CHAPTER II.
It was the year of grace 1792, thirteen years after the events relatedin the last chapter. It was the 2nd of September, and Sunday, a day ofrest and peace in all Christian countries, and even more in gay,beautiful France--a day of festivity and merriment. This Sunday,however, seemed rather an exception to the general rule. There were nogay groups or bannered processions; the typical incense and the publicdevotion of which it is the symbol were alike wanting; the streets insome places seemed deserted, and in others there was an ominous crowd,and the dreary silence was now and then broken by a distant sound ofyells and cries, that struck terror into the hearts of the Parisians.
It was a deserted bye-street, overlooked by some shut-up warehouses,and from the cellar of one of these a young man crept up on to thepathway. His dress had once been beautiful, but it was torn andsoiled; his face was beautiful still, but it was marred by the hideouseagerness of a face on which famine has laid her hand--he wasstarving. As this man came out from the warehouse, another man camedown the street. His dress was not beautiful, neither was he. Therewas a red look about him--he wore a red flannel cap, tricolourribbons, and had something red upon his hands, which was neitherribbon nor flannel. He also looked hungry; but it was not for food.The other stopped when he saw him, and pulled something from hispocket. It was a watch, a repeater, in a gold filigree case ofexquisite workmanship, with raised figures depicting the loves of anArcadian shepherd and shepherdess; and, as it lay on the white hand ofits owner, it bore an evanescent fragrance that seemed to recallscenes as beautiful and as completely past as the days of pastoralperfection, when
"All the world and love were young And truth in every shepherd's tongue."
The young man held it to the other and spoke. "It was my mother's," hesaid, with an appealing glance of violet eyes; "I would not part withit but that I am starving. Will you get me food?"
"You are hiding?" said he of the red cap.
"Is that a crime in these days?" said the other, with a smile thatwould in other days have been irresistible.
The man took the watch, shaded the donor's beautiful face with a roughred cap and tricolour ribbon, and bade him follow him. He, who had butlately come to Paris, dragged his exhausted body after his conductor,hardly noticed the crowds in the streets, the signs by which the mangot free passage for them both, or their entrance by a littleside-door into a large dark building, and never knew till he wasdelivered to one of the gaolers that he had been led into the prisonof the Abbaye. Then the wretch tore the cap of Liberty from hisvictim's head, and pointed to him with a fierce laugh.
"He wants food, this aristocrat. He shall not wait long--there is afeast in the court below, which he shall join presently. See to it,Antoine! And you, _Monsieur_, _Mons-ieur_! listen to the banqueters."
He ceased, and in the silence yells and cries from a court below cameup like some horrid answer to imprecation.
The man continued--
"He has paid for his admission, this Monsieur. It belonged to Madamehis mother. Behold!"
He held the watch above his head, and dashed it with insane fury onthe ground, and, bidding the gaoler see to his prisoner, rushed awayto the court below.
The prisoner needed some attention. Weakness, and fasting, and horrorhad overpowered a delicate body and a sensitive mind, and he laysenseless by the shattered relic of happier times. Antoine, the gaoler(a weak-minded man whom circumstances had made cruel), looked at himwith indifference while the Jacobin remained in the place, and withhalf-suppressed pity when he had gone. The place where he lay was ahall or passage in the prison, into which several cells opened, and anumber of the prisoners were gathered together at one end of it. Oneof them had watched the proceedings of the Jacobin and his victim withprofound interest, and now advanced to where the poor youth lay. Hewas a priest, and though thirteen years had passed over his head sincewe saw him in the chateau, and though toil and suffering and anxietyhad added the traces of as many more, yet it would not have beendifficult to recognize the towering height, the candid face, and,finally, the large thumb in the little book of ----, Monsieur thePreceptor, who had years ago exchanged his old position for aparochial cure. He strode up to the gaoler (whose head came a littleabove the priest's elbow), and, drawing him aside, asked, with his oldabruptness, "Who is this?"
"It is the Vicomte de B----. I know his face. He has escaped thecommissaires for some days."
"I thought so. Is his name on the registers?"
"No. He escaped arrest, and has just been brought in, as you saw."
"Antoine," said the priest, in a low voice, and with a gaze thatseemed to pierce the soul of the weak little gaoler; "Antoine, whenyou were a shoemaker in the Rue de la Croix, in two or three hardwinters I think you found me a friend."
"Oh! Monsieur le Cure," said Antoine, writhing; "if Monsieur le Curewould believe that if I could save his life! But--"
"Pshaw!" said the priest, "it is not for myself, but for this boy. Youmust save him, Antoine. Hear me, you _must_. Take him now to one ofthe lower cells and hide him. You risk nothing. His name is not on theprison register. He will not be called, he will not be missed; thatfanatic will think that he has perished with the rest of us (Antoineshuddered, though the priest did not move a muscle) and when this madfever has subsided and order is restored, he will reward you. AndAntoine--"
Here the priest pocketed his book, and somewhat awkwardly with hishuge hands unfastened the left side of his cassock, and tore the silkfrom the lining. Monsieur le Cure's cassock seemed a cabinet ofoddities. First he pulled from this ingenious hiding-place a crucifix,which he replaced; then a knot of white ribbon, which he alsorestored; and, finally, a tiny pocket or bag of what had beencream-coloured satin, embroidered with small bunches of heartsease,and which was aromatic with otto of roses. Awkwardly, and somewhatslowly, he drew out of this a small locket, in the centre of which wassome unreadable legend in cabalistic-looking character, and whichblazed with the finest diamonds. Heaven alone knows the secret of thatgem, or the struggle with which the priest yielded it. He put it intoAntoine's hand, talking as he did so partly to himself and partly tothe gaoler.
"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carrynothing out. The diamonds are of the finest, Antoine, and will sellfor much. The blessing of a dying priest upon you if you do kindly,and his curse if you do ill to this poor child, whose home was my homein better days. And for the locket--it is but a remembrance, and toremember is not difficult!"
As the last observation was not addressed to Antoine, so also he didnot hear it. He was discontentedly watching the body of the Viscount,whom he consented to help, but with genuine weak-mindedness consentedungraciously.
"How am I to get him there? Monsieur le Cure sees that he cannot standupon his feet."
Monsieur le Cure smiled, and stooping, picked his old pupil up in hisarms as if he had been a baby, and bore him to one of the doors.
"You must come no further," said Antoine, hastily.
"Ingrate!" muttered the priest in momentary anger, and then, ashamed,he crossed himself, and pressing the young nobleman to his bosom withthe last gush of earthly affection that he was to feel, he kissed hissenseless face, spoke a benediction to ears that could not hear it,and laid his burden down.
"GOD the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be with theenow and in the dread hour of death. Adieu! we shall meet hereafter."
The look of pity, the yearning of rekindled love, the struggle ofsilenced memories passed from his face and left a shiningcalm--foretaste of the perpetual Light and the eternal Rest.
Before he reached the other prisoners, the large thumb had found itsold place in the little book, the lips formed the old old words; butit might almost have been said of him already, that "his spirit waswith the GOD who gave it."
As for Monsieur the Viscount, it was perhaps well that he was not toosensible of his position, for Antoine got him down the flight of stonesteps that led to the cell by the simple process of draggi
ng him bythe heels. After a similar fashion he crossed the floor, and wasdeposited on a pallet; the gaoler then emptied a broken pitcher ofwater over his face, and locking the door securely, hurried back tohis charge.
When Monsieur the Viscount came to his senses he raised himself andlooked round his new abode. It was a small stone cell; it wasunderground, with a little grated window at the top that seemed to belevel with the court; there was a pallet--painfully pressed andworn--a chair, a stone on which stood a plate and broken pitcher, andin one corner a huge bundle of firewood which mocked a place wherethere was no fire. Stones lay scattered about, the walls were black,and in the far dark corners the wet oozed out and trickled slowlydown, and lizards and other reptiles crawled up.
I suppose that the first object that attracts the hopes of a newprisoner is the window of his cell, and to this, despite his weakness,Monsieur the Viscount crept. It afforded him little satisfaction. Itwas too high in the cell for him to reach it, too low in the prison tocommand any view, and was securely grated with iron. Then he examinedthe walls, but not a stone was loose. As he did so, his eye fell uponthe floor, and he noticed that two of the stones that lay about hadbeen raised up by some one and a third laid upon the top. It lookedlike child's play, and Monsieur the Viscount kicked it down, and thenhe saw that underneath it there was a pellet of paper roughly rolledtogether. Evidently it was something left by the former occupant ofthe cell for his successor. Perhaps he had begun some plan for gettingaway which he had not had time to perfect on his own account,Perhaps--but by this time the paper was spread out, and Monsieur theViscount read the writing. The paper was old and yellow. It was thefly-leaf torn out of a little book, and on it was written in blackchalk, the words--
"_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur._" (Remember the Saviour.)
He turned it over, he turned it back again; there was no other mark;there was nothing more; and Monsieur the Viscount did not conceal fromhimself that he was disappointed. How could it be otherwise? He hadbeen bred in ease and luxury, and surrounded with everything thatcould make life beautiful; while ugliness, and want, and sickness, andall that make life miserable, had been kept, as far as they can bekept, from the precincts of the beautiful chateau which was his home.What were the _consolations_ of religion to him? They are offered tothose (and to those only) who need them. They were to Monsieur theViscount what the Crucified Christ was to the Greeks ofold--foolishness.
He put the paper in his pocket and lay down again, feeling it thecrowning disappointment of what he had lately suffered. Presently,Antoine came with some food; it was not dainty, but Monsieur theViscount devoured it like a famished hound, and then made inquiries asto how he came and how long he had been there. When the gaoler beganto describe him, whom he called the Cure, Monsieur the Viscount'sattention quickened into eagerness, an eagerness deepened by thetender interest that always hangs round the names of those whom wehave known in happier and younger days. The happy memories recalled byhearing of his old tutor seemed to blot out his present misfortunes.With French excitability, he laughed and wept alternately.
"As burly as ever, you say? The little book? I remember it, it washis breviary. Ah! it is he. It is Monsieur the Preceptor, whom I havenot seen for years. Take me to him, bring him here, let me see him!"
But Monsieur the Preceptor was in Paradise.
That first night of Monsieur the Viscount's imprisonment was aterrible one. The bitter chill of a Parisian autumn, the gnawings ofhalf-satisfied hunger, the thick walls that shut out all hope ofescape but did not exclude those fearful cries that lasted with fewintervals throughout the night, made it like some hideous dream. Atlast the morning broke; at half-past two o'clock, some members of the_commune_ presented themselves in the hall of the National Assemblywith the significant announcement:--"The prisons are empty!" andAntoine, who had been quaking for hours, took courage, and went withhalf a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water to the cell that was not"empty." He found his prisoner struggling with a knot of white ribbon,which he was trying to fasten in his hair. One glance at his face toldall.
"It is the fever," said Antoine; and he put down the bread and waterand fetched an old blanket and a pillow; and that day and for manydays, the gaoler hung above his prisoner's pallet with the tendernessof a woman. Was he haunted by the vision of a burly figure that hadbent over his own sick bed in the Rue de la Croix? Did the voice(once so familiar in counsel and benediction!) echo still in his ears?
"_The blessing of a dying priest upon you if you do well, and hiscurse if you do ill to this poor child, whose home was my home inbetter days._"
Be this as it may, Antoine tended his patient with all the constancycompatible with keeping his presence in the prison a secret; and itwas not till the crisis was safely past, that he began to visit thecell less frequently, and reassumed the harsh manners which he held tobefit his office.
Monsieur the Viscount's mind rambled much in his illness. He calledfor his mother, who had long been dead. He fancied himself in his ownchateau. He thought that all his servants stood in a body before him,but that not one would move to wait on him. He thought that he hadabundance of the most tempting food and cooling drinks, but placedjust beyond his reach. He thought that he saw two lights like starsnear together, which were close to the ground, and kept appearing andthen vanishing away. In time he became more sensible; the chateaumelted into the stern reality of his prison walls; the delicate foodbecame bread and water; the servants disappeared like spectres; but inthe empty cell, in the dark corners near the floor, he still fanciedthat he saw two sparks of light coming and going, appearing and thenvanishing away. He watched them till his giddy head would bear it nolonger, and he closed his eyes and slept. When he awoke he was muchbetter, but when he raised himself and turned towards thestone--there, by the bread and the broken pitcher, sat a dirty, ugly,wrinkled toad, gazing at him, Monsieur the Viscount, with eyes ofyellow fire.
Monsieur the Viscount had long ago forgotten the toad which hadalarmed his childhood; but his national dislike to that animal had notbeen lessened by years, and the toad of the prison seemed likely tofare no better than the toad of the chateau. He dragged himself fromhis pallet, and took up one of the large damp stones which lay aboutthe floor of the cell, to throw at the intruder. He expected that whenhe approached it, the toad would crawl away, and that he could throwthe stone after it; but to his surprise, the beast sat quite unmoved,looking at him with calm shining eyes, and, somehow or other, Monsieurthe Viscount lacked strength or heart to kill it. He stood doubtfulfor a moment, and then a sudden feeling of weakness obliged him todrop the stone, and sit down, while tears sprang to his eyes with thesense of his helplessness.
"Why should I kill it?" he said, bitterly. "The beast will live andgrow fat upon this damp and loathsomeness, long after they have putan end to my feeble life. It shall remain. The cell is not big, but itis big enough for us both. However large be the rooms a man buildshimself to live in, it needs but little space in which to die!"
So Monsieur the Viscount dragged his pallet away from the toad, placedanother stone by it, and removed the pitcher; and then, wearied withhis efforts, lay down and slept heavily.
When he awoke, on the new stone by the pitcher was the toad, staringfull at him with topaz eyes. He lay still this time and did not move,for the animal showed no intention of spitting, and he was puzzled byits tameness.
"It seems to like the sight of a man," he thought. "Is it possiblethat any former inmate of this wretched prison can have amused hissolitude by making a pet of such a creature? and if there were such aman, where is he now?"
Henceforward, sleeping or waking, whenever Monsieur the Viscount laydown upon his pallet, the toad crawled up on to the stone, and keptwatch over him with shining lustrous eyes; but whenever there was asound of the key grating in the lock, and the gaoler coming hisrounds, away crept the toad, and was quickly lost in the dark cornersof the room. When the man was gone, it returned to its place, andMonsieur the Viscount would talk to it, as he lay on
his pallet.
"Ah! Monsieur Crapaud," he would say, with mournful pleasantry,"without doubt you have had a master and a kind one; but, tell me, whowas he, and where is he now? Was he old or young, and was it in thelast stage of maddening loneliness that he made friends with such acreature as you?"
Monsieur Crapaud looked very intelligent, but he made no reply, andMonsieur the Viscount had recourse to Antoine.
"Who was in this cell before me?" he asked at the gaoler's next visit.
Antoine's face clouded. "Monsieur le Cure had this room. My orderswere that he was to be imprisoned in secret.'"
Monsieur le Cure had this room. There was a revelation in those words.It was all explained now. The priest had always had a love for animals(and for ugly, common animals), which his pupil had by no meansshared. His room at the chateau had been little less than a menagerie.He had even kept a glass beehive there, which communicated with a holein the window through which the bees flew in and out, and he wouldstand for hours with his thumb in the breviary, watching the laboursof his pets. And this also had been his room! This dark, damp cell.Here, breviary in hand, he had stood, and lain, and knelt. Here, inthis miserable prison, he had found something to love, and on which toexpend the rare intelligence and benevolence of his nature. Here,finally, in the last hours of his life, he had written on the fly-leafof his prayer-book something to comfort his successor, and, "beingdead, yet spoke" the words of consolation which he had administered inhis lifetime. Monsieur the Viscount read that paper now with differentfeelings.
There is, perhaps, no argument so strong, and no virtue that socommands the respect of young men, as consistency. Monsieur thePreceptor's lifelong counsel and example would have done less for hispupil than was effected by the knowledge of his consistent career, nowthat it was past. It was not the nobility of the priest's principlesthat awoke in Monsieur the Viscount a desire to imitate his religiousexample, but the fact that he had applied them to his own life, notonly in the time of wealth, but in the time of tribulation and in thehour of death. All that high-strung piety--that life of prayer--thoseunswerving admonitions to consider the vanity of earthly treasures,and to prepare for death--which had sounded so unreal amidst theperfumed elegances of the chateau, came back now with a reality gainedfrom experiment. The daily life of self-denial, the conversationgarnished from Scripture and from the Fathers, had not, after all,been mere priestly affectations. In no symbolic manner, but literally,he had "watched for the coming of his Lord," and "taken up the crossdaily;" and so, when the cross was laid on him, and when the voicespoke which must speak to all, "The Master is come, and calleth forthee," he bore the burden and obeyed the summons unmoved.
_Unmoved_!--this was the fact that struck deep into the heart ofMonsieur the Viscount, as he listened to Antoine's account of theCure's imprisonment. What had astonished and overpowered his ownundisciplined nature had not disturbed Monsieur the Preceptor. He hadprayed in the chateau--he prayed in the prison. He had often spoken inthe chateau of the softening and comforting influences of communionwith the lower animals and with nature, and in the uncertainty ofimprisonment he had tamed a toad. "None of these things had movedhim," and, in a storm of grief and admiration, Monsieur the Viscountbewailed the memory of his tutor.
"If he had only lived to teach me!"
But he was dead, and there was nothing for Monsieur the Viscount butto make the most of his example. This was not so easy to follow as heimagined. Things seemed to be different with him to what they hadbeen with Monsieur the Preceptor. He had no lofty meditations, noardent prayers, and calm and peace seemed more distant than ever.Monsieur the Viscount met, in short, with all those difficulties thatthe soul must meet with, which, in a moment of enthusiasm, hasresolved upon a higher and a better way of life, and in moments ofdepression is perpetually tempted to forego that resolution. Hisprison life was, however, a pretty severe discipline, and he held onwith struggles and prayers; and so, little by little, and day by day,as the time of his imprisonment went by, the consolations of religionbecame a daily strength against the fretfulness of imperious temper,the sickness of hope deferred, and the dark suggestions of despair.
The term of his imprisonment was a long one. Many prisoners came andwent within the walls of the Abbaye, but Monsieur the Viscount stillremained in his cell; indeed, he would have gained little by leavingit if he could have done so, as he would almost certainly have beenretaken. As it was, Antoine on more than one occasion concealed himbehind the bundles of firewood, and once or twice he narrowly escapeddetection by less friendly officials. There were times when theguillotine seemed to him almost better than this long suspense: butwhile other heads passed to the block, his remained on his shoulders;and so weeks and even months went by. And during all this time,sleeping or waking, whenever he lay down upon his pallet, the toadcrept up on to the stone, and kept watch over him with lustrous eyes.
Monsieur the Viscount hardly acknowledged to himself the affectionwith which he came to regard this ugly and despicable animal. Thegreater part of his regard for it he believed to be due to itsconnection with his tutor, and the rest he set down to the score ofhis own humanity, and took credit to himself accordingly: whereas intruth Monsieur Crapaud was of incalculable service to his master, whowould lie and chatter to him for hours, and almost forget his presentdiscomfort in recalling past happiness, as he described the chateau,the gardens, the burly tutor, and beautiful Madame, or laughed overhis childish remembrances of the toad's teeth in Claude Mignon'spocket; whilst Monsieur Crapaud sat well-bred and silent, with a worldof comprehension in his fiery eyes. Whoever thinks this puerile mustremember that my hero was a Frenchman, and a young Frenchman, with aprescriptive right to chatter for chattering's sake, and also that hehad not a very highly cultivated mind of his own to converse with,even if the most highly cultivated intellect is ever a reliableresource against the terrors of solitary confinement.
Foolish or wise, however, Monsieur the Viscount's attachmentstrengthened daily; and one day something happened which showed hispet in a new light, and afforded him fresh amusement.
The prison was much infested with certain large black spiders, whichcrawled about the floor and walls; and, as Monsieur the Viscount waslying on his pallet, he saw one of these scramble up and over thestone on which sat Monsieur Crapaud. That good gentleman, whose eyes,till then, had been fixed as usual on his master, now turned hisattention to the intruder. The spider, as if conscious of danger, hadsuddenly stopped still. Monsieur Crapaud gazed at it intently with hisbeautiful eyes, and bent himself slightly forward. So they remainedfor some seconds, then the spider turned round, and began suddenly toscramble away. At this instant Monsieur the Viscount saw his friend'seyes gleam with an intenser fire, his head was jerked forwards; italmost seemed as if something had been projected from his mouth, anddrawn back again with the rapidity of lightning. Then Monsieur Crapaudresumed his position, drew in his head, and gazed mildly and sedatelybefore him; _but the spider was nowhere to be seen_.
Monsieur the Viscount burst into a loud laugh.
"Eh, well! Monsieur," said he, "but this is not well-bred on yourpart. Who gave you leave to eat my spiders? and to bolt them in suchan unmannerly way, moreover."
In spite of this reproof Monsieur Crapaud looked in no way ashamed ofhimself, and I regret to state that henceforward (with the partialhumaneness of mankind in general), Monsieur the Viscount amusedhimself by catching the insects (which were only too plentiful) in anold oyster-shell, and then setting them at liberty on the stone forthe benefit of his friend. As for him, all appeared to be fish thatcame to his net--spiders and beetles, slugs and snails from the dampcorners, flies, and wood-lice found on turning up the large stone,disappeared one after the other. The wood-lice were an especialamusement: when Monsieur the Viscount touched them, they shut up intotight little balls, and in this condition he removed them to thestone, and placed them like marbles in a row, Monsieur Crapaudwatching the proceeding with rapt attention. After awhile the ballswould slowly ope
n and begin to crawl away; but he was a very activewood-louse indeed who escaped the suction of Monsieur Crapaud'stongue, as, his eyes glowing with eager enjoyment, he bolted one afteranother, and Monsieur the Viscount clapped his hands and applauded.
The grated window was a very fine field for spiders and other insects,and by piling up stones on the floor, Monsieur the Viscount contrivedto scramble up to it, and fill his friend's oyster-shell with theprey.
One day, about a year and nine months after his first arrival at theprison, he climbed to the embrasure of the window, as usual,oyster-shell in hand. He always chose a time for this when he knewthat the court would most probably be deserted, to avoid the danger ofbeing recognized through the grating. He was, therefore, not a littlestartled at being disturbed in his capture of a fat black spider by asound of something bumping against the iron bars. On looking up, hesaw that a string was dangling before the window with somethingattached to the end of it. He drew it in, and, as he did so, hefancied that he heard a distant sound of voices and clapped hands, asif from some window above. He proceeded to examine his prize, andfound that it was a little round pincushion of sand, such as women useto polish their needles with, and that, apparently, it was used as amake-weight to ensure the steady descent of a neat little letter thatwas tied beside it, in company with a small lead pencil. The letterwas directed to "_The prisoner who finds this._" Monsieur the Viscountopened it at once. This was the letter--
"_In prison, 24th Prairial, year 2_.
"_Fellow-sufferer, who are you? how long have you been imprisoned? Begood enough to answer_."
Monsieur the Viscount hesitated for a moment, and then determined torisk all. He tore off a bit of the paper, and with the little pencilhurriedly wrote this reply:--
"_In secret, June 12, 1794_.
"_Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B., supposed to haveperished in the massacres of September_, 1792. _Keep my secret. I havebeen imprisoned a year and nine months. Who are_ you? _how long have_you _been here_?"
The letter was drawn up, and he watched anxiously for the reply. Itcame, and with it some sheets of blank paper.
"_Monsieur_,--_We have the honour to reply to your inquiries, andthank you for your frankness. Henri Edouard Clermont, Baron de St.Claire. Valerie de St. Claire. We have been here but two days. Acceptour sympathy for your misfortunes_."
Four words in this note seized at once upon Monsieur the Viscount'sinterest--_Valerie de St. Claire_;--and for some reasons, which I donot pretend to explain, he decided that it was she who was the authorof these epistles, and the demon of curiosity forthwith tookpossession of his mind. Who was she? was she old or young? And inwhich relation did she stand to Monsieur le Baron--that of wife, ofsister, or of daughter? And from some equally inexplicable causeMonsieur the Viscount determined in his own mind that it was thelatter. To make assurance doubly sure, however, he laid a trap todiscover the real state of the case. He wrote a letter of thanks andsympathy, expressed with all the delicate chivalrous politeness of anobleman of the old _regime_, and addressed it to _Madame la Baronne_.The plan succeeded. The next note he received contained thesesentences:--"_I am not the Baroness. Madame my mother is, alas! dead.I and my father are alone. He is ill, but thanks you, Monsieur, foryour letters, which relieve the_ ennui _of imprisonment. Are youalone?_"
Monsieur the Viscount, as in duty bound, relieved the _ennui_ of theBaron's captivity by another epistle. Before answering the lastquestion, he turned round involuntarily, and looked to where MonsieurCrapaud sat by the broken pitcher. The beautiful eyes were turnedtowards him, and Monsieur the Viscount took up his pencil, and wrotehastily, "_I am not alone--I have a friend._"
Henceforward the oyster-shell took a long time to fill, and patienceseemed a harder virtue than ever. Perhaps the last fact had somethingto do with the rapid decline of Monsieur the Viscount's health. Hebecame paler and weaker, and more fretful. His prayers wereaccompanied by greater mental struggles, and watered with more tears.He was, however, most positive in his assurances to Monsieur Crapaudthat he knew the exact nature and cause of the malady that wasconsuming him. It resulted, he said, from the noxious and unwholesomecondition of his cell; and he would entreat Antoine to have it sweptout. After some difficulty the gaoler consented.
It was nearly a month since Monsieur the Viscount had first beenstartled by the appearance of the little pincushion. The stock ofpaper had long been exhausted. He had torn up his cambric ruffles towrite upon, and Mademoiselle de St. Claire had made havoc of herpocket-handkerchiefs for the same purpose. The Viscount was feeblerthan ever, and Antoine became alarmed. The cell should be swept outthe next morning. He would come himself, he said, and bring anotherman out of the town with him to help him, for the work was heavy, andhe had a touch of rheumatism. The man was a stupid fellow from thecountry, who had only been a week in Paris; he had never heard of theViscount, and Antoine would tell him that the prisoner was a certainyoung lawyer who had really died of fever in prison the day before.Monsieur the Viscount thanked him; and it was not till the nextmorning arrived, and he was expecting them every moment, that Monsieurthe Viscount remembered the toad, and that he would without doubt beswept away with the rest in the general clearance. At first he thoughtthat he would beg them to leave it, but some knowledge of the pettyinsults which that class of men heaped upon their prisoners made himfeel that this would probably be only an additional reason for theirtaking the animal away. There was no place to hide it in, for theywould go all round the room; unless--unless Monsieur the Viscount tookit up in his hand. And this was just what he objected to do. All hisold feelings of repugnance came back; he had not even got gloves on;his long white hands were bare, he could not touch a toad. It was truethat the beast had amused him, and that he had chatted to it; but,after all, this was a piece of childish folly--an unmanly way, to saythe least, of relieving the tedium of captivity. What was MonsieurCrapaud but a very ugly (and most people said a venomous) reptile? Towhat a folly he had been condescending! With these thoughts, Monsieurthe Viscount steeled himself against the glances of his topaz-eyedfriend, and when the steps of the men were heard upon the stairs, hedid not move from the window where he had placed himself, with hisback to the stone.
The steps came nearer and nearer, Monsieur the Viscount began towhistle--the key was rattled in the lock, and Monsieur the Viscountheard a bit of bread fall, as the toad hastily descended to hideitself as usual in the corners. In a moment his resolution was gone;another second, and it would be too late. He dashed after thecreature, picked it up, and when the men came in he was standing withhis hands behind him, in which Monsieur Crapaud was quietly and safelyseated.
The room was swept, and Antoine was preparing to go, when the other,who had been eyeing the prisoner suspiciously, stopped and said with asharp sneer, "Does the citizen always preserve that position?"
"Not he," said the gaoler, good-naturedly. "He spends most of his timein bed, which saves his legs. Come along, Francois."
"I shall not come," said the other, obstinately. "Let the citizen showme his hands."
"Plague take you!" said Antoine, in a whisper. "What sulky fitpossesses you, my comrade? Let the poor wretch alone. What wouldstthou with his hands? Wait a little, and thou shall have his head."
"We should have few heads or prisoners either, if thou hadst the careof them," said Francois, sharply. "I say that the prisoner secretessomething, and that I will see it. Show your hands, dog of anaristocrat!"
Monsieur the Viscount set his teeth to keep himself from speaking, andheld out his hands in silence, toad and all.
Both the men started back with an exclamation, and Francois got behindhis comrade, and swore over his shoulder.
Monsieur the Viscount stood upright and still, with a smile on hiswhite face. "Behold, citizen, what I secrete, and what I desire tokeep. Behold all that I have left to secrete or to desire! There isnothing more."
"Throw it down!" screamed Francois; "many a witch has been burnt forless--throw it down."
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The colour began to flood over Monsieur the Viscount's face; but stillhe spoke gently, and with bated breath. "If you wish me to suffer,citizen, let this be my witness that I have suffered. I must be veryfriendless to desire such a friend. I must be brought very low to asksuch a favour. Let the Republic give me this."
"The Republic has one safe rule for aristocrats," said the other; "shegives them nothing but their keep till she pays for theirshaving--once for all. She gave one of these dogs a few rags to dressa wound on his back with, and he made a rope of his dressings, and lethimself down from the window. We will have no more such games. You maybe training the beast to spit poison at good citizens. Throw it downand kill it."
Monsieur the Viscount made no reply. His hands had moved towards hisbreast, against which he was holding his golden-eyed friend. There aretimes in life when the brute creation contrasts favourably with thelords thereof, and this was one of them. It was hard to part just now.
Antoine, who had been internally cursing his own folly in bringingsuch a companion into the cell, now interfered. "If you are going tostay here to be bitten or spit at, Francois, my friend," said he, "Iam not. Thou art zealous, my comrade, but dull as an owl. The Republicis far-sighted in her wisdom beyond thy coarse ideas, and has moreways of taking their heads from these aristocrats than one. Dost thounot see?" And he tapped his forehead significantly, and looked at theprisoner; and so, between talking and pushing, got his sulky companionout of the cell, and locked the door after them.
"And so, my friend--my friend!" said Monsieur the Viscount, tenderly,"we are safe once more; but it will not be for long, my Crapaud.Something tells me that I cannot much longer be overlooked. A littlewhile, and I shall be gone; and thou wilt have, perchance, anothermaster, when I am summoned before mine."
Monsieur the Viscount's misgivings were just. Francois, on whosestupidity Antoine had relied, was (as is not uncommon with peoplestupid in other respects) just clever enough to be mischievous.Antoine's evident alarm made him suspicious, and he began to talkabout the too-elegant-looking young lawyer who was imprisoned "insecret," and permitted by the gaoler to keep venomous beasts. Antoinewas examined and committed to one of his own cells, and Monsieur theViscount was summoned before the revolutionary tribunal.
There was little need even for the scanty inquiry that in those dayspreceded sentence. In every line of his beautiful face, marred as itwas by sickness and suffering--in the unconquerable dignity, whichdirt and raggedness were powerless to hide, the fatal nobility of hisbirth and breeding were betrayed. When he returned to the ante-room,he did not positively know his fate; but in his mind there was a moralcertainty that left him no hope.
The room was filled with other prisoners awaiting trial; and, as heentered, his eyes wandered round it to see if there were any familiarfaces. They fell upon two figures standing with their backs to him--atall, fierce-looking man, who, despite his height and fierceness, hada restless, nervous despondency expressed in all his movements; and ayoung girl who leant on his arm as if for support, but whose steadyquietude gave her more the air of a supporter. Without seeing theirfaces, and for no reasonable reason, Monsieur the Viscount decidedwith himself that they were the Baron and his daughter, and he beggedthe man who was conducting him for a moment's delay. The manconsented. France was becoming sick of unmitigated carnage, and eventhe executioners sometimes indulged in pity by way of a change.
As Monsieur the Viscount approached the two they turned round, and hesaw her face--a very fair and very resolute one, with ashen hair andlarge eyes. In common with almost all the faces in that room, it wasblanched with suffering; and, it is fair to say, in common with manyof them, it was pervaded by a lofty calm. Monsieur the Viscount neverfor an instant doubted his own conviction; he drew near and said in alow voice, "Mademoiselle de St. Claire!"
The Baron looked first fierce, and then alarmed. His daughter's faceillumined; she turned her large eyes on the speaker, and said simply,"Monsieur le Vicomte?"
The Baron apologized, commiserated, and sat down on a seat near, witha look of fretful despair; and his daughter and Monsieur the Viscountwere left standing together. Monsieur the Viscount desired to say agreat deal, and could say very little. The moments went by, and hardlya word had been spoken.
Valerie asked if he knew his fate.
"I have not heard it," he said; "but I am morally certain. There canbe but one end in these days."
She sighed. "It is the same with us. And if you must suffer, Monsieur,I wish that we may suffer together. It would comfort my father--andme."
Her composure vexed him. Just, too, when he was sensible that thedesire of life was making a few fierce struggles in his own breast.
"You seem to look forward to death with great cheerfulness,Mademoiselle."
The large eyes were raised to him with a look of surprise at theirritation of his tone.
"I think," she said, gently, "that one does not look forward _to_, but_beyond_ it." She stopped and hesitated, still watching his face, andthen spoke hurriedly and diffidently:--
"Monsieur, it seems impertinent to make such suggestions to you, whohave doubtless a full fund of consolation; but I remember, when achild, going to hear the preaching of a monk who was famous for hiseloquence. He said that his text was from the Scriptures--it has beenin my mind all to-day--'_There the wicked cease from troubling, andthere the weary be at rest._' The man is becoming impatient. Adieu!Monsieur. A thousand thanks and a thousand blessings."
She offered her cheek, on which there was not a ray of increasedcolour, and Monsieur the Viscount stooped and kissed it, with a thickmist gathering in his eyes, through which he could not see her face.
"Adieu! Valerie!"
"Adieu! Louis!"
So they met, and so they parted; and as Monsieur the Viscount wentback to his prison, he flattered himself that the last link was brokenfor him in the chain of earthly interests.
When he reached the cell he was tired, and lay down, and in a fewseconds a soft scrambling over the floor announced the return ofMonsieur Crapaud from his hiding-place. With one wrinkled leg afteranother he clambered on to the stone, and Monsieur the Viscountstarted when he saw him.
"Friend Crapaud! I had actually forgotten thee. I fancied I had saidadieu for the last time;" and he gave a choked sigh, which MonsieurCrapaud could not be expected to understand. In about five minutes hesprang up suddenly. "Monsieur Crapaud, I have not long to live, and notime must be lost in making my will." Monsieur Crapaud was too wise toexpress any astonishment; and his master began to hunt for atidy-looking stone (paper and cambric were both at an end). They wereall rough and dirty; but necessity had made the Viscount inventive,and he took a couple and rubbed them together till he had polishedboth. Then he pulled out the little pencil, and for the next half hourcomposed and wrote busily. When it was done he lay down, and read itto his friend. This was Monsieur the Viscount's last will andTestament:--
"_To my successor in this cell._
"To you whom Providence has chosen to be the inheritor of my sorrowsand my captivity, I desire to make another bequest. There is in thisprison a toad. He was tamed by a man (peace to his memory!) whotenanted this cell before me. He has been my friend and companion fornearly two years of sad imprisonment. He has sat by my bedside, fedfrom my hand, and shared all my confidence. He is ugly, but he hasbeautiful eyes; he is silent, but he is attentive; he is a brute, butI wish the men of France were in this respect more his superiors! Heis very faithful. May you never have a worse friend! He feeds uponinsects, which I have been accustomed to procure for him. Be kind tohim; he will repay it. Like other men, I bequeath what I would takewith me if I could.
"Fellow-sufferer, adieu! GOD comfort you as He has comfortedme! The sorrows of this life are sharp but short; the joys of the nextlife are eternal. Think sometimes on him who commends his friend toyour pity, and himself to your prayers.
"This is the last will and testament of Louis Archambaud Jean-MarieArnaud, Vicomte de B----."
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bsp; Monsieur the Viscount's last will and testament was with difficultysqueezed into the surface of the larger of the stones. Then he hid itwhere the priest had hidden _his_ bequest long ago, and then lay downto dream of Monsieur the Preceptor, and that they had met at last.
The next day was one of anxious suspense. In the evening, as usual, alist of those who were to be guillotined next morning, was broughtinto the prison; and Monsieur the Viscount begged for a sight of it.It was brought to him. First on the list was Antoine! Halfway down washis own name, "Louis de B----," and a little lower his fascinatedgaze fell upon names that stirred his heart with such a passion ofregret as he had fancied it would never feel again, "Henri de St.Claire, Valerie de St. Claire."
Her eyes seemed to shine on him from the gathering twilight, and hercalm voice to echo in his ears. "_It has been in my mind all to-day.There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be atrest._"
_There_! He buried his face and prayed.
He was disturbed by the unlocking of the door, and the new gaolerappeared with Antoine! The poor wretch seemed overpowered by terror.He had begged to be imprisoned for this last night with Monsieur theViscount. It was only a matter of a few hours, as they were to die atdaybreak, and his request was granted.
Antoine's entrance turned the current of Monsieur the Viscount'sthoughts. No more selfish reflections now. He must comfort this poorcreature, of whose death he was to be the unintentional cause.Antoine's first anxiety was that Monsieur the Viscount should bearwitness that the gaoler had treated him kindly, and so earned theblessing and not the curse of Monsieur le Cure, whose powerfulpresence seemed to haunt him still. On this score he was soon set atrest, and then came the old, old story. He had been but a bad man. Ifhis life were to come over again, he would do differently. DidMonsieur the Viscount think that there was any hope?
Would Monsieur the Viscount have recognized himself, could he, twoyears ago, have seen himself as he was now? Kneeling by that rough,uncultivated figure, and pleading with all the eloquence that he couldmaster to that rough uncultivated heart, the great Truths ofChristianity--so great and few and simple in their application to ourneeds! The violet eyes had never appealed more tenderly, the softvoice had never been softer than now, as he strove to explain to thisignorant soul, the cardinal doctrines of Faith and Repentance, andCharity, with an earnestness that was perhaps more effectual than hispreaching.
Monsieur the Viscount was quite as much astonished as flattered by thesuccess of his instructions. The faith on which he had laid hold withsuch mortal struggles, seemed almost to "come natural" (as people say)to Antoine. With abundant tears he professed the deepest penitence forhis past life, at the same time that he accepted the doctrine of theAtonement as a natural remedy, and never seemed to have a doubt in theInfinite Mercy that should cover his infinite guilt.
It was all so orthodox that even if he had doubted (which he did not)the sincerity of the gaoler's contrition and belief, Monsieur theViscount could have done nothing but envy the easy nature of Antoine'sconvictions. He forgot the difference of their respectivecapabilities!
When the night was far advanced the men rose from their knees, andMonsieur the Viscount persuaded Antoine to lie down on his pallet, andwhen the gaoler's heavy breathing told that he was asleep, Monsieurthe Viscount felt relieved to be alone once more--alone, except forMonsieur Crapaud, whose round fiery eyes were open as usual.
The simplicity with which he had been obliged to explain the truths ofDivine Love to Antoine, was of signal service to Monsieur the Viscounthimself. It left him no excuse for those intricacies of doubt, withwhich refined minds too often torture themselves; and as he pacedfeebly up and down the cell, all the long-withheld peace for which hehad striven since his imprisonment seemed to flood into his soul. Howblessed--how undeservedly blessed--was his fate! Who or what was hethat after such short, such mitigated sufferings, the crown of victoryshould be so near? The way had seemed long to come, it was short tolook back upon, and now the golden gates were almost reached, theeverlasting doors were open. A few more hours, and then--! and asMonsieur the Viscount buried his worn face in his hands, the tearsthat trickled from his fingers were literally tears of joy.
He groped his way to the stone, pushed some straw close to it, and laydown on the ground to rest, watched by Monsieur's Crapaud's fieryeyes. And as he lay, faces seemed to him to rise out of the darkness,to take the form and features of the face of the priest, and to gazeat him with unutterable benediction. And in his mind, like somefamiliar piece of music, awoke the words that had been written on thefly-leaf of the little book; coming back, sleepily and dreamily, overand over again--
"_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur! Souvenez-vous du Sauveur_!"
(Remember the Saviour!)
In that remembrance he fell asleep.
Monsieur the Viscount's sleep for some hours was without a dream. Thenit began to be disturbed by that uneasy consciousness of sleeping toolong, which enables some people to awake at whatever hour they haveresolved upon. At last it became intolerable, and wearied as he was,he awoke. It was broad daylight, and Antoine was snoring beside him.Surely the cart would come soon, the executions were generally at anearly hour. But time went on, and no one came, and Antoine awoke. Thehours of suspense passed heavily, but at last there were steps and akey rattled into the lock. The door opened, and the gaoler appearedwith a jug of milk and a loaf. With a strange smile he set them down.
"A good appetite to you, citizens."
Antoine flew on him. "Comrade! we used to be friends. Tell me, what isit? Is the execution deferred?"
"The execution has taken place at last," said the other,significantly; "_Robespierre is dead!_" and he vanished.
Antoine uttered a shriek of joy. He wept, he laughed, he cut capers,and flinging himself at Monsieur the Viscount's feet, he kissed themrapturously. When he raised his eyes to Monsieur the Viscount's face,his transports moderated. The last shock had been too much, he seemedalmost in a stupor. Antoine got him on to the pallet, dragged theblanket over him, broke the bread into the milk, and played the nurseonce more.
On that day thousands of prisoners in the city of Paris alone awokefrom the shadow of death to the hope of life. The Reign of Terror wasended!
Melchior's Dream and Other Tales Page 6