The Man Who Was Born Again

by Paul Busson

  The night’s mental excitement had passed. The thought that this was to be one of my last days lay on me as heavy as lead, filling me with a dull pain. Even the inanimate objects about me assumed peculiar and unwonted forms, and the morning light coming through the windows was mysteriously red.

  When a soldier told us that we might sit down I found on one side of me the young woman, who continued to sob, and on the other side the gentleman in the blue coat, who still looked straight before him with a severe and repellent look and showed no attention to anything around him. Occasionally he drew a gold snuff-box in the shape of a pear from his pocket and took a pinch of snuff with the most studied grace.

  A heavy table with carved legs and writing materials on it stood on a platform in front of us. Pale-faced soldiers with long hair were lounging along the walls. Many of them wore wooden shoes on their unstockinged feet. They smoked bad tobacco in clay pipes. Only slightly did they change their easy attitudes when the rattle of drums announced the arrival of the Revolutionary Tribunal.

  We were commanded to stand up until the judges had taken their seats at the large table. I looked at the men who considered themselves entitled to decide the duration of another human life. One was a workman with rough and dirty hands; their traces were to be seen on the brim of his red cap. Another was obviously ill, his face haggard and yellow, and he coughed constantly. Between them sat a dark-haired young man. He looked insolent, but he was very handsome. His restless dark eyes flashed from under his eyebrows and his long carefully combed hair hung down his shoulders beneath his two-cornered hat. His legs, clad in white trousers and top-boots, were stretched out under the table. He nodded carelessly to an acquaintance in the crowded background of the room, and with an important look plunged into the heap of documents that lay before him. He said a few quiet words to his colleagues and to the lean clerk at the end of the table, thrusting his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. Then he looked at us as we sat in a row on our bench, and his expression seemed to be demanding our highest respect.

  When the public at the far end of the hall had subsided into complete silence, he leaned back in his chair so that the blue, white and red sash around his waist stretched, took up a sheet of paper in an offhand way and said in a ringing and theatrical voice:

  “Citizen Anastasie Beaujonin!”

  There was a loud murmur of voices, and the sound of clearing of throats and spitting betrayed the interest of the audience.

  The young woman beside me uttered a little cry on hearing her name called. She rose from her seat, and again broke into tears, pressing a tiny handkerchief to her eyes. I watched her with compassion. Her fine dress, spotted with pink and blue flowers, was sadly crumpled and out of shape. Several times she tried to smooth it out with her hand. I understood that her appearance was to her as great a matter of concern as the issue of her trial which knew neither witnesses nor objections by the defence, and whose intentional brevity gave little hope.

  The President assumed an important air, made a handsome gesture with his right hand, and spoke with an intonation as if he were reciting.

  “Take good notice of my words, Citizen Beaujonin! Consider your answers, for our time is limited. It is not our time, indeed, but the nation’s. The charge against you is that Baron Hautecorne was concealed in your basement during three days, though you must have known that he was one of the proscribed. What have you to say to this?”

  “Oh, my God,” muttered the woman, “I loved him so...”

  The judge smiled

  Another woman’s voice came from the audience: “She is brave, the girl is; and she speaks as a woman should.”

  “Keep your peace, mother Flanche!” cried the judge, sternly. “You cannot make any remarks here.”

  “Don’t be snappy, my pretty lad,” came the answer. “I have known you since you were a choir-boy.”

  The chairman restrained himself from replying, and only made a movement as he said to the young woman: "Well then?"

  "And why was it you loved Citizen Hautecorne so much?” he tauntingly asked, revealing his white teeth.

  “He was so handsome - almost as handsome as you,” she said in a half-whisper, looking him straight in the face.

  Her words were met with loud cheers, laughter and the stamping of feet. Even the other judges smiled sourly, and with an air of supreme satisfaction the President brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead.

  “Let the girl go,” someone cried.

  “She needs her head so that she can give it to you,” added another.

  “Well said. Rodolphe!”

  “She knows the way with you men!”

  When silence was restored once more, the judge addressed her in a soft voice.

  “Madame.” he said, “I have reason to think that you did not know you were giving assistance to a dangerous enemy of the Republic.”

  “Oh no," she sobbed, rapidly grasping her opportunity. “I love the Republic... I would never have...”

  “Did he at least perform his business well, that Baron of yours?” jeered a member of the audience.

  The judge struck the bundle of documents in a rage.

  “Hey there, Perrin, Verrou and Mastiche!” he ordered.' “Just see who it is there that wants to say something to me!” The three soldiers tramped among the public, their heavy muskets in hand. There was silence at once.

  The judge bent over to his colleagues. They whispered and nodded approval.

  “Madame,” he said, “I will take the risk of setting you at liberty. But take care.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed the woman, and laughed nervously.

  “Just wait, Madame; I am doing it on my own risk. I am responsible to the nation. You see, the People, when possible, are mild and chivalrous to women. However, before you leave the court be so kind as to write down your future address and hand it over to me.”

  “Oh, you damned truffle-hound!” laughed one of the audience. Instantly the soldiers were at the culprit’s side.

  “I won’t say anything more,’’ he protested as they took hold of him; “let go my hands.”

  Silence was again restored. The girl smiled amiably, tripped up to the table on her high-heeled shoes and scratched a few words on a piece of paper, which the judge read and put away. This procedure was greeted by stifled laughter.

  “You may go, Madame, but you remain at the disposal of the tribunal.”

  The woman remained standing, and stared perplexedly and suspiciously at the judges, then towards the laughing public. Suddenly she turned round and ran as fast as she could, without looking right or left, past the amazed soldiers and out of the room.

  The next moment the chairman assumed a bothered official expression, fumbled among his papers, and then said sharply:

  “Citizen Melchior Dronte.”

  I stood up.

  I was quite calm, all my fear had disappeared. Again it seemed to me as if I was looking on at another’s fate, with its issue quite plain to me. Devoid of bitterness, I faced the vain man who had set himself up as my judge. His eyes evaded mine and wandered past me. To conceal his weakness he took several sheets of paper from the table, pretending it was necessary for him to keep before his eyes the document which contained the circumstances of my arrest and the charge preferred against me.

  At length he raised his head and said: “By a manifestation of the will of the People, directed against the most justly hated citizen Lamballe..."

  There was an angry clamour of many voices.

  “Death to the aristocrat! Down with her!”

  “Hold your tongues!”

  “She is dead.”

  “Death to the Lamballe!”

  The judge waited patiently until the noise had subsided, and then went on:

  “The hated Citizen Lamballe, from whom there were to be expected important disclosures concerning a conspiracy framed in England against the Republic, was smitten by the holy rage of the citizens. You, Citizen Dronte, att
empted to prevent the people from fulfilling their judgment. What were your motives for doing so?”

  “I desired to shield a defenceless woman,” I answered, and looked straight at him. He shook his head slightly.

  A murmur arose.

  “Are you a friend to Freedom?” he asked.

  I paused a moment and answered the question with an affirmative.

  “Was it known to you that the Citizen Lamballe had escaped to England, and from thence returned to Paris?”

  “Yes.”

  “This gives rise to the supposition,” the President went on, “that important information concerning her accomplices in this country could be gained from her. Not true?”

  I was silent.

  Again he looked at me with a slightly disapproving shake of the head and a dick of the tongue, and spoke slowly and distinctly, laying stress on each word:

  “I know what you will say, Citizen Dronte. In your zeal to serve the Republic and to prevent the premature death of the traitress, you used violence to prevent the people from the hasty fulfilment of their sentence. You suffered in the act. Is it as I say? Give me an answer.” He made an almost imperceptible sign to me to say “Yes,” and waited.

  For a moment I felt the strong temptation to do as I was expected, and thus escape from the horrors of the People’s justice to my former freedom. But a powerful feeling, invincible and victorious, at once triumphed over the temptation of liberty that was held up to me. I realised that my sacred duty was to be harsh and pitiless to myself; for otherwise I would be once more thrown back into the slough I had lately emerged from and the aura of which I had escaped.

  “I tried to save the Princess from motives of a personal character,” I answered.

  The President heaved an impatient sigh, shook his head, and drummed on the table, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. His colleagues looked at me with an expression of boredom, and a yawning voice in the public was heard to say:

  “Hair-splitting, Jeannot, are they not? Do you understand anything?”

  “In short,” said the President, “you did not intend to shield the woman as such, but rather to serve the Republic. We have no time to spare, Citizen Dronte, and I hope your frank confession will settle the case.”

  I felt a cold breath on my face. The balance was even. A falsehood could make one of the scales fall...

  “I did not give a thought to the Republic when I did it.”

  I had spoken irrevocably.

  The public became suddenly excited. Even the dullest of the onlookers understood what the position had become, and pricked up their ears. The President’s face became purple with anger. He tossed his head back, and spurted out at me:

  “You dare to say that to me?”

  “It is the truth,” I replied.

  It was clear to me that the grateful Magister had given a hand to the business of rescuing me, and I was sorry that his dangerous efforts should be of no avail. But I had to follow the path my inner feelings pointed out to me, without regard to the desire to preserve my body.

  The President’s behaviour had changed instantly. A deep wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows, and he bit his lips angrily as he went on with the examination.

  “You are a foreigner. What brought you to Paris?”

  “I came to study the Revolution and its aims.”

  “With friendly or hostile intentions?”

  “I did not come as an enemy.”

  “You are a baron,” put in the bilious judge. “How can an aristocrat be otherwise than hostile to the Revolution?”

  “Can a man like him love the poor people?” growled the other judge in the dirty red cap. “Do you?” he addressed me.

  “I love all men,” I answered.

  “Cant!” snapped the President. “Every priest who comes before us has his pockets full of this cant.”

  He assumed a sinister pose.

  “So you put yourself in the way of the heroes who attacked the Lamballe,” he continued, “and this not in the interests of the State, but for some other unexplained motive you had of serving the Queen’s Mistress of the Household.”

  Shrill whistles sounded among the public, and a wild stamping of feet betrayed their impatience to bring the case to an end.

  The lean judge spoke to the chairman, who shrugged his shoulders and turned to the other judge. This man shook his head, lifted his right hand, and let it fall sideways on the table. It was easy to understand what he meant by this gesture.

  The chairman stood up, and stretched out one hand like a stage king. Then he pressed his other hand to his breast and spoke in a resounding voice, rolling his R’s admirably.

  “Citizen Dronte is guilty of treason towards the Republic.” His judgment was met by thundering applause. I sat down quite calmly, certain of what fate was to be mine.

  My fellow-prisoner in the dark blue coat and white silk stockings slowly turned his haughty and stone-like face towards me, and smiling, said aloud and distinctly:

  “Allow me to express my sincere admiration of your conduct, Baron.” Laughter and hooting greeted him. An apple core flew past my head and fell on the table.

  The theatrical President struck the table with his fist and cried:

  “Silence!” And by degrees the hooting, laughter and whistling subsided.

  “Citizen Carmignar!” sounded the self-complacent voice.

  The man in blue stood up.

  “My name.” he said, without waiting for questions, “is Philip Antony Maria Marquis de Carmignar, Peer of France, Privy Councillor to H.M. the King. President of the House of Nobility of Brittany, Grand Commander of the order of St. Louis...”

  The audience was delighted- The tall man with his haughty manner promised a spectacle. The stress he laid on his rank even elicited a certain respect for him.

  “He’s a fine one. the Marquis is.”

  “But his neck is as thin as the neck of Lamballe’s whore-master. Swish! and the business is over.”

  The Marquis took a pinch out of his little gold snuffbox, and carefully dusted the snuff from his brocade vest with a small lace handkerchief.

  “You are charged with - ” began the President. But the nobleman interrupted him.

  “First of all,” he said with inimitable haughtiness, “I want to state that I have been brought here in violation of the privileges appertaining to me, and by unlawfully armed persons. As for the tribunal. I find that it does not consist of the King's magistrates, but of a bad actor, a joiner and a runaway pew-opener, so that it may lay no claim to any further attention of mine.”

  Then the Marquis sat down, looking disdainfully into the air.

  For a few seconds all was silent. The consternation was general. But the next moment a deafening noise rose up; the crowd started forward with such rage that the soldiers could hold them back only with the greatest difficulty. In the meantime the judges had taken rapid council, and the President rose again. With insistent signs he commanded order. It took some time before he could make himself heard.

  He cast a look of indignant disdain at the nobleman, who was gazing before him with complete indifference.

  “Citizen Carmignar, I call on you to stand up,” ordered the judge, “lest I recur to force, and thus vouchsafe the People’s tribunal the respect due to it.”

  The Marquis shrugged his shoulders and obeyed.

  “I do not want any foul marks on my coat,” he said. “That is why I get up.”

  The actor-president sat down and advanced his chin.

  “If I understand you aright, Citizen Carmignar, you went to sleep before the Revolution, and are not yet awake. Is that not so?”

  No reply was given to the taunt. Some of the public laughed.

  “You attempted to bribe the jailer of the Temple, in order to convey to Citizen Capet, imprisoned there, information concerning the successes achieved by the emigrants at the Prussian and Austrian courts, and this by means of a slip of paper concealed in a gold case, which was itself conc
ealed in one out of half a dozen lemons. Is this the gold case in question?”

  The judge held up a tiny cylindrical gold case. The Marquis measured him with half-shut eyes.

  “As you are playing at a trial,” he returned, “you must give yourself the trouble to prove your charges.”

  The resentment of the public grew. “Have him hugged by Samson’s coquette,” cried the voice of an impatient rowdy.

  The judges put their heads together, whispered, nodded; the President stood up and calmly gave his verdict: “Guilty.”

  The court rose. Four soldiers stepped up to us and motioned us to follow them. We were led out without disturbance. The people were satisfied.

  When we came out of the doors where a new batch of frightened, well-guarded men and women were waiting their turn, I felt something in my right hand that felt like a folded piece of paper.

  We went along another way than that by which we had been brought from our prison. We passed under a drawn portcullis and finally found ourselves in a large, dry and well-lighted cellar. It was full of people.

  I walked up to one of the windows, stealthily unfolded the paper, and read:

  “My heart weeps over the best and most noble-minded of men, but I bow before the heroic courage which prefers death to being disloyal to itself. My gratitude, henceforward quite powerless, will preserve your memory for ever. May there be another meeting for us, that my gratitude may have new aims.”

  It was the familiar handwriting of the Magister.

  Chapter Fourty Six

  The windows of our new prison opened immediately beneath the ceiling, high up, but they were clean and clear, and by the dull light of the early morning we could see that rain was falling. Shining drops hung on the iron bars of the grating.

  This room, though it was to be our last, proved in all respects far more hospitable than the gloomy coal-cellar where we had awaited our trial. The lame warder, who seemed to be good-natured and jocose, supplied us with water in wooden buckets and gave us clean rough towels. For those prisoners who still had money in their pockets he purchased chocolate or cake and brought it to them. The prisoners who were penniless were served with rye-meal soup and a piece of bread.