by Eugène Sue
The courtyard in front of the Commune Hall was a spacious one. On either side were ranged the horses of the couriers. The fog had lifted; the stars shone overhead. In the clear air of the crisp, cold night, Victoria soon beheld the artilleryman coming towards her. She advanced to meet him, saying: “I desired to speak to you, citizen, for the purpose of giving you some information upon that man and the young child whom you and a volunteer have just brought in as prisoners.”
“They are two spies of Pitt and Coburg, who fell among our pickets and were arrested, only an hour ago, by one of our sentries, a Parisian.”
“Is that Parisian named John Lebrenn?”
“What, do you know him, my brave hussar!” asked Duchemin.
“That I do. We are old friends. But here is my information: The man under arrest is a French priest, a Jesuit, an enemy of the Republic.”
“A Jesuit! Ah, double brigand and black-cap! The gallows-bird!”
“His name is Abbot Morlet. It it urgent that you go at once and inform John Lebrenn of this circumstance; he no doubt will be a witness at the reverend’s examination, which may even now be under way. The spy should be unmasked.”
“The examiner will give the black-cap’s tongue to the dogs if he answers in the gibberish he treated us to just now, in order to throw us off the scent.”
“When he finds himself recognized, he will not be likely to persist in that ruse. Go, then, comrade, acquaint John Lebrenn with the fact that his prisoner is the Jesuit Morlet, whom he already knows by reputation. Then say to him that a trooper of the Third Hussars wishes to speak with him a moment, and awaits him here in the court.”
“’Tis well. The two commissions will be fulfilled, as you request.”
While awaiting her brother, Victoria paced thoughtfully up and down the courtyard. “Dear brother,” she thought, “he has kept his promise. He would pay his debt of blood to the Republic, and here he is, a soldier. I can now unveil to him my mystery, and the object of my conduct in regard to Oliver.”
Informed by Duchemin that a hussar of the Third wished to see him, John soon stepped out of the Commune Hall, and descrying a cavalryman of the designated regiment at some paces from the door, walked towards him, saying:
“Is it you, comrade, who sent me word by an under-officer of the artillery that you had something to say to me?”
“It is I,” answered Victoria, taking two steps toward her brother. The latter, at first taken aback by surprise at hearing a voice which he believed he knew, now approached rapidly. Incapable of leaving him any longer in suspense, Victoria threw herself on the volunteer’s neck, saying in a broken voice:
“Brother! Dear and tender brother! Pardon me the pain I have caused you!”
“All is forgotten now,” murmured John, weeping with joy, and straining his sister to his breast. “At last I recover you, darling sister!”
“And soon, I hope, we shall be separated no more. My task draws to its close. And your worthy wife?”
“I heard from her only day before yesterday. She is well, and sustains my absence courageously. Ah, Charlotte is doubly dear to me now — for she is about to be a mother.”
“How happy she must be!”
“In the midst of all her happiness, she still thinks of you. There is not one of her letters in which she does not mention you, and wonder at the mystery which has enveloped you for so many months. Good heaven, to find you here in the army, in uniform. I know not whether I am awake or dreaming. I can hardly collect my thoughts.” And then after a moment’s silence, John resumed: “Your pardon, sister. I am now calmer. I now believe I can divine the cause which led you to emulate those many heroines who are enlisted against the enemies of the Republic. Oliver — doubtless — serves in the same regiment with you? You were anxious to continue directing him, watching over him?”
“Yes, brother mine; and already, by his bravery and aptitude in war he has scaled the lower rounds of the ladder. A brilliant future is unrolled before him.”
“Sister—” began John with some hesitancy, “the result is beyond what we hoped — but—”
“At what price have I obtained it? is it not, John? I can read your thoughts. I have no cause to blush for the means I have employed. The day of his attempted suicide, Oliver pledged me, as you know, that he would not make a second attempt within twenty-four hours. Before daybreak I rapped at his door. He had not retired. His face was as ominous as the evening before. ‘Oliver,’ I said to him, ‘let us go at once.’ ‘Where are we going?’ ‘You shall know. You have promised me to renounce till night-fall your projects of suicide. It matters little to you where you pass your last day, here or elsewhere. Come.’ Oliver followed me. We went to Sceaux, where I had once before spent some time, hoping to find relief in solitude from my griefs. Perhaps you have forgotten that when the chateau of Sceaux became national property, our good old patriot porter in St. Honoré Street became, by your recommendation to Cambon, one of the guardians of the domain. The fine old man occupies with his wife the ground floor of a pavilion situated near one of the gates of the estate. The second floor is vacant, and it was there I dwelt during my former sojourn in the place. To this abode I conducted Oliver. I presented him to the keeper and his wife as one of our relatives who had been ordered to the country for his health; I was to stay to take care of him. The good people received us with joy. They fitted up, from the relics in the furniture repository of the old mansion, a room for Oliver, and took upon themselves the task of preparing our meals. I had in the neighborhood of six hundred livres, which I had saved. That sum would suffice for all our needs for quite a while.
“My arrangements with the keeper concluded,” continued Victoria, “I led Oliver out into the park. We had left Paris before dawn. By the time we arrived at Sceaux, nature had donned all the fragrant beauty of new-born day. The May morning sun cast his first radiant beams over those enchanted vistas. We walked in silence over the velvety lawns, whose richness was reflected in the little ponds that dotted them. Here were vases and statues of marble niched in the green of the hedges; yonder spouting fountains surrounded by immense rose-bushes then in full bloom. Their scent filled the air. These details may seem childish, brother, but they were all important.”
“I can well see it; you hoped to reattach the poor boy to life by displaying to him, in that fine spring morning, nature in her most smiling aspect.”
“Such indeed was my purpose. I observed Oliver closely. His looks, at first lorn and somber, brightened little by little. He breathed in with wide nostrils the morning ambrosia of the woods, the fields and the flowers. He rapturously bent his ear to catch the chirping of the birds nested in the foliage. His glance lost its heaviness, and again glowed with youthful buoyancy. He took new hold of life while abandoning himself to the sweet sensations awakened in him by the contemplation of nature. I sought to stir the most sensitive and delicate chords of the boy’s being. My friendliness tempered what had up till then been stern and parental in my relations with him; I spoke to him now more as sister than as mother.
“‘It would be paradise upon earth to live here,’ he said.
“‘Then let us settle in the village, Oliver.’
“‘What! You consent to share this solitude with me?’
“‘Most assuredly. Indeed, it was even with that hope that I brought you here.’
“He beamed with happiness. But suddenly, his face clouding again, he asked me sadly ‘what I would be to him.’ ‘Your sister,’ I told him. But seeing him continue to lose the brightness he had just regained, I added gaily:
“‘Yesterday, my friend, I would consent to be nothing more than mother to you. To-day I am willing to rejuvenate myself sufficiently to become your sister. Is not that great progress?’
“‘So,’ he cried in a transport, ‘you give me leave to hope?’
“‘I give you permission to hope for what I hope myself, Oliver: that one day I may feel for you a sentiment more tender than that of fraternity. But it d
epends upon you still more than on me.’
“‘What must I do?’
“‘Become a man, Oliver; a man of whom I can be proud.’
“Oliver at first gave himself up with joy to this hope; but soon he again asked, with a shade of suspicion in his voice, ‘You will not make me any promises — are you thinking, then, of forsaking me?’
“‘Not at all, Oliver; and moreover, here is what I propose. We shall remain in this charming retreat until you are completely recovered, then we shall join the army, and enroll in the same regiment.’ And in answer to a gesture of stupefaction from Oliver, I added, ‘Shall I, do you imagine, be the first woman who shares the perils of our soldiers, with her secret locked under her uniform? I wish to see you rise from rank to rank. Then will come the day, perhaps soon, when some brilliant deed will raise you to the height I dream of for you, and to our common hope. Now, Oliver, choose between suicide and the glorious future I present to you.’”
“All is now explained, worthy and great-hearted sister,” exclaimed John Lebrenn.
“I am now happy to note that my influence over Oliver diminishes daily. His warlike ardor, the intoxication of his early successes, the activity of camp life — all, according to my calculation, have combined to overcome his passion. I foresaw that love would be fleeting in that warlike soul, I sought above all to snatch him from suicide, from failure. I wished by a vague hope to rekindle his dying courage, initiate him into the career of arms, which his nature called him to, and by watching over him like a mother and sharing his soldier’s life, to preserve him from the pitfalls that destroy so many young men. I wished, in fine, to affirm him in the path of justice and virtue, to develop his civic character, and to render still more fervent his love for the fatherland and the Republic. Then, this self-imposed duty once fulfilled, I reserve the means of casting Oliver upon the destiny which the future seems to hold for him. Such was my project. In part it is realized. The young man’s passion for war is now his only amour. Accordingly, I will soon be able to leave him.”
At this point in their conversation the brother and sister saw Jesuit Morlet and little Rodin file out of the Commune Hall, escorted by several soldiers. One of these carried a lantern. The artilleryman Duchemin brought up the rear.
“Hey, comrade!” called John Lebrenn to the quartermaster, as he approached him, while Victoria remained behind, “I have something to ask you.”
“Speak, citizen.”
“Do you know what they have decided about this doubly-dangerous spy, this minion of the Society of Jesus?”
“According to what I just heard, the black-cap will be shot to-morrow morning. They are taking him to the quarters of the Grand Provost of the army, who has charge of the execution; and as my battery is established near the Provost’s quarters, I am acting as conduct to the agent of Pitt and Coburg.”
One of Hoche’s aides-de-camp now stepped precipitately out of the Commune Hall, hastened across the court, and ran in the direction of the General’s quarters. A company of grenadiers stationed there at once caught up their arms and fell in line, drum at the right, officers at the head, and soon the four Representatives of the people, St. Just and Lebas, commissioners in extraordinary from the Convention to Strasburg, and Lacoste and Randon, commissioners to the Army of the Rhine and Moselle, descended the steps of the Commune Hall, preceded by several officers furnished with lanterns, and followed by Generals Hoche and Pichegru, and the superior officers of the divisions. The Representatives of the people wore hats, one side of which, turned up, was surmounted with a tricolor plume; their uniform coats were blue, with large unbroidered lapels, and crossed with a scarf in the national colors; over their trousers, which were blue like their coats, they had on heavy spurred boots, and cavalry sabers hung by their sides. St. Just walked before the others. He was of almost the same age as Hoche, about twenty-four. The two conversed in low tones, some steps ahead of the other Generals and Representatives. The features and attitudes of Hoche and St. Just, as revealed by the light of the lanterns, contrasted sharply. The republican General, of robust stature and with a bluff countenance, intelligent and resolute, which a glorious scar rendered all the more martial, displayed an insistence almost supplicating, as he addressed St. Just. The latter, of only medium height, with a high and proud forehead, accorded to the pleadings of Hoche a silent attention. His pale and firm-set features, set off by his long straight hair, gave to the man an air of sculptured impassivity. His life, his feeling, seemed concentrated in his burning glances.
“Brother, do you remark Oliver’s countenance?” said Victoria. “Pride possesses it. He seems to regard as acts of servility the marks of respect shown by the officers to the Representatives of the people.”
“Oliver’s expression is indeed significant,” replied John.
“Halloa! Courier of the Third Hussars!” one of the under-officers cried at that moment from the doorway, holding up a sealed packet. “To horse! A despatch to carry to Sultz.”
“Present!” called back Victoria; then she continued in a voice filled with emotion, as she held out her hand to John,
“Adieu, brother, till to-morrow. Perchance the order of battle or the fortunes of war will bring us near each other.”
“I hope — and fear it, sister,” answered John, his eyes moist with tears, lest this should be the last time he was to see Victoria. “You have shown yourself valiant, devoted and generous in your conduct towards Oliver. Till to-morrow.”
“Adieu, brother!” And Victoria hastened to receive the despatch, while John returned to the bivouac of the Paris Volunteers.
The despatch which Victoria carried to Sultz had been written by Hoche that very evening, and addressed to Citizen Bouchotte, Minister of War. It read:
Ingelsheim, 6th Nivose, year II, 1 A. M.
I hasten to inform you, Citizen Minister, that the Representatives of the people have just placed me in command of the two armies of the Rhine and Moselle, to march to the succor of Landau.
No prayer or pleading on my part could change the resolution of the Representatives of the people. Judge me. With nothing but courage, how will I be able to carry such a burden? Nevertheless, I shall do my best in the service of the Republic.
Greetings and brotherhood,
HOCHE.
This letter of Hoche’s, in which the great captain reveals the modesty that in him equalled his military genius, illustrates also his anxieties on the score of the responsibility which had just fallen upon him — anxieties his noble and touching expression of which was unable to shake the will of St. Just.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
SERVING AND MIS-SERVING.
JESUIT MORLET AND his god-son, little Rodin, had been taken in due course before the Provost, and the reverend fellow was now awaiting the hour of his execution, which was set for sun-up. The cord which bound his arms was fastened to a post of the cart-shed that served as shelter for the Grand Provost’s mounted police; at the foot of the post the Jesuit lay huddled. Too case-hardened not to face death with a certain degree of calm, he said to his god-son:
“I have no chance of escaping death. I shall be shot at break of day. Here ends my career.”
“You will soon be with the angels,” dryly responded little Rodin, who now seemed strangely to have recovered both speech and hearing.
“Poor little one! My beloved son, you are, are you not, very sad at my approaching death?”
“You are an elect of the Lord, predestined to glory, and you will sit at His right side through eternity. Hosannah in excelsis! On the contrary, I rejoice in your martyrdom.”
“So young, and already devoid of affection!” muttered the Jesuit to himself. “Are you not grieved at the idea of being left behind and forsaken by my death?”
“The Lord God will watch over His servant, as He watches over the birds of the air. He provides for all.”
“Listen, dear child; when God has called me to Him, go you to Rome, to the General of the Order. God will perfo
rm the rest.”
“I shall go to Rome; your recommendations will be precisely followed, dear god-father; I shall serve the holy cause of God.”
As little Rodin concluded these words, a courier came up and said to the cavalryman on picket duty before the Jesuit and his god-son: “Comrade, can you show me to the quarters of Citizen General Donadieu? I have a message for him.”
“You haven’t far to go. Pass through the shed, turn to the right, and you will see another cavalry picket before the door of a house. There is where General Donadieu is quartered,” replied the sentry, while the courier vanished in the direction indicated.
“Good god-father, General Donadieu is attached to this army! Good news for us!”
“But, dear god-son, how will the presence of this general serve us any?”
“Good god-father,” replied young Rodin in a whisper, “if you wish it, you need not go to-day to visit the angels of the Lord. Think and decide whether you would rather go. I am here to obey you.”
With a nod the Jesuit approved the advice of his god-son, and beckoning to the cavalryman, who approached them, he said: “Hey, sentry! Is it indeed decided that I be shot at daybreak?”
“In the shake of a lamb’s tail. You won’t have long to wait.”
“Well, well! Since it must be so, I have decided to make revelations — very important ones.”
“I shall call the brigadier and he will take you before the Provost.”
“No, no. It is to a general that I wish to make my revelations. Let your chiefs know without delay.”
“You hear that, brigadier!” commented the sentry to an under-officer who had come up. “The old rascal calls for a general to make revelations to!”
“I’ll go see the Provost about it,” said the brigadier. The few moments he was gone the Jesuit utilized to confer in whispers with his god-son. The brigadier quickly returned, went up to the post to which the reverend was tethered, and said to him: