The execution was to take place the same day at the _Barriere du Trone-Renverse_. The condemned, their toilet completed, hair cropped and shirt cut down at the neck, waited for the headsman, packed like cattle in the small room separated off from the Gaoler"s office by a glazed part.i.tion.
When presently the executioner and his men arrived, Brotteaux, who was quietly reading his Lucretius, put the marker at the page he had begun, shut the book, stuffed it in the pocket of his coat, and said to the Barnabite:
"What enrages me, Reverend Father, is that I shall never convince you.
We are going both of us to sleep our last sleep, and I shall not be able to twitch you by the sleeve and tell you: "There you see; you have neither sensation nor consciousness left; you are inanimate. What comes after life is like what goes before.""
He tried to smile; but an atrocious spasm of pain wrung his heart and vitals, and he came near fainting.
He resumed, however:
"Father, I let you see my weakness. I love life and I do not leave it without regret."
"Sir," replied the monk gently, "take heed, you are a braver man than I, and nevertheless death troubles you more. What does that mean, if not that I see the light, which you do not see yet?"
"Might it not also be," said Brotteaux, "that I regret life because I have enjoyed it better than you, who have made it as close a copy of death as possible?"
"Sir," said the Pere Longuemare, his face paling, "this is a solemn moment. G.o.d help me! It is plain we shall die without spiritual aid. It must be that in other days I have received the sacraments lukewarmly and with a thankless heart, for Heaven to refuse me them to-day, when I have such pressing need of them."
The carts were waiting. The condemned were loaded into them pell-mell, with hands tied. The woman Rochemaure, whose pregnancy had not been verified by the surgeon, was hoisted into one of the tumbrils. She recovered a little of her old energy to watch the crowd of onlookers, hoping against hope to find rescuers amongst them. The throng was less dense than formerly, and the excitement less extreme. Only a few women screamed, "Death! death!" or mocked those who were to die. The men mostly shrugged their shoulders, looked another way, and said nothing, whether out of prudence or from respect of the laws.
A shudder went through the crowd when Athenas emerged from the wicket.
She looked a mere child.
She bowed her head before the monk:
"Monsieur le Cure," she asked him, "give me absolution."
The Pere Longuemare gravely recited the sacramental words in muttered tones; then:
"My daughter!" he added, "you have fallen into great disorders of living; but can I offer the Lord a heart as simple as yours? Would I were sure!"
She climbed lightly into the cart. And there, throwing out her bosom and proudly lifting her girlish head, she cried "Vive le Roi!"
She made a little sign to Brotteaux to show him there was a vacant place beside her. Brotteaux helped the Barnabite to get in and came and placed himself between the monk and the simple-hearted girl.
"Sir," said the Pere Longuemare to the Epicurean philosopher, "I ask you a favour; this G.o.d in whom you do not yet believe, pray to Him for me.
It is far from sure you are not nearer to Him than I am myself; a moment can decide this. A second, and you may be called by the Lord to be His highly favoured son. Sir, pray for me."
While the wheels were grinding over the pavement of the long Faubourg Antoine, the monk was busy, with heart and lips, reciting the prayers of the dying. Brotteaux"s mind was fixed on recalling the lines of the poet of nature: _Sic ubi non erimus_.... Bound as he was and shaken in the vile, jolting cart, he preserved his calm and even showed a certain solicitude to maintain an easy posture. At his side, Athenas, proud to die like the Queen of France, surveyed the crowd with haughty looks, and the old financier, noting as a connoisseur the girl"s white bosom, was filled with regret for the light of day.
XXV
While the carts, escorted by gendarmes, were rumbling along on their way to the Place du Trone Renverse, carrying to their death Brotteaux and his "accomplices," evariste sat pensive on a bench in the garden of the Tuileries. He was waiting for elodie. The sun, nearing its setting, shot its fiery darts through the leafy chestnuts. At the gate of the garden, Fame on her winged horse blew her everlasting trumpet. The newspaper hawkers were bawling the news of the great victory of Fleurus.
"Yes," thought Gamelin, "victory is ours. We have paid full price for it."
He could see the beaten Generals, disconsolate shades, trailing in the blood-stained dust of yonder Place de la Revolution where they perished.
And he smiled proudly, reflecting that, but for the severities in which he had borne his share, the Austrian horses would to-day be gnawing the bark of the trees beside him.
He soliloquized:
"Life-giving terror, oh! blessed terror! Last year at this time, our heroic defenders were beaten and in rags, the soil of the fatherland was invaded, two-thirds of the departments in revolt. Now our armies, well equipped, well trained, commanded by able generals, are taking the offensive, ready to bear liberty through the world. Peace reigns over all the territory of the Republic.... Life-giving terror, oh! blessed terror! oh! saintly guillotine! Last year at this time, the Republic was torn with factions, the hydra of Federalism threatened to devour her.
Now a united Jacobinism spreads over the empire its might and its wisdom...."
Nevertheless, he was gloomy. His brow was deeply lined, his mouth bitter. His thoughts ran: "We used to say: _To conquer or to die._ We were wrong; it is _to conquer and to die_ we ought to say."
He looked about him. Children were building sand-castles. _Citoyennes_ in their wooden chairs under the trees were sewing or embroidering. The pa.s.sers-by, in coat and breeches of elegant cut and strange fashion, their thoughts fixed on their business or their pleasures, were making for home. And Gamelin felt himself alone amongst them; he was no compatriot, no contemporary of theirs. What was it had happened? How came the enthusiasm of the great years to have been succeeded by indifference, weariness, perhaps disgust? It was plain to see, these people never wanted to hear the Revolutionary Tribunal spoken of again and averted their eyes from the guillotine. Grown too painful a sight in the Place de la Revolution, it had been banished to the extremity of the Faubourg Antoine. There even, the pa.s.sage of the tumbrils was greeted with murmurs. Voices, it was said, had been heard to shout: "Enough!"
Enough, when there were still traitors, conspirators! Enough, when the Committees must be reformed, the Convention purged! Enough, when scoundrels disgraced the National representation. Enough, when they were planning the downfall of _The Just!_ For, dreadful thought, but only too true! Fouquier himself was weaving plots, and it was to ruin Maximilien that he had sacrificed with solemn ceremony fifty-seven victims haled to death in the red sheet of parricides. France was giving way to pity--and pity was a crime! Then we should have saved her in spite of herself, and when she cried for mercy, stopped our ears and struck! Alas! the fates had decided otherwise; the fatherland was for cursing its saviours.
Well, let it curse, if only it may be saved!
"It is not enough to immolate obscure victims, aristocrats, financiers, publicists, poets, a Lavoisier, a Roucher, an Andre Chenier. We must strike these all-puissant malefactors who, with hands full of gold and dripping with blood, are plotting the ruin of _the Mountain_--the Fouchers, Talliens, Roveres, Carriers, Bourdons. We must deliver the State from all its enemies. If Hebert had triumphed, the Convention was overthrown, the Republic hastening to the abyss; if Desmoulins and Danton had triumphed, the Convention had lost its virtue, ready to surrender the Republic to the aristocrats, the money-jobbers and the Generals. If men like Tallien and Foucher, monsters gorged with blood and rapine, triumph, France is overwhelmed in a welter of crime and infamy ... Robespierre, awake; when criminals, drunken with fury and affright, plan your death and the death of freedom! Couthon, Saint-Just, make haste; why tarry ye to denounce the plots?
"Why! the old-time state, the Royal monster, a.s.sured its empire by imprisoning every year four hundred thousand persons, by hanging fifteen thousand, by breaking three thousand on the wheel--and the Republic still hesitates to sacrifice a few hundred heads for its security and domination! Let us drown in blood and save the fatherland...."
He was buried in these thoughts when elodie hurried up to him, pale-faced and distraught:
"evariste, what have you to say to me? Why not come to the _Amour peintre_ to the blue chamber? Why have you made me come here?"
"To bid you an eternal farewell."
He had lost his wits, she faltered, she could not understand....
He stopped her with a very slight movement of the hand:
"elodie, I cannot any more accept your love."
She begged him to walk on further; people could see them, overhear them, where they were.
He moved on a score of yards, and resumed, very quietly:
"I have made sacrifices to my country of my life and my honour. I shall die infamous; I shall have naught to leave you, unhappy girl, save an execrated memory.... We, love? Can anyone love me still?... Can I love?"
She told him he was mad; that she loved him, that she would always love him. She was ardent, sincere; but she felt as well as he, she felt better than he, that he was right. But she fought against the evidence of her senses.
He went on:
"I blame myself for nothing. What I have done, I would do again. I have made myself anathema for my country"s sake. I am accursed. I have put myself outside humanity; I shall never re-enter its pale. No, the great task is not finished. Oh! clemency, forgiveness!--Do the traitors forgive? Are the conspirators clement? scoundrels, parricides multiply unceasingly; they spring up from underground, they swarm in from all our frontiers,--young men, who would have done better to perish with our armies, old men, children, women, with every mark of innocence, purity, and grace. They are offered up a sacrifice,--and more victims are ready for the knife!... You can see, elodie, I must needs renounce love, renounce all joy, all sweetness of life, renounce life itself."
He fell silent. Born to taste tranquil joys, elodie not for the first time was appalled to find, under the tragic kisses of a lover like evariste, her voluptuous transports blended with images of horror and bloodshed; she offered no reply. To evariste the girl"s silence was as a draught of a bitter chalice.
"Yes, you can see, elodie, we are on a precipice; our deeds devour us.
Our days, our hours are years. I shall soon have lived a century. Look at this brow! Is it a lover"s? Love!..."