[1]I have not changed one word of this request, which I have copied from Charles Nodier's "Souvenirs de la Révolution."
[1]I have not changed one word of this request, which I have copied from Charles Nodier's "Souvenirs de la Révolution."
"I am willing," cried Schneider; "I will agree to anything that you like, on one condition."
"What is it?"
"It is that we start to-day instead of to-morrow."
"Impossible," said Clotilde, growing pale. "It is now half-past one and the gates of the city close at three."
"Then they shall be closed at four!" And summoning two of his hussars, lest an accident befall one or the other on the road, he said: "Ride at full speed to Strasbourg, and tell them not to shut the Kehl gate until four o'clock. You will remain at the gate and see that my orders are executed."
"All must be as you wish," said Clotilde, laying her hand in Schneider's. "Certainly, papa, I have every prospect of being a happy bride."
The night passed, as we have seen, without anything being heard from Tétrell; the day passed also. At five o'clock in the afternoon, as they had received no news, Eugene and Augereau resolved to go where they could get some information. They returned to the Hôtel de la Lanterne, and there they heard some indeed.
Madame Teutch, in despair, told them that her little Charles had been arrested at eight o'clock in the morning, and taken to prison. All day she had waited to see Saint-Just, and had been unable to do so until five o'clock in the afternoon, when she had given him Charles's note.
Saint-Just had said to her: "Very well, if what you have told me is true he shall be set at liberty to-morrow."
Madame Teutch had come away with some slight hope; citizen Saint-Just did not seem as ferocious as he was reported to be.
Charles, although he was sure of his innocence, since he had never had anything to do with politics in his whole life, grew impatient as the day passed without bringing him any news; but his impatience changed to uneasiness when the whole morning of the next day passed and the representative of the people did not send for him.
Saint-Just was not to blame, for he was one of the most scrupulous men in the world where a promise was concerned. A grand tour of inspection had been decided upon for the next day at dawn, that he might ascertain whether the orders he had given were being carried out. He did not return to his hotel until one o'clock, and then, remembering the promise he had given, he sent word to the prison that little Charles should be brought to him.
Saint-Just had been wet to the skin during the morning's excursion, and when the boy entered his room he was just putting the finishing touches to his fresh toilet by tying his cravat.
The cravat, as is well known, was the essential point of Saint-Just's toilet. It was a scaffolding of muslin from which rose a handsome head, and it was partially intended to conceal the immense development of the jaws, which is often noticeable in beasts of prey and in conquerors. The most remarkable feature about Saint-Just's face was his large, limpid eyes, earnest, deep, and questioning, shadowed by heavy eyebrows which met above the nose whenever he frowned in impatience or, preoccupation. He had the pale complexion of that grayish tint so common to many of those laborious toilers of the Revolution, who, fearing a premature death, added nights to days in order to finish theterrible work which the genius that watches over the grandeur of nations, and which we dare call Providence, had intrusted to them. His lips were soft and fleshy, as befitted those of the sensual man whose first literary effort had expressed itself in an obscene book, but who, by a prodigious effort of will, had succeeded in dominating his temperament, and in imposing upon himself a life of continence as far as women were concerned. While adjusting his cravat, or arranging the silky ends of his magnificent hair, he dictated to a secretary the orders, decrees, laws, and judgments which were destined to cover the walls of the most frequented squares, crossroads, and streets of Strasbourg, and which were posted in two languages.
In fact, so great was the sovereign, absolute, and aristocratic power of the representatives of the people who were sent to the armies, that they thought no more of cutting off heads than of switching off the top of some wayside plant. But that which rendered the style of Saint-Just's decrees remarkable was their conciseness and the brief, sonorous, and vibrating voice in which he pronounced them. The first time that he spoke in the Convention, he demanded the king's arrest; and at the first words of the speech, cold, sharp, and cutting as steel, there was not one present who did not feel with a shudder that the king was doomed.
When his cravat was tied Saint-Just turned to put on his coat, and saw the boy who was waiting.
He looked at him, trying to remember who he was; and then, suddenly pointing to the mantel-piece, he asked: "Was it you whom they arrested yesterday morning, and who sent me a note by the landlady of your inn?"
"Yes, citizen," answered Charles; "it was I."
"Then the men who arrested you allowed you to write to me?"
"I wrote before I was arrested."
"How was that?"
"I knew that I was going to be arrested."
"And you did not hide yourself?"
"What for? I was innocent, and they say that you are just."
Saint-Just looked at the boy in silence. He himself looked very young just then, with his shirt of whitest linen and large sleeves, his white waistcoat, and his artistically tied cravat.
"Are your parents emigrants?"
"No, citizen; my parents are not aristocrats."
"What are they?"
"My father presides over the tribunal of Besamjon, and my uncle is commander of a battalion."
"How old are you?"
"A little over thirteen."
"Come nearer."
The boy obeyed.
"Upon my word, it's true," said Saint-Just; "he looks like a little girl. But you must have done something to be arrested."
"Two of my compatriots, citizens Ballu and Dumont, came to Strasbourg to secure the release of Adjutant-General Perrin. I knew that they were to be arrested during the night, and I sent them a little note of warning. My handwriting was recognized. I thought I was doing right. I appeal to your heart, citizen Saint-Just!"
Saint-Just placed his hand, which was as white and well cared for as that of a woman, upon the boy's shoulder.
"You are still a child," he replied, "and I will only say this: There is a sentiment even more holy than love of one's countrymen; it is love of one's country. Before being citizens of the same town we are children of the same country. A day will come when reason will have advanced sufficiently to value humanity more than patriotism, when all men will be brothers, all nations as sisters, when tyrants will be the only enemies. You yielded to an honorable sentiment, the love of your neighbor, which is enjoined by the Evangelist; but in yielding to it you have forgotten a sentiment which is yet higher, more sacred, more sublime. Devotion to yourcountry should come before everything else. If these men were enemies of their country, if they had transgressed its laws, you should not have interfered between them and the knife. I have no right to set myself up as an example, being one of the humblest servants of liberty; but I serve her according to my ability, I cause her to triumph whenever it lies within my power to do so; that is my sole ambition. Why am I to-day so calm and so proud of myself? It is because I have this very day, at the price of my own heart's blood, given a proof of respect for the law which I myself made."
He paused a moment to make sure that the child was listening attentively. The boy did not lose a syllable. On the contrary, as if already preparing to transmit them to posterity, he was storing in his memory the words which fell from that strong mouth. Saint-Just continued:
"Since the shameful panic of Eisemberg, I issued a decree which forbade any soldier or officer to go to bed without being fully clothed. Well, on my tour of inspection this morning I looked forward to meeting a friend from my own part of the country, coming, like me, from the department of the Aisne; like me, from Blérancourt; and, like me again, a pupil in the college of Soissons. His regiment arrived yesterday, in the village of Schiltigheim. I directed my course therefore toward the village, and asked in what house Prosper Lenormand was lodged. It was pointed out to me, and I hastened thither. His room was on the first floor, and, although I have great control over myself, my heart beat high, as I mounted the stairs, at the thought of seeing my friend again after five years of separation. I entered the first room, calling out: 'Prosper! Prosper! Where are you? It is your old chum, Saint-Just.'
"I had no sooner spoken than the door opened, and a young man, clad only in his night-shirt, threw himself into my arms, crying: 'Saint-Just; my dear Saint-Just!'
"I wept as I pressed him to my heart, for that heart was about to receive a terrible blow.
"The friend of my childhood, whom I now saw for the first time after five years—he whom I had sought out myself, so eager was I to meet him again—he had violated the law which I had promulgated only three days before. He had incurred the death penalty.
"Then my heart yielded before the power of my will, and, turning to those present, I said calmly: 'Heaven be doubly praised, since I have seen you again, and since I can give, in the person of one so dear to me, a memorable lesson of discipline and a grand example of justice by sacrificing you to the public safety.'
"Then, speaking to those who accompanied me, I said: 'Do your duty.'
"I then embraced Prosper for the last time, and at a sign from me they conducted him out of the room."
"What for?" asked Charles.
"To shoot him. Was he not forbidden, under penalty of death, to go to bed with his clothes off?"
"But you pardoned him?" asked Charles, moved to tears.
"Ten minutes later he was dead."
Charles uttered a cry of terror.
"Your heart is still weak, poor child; read Plutarch and you will become a man. And what are you doing in Strasbourg?"
"I am studying, citizen," replied the child. "I have only been here three days."
"And what are you studying in Strasbourg?"
"Greek."
"It seems to me it would be more logical to study German. Besides, of what use is Greek, since the Lacedæmonians have written nothing?" Then, after a moment of silence, during which he continued to look curiously at the boy, he asked: "And who is the learned man who gives lessons in Greek in Strasbourg?"
"Euloge Schneider," answered Charles.
"What! Euloge Schneider knows Greek?" asked Saint-Just.
"He is one of the first Greek scholars of the day; he has translated Anacreon."
"The Monk of Cologne," exclaimed Saint-Just. "Euloge Schneider a Greek scholar! Well, so be it; go learn Greek of Euloge Schneider. But if I thought," he continued in a quivering voice, "that you would learn anything else of him I would rather strangle you."
Stunned by this outburst, the boy stood silent and motionless, leaning against the wall like a tapestried figure.
"Oh!" cried Saint-Just, becoming more and more excited, "it is traffickers like him, with his Greek, who destroy the holy cause of the Revolution. It is they who send forth mandates to arrest children thirteen years of age because they lodge in the same inn where the police have found two suspected travellers. It is thus that these wretches seek to curry favor with the Mountain. Ah, I swear to Heaven that I will soon do justice to these attempts which endanger our most precious liberties. There is urgent need of prompt justice, which shall serve as an example; I will execute it. They dare to reproach me with not giving them enough corpses to devour. I will give them some! The Propagande wishes blood! It shall have it. And, to begin with, I will bathe it in the blood of its leaders. If I can only find a pretext, if I can only have justice on my side, they shall see!"
Saint-Just, losing his cold calmness, became terrible in his threats; his eyebrows met and his nostrils dilated like those of a hunted lion; his complexion turned ashen; he seemed to be looking for something animate or inanimate to crush.
Just then a messenger, who had recently dismounted, as could be seen from the splashes of mud flecking his garments, entered precipitately, and, approaching Saint-Just, said a few words to him in an undertone. At these words an expression of joy, mingled with doubt, flitted across the representative's face. The news which had just been brought to him was so welcome that he dared not believe it.
Saint-Just looked the man over from head to foot, as if to make sure that he was not dealing with a madman.
"And you come, you say—" he asked.
"From your colleague Lebas."
"To tell me—"
The man lowered his voice again so that Charles could not hear what he said; as for the secretary, he had long since gone out to carry Saint-Just's decrees to the printer.
"Impossible," said the pro-consul, passing from hope to doubt; for the thing appeared incredible to him.
"Nevertheless, it is so," replied the messenger.
"But he would never dare!" said Saint-Just, setting his teeth and allowing a glance of hatred to escape his eyes.
"It is the Hussars of Death themselves who are guarding the gate and who will not allow it to be shut."
"The Kehl gate?"
"The Kehl gate."
"The very one that faces the enemy?"
"Yes, that very one."
"In spite of my formal order?"
"In spite of your formal order."
"And what reason have the Hussars of Death given for preventing that gate from being closed at three o'clock, when there is a formal order that all the gates of Strasbourg shall be shut at that hour under pain of death to him who prevents it?"
"They say that the Commissioner of the Republic is to return to the city by that gate with his betrothed."
"Euloge Schneider's betrothed? The betrothed of the Monk of Cologne?"
Saint-Just looked around him, evidently seeking Charles in the shadows which were beginning to darken the apartment.
"If you are looking for me, citizen Saint-Just, here I am," said the youth, approaching him.
"Yes, come here! Have you heard that your Greek professor is about to be married?"
Mademoiselle de Brumpt's story recurred at once to the boy's mind.
"It would take too long to tell you what I think."
"No, tell me," said Saint-Just, laughing; "we have plenty of time."
Charles related the story of the dinner at Euloge Schneider's, together with the episode of the young girl and that of the executioner. As he listened, Saint-Just's head remained motionless, but the rest of his body quivered unceasingly.
Suddenly a great hubbub was heard in one of the streets leading from the Kehl gate to the town-hall.
Doubtless Saint-Just divined the cause of this commotion, for, turning to Charles, he said: "If you would like to go, my child, you are free to do so; but if you would like to be present at a great act of justice, remain."
Charles's curiosity forbade him to go, and he remained.
The messenger went to the window and drew aside the curtain. "There," said he, "there is the proof that I was not mistaken."
"Open the window," said Saint-Just.
The messenger obeyed. The window opened upon a balcony which hung over the street. Saint-Just went out, and, at his invitation, Charles and the messenger followed him.
The clock struck. Saint-Just turned around; it was four o'clock. The procession was just entering the square.
Four couriers, dressed in the national colors, preceded the carriage, which was drawn by six white horses and uncovered in spite of the threatening weather. Euloge wasseated in it with his betrothed, who was richly dressed and dazzling in her youth and beauty. His customary escort, the black horsemen, the Hussars of Death, caracoled around the carriage with drawn swords, with which they struck those who were curious enough to approach too near. Behind them came a low cart, with large wheels painted red, drawn by two horses decorated with the tri-color ribbons, and loaded with planks, posts, and steps, painted red like the rest. The two sinister-looking men in charge of it, with their black trousers and the fatal "red bonnet" with its large cockade, were exchanging rather doleful pleasantries with the Hussars of Death. The rear of the procession was brought up by a small carriage, in which a small, grave, thin man was sitting, at whom the people pointed curiously, designating him simply as "Master Nicholas." The procession was accompanied by a double row of men bearing torches.
Schneider was coming to present his betrothed to Saint-Just, who, as we have seen, had gone out upon the balcony to meet them.
Saint-Just, calm, stern, and cold as the statue of Justice, was not popular: he was feared and respected. So that when he appeared on the balcony dressed as a representative of the people, with his plumed hat, the tri-color sash round his waist, and the sword at his side which he knew how to use with such good effect upon occasion, there were neither cries nor cheers, but a cold whispering and a backward movement, which left a great lighted circle in the midst of the crowd, into which the carriage of the betrothed couple drove slowly, followed by the cart bearing the guillotine and the cab with the executioner.
Saint-Just made a sign with his hand for the procession to stop, and the crowd, as we have said, not only stopped, but drew back.
Every one thought that Saint-Just was about to speak first; and in fact, after the imperative gesture which he made with supreme dignity, he had intended to speak, when, tothe astonishment of all, the young girl opened the door of the carriage with a rapid movement, sprang to the ground, closed the door, and, falling on her knees on the pavement, cried suddenly in the midst of the solemn silence: "Justice, citizen! I appeal to Saint-Just and to the Convention for justice!"
"Against whom?" asked Saint-Just, in his quivering, incisive voice.
"Against this man, against Euloge Schneider, against the special commissioner of the Republic!"
"Speak; what has he done?" replied Saint-Just; "Justice listens to you."
Then, in a voice full-of emotion, but strong, indignant, and menacing, the young girl related all the hideous drama—the death of her mother, her father's arrest, the scaffold reared before her house, the alternative which had been offered her; and at each terrible climax, to which Saint-Just listened without seeming able to credit them, she turned to the executioner, the assistants, the Hussars of Death, for confirmation; even to Schneider himself. And each one to whom she appealed replied: "Yes, it is true!" Except Schneider, who, crushed and crouching like a jaguar ready to spring, assented only by his silence.
Saint-Just, gnawing at his finger-tips, let her finish, and then, when she had ended, he said: "You ask justice, citizeness Brumpt, and you shall have it. But what would you have done if I had not been willing to grant it?"
She drew a dagger from her breast.
"To-night, in bed," she said, "I would have stabbed him. Charlotte Corday has taught us how to treat a Marat! But now," she added, "now that I am free to weep for my mother and to console my father, I ask mercy for that man."
At the word "mercy," Saint-Just started as if he had been bitten by a serpent.
"Mercy for him!" he cried, striking the railing of the balcony with his fist. "Mercy for this execrable man! mercy for the Monk of Cologne! You are jesting, young woman.If I should do that, Justice would spread her wings and fly away never to return. Mercy for him!" Then, in a terrible voice which was heard for a great distance around, he cried: "To the guillotine!"
The pale, thin, serious man got down from his cab, approached the balcony, and, taking off his hat with a bow, said: "Shall I behead him, citizen Saint-Just?"
"Unfortunately I have no right to order that; if I had, Humanity would be avenged within a quarter of an hour. No, as special commissioner he must appear before the revolutionary tribunal, and not before me. No, apply to him the torture he himself has invented; tie him to the guillotine. Shame here and death yonder!"
And with a gesture of supreme power he stretched out his arm toward Paris.
Then, as if he had finished his part in the drama, he pushed the messenger, who had informed him of the violation of his orders, and little Charles, whom by another act of justice he had just set free, into the room before him, and closed the window. Laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, he said: "Never forget what you have seen; and if any one ever says in your presence that Saint-Just is not a lover of the Revolution, of liberty, and of justice, say aloud that that is not true. And now go where you like; you are free."
Charles, in a transport of youthful admiration, tried to kiss Saint-Just's hand; but the latter drew it back hastily, and, leaning over Charles, kissed him on the forehead.
Forty years later, Charles, now a man, said to me, while relating the scene and urging me to make a book of it, that he could still in memory feel the impression that kiss had made upon him.
When Charles went down he could view the whole scene at a single glance from the doorstep. Mademoiselle de Brumpt, in haste, no doubt, to place herself in safety, and anxious to reassure her father, had disappeared. The two men with the red caps and the black blouses were setting up the scaffold with a promptitude which evinced great familiarity with the task. Master Nicholas held Schneider by the arm; the latter refused to descend from the carriage, and the two Hussars of Death, seeing the situation, went around to the other door, and began to prick him with the points of their sabres. A cold, icy rain was falling, which penetrated the clothing like needles, yet Schneider was wiping the sweat from his dripping brow. Half-way from the carriage to the guillotine they took off his hat because of the national cockade, and then his coat because it was that of a soldier. Cold and terror made the unhappy man shiver as he ascended the steps of the guillotine.
Then a cry sprang from ten thousand throats which sounded as one—"Under the knife! Under the knife!"
"My God!" murmured Charles, quivering with terror as he leaned against the wall, and yet rooted to the spot by an unconquerable curiosity, "are they going to kill him? are they going to kill him?"
"No, don't worry," replied a voice, "he will get off with a fright this time. But it would do no great harm to finish him up at once."
Charles recognized the voice immediately; he turned his head in the direction whence it came and perceived Sergeant Augereau.
"Ah!" he exclaimed joyfully, as if he himself had escaped a great danger; "ah, it is you, my worthy friend! And Eugene?"
"Safe and sound like yourself. We went back to the hotel yesterday, and there we learned of your arrest. I hurried to the prison and found that you were there; when I returned at one o'clock you were still there. At three, I heard that Saint-Just had sent for you, so I made up my mind to wait here in the square till you came out, for I was very sure that he would not eat you. All at once I saw you near him at the window, and, as you seemed to be on the best terms possible with each other, I was reassured. And now you are free?"
"Free as the air."
"There is nothing to keep you here any longer?"
"I only wish I had not come."
"I don't agree with you. It seems to me a good thing to be friends with Saint-Just, even better than with Schneider, especially now that he is the stronger. As for Schneider, you didn't have time to become very much attached to him; so you will probably not be inconsolable over his loss. What has happened this evening will be a warning to Tétrell, who, by the way, has not budged, but who must not be allowed the time to take his revenge."
Just then they heard a confusion of cries, cheers and shouts.
"Oh! what is that?" cried Charles, hiding his head on his friend's breast.
"Nothing," replied Augereau, raising himself upon the tips of his toes. "Nothing, except that they are fastening him under the knife—doing to him just what he did yesterday to the mayor and the deputy at Eschau; each one in his turn. Fortunate are those, my good friend, who come from that place with their heads on their shoulders."
"Terrible! terrible!" murmured Charles.
"Terrible, yes; but we see that or worse every day. Say good-by to your worthy professor; you will probably never see him again, as they are going to send him to Parisas soon as they take him down from that platform, and I don't envy him his promotion. And now let us go and get some supper. You must be starved, my poor boy!"
"I never thought of that," said Charles; "but now that you remind me of it, I remember that it is a far cry from breakfast."
"All the more reason to return to the Hôtel de la Lanterne as soon as possible."
"Come on, then."
Charles glanced at the square a last time.
"Farewell! poor friend of my father," he said. "When he sent me to you he believed that you were still the good and learned monk whom he had known. He did not know that you had become the bloody tyrant that I have found you, and that the spirit of the Lord had departed from you.Quos vult perdere Jupiter dementat.Come."
This time it was the boy who hurried Pierre Augereau toward the Hôtel de la Lanterne.
Two persons were anxiously awaiting Charles's return; Madame Teutch and Eugene.
Madame Teutch, in her double rôle of hostess and woman, began by fondling Charles, and it was not until she had looked him all over, to convince herself that it was indeed he, and had kissed him to make sure that he was not a ghost, that she gave him to Eugene.
The greetings of the two young friends were equally tender though less demonstrative. Nothing binds friendship so rapidly as dangers shared in common; and since they had known each other, events had not been wanting to lead their friendship to a point equalled only by the ancients.
This friendship was further increased by the knowledge that they were soon to part. It was imprudent for Eugene, who had, moreover, nearly finished his researches, to remain longer in Strasbourg, where he was exposed to the vengeance of Tétrell, who might brood over the insult he had received for a certain time, but who would surely notforget it. As for Charles, there was no further reason for him to remain in Strasbourg once Schneider was no longer there, since he had come to the city for the sole purpose of studying under him.
Eugene was, therefore, to return to Paris, where his mother and sister were working for the liberation of his father; and Charles, utilizing the second letter that his father had given him, was to enter upon his military apprenticeship, instead of becoming Euloge Schneider's pupil.
It was agreed that the two boys should set out the next morning at daybreak. This resolution drove Madame Teutch to despair, for, as she said, she felt as if she had a little family, and she loved them as if they were her own children. But she was too reasonable to attempt to delay, much less to prevent, a departure which she knew to be inevitable and, above all, urgent. She entered therefore into all their plans; the only condition that she made was that she herself might be allowed to give them the last meal that they were to take in her house.
Not only was the offer accepted, but the young comrades, who regarded Madame Teutch, if not as a mother, at least as a friend, insisted that she should do the honors of the repast; an invitation which pleased her so greatly that she immediately gave orders to the cook for the best supper he could provide, and then hastened up to her room to don the handsomest gown she possessed.
And as the supper preparations and Madame Teutch's toilet would consume at least half an hour, the two boys decided to employ that time in making ready for their departure.
The Paris diligence, in which Eugene had engaged a place, was to start at daybreak. Charles intended to accompany his friend to the diligence and then to start for Auenheim, where Pichegru had his headquarters.
Auenheim is some twenty-four miles distant from Strasbourg. It was one of the eight or ten fortresses which, likeadvance sentinels, watched over the safety of the frontiers around Strasbourg.
Charles had need of a good night's rest to prepare for such a fatiguing journey. And it was to secure an uninterrupted sleep that Madame Teutch advised the boys to look over their papers and to pack their trunks before supper.
In the meantime Augereau went to the barracks to leave word that, as he was to sup in the city, he did not know when he would return that evening, if he returned at all. As fencing-master he enjoyed many advantages over the other volunteers of Paris, who in their turn possessed immunities which the soldiers of the country were not allowed.
The two boys left the communicating door between their rooms open, so that they could still talk with each other, although each was in his own room.
Now that they were to part, each planned out his future as he intended it to be.
"I," said Eugene, as he classified his military documents, "shall never be anything but a soldier. I know but little Latin, for which I have a strong dislike, and still less Greek, of which I don't understand a word. On the other hand, give me a horse, I don't care what it is, and I can ride it; I can hit the bull's-eye at twenty paces every time, and Augereau had told you himself that I need fear no one with sword or sabre. As soon as I hear a drum or a trumpet, my heart beats and the blood rushes to my head. I shall certainly be a soldier like my father. Who knows? Perhaps I shall become a general like him. It's fine to be a general."
"Yes," replied Charles, "but just see to what that leads; look at your father. You are sure that he is innocent, are you not?"
"Of course I am!"
"Well, he is in danger of being exiled, or even of being put to death, as you told me."
"Pooh! Themistocles took part in the battles of Marathon and Salamis, and he died in exile. Exile, when it is undeserved, makes a hero of a general. When death strikes the innocent it makes of the hero a demigod. Wouldn't you like to be Phocion, even at the risk of having to drink hemlock like him?"
"Hemlock for hemlock," replied Charles, "I would rather drink that of Socrates; he is the hero for me."
"Ah! I don't dispute that! He began by being a soldier; at Potidæa he saved Alcibiades' life, and at Delium, that of Xenophon. Saving a man's life, Charles, was the act for which the Romans bestowed their most beautiful crown—the crown of oak."
"To save the life of two men, and to make sixty thousand perish, as Phocion, of whom you spoke just now, did in the forty-five battles which he fought, do you think that would be sufficient compensation?"
"Upon my word, yes, when those two men were Alcibiades and Xenophon."
"I am not as ambitious as you," said Charles, with a sigh. "You want to be an Alexander, a Scipio, or a Cæsar, while I should be content to be, I don't say, a Virgil—there never will be but one Virgil—but a Horace, a Longinus, or even an Apuleius. You want a camp, an army, tents, horses, bright uniforms, drums, bugles, trumpets, military music, the cracking of rifles, the thunder of cannon; for me theaurea mediocritasof the poet is enough—a little house full of friends, a great library full of books, a life work and dreams, the death of the righteous in the end, and God will have given me more than I dare to ask. Ah! if I only knew Greek!"
"But what are you going to Pichegru for except to become his aide-de-camp some day."
"No, to be his secretary now; there, my bag is strapped."
"And my trunk is packed."
Eugene went into Charles's room.
"Ah!" said he, "you are fortunate to be able to limit your desires; you have at least some prospect of arriving at your goal, while I—"
"Do you think then that my ambition is not as great as yours, my dear Eugene, and that it is less difficult to become a Diderot than a Maréchal de Saxe, a Voltaire than a Turenne? To be sure, I do not aspire to be either a Diderot or a Voltaire."
"Nor I the Maréchal de Saxe."
"Never mind, we can wish for it, anyway."
At that moment Pierre Augereau's voice could be heard crying at the foot of the stairs: "Now then, young men, dinner is ready!"
"Come, Monsieur Scholar!" said Eugene.
"Come, Citizen General!" said Charles.
By a rare coincidence each one had wished for that which God had destined him to have.
One last word concerning the terrible events of that day; after which we will return to our young friends.
At six o'clock a post-chaise was brought to the guillotine to which Eugene Schneider was tied. It contained two gendarmes, who got out and unfastening Schneider made him enter the carriage and take a seat in it; then they themselves took their places beside him. The post-chaise set off at a gallop on the road to Paris.
On the 12th Germinal, of the year II. (1st of April, 1794), Euloge Schneider, of Vepefeld, was beheaded during the sessions of the revolutionary tribunal, for having by extortions and immoral and cruel vexations, by the most revolting and sanguinary abuse in the name of the revolutionary commission, oppressed, stolen, assassinated, and ravished the honor, the fortune and the tranquillity of peaceable families.
A few days later the poet-shoemaker, Young, the musician, Edelmann, and the ex-prefect of the College of Besançon, Monnet, died upon the same scaffold.
Of the five heads of the individuals which were present at the famous dinner given by Euloge Schneider, when Mademoiselle de Brumpt came to beg for mercy in behalf of her father, that of Charles was the only one which had not been severed from its shoulders at the end of four months.
The supper was excellent, the night calm, and, either because he did not wish to disturb his friends, or because he feared to miss the departure of the two boys, Augereau did not return to the barracks.
The next morning at six o'clock a conveyance stopped at the door of the Hôtel de la Lanterne.
Madame Teutch had declared that her little Charles was not strong enough to travel twenty-four miles in one day, and that the sergeant-major and she would drive him as far as Bischwiller, which was more than two-thirds of the way. At Bischwiller they would breakfast; and then, as the distance to Auenheim would only be about seven miles, Charles could do it on foot.
As we have already said, the general's headquarters were at Auenheim. On the way they would leave Eugene at the diligence, which at that period took four days and two nights to go from Strasbourg to Paris.
Madame Teutch and Augereau got in behind, Charles and Eugene in the front, and, with Sleepy-head on the driver's seat, they started. The carriage stopped at the diligence office, as had been arranged, where the diligence was all ready to start. Eugene got off the carriage; and as Charles, Madame Teutch, and the sergeant-major did not wish to leave him until the last moment, they also got out. Five minutes later the conductor gave the signal, and Eugene embraced each in turn. Madame Teutch thrust some cakes into his pocket, Charles pressed his hand tearfully, and Augereau explained to him for the hundredth time a secret thrust which he had learned from one of the best fencing-masters in Naples. At last they were obliged to part. Eugene disappeared into the immense vehicle; the door closed,the horses started, and they saw Eugene's profile pressed against the window, and heard his voice crying, "Farewell!" then the diligence rumbled into the street and vanished from sight. For some seconds they could hear the creaking of the wheels, the galloping of the horses, and the cracking of the postilion's whip, then the sounds gradually grew fainter, and finally ceased altogether.
Nothing is sadder than a departure; those who remain do not seem to have done so voluntarily, but to have been forgotten. Madame Teutch, Augereau, and Charles looked at each other sadly.
"He is gone," said Charles, wiping his eyes.
"And it will be your turn in two hours, my poor little Charles," said citizeness Teutch.
"Pooh!" said Augereau, who represented the courage of the company; "as the proverb says, mountains do not meet, but men sometimes do."
"Alas!" said Madame Teutch, "the proverb speaks of men, but it says nothing about women."
They re-entered the carriage. In spite of his heroic resistance, Madame Teutch took Charles upon her knee and kissed him for himself and Eugene. Augereau filled his pipe and lighted it. Then they awakened Coclès, who, in order not to lose completely his right to his old name, had fallen asleep.
The carriage started, but at the gate the itinerary was changed. When they inquired of the gate-keeper as to which was the shorter and better road to Auenheim, that of Bischwiller or that of Offendorf, he replied that they need not hesitate to choose the latter, which was a government road, while the other was only a provincial one. They therefore took the one to Offendorf.
This road is charming; it skirts the Rhine, and travellers have constantly before them the isles, which are so varied in form, and the broad majestic river, along which runs the road to Offendorf.
The travellers stopped a moment to breathe the horse,and to inquire for a place to breakfast; for the brisk morning air and the breeze that shook the white frost from its wings had sharpened their appetites.
They were directed to Rohwillers. One hour later they halted at the inn of the Golden Lion, and inquired the distance from Rohwillers to Auenheim. It was only nine short miles, which a good walker could cover in two hours and a half. Charles declared that they should not come any further and that he would be ashamed to tell Pichegru that he had only walked nine miles. How would he feel if they should go as far as Auenheim? He would die of shame. Perhaps, if she had been alone, Madame Teutch would have insisted, but the sergeant-major, who doubtless had good reasons for wishing to be alone with her, took sides with Charles.
It was half-past ten o'clock; they ordered breakfast, and arranged that they should separate at noon, the traveller to continue on his way to Auenheim, Pierre Augereau, citizeness Teutch, and "Sleepy-head" to return to Strasbourg.
The breakfast was sad at first; but the sergeant-major was in no wise inclined to melancholy, and, little by little, the Moselle and Rhine wine enlivened the guests. They drank to Augereau's promotion, to Madame Teutch's continued good health, since they could not wish it to be better; to Eugene's safe journey, to the successful termination of his father's trial, to Charles's future; and, as a result of these toasts, sadness yielded to an illimitable trust in Providence.
France believed neither in the ancient God who had been dethroned, nor in the new God who had just been proclaimed; the Eternal Father was too old, the Supreme Being was too young. Providence, of whom these destroyers of altars had not thought, made a fair compromise.
Noon struck. The sergeant-major rose first.
"Honest men," said he, "have but one word. We agreed to say good-by at noon, and it has just struck. Besides, if we were to stay together an hour longer, or even two, wewould still have to part; therefore let us do so now. Come, Charles, my boy, show us that you are a man."
Charles, without replying, slung his little bag across his shoulders, took his walking-stick in one hand and his hat in the other, embraced first the fencing-master, then Madame Teutch, and tried to thank her, but his voice failed him.
He could only say "Au revoir!" slip a twenty-franc note into Coclès' hand, and rush out into the road.
After he had gone fifty paces, he stopped just where the road made a bend, and saw that citizeness Teutch and the sergeant-major had gone up to a room on the first floor which overlooked the road to Auenheim.
Mistrusting her weakness, the good landlady of the Hôtel de la Lanterne was leaning upon the sergeant-major's arm, and, with the hand that was free, was waving her handkerchief to Charles. Charles drew out his handkerchief and answered her signals.
Another turn in the road hid the window from him. He retraced his steps for a last wave of the hand to his two good friends. But the window was closed, and the curtain was drawn so carefully that it was impossible to see whether they had gone downstairs or not. Charles breathed a deep sigh, hastened his steps, and was soon beyond the village.
December was half gone. The winter had been severe. For three days, a most unusual occurrence in that village, the snow had fallen and had melted as fast as it fell. But in the open country, where it was seldom trampled, it had accumulated and was hardened by a temperature of ten degrees. The road was dazzling; it seemed as if the night had spread a carpet of white velvet, spangled with silver stars, beneath the feet of the traveller. The trees, adorned with icicles, looked like immense chandeliers. The birds fluttered along the road, anxiously seeking the accustomed food with which God provided them, but which, during the last three days, it had been so difficult to find. Shivering, and fluffing their feathers, they looked twice their naturalsize, and when they perched on the flexible branches, or left them to fly away, they scattered a shower of diamonds.
Charles, who in after-life was so impressionable to the beauties of Nature, and who described them so perfectly, lost his sad thoughts in the picturesque scene; and, proud of this his first liberty of mind and body, with which he was entering the world, walked on without noticing the road or feeling fatigue.
He had already accomplished three-quarters of the way, when, just beyond Sessersheim, he was overtaken by a little squad of foot-soldiers, about twenty in all, commanded by a mounted captain who was smoking a cigar. The twenty men were marching in two files. In the middle of the road, like Charles, a horseman—easily identified as such by his boots and spurs—was walking. A large white cloak covered his shoulders and fell to his feet, leaving only a youthful head visible, in which intelligence seemed to combine with carelessness and gayety. He wore a foraging cap of a style not in vogue in the French army.
The captain, seeing Charles on the road near the man with the white cloak, looked sharply at him for a moment, and then, seeing that he was only a boy, smiled pleasantly to him.
"Where are you going, my young citizen?" he asked.
"Captain," replied the boy, believing that he must give a lengthy explanation, "I have come from Strasbourg, and I am on my way to General Pichegru's headquarters at Auenheim. Is that very far off?"
"About two hundred paces," replied the man in the white cloak; "see, you may get a glimpse of the first houses of Auenheim at the end of that avenue of trees which we are just about to enter."
"Thank you," said Charles, making ready to hurry on.
"Faith, young man," continued the man in the white cloak, "if you are not in too much of a hurry you might go along with us. Then I could ask you for some news from home."
"What home, citizen?" asked Charles in astonishment, looking for the first time at the fine noble countenance which was for a moment veiled in sadness.
"Come," said the latter, "you are from Besançon, or at least from the Franche-Comté. Can our national accent be disguised? I, too, come from the Franche-Comté, and I am proud of it."
Charles pondered a moment; this recognition of the accent awakened a college memory in his mind.
"Well," asked the young man, "do you wish to be unknown?"
"No, citizen; I was only thinking that Theophrastus, who was first called Tyrtamus, and whom the Athenians, as his name indicates, had surnamed the 'fine speaker,' was recognized as a Lesbian by his accent, after fifty years sojourn at Athens, by a dealer in herbs."
"You are learned, sir," replied the young man, smiling. "That is a luxury in these days."
"No, for I am on my way to General Pichegru, who is very learned himself. I hope to become his secretary, thanks to my letter of recommendation. And you, citizen, do you belong to the army?"
"Not exactly."
"Then," said Charles, "you are attached to the administration?"
"Attached—that's the word. Only I am not attached to the administration; I am attached to myself."
"But," said Charles, lowering his voice, "you called me monsieur out loud. Are you not afraid that you will lose your place?"
"Oh! I say, captain," laughed the young man, "here is a young citizen who is afraid that I shall lose my place for calling him monsieur! Do you know any one who wants my place? I will do him the honor of giving it to him instantly."
The captain replied only by a sad smile and a shrug; but Charles thought he heard him murmur, "Poor devil!"
"Tell me," continued the young man in the white cloak, "since you are from Besançon—for you do come from there, do you not?"
"I do not deny it," replied Charles.
"You must know a family there named Sainte-Hermine."
"Yes, a widowed mother whose husband was guillotined eight months ago."
"That is the one," said the young man, lifting his eyes to heaven.
"And three sons."
"Three sons! yes, there are still three," murmured the other with a sigh.
"The eldest, the Comte de Sainte-Hermine, who emigrated, and two others younger than he; one is about twenty and the other is not more than fourteen or fifteen."
"Thank you; how long is it since you left Besançon?"
"About eight days."
"Then you can give me some recent news about this family?"
"Yes, but it is sad news."
"Tell it nevertheless."
"The night before I left, my father and I attended the funeral of the countess."
"Ah!" exclaimed the young man, as if he had received an unexpected blow; "then the countess is dead?"
"Yes."
"So much the better," said he with a sigh, as he raised his eyes wet with tears to heaven.
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Charles.
"Yes," replied the young man, "it is better that she should die of sickness than through grief when she learns that her son has been shot."
"What? has the Comte de Sainte-Hermine been shot?"
"No, but he is going to be."
"When?"
"Why, as soon as we reach the fortress of Auenheim; that is where the executions usually take place."
"Then the count is at the fortress?"
"No, they are taking him there."
"And they will shoot him?"
"As soon as I get there."
"Then you have charge of the execution?"
"No, but I hope they will let me give the order to fire. That is a favor that is seldom refused to any brave soldier taken with his arms in his hand, even if he has emigrated."
"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Charles, catching a glimpse of the truth. "Are—"
"Exactly, my young friend. That is why I laughed when you recommended prudence, and why I offered to give my place to any one who wanted it, for I have no fear of losing it. As you said, I am attached."
And shaking aside his cloak with a movement of his shoulders, he showed the boy that his hands were fastened in front and his arms bound behind.
"Then," cried Charles, with a movement of terror, "you are—"
"The Comte de Sainte-Hermine, my child. You see I was right when I said that it is well my poor mother is dead."
"Oh!" exclaimed Charles.
"Luckily," he continued between his teeth, "my brothers still live!"
Charles looked at the young nobleman with an astonishment that amounted almost to stupefaction. What! Was this young officer, so handsome, so calm, so youthful, about to die? Then there were men who met death smilingly!
He had never seen but one man who thought he was about to die, and that was Schneider when Saint-Just hadordered him to be fastened under the guillotine. Schneider had been hideous with terror, his legs bent under him, and they had been obliged to carry him up the scaffold steps.
The Comte de Sainte-Hermine, on the contrary, when he was about to die, had gathered all his forces together for the supreme moment. He walked with a light step and a smile on his lips.
Charles drew near him. "Is there no way of saving you?" he asked in a low tone.
"Frankly, I know of none; if I did I should try it."
"But—excuse me; I was far from expecting—"
"To travel in such bad company?"
"I want to ask you—" and the boy hesitated.
"What?"
"If I can serve you in any way?" continued Charles, lowering his voice still more.
"You can certainly be of some use to me; since I have seen you I have been revolving a scheme."
"Tell me what it is."
"It may be a little dangerous, and it might frighten you."
"I will risk anything to do you a service. I was in Strasbourg for three or four days, and during that time I saw so many things that nothing can frighten me now."
"I should like to send a message to my brother."
"I will deliver it."
"But it is a letter."
"I will deliver it."
"Are you not afraid of the risk you run?"
"I have already told you that nothing can frighten me now."
"I suppose I might give it to the captain; he would probably forward it to its destination."
"With the captain it is only probable, while with me it is certain."
"Then listen to me."
"I am listening."
"The letter is sewn inside my foraging cap."
"Good."
"You must ask the captain to let you be present at my execution."
"I?"
"Don't be afraid; it is a curious spectacle. Many people go to see executions just for the fun of it."
"I should never have the courage."
"Pooh! It is soon over."
"Oh! never, never!"
"We will say no more about it," said the prisoner; and he began to whistle, "Vive Henri IV."
Charles's heart seemed to turn within him, but his resolution was taken. He approached the prisoner again. "Excuse me," he said, "I will do whatever you ask."
"What a good boy you are! Thanks."
"Only—"
"Well?"
"You must ask the colonel to let me be present. I should never forgive myself if any one thought that I wanted to—"
"Very good; I will ask him. As a fellow-countryman that will be quite natural. Besides, the soldiers do not put on so many airs as the civilians; they have a stern duty to fulfil, and they make it as easy as possible. Where were we?"
"You were saying that I must be present at your execution."
"Yes, that was it. I shall ask to be allowed to send something to my brother that belongs to me—my foraging cap, for example; that is done every day. Besides, you see, a foraging cap would never be suspected."
"No."
"Just as they are about to fire I will toss it aside. Do not be in too much of a hurry to pick it up—they might suspect something. But when I am dead—"
"Oh!" exclaimed Charles, with a shiver.
"Who has a drop of brandy to give my little compatriot? He is cold."
"Come here, my pretty boy," said the captain, offering the boy a flask. Charles took a swallow of brandy; not that he was cold, but because he did not wish to betray his feelings.
"Thanks, captain," he said.
"At your service, boy; at your service. A mouthful, citizen Sainte-Hermine?"
"A thousand thanks, captain; I never drink it."
Charles returned to the prisoner's side.
"Only," continued the latter, "when I am dead, pick it up without seeming to attach more importance to it than it deserves. But you will remember, will you not, that my last wish—and the last wishes of a dying man are sacred—that my last wish is that the letter in it be given to my brother. If the cap bothers you, take out the letter and throw the cap into the first ditch you come to; but the letter—you will not lose the letter?"
"No."
"You will not mislay it?"
"No, no; do not worry."
"And you will give it to my brother yourself?"
"Yes, myself."
"Try to. Then you must tell him how I died, and he will say: 'I had a brave brother; when my turn comes I will die like him'; and, if his turn comes, he will die like me."
They had reached a point where two roads branched off; the main road led to the city of Auenheim itself, and the crossroad to the citadel.
"Citizen," said the captain, "if you are going, as you said, to General Pichegru's headquarters, that is your road. A good journey to you, and try to become a good soldier; you will be in a fine school."
Charles tried to speak, but his lips refused to form the words. He looked entreatingly at the prisoner.
"Captain," said the latter, "will you grant me a favor?"
"If it is in my power to do so."
"It only depends upon you."
"What is it?"
"Well, it may be a weakness, but it will remain between ourselves, will it not? When I die I should like to embrace a compatriot. We are both children of the Jura, this young boy and I; our families live in Besançon, and are on a friendly footing. Some day he will go home, and tell how he met me by chance, how he followed me up to the last moment, and saw me die."
The captain looked inquiringly at the boy. He was weeping.
"Why," he said, "if it can give you both any pleasure—"
"I do not suppose that it will give him much pleasure, but it will please me."
"I see no objection, and, since you, the person most interested, ask it—"
"It is granted," said the prisoner.
"Granted," replied the captain.
The troop, which had halted for a moment at the crossroads, now resumed its march. At the top of the little hill they saw the citadel of Auenheim. It was the goal of their sad journey. Charles drew closer to the prisoner.
"You see," said the latter, "so far all goes beautifully."
They went up the slope, which was very steep, although it wound around the hill. At the gate they made themselves known, and were then swallowed up in the depths of the fortress. The escort, the prisoner and Charles were left in the court while the captain in charge of the squad went to make his report to the commanding officer. In the meantime, Charles and the count improved their acquaintance, Charles in his turn giving information about his family. The captain reappeared on the doorstep in about ten minutes.
"Are you ready, citizen?" he asked the prisoner.
"Whenever you are," replied the latter.
"Have you anything to say?"
"No; but I have a few favors to ask."
"As I told you, anything in my power I will grant."
"Thank you, captain."
The captain came closer to the count. "We may serve under different flags," said he, "but we are still Frenchmen, and brave men recognize each other at a glance. Speak then; what do you want?"
"First, I want you to take off these cords which make me look like a galley-slave."
"You are right," said the captain. "Unbind the prisoner."
Two men stepped forward; but Charles had already darted toward the count and freed his hands.
"Ah!" exclaimed the count, stretching out his arms, and shaking himself beneath his mantle, "how good it feels to be free."
"And now?" asked the captain.
"I want to give the word of command."
"You shall give it. And then?"
"I should like to send some souvenir to my family."
"You know that we are forbidden to take any letters from political prisoners who are condemned to death; but anything else, yes."
"I do not wish to give you any trouble on that score. Here is my compatriot Charles, who, as you have already promised, is to accompany me to the place of execution; he will undertake to deliver something to my family; let it be, not a letter, but an article that has belonged to me—my old foraging cap, for instance."
The count named his cap in the same careless tone he would have employed in speaking of any other article of his apparel, and the captain did not hesitate to grant his request.
"Is that all?" he asked.
"Faith, yes," answered the count, "and it is time. My feet are growing cold, and there is nothing in the world Idislike so much as cold feet. Come, captain; for you are coming with us, I presume."
"It is my duty."
The count bowed, smilingly pressed little Charles's hand, and looked inquiringly at the captain to know what direction to take.
"This way," said the captain, placing himself at the head of the squad.
They followed him, passing through a postern gate into a second court, upon the ramparts of which sentinels were pacing back and forth. At the end was a tall wall riddled with balls at about the height of a man's head.
"Ah! there it is," said the prisoner; and he went toward the wall of his own accord. Four steps from it he stopped.
"Here we are," said the captain. "Clerk, read the sentence to the condemned man."
After the reading the count bowed his head, as if to acknowledge its justice. Then he said: "I beg your pardon, captain; I have a few words to say by myself."
The captain and the soldiers drew aside. The count put the elbow of his right arm in his left hand, leaned his forehead upon his right hand, shut his eyes, and remained motionless, his lips moving silently. He was praying.
There is something holy about a man who is about to die, and who is praying, which even the most unbelieving respect. Not a word, not a smile, not a jest, disturbed the count's last communion with God. When he raised his head his face wore a smile; he embraced his young compatriot, and, like Charles I., his last injunction was: "Remember!"
Charles bowed his head, weeping.
Then the count said in a firm voice: "Attention!"
The soldiers fell into two ranks at ten paces from him, the captain and Charles placing themselves at either side. The condemned man, as if he did not wish to give the order to fire while his head was still covered, took off his foraging cap and tossed it carelessly aside. It fell at Charles's feet.
"Are you ready?" asked the count.
"Yes," replied the soldiers.
"Present arms! Ready! Fire!—Long live the k—"
He had not time to finish; a report was heard; seven bullets had pierced his breast; he fell face down upon the ground. Charles picked up the foraging cap, put it inside his vest, and buttoned the latter over it; and, as he put it in his vest, he made sure that the letter was there.
A quarter of an hour later he entered citizen-general Pichegru's cabinet.