in the lock and the door was pushed violently open. At the same moment Schneider entered.
The session must have been a stormy one, for upon the ashy pallor of his forehead, blotches of purple blood stood out prominently. Although December was half gone, his face was covered with perspiration, and his loosened cravat showed the angry swelling of his bull-like neck. As he entered he threw his hat, which he had held in his hand, to the other end of the room.
When they saw him, the three men rose as if moved bya common spring, and hastened toward him. Charles on the contrary had drawn behind his chair as if for protection.
"Citizens," cried Schneider, gritting his teeth, "citizens, I have to announce to you the good news that I am to be married in eight days."
"You?" exclaimed the three men with one accord.
"Yes! What an astounding bit of news for Strasbourg when it gets about. 'Haven't you heard?—No.—The Monk of Cologne is to be married.—Yes?—Yes, that is a fact!' Young, you shall write the epithalamium; Edelmann shall set it to music, and Monnet, who is as cheerful as the grave, shall sing it. You must send the news to your father, Charles, by the next courier."
"And who are you going to marry?"
"I don't know anything about that as yet; and I don't care. I have almost a mind to marry my old cook. It would serve as a good example of the fusion of the classes."
"But what has happened? Tell us."
"Nothing much, but I have been interrogated, attacked, accused—yes, accused."
"Where?"
"At the Propagande."
"Oh!" cried Monnet, "a society that you created."
"Have you never heard of children who kill their own fathers?"
"But who attacked you?"
"Tétrell. You know he is the democrat who invented the luxurious party of sans-culottism; who has pistols from Versailles, pistols with fleur-de-lis on them, and horses fit for a prince to ride, and who is, I don't know why, the idol of the people of Strasbourg. Perhaps because he is gilded like a drum-major—he is tall enough for one! It seems to me that I have given enough pledges of good faith. But, no; the coat of a reporting commissioner cannot cover the frock of the Capuchin, or the cassock of the canon. He taunted me with this infamous stain of priesthood, which he says makes me constantly suspected by the true friendsof liberty. Who has immolated more victims than I to the sainted cause of liberty? Haven't I cut off twenty-six heads in one month? Isn't that enough? How many do they want?"
"Calm yourself, Schneider, calm yourself!"
"It is enough to drive one crazy," continued Schneider, growing more and more excited, "between the Propagande, which is always saying, 'Not enough!' and Saint-Just, who says, 'Too much!' Yesterday I arrested six of these aristocrat dogs and four to-day. My Hussars of Death are constantly seen in the streets of Strasbourg and its environs; this very night I shall arrest an emigré, who has had the audacity to cross the Rhine in a contraband boat, and come to Plobsheim with his family, to conspire. That is at least a sure case. Ah! I understand one thing now!" he cried, lifting his arm threateningly; "and that is, that events are stronger than wills, and that although there are men who, like the war-chariots of Holy Writ, crush multitudes as they pass, they themselves are pushed forward by the same irresistible power that tears volcanoes and hurls cataracts."
Then, after this flow of words, which did not lack a certain eloquence, he burst into a harsh laugh.
"Bah!" said he, "there is nothing before life, and nothing after life. It is a waking nightmare, that is all. Is it worth while worrying over it while it lasts, or regretting when it is lost? Faith, no; let us dine.Valeat res ludicra, isn't that so, Charles?"
And preceding his friends, he led the way into the dining-room, where a sumptuous repast awaited them.
"But," said Young, seating himself with the others at the table, "what is there in all that to make you get married within the week?"
"Ah! true, I forgot the best part of the story. When they called me the Monk of Cologne—where I never was a monk—and the canon of Augsburg—where I never was a cannon—they reproached me for my orgies and debaucheries! My orgies! Let me tell you what they were; forthirty-four years I drank nothing but water and ate nothing but carrots; it is no more than fair that I should eat white bread and meat now. My debaucheries! If they think I threw my frock to the devil to live like Saint Anthony, they are mistaken. Well, there is one way to end all that, and that is to marry. I shall be as faithful a husband and as good a father of a family as another, if citizen Saint-Just will give me time."
"Have you at least selected the fortunate lady who is to have the honor of sharing your couch?" asked Edelmann.
"Oh!" said Schneider, "so long as there is a woman, the devil himself can look out for her."
"To the health of Schneider's future wife!" cried Young; "and since he has left the devil to provide her, may he at least send one who is young, beautiful, and rich."
"Hurrah for Schneider's wife!" said Monnet sadly.
Just then the door of the dining-room opened, and the old cook appeared on the threshold.
"There is a citizeness here," she said, "who wishes to speak to Euloge Schneider on urgent business."
"Well," said Schneider, "I know nothing more urgent than my dinner. Tell her to return to-morrow."
The old woman disappeared, but returned almost immediately. "She says that to-morrow will be too late."
"Then why didn't she come sooner?"
"Because that was impossible," said a soft supplicating voice in the ante-chamber. "Let me see you, I beg, I implore you!"
Euloge, with a gesture of impatience, bade the old cook pull the door to and come close to him. But then, remembering the freshness and youthfulness of the voice, he said with the smile of a satyr: "Is she young?"
"Maybe eighteen," replied the old woman.
"Pretty?"
"With the devil's own beauty."
The three men began to laugh.
"You hear, Schneider, the devil's own beauty.
"Now," said Young, "we need only find out if she is rich, and there is your wife ready to hand. Open the door, old woman, and don't keep her waiting. You ought to know the pretty child if she comes from the devil."
"Why not from God?" asked Charles, in such a sweet voice that the three men started at it.
"Because our friend Schneider has quarrelled with God, and he stands very high with the devil. I don't know any other reason."
"And because," said Young, "it is only the devil who gives such prompt answers to prayers."
"Well," said Schneider, "let her come in."
The old woman opened the door at once, and on its threshold there appeared the elegant figure of a young girl dressed in a travelling costume, and wrapped in a black satin mantle lined with rose-colored taffeta. She took one step into the room, then stopped at sight of the candles and the four guests, who were gazing at her with an admiration to which they gave expression in a low murmur, and said: "Citizens, which one of you is the citizen Commissioner of the Republic?"
"I am, citizeness," replied Schneider, without rising.
"Citizen," she said, "I have a favor to ask of you on which my life depends." And her glance travelled anxiously from one guest to another.
"You need not be alarmed by the presence of my friends," said Schneider; "they are true friends, and lovers of beauty. This is my friend Edelmann, who is a musician."
The young girl moved her head slightly as if to say, "I know his music."
"This is my friend Young, who is a poet," continued Schneider.
The same movement of the head again meaning, "I know his verses."
"And, lastly, here is my friend Monnet, who is neither a musician nor a poet, but who has eyes and a heart, and who is disposed, as I can see at a glance, to plead yourcause for you. As for this young friend, as you see, he is only a student; but he knows enough to conjugate the verb, to love, in three languages. You may therefore explain yourself before them, unless what you have to say is sufficiently confidential to require a private interview."
And he rose as he spoke, pointing to a half open door, leading into an empty salon. But the young girl replied, quickly: "No, no, monsieur—"
Schneider frowned.
"Your pardon, citizen. No, citizen, what I have to say fears neither light nor publicity."
Schneider sat down, motioning to the young girl to take a chair. But she shook her head.
"It is more fitting that suppliants should stand," she said.
"Then," said Schneider, "let us proceed regularly. I have told you who we are; will you tell us who you are?"
"My name is Clotilde Brumpt."
"DeBrumpt, you mean."
"It would be unjust to reproach me with a crime that antedated my birth by some three or four hundred years, and with which I had nothing to do."
"You need tell me nothing more; I know your story, and I also know what you have come for."
The young girl sank upon her knees, and, as she lifted her head and clasped hands, the hood of her mantle fell upon her shoulders and fully disclosed a face of surpassing loveliness. Her beautiful blond hair was parted in the middle of her head, and fell in long curls on either side, framing a face of perfect oval. Her forehead, of a clear white, was made still more dazzling by eyes, eyebrows and lashes of black; the nose was straight but sensitive, moving with the slight trembling of her cheeks, which showed traces of the many tears she had shed; her lips, half parted, seemed sculptured from rose coral, and behind them her teeth gleamed faintly like pearls. Her neck, as white as snow and as smooth as satin, was lost in the folds of a blackdress that came close up to the throat, but whose folds revealed the graceful outlines of her body. She was magnificent.
"Yes, yes," said Schneider, "you are beautiful, and you have the beauty, the grace, and the seduction of the accursed races. But we are not Asiatics, to be seduced by the beauty of a Helen or a Roxelane. Your father conspires, your father is guilty, your father must die."
The young girl uttered a cry as though the words had been a dagger that had pierced her heart.
"Oh! no! my father is not a conspirator," she cried.
"If he is not a conspirator, why did he emigrate?"
"He emigrated because, belonging to the Prince de Condé, he thought he ought to follow him into exile; but, faithful to his country as he was to his prince, he would not fight against France, and during his two years of exile his sword has hung idle in its scabbard."
"What was he doing in France, and why did he cross the Rhine?"
"Alas! my mourning will answer you, citizen Commissioner. My mother was dying on this side of the river, scarcely twelve miles away; the man in whose arms she had passed twenty happy years was anxiously awaiting a word that might bid him hope again. Each message said: 'Worse! worse! Still worse!' Day before yesterday he could bear it no longer, and, disguised as a peasant, he crossed the river with the boatman. Doubtless the reward tempted him, and he, God forgive him! denounced my father, who was arrested only this evening. Ask your agents when—just as my mother died. Ask them what he was doing—he was weeping as he closed her eyes. Ah! if ever it were pardonable to return from exile, it is when a man does so to bid a last adieu to the mother of his children. You will tell me that the law is inexorable, and that every emigrant who returns to France deserves death. Yes, if he enters with the intention of conspiring; but not when he returns with clasped hands to kneel beside a deathbed."
"Citizeness Brumpt," said Schneider, "the law does not indulge in such subtle sentimentalities. It says, 'In such a case, under such circumstances, the penalty is death.' The man who puts himself in such a situation, knowing the law, is guilty. Now, if he is guilty, he must die."
"No, no, not if he is judged by men, and those men have a heart."
"A heart!" cried Schneider. "Do you think man is always his own master, and permitted to have a heart at will? It is plain that you do not know of what the Propagande accused me to-day. They said that my heart was too accessible to human supplications. Do you not think that it would be easier and more agreeable, too, for me, when I see a beautiful young creature like you at my feet, to lift her up and dry her tears, than to say, 'It is useless; you are only losing your time.' No, unfortunately the law is there, and its organs must be equally inflexible. The law is not a woman; it is a brazen statue, holding a sword in one hand and a pair of scales in the other; nothing can be weighed in these balances save the accusation on the one side, and the truth on the other. Nothing can turn the blade of that terrible sword from the path that is traced for it. Along this path it has met the heads of a king, a queen, and a prince, and those three heads have fallen as would that of any beggar caught in an act of murder or incendiarism. To-morrow I shall go to Plobsheim; the guillotine and the executioner will follow me. If your father is not an emigrant, if he did not secretly cross the Rhine, if, in short, the accusation is unjust, he will be set at liberty; but if the accusation, which your lips have confirmed, is, on the contrary, a true one, then his head will fall in the public square of Plobsheim the day after to-morrow."
The young girl raised her head, and, controlling herself with difficulty, said: "Then you will give me no hope?"
"None."
"Then a last word," said she, rising suddenly.
"What is it?"
"I will tell it to you alone."
"Then come with me."
The young girl went first, walking, with a firm step, to the salon, which she entered unhesitatingly.
Schneider closed the door after them. Scarcely were they alone than he attempted to put his arm around her; but, simply and with dignity, she repulsed him.
"In order that you may pardon the last attempt that I shall make to influence you, citizen Schneider," she said, "you must remember that I have tried all honorable means and been repulsed. You must remember that I am in despair, and that, wishing to save my father's life, and having been unable to move you, it is my duty to say to you, 'Tears and prayers have been unavailing; money—'"
Schneider shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips disdainfully, but the young girl would not be interrupted.
"I am rich," she continued; "my mother is dead; I have inherited an immense fortune which belongs to me, and to me alone. I can dispose of two millions. If I had four I would offer them to you, but I have only two—will you have them? Take them and spare my father."
Schneider laid his hand on her shoulder. He was lost in thought and his tufted eyebrows almost concealed his eyes from the young girl's eager gaze.
"To-morrow," said he, "I shall go to Plobsheim as I told you. You have just made me a proposition; I will make you another when I arrive."
"What do you mean?" cried the young girl.
"I mean that, if you are willing, we can arrange the matter."
"If this proposition affects my honor, it is useless to make it."
"It does not."
"Then you will be welcome at Plobsheim."
And, bowing without hope but also without tears, she opened the door, crossed the dining-room, and passed out with a slight inclination of the head to the other guests.Neither the three men nor the boy could see her face, which was completely concealed in her hood.
The commissioner of the Republic followed her; he watched the dining-room door until she had closed it, and then listened until he heard the wheels of her carriage roll away. Then, approaching the table, he filled his own glass and those of his friends with the entire contents of a bottle ofLiebfraumilch, and said: "With this generous wine let us drink to the health of citizeness Clotilde Brumpt, the betrothed of Jean-Georges-Euloge Schneider."
He raised his glass, and, deeming it useless to ask for an explanation which he probably would not give, his four friends followed his example.
This scene made a deep impression upon all present, varying according to their different personalities, but no one was more intensely moved than our young scholar. He had of course seen women before, but this was the first time that a woman had been revealed to him. Mademoiselle de Brumpt, as we have said, was marvellously beautiful, and this beauty had appeared to the boy under the most favorable circumstances. He experienced a strange emotion, a painful constriction of the heart, when, after the young girl's departure, Schneider, raising his glass, had announced that Mademoiselle de Brumpt was his betrothed and would soon be his wife.
What had passed in the salon? By what persuasive words had Schneider induced her to give such sudden consent? For the boy did not doubt from his host's tone of assurance that the girl had consented. Had she asked the private interview for the purpose of offering herself to him? In that case filial love must have been supreme tohave induced the pure lily, the perfumed rose, to unite herself with this prickly holly, this coarse thistle; and it seemed to Charles that, were he her father, he would rather die a hundred deaths than buy back his life at the price of his daughter's happiness.
Even as this was the first time that he had realized a woman's beauty, so it was the first time that he appreciated the abyss which ugliness can create between two people of opposite sexes. And just how ugly Euloge was, Charles now perceived for the first time. It was, moreover, an ugliness which nothing could efface! an ugliness in which was blended with the moral the fetid hideousness of one of those faces which, while still young, have been sealed with the seal of hypocrisy.
Charles, absorbed in his own reflections, had turned toward the door through which the young girl had disappeared, like a heliotrope toward the setting sun. He seemed, with open mouth and nostrils dilated, to be absorbing the perfumed atoms which had floated round her as she passed. The nervous sensations of youth had been awakened in him, and as, in April, the chest expands to inhale the first breeze of spring, so his heart dilated with the first breath of love. It was not yet day, only the dawn; it was not yet love, but the herald which announced it.
He was about to rise and follow the magnetic current he knew not whither, as young and agitated hearts are wont to do, when Schneider rang. The sound made him start and fall from the heights to which he was ascending.
The old woman appeared.
"Are there any of my hussars at hand?" asked Schneider.
"Two," replied the woman.
"Let one of them go on horseback, and fetch Master Nicholas at once," said he.
The old woman closed the door without a question, which showed that she knew who was meant.
Charles did not understand it; but it was evident that, like the toast following Mademoiselle de Brumpt's departure, this order was connected with the same event. It was also evident that the three other guests knew who Master Nicholas was, since they, who were so free to talk with Schneider, asked no questions. Charles would have asked his neighbor Monnet, but he dared not, for fear that Schneider would overhear the question and answer himself.
There was a short silence, during which a certain restraint seemed to have fallen upon the party; the expectation of coffee—that pleasant beverage of dessert—and even its arrival, had not the power to draw aside so much as a corner of the sombre veil in which this order of Schneider's seemed to have enveloped them.
Ten minutes passed thus. At the end of that time they heard three blows struck in a peculiar fashion.
The guests started; Edelmann buttoned up his coat, which had been for a minute half open; Young coughed, and Monnet turned as pale as his own shirt.
"It is he," said Euloge, frowning, and speaking in a preoccupied voice that to Charles seemed strangely altered.
The door opened, and the old woman announced: "The citizen Nicholas!"
Then she stood aside to allow the new-comer to pass, taking care as she did so that he should not touch her.
A small man, thin, pale, and grave, entered. He was dressed like any one else, and yet, without apparent reason for it, there was something in his appearance, his figure, and his whole air that impressed the beholder as strange and weird.
Edelmann, Young and Monnet drew back their chairs. Euloge alone moved his forward.
The little man took two steps into the room, bowed to Euloge without paying any attention to the others, and then remained standing, with his eyes fixed on the chief.
"We start to-morrow at nine o'clock," said Euloge.
"For what place?"
"Plobsheim."
"Do we stop there?"
"For two days."
"How many assistants?"
"Two. Is your machine in order?"
The little man smiled, and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "What a question!" Then he asked aloud: "Shall I meet you at the Kehl gate, or shall I come for you?"
"Come for me."
"I shall be here at nine o'clock precisely."
The little man turned as if to go out.
"Wait," said Schneider; "you are not going away without drinking to the health of the Republic?"
The little man accepted with a bow. Schneider rang, and the old woman came in.
"A glass for citizen Nicholas," he said.
Schneider took the first bottle that came to hand, and inclined it gently over the glass in order not to disturb the wine; a few red drops fell into the glass.
"I don't drink red wine," said the little man.
"True," answered Schneider; then he added, with a laugh, "Are you still nervous, citizen Nicholas?"
"Yes."
Schneider selected a second bottle of wine, champagne this time.
"Here," said he, holding it out, "guillotine me that, citizen!" And he began to laugh; Edelmann, Young, and Monnet endeavored to follow his example, but in vain.
The little man preserved his gravity. He took the bottle, drew a straight, long pointed knife from his belt, and ran it around the neck of the bottle several times; then he struck it a sharp blow just below the opening. The froth leaped out as blood leaps from a severed head, but Schneider was ready and caught the wine in his glass.
The little man poured for every one; but there was only enough for five glasses instead of six. Charles' glass remained empty, and Charles took good care not to call attention to the fact.
Edelmann, Young, Monnet and Schneider clinked glasses with the little man. Whether by accident or intention, Schneider's glass was broken by the shock.
All five exclaimed: "Long live the Republic!"
But only four drank the health; Schneider's glass was empty. A few drops of wine remained in the bottle. He seized it feverishly, and carried it quickly to his mouth. But he put it down even more quickly. The sharp edges of the broken glass had cut his lips through to the teeth. An oath fell from his bleeding lips, and he crushed the bottle with his foot.
"Shall I still come to-morrow at the same hour?" asked Master Nicholas, quietly.
"Yes, and go to the devil!" said Schneider, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth.
Master Nicholas bowed and withdrew.
Schneider, very pale and almost fainting at sight of his own blood, which flowed profusely, had fallen back in his chair. Edelmann and Young went to his assistance. Charles held Monnet back by his coat-tail.
"Who is Master Nicholas?" he asked, shivering with emotion at the strange scene which had just taken place.
"Don't you know him?" asked Monnet.
"How should I know him? I have only been in Strasbourg since yesterday."
Monnet did not reply, but put his hand to his neck.
"I don't understand," said Charles.
"Don't you know that he is the executioner?" asked Monnet, lowering his voice.
Charles started. "But the machinery—that is—"
"Exactly."
"And what is he going to do with the guillotine at Plobsheim?"
"He told you; he is going to be married!"
Charles pressed Monnet's cold, damp hand and dartedout of the room. As though through a blood-red fog he had caught a glimpse of the truth.