Presented to the
library of the
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
by
K. G. Morden
NINETY-THREE
Ul
The Children in the Library.
After Photogravure by Goupil et Cie. — From
Drawing by Adrian Marie.
Cbition be Uuxe
THE WORKS
O F
VICTOR HUGO
VOLUME VII
NINETY THREE
THINGS SEEN
CIje Jefferson $rcss
Boston /2rUi Pork
EDITION DE LUXE
One Thousand copies of this
edition have been printed for
SALE IN AMERICA, OF WHICH THIS IS
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I/. f
CRITICAL NOTE
BY
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
In Notre Dame, Les Miserables, The Toilers of the Sea and
The Man Who Laughs, one after another, there has been some
departure from the traditional canons of romance; but taking
each separately, one would have feared to make too much of
these departures, or to found any theory upon what was per-
haps purely accidental. The appearance of Ninety -Three has
put us out of the region of such doubt. Like a doctor who
has long been hesitating how to classify an epidemic malady,
we have come at last upon a case so well marked that our un-
certainty is at an end. It is a novel built upon " a sort of
enigma," which was at that date laid before revolutionary
France, and which is presented by Hugo to Tellmarch, to
Lantenac, to Gauvain, and very terribly to Cimourdain, each
of whom gives his own solution of the question, clement or
stern, according to the temper of his spirit. That enigma
was this: "Can a good action be a bad action? Does not
he who spares the wolf kill the sheep? ,: This question, as I
say, meets with one answer after another during the course of
the book, and yet seems to remain undecided to the end. And
something in the same way, although one character, or one set
of characters, after another comes to the front and occupies
our attention for the moment, we never identify our interest
with any of these temporary heroes nor regret them after they
Â¥ are withdrawn. We soon come to regard them somewhat as
\ special cases of a general law ; what we really care for is some-
' thing that they only imply and body forth to us. We know
v
vi CRITICAL NOTE
how history continues through century after century ; how this
king or that patriot disappears from its pages with his whole
generation, and yet we do not cease to read, nor do we even
feel as if we had reached any legitimate conclusion, because
our interest is not in the men, but in the country that they
loved or hated, benefited or injured. And so it is here:
Gauvain and Cimourdain pass away, and we regard them no
more than the lost armies of which we find the cold statistics
in military annals; what we regard is what remains behind; it
is the principle that put these men where they were, that
filled them for a while with heroic inspiration, and has the
power, now that they are fallen, to inspire others with the same
courage. The interest of the novel centres about revolution-
ary France; just as the plot is an abstract judicial difficulty,
the hero is an abstract historical force. And this has been
done, not as it would have been before, by the cold and cum-
bersome machinery of allegory, but with bold, straightforward
realism, dealing only with the objective materials of art, and
dealing with them so masterfully that the palest abstractions
of thought come before us, and move our hopes and fears, as
if they were the young men and maidens of customary ro-
mance.
The episode of the mother and children in Ninety-Three is
equal to anything that Hugo has ever written. There is one
chapter in the second volume, for instance, called " A Healed
Breast; A Bleeding Heart," that is full of the very stuff of
true tragedy, and nothing could be more delightful than the
humors of the three children on the day before the assault.
The passage on La Vendee is really great, and the scenes in
Paris have much of the same broad merit. The book is full,
as usual, of pregnant and splendid sayings. But when thus
much is conceded by way of praise, we come to the other scale
of the balance, and find this, also, somewhat heavy. There
is here a yet greater over employment of conventional dialogue
than in The Man Who Laughs; and much that should have
been said by the author himself, if it were to be said at all, he
has most unwarrantably put into the mouths of one or other
CRITICAL NOTE vii
of his characters. We should like to know what becomes of
the main body of the troop in the wood of La Saudraie during
the thirty pages or so in which the foreguard lays aside all
discipline, and stops to gossip over a woman and some chil-
dren. We have an unpleasant idea forced upon us at one
place, in spite of all the good-natured incredulity that we can
summon up to resist it. Is it possible that Monsieur Hugo
thinks they ceased to steer the corvette while the gun was
loose? Of the chapter in which Lantenac and Halmalho are
alone together in the boat, the less said the better; of course,
if there were nothing else, they would have been swamped
thirty times over during the course of Lantenac's harangue.
Again, after Lantenac has landed, we have scenes of almost
inimitable workmanship that suggest the epithet " statuesque "
by their clear and trenchant outline; but the tocsin scene will
not do, and the tocsin unfortunately pervades the whole pas-
sage, ringing continually in our ears with a taunting accusa-
tion of falsehood. And then, when we come to the place where
Lantenac meets the Royalists, under the idea that he is going
to meet the Republicans, it seems as if there were a hitch in
the stage mechanism. I have tried it over in every way, and
I cannot conceive any disposition that would make the scene
possible as narrated.
CONTENTS
Vol. I.
PART I.— AT SEA.
Paoe
BOOK I.— The Wood of La Saudraie. 1
BOOK II.— The Corvette "Claymore."
Chapter
I. England and France in Concert 15
II. Night on the Vessel and avith the Passenger .... 18
III. Noble and Plebeian in Concert 20
IV. Tormentum Belli 27
V. Vis et Vir 29
VI. The Two Scales of the Balance 35
VII. He who sets Sail puts into a Lottery 38
VIII. 9 = 380 42
IX. Some one escapes 47
X. Does he Escape? 49
BOOK III.— Halmalo.
I. Speech is the " Word " 52
II. The Peasant's Memory is as good as the Captain's Science 57
BOOK IV.— Tellmarch.
I. The Top of the Dune 68
II. Aures habet, et non audiet 71
III. Usefulness of Big Letters 73
ix
x CONTENTS
Chapter Page
IV. The Caimand 75
V. Signed Gauvain 82
VI. The Whirligigs of Civil War 85
VII. "No Mercy!" (Watchword of the Commune) "No Quar-
ter!" (Watchword of the Princes) 90
PART II.— IN PARIS.
BOOK I. ClMOURDAIN.
I. The Streets of Paris at that Time 96
II. Cimourdain 103
III. A Corner not dipped in Styx 110
BOOK II. — The Public House of the Rue du Paon.
I. Minos, .ZEacus, and Rhadamanthus 113
II. Magna Testantur Voce per Umbras 116
III. A Stirring of the Inmost Nerves 131
BOOK III.— The Convention.
I 142
II. 143
III 145
IV 150
V 155
VI 156
VII 158
VIII 160
IX 162
X 163
XI. 166
XII 167
XIII. Marat in the Green-Room 168
CONTENTS xi
PART III.— LA VENDEE.
BOOK I.— La Vendue.
Chapter Page
I. The Forests 175
II. The Peasants 177
III. Connivance of Men and Forests 171)
IV. Their Life Underground 183
V. Their Life in Warfare 184
VI. The Spirit of the Place passes into the Man .... 189
VII. La Vendee ended Brittanv 192
BOOK II.— The Three Children.
I. Plusquam Civilia Bella 194
II. Dol 201
III. Small Armies and Great Battles 208
IV. " It is the Second Time " 215
V. The Drop of Cold Water 218
VI. A Healed Breast; a Bleeding Heart 220
VII. The Two Poles of the Truth 2_'(j
VIII. Dolorosa 232
IX. A Provincial Bastile 235
X. The Hostages 244
XI. Terrible as the Antique 249
XII. Possible Escape 253
XIII. What the Marquis was doing 255
XIV. What Imanus was doing 257
BOOK III. — The Massacre of Saint Bartholomew.
1 260
II 263
III 265
IV 267
V 270
VI 271
VII 274
xii CONTENTS
BOOK IV.— The Mothee.
Chapter Page
I. Death Passes 276
II. Death Speaks 279
III. Mutterings among the Peasants 283
IV. A Mistake 287
V. Vox in Deserto 289
VI. The Situation 291
VII. Preliminaries 294
VIII. The Word and the Roar 298
IX. Titans against Giants 302
X. Radoub 306
XI. Desperate 313
XII. Deliverance 316
XIII. The Executioner 318
XIV. Imanus also Escapes 320
XV. Never put a Watch and a Key in the same Pocket . . . 323
BOOK V.— In Dvemone Deus.
I. Found, but Lost 327
II. From the Door of Stone to the Iron Door 334
III. Where we see the Children wake that we saw go asleep . 33G
BOOK VI. — After the Victory the Combat begins.
I. Lantenac taken 341
II. Gauvain's Self-Questioning 243
III. The Commandant's Mantle '..... 355
BOOK VII. — Feudality and Revolution.
I. The Ancestor 358
II. The Court-Martial 365
III. The Votes 368
IV. After Cimourdain the Judge comes Cimourdain the Master 373
V. The Dungeon 375
VI. When the Sun rose 383
The Parisian Battalions scouring the woods of La Saudraie.
Ninety-three. Page 1.
NINETY-THREE
PART I
AT SEA
BOOK I
THE WOOD OF LA SAUDRAIE
IN the latter part of May, 1793, one of the Paris battalions
sent into Brittany by Santerre, searched the much dreaded
forest of La Saudraie, in Astille. There were only about
three hundred men in the reconnoitring party, for the bat-
talion had been well-nigh annihilated in the fierce conflicts in
which it had engaged.
It was after the battles of Argonne, Jemmapes, and Valmy,
and of the First Paris Regiment, which consisted originally of
six hundred volunteers, only twenty-seven men remained, of
the Second Regiment only thirty-three, of the Third only
fifty-seven. It was unquestionably a time of epic strife.
Each of the battalions sent from Paris to the Vendee num-
bered nine hundred and twelve men, and was provided with
three field-pieces. The force had been very hastily organized.
On the 25th of April, — Gohier being minister of Justice, and
Bouchotte minister of war, — the Committee of Public Welfare
urged the necessity of immediately dispatching a large body
2 NINETY-THREE
of troops to Vendee. Lubin, a member of the Commune,
reported the bill favourably ; and on the 1st of May, Santerre
had twelve thousand men, thirty cannon, and "a corps of gun-
ners ready for the field.
These battalions, though organized so hurriedly, were or-
ganized so well that they serve as models even at the present
day. Regiments of the Line are yet organized in the same
manner; the relative proportion between the number of sol-
diers and non-commissioned officers has been changed, — that
is all.
On the 28th of April, the Commune of Paris gave Santerre's
A T olunteers this order : " No mercy ; no quarter." By the
end of May, of the twelve thousand men that left Paris, eight
thousand were dead.
The troops who were exploring the forest of La Saudraie
held themselves on the alert. They advanced slowly and cau-
tiously. Each man cast furtive glances to the right and to
the left of him, in front of him and behind him. It was
Kleber who said : " A soldier has one eye in his back."
They had been marching a long while. What time of
day could it be? It was difficult to say, for a dim twilight
always pervades these dense forests. It is never really light
there.
The forest of La Saudraie was tragic. It was in its copses
that, from the month of November, 1792, civil war com-
menced its crimes. Mousqueton, the ferocious cripple, came
out of its fatal shades. The list of the murders that had been
committed there was enough to make one's hair stand on end.
There was no place more to be dreaded. The soldiers moved
cautiously forward. The depths were full of flowers ; on each
side was a trembling wall of branches and dew-wet leaves.
Here and there rays of sunlight pierced the green shadows.
The gladiola, that flame of the marshes, the meadow narcissus,
the little wood daisy, harbinger of spring, and the vernal
crocus, embroidered the thick carpet of vegetation, crowded
with every form of moss, from that resembling velvet
{chenille) to that which looks like a star. The soldiers ad-
NINETY-THREE 3
vanced in silence, step by step, pushing the brushwood softly
aside. The birds twittered above the bayonets.
In former peaceable times La Saudraie was a favourite
place for the Houkhe-ba, the hunting of birds by night; now
they hunted men there.
The thicket was one of birch-trees, beeches, and oaks; the
ground flat ; the thick moss and grass deadened the sound of
the men's steps ; there were no paths, or only blind ones,
which quickly disappeared among the holly, wild sloes, ferns,
hedges of rest-harrow, and high brambles. It would have
been impossible to distinguish a man ten steps off.
Now and then a heron or a moor-hen flew through the
branches, indicating the neighbourhood of marshes.
They pushed forward. They went at random, with un-
easiness, fearing to find that which they sought.
From time to time they came upon traces of encampments,
— burned spots, trampled grass, sticks arranged crosswise,
branches stained with blood. Here soup had been made;
there, Mass had been said; yonder, they had dressed wounds.
But all human beings had disappeared. Where were they.
Very far off, perhaps ; perhaps quite near, hidden, blunderbuss
in hand. The wood seemed deserted. The regiment redou-
bled its prudence. Solitude — hence distrust. They saw no
one; so much more reason for fearing some one. They had
to do with a forest with a bad name. An ambush was
probable.
Thirty grenadiers, detached as scouts, and commanded by
a sergeant, marched at a considerable distance in front of the
main body. The vivandiere of the battalion accompanied
them. The vivandieres willingly join the vanguard; they
run risks, but they have the chance of seeing whatever hap-
pens. Curiosity is one of the forms of feminine bravery.
Suddenly the soldiers of this little advance party started
like hunters who have neared the hiding-place of their prey.
They had heard something like a breathing from the centre
of a thicket, and seemed to perceive a movement among the
branches. The soldiers made signals.
4 NINETY-THREE
In the species of watch and search confided to scouts, the
officers have small need to interfere; the right thing seems done
by instinct.
In less than a minute the spot where the movement had
been noticed was surrounded; a line of pointed muskets en-
circled it ; the obscure centre of the thicket was covered on all
sides at the same instant ; the soldiers, finger on trigger, eye
on the suspected spot, only waited for the sergeant's order.
Notwithstanding this, the vivandiere ventured to peer through
the underbrush, and at the moment when the sergeant was
about to cry, " Fire ! " this woman cried, " Halt ! "
Turning toward the soldiers, she added, " Do not fire,
comrades ! "
She plunged into the thicket ; the men followed.
There was, in truth, some one there.
In the thickest of the brake, on the edge of one of those
little round clearings left by the fires of the charcoal-burners,
in a sort of recess among the branches, a kind of chamber
of foliage, half open like an alcove, a woman was seated on
the moss, holding to her breast a nursing babe, while the fair
heads of two sleeping children rested on her knees.
This was the ambush.
" What are you doing here, you? " cried the vivandiere.
The woman lifted her head.
The vivandiere added furiously: —
"Are you mad, that you are there? A little more and
you would have been blown to pieces ! "
Then she addressed herself to the soldiers, —
" It is a woman."
" Well, that is plain to be seen," said a grenadier.
The vivandiere continued, —
" To come into the wood to get yourself massacred ! The
idea of such stupidity ! "
The woman, stunned, petrified with fear, looked about like
one in a dream at these guns, these sabres, these bayonets,
these savage faces.
The two children awoke, and cried.
NINETY-THREE 5
" I am hungry," said the first.
" I am afraid," said the other.
The baby was still suckling; the vivandiere addressed it.
"You are in the right of it," said she.
The mother was dumb with terror. The sergeant cried
out to her: —
"Do not be afraid; we are the battalion of the Bonnet
Rouge."
The woman trembled from head to foot. She stared at
the sergeant, of whose rough visage there was nothing visible
but the moustaches, the brows, and two burning coals for eyes.
" Formerly the battalion of the Red Cross," added the
vivandiere.
The sergeant continued: " Who are you, madame? "
The woman scanned him, terrified. She was slender, young,
pale, and in rags; she wore the large hood and woollen cloak
of the Breton peasant, fastened about her neck by a string.
She left her bosom exposed with the indifference of an animal.
Her feet, shoeless and stockingless, were bleeding.
" It is a beggar," said the sergeant.
The vivandiere began anew, in a voice at once soldierly
and feminine, but sweet, —
" What is your name? "
The woman stammered so that she was scarcely intelligible.
" Michelle Flechard."
The vivandiere stroked the little head of the sleeping babe
wjtb her large hand.
" What is the age of this mite ? " demanded she.
The mother did not understand. The vivandiere persisted.
" I ask you, how old is it? "
" Ah ! " said the mother ; " eighteen months."
" It is old," said the vivandiere ; " it ought not to suckle
any longer. You must wean it; we will give it soup."
The mother began to feel a certain confidence. The two
children, who had awakened, were rather curious than scared.
They admired the plumes of the soldiers.
" Ah," said the mother, " they are very hungry."
6 NINETY-THREE
Then she added, " I have no more milk."
" We will give them something to eat," cried the sergeant ;
" and you too. But that's not all. What are your political
opinions? "
The woman looked at him, but did not reply.
" Did you hear my question ? "
She stammered, —
" I was put into a convent very young — but I am married
— I am not a nun. The sisters taught me to speak French.
The village was set on fire. We ran away so quickly that I
had not time to put on my shoes."
" I ask you, what are your political opinions? "
" I don't know what that means."
The sergeant continued, —
" There are such things as female spies. We shoot spies.
Come, speak ! You are not a gipsy ? Which is your side ? "
She still looked at him as if she did not understand.
The sergeant repeated, —
" Which is your side? "
" I do not know," she said.
" How ? You do not know your own country."
" Ah, my country ! Oh, yes, I know that."
"Well, where is it?"
The woman replied, —
" The farm of Siscoignard, in the parish of Aze."
It was the sergeant's turn to be stupefied. He remained
thoughtful for a moment, then resumed: " You say — "
" Siscoignard."
" That is not a country."
" It is my country," said the woman ; and added, after
an instant's reflection, " I understand, sir. You are from
France; I belong to Brittany."
"Well?"
" It is not the same neighbourhood."
" But it is the same country," cried the sergeant.
The woman only repeated, —
" I am from Siscoignard."
NINETY-THREE 7
" Siscoignard be it,"' returned the sergeant. " Your fam-
ily belong there ? "
" Yes."
" What is their occupation? "
" They are all dead ; I have nobody left."
The sergeant, who thought himself a fine talker, continued
his interrogatories : —
"What? the devil! One has relations, or one has had.
Who are you ? Speak ! "
The woman listened, astounded by this: " Or one has
had! " which was more like the growl of an animal than any
human sound.
The vivandiere felt the necessity of interfering. She be-
gan again to caress the babe, and to pat the cheeks of the
two other children.
" How do you call the baby? " she asked. " It is a little
girl — this one? "
The mother replied, " Georgette."
" And the eldest fellow ? For he is a man, the small ras-
cal ! "
" Rene-Jean."
" And the younger? He is a man, too, and chubby-faced
into the bargain."
" Gros-Alain," said the mother.
" They are pretty little fellows," said the vivandiere ;
" they already look as if they were somebody."
Still the sergeant persisted. " Now, speak, madame !
Have you a house ? "
" I had one."
" Where was it ? "
" At Aze."
" Why are you not in your house ? "
" Because they burned it."
"Who?"
" I do not know — a battle."
" Where did you come from ? "
" From there."
55
8 NINETY-THREE
" Where are you going? "
" I don't know."
" Get to the facts ! Who are you ? "
" I don't know."
" You don't know who you are ? "
" We are people who are running away.'
" What party do you belong to ? "
" I don't know."
"Are you Blues? Are you Whites? Who are you
with? "
" I am with my children."
There was a pause. The vivandiere said, —
" As for me, I have no children ; I have not had time."
The sergeant began again : —
" But your parents? See here, madame! give us the facts
about your parents. My name is Radoub; I am a sergeant,
from the street of Cherche Midi ; my father and mother be-
longed there. I can talk about my parents ; tell us about
yours. Who were they ? "
" Their name was Flechard, — that is all."
" Yes ; the Flechards are the Flechards, just as the Ra-
doubs are the Radoubs. But people have a calling. What
was your parents' calling? What was their business, these
Flechards of yours? "
" They were labourers. My father was sickly, and could
not work on account of a beating that the lord — his lord —
our lord — had given to him. It was a kindness, for my
father had poached a rabbit, — a thing for which one was
condemned to death ; but the lord showed him mercy, and said,
' You need only give him a hundred blows with a stick ; ' and
my father was left crippled."
"And then?"
" My grandfather was a Huguenot. The cure had him
sent to the galleys. I was very little at the time."
"And then?"
" My husband's father smuggled salt. The king had him
hung."
NINETY-THREE 9
'* And jour husband, — what did he do? ''
" Lately, he fought."
" For whom ? "
" For the king."
"And afterward?"
" Well, for his lordship."
"And next?"
" Well, then for the cure."
" A thousand names of brutes ! " cried a grenadier.
The woman gave a start of terror.
" You see, madame, we are Parisians," said the vivandiere.
graciously.
The woman clasped her hands, and exclaimed, —
" O my God and blessed Lord ! "
"No superstitious ejaculations!" growled the sergeant.
The vivandiere seated herself by the woman, and drew the
eldest child between her knees. He submitted quietly. Chil-
dren show confidence as they do distrust, without any ap-
parent reason; some internal monitor warns them.
" My poor, good woman of this neighbourhood," said the
vivandiere, " you brats are very pretty, — babies are always
that. I can guess their ages. The big one is four years
old ; his brother is three. Upon my word ! the little suckling
poppet is a greedy one. Oh, the monster ! Will you stop
eating up your mother? See here, madame, do not be afraid.
You ought to join the battalion. Do like me. I call my-
self Houzarde. It is a nickname; but I like Houzarde better
than being called Mamzelle Bicorneau, like my mother. I
am the canteen woman; that is the same as saying, * she who
offers drink when they are firing and stabbing.' Our feet
are about the same size. I will give you a pair of my shoes.
I was in Paris the 10th of August. I gave Westermann
drink too. How things went! I saw Louis XVI. guillo-
tined, — Louis Capet, as they call him. It was against his
will. Only just listen, now! To think that the 13th of
January he roasted chestnuts and laughed with his family.
When they forced him down on the see-saw, as they say, he
10 NINETY-THREE
had neither coat nor shoes, nothing but his shirt, a quilted
waistcoat, grey cloth bi'eeches, and grey silk stockings. I
saw that, I did! The hackney-coach they brought him in
was painted green. See here ! come with us ; the battalion
are good fellows. You shall be canteen number two; I will
teach you the business. Oh, it is very simple ! You have
your can and 3'our hand-bell; away you go into the hubbub,
with the platoons firing, the cannon thundering, — into tin'
thickest of the row ; and you cry, ' Who'll have a drop to
drink, my children?' It 's no more trouble than that. I
give everybody and anybody a sup, yes, indeed, — Whites
the same as Blues, though I am a Blue myself, and a good
Blue, too; but I serve them all alike. Wounded men are all
thirsty. They die without any difference of opinions. Dying
fellows ought to shake hands. How r silly it is to go fighting !
Do you come with us. If I am killed, you w T ill step into my
place. You see I am only so-so to look at ; but I am a good
woman, and a brave chap. Don't you be afraid."
When the vivandiere ceased speaking, the woman mur-
mured, —
" Our neighbour was called Marie Jeanne, and our servant
was named Marie Claude."
In the mean time the sergeant reprimanded the grena-
dier : —
" Hold your tongue ! You frighten madame. One does
not swear before ladies."
" All the same ; it is a downright butchery for an honest
man to hear about," replied the grenadier ; " and to see Chi-
nese Iroquois, that have had their fathers-in-law crippled by
a lord, their grandfathers sent to the galleys by the priest,
and their fathers hung by the kmg, and who fight — name
of the little Black Man ! — and mix themselves up with re-
volts, and get smashed for his lordship, the priest, and the
king!"
" Silence in the ranks ! " cried the sergeant.
" A man may hold his tongue, Sergeant," returned the
grenadier ; " but that doesn't hinder the fact that it's a pity
NINETY-THREE 11
to see a pretty woman like this running the risk of getting
her neck broken for the sake of a dirty robber."
" Grenadier," said the sergeant, " we are not in the Pikc-
clnb of Paris ; no eloquence ! "
He turned toward the woman.
"And 3'our husband, madamc? What is he at? What
has become of him?"
" There hasn't anything become of him, because they killed
him."
" Where did that happen? "
" In the hedge."
"When?"
" Three days ago."
"Who did it?"
" I don't know."
" How? You do not know who killed your husband?"
" No."
"Was it a Blue? Was it a White? "
" It was a bullet."
" Three days ago ? "
" Yes."
" In what direction ? "
" Toward Ernee. My husband fell,— that is all."
" And what have you been doing since your husband was
killed?"
" I bear away my children."
" Where are you taking them? "
" Straight ahead."
" Where do you sleep? "
" On the ground."
"What do you eat?"
" Nothing."
The sergeant made that military grimace which makes the
moustache touch the nose.
" Nothing? "
" That is to say, sloes and dried berries left from last year,
myrtle seeds, and fern shoots."
12 NINETY-THREE
" Faith ! you might as well say ' nothing.' "
The eldest of the children, who seemed to understand, said,
" I am hungry."
The sergeant took a bit of regulation bread from his pocket,
and handed it to the mother. She broke the bread into two
fragments, and gave them to the children, who ate with avid-
ity.
" She has kept none for herself," grumbled the sergeant.
" Because she is not hungry," said a soldier.
" Because she is a mother," said the sergeant.
The children interrupted the dialogue.
" I want to drink," cried one.
" I want to drink," repeated the other.
" Is there no brook in this devil's wood? " asked the ser-
geant.
The vivandiere took the brass cup which hung at her belt
beside her hand-bell, turned the cock of the can she carried
slung over her shoulder, poured a few drops into the cup, and
held it to the children's lips in turn.
The first drank and made a grimace. The second drank
and spat it out.
" Nevertheless, it is good," said the vivandiere.
" Is it some of the old cut-throat? " asked the sergeant.
" Yes, and the best ; but these are peasants." And she
wiped her cup.
The sergeant resumed : —
"And so, madame, you are trying to escape?"
" There is nothing else left for me to do."
" Across fields — going whichever way chance directs ? "
" I run with all my might, then I walk, then I fall."
" Poor villager ! " said the vivandiere.
" The people fight," stammered the woman. " They are
shooting all around me. I do not know what it is they wish.
They killed my husband; that is all I understood."
The sergeant grounded the butt of his musket till the earth
rang, and cried, —
" What a beast of a war — in the hangman's name ! "
NINETY-THREE 13
The woman continued, —
" Last night we slept in an emousse."
"All four?"
" All four."
"Slept?"
" Slept."
" Then," said the sergeant, " you slept standing."
He turned toward the soldiers: "Comrades, what these
savages call an emousse is an old hollow tree-trunk that a
man may fit himself into as if it were a sheath. But what
would you? We cannot all be Parisians."
" Slept in a hollow tree? " exclaimed the vivandiere. " And
with three children ! "
" And," added the sergeant, " when the little ones howled,
it must have been odd to anybody passing by and seeing noth-
ing whatever, to hear a tree cry, ' Papa ! mamma ! '
" Luckily it is summer," sighed the woman.
She looked down upon the ground in silent resignation,
her eyes filled with the bewilderment of wretchedness.
The soldiers made a silent circle round this group of mis-
ery. A widow, three orphans; flight, abandonment, solitude,
war muttering around the horizon ; hunger, thirst ; no other
nourishment than the herbs of the field, no other roof than
that of heaven.
The sergeant approached the woman, and fixed his eye on
the sucking baby. The little one left the breast, turned its
head gently, gazing with its beautiful blue orbs into the for-
midable hairy face, bristling and wild, which bent toward it,
and began to smile.
The sergeant raised himself, and they saw a great tear roll
down his cheek and cling like a pearl to the end of his mous-
tache.
He lifted his voice : —
" Comrades, from all this I conclude that the regiment is
going to become a father. Is it agreed? We adopt these
three children ? "
" Hurrah for the Republic ! " chorused the grenadiers.
14 NINETY-THREE
" It is decided ! " said the sergeant.
He stretched his two hands above the mother and her
babes.
" Behold the children of the battalion of the Bonnet
Rouge ! "
The vivandiere leaped for joy.
" Three heads under one bonnet ! " cried she.
Then she burst into sobs, embraced the poor widow wildly,
and said to her, " What a rogue the little girl looks already ! ,r
" Vive la Republique ! " repeated the soldiers.
And the sergeant said to the mother : —
" Come, citizeness ! "
BOOK II
THE CORVETTE "CLAYMORE."
CHAPTER I
ENGLAND AND FRANCE IN CONCERT
IN the spring of 1793, at the moment when France, simul-
taneously attacked on all its frontiers, suffered the pa-
thetic distraction of the downfall of the Girondists, this was
what happened in the Channel Islands.
At Jersey, on the evening of the 1st of June, about an hour
before sunset, a corvette set sail from the solitary little Bay
of Bonnenuit, in that kind of foggy weather which is favour-
able to flight because pursuit is rendered dangerous. The
vessel was manned by a French crew, though it made part of
the English fleet stationed on the look-out at the eastern
point of the island. The Prince de la Tour d'Auvergne, who
was of the house of Bouillon, commanded the English flotilla ;
and it was by his orders, and for an urgent and special ser-
vice, that the corvett had been detached.
This vessel, entered at Trinity House under the name of
the " Claymore," had the appearance of a transport or trader,
but was in reality a war corvette. She had the heavy, pacific
look of a merchantman ; but it would not have been safe to
trust to that. She had been built for a double purpose, —
cunning and strength: to deceive if possible, to fight if neces-
sary. For the service before her this night, the lading of
the lower deck had been replaced by thirty carronades of
15
16 NINETY-THREE
heavy calibre. Either because a storm was feared, or because
it was desirable to prevent the vessel having a suspicious ap-
pearance, these carronades were housed, — that is to say, se-
curely fastened within by triple chains, and the hatches above
shut close. Nothing was to be seen from without. The ports
were blinded; the slides closed; it was as if the corvette had
put on a mask. Armed corvettes only carry guns on the
upper deck ; but this one, built for surprise and cunning, had
the deck free, and was able, as we have just seen, to carry
a battery below. The " Claymore " was after a heavy, squat
model, but a good sailer nevertheless, — the hull of the most
solid sort used in the English navy, — and in battle was al-
most as valuable as a frigate, though for mizzen she had only
a small mast of brigantine rig. Her rudder, of a peculiar
and scientific form, had a curved frame, of unique shape,
which cost fifty pounds sterling in the dockyards of South-
ampton.
The crew, all French, was composed of refugee officers and
deserter sailors. They were tried men; not one but was a
good sailor, good soldier, and good royalist. They had a
threefold fanaticism, — for ship, sword and king.
A half-regiment of marines, that could be disembarked
in case of need, was added to the crew.
The corvette " Claymore " had as a captain chevalier of
Saint Louis, Count du Boisberthelot, one of the best officers
of the old Royal Navy; for second, the Chevalier La Vieu-
ville, who had commanded a company of French guards in
which Hoche was sergeant ; and for pilot, Philip Gacquoil,
the most skilful mariner in Jersey.
It was evident that the vessel had unusual business on
hand. Indeed, a man who had just come on board had the
air of one entering upon an adventure. He was a tall old
man, upright and robust, with a severe countenance, whose
age it would have been difficult to guess accurately, for he
seemed at once old and young, — one of those men who are
full of years and of vigour ; who have white hair on their heads
and lightning in their glance ; forty in point of energy and
NINETY-THREE 17
eighty in power and authority. As he came on deck his sea-
cloak blew open, exposing his large loose breeches and top-
boots, and a goat-skin vest which had one side tanned and
embroidered with silk, while on the other the hair was left
rough and bristling, — a complete costume of the Breton peas-
ant. These old-fashioned jackets answered alike for working
and holidays: they could be turned to show the hairy or em-
broidered side, as one pleased, — goat-skin all the week, gala
accoutrements on Sunday. As if to increase a resemblance
which had been carefully studied, the peasant dress worn by
the old man was threadbare at the knees and elbows, and
seemed to have been long in use, while his coarse cloak might
have belonged to a fisherman. Pie had on his head the round
hat of the period, — high, with a broad rim, which, when
turned down, gave the wearer a rustic look, but took a mili-
tary air when fastened up at the side with a loop and
a cockade. The old man wore his hat with the brim flat-
tened forward, peasant fashion, without either tassels or cock-
ade.
Lord Balcarras, the governor of the island, and the Prince
de la Tour d'Auvergne, had in person conducted and installed
him on board. The secret agent of the princes, Gelambre,
formerly one of the Count d'Artois's body-guard, had superin-
tended the arrangement of the cabin; and, although himself
'a nobleman, pushed courtesy and respect so far as to walk
behind the old man, carrying his portmanteau. When they
left him to go ashore again, Monsieur de Gelanbre saluted the
peasant profoundly ; Lord Balcarras said to him, " Good luck,
General! " and the Prince de la Tour d'Auvergne added, " Au
revoir, my cousin ! "
" The peasant " was the name by which the crew imme-
diately designated their passenger during the short dialogues
which seamen hold ; but without understanding further about
the matter, they comprehended that he was no more a peasant
than the corvette was a common sloop.
There was little wind. The " Claymore " left Bonnenuit,
and passed in front of Boulay Bay, and was for some time
18 NINETY-THREE
in sight, tacking to windward ; then she lessened in the gather-
ing night, and finally disappeared.
An hour after, Gelambre, having returned to his house at
Saint Helier, sent by the Southampton express the following
lines to the Count d'Artois, at the Duke of York's headquar-
ters, —
Monseigneur, — The departure has just taken place. Success cer-
tain. In eight days the whole coast will be on fire from Granville to
Saint Malo.
Four days previous, Prieur, the representative of Marne,
on a mission to the army along the coast of Cherbourg, and
momentarily residing at Granville, had received by a secret
emissary this message, written in the same hand as the dispatch
above : —
Citizen Representative, — On the 1st of June, at the hour when
the tide serves, the war corvette " Claymore," with a masked battery,
will set sail for the purpose of landing upon the shore of France a
man of whom this is a description: tall, old, white hair, peasant's dress,
hands of an aristocrat. I will send you more details to-morrow. He
will land on the morning of the 2d. Warn the cruisers; capture the
corvette; guillotine the man.
CHAPTER II
NIGHT ON THE VESSEL AND WITH THE PASSENGEE
THE corvette, instead of going south and making for
Saint Catherine's, headed north, then veered to the
west, and resolutely entered the arm of the sea between Sark
and Jersey, called the Passage de la Deronte. At that time
there was no lighthouse upon any point along either coast.
The sun had set clear ; the night was dark, — darker than
summer nights ordinarily are; there was a moon, but vast
clouds, rather of the equinox than the solstice, veiled the sky,
and according to all appearance the moon would not be visible
NINETY-THREE 19
till she touched the horizon at the moment of setting. A f<
clouds hung low upon the wnter and covered it with mist.
All this obscurity was favourable.
The intention of Pilot Gacquoil was to leave Jersey on the
left and Guernsey on the right, and to gain, by bold sailing
between the Hanois and the Douvree, some bay of the Saint
Alalo shore, — a route less short than that by the Minquiers,
but safer, as the French cruisers had standing orders to keep
an especially keen watch between Saint Helicr and Granville.
If the wind were favourable, and nothing occurred, Gacquoil
hoped by setting all sail to touch the French coast at day-
break.
All went well. The corvette had passed Gros-Ncz. To-
ward nine o'clock the weather looked sulky, as sailors say,
and there were wind and sea ; but the wind was good and the
sea strong without being violent. Still, now and then the
waves swept the vessel's bows.
The " peasant," whom Lord Balcarras had called " Gen-
eral," and whom the Prince de la Tour d'Auvergne addressed
as " My cousin," had a sailor's footing, and paced the deck
with tranquil gravity. He did not even seem to notice that
the corvette rocked considerably. From time to time he took
a cake of chocolate out of his pocket and munched a morsel :
his white hair did not prevent his having all his teeth.
He spoke to no one, except now and then a few low quick
words to the captain, who listened with deference, and seemed
to consider his passenger, rather than himself, the commander.
The " Claymore," ably piloted, skirted un perceived in the
fog the long escarpment north of Jersey, hugging the shore
on account of the formidable reef Pierres de Leeq, which is in
the middle of the channel between Jersey and Sark. Gacquoil,
standing at the helm, signalled in turn the Greve de Leeq,
Gros-Nez, and Plemont, and slipped the corvette along among
this chain of reefs, feeling his way to a certain extent, but
with certitude, like a man familiar with the course and ac-
quainted with the disposition of the sea. The corvette had no
light forward, from a fear of betraying its passage through
20 NINETY-THREE
these guarded waters. The fog was a cause for rejoicing.
They readied the Grande Etaque. The mist was so thick
that the outlines of the lofty pinnacle could scarcely be made
out. Ten o'clock was heard to sound from the belfry of Saint
Ouen, a proof that the wind was still abaft. All was yet go-
ing well. The sea grew rougher on account of the neighbour-
hood of La Corbiere.
A little after ten. Count de Boisberthelot and the
Chevalier La Vieuville reconducted the man in the peasant's
garb to his cabin, which was in reality the captain's state-
room. As he went in, he said to them in a low voice: —
" Gentlemen, you understand the importance of secrecy.
Silence up to the moment of explosion. You two are the only
ones here who know my name."
" We will carry it with us to the tomb," replied Boisber-
thelot.
" As for me," added the old man, " were I in face of death,
I would not tell it."
He entered his cabin.
CHAPTER III
NOBLE AND PLEBEIAN IN CONCERT
THE commander and the second officer returned on deck
and walked up and down, side by side, in conversation.
They were evidently talking of their passenger, and this was
the dialogue which the wind dispersed among the shadows.
Boisberthelot grumbled in a half-voice in the ear of La
Vieuville : —
" We shall see if he is really a leader."
La Vieuville replied, " In the mean time he is a prince."
" Almost."
" Nobleman in France, but prince in Brittany."
" Like the La Tremoilles ; like the Rohans."
NINETY-THREE 21
" With whom he is connected."
Boisberthelot resumed : —
*' In France, and in the king's carriages, he is marquis, as
I am count, and you are chevalier."
"The carriages are far off!" cried La Vieuville. " Wc
have got to the tumbrel."
There was a silence.
Boisberthelot began again : —
" For lack of a French prince, a Breton one is taken."
" For lack of thrushes, — no, for want of an eagle, — a
rrow is chosen."
" I should prefer a vulture," said Boisberthelot.
And La Vieuville retorted, —
" Yes, indeed ! a beak and talons."
" We shall see."
" Yes," resumed La Vieuville, " it is time there was a head.
I am of Tinteniac's opinion : 'A true chief, and — gunpow-
der! ' See, Commander ; I know nearly all the leaders, pos-
sible and impossible, — those of yesterday, those of to-day,
and those of to-morrow ; 'here is not one with the sort of head-
piece we need. In that accursed Vendee it wants a general
who is a lawyer at the same time. He must worry the enemy,
dispute every mill, thicket, ditch, pebble ; quarrel with him ;
take advantage of everything; see to everything; slaughter
plentifully ; make examples ; be sleepless, pitiless. At this
hour there are heroes among that army of peasants, but there
are no captains. D'Elbee is nil; Lescure is ailing ; Bonchampe
shows mercy, — he is kind, that means stupid; La Roche jac-
quelein is a magnificent sub-lieutenant ; Silz an officer for open
country, unfit for a war of expedients ; Cathelineau is a simple
carter ; Stofflet is a cunning gamekeeper ; Berard is inept ;
Boulainvilliers is ridiculous ; Charette is shocking. And I
do not speak of the barber Gaston. For, in the name of
Mars ! what is the good of opposing the Revolution, and what
is the difference between the republicans and ourselves, if we
set hairdressers to command noblemen?"
" You see that beast of a Revolution has infected us also."
22 NINETY-THREE
" An itch that France has caught."
" An itch of the Third Estate," replied Boisberthelot.
" It is only England that can cure us of it."
" And she will cure us, do not doubt it, Captain."
" In the meanwhile it is ugly."
" Indeed, yes. Clowns everywhere ! ' The monarchy which
lias for commander-in-chief Stofflet, the game-keeper of M.
de Maulevrier, has nothing to envy in the republic that has
for minister, Pache, son of the Duke de Castrie's porter.
What men this Vendean war brings out against each other!
On one side Santerre the brewer, on the other Gaston the wig-
maker ! "
" My dear Vieuville, I have a certain respect for Gaston.
He did not conduct himself ill in his command of Guemenee-
He very neatly shot three hundred Blues, after making them
dig their own graves."
" Well and good ; but I could have done that as well as he."
" Zounds ! no doubt ; and I also."
" The great acts of war," resumed La Vieuville, " require
to be undertaken by noblemen. They are matters for knights
and not hairdressers."
" Still, there are some estimable men among this ' Third
Estate,' " returned Boisberthelot. " Take, for example, Joby
the clockmaker. He had been a sergeant in a Flanders regi-
ment ; he gets himself made a Vendean chief ; he commands
a coast band ; he has a son who is a Republican, and while the
father serves among the Whites, the son serves among the
Blues. Encounter. Battle. The father takes the son pris-
oner, and blows out his brains."
" He's a good one," said La Vieuville.
" A royalist Brutus," replied Boisberthelot.
" All that does not hinder the fact that it is insupportable
to be commanded by a Coquereau, a Jean-Jean, a Mouline, a
Focart, a Bouju, a Chouppes!"
" My dear chevalier, the other side is equally disgusted.
We are full of plebeians ; they arc full of nobles. Do you
suppose the sansculottes are content to be commanded by the
NINETY-THREE 23
Count de Canclaux, the Viscount de Miranda, the Viscount
de Beauharnais, the Count de Valence, the Marquis de Custine,
and the Duke de Biron."
" What a hash ! "
" And the Duke de Chartres ! "
" Son of Egalite. Ah, then, when will he ever be king? "
" Never."
" He mounts toward the throne. He is aided by his
crimes."
" And held back by his vices," said Boisbcrthelot.
There was silence again; then Boisbcrthelot continued:
" Still, he tried to bring about a reconciliation. He went
to see the king. I was at Versailles when somebody spat on
his back."
" From the top of the grand staircase?"
" Yes."
" It was well done."
" We call him Bourbon the Bourbeux."
" He is bald ; he has pimples ; he is a regicide — poh ! "
Then La Vieuville added, —
" I was at Ouessant with him."
" On the ' Saint Esprit > ? "
" Yes."
" If he had obeyed the signal that the Admiral d'Orvilliers
made him, to keep to the windward, he would have kept the
English from passing."
" Certainly."
" Is it true that he was hidden at the bottom of the hold ? "
" No ; but it must be said all the same."
And La Vieuville burst out laughing.
Boisbcrthelot observed, —
" There are idiots enough. Hold ! That Boulainvilliers
you were speaking of, La Vieuville, — I knew him. I had a
chance of studying him. In the beginning, the peasants were
armed with pikes: if he did not get it into his head to make
pikemcn of them ! He wanted to teach them the manual of
exercise, de la pique-en biais et de la pique-trainante-le-fer
24 NINETY-THREE
devant. He dreamed of transforming those savages into sol-
diers of the Line. He proposed to show them how to mass
battalions and form hollow squares. He jabbered the old-
fashioned military dialect at them ; for ' chief of a squad,' he
said un cap d'escade, which was the appellation of corporals
,under Louis XIV. He persisted in forming a regiment of
those poachers: he had regular companies. The sergeants
ranged themselves in a circle every evening to take the counter-
sign from the colonel's sergeant, who whispered it to the ser-
geant of the lieutenants ; he repeated it to his neighbour, and
he to the man nearest ; and so on, from ear to ear, down to the
last. He cashiered an officer because he did not stand bare-
headed to receive the watchword from the sergeant's mouth.
You can fancy how all succeeded. The booby could not un-
derstand that peasants must be led peasant fashion, and that
one cannot make drilled soldiers out of woodchoppers. Yes,
I knew that Boulainvilliers."
They moved on a few steps, each pursuing his own thoughts.
Then the conversation was renewed.
" By the way, is it true that Dampierre is killed? "
" Yes, Commander."
" Before Conde?"
" At the camp of Pamars, by a gunshot."
Boisberthelot sighed.
" The Count de Dampierre. Yet another of ours who went
over to them ! "
"A good journey to him," said La Vieuville.
" And the princesses — where are they ? "
" At Trieste."
"Still?"
" Still. Ah, this republic ! " cried Vieuville. " What havoc
from such slight consequences ! When one thinks that this
revolution was caused by the deficit of a few millions."
" Distrust small outbreaks," said Boisberthelot.
" Everything is going badly," resumed La Vieuville.
" Yes; La Rouarie is dead; Du Dresnay is an idiot. What
pitiful leaders all those bishops are, — that Coney, Bishop of
N I N ET V -THREE 25
Rochelle; that Beaupoil Saint-Aulaire, Bishop of Poitiers;
that Mercy, Bishop of Lucon and lover of Madame de l'Es-
chasserie — "
" Whose name is Servantcau, you know, Commander ;
L'Eschasscrie is the name of an estate."
" And that false Bishop of Agra, who is cure of I know
not what."
" Of Dol. He is called Guillot de Folleville. At least he
is brave, and he fights."
" Friests when soldiers are needed! Bishops who are not
bishops ! Generals who are no generals ! "
La Vieuville interrupted Boisbcrthelot.
"Commander, have you the ' Moniteur ' in your cabin?"
" Yes."
" What are they playing in Paris just now? "
" < Adele and Poulin,' and ' The Cavern.' "
" I should like to see that."
" You will be able to. We shall be at Paris in a month."
Boisberthelot reflected a moment, and added, —
" At the latest. Mr. Windham said so to Lord Hood."
" But then, Captain, everything is not going so ill."
" Zounds ! everything would go well, on condition that the
war in Brittany could be properly conducted."
La Vieuville shook his head.
" Commander," he asked, " do we land the marines ? "
" Yes, if the coast is for us, not if it is hostile. Sometimes
war must break down doors, sometimes slip in quietly. Civil
war ought always to have a false key in its pocket. We
shall do all in our power. The most important is the
chief."
Then Boisberthelot added thoughtfully : —
" La Vieuville, what do you think of the Chevalier de
Dieugie? "
" The younger? "
" Yes."
"For a leader?"
" Yes."
26 NINETY-THREE
" That he is another officer for open country and pitched
battles. Only the peasant understands the thickets."
" Then resign yourself to General Stofflet and to General
Cathclineau."
La Vieuville mused a while, and then said, " It needs a
prince, — a prince of France, a prince of the blood, a true
prince."
"Why? Whoever says prince — "
" Says poltroon. I know it, Captain. But one is needed
for the effect on the big stupid eyes of the country lads."
" My dear chevalier, the princes will not come."
" We will get on without them."
Boisberthelot pressed his hand upon his forehead with the
mechanical movement of a man endeavouring to bring out some
idea. He exclaimed, —
" Well, let us try the general we have here."
" He is a great nobleman."
" Do you believe he will answer? "
" Provided he is strong."
" That is to say, ferocious," said Boisberthelot.
The count and the chevalier looked fixedly at each other.
" Monsieur du Boisberthelot, you have said the word, —
ferocious. Yes ; that is what we need. This is a war with-
out pity. The hour is to the bloodthirsty. The regicides
have cut off Louis XVI. 's head ; we will tear off the four limbs
of the regicides. Yes, the general necessary is General In-
exorable. In Anjou and Upper Poitou the chiefs do the mag-
nanimous ; they dabble in generositj^ : nothing moves on. In
the Marais and the country of Retz, the chiefs are ferocious:
everything goes forward. It is because Charette is savage
that he holds his own against Parrein : it is hyaena against
hyaena."
Boisberthelot had no time to reply ; La Vieuville's words
were suddenly cut short by a desperate cry, and at the same
instant they heard a noise as unaccountable as it was awful.
The cry and this noise came from the interior of the vessel.
The captain and lieutenant made a rush for the gun-deck,
NINETY-THREE 27
but could not get down. All the gunners were hurrying
frantically up.
A frightful thing had just happened.
CHAPTER IV
TORMENTUM BELLI
ONE of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four poun-
der, had got loose.
This' is perhaps the most formidable of ocean accidents.
Nothing more terrible can happen to a vessel in open sea and
under full sail.
A gun that breaks its moorings becomes suddenly some
indescribable supernatural beast. It is a machine which trans-
forms itself into a monster. This mass turns upon its wheels,
has the rapid movements of a billiard-ball ; rolls with the roll-
ing, pitches with the pitching; goes, comes, pauses, seems to
meditate; resumes its course, rushes along the ship from end
to end like an arrow, circles about, springs aside, evades, rears,
breaks, kills, exterminates. It is a battering-ram which as-
saults a wall at its own caprice. Moreover, the battering-
ram is metal, the wall wood. It is the entrance of matter into
liberty. One might say that this eternal slave avenges itself.
It seems as if the power of evil hidden in what we call inani-
mate objects finds a vent and bursts suddenly out. It has
an air of having lost patience, of seeking some fierce, obscure
retribution ; nothing more inexorable than this rage of the
inanimate. The mad mass has the bounds of a panther, the
weight of the elephant, the agility of the mouse, the obstinacy
of the axe, the unexpectedness of the surge, the rapidity of
lightning, the deafness of the tomb. It weighs ten thousand
pounds, and it rebounds like a child's ball. Its flight is a
wild whirl abruptly cut at right angles. What is to be done?
28 NINETY-THREE
How to end this? A tempest ceases, a cyclone passes, a wind
falls, a broken mast is replaced, a leak is stopped, a fire dies
out; but how to control this enormous brute of bronze? In
what way can one attack it?
You can make a mastiff hear reason, astound a bull, fas-
cinate a boa, frighten a tiger, soften a lion ; but there is no
resource with that monster, — a cannon let loose. You cannot
kill it, — it is dead ; at the same time it lives. It lives with a
sinister life bestowed on it by Infinity.
The planks beneath it give it play. It is moved by the ship,
which is moved by the sea, which is moved by the wind. This
destroyer is a plaything. The ship, the waves, the blasts, all
aid it; hence its frightful vitality. How to assail this fury
of complication? How to fetter this monstrous mechanism
for wrecking a ship? How foresee its comings and goings,
its returns, its stops, its shocks? Any one of these blows
upon the sides may stave out the vessel. How divine its awful
gyrations! One has to deal with a projectile which thinks,
seems to possess ideas, and which changes its direction at each
instant. How stop the course of something which must be
avoided? The horrible cannon flings itself about, advances,
recoils, strikes to the right, strikes to the left, flees, passes,
disconcerts ambushes, breaks down obstacles, crushes men like
flies. The great danger of the situation is in the mobility of
its base. How combat an inclined plane which has caprices?
The ship, so to speak, has lightning imprisoned in its womb
which seeks to escape ; it is like thunder rolling above an earth-
quake.
In an instant the whole crew were on foot. The fault was
the chief gunner's ; he had neglected to fix home the screw-nut
of the mooring-chain, and had so badly shackled the four
wheels of the carronade that the play given to the sole and
frame had separated the platform, and ended by breaking
the breeching. The cordage had broken, so that the gun
was no longer secure on the carriage. The stationary breech-
ing which prevents recoil was not in use at that period. As
a heavy wave struck the port, the carronade, weakly attached,
NINETY-THREE 29
recoiled, burst its chain, and began to rush wildly about.
Conceive, in order to have an idea of this strange sliding, a
drop of water running down a pane of glass.
At the moment when the lashings gave way the gunners
were in the battery, some in groups, others standing alone,
occupied with such duties as sailors perforin in expectation of
the command to clear for action. The carronade, hurled for-
ward by the pitching, dashed into this knot of men, and
crushed four at the first blow ; then, flung back and shot out
anew by the rolling, it cut in two a fifth poor fellow, glanced
off to the larboard side, and struck a piece of the battery with
such force as to unship it. Then rose the cry of distress which
had been heard. The men rushed toward the ladder ; the gun-
deck emptied in the twinkling of an eye. The enormous can-
non was left alone. She was given up to herself. She was
her own mistress, and mistress of the vessel. She could do
what she willed with both. This whole crew, accustomed to
laugh in battle, trembled now. To describe the universal ter-
ror would be impossible.
Captain Boisberthelot and Lieutenant Vieuville, although
both intrepid men, stopped at the head of the stairs, and re-
mained mute, pale, hesitating, looking down on the deck.
Some one pushed them aside with his elbow and descended.
It was their passenger, the peasant, — the man of whom
they had been speaking a moment before.
When he reached the foot of the ladder, he stood still.
CHAPTER V
VIS ET VIR
THE cannon came and went along the deck. One might
have fancied it the living chariot of the Apocalypse.
The marine-lantern, oscillating from the ceiling, added a diz-
zying whirl of lights and shadows to this vision. The shape
30 NINETY-THREE
of the cannon was undistingulshable from the rapidity of its
course; now it looked black in the light, now it cast weird
reflections through the gloom.
It kept on its work of destruction. It had already shattered
four other pieces, and dug two crevices in the side, fortunately
above the water-line, though they would leak in case a squall
should come on. It dashed itself frantically against the
frame-work ; the solid tie-beams resisted, their curved form
giving them great strength, but they creaked ominously under
the assaults of this terrible club, which seemed endowed with a
sort of appalling ubiquity, striking on every side at once.
The strokes of a bullet shaken in a bottle would not be madder
or more rapid. The four wheels passed and repassed above
the dead men, cut, carved, slashed them, till the five corpses
were a score of stumps rolling about the deck; the heads
seem to cry out; streams of blood twisted in and out of the
planks with every pitch of the vessel. The ceiling, damaged
in several places, began to gape. The whole ship was filled
with the awful tumult.
The captain promptly recovered his composure, and at his
order the sailors threw down into the deck everything which
could deaden and check the mad rush of the gun, — mattresses,
hammocks, spare sails, coils of rope, extra equipments, and
the bales of false assignats of which the corvette carried a
whole cargo ; an infamous deception which the English consid-
ered a fair trick in war.
But what could these rags avail? No one dared descend to
arrange them in any useful fashion, and in a few instants they
were mere heaps of lint.
There was just sea enough to render an accident as com-
plete as possible. A tempest would have been desirable, —
it might have thrown the gun upside down ; and the four
Avheels once in the air, the monster could have been mastered.
Bu; the devastation increased. There were gashes and even
fractures in the masts, which, imbedded in the woodwork of
the keel, pierce the decks of ships like great round pillars.
The mizzen-mast was cracked, and the main-mast itself was
NINETY-THREE 31
injured under the convulsive blows of the gun. Tin battery
wras being destroyed. Ten pieces out of the thirty wire dis-
abled ; the breaches multiplied in the side, and the corvette
began to take in water.
The old passenger, who had descended to the gun-deck,
looked like a form of stone stationed at the foot of the stairs.
He stood motionless, gazing sternly about upon the devasta-
tion. Indeed, it seemed impossible to take a single step for-
ward.
Each bound of the liberated carronade menaced the de-
struction of the vessel. A few minutes more and shipwreck
would be inevitable.
They must perish or put a summary end to the disaster.
A decision must be made — but how ?
What a combatant — this cannon !
They must check this mad monster. They must seize this
flash of lightning. They must overthrow this thunderbolt.
Boisberthelot said to La Vieuville : —
"Do you believe in God, Chevalier?"
La Vieuville replied, —
" Yes. No. Sometimes."
"In a tempest?"
" Yes ; and in moments like this."
" Only God can aid us here," said Boisberthelot.
All were silent : the cannon kept up its horrible fracas.
The waves beat against the ship ; their blows from without
responded to the strokes of the cannon.
It was like two hammers alternating.
Suddenly, into the midst of this sort of inaccessible circus,
where the escaped cannon leaped and bounded, there sprang
a man with an iron bar in his hand. It was the author of
this catastrophe, — the gunner whose culpable negligence had
caused the accident; the captain of the gun. Having been the
means of bringing about the misfortune, he desired to repair
it. He had caught up a handspike in one fist, a tiller-rope
with a slipping-noose in the other, and jumped down into
the gun-deck.
32 NINETY-THREE
Then a strange combat began, a titantic strife, — the strug-
gle of the gun against the gunner; a battle between matter
and intelligence; a duel between the inanimate and the human.
The man was posted in an angle, the bar and rope in his two
fists ; backed against one of the riders, settled firmly on his
legs as on two pillars of steel, livid, calm, tragic, rooted as it
were in the planks, he waited.
He waited for the cannon to pass near him.
The gunner knew his piece, and it seemed to him that she
must recognize her master. He had lived a long while with
her. How many times he had thrust his hand between her
jaws! It was his tame monster. He began to address it as
he might have done his dog.
" Come ! " said he. Perhaps he loved it.
He seemed to wish that it would turn toward him.
But to come toward him would be to spring upon him.
Then he would be lost. How to avoid its crush? There was
the question. All stared in terrified silence.
Not a breast respired freely, except perchance that of the old
man who alone stood in the deck with the two combatants, a
stern second.
He might himself be crushed by the piece. He did not
stir.
Beneath them, the blind sea directed the battle.
At the instant when, accepting this awful hand-to-hand
contest, the gunner approached to challenge the cannon, some
chance fluctuation of the waves kept it for a moment immova-
ble, as if suddenly stupefied.
" Come on ! " the man said to it. It seemed to listen.
Suddenly it darted upon him. The gunner avoided the
shock.
The struggle began, — struggle unheard of. The fragile
matching itself against the invulnerable. The thing of flesh
attacking the brazen brute. On the one side blind force, on
the other a soul.
The whole passed in a half-light. It was like the indistinct
vision of a miracle.
NINETY-THREE 33
A soul, — strange thing; but you would have said that the
cannon had one also, — a soul filled with rage and hatred.
This blindness appeared to have eyes. The monster had the
air of watching the man. There was — one might have fan-
cied so at least — cunning in this mass. It also chose its mo-
ment. It became some gigantic insect of metal, having, or
seeming to have, the will of a demon. Sometimes this colossal
grasshopper would strike the low ceiling of the gun-deck,
then fall back on its four wheels like a tiger upon its four
claws, and dart anew on the man. He, supple, agile, adroit,
would glide away like a snake from the reach of these light-
ning-like movements. He avoided the encounters ; but the
blows which he escaped fell upon the vessel and continued the
havoc.
An end of broken chain remained attached to the carron-
ade. This chain had twisted itself, one could not tell how ;
about the screw of the breech-button. One extremity of the
chain was fastened to the carriage. The other, hanging loose,
whirled wildly about the gun and added to the danger of its
blows.
The screw held it like a clinched hand, and the chain mul-
tiplying the strokes of the battering-ram by its strokes of a
thong, made a fearful whirlwind about the cannon, — a whip
of iron in a fist of brass. This chain complicated the battle.
Nevertheless, the man fought. Sometimes, even, it was the
man who attacked the cannon. He crept along the side, bar
and rope in hand, and the cannon had the air of understand-
ing, and fled as if it perceived a snare. The man pursued it,
formidable, fearless.
Such a duel could not last long. The gun seemed suddenly
to say to itself, " Come, we must make an end ! " and it paused.
One felt the approach of the crisis. The cannon, as if in sus-
pense, appeared to have, or had, — because it seemed to all a
sentient being, — a furious premeditation. It sprang unex-
pectedly upon the gunner. He jumped aside, let it pass, and
cried out with a laugh, " Try again! " The gun, as if in a
fury, broke a carronade to larboard ; then, seized anew by the
34 NINETY-THREE
invisible sling which held it, was flung to starboard toward the
man, who escaped.
Three carronades gave way under the blows of the gun ;
then, as if blind and no longer conscious of what it was doing,
it turned its back on the man, rolled from the stern to the
bow, bruising the stem and making a breach in the plankings
of the prow. The gunner had taken refuge at the foot of
the stairs, a few steps from the old man, who was watching.
The gunner held his handspike in rest. The cannon seemed
to perceive him, and, without taking the trouble to turn it-
self, backed upon him with the quickness of an axe-stroke.
The gunner, if driven back against the side was lost. The
crew uttered a simultaneous cry.
But the old passenger, until now immovable, made a spring
more rapid than all those wild whirls. He seized a bale of the
false assignats, and at the risk of being crushed, succeeded in
flinging it between the wheels of the carronade. This manoeu-
vre, decisive and dangerous, could not have been executed with
more adroitness and precision by a man trained to all the exer-
cises set down in Durosel's " Manual of Sea Gunnery."
The bale had the effect of a plug. A pebble may stop a
log, a tree-branch turn an avalanche. The carronade stum-
bled. The gunner, in his turn, seizing this terrible chance,
plunged his iron bar between the spokes of one of the hind
wheels. The cannon was stopped.
It staggered. The man, using the bar as a lever, rocked
it to and fro. The heavy mass turned over with a clang like
a falling bell, and the gunner, dripping with sweat, rushed
forward headlong and passed the slipping-noose of the tiller-
rope about the bronze neck of the overthrown monster.
It was ended. The man had conquered. The ant had
subdued the mastodon; the pigmy had taken the thunder-
bolt prisoner.
The marines and the sailors clapped their hands.
The whole crew hurried down with cables and chains, and
in an instant the cannon was securely lashed.
The gunner saluted the passenger.
NINETY-THREE 35
" Sir," he said to him, " you have saved my life."
The old man had resumed his impassible attitude, and did
not reply.
CHAPTER VI
THE TWO SCALES OF THE BALANCE
THE man had conquered, but one might say that the can-
non had conquered also. Immediate ship-wreck had
been avoided, but the corvette was by no means saved. The
dilapidation of the vessel seemed irremediable. The sides had
five breaches, one of which, very large, was in the bow. Out
of the thirty carronades, twenty lay useless in their frames.
The carronade, which had been captured and rechained, was
itself disabled ; the screw of the breech-button was forced, and
the levelling of the piece impossible in consequence. The bat-
tery was reduced to nine pieces. The hold had sprung a leak.
It was necessary at once to repair the damages and set the
pumps to work.
The gun-deck, now that one had time to look about it,
offered a terrible spectacle. The interior of a mad elephant's
cage could not have been more completely dismantled.
However great the necessity that the corvette should escape
observation, a still more imperious necessity presented itself,
— immediate safety. It had been necessary to light up the
deck by lanterns placed here and there along the sides.
But during the whole time this tragic diversion had lasted,
the crew were so absorbed by the one question of life or death
that they noticed little what was passing outside the scene of
the duel. The fog had thickened; the weather had changed;
the wind had driven the vessel at will; it had got out of its
route, in 'plain sight of Jersey and Guernsey, farther to the
south than it ought to have gone, and was surrounded by a
troubled sea. The great waves kissed the gaping wounds of
36 NINETY-THREE
the corvette, — kisses full of peril. The sea rocked her men-
acingly. The breeze became a gale. A squall, a tempest
perhaps, threatened. It was impossible to see before one four
oars' length.
While the crew were repairing summarily and in haste the
ravages of the gun-deck, stopping the leaks and putting back
into position the guns which had escaped the disaster, the
old passenger had gone on deck.
He stood with his back against the main-mast.
He had paid no attention to a proceeding which had taker-
place on the vessel. The Chevalier La Vieuville had draw^
up the marines in line on either side of the main-mast, and at
the whistle of the boatswain the sailors busy in the rigging
stood upright on the yards.
Count du Boisberthelot advanced toward the passenger.
Behind the captain marched a man, haggard, breathless,
his dress in disorder, yet wearing a satisfied look under it all.
It was the gunner who had just now so opportunely shown
himself a tamer of monsters, and who had got the better of
the cannon.
The count made a military salute to the unknown in peasant
garb, and said to him : —
" General, here is the man."
The gunner held himself erect, his eyes downcast, stand-
ing in a soldierly attitude.
Count du Boisberthelot continued, —
" General, taking into consideration what this man has
done, do you not think there is something for his commanders
to do?"
" I think there is," said the old man.
" Be good enough to give the orders," returned Bois-
berthelot.
" It is for you to give them. You are the captain."
" But you are the general," answered Boisberthelot.
The old man looked at the gunner.
" Approach," said he.
The gunner moved forward a step. The old man turned
NINETY-THREE 37
toward Count du Boisberthelot, detached the cross of Saint
Louis from the captain's uniform and fastened it on the jacket
of the gunner.
" Hurrah ! " cried the sailors.
The marines presented arms. The old passenger, point-
ing with his finger toward the bewildered gunner, added, —
" Now let that man be shot."
Stupor succeeded the applause.
Then, in the midst of a silence like that of the tomb, the
old man raised his voice. He said, —
" A negligence has endangered this ship. At this mo-
ment she is perhaps lost. To be at sea is to face the enemy.
A vessel at open sea is an army which gives battle. The
tempest conceals, but does not absent itself. The whole sea
is an ambuscade.
" Death is the penalty of any fault committed in the face
of the enemy. No fault is reparable. Courage ought to be
rewarded and negligence punished."
These words fell one after the other, slowly, solemnly, with
a sort of inexorable measure, like the blows of an axe upon
an oak.
And the old man, turning to the soldiers, added, —
" Do your duty."
The man upon whose breast shone the cross of Saint Louis
bowed his head.
At a sign from Count du Boisberthelot, two sailors de-
scended between decks, then returned, bringing the hammock
winding-sheet. The ship's chaplain, who since the time of
sailing had been at prayer in the officers' quarters, accom-
panied the two sailors; a sergeant detached from the line
twelve marines, whom he arranged in two ranks, six by six ;
the gunner, without uttering a word, placed himself between
the two files. The chaplain, crucifix in hand, advanced and
stood near him.
" March ! " said the sergeant.
The platoon moved with slow steps toward the bow. The
two sailors who carried the shroud followed.
38 NINETY-THREE
A gloomy silence fell upon the corvette. A hurricane
moaned in the distance.
A few instants later there was a flash; a report followed,
echoing among the shadows; then all was silent; then came
the thud of a body falling into the sea.
The old passenger still leaned back against the mainmast
with folded arms, thinking silently.
Boisberthelot pointed toward him with the forefinger of
his left hand, and said in a low voice to La Vieuville:
" The Vendee has found a head ! "
CHAPTER VII
HE WHO SETS SAIL. PUTS INTO A LOTTERY
BUT what was to become of the corvette?
The clouds, which the whole night through had
touched the waves, now lowered so thickly that the horizon
was no longer visible; the sea seemed to be covered with a
pall. Nothing to be seen but fog, — a situation always per-
ilous, even for a vessel in good condition.
Added to the mist came the surging swell.
The time had been used to good purpose: the corvette had
been lightened by throwing overboard everything which could
be cleared from the havoc made by the carronade, — the dis-
mantled guns, the broken carriages, frames twisted or mv
nailed, the fragments of splintered wood and iron; the port-
holes had been opened, and the corpses and parts of bodies,
enveloped in tarpaulin, were slid down planks into the waves.
The sea was no longer manageable. Not that the tempest
was imminent; it seemed, on the contrary, that the hurricane
rustling behind the horizon decreased, and the squall was
moving northward; but the waves were very high still, which
indicated disturbance in the depths. The corvette could of-
NINETY-TURK K .39
fer slight resistance to shocks in her crippled condition, so
thai the great waves might prove fatal to her.
Gacquoil stood thoughtfully at the helm.
To face ill-fortune with a bold front is the habit of those
accustomed to rule at sea.
La Vieuville, who was the sort of man that becomes gay
in the midst of disaster, accosted Gacquoil.
" Well, pilot," said he, " the squall has missed fire. Its
attempt at sneezing comes to nothing. We shall get out of
it. We shall have wind, and that is all."
Gacquoil replied, seriously, " Where there is wind there
are waves."
Neither laughing nor sad, such is the sailor. The re-
sponse had a disquieting significance. For a leaky ship to
encounter a high sea is to fill rapidly. Gacquoil emphasized
his prognostic by a frown. Perhaps La Vieuville had spoken
almost jovial and gay words a little too soon after the catas-
trophe of the gun and its gunner. There are things which
bring bad luck at sea. The ocean is secretive; one never
knows what it means to do ; it is necessary to be always on
guard against it.
La Vieuville felt the necessity of getting back to gravity.
" Where are we, pilot ? " he asked.
The pilot replied, —
" We are in the hands of God."
A pilot is a master; he must always be allowed to do what
he will, and often he must be allowed to say what he pleases.
Generally this species of man speaks little.
La Vieuville moved away. He had asked a question of
the pilot ; it was the horizon which replied. The sea sud-
denly cleared.
The fogs which trailed across the waves were quickly rent ;
the dark confusion of the billows spread out to the horizon's
verge in a shadowy half-light, and this was what became
visible : —
The sky seemed covered with a lid of clouds, but they
no longer touched the water; in the east appeared a white-
40 NINETY-THREE
ness, which was the dawn ; in the west trembled a correspond-
ing pallor, which was the setting moon. These two ghostly
presences drew opposite each other narrow bands of pale lights
along the horizon, between the sombre sea and the gloomy
sky.
Across each of these lines of light were sketched black
profiles, upright and immovable.
To the west, against the moonlight sky, stood out sharply
tliree lofty rocks, erect as Celtic cromlechs.
To the east, against the pale horizon of morning, rose
»Vght sail, ranged in order at regular intervals in a formid-
ab\e array.
The three rocks were a reef ; the eight ships, a squadron.
Behind the vessel was the Minquiers, — a rock of an evil
renown; before her, the French cruisers. To the west, the
abyss; to the east, carnage: she was between a shipwreck and
a combat.
For meeting the reef, the corvette had a broken hull, rig-
ging disjointed, masts tottering in their foundations; for
facing battle, she had a battery where one-and-twenty cannon
out of thirty were dismounted, and whose best gunners were
dead.
The dawn was yet faint; there still remained a little night
to them. This might even last for some time, since it was
principally made by thick, high clouds presenting the solid
appearance of a vault.
The wind, which had succeeded in dispersing the lower
mists, was forcing the corvette toward the Minquiers.
In her excessive feebleness and dilapidation, she scarcely
obeyed the helm; she rolled rather than sailed, and, smitten
by the waves, she yielded passively to their impulse.
The Minquiers, a dangerous reef, was still more rugged
at that time than it is now. Several towers of this citadel
of the abyss have been razed by the incessant chopping of the
sea.
The configuration of reefs changes. It is not idly that
waves are called the swords of the ocean; each tide is the
NINETY-THREE 41
stroke of a saw. At that period, to strike on the Minquiers
was to perish.
As for the cruisers, they were the squadron of Cancale,
afterward so celebrated under the command of that Captain
Duchesne whom Lequinio called Father Duchesne.
The situation was critical. During the struggle of the
unchained carronade, the corvette had, unobserved, got out
of her course, and sailed rather toward Granville than Saint
Malo. Even if she had been in a condition to have been
handled and to carry sail, the Minquiers would have barred
her return toward Jersey, and the cruisers would have pre-
vented her reaching France.
For the rest, tempest there was none. But, as the pilot
had said, there was a swell. The sea, rolling under a rough
wind and above a rocky bottom, was savage.
The sea never says at once what it wishes. The gulf hides
everything, even trickery. One might almost say that the
sea has a plan. It advances and recoils; it proposes and
contradicts itself; it sketches a storm and renounces its de-
sign ; it promises the abyss, and does not hold to it ; it threat-
ens the north, and strikes the south.
All night the corvette " Claymore " had had the fog and
the fear of the storm. The sea had belied itself, but in a
savage fashion; it had sketched in the tempest, but devel-
oped the reef. It was shipwreck just the same, under another
form.
So that to destruction upon the rocks was added exter-
mination by combat, — one enemy complementing the other.
La Vieuville cried amid his brave merriment : —
" Shipwreck here — battle there ! We have thrown the
double fives ! "
42 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER VIII
9 = 380
THE corvette was little more than a wreck.
In the wan, dim light, midst the blackness of the
clouds, in the confused, changing line of the horizon, in the
mysterious sullenness of the waves, there was a sepulchral
solemnity. Except for the hissing breath of the hostile wind,
all was silent. The catastrophe rose with majesty from the
gulf. It resembled rather an apparition than an attack.
Nothing stirred among the rocks ; nothing moved on the ves-
sels. It was an indescribable, colossal silence. Had they to
deal with something real? One might have believed it a
dream sweeping across the sea ; there are legends of such
visions. The corvette was in a manner between the demon
reef and the phantom fleet.
Count du Boisberthelot gave orders in a half-voice to
La Vieuville, who descended to the gun-deck; then the cap-
tain seized his telescope and stationed himself at the stern by
the side of the pilot.
Gacquoil's whole effort was to keep the corvette to the
.wind; for if struck on the side by the wind and the sea, she
would inevitably capsize.
" Pilot," said the captain, " where are we? "
" Off the Minquiers."
" On which side? "
" The bad one."
"What bottom?"
" Small rocks."
"Can we turn broadside on?"
" We can always die," said the pilot.
The captain levelled his glass toward the west and exam-
ined the Minquiers ; then he turned to the east and studied
the sail in sight.
NINETY-THREE 43
The pilot continued, as if talking to himself: —
" It is the Minquiers. It is where the laughing sea-mew
and the great black-hooded gull rest, when they make for
Holland."
In the mean time the captain counted the sail.
There were, indeed, eight vessels, drawn up in line, and
lifting their warlike profiles above the water. In the centre
was seen the lofty sweep of a three-decker.
The captain questioned the pilot.
" Do you know those ships? "
" Indeed, yes ! " replied Gacquoil.
"What are they?"
" It is the squadron."
"Of France?"
" Of the devil."
There was a silence. The captain resumed: —
" The whole body of cruisers are there."
"Not all."
In fact, on the 2d of April, Valaze had announced to
the Convention that ten frigates and six ships-of-the-line
were cruising in the Channel. The recollection of this came
into the captain's mind.
" Right," said he ; " the squadron consists of sixteen ves-
sels. There are only eight here."
" The rest," said Gacquoil, " are lagging below, the whole
length of the coast, and on the look-out."
The captain, still with his glass to his eye, murmured:
" A three-decker, two first-class frigates, and five second-
class."
" But I, too," growled Gacquoil, " have marked them
out."
" Good vessels," said the captain. " I have done some-
thing myself toward commanding them."
" As for me," said Gacquoil, " I have seen them close
by. I do not mistake one for the other. I have their de-
scription in my head."
The captain handed his telescope to the pilot.
44 NINETY-THREE
"Pilot, can you make out the three-decker clearly?"
" Yes, Captain ; it is the ' Cote d'Or.' "
" Which they have rebaptized," said the captain. " She
was formerly the ' Etats de Bourgogne.' A new vessel ; a
hundred and twenty-eight guns."
He took a pencil and note-book from his pocket, and
made the figure 128 on one of the leaves.
He continued, —
" Pilot, what is the first sail to larboard? "
" It is the < Experimentee.' The — "
" First-class frigate. Fifty-two guns. She was fitted out
at Brest two months since."
The captain marked the figure 52 on his note-book.
" Pilot," he asked, " what is the second sail to larboard? "
" The ' Dryade.' "
" First-class frigate. Forty eighteen-pounders. She has
been in India. She has a good naval reputation."
And beneath the 52 he put the figure 40; then lifting his
head : —
" Now, to starboard."
" Commander, those are all second-class frigates. There
are five of them."
" Which is the first, starting from the three-decker? "
" The ' Resolute.' "
" Thirty -two pieces of eighteen. And the second? "
" The ' Richemont.' "
" Same. The next? "
" The ' Atheiste.' " x
" Odd name to take to sea. What next? "
" The « Calypso.' "
"And then?"
" ' La Preneuse.' "
" Five frigates, each of thirty-two guns."
The captain wrote 160 below the first figures.
" Pilot," said he, " you recognize them perfectly."
i Marine Archives: State of the Fleet in 1793.
NINETV-TIIHKK 45
a
And you," replied Gacquoil — " you know them well,
Captain. To recognize is something; to know is hotter."
The captain had his eyes fixed on his note-hook, and added
between his teeth : —
" One hundred and twenty-eight, fifty-two, forty, a hun-
dred and sixty."
At this moment La Vieuville came on deck again.
" Chevalier," the captain cried out to him, " we are in sight
of three hundred and eighty cannon."
" So be it," said La Vieuville.
"You come from the inspection, La Vieuville: how many
guns, exactly, have we fit for firing? "
" Nine."
" So be it," said Boisberthelot, in his turn.
He took the telescope from the pilot's hands and studied
the horizon.
The eight vessels, silent and black, seemed motionless, but
they grew larger.
They were approaching imperceptibly.
La Vieuville made a military salute.
" Commander," said he, " this is my report. I distrusted
this corvette ' Claymore.' It is always annoying to embark
suddenly on a vessel that does not know you or that does not
love you. English ship — traitor to Frenchman. That slut
of a carronade proved it. I have made the round. Anchors
good. They are not made of half-finished iron, but forged
bars soldered under the tilt-hammer. The flukes are solid.
Cables excellent, easy to pay out ; regulation length, a hun-
dred and twenty fathoms. Munitions in plenty. Six gun-
ners dead. A hundred and seventy-one rounds apiece."
" Because there are but nine pieces left," murmured the
captain.
Boisberthelot levelled his telescope with the horizon. The
squadron was still slowly approaching.
The carronades possess one advantage, — three men are
enough to work them ; but they have one inconvenience, —
they do not carry so far nor aim so true as guns. It would
46 NINETY-THREE
be necessary to let the squadron get within range of the car-
ronades.
The captain gave his orders in a low voice. There was
silence throughout the vessel. No signal to clear for battle
had been given, but it was done. The corvette was as much
disabled for combat with men as against the waves. Every-
thing that was possible was done with this ruin of a war-ves-
sel. By the gangway near the tiller-ropes were heaped all the
hawsers and spare cables for strengthening the masts in case
of need. The cockpit was put in order for the wounded.
According to the naval use of that time, the deck was bar-
ricaded, which is a guaranty against balls but not against
bullets. The ball-gauges were brought, although it was a
little late, to verify the calibres; but so many incidents had
not been foreseen. Each sailor received a cartridge-box, and
stuck into his belt a pair of pistols and a dirk. The ham-
mocks were stowed away, the artillery pointed, the musketry
prepared, the axes and grapplings laid out, the cartridge and
bullet stores made ready, and the powder-room opened. Every
man was at his post. All was done without a word being
spoken, like arrangements carried on in the chamber of a dy-
ing person. All was haste and gloom.
Then the corvette showed her broadside. She had six an-
chors, like a frigate. The whole six were cast, — the cockbill
anchor forward, the kedger aft, the flood-anchor toward the
open, the ebb-anchor on the side to the rocks, the bower-anchor
to starboard, and the sheet-anchor to larboard.
The nine carronades still in condition were put into form ;
the whole nine on one side, — that toward the enemy.
The squadron had on its part not less silently completed
its manoeuvres. The eight vessels now formed a semicircle,
of which the Minquiers made the chord. The " Claymore,"
enclosed in this semicircle, and into the bargain tied down by
her anchors, was backed by the reef, — that is to say, by ship-
wreck.
It was like a pack of hounds about a wild boar, not yet
giving tongue, but showing their teeth.
NINETY-THREE 47
It seemed as if on the one side and the other they awaited
some signal.
The gunners of the " Claymore " stood to their pieces.
Boisberthelot said to La Vieuville : —
" I should like to open fire."
" A coquette's whim," replied La Vieuville.
CHAPTER IX
SOME ONE ESCAPES
THE passenger had not quitted the deck; he watched all
the proceedings with the same impassible mien.
Boisberthelot approached.
" Sir," he said to him, " the preparations are complete.
We are now lashed fast to our tomb; we shall not let go our
hold. We are the prisoners of either the squadron or the reef.
To yield to the enemy, or founder among the rocks : we have
no other choice. One resource remains to us, — to die. It is
better to fight than be wrecked. I would rather be shot than
drowned; in the matter of death, I prefer fire to water. But
dying is the business of the rest of us ; it is not yours. You
are the man chosen by the princes ; you are appointed to a
great mission, — the direction of the war in Vendee. Your
loss is perhaps the monarchy lost ; therefore you must live.
Our honour bids us remain here ; yours bids you go. General,
you must quit the ship. I am going to give you a man and
a boat. To reach the coast by a detour is not impossible. It
is not yet day ; the waves are high, the sea is dark ; you will
escape. There are cases when to fly is to conquer."
The old man bowed his stately head in sign of acquies-
cence.
Count du Boisberthelot raised his voice: —
" Soldiers and sailors ! " he cried.
48 NINETY-THREE
Every movement ceased; from each point of the vessel all
faces turned toward the captain.
He continued : —
" This man who is among us represents the king. He
has been confided to us ; we must save him. He is necessary
to the throne of France ; in default of a prince he will be — -
at least this is what we try for — the leader in the Vendee.
He is a great general. He was to have landed in France with
us; he must land without us. To save the head is to save
all."
" Yes ! yes ! yes ! " cried the voices of the whole crew.
The captain continued: —
" He is about to risk, he also, serious danger. It will not
be easy to reach the coast. In order to face the angry sea
the boat should be large, and should be small in order to escape
the cruisers. What must be done is to make land at some
safe point, and better toward Fougeres than in the direction
of Coutances. It needs an athletic sailor, a good oarsman
and swimmer, who belongs to this coast, and knows the Chan-
nel. There is night enough, so that the boat can leave the
corvette without being perceived. And besides, we are going
to have smoke, which will serve to hide her. The boat's size
will help her through the shallows. Where the panther is
snared, the weasel escapes. There is no outlet for us; there
is for her. The boat will row rapidly off; the enemy's ships
will not see her: and moreover, during that time we are going
to amuse them ourselves. Is it decided? "
" Yes ! yes ! yes ! " cried the crew.
" There is not an instant to lose," pursued the captain.
" Is there any man willing? "
A sailor stepped out of the ranks in the darkness, and
said, " I."
NINETY-THREE 49
CHAPTER X
DOES HE ESCAPE?
A FEW minutes later, one of tlio.se little boats called
a " gig," which are especially appropriate to the
captain's service, pushed off from the vessel. There were
two men in this boat, — the old man in the stern, and the sailor
who had volunteered in the bow. The night still lingered.
The sailor, in obedience to the captain's orders, rowed vigor-
ously in the direction of the Minquicrs. For that matter, no
other issue was possible. Some provisions had been put into
the boat, — a bag of biscuit, a smoked ox-tongue, and a cask
of water.
At the instant the gig was let down, La Vieuville, a scoffer
even in the presence of destruction, leaned over the corvette's
stern-post, and sneered this farewell to the boat: —
" She is a good one if one want to escape, and excellent if
one wish to drown."
" Sir," said the pilot, " let us laugh no longer."
The start was quickly made, and there was soon a consid-
erable distance between the boat and the corvette. The wind
and waves were in the oarsman's favour; the little bark fled
swiftly, undulating through the twilight, and hidden by the
height of the waves.
The sea seemed to wear a look of sombre, indescribable
expectation.
Suddenly, amid the vast and tumultuous silence of the
ocean, rose a voice, which, increased by the speaking-trumpet
as if by the brazen mask of antique tragedy, sounded almost
superhuman.
It was the voice of Captain Boisberthelot giving his com-
mands: "Royal marines," cried he, "nail the white flag to
the main-mast. We are about to see our last sunrise."
And the corvette fired its first shot.
4
50 NINETY-THREE
" Long live the king ! " shouted the crew.
Then from the horizon's verge echoed an answering shout,
immense, distant, confused, yet distinct nevertheless: —
" Long live the Republic ! "
And a din like the peal of three hundred thunderbolts burst
over the depths of the sea.
The battle began.
The sea was covered with smoke and fire. Streams of foam*
made by the falling bullets, whitened the waves on every side.
The " Claymore " began to spit flame on the eight vessels.
At the same time the whole squadron, ranged in a half-moon
about the corvette, opened fire from all its batteries. The
horizon was in a blaze. A volcano seemed to have burst sud-
denly out of the sea. The wind twisted to and fro the vast
crimson banner of battle, amid which the ships appeared and
disappeared like phantoms.
In front the black skeleton of the corvette showed against
the red background.
The white banner, with its fleur-de-lis, could be seen floating
from the main.
The two men seated in the little boat kept silence. The
triangular shallows of the Minquiers, a sort of submarine
Trinacrium, is larger than the entire island of Jersey. The
sea covers it. It has for culminating point a platform which
even the highest tides do not reach, from whence six mighty
rocks detach themselves toward the northeast, ranged in a
straight line, and producing the effect of a great wall, which
has crumbled here and there. The strait between the plateau
and the six reefs is only practicable to boats drawing very lit-
tle water. Beyond this strait is the open sea.
The sailor who had undertaken the command of the boat
made for this strait. By that means he put the Minquiers
between the battle and the little bark. He manoeuvred the
narrow channel skilfully, avoiding the reefs to larboard and
starboard. The rocks now masked the conflict. The lurid
light of the horizon, and the awful uproar of the cannonad-
ing, began to lessen as the distance increased; but the con-
NINETY-THREE 51
tinuance of the reports proved that the corvette held firm, and
meant to exhaust to the very last her one hundred and seventy-
one broadsides. Presently the boat reached safe water, be-
yond the reef, beyond the battle, out of reach of the bullets.
Little by little the face of the sea became less dark ; the
rays, against which the darkness struggled, widened; the foam
burst into jets of light, and the tops of the waves gave back
white reflections.
Day appeared.
The boat was out of danger so far as the enemy was con-
cerned, but the most difficult part of the task remained. She
was saved from grape-shot, but not from shipwreck. She
was a mere egg-shell, in a high sea, without deck, without
sail, without mast, without compass, having no resource but
her oars, in the presence of the ocean and the hurricane, — an
atom at the mercy of giants.
Then, amid this immensity, this solitude, lifting his face,
whitened by the morning, the man in the bow of the boat
looked fixedly at the one in the stern, and said:
I am the brother of him you ordered to be shot."
..
BOOK III
HALMALO
CHAPTER I
SPEECH IS THE " WORD "
THE old man slowly raised his head. He who had
spoken was a man of about thirty. His forehead
was brown with sea-tan ; his eyes were peculiar : they had
the keen glance of a sailor in the open pupils of a peasant.
He held the oars vigorously in his two hands. His air was
mild.
In his belt were a dirk, two pistols, and a rosary.
" Who are you ? " asked the old man.
" I have just told you."
" What do you want with me ? "
The sailor shipped the oars, folded his arms, and replied, —
" To kill you."
" As you please," said the old man.
The other raised his voice: —
" Get ready ! "
"For what?"
" To die."
" Why? " asked the old man.
There was a silence. The sailor seemed for an instant
confused by the question. He repeated : —
" I say that I mean to kill you."
" And I ask you, what for? "
52
NINETY-THREE 53
The sailor's eyes flashed lightning: —
" Because you killed my brother."
The old man replied with perfect calmness: —
" I began by saving his life."
" That is true. You saved him first, then you killed
him."
" It was not I who killed him."
"Who, then?"
" His own fault."
The sailor stared open-mouthed at the old man; then his
eyebrows met again in their murderous frown.
" What is your name? " asked the old man.
" Halmalo ; but you do not need to know my name in order
to be killed by me."
At this moment the sun rose. A ray struck full upon the
sailor's face, and vividly lighted up that savage countenance.
The old man studied it attentively.
The cannonading, though it still continued, was broken
and irregular. A vast cloud of smoke weighed down the
horizon. The boat, no longer directed by the oarsman,
drifted to leeward.
The sailor seized in his right hand one of the pistols at
his belt, and the rosary in his left.
The old man raised himself to his full height.
" You believe in God? " said he.
" Our Father which art in heaven," replied the sailor ; and
he made the sign of the cross.
" Have you a mother? "
" Yes."
He made a second sign of the cross. Then he resumed:
" It is all said. I give you a minute, my lord." And he
cocked the pistol.
" Why do you call me ' my lord ' ? "
" Because you are a lord. That is plain enough to be
seen."
" Have you a lord — you ? "
" Yes, and a grand one. Does one live without a lord? "
54 NINETY-THREE
"Where is he?"
" I don't know. He has left this country. He is called
the Marquis de Lantenac, Viscount de Fontenay, Prince in
Brittany; he is the lord of the Seven Forests. I never saw
him, but that does not prevent his being my master."
" And if you were to see him, would you obey him ? "
" Indeed, yes. Why, I should be a heathen if I did not
obey him. I owe obedience to God; then to the king, who is
like God; and then to the lord, who is like the king. But we
have nothing to do with all that. You killed my brother; I
must kill you."
The old man replied, —
" Agreed ; I killed your brother. I did well."
The sailor clinched the pistol more tightly.
" Come," said he.
" So be it," said the old man. Still perfectly composed, he
added, " Where is the priest ? "
The sailor stared at him.
"The priest?"
" Yes ; the priest. I gave your brother a priest ; you owe
me one."
"I have none," said the sailor. And he continued, " Are
priests to be found out at sea?"
The convulsive thunderings of battle sounded more and
more distant.
" Those who are dying yonder have theirs," said the old
man.
" That is true," murmured the sailor ; " they have the
chaplain."
The old man continued : " You will lose me my soul ; that
is a serious matter."
The sailor bent his head in thought.
" And in losing me my soul," pursued the old man, " you
lose your own. Listen. I have pity on you. Do what you
choose. As for me, I did my duty a little while ago, — first,
in saving your brother's life, and afterward in taking it from
him ; and I am doing my duty now in trying to save your soul.
NINETY-THREE 55
Reflect. It is your affair. Do you hear the cannon-shots
at this instant? There are men perishing yonder, there are
desperate creatures dying, there are husbands who will never
again sec their wives, fathers who will never again see their
children, brothers who, like you, will never again see their
brothers. And by whose fault? Your brother's — yours! You
believe in God, do you not? Well, you know that God sufl
in this moment; he suffers in the person of his Most Christian
Son the King of France, who is a child as Jesus was, and who
is a prisoner in the fortress of the Temple. God suffers in his
Church of Brittany; he suffers in his insulted cathedrals, his
desecrated Gospels, in his violated houses of prayer, in his
murdered priests. What did we intend to do, we, with that
vessel which is perishing at this instant? We were going to
succour God's children. If your brother had been a good
servant, if he had faithfully done his duty like a wise and
prudent man, the accident of the carronade would not have
occurred, the corvette would not have been disabled, she would
not have got out of her course, she would not have fallen in
with this fleet of perdition, and at this hour we should be
landing in France, — all, like valiant soldiers and seamen as
we were, sabre in hand, the white flag unfurled, numerous,
glad, joyful; and we should have gone to help the brave Ven-
dean peasants to save France, to save the king; we should
have been doing God's work. This was what we meant to
do; this was what we should have done. It is what I — the
only one who remains — set out to do. But you oppose
yourself thereto. In this contest of the impious against the
priests, in this strife of the regicides against the king, in this
struggle of Satan against God, you are on the devil's side.
Your brother was the demon's first auxiliary ; you are the sec-
ond. He commenced; you finish. You are with the regicides
against the throne; you are with the impious against the
Church. You take away from God his last resource. Be-
cause I shall not be there, — I, who represent the king, — the
hamlets will continue to burn, families to weep, priests to bleed,
Brittany to suffer, the king to remain in prison, and Jesus
ftfl NINETY-THREE
Christ to be in distress. And who will have caused this?
You ! Go on ; it is your affair. I depended on you to help
bring about just the contrary of all this. I deceived myself.
Ah, yes! it is true, — you are right: I killed your brother.
Your brother was courageous ; I recompensed that. He was
culpable ; I punished that. He had failed in his duty ; I did
not fail in mine. What I did, I would do again. And I
swear by the great Saint Anne of Auray, who sees us, that in
a similar case I would shoot my son just as I shot your
brother. Now you are master. Yes, I pity you. You have
lied to your captain. You, Christian, arc without faith ; you,
Breton, are without honour. I was confided to your loyalty
and accepted by your treason ; you offer my death to those to
whom you had promised my life. Do you know who it is you
are destroying here? It is yourself. You take my life from
the king, and you give your eternity to the devil. Go on ;
commit your crime, — it is well. You sell cheaply your share
in Paradise. Thanks to you, the devil will conquer; thanks
to you, the churches will fall ; thanks to you, the heathen will
continue to melt the bells and make cannon of them. They
will shoot men with that which used to warn souls ! At this
moment in which I speak to you, perhaps the bell that rang
for your baptism is killing your mother. Go on ; aid the
devil, — do not hesitate. Yes, I condemned your brother ; but
know this : I am an instrument of God. Ah, you pretend to
judge the means God uses! Will you take it on yourself
to judge Heaven's thunderbolt? Wretched man, you will be
judged by it! Take care what you do. Do you even know
whether I am in a state of grace? No. Go on, all the same.
Do what you like. You are free to cast me into hell, and to
cast yourself there with me. Our two damnations are in your
hand. It is you who will be responsible before God. We are
alone ; face to face in the abyss. Go on — finish — make an
end. I am old and you are young; I am without arms and
you are armed ; kill me ! "
While the old man stood erect, uttering these words in a
voice louder than the noise of the sea, the undulations of the
NINETY-THREE 57
waves showed him now in the shadow, now in the light. The
sailor had grown lividly white ; great drops of sweat fell from
his forehead; he trembled like a leaf; he kissed his rosary
again and again. When the old man finished speaking, he
threw down his pistol and fell on his knees.
" Mercy, my lord ! Pardon me ! " he cried ; " you speak
like God. I have done wrong. My brother did wrong. I
will try to repair his crime. Dispose of me. Command; I
will obey."
" I give you pardon," said the old man.
CHAPTER II
THE PEASANT'S MEMORY IS AS GOOD AS THE CAPTAIN'S SCIENCE
THE provisions which had been put into the boat proved
most acceptable. The two fugitives, obliged to make
long detours, took thirty-six hours to reach the coast. They
passed a night at sea; but the night was fine, though there
was too much moon to be favourable to those seeking conceal-
ment.
They were obliged first to row away from France, and gain
the open sea toward Jersey.
They heard the last broadside of the sinking corvette as
one hears the final roar of the lion whom the hunters are kill-
ing in the wood. Then a silence fell upon the sea.
The " Claymore " died like the " Avenger," but glory has
ignored her. The man who fights against his own country'
is never a hero.
Halmalo was a marvellous seaman. He performed miracles
of dexterity and intelligence ; his improvisation of a route amid
the reefs, the waves, and the enemy's watch was a master-
piece. The wind had slackened and the sea grown calmer.
Halmalo avoided the Caux des Minquiers, coasted the Chaus-
58 NINETY-THREE
see-aux-Bceufs, and in order that they might have a few hours 9
rest, took shelter in the little creek on the north side, prac-
ticable at low water; then, rowing southward again, found
means to pass between Granville and the Chausey Islands with-
out being discovered by the look-out either of Granville or
Chausey.
He entered the bay of Saint-Michael, — a bold undertaking,
on account of the neighbourhood of Cancale, an anchorage for
the cruising squadron.
About an hour before sunset on the evening of the second
day, he left Saint Michael's Mount behind him, and proceeded
to land on a beach deserted because the shifting sands made
it dangerous.
Fortunately the tide was high.
Halmalo drove the boat as far up as he could, tried the
sand, found it firm, ran the bark aground, and sprang
on shore. The old man strode over the side after him and
examined the horizon.
" Monseigneur," said Halmalo, " we are here at the mouth
of the Couesnon. There is Beauvoir to starboard, and Huis-
nes to larboard. The belfry in front of us is Ardevon."
The old man bent down to the boat and took a biscuit,
which he put in his pocket, and said to Halmalo :
" Take the rest."
Halmalo put the remains of the meat and biscuit into the
bag and slung it over his shoulder. This done, he said: —
" Monseigneur, must I conduct or follow you? "
" Neither the one nor the other."
Halmalo regarded the speaker in stupefied wonder.
The old man continued: —
" Halmalo, we must separate. It will not answer to be
two. There must be a thousand or one alone."
He paused, and drew from one of his pockets a green silk
bow, rather like a cockade, with a gold fleur-de-lis embroidered
in the centre. He resumed : —
" Do vou know how to read? "
" No."
NINETY-THREE 59
" That is fortunate. A man who can read is troublesome.
Have you a good memory ? "
" Yes."
" That will do. Listen, Halmalo. You must take to the
right and I to the left. I shall go in the direction of Fou-
geres, you toward Bazouges. Keep your bag; it gives you
the look of a peasant. Conceal your weapons. Cut your-
self a stick in the thickets. Creep among the fields of rye,
which are high. Slide behind the hedges. Climb the fences
in order to go across the meadows. Leave passers-by at a
distance. Avoid the roads and the bridges. Do not enter
Pontorson. Ah ! you will have to cross the Couesnon. How
will you manage?"
" I shall swim."
" That's right. And there is a ford — do you know where
it is?"
" Between Ancey and Vieux-Viel."
" That is right. You do really belong to the country."
" But night is coming on. Where will Monseigneur
sleep?"
" I can take care of myself. And you — where will you
sleep?"
" There are hollow trees. I was a peasant before I was
a sailor."
" Throw away your sailor's hat ; it will betray you. You
will easily find a woollen cap."
" Oh, a peasant's thatch is to be found anywhere. The
first fisherman will sell me his."
"Very good. Now listen. You know the woods?"
" All of them."
"Of the whole district?"
" From Noirmoutier to Laval."
" Do you know their names too? "
" I know the woods ; I know their names ; I know about
everything."
"You will forget nothing?"
" Nothing."
60 NINETY-THREE
" Good ! At present, attention. How many leagues can
you make in a day ? "
" Ten, fifteen — twenty, if necessary."
" It will be. Do not lose a word of what I am about to
say. You will go to the wood of Saint- Aubin."
"Near Lamballe?"
" Yes. On the edge of the ravine between Saint-Reuil and
Plediac there is a large chestnut-tree. You will stop there.
You will see no one."
" Which will not hinder somebody's being there. I know."
" You will give the call. Do you know how to give the
call?"
Halmalo puffed out his cheeks, turned toward the sea, and
there sounded the " to-whit, to-hoo " of an owl.
One would have said it came from the night-locked recesses
of a forest. It was sinister and owl-like.
" Good! " said the old man. " You have it."
He held out the bow of green silk to Halmalo.
" This is my badge of command. Take it. It is impor-
tant that no one should as yet know my name; but this knot
will be sufficient. The fleur-de-lis was embroidered by Ma-
dame Royale in the Temple prison."
Halmalo bent one knee to the ground. He trembled as
he took the flower-embroidered knot, and brought it near to
his lips, then paused, as if frightened at this kiss.
"Can I?" he demanded.
" Yes, since you kiss the crucifix."
Halmalo kissed the fleur-de-lis.
" Rise," said the old man.
Halmalo rose and hid the knot in his breast.
The old man continued: —
" Listen well to this. This is the order : Up ! Revolt ! No
quarter! On the edge of this wood of Saint-Aubin you will
give the call. You will repeat it thrice. The third time you
will see a man spring out of the ground."
" Out o£ a hole under the trees. I know."
" This man will be Planchenault, who is also called the
NINETY-THREE 61
King's Heart. You will show him this knot. He will under-
stand. Then, by routes you must find out, you will go to
the wood of Astille; there you will find a cripple, who is sur-
named Mousqueton, and who shows pity to none. You will
tell him that I love him, and that he is to set the parishes in
motion. From there you will go to the wood of Couesbon,
which is a league from Ploermel. You will give the owl-cry ;
a man will come out of a hole. It will be Thuault, seneschal
of Ploermel, who has belonged to what is called the Constituent
Assembly, but on the good side. You will tell him to arm the
castle of Couesbon, which belongs to the Marquis de Guer, a
refugee, Ravines, little woods, ground uneven, — a good
place. Thuault is a clever, straightforward man. Thence you
will go to Saint-Guen-les-Toits, and you will talk with Jean
Chouan, who is, in my mind, the real chief. From thence
you will go to the wood of Ville-Anglose, where you will see
Guitter, whom they call Saint Martin ; you will bid him have
his eye on a certain Courmesnil, who is the son-in-law of old
Goupil de Prefeln, and who leads the Jacobinery of Argentan.
Recollect all this. I write nothing, because nothing should
be written. La Rouarie made out a list ; it ruined all. Then
you will go to the wood of Rougefeu, where is Mielette, who
leaps the ravine on a long pole."
" It is called a leaping-pole."
" Do you know how to use it ? "
"Am I not a Breton and a peasant? The ferte is our
friend. She widens our arms and lengthens our legs."
" That is to say, she makes the enemy smaller and shortens
the route. A good machine."
" Once on a time, with my ferte, I held my own against
three salt-tax men who had sabres."
"When was that?"
" Ten years ago."
"Under the king?"
" Yes, of course."
" Then you fought in the time of the king? "
" Yes, to be sure."
62 ^iNETY-THREi^
" Against whom ? "
" My faith, I do not know ! I was a salt-smuggler."
" Very good."
" They called that fighting against the excise officers.
Were they the same thing as the king? "
" Yes. No. But it is not necessary that you should un-
derstand."
" I beg Monseigneur's pardon for having asked a question
of Monseigneur."
" Let us continue. Do you know La Tourgue? ''
" Do I know La Tourgue? Why, I belong there."
"How?"
" Certainly, since I come from Parigne."
" In fact, La Tourgue is near Parigne."
" Know La Tourgue ! The big round castle that belongs
to my lord's family? There is a great iron door which sepa-
rates the new part from the old that a cannon could not blow
open. The famous book about Saint Bartholomew, which peo-
ple go to look at from curiosity, is in the new building.
There are frogs in the grass. When I was little, I used to
go and tease them. And the underground passage, I know
that; perhaps there is nobody else left who does."
" What underground passage ? I do not know what you
mean."
" It was made for old times, in the days when La Tourgue
was besieged. The people inside could escape by going
through the underground passage which leads into the
wood."
" There is a subterranean passage of that description in
the castle of Jupelliere, and the castle of Hunaudaye, and the
tower of Champeon; but there is nothing of the sort at La
Tourgue."
" Oh, yes, indeed, Monseigneur ! I do not know the pas-
sages that Monseigneur spoke of; I only know that of La
Tourgue, because I belong to the neighbourhood. Into the
bargain, there is nobody but myself who does know it. It
was not talked about. It was forbidden, because it had been
NINETY-THREE 68
used in the time of Monsieur de Rohan's wars. My father
knew the secret, and showed it to me. I know how to get in
and out. If I am in the forest, I can go into the tower, and
if I am in the tower, I can go into the forest, without any-
body's seeing me. When the enemy enters, there is no longer
any one there. That is what the passage of La Tourgue is.
Oh, I know it ! "
The old man remained silent for a moment.
" It is evident that you deceive yourself. If there were
such a secret, I should know it."
" Monseigneur, I am certain. There is a stone that turn ."
" Ah, good ! You peasants believe in stones that turn and
stones that sing, and stones that go at night to drink from
the neighbouring brook. A pack of nonsense ! "
" But since I have made the stone turn — "
" Just i..; others have heard it sing. Comrade, La Tourgue
is a fortress, sure and strong, easy to defend; but anybody
who counted on a subterranean passage for getting out of it
would be silly indeed."
" But, monseigneur — "
The old man shrugged his shoulders.
" We are losing time ; let us talk of what concerns us."
The peremptory tone cut short Halmalo's persistence.
The unknown resumed: —
" To continue. Listen. From Rougefeu you will go to
the wood of Montchevrier ; Benedicite is there, the chief of
the Twelve. There is another good fellow. He says his
Benedicite while he has people shot. War and sensibility do
not go together. From Montchevrier, you will go — "
He broke off.
" I forgot the money."
He took from his pocket a purse and a pocket-book, and
put them in Halmalo's hand.
" There are thirty thousand livres in assignats in the
pocket-book (something like three pounds) ; it is true the
assignats are false, but the real ones are just as worthless.
In the purse — attention — there are a hundred gold louis.
64 NINETY-THREE
I give you all I have. I have no need of anything here.
Besides, it is better that no money should be found on me.
I resume. From Montchevrier you will go to Antrain, where
you will see Monsieur de Frotte; from Antrain to La Jupel-
lierc, where you will see De Rochecotte; from La Jupelliere to
Noirieux, where you will find the Abbe Baudoin. Can you
recollect all this? "
" Like my paternoster."
" You will see Monsieur Dubois-Guy at Saint-Bricen-en-
Cogles, Monsieur de Turpin at Morannes, which is a fortified
town, and the Prince de Talmont at Chateau-Gonthier."
" Shall I be spoken to by a prince? "
" Since I speak to you."
Halmalo took off his hat.
" Madame's fleur-de-lis will ensure you a good reception
everywhere. Do not forget that you are going into the coun-
try of mountaineers and rustics. Disguise yourself. It will
be easy to do. These republicans are so stupid that you may
pass anywhere with a blue coat, a three-cornered hat, and a
tricoloured cockade. There are no longer regiments, there
are no longer uniforms ; the companies are not numbered ;
each man puts on any rag he pleases. You will go to Saint-
Mherve; there you will see Gaulier, called Great Peter. You
will go to the cantonment of Parne, where the men blacken
their faces. They put gravel into their guns, and a double
charge of powder, in order to make more noise. It is well
done ; but tell them, above all, to kill — kill — kill ! You
will go to the camp of the Vache Noire, which is on a height;
to the middle of the wood of La Charnie, then to the camp
Avoine, then to the camp Vert, then to the camp of the
Fourmis. You will go to the Grand Bordage, which is also
called the Haut de Pre, and is inhabited by a widow whose
daughter married Treton, nicknamed the Englishman. Grand
Bordage is in the parish of Quelaines. You will visit
Epineux-le-Chevreuil, Sille-le-Guillaume, Parannes, and all
the men in all of the woods. You will make friends, and you
will send them to the borders of the high and the low Maine;
NINETY-THREE 65
you will see Jean Treton in the parish of Vaisges, Sans Regret
at Bignon, Chambord at Bonchamps, the brothers Corbin at
Maisoncelles, and the Petit-sans-Feur at Saint-John-on-Erve.
He is the one who is called Bourdoiseau. All that done, and
the watch-word — Revolt ! No quarter ! — given everywhere,
you will join the grand army, the Catholic and royal army,
wherever it may be. You will sec D'Elbce, De Lescure, De la
Rochcjacquclein, all the chiefs who may chance to be still
living. You will show them my token of command. They
all know what it means. You are only a sailor, but Cathe-
lincau is only a carter. This is what you must say to them
from me: ' It is time to join the two wars, the great and the
little. The great makes the most noise ; the little docs the most
execution. The Vendee is good; Chouannerie is worse; and in
civil war the worst is the best. The goodness of a war is
judged by the amount of bad it does.' "
He paused.
" Halmalo, I say all this to you. You do not understand
the words, but you comprehend the things themselves. I
gained confidence in you from seeing you manage the boat.
You do not understand geometry, yet you perform sea-
manoeuvres that are marvellous. He who can manage a boat
can pilot an insurrection. From the way in which you have
conducted this sea intrigue, I am certain you will fulfil all my
commands well. I resume. You will tell the whole to the
chief's, in your own way, of course; but it will be well told.
I prefer the war of the forest to the war of the plain; I have
no wish to set a hundred thousand peasants in line, and ex-
pose them to Carnot's artillery and the grape-shot of the
Blues. In less than a month I mean to have five hundred
thousand sharpshooters ambushed in the woods. The Repub-
lican army is my game. Poaching is our way of waging war.
Mine is the strategy of the thickets. Good ; there is still an-
other expression you will not catch ; no matter, you will seize
this : No quarter, and ambushes everywhere. I depend more
on bush fighting than on regular battles. You will add that
the English are with us. We catch the Republic between two
66 NINETY-THREE
fires. Europe assists us. Let us make an end of the Revo-
lution. Kings will wage a war of kingdoms against it ; let us
wage a war of parishes. You will say this. Have you un-
derstood? "
" Yes. Put all to fire and sword."
" That is it."
" No quarter."
" Not to a soul. That is it."
" I will go everywhere."
" And be careful, for in this country it is easy to become
a dead man."
" Death does not concern me. He who takes his first step
uses perhaps his last shoes."
" You are a brave fellow."
" And if I am asked Monseigneur's name? "
" It must not be known yet. You will say you do not
know it, and that will be the truth."
" Where shall I see Monscigneur again? "
" Where I shall be."
"How shall I know?"
" Because all the world will know. I shall be talked of be-
fore eight days go by. I shall make examples ; I shall avenge
religion and the king, and you will know well that it is I of
whom they speak."
" I understand."
" Forget nothing."
" Be tranquil."
" Now go. May God guide you ! Go."
" I will do all that you have bidden me. I will go. I will
speak. I will obey. I will command."
"Good!"
" And if I succeed? "
" I will make you a knight of Saint Louis."
" Like my brother. And if I fail, you will have me shot? "
" Like your brother."
" Done, monseigneur."
The old man bent his head and seemed to fall into a sombre
NINETY-THREE 67
reverie. When lie raised liis eyes he was alone. Halmalo
was only a black spot disappearing on the horizon.
The sun had j list set.
The sea-mews and the hooded gulls flew homeward from
the darkening ocean.
That sort of inquietude which precedes the night made itself
felt in space. The green frogs croaked; the kingfishers flew
whistling out of the pools ; the gulls and the rooks kept up
their evening tumult ; the cry of the shore birds could be heard,
but not a human sound. The solitude was complete. Not a
sail in the bay, not a peasant in the fields. As far as the
eye could reach stretched a deserted plain. The great sand-
thistles shivered. The white sky of twilight cast a vast livid
pallor over the shore. In the distance, the pools scattered over
the plain looked like great sheets of pewter spread flat upon
the ground. The wind hurried in from the sea with a moan
BOOK IV
TELLMARCH
CHAPTER I
THE TOP OF THE DUNE
THE old man waited till Halmalo disappeared, then he
drew his fisherman's cloak closely about him and set
out on his course. He walked with slow steps, thinking
deeply. He took the direction of Huisnes, while Halmalo
went toward Beauvoir.
Behind him, an enormous black triangle, with a cathedral
for tiara and a fortress for breastplate, with its two great
towers to the east, one round, the other square, helping to
support the weight of the church and village, rose Mount
Saint Michael, which is to the ocean what the Pyramid of
Cheops is to the desert.
The quicksands of Mount Saint Michael's Bay insensibly
displace their dunes. Between Huisnes and Ardevon there
was at that time a very high one, which is now completely
effaced. This dune, levelled by an equinoctial storm, had
the peculiarity of being very ancient; on its summit stood a
commemorative column, erected in the twelfth century, in
memory of the council held at Avranches against the assas-
sins of Saint Thomas of Canterbury. From the top of this
dune the whole district could be seen, and one could fix the
points of the compass.
The old man ascended it.
68
NINETY-THREE 69
When he reached the top, he sat down on one of the pro-
jections of the stones, with his back against the pillar, and
began to study the kind of geographical chart spread be-
neath his feet. He seemed to be seeking a route in a district
which had once been familiar. In the whole of this vast land-
scape, made indistinct by the twilight, there was nothing
clearly defined but the horizon stretching black against the sky.
He could perceive the roofs of eleven towns and villages;
could distinguish for several leagues' distance all the hell-
towers of the coast, which were built very high, to serve in
case of need as landmarks to boats at sea.
At the end of a few minutes the old man appeared to have
found what he sought in this dim clearness. His eyes rested
on an enclosure of trees, walls, and roofs, partially visible
midway between the plain and the wood; it w r as a farm. He
nodded his head in the satisfied way a man does who says to
himself, " There it is," and began to trace with his finger a
route across the fields and hedges. From time to time he ex-
amined a shapeless, indistinct object stirring on the principal
roof of the farm, and seemed to ask himself, " What can it
be? " It was colourless and confused, owing to the gloom; it
floated — therefore it was not a weather-cock ; and there was
no reason why it should be a flag.
He was weary ; he remained in his resting-place, and yielded
passively to the vague forgetfulness which the first moments
of repose bring over a tired man.
There is an hour of the day which may be called noiseless :
it is the serene hour of early evening. It w r as about him now.
He enjoyed it; he looked, he listened — to what? The tran-
quillity. Even savage natures have their moments of melan-
choly.
Suddenly this tranquillity was not troubled, but accentu-
ated by the voices of persons passing below, — the voices of
women and children. It was like a chime of joy-bells un-
expectedly ringing amid the shadows. The underbrush hid
the group from whence the voices came, but it was moving
slowly along the foot of the dune toward the plain and the
70 NINETY-THREE
forest. The clear, fresh tones readied distinctly the pensive
old man ; they were so near that he could catch every word.
A woman's voice said, —
" We must hurry ourselves, Flecharde. Is this the way? "
" No, yonder."
The dialogue went on between the two voices, — one high-
pitched, the other low and timid.
" What is the name of the farm we are stopping at ? "
" L'Herbe-en-Pail."
" Will it take us much longer to get there? "
" A good quarter of an hour."
" We must hurry on to get our soup."
" Yes ; we are late."
" We shall have to run. But those brats of yours are
tired. We are only two women ; we can't carry three brats.
And you — you are already carding one, my Flecharde ; a
regular lump of lead. You have weaned the little gormand-
izer, but you carry her all the same. A bad habit. Do me
the favour to make her walk. Oh, very well — so much the
worse ! The soup will be cold."
" Oh, what good shoes these are that you gave me ! I
should think they had been made for me."
" It is better than going barefooted, eh? "
" Hurry up, Rene- Jean ! "
" He is the very one that hindered us. He must needs
chatter with all the little peasant girls he met. Oh, he shows
the man already ! "
" Yes, indeed ; why, he is going on five years old."
" I say, Rene-Jean, what made you talk to that little girl
in the village? "
A child's voice, that of a boy, replied, —
" Because she was an acquaintance of mine."
" What, you know her? " asked the woman.
" Yes, ever since this morning ; she played some games
with me."
" Oh, what a man you are ! " cried the woman. " We have
only been three days in the neighbourhood; that creature
NINETY-THREE 71
there is no bigger than your fist, and he has found a sweet-
heart already ! "
The voices grew fainter and fainter; then every sound died
away.
CHAPTER II
AURES HABET, ET NON AUDIET
THE old man sat motionless. He was not thinking,
scarcely dreaming. About him was serenity, rest,
safety, solitude. It was still broad daylight on the dune,
but almost dark in the plain, and quite night in the forest.
The moon was floating up the east ; a few stars dotted the
pale blue of the zenith. This man, though full of preoccu-
pation and stern cares, lost himself in the ineffable sweetness
of the infinite. He felt within him the obscure dawn of hope,
if the word hope may be applied to the workings of civil war-
fare. For the instant it seemed to him that in escaping from
that inexorable sea and touching land once more, all danger
had vanished. No one knew his name; he was alone, escaped
from the enemy, having left no trace behind him, for the sea
leaves no track ; hidden, ignored ; not even suspected. Pie felt
an indescribable calm ; a little more and he would have fallen
asleep.
What made the strange charm of this tranquil home to
that man, a prey within and without to such tumults, Mas
the profound silence alike in earth and sky.
He heard nothing but the wind from the sea; but the wind
is a continual bass, which almost ceases to be a noise, so accus-
tomed does the ear become to its tone.
Suddenly he started to his feet.
His attention had been quickly awakened; he looked about
the horizon. Then his glance fixed eagerly upon a particular
point. What he looked at was the belfry of Cormeray, which
72 NINETY-THREE
rose before him at the extremity of the plain. Something
very extraordinary was indeed going on within it.
The belfry was clearly defined against the sky ; he could
see the tower surmounted by the spire, and between the two
the cage for the bell, square, without pent-house, open at the
four sides after the fashion of Breton belfries.
Now this cage appeared alternately to open and shut at
regular intervals ; its lofty opening showed entirely white,
then black ; the sky could be seen for an instant through it,
then it disappeared ; a gleam of light would come, then an
eclipse, and the opening and shutting succeeded each other
from moment to moment with the regularity of a hammer
striking its anvil.
This belfry of Cormeray was in front of the old man, about
two leagues from the place where he stood. He looked to his
right at the belfry of Baguer-Pican, which rose equally
straight and distinct against the horizon ; its cage was open-
ing and shutting, like that of Cormeray.
He looked to his left, at the belfry of Tanis: the cage of
the belfry of Tanis opened and shut, like that of Baguer-
Pican.
He examined all the belfries upon the horizon, one after
another ; to his left those of Courtils, of Precey, of Crollon,
and the Croix-Avranchin ; to his right the belfries of Raz-sur-
Couesnon, of Mordrey, and of the Pas; in front of him, the
belfry of Pontorson. The cages of all these belfries were
alternately white and black.
What did this mean?
It meant that all the bells were swinging. In order to
appear and disappear in this way they must be violently rung.
What was it for? The tocsin, without doubt.
The tocsin was sounding, sounding madly, on every side,
from all the belfries, in all the parishes, in all the villages ;
and yet he could hear nothing.
This was owing to the distance and the wind from the sea,
which, sweeping in the opposite direction, carried every sound
of the shore out beyond the horizon.
NINETY-THREE 73
All these mad bells calling on every side, and tit the same
time this silence; nothing could be more sinister.
The old man looked and listened. He did not hear the
tocsin ; he saw it. It was a strange sensation, that of seeing
the tocsin.
Against whom was this rage of the bdls directed?
Against whom did this tocsin sound?
CHAPTER III
USEFULNESS OF BIG LETTERS
ASSUREDLY some one was snared.
Who?
A shiver ran through this man of steel.
It could not be he? His arrival could not have been dis-
covered. It was impossible that the acting representative
should have received information ; he had scarcely landed.
The corvette had evidently foundered, and not a man had
escaped. And even on the corvette, Boisberthelot and La
Vieuville alone knew his name.
The belfries kept up their savage sport. He mechanically
watched and counted them ; and his meditations, pushed from
one conjecture to another, had those fluctuations caused by a
sudden change from complete security to a terrible conscious-
ness of peril. Still, after all, this tocsin might be accounted
for in many ways; and he ended by reassuring himself with
the repetition of, " In short, no one knows of my arrival,
and no one knows my name."
During the last few seconds there had been a slight noise
. . . . . •
above and behind him. This noise was like the fluttering of
leaves. He paid no attention to it at first, but as the sound
continued — one might have said insisted on making itself
heard — he turned round at length. It was in fact a leaf,
74 NINETY-THREE
but a leaf of paper. The wind was trying to tear off a large
placard pasted on the stone above his head. This placard
had been very lately fastened there, for it was still moist, and
offered a hold to the wind, which had begun to play with and
was detaching it.
The old man had ascended the dune on the opposite side,
and had not seen this placard as he came up.
He mounted the coping where he had been seated, and laid
his hand on the corner of the paper which the wind moved.
The sky was clear, for the June twilights are long ; the bot-
tom of the dune was shadowy, but the top in light. A por-
tion of the placard was printed in large letters, and there was
still light enough for him to make it out. He read this : —
THE FRENCH REPUBLIC, ONE AND INDIVISIBLE.
We, Prieur, of the Marne, acting representative of the people with
the army of the coast of Cherbourg, give notice: The ci-devant Marquis
de Lantenac, Viscount de Fontenay, so-called Breton prince, secretly
landed on the coast of Granville, is declared an outlaw. — A price is
set on his head. — Any person bringing him, alive or dead, will receive
the sum of sixty thousand livres. — This amount will not be paid in
assignats, but in gold. — A battalion of the Cherbourg coast-guards
will be immediately dispatched for the apprehension of the so-called
Marquis de Lantenac.
The parishes are ordered to lend every assistance.
Given at the Town-Hall of Granville, this 2d of June, 1793.
(Signed) Prieur, de la Marne.
Under this name was another signature, in much smaller
characters, and which the failing light prevented the old man's
deciphering.
The old man pulled his hat over his eyes, closed his sea-
jacket up to his chin and rapidly descended the dune.
It was unsafe to remain longer on this summit.
He had perhaps already stayed too long; the top of the
dune was the only point in the landscape which still remained
visible.
When he reached the obscurity of the bottom, he slackened
his pace.
He took the route which he had traced for himself toward
NINETY-THREE 75
the farm, evidently having reason to believe that he should be
safe in that direction.
The plain was deserted. There were no passers-by at that
hour.
He stopped behind a thicket of underbrush, undid his cloak,
turned his vest the hairy side out, refastened his rag of a
mantle about his neck by its cord, and resumed his way.
The moon was shining.
He reached a point where two roads branched off ; an old
stone cross stood there. Upon the pedestal of the cross he
could distinguish a white square, which was most probably a
notice like that he had just read. He went toward it.
" Where are you going ? " said a voice.
He turned round.
A man was standing in the hedge-row, tall like himself, old
like himself, with white hair like his own, and garments even
more dilapidated, — almost his double. This man leaned on
a long stick.
He repeated, —
" I ask you where you are going."
" In the first place, where am I? " returned he, with an
almost haughty composure.
The man replied, —
" You are in the seigneury of Tanis. I am its beggar ; you
are its lord."
" Yes, you, my lord Marquis de Lantenac."
CHAPTER IV
THE CAIMAND
T
HE Marquis de Lantenac — we shall henceforth call him
by his name — answered quietly : —
" So be it. Give me up."
The man continued : —
76 NINETY-THREE
" We are both at home here : you in the castle, I in the
bushes."
" Let us finish. Do } r our work. Betray me," said the
marquis.
The man went on: —
" You were going to the farm of Herbe-en-Pail, were you
not?"
" Yes."
" Do not go."
"Why?"
" Because the Blues are there."
" Since how long? "
" These three days."
" Did the people of the farm and the hamlet resist? "
" No ; they opened all the doors."
" Ah ! " said the marquis.
The man pointed with his finger toward the roof of the
farm-house, which could be perceived above the trees at a
short distance.
" You can see the roof, Marquis ? "
" Yes."
" Do you see what there is above it? "
" Something floating? "
" Yes."
" It is a flag."
" The tricolour," said the man.
This was the object which had attracted the marquis's at-
tention as he stood on the top of the dune.
" Is not the tocsin sounding? " asked the marquis.
" Yes."
" On what account ? "
" Evidently on yours."
" But I cannot hear it."
" The wind carries the sound the other way."
The man added, —
" Did you see your placard? "
" Yes."
NINETY-THREE 77
" They are hunting you ; " and casting a glance toward
the farm, he added, " There is a demi-battalion there."
" Of republicans? "
" Parisians."
"Very well," said the marquis; '* march on."
And he took a step in the direction of the farm.
The man seized his arm.
" Do not go there."
" Where do you wish me to go? "
" Home with me."
The marquis looked steadily at the mendicant.
" Listen, my lord marquis. My house is not fine, but it
is safe. A cabin lower than a cave. For flooring a bed of
sea-weed, for ceiling a roof of branches and grass. Come.
At the farm you will be shot; in my house you may go to
sleep. You must be tired; and to-morrow morning the Blues
will march on, and you can go where you please."
The marquis studied this man.
" Which side are you on ? " he asked. " Are you repub-
lican? Are you royalist? "
" I am a beggar."
"Neither royalist nor republican?"
" I believe not."
" Are you for or against the king? "
" I have no time for that sort of thing.
" What do you think of what is passing?
" I have nothing to live on."
" Still you come to my assistance."
" Because I saw you were outlawed. What is the law ?
So one can be beyond its pale. I do not comprehend. Am
I inside the law? Am I outside the law? I don't in the
least know. To die of hunger, is that being within the law? "
" How long have you been dying of hunger? "
" All my life."
" And you save me?
" Yes."
"Why?"
5>
»
78 NINETY-THREE
" Because I said to myself, ' There is one poorer than I. I
have the right to breathe ; he has not.' "
" That is true. And you save me? "
" Of course ; we are brothers, monseigneur. I ask for
bread: you ask for life. We are a pair of beggars."
" But do you know there is a price set on my head? "
" Yes."
" How did you know? "
" I read the placard."
" You know how to read ? "
" Yes; and to write, too. Why should I be a brute? "
" Then, since you can read, and since you have seen the
notice, you know that a man would earn sixty thousand livres
by giving me up?"
" I know it."
" Not in assignats."
" Yes, I know ; in gold."
"Sixty thousand livres! Do you know it is a fortune?"
" Yes."
" And that anybody apprehending me would make his for-
tune? "
" Very well ; what next ? "
" His fortune ! "
" That is exactly what I thought. When I saw you, I
said, ' Just to think that anybody by giving up that man
yonder would gain sixty thousand livres, and make his for-
tune ! ' Let us hasten to hide him."
The marquis followed the beggar.
They entered a thicket ; the mendicant's den was there.
It was a sort of chamber which a great old oak had allowed
the man to take possession of within its heart ; it was dug
down among its roots, and covered by its branches. It was
dark, low, hidden, invisible. There was room for two per-
sons.
" I foresaw that I might have a guest," said the mendicant.
This species of underground lodging, less rare in Brittany
than people fancy, is called in the peasant dialect a carnichot.
NINETY-THREE 79
The name is also applied to hiding-places contrived in thick
walls.
It was furnished with a few jugs, a pallet of straw or
dried wrack, with a thick covering of kersey; some tallow-
dips, a flint and steel, and a bundle of furze twigs for tinder.
They stooped low, — crept rather, — penetrated into the
chamber, which the great roots of the tree divided into fan-
tastic compartments, and seated themselves on the heap of
dry sea-weed which served as a bed. The space between two
of the roots, which made the doorway allowed a little light to
enter. Night had come on; but the eye adapts itself to the
darkness, and one always finds at last a little day among the
shadows. A reflection from the moon's rays dimly silvered
the entrance. In a corner was a jug of water, a loaf of buck-
wheat bread, and some chestnuts.
" Let us sup," said the beggar.
They divided the chestnuts ; the marquis contributed his
morsel of biscuit. They bit into the same black loaf, and
drank out of the jug, one after the other.
They conversed.
The marquis began to question this man.
" So, no matter whether anything or nothing happens, it
is all the same to you ? "
" Pretty much. You are the lords, you others. Those are
your affairs."
" But after all, present events — "
" Pass away up out of my reach."
The beggar added presently: —
" Then there are things that go on still higher up ; the sun
that rises, the moon that increases or diminishes ; those are
the matters I occupy myself about."
He took a sip from the jug, and said, —
" The good fresh water ! "
Then he asked, —
" How do you find the water, monseigneur? "
" What is your name? " inquired the marquis.
" My name is Tellmarch, but I am called the Caimand,"
80 NINETY-THREE
" I understand. Caimand is a word of the district."
" Which means beggar. I am also nicknamed Le Vieux.
I have been called ' the old man ' these forty years."
" Forty years ! But you were a 3 7 oung man then."
" I never was young. You remain so always, on the con-
trary, my lord marquis. You have the legs of a boy of
twenty ; you can climb the great dune. As for me, I begin to
find it difficult to walk ; at the end of a quarter of a league
I am tired. Nevertheless, our age is the same. But the
rich, they have an advantage over us, — they eat every da} 7 .
Eating is a preservative."
After a silence the mendicant resumed : —
" Poverty, riches — that makes a terrible business. That
is what brings on the catastrophes, — at least, I have that idea.
The poor want to be rich ; the rich are not willing to be poor.
I think that is about what it is at the bottom. I do not mix
myself up with matters. The events are the events. I am
neither for the creditor nor for the debtor. I know there is
a debt, and that it is being paid. That is all. I would
rather they had not killed the king; but it would be difficult
for me to say why. After that, somebody will answer, ' But
remember how they used to hang poor fellows on trees for
nothing at all.' See; just for a miserable gunshot fired at
one of the king's roebucks, I myself saw a man hung who
had a wife and seven children. There is much to say on both
sides."
Again he was silent for a while. Then : —
"lama little of a bone-setter, a little of a doctor, I know
the herbs, I study plants. The peasants see me absent, pre-
occupied, and that makes me pass for a sorcerer. Because
I dream, they think I must be wise."
" You belong to the neighbourhood? " asked the marquis.
" I never was out of it."
" You know me ? "
" Of course. The last time I saw you was when you passed
through here two years ago. You went from here to Eng-
land. A little while since I saw a man on the top of the dune,
— a very tall man. Tall men are rare; Brittany is a country
NINETY-THREE 81
of small men. I looked close; I had read the notice; I said
to myself, 'Ah ha!' And when you came down there was
moonlight, and I recognized you."
" And yet I do not know you."
" You have seen me, but you never looked at me."
And Tellmarch the Caimand added, —
" I looked at you, though. The giver and the beggar do
not look with the same eyes."
" Had I encountered you formerly ? "
"Often; I am your beggar. I was the mendicant at the
foot of the road from your castle. You have given me alms.
But he who gives, does not notice; he who receives examines
and observes. When you say mendicant, you say spy. But
as for me, though I am often sad, I try not to be a malicious
spy. I used to hold out my hand ; you only saw the hand, and
you threw into it the charity I needed in the morning in order
that I might not die in the evening. I have often been twenty-
four hours without eating. Sometimes a penny is life. I
owe you my life; I pay the debt."
" That is true ; you save me."
" Yes, I save you, monseigneur."
And Tclhnarch's voice grew solemn as he added, —
" On one condition."
"And that?"
" That you are not come here to do harm."
" I come here to do good," said the marquis.
" Let us sleep," said the beggar.
They lay down side by side on the sea-weed bed. The
mendicant fell asleep immediately. The marquis, although
very tired, remained thinking deeply for a few moments ; he
gazed fixedly at the beggar in the shadow, and then lay back.
To lie on that bed was to lie on the ground, — which sug-
gested to him to put his ear to the earth and listen. He could
hear a strange buzzing underground. We know that sound
stretches down into the depths: he could hear the noise of
the bells.
The tocsin was still sounding.
The marquis fell asleep.
6
82 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER V
SIGNED GAUVAIN
T was daylight when he awoke. The mendicant was
standing up, — not in the den, for he could not hold
himself erect there, but without, on the sill. He was leaning
on his stick. The sun shone upon his face.
" Monseigneur," said Tellmarch, " four o'clock has just
sounded from the belfry of Tanis. I could count the strokes,
therefore the wind has changed : it is the land breeze. I can
hear no other sound, so the tocsin has ceased. Everything is
tranquil about the farm and hamlet of Herbe-en-Pail. The
Blues are asleep or gone. The worst of the danger is over ; it
will be wise for us to separate. It is my hour for setting
out."
He indicated a point in the horizon.
" I am going that way."
He pointed in the opposite direction.
" Go you this way."
The beggar made the marquis a gesture of salute. He
pointed to the remains of the supper.
" Take the chestnuts w$h you, if you are hungry."
A moment after, he disappeared among the trees.
The marquis rose and departed in the direction which Tell-
march had indicated.
It was that charming hour called in the old Norman peasant
dialect " the song-sparrow of the day." The finches and
the hedge-sparrows flew chirping about. The marquis fol-
lowed the path by which they had come on the previous night,
lie passed out of the thicket and found himself at the fork
of the road, marked by the stone cross. The placard was still
there, looking white, fairly gay, in the rising sun. He re-
membered that there was something at the bottom of the
placard which he had not been able to read the evening before,
NINETY-THREE 83
on account of the twilight and the size of the letters. He went
up to the • pedestal of the cross. Under the signature
" PitiEun, de la Marne," there were yet two other lines in
small characters: —
The identity of the ci-devant Marquis de Lantenac established, he
will be immediately shot.
(Signed) Gauvatx,
Chief of battalion commanding
the exploring column.
" Gauvain ! " said the marquis. He stood still, thinking
deeply, his eyes fixed on the notice.
" Gauvain ! " he repeated.
He resumed his march, turned about, looked again at the
cross, walked back, and once more read the placard.
Then he went slowly away. Had any person been near,
he might have been heard to murmur, in a half-voice,
" Gauvain ! "
From the sunken paths into which he retreated he could only
see the roofs of the farm, which lay to the left. He passed
along the side of a steep eminence covered with furze, of the
species called long-thorn, in blossom. The summit of this
height was one of those points of land named in Brittany a
hure.
At the foot of the eminence the gaze lost itself among the
trees. The foliage seemed bathed in light. All Nature was
filled with the deep joy of the morning.
Suddenly this landscape became terrible. It was like the
bursting forth of an ambuscade. An appalling, indescribable
trumpeting, made by savage cries and gunshots, struck upon
these fields and these woods filled with sunlight, and there
could be seen rising from the side toward the farm a great
smoke, cut by clear flames, as if the hamlet and the farm
buildings were consuming like a truss of burning straw. It
was sudden and fearful, — the abrupt change from tran-
quillity to fury ; an explosion of hell in the midst of dawn ; a
horror without transition. There was fighting in the direc-
tion of Herbe-en-Pail. The marquis stood still.
84 NINETY-THREE
There is no man in a similar case who would not feel curi-
osity stronger than a sense of the peril. One. must know
what is happening, if one perish in the attempt. He mounted
the eminence along the bottom of which passed the sunken path
by which he had come. From there he could see, but he could
also be seen. He remained on the top for some instants. He
looked about.
There was, in truth, a fusilade and a conflagration. He
could hear the cries, he could see the flames. The farm ap-
peared the centre of some terrible catastrophe. What could
it be? Was the farm of Herbe-en-Pail attacked? But by
whom? Was it a battle? Was it not rather a military exe-
cution? Very often the Blues punished refractory farms and
villages by setting them on fire. They were ordered to do
so by a revolutionary decree ; they burned, for example, every
farm-house and hamlet where the tree-cutting prescribed by
law had been neglected, or no roads opened among the thickets
for the passage of the republican cavalry. Only very lately,
the parish of Bourgon, near Ernee, had been thus destroyed.
Was Herbe-en-Pail receiving similar treatment? It was evi-
dent that none of the strategic routes called for by the decree
had been made among the copses and enclosures. Was this
the punishment for such neglect? Had an order been re-
ceived by the advance-guard occupying the farm? Did not
this troop make part of one of those exploring divisions called
the " infernal columns " ?
A bristling and savage thicket surrounded on all sides the
eminence upon which the marquis had posted himself for an
outlook. This thicket, which was called the grove of Herbe-
en-Pail, but which had the proportions of a wood, stretched to
the farm, and concealed, like all Breton copses, a network of
ravines, by-paths, and deep cuttings, labyrinths where the
republican armies lost themselves.
The execution, if it were an execution, must have been a
ferocious one, for it was short. It had been, like all brutal
deeds, quickly accomplished. The atrocity of civil wars ad-
mits of these savage vagaries. While the marquis, multiply-
NINETY-THREE 85
ing conjectures, hesitating to descend, hesitating to remain,
listened and watched, this crash of extermination ceased, or.
more correctly speaking - , vanished. The marquis took note of
something in the thicket that was like the scattering of a wild
and joyous troop. A frightful rushing about made itself
heard beneath the trees. From the farm the band had thrown
themselves into the wood. Drums beat. No more gunshots
were fired. Now it resembled a battue; they seemed to search,
follow, track. They were evidently hunting some person.
The noise was scattered and deep; it was a confusion of words
of wrath and triumph; of indistinct cries and clamour. Sud-
denly, as an outline becomes visible in a cloud of smoke, some-
thing is articulated clearly and distinctly amid this tumult : it
was a name, — a name repeated by a thousand voices, — and
the marquis plainly heard this cry : —
" Lantenac ! Lantenac ! The Marquis de Lantenac ! "
It was he whom they were looking for.
CHAPTER VI
THE WHIRLIGIGS OF CIVIL WAR
SUDDENLY all about him, from all sides at the same
time, the copse filled with muskets, bayonets, and
sabres, a tricoloured flag rose in the half-light, the cry of
" Lantenac!" burst forth in his very ear, and at his feet, be-
hind the brambles and branches, savage faces appeared.
The marquis was alone, standing on a height, visible from
every part of the wood. He could scarcely see those who
shrieked his name ; but he was seen by all. If a thousand
muskets were in the wood, there was he like a target. He
could distinguish nothing among the brush-wood but burning
eyeballs fastened upon him.
Mr took off his hat, turned back the brim, tore a long, dry
80 NINETY-THREE
thorn from a furze-bush, drew from his pocket a white cockade,
fastened the upturned brim and the cockade to the hat with
the thorn, and putting back on his head the hat, whose lifted
edge showed the white cockade, and left his face in full view,
he cried in a loud voice that rang like a trumpet through the
forest: —
" I am the man you seek. I am the Marquis de Lantenac,
Viscount de Fontenay, Breton prince, lieutenant-general of
the armies of the king. Now make an end ! Aim ! Fire ! "
And tearing open with both hands his goat-skin vest, he
bared his naked breast.
He looked down, expecting to meet levelled guns, and saw
himself surrounded by kneeling men.
Then a great shout arose: —
" Long live Lantenac ! Long live Monseigneur ! Long
live the general ! "
At the same time hats were flung into the air, sabres whirled
joyously, and through all the thicket could be seen rising
sticks on whose points waved caps of brown woollen. He
was surrounded by a Vcndean band.
This troop had knelt at sight of him.
Old legends tell of strange beings that were found in the
ancient Thuringian forests, — a race of giants, more and less
than men, who were regarded by the Romans as horrible
monsters, by the Germans as divine incarnations, and who,
according to the encounter, ran the risk of being exterminated
or adored.
The marquis felt something of the sentiment which must
have shaken one of those creatures when, expecting to be
treated like a monster, he suddenly found himself worshipped
as a god.
All those eyes, full of terrible lightnings, were fastened
on him with a sort of savage love.
This crowd was armed with muskets, sabres, scythes, poles,
sticks ; they wore great beavers or brown caps, with white
cockades, a profusion of rosaries and amulets, wide breeches
open at the knee, jackets of skins, leather gaiters, the calves
NINETY-THREE 87
of their legs bare, their hair long : some with a ferocious look,
all with an open one.
A man, young and of noble mien, passed through the kneel-
ing throng, and hurried toward the marquis. Like the peas-
ants, he wore a turned-up beaver and a white cockade, and
was wrapped in a fur jacket; but his hands were white and
his linen fine, and he wore over his vest a white silk scarf, from
which hung a gold-hilted sword.
When he reached the hure he threw aside his hat, untied
his scarf, bent one knee to the ground, and presented the
sword and scarf to the marquis, saying:
" We were indeed seeking you, and we have found you.
Accept the sword of command. These men are yours now.
I was their leader; I mount in grade, for I become your
soldier. Accept our homage, my lord. General, give me
your orders."
Then he made a sign, and some men who carried a tri-
colourcd flag moved out of the wood. They marched up to
where the marquis stood, and laid the banner at his feet. It
was the flag which he had just caught sight of through the
trees.
" General," said the young man who had presented to him
the sword and scarf, " this is the flag we just took from the
Blues, who held the farm of Herbe-en-Pail. Monseigneur, I
am named Gavard. I belong to the Marquis de la Rouarie."
" It is well," said the marquis. And, calm and grave, he
put on the scarf.
Then he drew his sword, and waving it above his head., he
cried, —
" Up ! Long live the king ! "
All rose. Through the depths of the wood swelled a wild
triumphant clamour : " Long live the king ! Long live our
marquis ! Long live Lantenac ! "
The marquis turned toward Gavard: —
" How many are you ? "
" Seven thousand."
And as they descended the eminence, while the peasants
88 NINETY-THREE
cleared awa}> the furze-bushes to make a path for the Marquis
de Lantenac, Gavard continued: —
" Monseigneur, nothing more simple. All can be explained
in a word. It only needed a spark. The reward offered by
the Republic, in revealing your presence, roused the whole
district for the king. Besides that, we had been secretly
warned by the mayor of Granville, who is one of our men, the
same who saved the Abbe Ollivier. Last night they sounded
the tocsin."
" For whom? "
" For you."
" Ah ! " said the marquis.
" And here we are," pursued Gavard.
" And you are seven thousand? "
" To-da}^. We shall be fifteen thousand to-morrow. It is
the Breton contingent. When Monsieur Henri de la Roche-
jacquelein set out to join the Catholic army, the tocsin was
sounded, and in one night six parishes — Isernay, Corqueux,
the Echaubroignes, the Aubiers, Saint-Aubhi, and Nueil —
brought him ten thousand men. They had no munitions ; they
found in the house of a quarry-master sixty pounds of blast-
ing-powder, and M. de la Rochejacquelein set off* with
that.
" We were certain you must be in some part of this forest,
and we were seeking you."
" And you attacked the Blues at the farm of Herbe-en-
Pail?"
" The wind prevented their hearing the tocsin. They sus-
pected nothing ; the people of the hamlet, who are a set of
clowns, received them well. This morning we surrounded the
farm ; the Blues were asleep, and we did the thing out of
band. I have a horse. Will you deign to accept it, Gen-
eral?"
" Yes."
A peasant led up a white horse with military caparisons.
The marquis mounted without the assistance Gavard offered
him.
NINETY-THREE 89
"Hurrah!" cried the peasants. The cries of the English
were greatly in use along the Breton coast, in constant com-
munication as it was with the Channel Islands.
Gavard made a military salute, and asked, —
"Where will you make your headquarters, monseigneur? ,:
" At first in the Forest of Fougeres."
" It is one of your seven forests, my lord marquis."
" We must have a priest."
" We have one."
"Who?"
" The curate of the Chapellc-Erbree."
" I know him. Pie has made the voyage to Jersey."
A priest stepped out of the ranks, and said, —
" Three times."
The marquis turned his head.
" Good-morning, Monsieur le Cure. You have work be-
fore you."
" So much the better, my lord marquis."
" You will have to hear confessions^ — those who wish ; no-
body will be forced."
" My lord marquis," said the priest, " at Guemenec, Gas-
ton forces the republicans to confess."
" He is a hairdresser," said the marquis ; " death ought
to be free."
Gavard, who had gone to give some orders, returned.
" General, I wait your commands."
" First, the rendezvous in the Forest of Fougeres. Let
the men dispose, and make their way there."
" The order is given."
" Did you not tell me that the people of Herbe-en-Pail had
received the Blues well?"
" Yes, General."
" You have burned the house? "
" Yes."
"* Have you burned the hamlet? "
"No." '
" Burn it."
90 NINETY-THREE
" The Blues tried to defend themselves, but they were a
hundred and fifty, and we were seven thousand."
"Who were they?"
" Santerre's men."
" The one who ordered the drums to beat while the king's
head was being cut off? Then it is a regiment of Paris? "
" A half-regiment."
"Its name?"
" General, it bad on its flag, * Battalion of the Bonnet
Rouge.' "
" Wild beasts."
" What is to be done with the wounded? "
" Put an end to them."
" What shall we do with the prisoners? "
" Shoot them."
" There are about eighty."
" Shoot the whole."
" There are two women."
" Them also."
" There are three children."
" Carry them off. We will see what shall be done with
them."
And the marquis rode on.
CHAPTER VII
"no mercy!" (watchword of the commune), "no
quarter!" (watchword of the princes).
'HILE all this was passing near Tanis, the mendicant
had gone toward Crollon. He plunged into the ra-
vines, among the vast silent bowers of shade, inattentive to
everything and attentive to nothing, as he had himself said ;
dreamer rather than thinker, for the thoughtful man has an
NINETY-THREE 91
dim, and the dreamer has none; wandering, rambling, paus-
ing, munching here and there a bunch of wild sorrel; drinking
at the springs, occasionally raising his head to listen to the
distant tumult, again falling back into the bewildering fasci-
nation of Nature; warming his rags in the sun; hearing some-
times the noise of men, but listening to the song of the birds.
He was old, and moved slowly. He could not walk far ; as
he had said to the Marquis dc Lantenac, a quarter of a league
fatigued him. He made a short circuit to the Croix-Avran-
chin, and evening had come before he returned.
A little beyond Macey, the path he was following led to a
sort of culminating point, bare of trees, from whence one could
see very far, taking in the whole stretch of the western horizon
to the sea.
A column of smoke attracted his attention.
Nothing calmer than smoke, but nothing more startling.
There are peaceful smokes, and there are evil ones. The
thickness and colour of a line of smoke marks the whole dif-
ference between war and peace, between fraternity and hatred,
between hospitality and the tomb, between life and death. A
smoke mounting among the trees may be a symbol of all that
is most charming in the world, — a heart at home ; or a sign of
that which is most awful, — a conflagration. The whole
happiness of man, or his most complete misery, is sometimes
expressed in this thin vapour, which the wind scatters at will.
The smoke which Tellmarch saw was disquieting.
It was black, dashed now and then with sudden gleams of
red, as if the brasier from which it flowed burned irregularly,
and had begun to die out ; and it rose above Herbe-en-Pail.
Tellmarch quickened his steps, and walked toward this
smoke.
He was very tired, but he must know what this signified.
He reached the summit of a hill, against whose side the
hamlet and the farm were nestled.
There was no longer either farm or hamlet.
A heap of ruins was burning still; it was Herbe-en-Pail.
There is something which it is more painful to see burn
92 NTNETY-TTTKEE
than a palace, — it is a cottage. A cottage on fire is s lam-
entable sight. It is a devastation swooping down on pov-
erty, the vulture pouncing upon the worms of the ground;
there is in it a contradiction which chills the heart.
If we believe the Biblical legend, the sight of a conflagra-
tion changed a human being into a statue. For a moment
Tellmarch seemed thus transformed. The spectacle before
his eyes held him motionless. Destruction was completing
its work amid unbroken silence. Not a cry arose ; not a hu-
man sigh mingled with this smoke. This furnace laboured,
and finished devouring the village, without any noise being
heard save the creaking of the timbers and the crackling of the
thatch. At moments the smoke parted, the fallen roofs re-
vealed the gaping chambers, the brasier showed all its rubies ;
rags turned to scarlet, and miserable bits of furniture, tinted
with purple, gleamed amid these vermilion interiors, and
Tellmarch v.as dizzied b} r the sinister bedazzlement of dis-
aster.
Some trees of a chestnut grove near the house had taken
fire, and were blazing.
He listened, trying to catch a sound of a voice, an appeal,
a cry. Nothing stirred except the flames ; everything was
silent, save the conflagration. Was it that all had fled?
Where was the knot of people who had lived and toiled at
Herbe-en-Pail? What had become of this little band? Tell-
march descended the hill.
A funereal enigma rose before him. He approached with-
out haste, with fixed eyes. He advanced toward this ruin
with the slowness of a shadow ; he felt like a ghost in this
tomb.
He reached what had been the door of the farm-house, and
looked into the court, which had no longer an} 7 walls, and
was confounded with the hamlet grouped about it.
What he had before seen was nothing. He had hitherto
only caught sight of the terrible; the horrible appeared to
him now.
In the middle of the court was a black heap, vaguelv out
NINETY-THREE 98
lined on one side by the flames, on the oilier 1>\ the moonlight.
This heap was a muss of men; these men were dead.
All about this human mound spread a great pool which
smoked a little; the flames were reflected in this pool, but
it had no need of fire to redden it,—- it was blood.
Tellmarch went closer. He began to examine these pros-
trate bodies one after another: they were all dead men.
The moon shone; the conflagration also.
These corpses were the bodies of soldiers. All had their
feet bare; their shoes had been taken. Their weapons wen
gone also; they still wore their uniforms, which were blue.
Here and there he coidd distinguish among these heaped i,.
limbs and heads shot-riddled hats with tricoloured cockades.
They were republicans. They were those Parisians who on
the previous evening had been there, all living, keeping gar-
rison at the farm of Herbe-en-Pail. These men had been exe-
cuted: this was shown by the symmetrical position of tin-
bodies; they had been struck down in order, and with cart-.
The} r were all quite dead. Not a single death-gasp sounded
from the mass.
Tellmarch passed the corpses in review without omitting
one; they were all riddled with balls.
Those who had shot them, in haste probably to get else-
where, had not taken the time to bury them.
As he was preparing to move away, his eyes fell on a low
wall in the court, and he saw four feet protruding from one
of its angles.
They had shoes on them ; they were smaller than the others.
Tellmarch went up to this spot. They were women's feet.
Two women were lying side by side behind the wall; they also
had been shot.
Tellmarch stooped over them. One of the women wore a
sort of uniform ; by her side was a canteen, bruised and empty :
she had been vivandiere. She had four balls in her head.
She was dead.
Tellmarch examined the other. This was a peasant. She
was livid: her mouth open. Her eyes were closed. There
94 NINETY-THREE
was no wound in her head. Her garments, which long
marches, no doubt, had worn to rags, were disarranged by
her fall, leaving her bosom half naked. Tellmarch pushed
her dress aside, and saw on one shoulder the round wound
which a ball makes ; the shoulder-blade was broken. He looked
at her livid breast.
" Nursing mother," he murmured.
He touched her. She was not cold.
She had no hurts besides the broken shoulder-blade and
the wound in the shoulder.
He put his hand on her heart, and felt a faint throb. She
was not dead.
Tellmarch raised himself, and cried out in a terrible voice, —
" Is there no one here? "
" Is it you, Caimand? " a voice replied, so low that it could
scarcely be heard.
At the same time a head was thrust out of a hole in the
ruin. Then another face appeared at another aperture.
They were two peasants, who had hidden themselves, — the
only ones who survived.
The well-known voice of the Caimand had reassured them,
and brought them out of the holes in which they had taken
refuge.
They advanced toward the old man, both still trembling
violently.
Tellmarch had been able to cry out, but he could not talk ;
strong emotions produce such effects.
He pointed out to them with his finger the woman stretched
at his feet.
" Is there still life in her? " asked one of the peasants.
Tellmarch gave an affirmative nod of the head.
" Is the other woman living? " demanded the second man.
Tellmarch shook his head.
The peasant who had first shown himself continued:
"All the others are dead, are they not? I saw the whole.
I was in my cellar. How one thanks God at such a moment
for not having a family! My house burned. Blessed
NINETY-THREE 95
Saviour! They killed everybody. This woman here had
three children — all little. The children cried, 'Mother!'
The mother cried, 'My children!' Those who massacred
everybody are gone. They were satisfied. They carried off
the little ones, and shot the mother. I saw it all. But she
is not dead, — didn't you say so? She is not dead? Tell us,
Caimand, do you think you could save her? Do you want
us to help carry her to your carnichot? "
Tellmarch made a sign, which signified " Yes."
The wood was close to the farm. They quickly made a
litter with branches and ferns. They laid the woman, still
motionless, upon it, and set out toward the copse, the two
peasants carrying the litter, one at the head, the other at
the feet, Tellmarch holding the woman's arm, and feeling her
pulse.
As they walked, the two peasants talked ; and over the body
of the bleeding woman, whose white face was lighted up by
the moon, they exchanged frightened ejaculations.
" To kill all ! "
" To burn everything ! "
" Ah, my God! Is that the way things will go now? "
" It was that tall old man who ordered it to be done."
" Yes ; it was he who commanded."
" I did not see while the shooting went on. Was he
there?"
" No. He had gone. But no matter ; it was all done by
his orders."
" Then it was he who did the whole."
" He said, ' Kill ! burn ! no quarter ! ' "
" He is a marquis."
" Of course, since he is our marquis."
" What do thej r call him now ? "
" He is M. de Lantenac."
Tellmarch raised his eyes to heaven, and murmured:
" If I had known ! "
PART II
IN PARIS
BOOK I
CIMOURDAIN
CHAPTER I
THE STREETS OF PARIS AT THAT TIME
PEOPLE lived in public: they ate at tables spread out-
side the doors; women seated on the steps of the
churches made lint as they sang the " Marseillaise." Park
Monceaux and the Luxembourg Gardens were parade-grounds.
There were gunsmiths' shops in full work ; they manufactured
muskets before the eyes of the passers-by, who clapped their
hands in applause. The watchword on every lip was, " Pa-
tience; we are in revolution." The people smiled heroically.
They went to the theatre as they did at Athens during the
Peloponnesian war. One saw play-bills such as these pasted
at the street corners : " The Siege of Thionville ; " "A
Mother saved from the Flames ; " " The Club of the Care-
less ; " " The Eldest of the Popes Joan ; " " The Philosopher-
Soldiers ; " " The Art of Village Love-Making."
The Germans were at the gates ; a report was current that
96
NINETY-THREE 97
the King of Prussia had secured boxes a I the Opera. Every-
thing was terrible, and no one was frightened. The mys-
terious law against the suspected, which was the crime of
Merlin of Douai, held a vision of the guillotine above ever}
head. A solicitor named Seran, who had been denounced,
awaited his arrest in dressing-gown and slippers, playing his
flute at his window. Nobody seemed to have leisure : all the
world was in a hurry. Every hat bore a cockade. The
women said, " We are pretty in red caps." All Paris seemed
to be removing. The curiosity-shops were crowded with
crowns, mitres, sceptres of gilded wood, and fleur-de-lis torn
down from royal dwellings : it was the demolition of monarchy
that went on. Copes were to be seen for sale at the old-
clothesmen's, and rochets hung on hooks at their doors. At
Ramponneau's and the Porcherons, men dressed out in sur-
plices and stoles, and mounted on donkeys caparisoned with
chasubles, drank wine at the doors from cathedral ciboria.
In the Rue Saint Jacques, barefooted street-pavers stopped the
wheelbarrow of a peddler who had boots for sale, and clubbed
together to buy fifteen pairs of shoes, which they sent to the
Convention " for our soldiers."
Busts of Franklin, Rousseau, Brutus, and, we must add, of
Marat, abounded. Under a bust of Marat i". the Rue Cloche-
Perce was hung in a black wooden frame, and under glass,
an address against Malouet, with testimony in support of the
charges, and these marginal lines :
These details were furnished me by the mistress of Silvain Bailly, ;i
good patriotess, who has a liking for me.
(Signed) Marat.
The inscription on the Palais Royal fountain — " Quantos
effundit in usus ! " — was hidden under two great canvases
painted in distemper, the one representing Cahicr de Gerville
denouncing to the National Assembly the rallying cry of the
" Chiffonistes " of Aries ; the other, Louis XVI. brought back
from Varennes in his royal carriage, and under the carriage
a plank fastened by cords, on each end of which was seated
a grenadier with fixed bayonet.
98 NINETY-THREE
Very few of the larger shops were open ; peripatetic haber-
dashery and toy shops were dragged about by women, lighted
by candles, which dropped their tallow on the merchandise.
Open-air shops were kept by ex-nuns, in blond wigs. This
mender, darning stockings in a stall, was a countess ; that
dressmaker, a marchioness. Madame de Boufflers inhabited a
garret, from whence she could look out at her own hotel.
Hawkers ran about offering the " papers of news." Persons
who wore cravats that hid their chins were called " the scrof-
ulous." Street-singers swarmed. The crowd hooted Pitou,
the royalist song-writer, and a valiant man into the bargain ;
he was twenty-two times imprisoned and taken before the
revolutionary tribunal for slapping his coat-tails as he pro-
nounced the word civism. Seeing that his head was in dan-
ger, he exclaimed: " But it is just the opposite of my head
that is in fault ; " — a witticism which made the judges laugh,
and saved his life. This Pitou ridiculed the rage for Greek
and Latin names ; his favourite song was about a cobbler,
whom he called Cujus, and to whom he gave a wife named
Cujusdam. They danced the Carmagnole in great circles.
They no longer said " gentleman and lady," but " citizen and
citizeness." They danced in the ruined cloisters with the
church-lamps lighted on the altars, with cross-shaped chan-
deliers hanging from the vaulted roofs, and tombs beneath
their feet. Waistcoats of " tyrant's blue " were worn.
There were " liberty-cap " shirt-pins made of white, blue,
and red stones. The Rue de Richelieu was called the Street
of Law ; the Faubourg Saint Antoine was named the Fau-
bourg of Glory ; a statue of Nature stood in the Place de la
Bastille. People pointed out to one another certain well-
known personages, — Chatelet, Didier, Nicholas and Garnier-
Delaunay, who stood guard at the door of Duplay the joiner;
Voullant, who never missed a guillotine-day, and followed the
carts of the condemned, — he called it going to " the red
mass;" Montflabert, revolutionary juryman, and a marquis,
who took the name of " Dix Aoiit [Tenth of August]. Peo-
ple watched the pupils of the Ecole Militaire file past, de-
NINETY-THREE 99
scribed by the decrees of the Convention as " aspirants in the
school of Mars," and by the crowd as " the pages of Robes-
pierre." They read the proclamations of Freron denouncing
those suspected of the crime of " negotiantism." The dandies
collected at the doors of the mayoralties to mock at the civil
marriages, thronging about the brides and grooms as they
passed, and shouting " Married municipaliter! " At the In-
validcs the statues of the saints and kings were crowned with
Phrygian caps. They played cards on the curb-stones at the
crossings. The packs of cards were also in the full tide of
revolution : the kings were replaced by genii, the queens by the
Goddess of Liberty, the knaves by figures representing Equal-
ity, and the aces by impersonations of Law. They tilled the
public gardens ; the plough worked at the Tuileries. With
all these excesses was mingled, especially among the conquered
parties, an indescribable haughty weariness of life. A man
wrote to Fouquier-Tinville, " Have the goodness to free me
from existence. This is my address." Champcenetz was ar-
rested for having cried in the midst of the Palais Royal gar-
den: " When are we to have the revolution of Turkey? I
want to see the republic a la Porte." Newspapers appeared
in legions. The hairdressers' men curled the wigs of women
in public, while the master read the " Moniteur " aloud.
Others, surrounded by eager groups, commented with violent
gestures upon the journal " Listen to Us," of Dubois Crance,
or the " Trumpet " of Father Bellerose. Sometimes the bar-
bers were pork-sellers as well, and hams and chitterlings might
be seen hanging side by side with a golden-haired doll. Deal-
ers sold in the open street " wines of the refugees ; " one mer-
chant advertised wines of fifty-two sorts. Others displayed
harp-shaped clocks and sofas a la duchesse. One hairdresser
had for sign : " I shave fhe clergy ; I comb the nobility ; I
arrange the Third Estate."
People went to have their fortunes told by Martin, at No.
173, in the Rue d'Anjou, formerly Rue Dauphine. There
was a lack of bread, of coals, of soap. Herds of milch-cows
might be seen coming in from the country. At the Vallee,
TOO \IXETV-THRRE
lamb sold for fifteen francs the pound. An order of the
Commune assigned a pound of meat per head every ten days.
People stood in rank at the doors of the butchers' shops.
One of these files has remained famous: it reached from a
grocer's shop in the Rue du Petit Carreau to the middle of
the Rue Montorgueil. To form a line was called " holding
the cord," from a long rope which was held in the hands of
those standing in the row. Amid this wretchedness, the
women were brave and mild ; they passed entire nights await-
ing their turn to get into the bakers' shops. The Revolution
resorted to expedients which were successful; she alleviated
this widespread distress by two perilous means, — the assignat
and the maximum. The assignat was the lever, the maximum
was the fulcrum. This empiricism saved France. The
enemy, whether of Coblentz or London, gambled in assignats.
Girls came and went, offering lavender water, garters, false
hair, and selling stocks. There were jobbers on the Perron of
the Rue Vivienne, with muddy shoes, greasy hair, and fur
caps decorated with fox-tails; and there were swells from the
Rue Valois, with varnished boots, toothpicks in their mouths,
and long-napped hats on their heads, to whom the girls said
" thee " and " thou." Later, the people gave chase to them
as they did to the thieves, whom the royalists styled " active
citizens." For the time, theft was rare. There reigned a
terrible destitution and a stoical probity. The barefooted and
the starving passed with lowered eyelids before the jewellers'
shops of the Palais Egalite. During a domiciliary visit that
the Section Antoine made to the house of Beaumarchais, a
woman picked a flower in the garden; the crowd boxed her
ears. Wood cost four hundred francs in coin per cord; peo-
ple could be seen in the streets sawing up their bedsteads.
In the winter the fountains were frozen ; two pails of water
cost twenty sous : every man made himself a water-carrier. A
gold louis was worth three thousand nine hundred and fifty
francs. A course in a hackney-coach cost six hundred francs.
After a day's use of a carriage, this sort of dialogue might be
heard: " Coachman, how much do I owe you? " " Six thou-
NINETY-THKKK 101
sand francs." A green-grocer woman sold twenty thousand
francs' worth of vegetables a day. A beggar said, " Help me,
in the name of charity! I lack two hundred and thirty francs
to finish paying for my shoes." At the ends of the bridges
might be seen colossal figures sculptured and painted 1>\
David, which Mercier insulted. "Enormous wooden
Punches!" said he. The gigantic shapes symbolized Feder
a! ism and Coalition overturned.
There was no faltering among this people. There was the
sombre joy of having made an end of thrones. Volunteers
abounded; each street furnished a battalion. The flags of
the districts came and went, every one with its device. On
the banner of the Capuchin district could be read, " Nobody
can cut our beards." On another, " No other nobility than
that of the heart." On all the walls were placards, large
and small, white, yellow, green, red, printed and written, on
which might be read this motto: " Long live the Republic!"
The little children lisped " Ca ira."
These children were in themselves the great future.
Later, to the tragical city succeeded the cynical city. The
streets of Paris have offered two revolutionary aspects entirely
distinct, — that before and that after the 9th Thermidor.
The Paris of Saint-Just gave place to the Paris of Tallien.
Such antitheses are perpetual; after Sinai the Courtille ap-
peared.
An attack of public madness made its appearance. It had
already been seen eighty years before. The people came out
from under Louis XIV. as they did from under Robespierre.
with a great need to breathe; hence the regency which opened
t /at century and the directory which closed it, — two satur-
nalia after two terrorisms. France snatched the wicket-key
and got beyond the Puritan cloister just as it did beyond that
of monarclry, with the joy of a nation that escapes.
After the 9th Thermidor Paris was gay, but with an insane-
gaiety. An unhealthy joy overflowed all bounds. To the
frenzy for dying succeeded the frenzy for living, and gran-
deur eclipsed itself. They had a Trimalcion, calling himself
102 NINETY-THREE
Grimod de la Reyniere : there was the " Almanac of the Gour-
mands." People dined in the entresols of the Palais Royal
to the din of orchestras of women beating drums and blow-
ing trumpets ; the " rigadooner " reigned, bow in hand. Peo-
ple supped Oriental fashion at Meot's surrounded by per-
fumes. The artist Boze painted his daughters, innocent and
charming heads of sixteen, en guillotinees ; that is to say, with
bare necks and red shifts. To the wild dances in the ruined
churches succeeded the balls of Ruggieri, of Luquet-Wenzel,
Mauduit, and the Montansier ; to grave citizenesses making
lint succeeded sultanas, savages, nymphs ; to the naked feet
of the soldiers covered with blood, dust, and mud, succeeded
the naked feet of women decorated with diamonds. At the
same time, with shamelessness, improbity reappeared ; and it
had its purveyors in high ranks, and their imitators among the
class below. A swarm of sharpers filled Paris, and every
man was forced to guard well his luc, — that is, his pocket-
book. One of the amusements of the day was to go to the
Palace of Justice to see the female thieves; it was necessary
to tie fast their petticoats. At the doors of the theatres the
street boys opened cab doors, saying, " Citizen and citizen-
ess, there is room for two." The " Old Cordelier " and the
" Friend of the People " were no longer sold. In their places
were cried " Punch's Letter " and the " Rogues' Petition."
The Marquis de Sade presided at the Section of the Pikes,
Place Vendome. The reaction was jovial and ferocious. The
Dragons of Liberty of '92 were reborn under the name of
the Chevaliers of the Dagger. At the same time there ap-
peared in the booths that type, Jocrisse. There were " the
Merveilleuses," and in advance of these feminine marvels
came " the Incroyables." People swore by strange and af-
fected oaths; they jumped back from Mirabeau to Bobeche.
Thus it is that Paris sways back and forth; it is the enormous
pendulum of civilization ; it touches either pole in turn, —
Thermopylae and Gomorrah. After '93 the Revolution trav-
ersed a singular occultation ; the century seemed to forget to
finish that which it had commenced. A strange orgy inter-
NINETY-THREE 103
posed itself, took the foreground, swept back to the second
place the awful Apocalypse, veiled the immeasurable vision;
and laughed aloud after its fright. Tragedy disappeared
in parody, and, rising darkly from the bottom of the horizon,
a smoke of carnival effaced Medusa.
But in '93, where we are, the streets of Paris still wore the
grandiose and savage aspect of the beginning. They had
their orators, such as Varlet, who promenaded in a booth on
wheels, from the top of which he harangued the passers-by ;
they had their heroes, of whom one was called the " Captain
of the iron-pointed sticks;" their favourites, among whom
ranked Guff'roy, the author of the pamphlet " Rougiff."
Certain of these popularities were mischievous, others had a
healthy tone ; one among them all was honest and fatal, — it
was that of Cimourdain.
CHAPTER II
CIMOURDAIN
CIMOURDAIN had a conscience pure but sombre.
There was something of the absolute within him. He
had been a priest, which is a grave matter. A man may, like
the sk} r , possess a serenity which is dark and unfathomable; it
only needs that something should have made night within
his soul. The priesthood had made night in that of Cimour-
dain. He who has been a priest remains one.
What makes night within us may leave stars. Cimourdain
was full of virtues and verities, but they shone among shadows.
His history is easily written. He had been a village curate,
and tutor in a great family ; then he inherited a small legacy,
and gained his freedom.
He was above all an obstinate man. He made use of
meditation as one does of pincers; he did not think it right
104 NINETY-THREE
to quit an Idea until he had followed it to the end; he thought
stubbornly. He understood all the European languages, and
something of others besides. This man studied incessantly,
which aided him to bear the burden of celibacy ; but nothing
can be more dangerous than such a life of repression.
He had from pride, chance, or loftiness of soul been true
to his vows, but he had not been able to guard his belief.
Science had demolished faith; dogma had fainted within him.
Then, as he examined himself, he felt that his soul was muti-
lated; he could not nullify his priestly oath, but tried to re-
make himself man, though in an austere fashion. His fam-
ily had been taken from him; he adopted his country. A
wife had been refused him; he espoused humanity. Such
vast plenitude has a void at bottom.
His peasant parents, in devoting him to the priesthood,
had desired to elevate him above the common people ; he volun-
tarily returned among them.
He went back with a passionate energy. He regarded the
suffering with a terrible tenderness. From priest he had be-
come philosopher; and from philosopher, athlete. While
Louis XV. still lived, Cimourdain felt himself vaguely repub-
lican. But belonging to what republic? To that of Plato
perhaps, and perhaps also to the republic of Draco.
Forbidden to love, he set himself to hate. He hated lies,
monarchy, theocracy, his garb of priest ; he hated the present,
and he called aloud to the future; he had a presentiment of
it, he caught glimpses of it in advance; he pictured it awful
and magnificent. In his view, to end the lamentable wretched-
ness of humanity required at once an avenger and a liberator.
He worshipped the catastrophe afar off.
In 1789 this catastrophe arrived, and found him ready.
Cimourdain flung himself into this vast plan of human re-
generation on logical grounds, — that is to say, for a mind of
his mould, inexorably; logic knows no softening. He lived
among the great revolutionary years, and felt the shock of
their mighty breaths, — '89, the fall of the Bastille, the end of
the torture of the people ; on the 4th of August, '90, the end
NINETY -THREE 105
of feudulism; '91, Varennes, the end of royalty; '92, the
birth of the Republic. He saw the Revolution loom into life;
he was not a man to be afraid of that giant, — far from it.
This sudden growth in everything had revivified him ; and
though already nearly old, — he was fifty, and a priest ages
faster than another man, — he began himself to grow also.
From year to year he saw events gain in grandeur, and he
increased with them. He had at first feared that the Revolu-
tion would prove abortive; he watched it. It had reason and
right on its side ; he demanded success for it likewise. In pro-
portion to the fear it caused the timid, his confidence strength-
ened. He desired that this Minerva, crowned with the stars
of the future, should be Pallas also, with the Gorgon's head
for buckler. He demanded that her divine glance should be
able at need to fling back to the demons their infernal glare,
and give them terror for terror.
Thus he reached '93.
'93 was the war of Europe against France, and of France
against Paris. And what was the Revolution? It was the
victory of France over Europe, and of Paris over France.
Hence the immensity of that terrible moment, '93, — grander
than all the rest of the century. Nothing could be more
tragic: Europe attacking France, and France attacking Paris !
A drama which reaches the stature of an epic. '93 is a year
of intensity. The tempest is there in all its wrath and all its
grandeur. Cimourdain felt himself at home. This dis-
tracted centre, terrible and splendid, suited the span of his
wings. Like the sea-eagle amid the tempest, this man pre-
served his internal composure and enjoyed the danger. Cer-
tain winged natures, savage yet calm, are made to battle the
winds, — souls of the tempest : such exist.
He had put pity aside, reserving it only for the wretched.
He devoted himself to those sorts of suffering which cause
horror. Nothing was repugnant to him. That was his kind
of goodness. He was divine in his readiness to succour what
was loathsome. He searched for ulcers in order that he might
kiss them. Noble actions with a revolting exterior are the
106 NINETY-THREE
most difficult to undertake ; he preferred such. One day at the
Hotel Dieu a man was dying, suffocated by a tumour in the
throat, — a fetid, frightful abscess, — contagious perhaps, —
which must be at once opened. Cimourdain was there ; he put
his lips to the tumour, sucked it, spitting it out as his mouth
filled, and so emptied the abscess and saved the man. As he
still wore his priest's dress at the time, some one said to him,
" If you were to do that for the king, you would be made a
bishop." " I would not do it for the king," Cimourdain
replied. The act and the response rendered him popular in
the sombre quarters of Paris.
They gave him so great a popularity that he could do
what he liked with those who suffered, wept, and threatened.
At the period of the public wrath against monopolists, — a
wrath which was prolific in mistakes, — Cimourdain by a word
prevented the pillage of a boat loaded with soap at the quay
Saint Nicholas, and dispersed the furious bands who were
stopping the carriages at the barrier of Saint Lazare.
It was he who, two days after the 10th of August, headed
the people to overthrow the statues of the kings. They
slaughtered as they fell : in the Place Vendome, a woman called
Reine Violet was crushed by the statue of Louis XIV., about
whose neck she had put a cord, which she was pulling. This
statue of Louis XIV. had been standing a hundred years.
It was erected the 12th of August, 1692; it was overthrown
the 12th of August, 1792. In the Place de la Concorde, a
certain Guinguerlot was butchered on the pedestal of Louis
XV.'s statue for having called the demolishers scoundrels.
The statue was broken in pieces. Later, it was melted to coin,
— into sous. The arm alone escaped, — it was the right arm,
which was extended with the gesture of a Roman emperor.
At Cimourdain's request the people sent a deputation with
this arm to Latude, the man who had been thirty-seven years
buried in the Bastille. When Latude was rotting alive, the
collar on his neck, the chain about his loins, in the bottom
of that prison where he had been cast by the order of that
king whose statue overlooked Paris, who could have prophesied
NINETY-THREE 107
to him that this prison would tall, this statue would be de-
stroyed; that he would emerge from the sepulchre and mon-
archy enter it; that he, the prisoner, would be the master of
this hand of bronze which had signed his warrant; and that
of this king of Mud there would remain only his brazen
arm?
Cimourdain was one of those men who have an interior voice
to which they listen. Such men seem absent-minded; no, they
are attentive.
Cimourdain was at once learned and ignorant. He under-
stood all science, and was ignorant of everything in regard to
life. Hence his severity. He had his eyes bandaged, like
the Themis of Homer. He had the blind certainty of the
arroAv, which, seeing not the goal, yet goes straight to it. In
a revolution there is nothing so formidable as a straight line.
Cimourdain went straight before him, fatal, unwavering.
He believed that in a social Genesis the farthest point is
the solid ground, — an error peculiar to minds which replace
reason by logic. He went beyond the Convention ; he went
beyond the Commune ; he belonged to the Eveche.
The society called the Eveche, because its meetings were
held in a hall of the former episcopal palace, was rather a
complication of men than a union. There, as at the Com-
mune, those silent but significant spectators were present who,
as Garat said, " had as many pistols as pockets."
The Eveche was a strange mixture, — a crowd at once cos-
mopolitan and Parisian. This is no contradiction, for Paris
is the spot where beats the heart of the peoples. The great
plebeian incandescence was at the Eveche. In comparison to
it, the Convention was cold and the Commune lukewarm. The
Eveche was one of those rcvolutionar} 7 formations similar to
volcanic ones ; it contained everything, — ignorance, stupidity,
probity, heroism, choler, spies. Brunswick had agents there.
It numbered men worthy of Sparta, and men who deserved
the galleys. The greater part were mad and honest. The
Gironde had pronounced by the mouth of Isnard, temporary
president of the Convention, this monstrous warning : —
108 NINETY-THREE
"Take care, Parisians! There will not remain one stone upon an-
other of your city, and the day will come when the place where Paris
stood shall be searched for."
This speech created the Eveche. Certain men — and as
we have just said, they were men of all nations — felt the
need of gathering themselves close about Paris. Cimourdain
joined this club.
The society reacted on the reactionists. It was born out
of that public necessity for violence which is the formidable
and mysterious side of revolutions. Strong with this
strength, the Eveche at once began its work. In the commo-
tions of Paris it was the Commune that fired the cannon; it
was the Eveche that sounded the tocsin.
In his implacable ingenuousness, Cimourdain believed that
everything in the service of truth is justice, which ren-
dered him fit to dominate the extremists on either side.
Scoundrels felt that he was honest, and were satisfied. Crime
is flattered by having virtue to preside over it; it is at once
troublesome and pleasant. Palloy, the architect who had
turned to account the demolition of the Bastille, selling its
stones to his own profit, and who, appointed to whitewash
the cell of Louis XVI., in his zeal covered the wall with
bars, chains, and iron rings: Gonchon, the suspected orator
of the Faubourg Saint Antoine, whose quittances were after-
ward found; Fournier, the American, who on the 17th of
July fired at Lafayette a pistol-shot, paid for, it is said,
by Lafayette himself; Henriot, who had come out of Bicetre,
and who had been valet, mountebank, robber, and spy before
being a general and turning the guns on the Convention ; La
Reynie, formerly grand-vicar of Chartres, who had replaced
his breviary by " The Pere Duchesne," — all these men were
held in respect by Cimourdain ; and at certain moments, to
keep the worst of them from stumbling, it was sufficient to
feel his redoubtable and believing candour as a judgment be-
fore them. It was thus that Saint-Just terrified Schneider.
At the same time the majority of the Eveche, composed
principally as it was of poor and violent men who were honest,
NINETY-THREE 109
believed in Cimourdain and followed him. He had for cur-
ate or aide-de-camp, as you please, that other republican priest,
Danjou, whom the people loved on account of his height, and
had christened Abbe Six-Foot. Cimourdain could have led
where he would that intrepid chief called General La Pique,
and that bold Truchon named the Great Nicholas, who had
tried to save Madame de Lamballe, and had given her his
arm, and made her spring over the corpses, — an attempt
which would have succeeded, had it not been for the ferocious
pleasantry of the barber Chariot.
The Commune watched the Convention ; the Eveche watched
the Commune. Cimourdain, naturally upright and detesting
intrigue, had broken more than one mysterious thread in the
hand of Pache, whom Beurnonville called " the black man."
Cimourdain at the Eveche was on confidential terms with all.
He was consulted by Dobsent and Momoro. He spoke
Spanish with Gusinan, Italian with Pio, English with Arthur,
Flemish with Pereyra, German with the Austrian Proly, the
bastard of a prince. He created a harmony between these
discordances. Hence his position was obscure and strong.
Hebert feared him.
In these times and among these tragic groups, Cimour-
dain possessed the power of the inexorable. He was an im-
peccable, who believed himself infallible. No person had
ever seen him weep. He was Virtue inaccessible and glacial.
He was the terrible offspring of Justice.
There is no half-way possible to a priest in a revolution.
A priest can only give himself up to this wild and prodigious
chance either from the highest or the lowest motive; he must
be infamous or he must be sublime. Cimourdain was sub-
lime, but in isolation, in rugged inaccessibility, in inhospitable
secretiveness, sublime amid a circle of precipices. Lofty
mountains possess this sinister freshness.
Cimourdain had the appearance of an ordinary man,
dressed in everv-day garments, poor in aspect. When young,
he had been tonsured; as an old man he was bald. What
little hair lie had left was grey. His forehead was broad,
110 NINETY-THREE
and to the acute observer it revealed his character. Cimour-
dain had an abrupt way of speaking, which was passionate
and solemn : his voice was quick, his accent peremptory, his
mouth bitter and sad, his eye clear and profound, and over
his whole countenance an indescribable indignant expression.
Such was Cimourdain.
No one to-day knows his name. History has many of these
great Unknown.
CHAPTER III
A CORNER NOT DIPPED IN STYX
WAS such a man indeed a man? Could the servant
of the human race know fondness? Was he not too
entirely a soul to possess a heart? This widespread embrace,
which included everything and everybody, could it narrow
itself down to one. Could Cimourdain love? We answer,
Yes.
When young, and tutor in an almost princely family, he
had had a pupil whom he loved, — the son and heir of the
house. It is so easy to love a child. What can one not
pardon a child? One forgives him for being a lord, a prince,
a king. The innocence of his age makes one forget the
crime of race; the feebleness of the creature causes one to
overlook the exaggeration of rank. He is so little that one
forgives him for being great. The slave forgives him for
being his master. The old negro idolizes the white nursling.
Cimourdain had conceived a passion for his pupil. Child-
hood is so ineffable that one may unite all affections upon it.
Cimourdain's whole power of loving prostrated itself, so to
speak, before this boy; that sweet, innocent being became
a sort of prey for that heart condemned to solitude. He
loved with a mingling of all tendernesses, — as father, as
brother, as friend, as maker. The child was his son, not
NINETY^THREE ill
of his flesh, but of his mind. He was not the father, and
this was not his work; but he was the master, and this his mas-
terpiece. Of this little lord he had made a man,- perhaps a
great man; who knows? Such are dreams. Has one need
of the permission of a family to create an intelligence, a
will, an upright character. He had communicated to the
young viscount, his scholar, all the advanced ideas which
he held himself; he had inoculated him with the redoubtable
virus of his virtue; he had infused into his veins his own
convictions, his own conscience and ideal, — into this brain of
an aristocrat he had poured the soul of the people.
The spirit suckles; the intelligence is a breast. There is
an analogy between the nurse who gives her milk and the
preceptor who gives his thought. Sometimes the tutor is
more father than is the father, just as often the nurse is more
mother than the mother.
This deep spiritual paternity bound Cimourdain to his pu-
pil. The very sight of the child softened him.
Let us add this : to replace the father was easy, — the boy
no longer had one. He was an orphan ; his father and
mother were both dead. To keep watch over him he had
only a blind grandmother and an absent great-uncle. The
grandmother died; the great-uncle, head of the family, a
soldier of high rank, provided with appointments at Court,
avoided the old family dungeon, lived at Versailles, went forth
with the army, and left the orphan alone in the solitary castle.
So the preceptor was master in every sense of the word.
Let us add still further: Cimourdain had seen the child
born. The boy, while very little, was seized with a severe
illness. In this peril of death Cimourdain watched day and
night. It is the physician who prescribes, it is the nurse
who saves; and Cimourdain saved the child. Not only did
his pupil owe to him education, instruction, science, but he
owed him also convalescence and health; not only did his pupil
owe him the development of his mind, he owed him life itself.
We worship those who owe us all; Cimourdain adored this
child.
112 NINETY-THREE
The natural separation came about at length. The edu-
cation completed, Cimourdain was obliged to quit the boy,
grown to a young man. With what cold and unconscionable
cruelty these separations are insisted upon ! How tranquilly
families dismiss the preceptor, who leaves his spirit in a
child, and the nurse, who leaves her heart's blood!
Cimourdain, paid and put aside, went out of the grand
world and returned to the sphere below. The partition
between the great and the little closed again. The young lord,
an officer of birth, and made captain at the outset, departed
for some garrison; the humble tutor (already at the bottom
of his heart an unsubmissive priest, hastened to go down again
into that obscure ground-floor of the Church occupied by the
under clergy, and Cimourdain lost sight of his pupil.
The Revolution came on; the recollection of that being
whom he had made a man brooded within him, hidden but
not extinguished by the immensity of public affairs.
It is a beautiful thing to model a statue and give it life;
to mould an intelligence and instil truth therein is still more
beautiful. Cimourdain was the Pygmalion of a soul.
The spirit may own a child.
This pupil, this boy, this orphan, was the sole being on
earth whom he loved.
But even in such an affection, would a man like this prove
vulnerable ?
We shall see.
BOOK II
THE PUBLIC HOUSE OF THE RUE DU PAON
CHAPTER I
MINOS, ^ACUS, AND RHADAMANTHUS
THERE was a public-house in the Rue du Paon which
was called a cafe. This cafe had a back room, which
is to-day historical. It was there that often, almost secretly,
met certain men, so powerful and so constantly watched that
they hesitated to speak with one another in public.
It was there that on the 23d of October, 1792, the
Mountain and the Gironde exchanged their famous kiss. It
was there that Garat, although he does not admit it in his
Memoirs, came for information on that lugubrious night
when, after having put Claviere in safety in the Rue de
Beaune, he stopped his carriage on the Pont Royal to listen
to the tocsin.
On the 28th of June, 1793, three men were seated about
a table in this back chamber. Their chairs did not touch;
they were placed one on either of the three sides of the table,
leaving the fourth vacant. It was about eight o'clock in
the evening; it was still light in the street, but dark in tne
back room, and a lamp, hung from a hook in the ceiling, —
a luxury there, — lighted the table.
The first of these three men was pale, young, grave, with
8 113
114 NINETY-TH11EE
thin lips and a cold glance. He had a nervous movement
in his cheek, which must have made it difficult for him to
smile. He wore his hair powdered. He was gloved ; his
light-blue coat, well brushed, was without a wrinkle, care-
fully buttoned. He wore nankeen breeches, white stockings,
a high cravat, a plaited shirt-frill, and shoes with silver
buckles.
Of the other two men, one was a species of giant, the
other a sort of dwarf. The tall one was untidily dressed in
a coat of scarlet cloth, his neck bare, his unknotted cravat
falling down over his shirt-frill, his vest gaping from lack
of buttons. He wore top-boots ; his hair stood stiffly up and
was disarranged, though it still showed traces of powder :
his very peruke was like a mane. His face was marked with
small-pox ; there was a choleric line between his brows ; a
wrinkle that signified kindness at the corner of his mouth ;
his lips were thick, the teeth large; he had the fist of a
porter and eyes that blazed. The little one was a yellow man,
who looked deformed when seated. He carried his head
thrown back; the eyes were injected with blood, there were
livid blotches on his face; he had a handkerchief knotted
about his greasy straight hair ; he had no forehead ; the
mouth was enormous and horrible. He wore pantaloons in-
stead of knee-breeches, slippers, a waistcoat which seemed
originally to have been of white satin, and over this a loose
jacket, under whose folds a hard, straight line showed that
a poniard was hidden.
The first of these men was named Robespierre ; the second,
Danton ; the third, Marat.
They were alone in the room. Before Danton was set a
glass and a dusty wine-bottle, reminding one of Luther's
pint of beer; before Marat a cup of coffee; before Robes-
pierre only papers.
Near the papers stood one of those heavy, round-ridged,
leaden ink-stands which will be remembered by men who were
school-boys at the beginning of this century. A pen was
thrown carelessly by the side of the ink-stand. On the papers
NINETY-THREE 115
lay a great brass seal, on which could be read PaUoy fecit, and
which was a perfect miniature model of the Bastille.
A map of France was spread in the middle of the table.
Outside the door was stationed Marat's " watch-dog," — a
certain Laurent Basse, porter of No. 18, Rue des Cordeliers,
who, some fifteen days after this 28th of June, say the l!3th
of July, was to deal a blow with a chair on the head of a
woman named Charlotte Corday, at this moment vaguely
dreaming in Caen. Laurent Basse was the proof-carrier of
the " Friend of the People." Brought this evening by his
master to the cafe of the Rue du Paon, he had been ordered
to keep the room closed where Marat, Danton, and Robespierre
were seated, and to allow no person to enter unless it might
be some member of the Committee of Public Safety, the
Commune, or the Eveche.
Robespierre did not wish to shut the door against Saint-
Just ; Danton did not want it closed against Pache ; Marat
would not shut it against Gusman.
The conference had already lasted a long time. It was
in reference to papers spread on the table, which Robespierre
had read. The voices began to grow louder. Symptoms of
anger arose between these three men. From without, eager
words could be caught at moments. At that period the
example of the public tribunals seemed to have created the
right to listen at doors. It was the time when the copying-
clerk of Fabricius Paris looked through the kejdiole at
the proceedings of the Committee of Public Safety, — a
feat which, be it said by the way, was not without its use;
for it was this Paris who warned Danton on the night before
the 31st of March, 1794. Laurent Basse had his ear to
the door of the back room where Danton, Marat, and Robes-
pierre were. Laurent Basse served Marat, but he belonged
to the Eveche.
116 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER II
MAGNA TESTANTUR VOCE PER UMBRAS
D ANTON had just risen and pushed his chair hastily
back.
" Listen ! " he cried. " There is only one thing imminent,
— the peril of the Republic. I only know one thing, — to
deliver France from the enemy. To accomplish that, all
means are fair, — all ! all ! all ! When I have to deal with
a combination of dangers, I have recourse to every or any
expedient; when I fear all, I have all. My thought is a
lioness. No half-measures. No squeamishness in resolution.
Nemesis is not a conceited prude. Let us be terrible and use-
ful. Docs the elephant stop to look where he sets his foot?
We must crush the enemy ! "
Robespierre replied mildly, —
" I shall be very glad."
And he added, —
" The question is to know where the enemy is."
; ' It is outside, and I have chased it there," said Danton.
" It is within, and I watch it," said Robespierre.
" And I will continue to pursue it," resumed Danton.
" One does not drive away an internal enemy."
" What, then, do you do?"
" Exterminate it."
" I agree to that," said Danton in his turn.
Then he continued, —
" I tell you Robespierre, it is without."
" Danton, I tell you it is within."
" Robespierre, it is on the frontier."
" Danton, it is in Vendee."
" Calm yourselves," said a third voice. " It is everywhere,
and you are lost."
It was Marat who spoke.
NINETY-THREE 117
Robespierre looked at him and answered tranquilly:
" Truce to generalities. I particularize. Here are facts."
" Pedant ! " grumbled Marat.
Robespierre laid his hand on the papers spread before
him, and continued, —
" I have just read you the dispatches from Pricur, of
the Marne. I have just communicated to you the informa-
tion given by that Gelambrc. Danton, listen ! The foreign
war is nothing; the civil war is all. The foreign war is a
scratch that one gets on the elbow ; civil war is the ulcer
which eats up the liver. This is the result of what I have
been reading: The Vendee, up to this day divided between
several chiefs, is concentrating herself. Henceforth she will
have one sole captain — "
" A central brigand," murmured Danton.
" Who is," pursued Robespierre, " the man that landed
near Pontorson on the 2d of June. You have seen who he
was. Remember this landing coincides with the arrest of
the acting Representatives, Prieur, of the Cote-d'Or, and
Romme, at Baveux, bv the traitorous district of Calvados,
the 2d of June, — the same day."
" And their transfer to the castle of Caen," said Danton.
Robespierre resumed, —
" I continue my summing up of the dispatches. The war
of the Woods is organizing on a vast scale. At the same
time, an English invasion is preparing, — Vendeans and
English ; it is Briton with Breton. The Hurons of Finistere
speak the same language as the Topinambes of Cornwall. I
have shown you an intercepted letter from Puisaye, in which
it is said that ' twenty thousand red-coats distributed among
the insurgents will be the means of raising a hundred thousand
more.' When the peasant insurrection is prepared, the
English descent will be made. Look at the plan ; follow it on
the map."
Robespierre put his finger on the chart and went on :
" The English have the choice of landing-place from
Cancalc to Paimbol. Craig would prefer the Bay of Saint-
118 NINETY-THREE
Brieuc; Cornwallis, the Bay of Saint-Cast. That is men
detail.
The left bank of the Loire is guarded by the rebel Ven-
dean army ; and as to the twenty-eight leagues of open
country between Ancenis and Pontorson, forty Norman par-
ishes have promised their aid. The descent will be made at
three points, — Plerin, Iffiniac, and Pleneuf. From Plerin
they can go to Saint-Brieuc, and from Pleneuf to Lamballc.
The second day they will reach Dinan, where there are nine
hundred English prisoners, and at the same time they will
occupy Saint- Jouan and Saint-Meen ; they will leave cavalry
there. On the third day, two columns will march, — the one
from Jouan on Bedee, the other from Dinan on Becheral,
which is a natural fortress, and where they will establish
two batteries. The fourth day they will reach Rennes. Ren-
nes is the key of Brittany. Whoever has Rennes has the
whole. Rennes captured, Chateauneuf and Saint-Malo will
fall. There are at Rennes a million of cartridges and fifty
artillery field-pieces — "
" Which they will sweep off," murmured Danton.
Robespierre continued, —
" I conclude. From Rennes three columns will fall, — the
one on Fougeres, the other on Vitre, the third on Redon. As
the bridges are cut, the enemy will furnish themselves — you
have seen this fact particularly stated — with pontoons and
planks, and they will have guides for the points fordable by
the cavalry. From Fougeres they will radiate to Avranches ;
from Redon to Ancenis ; from Vitre to Laval. Nantes will
capitulate. Brest will yield. Redon opens the whole extent
of the Vilaine ; Fougeres gives them the route of Normandy ;
Vitre opens the route to Paris. In fifteen days they will
have an army of brigands numbering three hundred thousand
men, and all Brittany Mill belong to the King of France."
" That is to say, the King of England," said Danton.
" No, to the King of France."
And Robespierre added, —
" The King of France is worse. It needs fifteen days to
NINETY-THREE 119
expel the stranger, and eighteen hundred years to eliminate
monarchy."
Danton, wlio liad reseated himself, leaned his elbows on
the table, and rested his head in his hands in a thoughtful
attitude.
" You see the peril," said Robespierre. " Vitre lays open
to the English the road to Paris."
Danton raised his head and struck his two great clinched
hands on the map as on an anvil.
" Robespierre, did not Verdun open the route to Paris to
the Prussians ? "
" Very well ! "
" Very well, we will expel the English as we expelled the
Prussians." And Danton rose again.
Robes] >ierre laid his cold hand on the feverish fist of the
other.
" Danton, Champagne was not for the Prussians, and Brit-
tany is for the English. To retake Verdun was a foreign
war; to retake Yitre will be civil war."
And Robespierre murmured in a chill, deep tone, —
" A serious difference."
He added aloud, —
" Sit down again, Danton, and look at the map instead of
knocking it with your fist."
But Danton was wholly given up to his own idea.
" That is madness ! " cried he, — " to look for the catastro-
phe in the west when it is in the east. Robespierre, I grant
you that England is rising on the ocean; but Spain is rising
among the Pyrenees; but Italy is rising among the Alps;
but Germany is rising on the Rhine. And the great Russian
bear is at the bottom. Rob^pierre, the danger is a circle,
and we are within it. On the exterior, coalition; in the inte-
rior, treason. In the south, Servant half opens the door of
France to the King of Spain. At the north, Dumouriez
passes over to the enemy ; for that matter, he always menaced
Holland less than Paris. Ncerwindcn blots out JemmapeS and
Vahny. The philosopher Rabaut Saint-Etienne, a traitor like
120 NINETY-THREE
the Protestant he is, corresponds with the courtier Montes-
quiou. The army is destroyed. There is not a battalion
that has more than four hundred men remaining; the brave
regiment of Deux-Ponts is reduced to a hundred and fifty
men; the camp of Pamars has capitulated; there are only
five hundred sacks of flour left at Givet ; we are falling back
on Landau; Wurmser presses Kleber; Mayence succumbs
bravely, Conde cowardly. Valenciennes also. But all that
does not prevent Chancel, who defends Valenciennes, and old
Feraud, who defends Conde, being heroes, as well as Meunier,
who defended Mayence. But all the rest are betraying us.
Dharville betrays us at Aix-la-Chapelle ; Mouton at Brussels;
Valence at Breda; Neuilly at Limbourg; Miranda at Maes-
tricht, Stingel, traitor: Lanoue, traitor; Ligonnier, traitor;
Menou, traitor ; Dillon, traitor, — hideous coin of Dumouriez.
We must make examples. Custine's countermarches look sus-
picious to me. I suspect Custine of preferring the lucrative
prize of Frankfort to the useful capture of Coblentz. Frank-
fort can pay four millions of war tribute; so be it. What
would that be in comparison with crushing that nest of refu-
gees? Treason, I say. Meunier died on the 13th of June.
Kleber is alone. In the meantime Brunswick strengthens and
advances. He plants the German flag on every French place
that he takes. The Margrave of Brandenburg is to-day the
arbiter of Europe; he pockets our provinces; he will adjudge
Belgium to himself, — you will see. One would say that we
were working for Berlin. If this continue, and we do not put
things in order, the French Revolution will have been for the
benefit of Potsdam; it will have accomplished for unique re-
sult the aggrandizement of the little State of Frederick II..
and we shall have killed the King of France for the King of
Prussia's sake."
And Danton burst into a terrible laugh.
Danton's laugh made Marat smile.
" You have each one your hobby," said he. " Danton,
yours is Prussia ; Robespierre, yours is the Vendee. I am go-
ing to state facts in my turn. You do not perceive the real
NINETY-THREE 121
peril; it is this: The cafes and the gaming-houses. The Cafe
Choiseul is Jacobin; the Cafe Pitou is Royalist; the Cafe
Rendez-Vous attacks the National Guard; the Cafe of the
Porte Saint Martin defends it; the Cafe Regence is against
Brissot; the Cafe Corazza is for him ; the Cafe Procope swears
by Diderot; the Cafe of the Theatre Francois swears by
Voltaire ; at the Rotunde they tear up the assignats ; the Cafes
Saint Marceau are in a fury; the Cafe Manouri debates the
question of flour; at the Cafe Foy uproars and fisticuffs; at
the Perron the hornets of the finance buzz. These are the
matters which are serious."
Danton laughed no longer. Marat continued to smile.
The smile of a dwarf is worse than the laugh of a giant.
" Do you sneer at yourself, Marat? " growled Danton.
Marat gave that convulsive movement of his lip which was
celebrated. His smile died.
" Ah, I recognize you, Citizen Danton ! It is indeed you
who in full Convention called me, ' the individual Marat.' Lis-
ten ; I forgive you. We arc playing the fool ! Ah ! / mock at
myself! Sec what I have done! I denounced Chazot ; 1 de-
nounced Petion ; I denounced Kersaint ; I denounced Moreton ;
I denounced Duf riche-Yalaze ; I denounced Ligonnier; I de-
nounced Menou; I denounced Bannevillc; I denounced Gen-
sonne; I denounced Biron; I denounced Lidon and Chambon.
Was I mistaken? I smell treason in the traitor, and I find it
best to denounce the criminal before he can commit his crime.
I have the habit of saying in the evening that which you and
others say on the following day. I am the man who proposed
to the Assembly a perfect plan of criminal legislation. What
have I done up to the present? I have asked for the instruc-
tion of the sections in order to discipline them for the Revolu-
tion; I have broken the seals of thirty-two boxes; I have re-
claimed the diamonds deposited in the hands of Roland; I
proved that the Brissotins gave to the Committee of the Gen-
eral Safety blank warrants; I noted the omissions in the report
of Lindet upon the crimes of Capet; I voted the punishment
of the tyrant in twenty-four hours; I defended the battalions
122 NINETY-THREE
( !' Mauconseil and the Republicain ; I prevented the reading
of the letter of Narbonne and of Malonet ; I made a motion
in favour of the wounded soldiers ; I caused the suppression of
the Commission of Six; I foresaw the treason of Dumouriez
in the affair of Mons ; I demanded the taking of a hundred
thousand relatives of the refugees as hostages for the com-
missioners delivered to the enemy; I proposed to declare
traitor any Representative who should pass the barriers ; I
unmasked the Roland faction in the troubles at Marseilles ; I
insisted that a price should be set on the head of Egalite's
son ; I defended Bouchottc ; I called for a nominal appeal in
order to chase Isnard from the chair; I caused it to be de-
clared that the Parisians had deserved well of the country.
That is why I am called a dancing-puppet by Louvet ; that
is why Finistere demands my expulsion ; why the city of Lou-
dun desires that I should be exiled, the city of Amiens that I
should be muzzled ; why Coburg wishes me to be arrested, and
Lecointe Puiraveau proposes to the Convention to decree me
mad. Ah, now, Citizen Danton, why did you ask me to come
to your little council if it were not to have my opinion? Did
I ask to belong to it? Far from that. I have no taste for
dialogues with counter-revolutionists like Robespierre and vou.
For that matter, I ought to have known that you would not
understand me, — you no more than Robespierre ; Robespierre
no more than you. So there is not a statesman here? You
need to be taught to spell at politics ; you must have the dot
put over the i for you. What I said to you meant this : vou
both deceive yourselves. The danger is not in London as
Robespierre believes ; nor in Berlin, as Danton believes : it is in
Paris. It consists in the absence of unity ; in the right of
each one to pull on his own side, commencing with you two ;
in the binding of minds ; in the anarchy of wills — "
" Anarchy ! " interrupted Danton. " Who causes that, if
not you ? "
Marat did not pause.
" Robespierre, Danton, the danger is in this heap of cafes,
in this mass of gaming-houses, this crowd of clubs, — Clubs
NINETY-THREE 128
of the Blacks, the Federals, the Women; the Club of the Im-
partials, which dates from Clermont-Tonne'rre, and which was
the Monarchical Club of 175)0, a social circle conceived by the
priest Claude Fauche; Club of the Woollen Caps, founded by
the gazetteer Prudhonnne, et ccetera; without counting your
Club of the Jacobins, Robespierre, and your club of the
Cordeliers, Danton. The danger lies in the famine which
caused the sack-porter Blin to hang up to the lamp of
the Hotel de Ville the baker of the Market Palu, Fran-
cois Denis, and in the justice which hung the sack-porter Blin
for having hanged the baker Denis. The danger is in the
paper money, which the people depreciate. In the Rue du
Temple an assignat of a hundred francs fell to the ground,
and a passer-by, a man of the people, said, ' It is not worth
the pains of picking it up.' The stock-brokers and the
monopolists, — there is the danger. To have nailed the black
flag to the Hotel de Ville, — a fine advance ! You arrest
Baron Trenck ; that is not sufficient. I want this old prison
intriguer's neck wrung. You believe that you have got out
of the difficulty because the President of the Convention puts
a civic crown on the head of Laberteche, who received forty-
one sabre cuts at Jemmapes, and of whom Chenier makes him-
self the elephant driver? Comedies and juggling! Ah, you
will not look at Paris ! You seek the danger at a distance
when it is close at hand. What is the use of your police,
Robespierre? For you have your spies, — Pay an at the Com-
mune, Coffinhal at the Revolutionary Tribunal, David at the
Committee of General Security, Couthon at the Committee of
Public Safety. You see that I know all about it. Very well,
learn this : the danger is over your heads ; the danger is under
your feet, — conspiracies! conspiracies! conspiracies! The
people in the streets read the newspapers to one another and
exchange nods; six thousand men, without civic papers, re-
turned emigrants, Muscadins, and Mathevons, are hidden in
cellars and garrets and the wooden galleries of the Palais
Royal. People stand in a row at the bakers' shops, the women
stand in the doorways and clasp their hands, crying, * When
124 NINETY-THREE
shall we have peace?' You may shut yourselves up as close
as you please in the hall of the Executive Council, in order
to be alone ; every word you speak is known ; and as a proof,
Robespierre, here are the words you spoke last night to Saint-
Just : ' Barbaroux begins to show a fat paunch ; it will be
a trouble to him in his flight.' Yes ; the danger is everywhere,
and above all in the centre. In Paris the ' Retrogrades ' plot,
while patrols go barefooted; the aristocrats arrested on the 9th
of March are alread} r set at liberty ; the fancy horses which
ought to be harnessed to the frontier-cannon spatter mud on
us in the streets ; a loaf of bread weighing four pounds costs
three francs twelve sous ; the theatres play indecent pieces ;
and Robespierre will presently have Danton guillotined."
" Oh, there, there ! " said Danton.
Robespierre attentively studied the map.
" What is needed," cried Marat, abruptly, " is a dictator.
Robespierre, you know that I want a dictator."
Robespierre raised his head.
" I know, Marat ; you or me."
" Me or you," said Marat.
Danton grumbled between his teeth, —
" The dictatorship ; only try it ! "
Marat caught Danton's frown.
" Hold ! " he began again ; " one last effort. Let us get
some agreement. The situation is worth the trouble. Did we
not come to an agreement for the day of the 31st of May?
The entire question is a more serious one than that of Girond-
ism, which Avas a question of detail. There is truth in what
you say ; but the truth, the whole truth, the real truth, is what
I say. In the south, Federalism ; in the west, Royalism ; in
Paris, the duel of the Convention and the Commune; on the
frontiers, the retreat of Custine and the treason of Dumouriez.
What does all this signify? Dismemberment. What is nec-
essary for us ? Unity. There is safety ; but we must hasten
to reach it. Paris must assume the government of the Revolu-
tion. If we lose an hour, to-morrow the Vendeans may be at
Orleans, and the Prussians in Paris. I grant you this, Dan-
NINETY-THREE 125
ton; I accord you thut, Robespierre. So be it. Well, the
conclusion is — a dictatorship. Let us seize the dictatorship,
— we three who represent the Revolution. We are the three
heads of Cerebus. Of these three heads, one talks, — that is
you, Robespierre; one roars, — that is you, Danton — "
" The other bites," said Danton; " that is you, Marat."
ft All three bite," said Robespierre.
There was a silence. Then the dialogue, full of dai'K
threats, recommenced.
"Listen, Marat; before entering into a marriage, people
must know each other. How did you learn what I said yes-
terday to Saint- Just ? "
" That is my affair, Robespierre."
" Marat ! "
" It is my duty to enlighten myself, and my business to
inform myself."
" Marat ! "
" I like to know things."
" Marat ! "
" Robespierre, I know what you say to Saint-Just, as I
know what Danton says to Lacroix ; as I know what passes
on the Quay of the Theatins, at the Hotel Labriffe, the den
where the nymphs of the emigration meet; as I know what
happens in the house of the Thilles, near Gonesse, which be-
longs to Valmerange, former administrator of the post where
Maury and Cazales went ; where, since then, Sieyes and Verg-
niaud went, and where now some one goes once a week."
In saying " some one," Marat looked significantly at Dan-
ton.
Danton cried, —
" If I had two farthings' worth of power, this would be
terrible."
Marat continued, —
" I know what I am saying to you, Robespierre, just as I
knew what was going on in the Temple tower when they fat-
tened Louis XVI. there, so well that the he-wolf, the she-wolf,
and the cubs ate up eighty-six baskets of peaches in the month
126 NINETY-THREE
of September alone. During that time the people were starv-
ing. I know that, as I know that Roland was hidden in a
lodging looking on a back court, in the Rue de la Harpe ; as
I know that six hundred of the pikes of July 14th were manu-
factured by Faure, the Duke of Orleans's locksmith; as I
know what they do in the house of the Saint-Hilaire, the mis-
tress of Sillery. On the days when there is to be a ball, it is
old Sillery himself who chalks the floor of the yellow saloon
of the Rue Neuve des Mathurins ; Buzot and Kersaint dined
there. Saladin dined there on the 27th, and with whom,
Robespierre? With your friend Lasource."
" Mere words ! " muttered Robespierre. " Lasource is not
my friend."
And he added thoughtfully, —
" In the mean while there are in London eighteen manu-
factories of false assignats."
Marat went on in a voice still tranquil, though it had a
slight tremulousness that was threatening, —
" You are the faction of the AU-Importants ! Yes ; I know
everything, in spite of what Saint-Just calls ' the silence of
State — ' "
Marat emphasized these last words, looked at Robespierre,
and continued, —
" I know what is said at your table the days when Lebas
invites David to come and eat the dinner cooked by his be-
trothed, Elizabeth Duplay, — your future sister-in-law, Robes-
pierre. I am the far-seeing eye of the people, and from the
bottom of my cave I watch. Yes, I see ; yes, I hear ; yes, I
know! Little things content you. You admire yourselves.
Robespierre poses to be contemplated by his Madame de Chal-
abre, the daughter of that Marquis de Chalabrc who
played whist with Louis XV. the evening Damiens was
executed. Yes, yes; heads are carried high. Saint-Just
lives in a cravat. Legendre's dress is scrupulously correct,—
new frock-coat and white waistcoat, and a shirt-frill to make
people forget his apron. Robespierre imagines that history
will be interested to know that he wore an olive-coloured frock-
NINETY-THREE 127
coat a la Constituante, and a sky-blue dross-coat a la Conven-
tion. He has his portrait hanging on all the walls of his
chamber — "
Robespierre interrupted him in a voice even more composed
than Marat's own : —
" And you, Marat, have yours in all the sewers."
They continued this style of conversation, in which the
slowness of their voices emphasized the violence of the attacks
and retorts, and added a certain irony to menace.
" Robespierre, you have called those who desire the over-
throw of thrones ' the Don Quixotes of the human race.' "
" And you, Marat, after the 4th of August, in No. 559 of
the ' Friend of the People ' (ah, I have remembered the num-
ber; it may be useful!), you demanded that the titles of the
nobility should be restored to them. You said, ' A duke is
always a duke.' "
" Robespierre, in the sitting of December 7th, you de-
fended the woman Roland against Viard."
" Just as my brother defended you, Marat, when you were
attacked at the Jacobin Club. What does that prove?
Nothing ! "
" Robespierre, we know the cabinet of the Tuileries where
you said to Garat : ' I am tired of the Revolution ! ' "
" Marat, it was here, in this public-house, that, on the 29th
of October, you embraced Barbarous. "
" Robespierre, you said to Buzot : ' The Republic !
What is that?'"
" Marat, it was also in this public-house that you invited
three Marseillais suspects to keep you company."
" Robespierre, you have yourself escorted by a stout fellow
from the market, armed with a club."
"And you, Marat, on the eve of the 10th of August you
asked Buzot to help you flee to Marseilles disguised as a
jockey."
" During the prosecutions of September you hid yourself,
Robespierre."
" And you, Marat — you showed yourself."
128 NINETY-THREE
" Robespierre, you flung the red cap on the ground."
" Yes, when a traitor hoisted it. That which decorates
Dumouriez sullies Robespierre."
" Robespierre, you refused to cover Louis XVI. 's head with
a veil while soldiers of Chateauvieux were passing."
" I did better than veil his head : I cut it off."
Danton interposed, but it was like oil flung upon flames.
" Robespierre, Marat," said he ; " calm yourselves."
Marat did not like being named the second. He turned
about.
" With what does Danton meddle? " he asked.
Danton bounded.
"With what do I meddle? With this! That we must
not have fratricide; that there must be no strife between two
men who serve the people ; that it is enough to have a foreign
war; that it is enough to have a civil war; that it would be
too much to have a domestic war; that it is I who have made
the Revolution, and I will not permit it to be spoiled. Now
you know what it is I meddle with ! "
Marat replied, without raising his voice, —
" You had better meddle with getting your accounts ready."
" My accounts ! " cried Danton. " Go ask for them in the
defiles of Argonne, in Champagne delivered, in Belgium con-
quered, in the armies where I have already four times offered
my breast to the musket-shots. Go demand them at the Place
de la Revolution, at the scaffold of January 21st, from the
throne flung to the ground, from the guillotine; that
widow — "
Marat interrupted him, —
" The guillotine is a virgin Amazon ; she does not give
birth."
"Are you sure?" retorted Danton. "I tell you I will
make her fruitful."
" We shall see," said Marat. He smiled.
Danton saw this smile.
" Marat," cried he, " you are the man that hides: T am the
man of the open air and broad day. I hate the life of a
NINETY-THREE 129
reptile. It would not suit me to be a wood-house. You in-
habit a cave; I live in the street. You hold communication
with none; whosoever passes may see and speak with me."
"Pretty fellow! Will you mount up to where I live?'
snarled Marat.
Then his smile disappeared, and he continued, in a per-
emptory tone, —
" Danton, give an account of the thirty-three thousand
crowns, ready money, that Montmorin paid you in the king's
name under pretext of indemnifying you for 3' our post of
solicitor at the Chatelet."
" I was of the 14-th of July," said Danton, haughtily.
" And the Garde-Meuble, and the crown diamonds? "
" I was of the 6th of October."
" And the thefts of your alter ego, Lacroix, in Belgium? "
" I was of the 20th of June."
" And the loans to the Montansier? "
" I urged the people on to the return from Varennes."
" And the opera-house, built with money that you fur-
nished? "
" I armed the sections of Paris."
" And the hundred thousand livres, secret funds of the Min-
istry of Justice? "
" I caused the 10th of August."
" And the two millions for the Assembly's secret expenses,
of which you took the fourth? "
" I stopped the enemy on their march, and I barred the
passage to the kings in coalition."
" Prostitute ! " said Marat.
Danton was terrible as he rose to his full height.
" Yes ! " cried he. " I am a harlot ! I sold myself, but
I saved the world ! "
Robespierre had gone back to biting his nails. As for
him, he could neither laugh nor smile. The laugh (the light-
ning) of Danton, and the smile (the sting) of Marat were
both wanting to him.
Danton resumed, —
9
130 NINETY-THREE
" I am like the ocean ; I have my ebb and flow. At low
water my shoals may be seen; at high tide you may see my
waves."
" You foam," said Marat.
" My tempest," said Danton.
Marat had risen at the same moment as Danton. He also
exploded. The snake became suddenly a dragon.
" Ah ! " cried he. " Ah, Robespierre ! Ah, Danton ! You
will not listen to me ! Well, you are lost ; I tell you so. Your
policy ends in an impossibility to go farther ; you have no
longer an outlet ; and you do things which shut every door
against you, — except that of the tomb."
" That is our grandeur," said Danton.
He shrugged his shoulders.
Marat hurried on : —
" Danton, beware. Vergniaud has also a wide mouth, thick
lips, and frowning eyebrows; Vergniaud is pitted, too, like
Mirabeau and like thee; that did not prevent the 31st of May.
Ah, you shrug your shoulders ! Sometimes a shrug of the
shoulders makes the head fall. Danton, I tell thee, that big
voice, that loose cravat, those top-boots, those little suppers,
those great pockets, — all those are things which concern
Louisette."
Louisette was Marat's pet name for the guillotine.
He pursued : —
" And as for thee, Robespierre, thou art a Moderate, but
that will serve nothing. Go on ! powder thyself, dress thy
hair, brush thy clothes, play the vulgar coxcomb, have clean
linen, keep curled and frizzed and bedizened ; none the less
thou wilt go to the Place de Greve ! Read Brunswick's proc-
lamation. Thou wilt get a treatment no less than that of the
regicide Damiens ! Fine as thou art, thou wilt be dragged
at the tails of four horses."
" Echo of Coblentz ! " said Robespierre between his teeth.
"I am the echo of nothing; I am the cry of the whole,
Robespierre! Ah, you are young, you! How old art thou,
Danton? Four-and-thirty. How many are your years,
NINETY-THREE 131
Robespierre? Thirty-three. Well, I — I have lived alw.i
I am the old human suffering; I am six thousand years old."
" That is true," retorted Danton. " For six thousand
years Cain has been preserved in hatred, like the toad in a
rock ; the rock breaks, Cain springs out among men, and is
called Marat." •
" Danton ! " cried Marat, and a livid glare illuminated his
eyes.
" Well, what? " asked Danton.
Tims these three terrible men conversed.
They were conflicting thunderbolts.
CHAPTER III
A STIRRING OF THE INMOST NERVES
THERE was a pause in the dialogue; these Titans with-
drew for a moment each into his own reflections.
Lions dread hydras. Robespierre had grown very pale,
and Danton very red. A shiver ran through the frames of
both.
The wild-beast glare in Marat's eyes had died out ; a calm,
cold and imperious, settled again on the face of this man,
dreaded by his formidable associates.
Danton felt himself conquered, but he would not yield. He
resumed, —
" Marat talks very loud about the dictatorship and unity,
but he has only one ability, — that of breaking to pieces."
Robespierre parted his thin lips, and said, —
" As for me, I am of the opinion of Anaeharsis Cloots : I
say, Neither Roland nor Marat."
" And I," replied Marat, " I say, Neither Danton or Robes-
pierre."
He regarded both fixedly, and added, —
132 NINETY-THREE
" Let me give you advice, Danton. You are in love, you
think of marrying again; do not meddle any more with poli-
tics. Be wise."
And moving backward a step toward the door, as if to go
out, he made them a menacing salute, and said, —
" Adieu, gentlemen."
v Danton and Robespierre shuddered.
At this instant a voice rose from the bottom of the room,
saying, —
" You are wrong, Marat."
All three turned about. During Marat's explosion som«?
one had entered unperceived by the door at the end of the-
room.
" Is it you, Citizen Cimourdain ? " asked Marat. " Good-
day."
It was indeed Cimourdain.
" I say you are wrong, Marat," he repeated.
Marat turned green, which was his way of growing pale.
" You are useful, but Robespierre and Danton are neces-
sary. Why threaten them? Union, union, citizens! The
people expect unity."
This entrance acted like a dash of cold water, and had the
effect that the arrival of a stranger does on a family quarrel,
— it calmed the surface, if not the depths.
Cimourdain advanced toward the table.
Danton and Robespierre knew him. They had often re-
marked among the public tribunals of the Convention this
obscure but powerful man, whom the people saluted. Never-
theless, Robespierre, always a stickler for forms, asked, —
" Citizen, how did you enter? "
" He belongs to the Eveche," replied Marat, in a voice in
which a certain submission was perceptible.
Marat braved the Convention, led the Commune, and feared
the Eveche. This is a law.
Mirabeau felt Robespierre stirring at some unknown depth
below ; Robespierre felt Marat stir ; Marat left Hebert stir ;
Hebert, Babeuf. As long as the layers underneath are still.
NFINETY-THREE 133
the politician can advance; but under the most revolutionary
there must be some subsoil, and the boldest stop in dismay
when they feel under their feet the earthquake they have cre-
ated.
To be able to distinguish the movement which covetousness
causes from that brought about by principle, to combat the
one and second the other, is the genius and the virtue of great
revolutionists.
Danton saw that Marat faltered.
" Oh, Citizen Cimourdain is not one too many," said he.
And he held out his hand to the new-comer.
Then he said, —
" Zounds ! explain the situation to Citizen Cimourdain. He
appears just at the right moment. I represent the Mountain;
Robespierre represents the Committee of Public Safety; Marat
represents the Commune; Cimourdain represents the Eveche.
He is come to give the casting vote."
" So be it," said Cimourdain, simply and gravely.
" What is the matter in question ? "
" The Vendee," replied Robespierre.
"The Vendee!" repeated Cimourdain.
Then he continued: " There is the great danger. If the
Revolution perish, she will perish by the Vendee. One Vendee
is more formidable than ten Gcrmanys. In order that France
may live, it is necessary to kill the Vendee."
These few words won him Robespierre.
Still Robespierre asked this question : " Were you not for-
merly a priest ? "
Cimourdain's priestly air did not escape Robespierre. He
recognized in another that which he had within himself.
Cimourdain replied, —
" Yes, citizen."
"What difference does that make?" cried Danton.
" When priests are good fellows, they are worth more than
others. In revolutionary times the priests melt into citizens,
as the bells do into arms and cannon. Danjou is a priest ;
Daunou is a priest; Thomas Lindet is the Bishop of Evreux.
134 NINETY-THREE
Robespierre, you sit in the Convention side by side with Mas-
sicu, Bishop of Beauvais. The Grand Vicar Vaugeois was a
member of the Insurrection Committee of August 10th.
Chabot is a Capuchin. It was Dom Gerle who devised the
tennis-court oath; it was the Abbe Audran who caused the
National Assembly to be declared superior to the king ; it was
the Abbe Goutte who demanded of the Legislature that the
dais should be taken away from Louis XVI. 's armchair; it
was the Abbe Gregoire who proposed the abolition of royalty."
" Seconded," sneered Marat, " by the actor Collot d'Her-
bois. Between them they did the work, — the priest over-
turned the throne ; the comedian flung down the king."
" Let us get back to the Vendee," said Robespierre.
" Well, what is it ? " demanded Cimourdain. " What is
this Vendee doing now ? "
Robespierre answered, —
" This : she has found a chief. She becomes terrible.
"Who is this chief, Citizen Robespierre?"
" A ci-devant Marquis de Lantenac, who styles himself a
Breton prince."
Cimourdain made a movement.
" I know him," said he ; " I was chaplain in his house."
He reflected for a moment, then added, —
" He was a man of gallantry before being a soldier."
" Like Biron, who was a Lauzun," said Danton.
And Cimourdain continued, thoughtfully : " Yes, an old
man of pleasure. He must be terrible."
" Frightful," said Robespierre. " He burns the villages,
kills the wounded, massacres the prisoners, shoots the women."
" The women ! "
" Yes. Among others he had the mother of three children
shot. Nobody knows what became of the little ones. He is
really a captain ; he understands war."
" Yes, in truth," replied Cimourdain. " He was in the
Hanoverian war, and the soldiers said, ' Richelieu in appear-
ance, Lantenac at the bottom.' Lantenac was the real gen-
eral. Talk about him to your colleague Dussaulx."
NINETY-THREE 135
Robespierre remained silent for a moment; then the dia-
logue began anew between him and Cimourdain.
" Well, Citizen Cimourdain, this man is in Vendee."
" Since when? "
" The last three weeVjs."
" He must be declared an outlaw."
" That is done."
" A price must be set on his head."
" It is done."
" A large reward must be offered to whoever will take him."
" That is done."
" Not in assignats."
" That is done."
" In gold."
" That is done."
" And he must be guillotined."
" That mill be done."
"By whom?"
" By you."
"By me?"
" Yes ; you will be delegated by the Committee of Public
Safety with unlimited powers."
" I accept," said Cimourdain.
Robespierre made his choice of men rapidly, — the quality
of a true statesman. He took from the portfolio before him
a sheet of white paper, on which could be read this printed
heading: "The French Republic One and Indivisible.
— Committee op Public Safety."
Cimourdain continued, —
" Yes, I accept. The terrible against the terrible. Lan-
tenac is ferocious ; I shall be so too. War to the death against
this man. I will deliver the Republic from him, please God."
He checked himself; then resumed, —
" I am a priest ; no matter ; I believe in God."
" God has gone out of date," said Danton.
" I believe in God," said Cimourdain, unmoved.
Robespierre gave a sinister nod of approval.
136 NINETY-THREE
Cimourdain asked, —
" To whom am I delegated? "
" The commandant of the exploring division sent against
Lantenac. Only, — I warn you, — he is a nobleman."
Danton cried out, —
" That is another thing which matters little. A noble I
Well, what then ! It is with the nobles as with the priests.
When one of either class is good, he is excellent. Nobility
is a prejudice; but we should not have it in one sense more
than the other, — no more against than in favour of it.
Robespierre, is not Saint- Just a noble? Florelle de Saint-
Just, zounds! Anacharsis Cloots is a baron. Our friend
Charles Hesse, who never misses a meeting of the Cordeliers,
is a prince, and the brother of the reigning Landgrave of
Hesse-Rothenburg. Montaut, the intimate of Marat, is the
Marquis de Montaut. There is in the revolutionary tribunal
a juror who js a priest, — Vilate; and a juror who is a noble-
man, — Leroy, Marquis de Montflabert. Both are tried men."
" And you forget," added Robespierre, " the foreman of
the revolutionary jury."
"Antonelle?"
" Who is the Marquis Antonelle," said Robespierre.
Danton continued, —
" Dampierre was a nobleman, — the one who lately got
himself killed before Conde for the Republic ; and Beaurepaire
was a noble, — he who blew his brains out rather than open
the gates of Verdun to the Prussians."
" All of which," grumbled Marat, " does not alter the fact
that on the day Condorcet said, ' the Gracchi were nobles,'
Danton cried out, * All nobles are traitors, beginning with Mi-
rabeau and ending with thee.' "
Cimourdain's grave voice made itself heard: —
" Citizen Danton, Citizen Robespierre, you are perhaps
right to have confidence, but the people distrusts them ; and the
people is not wrong in so doing. When a priest is charged
with the surveillance of a nobleman, the responsibility is
doubled, and it is necessary for the priest to be inflexible."
NINETY-THREE 137
" True," said Robespierre.
Cimourdain added, —
" And inexorable."
Robespierre replied, —
" It is well said, Citizen Cimourdain. You will have to
deal with a young man. You will have the ascendency over
him, being double his age. It will be necessary to direct
him, but he must be carefully managed. It appears that he
possesses military talent; all the reports are unanimous as to
that. He belongs to a corps which has been detached from
the Army of the Rhine to go into Vendee. He arrives from
the frontier, where he was noticeable for intelligence and cour-
age. He leads the exploring column in a superior way. For
fifteen days he has held the old Marquis de Lantenac in check.
He restrains and drives him before him. He will end by
forcing him to the sea, and tumbling him into it headlong.
Lantenac has the cunning of an old general, and the audacity
of a youthful captain. This young man has already ene-
mies, and those who are envious of him. The Adjutant-
General Lechelle is jealous of him."
" That L'Echelle * wants to be commander-in-chief," inter-
rupted Danton. " There is nothing in his favour but a pun :
' It needs a ladder to get on top of a cart.' All the same.
Charette 2 beats him."
" And he is not willing," pursued Robespierre, " that any-
body besides himself should beat Lantenac. The misfortune
of the Vendean war is in such rivalries. Heroes badlv com-
manded, — that is what our soldiers are. A simple captain
of hussars, Cherin, enters Saumur with trumpets playing Ca
iro; he takes Saumur; he could keep on and take Cholet but
he has no orders, so he halts. All those commands of the
Vendee must be remodelled. The head-quarters are scattered,
the forces dispersed. A scattered army is an army paralyzed ;
it is a rock crumbled into dust. At the camp of Parame there
are only some tents. There are a hundred useless little com-
panies posted between Treguier and Dinan, of which a division
i A ladder. 2 Charrette.— a cart.
138 NINETY-THREE
might be formed that could guard the whole cost. Leehelle,
supported by Parrein, strips the northern coast under pre-
text of protecting the southern, and so opens France to the
English. A half million peasants in revolt and a descent of
England upon France, — that is Lantenac's plan. The
young commander of the exploring column presses his sword
against Lantenac's loins, keeps it there, and beats him with-
out Lechelle's permission. Now, Leehelle is his general, so
Leehelle denounces him. Opinions are divided in regard to
this young man. Leehelle wants to have him shot. Prieur,
of the Marne, wants to make him adjutant-general."
' This youth appears to me to possess great qualities," said
Cimourdain.
" But he has one fault." The interruption came from
Marat.
" What is it ? " demanded Cimourdain.
" Clemency," said Marat.
Then he added, —
" He is firm in battle, and weak afterward. He shows in-
dulgence ; he pardons ; he grants mercy ; he protects devotees
and nuns; he saves the wives and daughters of aristocrats;
he releases prisoners ; he sets priests free."
" A grave fault," murmured Cimourdain.
" A crime," said Marat.
" Sometimes," said Danton.
" Often," said Robespierre.
" Almost always," chimed in Marat.
* When one has to deal with the enemies of the country
always," said Cimourdain.
Marat turned toward him.
" And what, then, would you do with a republican chief
who set a royalist chief at liberty? "
" I should be of Lechelle's opinion ; I would have him
shot."
" Or guillotined," said Marat.
" He might have his choice," said Cimourdain.
Danton began to laugh.
NINETY-THREE 139
" I like one as well as the other."
" Thou art sure to have one or the other," growled Marat.
His glance left Danton and settled again on Ciniourdain.
" So, Citizen Ciniourdain, if a republican leader were to
flinch, you would cut off his head?"
" Within twenty-four hours."
" Well," retorted Marat, " I am of Robespierre's opinion ;
Citizen Cimourdain ought to be sent as delegate of the Com-
mittee of Public Safety to the commandant of the exploring
division of the coast army. How is it you call this com-
mandant? "
Robespierre answered, —
" He is a ci-devant noble."
He began to turn over the papers.
" Get the priest to guard the nobleman," said Danton. " I
distrust a priest when he is alone; I distrust a noble when
he is alone. When they are together, I do not fear them.
One watches the other, and they do well."
The indignant look always on Cimourdain's face grew
deeper, but without doubt finding the remark just at bottom,
he did not look at Danton, but said in his stern voice : —
" If the republican commander who is confided to me makes
one false step the penalty will be death."
Robespierre, with his eyes on the portfolio, said, —
" Here is the name, Citizen Cimourdain. The commandant,
in regard to whom full powers will be granted you, is a so-
called viscount ; his name is Gauvain."
Cimourdain turned pale.
" Gauvain ! " he cried.
Marat saw his sudden pallor.
" The Viscount Gauvain ! " repeated Cimourdain.
" Yes," said Robespierre.
" Well," said Marat, with his eyes fixed on the priest.
There was a brief silence, which Marat broke.
" Citizen Cimourdain, on the conditions named by yourself,
do you accept the mission as commissioner delegate near the
Commandant Gauvain? Is it decided?"
140 NINETY-THREE
" It is decided)," replied Cimourdain. He grew paler and
paler.
Robespierre took the pen which lay near him, wrote in his
slow, even hand four lines on the sheet of paper which boie
the heading Committee of Public Safety, signed them, and
passed the sheet and the pen to Danton ; Danton signed, and
Marat, whose eyes had not left Cimourdain's livid face, signed
after Danton.
Robespierre took the paper again, dated it, and gave it to
Cimourdain, who read, — •
Year II. of the Republic.
Full powers are granted to Citizen Cimourdain, delegated Com-
missioner of Public Safety to the Citizen Gauvain, commanding the
Exploring Division of the Army of the Coasts.
Robespierre. Danton. Marat.
And beneath the signatures : —
June 28, 1793.
The revolutionary calendar, called the Civil Calendar, had
no legal existence at this time, and was not adopted by the
Convention, on the proposition of Romme, until October 5,
1793.
While Cimourdain read, Marat watched him.
He said in a half-voice, as if talking to himself, —
" It will be necessary to have all this formalized by a decree
of the Convention, or a special warrant of the Committee of
Public Safety. There remains something yet to be done."
"Citizen Cimourdain, where do you live?" asked Robes-
pierre.
" Court of Commerce."
" So do I, too," said Danton. " You are my neighbour."
Robespierre resumed, —
" There is not a moment to lose. To-morrow you will re-
ceive your commission in form, signed by all the members of
the Committee of Public Safety. This is a confirmation of
NINETY-THREE 141
the commission. It will accredit you in a special manner to
the acting Representatives, Philippeaux, Prieur of the Marne,
Lecointre, Alquier, and the others. We know you. Your
powers are unlimited. You can make Gauvain a genera] o
send him to the scaffold. You will receive your commission
to-morrow at three o'clock. When shall you set out? "
" At four," said Cimourdain.
And they separated.
As he entered his house, Marat informed Simonne Evrard
that he should go to the Convention on the morrow.
BOOK III
THE CONVENTION
CHAPTER I
WE approach the grand summit.
Behold the Convention !
The gaze grows steady in presence of this height.
Never has a more lofty spectacle appeared on the horizon
of mankind.
There is one Himalaya, and there is one Convention.
The Convention is perhaps the culminating point of His-
tory.
During its lifetime — for it lived — men did not quite un-
derstand what it was. It was precisely the grandeur which
escaped its contemporaries ; they were too much scared to be
dazzled. Everything grand possesses a sacred horror. It is
easy to admire mediocrities and hills ; but whatever is too lofty,
whether it be a genius or a mountain, — an assembly as well
as a masterpiece, — alarms when seen too near. An immense
height appears an exaggeration. It is fatiguing to climb.
One loses breath upon acclivities, one slips down declivities ; one
is hurt by sharp, rugged heights which are in themselves beau-
tiful ; torrents in their foaming reveal the precipices ; clouds
hide the mountain-tops ; a sudden ascent terrifies as much as a
fall. Hence there is a greater sensation of fright than ad-
miration. What one feels is fantastic enough, — an aversion
to the grand. One sees the abyss and loses sight of the
142
NINETY-THREE 143
sublimity; one sees the monster .and does not perceive the
marvel. Thus the Convention was at first judged. It was
measured by the purblind, — it, which needed to be looked at
by eagles.
To-day we see it in perspective, and it throws across the
deep and distant heavens, against a background at once
serene and tragic, the immense profile of the French Revolu-
tion.
CHAPTER II
THE 14th of July delivered.
The 10th of August blasted.
The 21st of September founded.
The 21st of September was the Equinox; was Equilibrium,
— Libra, the balance. It was, according to the remark of
Romme, under this sign of Equality and Justice that the Re-
public was proclaimed. A constellation heralded it.
The Convention is the first avatar of the peoples. It was
by the Convention that the grand new page opened and the
future of to-day commenced.
Every idea must have a visible enfolding; a habitation is
necessary to any principle; a church is God between four
walls; every dogma must have a temple. When the Conven-
tion became a fact, the first problem to be solved was how
to lodge the Convention.
At first the Riding-school, then the Tuileries, was taken.
A platform was raised, scenery arranged, — a great grey
painting by David imitating bas-reliefs ; benches were placed
in order: there was a square tribune, parallel pilasters with
plinths like blocks and long rectilinear stems; square enclos-
ures, into which the spectators crowded, and which were called
the public tribunes ; a Roman velarium, Grecian draperies ; and
in these right-angles and these straight lines the Convention
was installed, — the tempest confined within this geometrical
144 NINETY-THREE
plan. On the tribune the Red Cap was painted in grey.
The royalists began by laughing at this grey red cap, this
theatrical hall, this monument of pasteboard, this sanctuary of
papier-mache, this Pantheon of mud and spittle. How
quickly it would disappear! The columns were made of the
staves from hogsheads, the arches were of deal boards, the bas-
reliefs of mastic, the entablatures were of pine, the statues of
plaster ; the marbles were paint, the walls canvas ; and of this
provisional shelter France has made an eternal dwelling.
When the Convention began to hold its sessions in the
Riding-school, the walls were covered with the placards which
sprouted over Paris at the period of the return from Varennes.
On one might be read : " The king returns. Any person
who cheers him shall be beaten; any person who insults him
shall be hanged." On another : " Peace ! Hats on ! He
is about to pass before his judges." On another: "The
king has aimed at the nation. He has hung fire; it is now
the nation's turn." On another: "The Law! The Law!"
It was within those walls that the Convention sat in judgment
on Louis XVI.
At the Tuileries, where the Convention began to sit on the
10th of May, 1793, and which was called the Palais-National,
the assembly-hall occupied the whole space between the Pa-
vilion de l'Horloge, called the Pavilion of Unity, and the
Pavilion Marsan, then named Pavilion of Liberty. The Pa-
vilion of Flora was called Pavilion Egalite. The hall was
reached by the grand staircase of Jean Bullant. The whole
ground-floor of the palace, beneath the story occupied by the
Assembly, was a kind of long guard-room, littered with bun-
dles and camp-beds of the troops of all arms, who kept watch
about the Convention. The Assembly had a guard of honour
styled " the Grenadiers of the Convention."
A tricoloured ribbon separated the palace where the As-
sembly sat from the garden in which the people came and
went.
NINETY-THREE 145
CHAPTER III
LET us finish the description of that sessions-hall. Every-
thing in regard to this terrible place is interesting.
What first struck the sight of any one entering was a great
statue of Liberty, placed between two wide windows. One
hundred and forty feet in length, thirty-four feet in width,
thirty-seven feet in height, — such were the dimensions of this
room, which had been the king's theatre, and which became
the theatre of the Revolution. The elegant and magnificent
hall built by Vigarani for the courtiers was hidden by the
rude timber-work which in '93 supported the weight of the
people. This framework, whereon the public tribunes were
erected, had (a detail deserving notice) one single post for its
only point of support. This post was of one piece, ten metres
[32 feet 6 inches] in circumference. Few caryatides have
laboured like that beam ; it supported for years the rude pres-
sure of the Revolution. It sustained applause, enthusiasm, in-
solence, noise, tumult, riot, — the immense chaos of opposing
rages. It did not give way. After the Convention it wit-
nessed the Council of the Ancients. The 18th Brumaire re-
lieved it.
Percier then replaced the wooden pillar by columns of mar-
ble, which did not last so well.
The ideal of architects is sometimes strange. The architect
of the Rue de Rivoli had for his ideal the trajectory of a
cannon-ball ; the architect of Carlsruhe, a fan ; a gigantic
drawer would seem to have been the model of the architect who
built the hall where the Convention began to sit on the 10th of
May, 1793 ; it was long, high, and flat. At one of the sides
of the parallelogram was a great semicircle; this amphitheatre
contained the seats of the Representatives, but without tables
or desks. Garan-Coulon, who wrote a great deal, held his
paper on his knee. In front of the seats was the tribune; be-
10
146 NINETY-THREE
fore the tribune, the bust of Lepelletier Saint-Fargeau ; behind
was the President's arm-chair.
The head of the bust passed a little beyond the ledge of
the tribune, for which reason it was afterward moved away
from that position.
The amphitheatre was composed of nineteen semicircular
rows of benches, rising one behind the other, the supports
of the seats prolonging the amphitheatre into the two corners.
Below, in the horse-shoe at the foot of the tribune, the ushers
had their places.
On one side of the tribune a placard nine feet in length
was fastened to the wall in a black wooden frame bearing on
two leaves, separated by a sort of sceptre, the " Declaration of
the Rights of Man ; " on the other side was a vacant place, at
a later period occupied by a similar frame, containing the Con-
stitution of Year II., with the leaves divided by a sword.
Above the tribune, over the head of the orator, from a deep
loge with double compartments always rilled with people,
floated three immense tricoloured flags, almost horizontal, rest-
ing on an altar upon which could be read the word Law.
Behind this altar there arose, tall as a column, an enormous
Roman fasces like the sentinel of free speech. Colossal
statues, erect against the wall, faced the Representatives. The
President had Lycurgus on his right hand and Solon on his
left ; Plato towered above the Mountain.
These statues had plain blocks of wood for pedestals, rest-
ing on a long cornice which encircled the hall, and separated
the people from the Assembly. The spectators could lean
their elbows on this cornice.
The black wooden frame of the proclamation of the " Rights
of Man " reached to the cornice, and broke the regularity of
the entablature, — an infraction of the straight line which
caused Chabot to murmur : " It is ugly," he said to Vadier.
On the heads of the statues alternated crowns of oak-leaves
and laurel. A green drapery, on which similar crowns were
painted in deeper green, fell in heavy folds straight down from
the cornice of the circumference, and covered the whole wall
NINETY-THREE 147
of the ground-floor occupied by the Assembly. Above tin's
drapery the wall was white and naked. In it, as if hollowed
out by a gigantic axe, without moulding or foliage, were two
stories of public tribunes, — the lower ones square, the upper
ones round. According to rule, for Yitruvius was not de-
throned, the archivolts were superimposed upon the architraves.
There were ten tribunes on each side of the hall, and two huge
boxes at either end, — in all, twenty-four. There the crowds
gathered thickly.
The spectators in the lower tribunes, overflowing their bor-
ders, grouped themselves along the reliefs of the cornice.
A long iron bar, firmly fixed at a height to lean on, served as
a safety rail to the upper tribunes, and guarded the spectators
against the pressure of the throngs mounting the stairs.
Nevertheless, a man was once thrown headlong into the As-
sembly ; he fell partly upon Massieu, Bishop of Beauvais, and
thus was not killed. He said " Hullo ! Why, a bishop is
really good for something ! "
The hall of the Convention could hold two thousand per-
sons comfortably ; on the days of insurrection it held three.
The Convention held two sittings, one in the daytime and
one in the evening.
The back of the President's chair was curved, and studded
with gilt nails. The table was upheld by four winged mon-
sters, with a single foot ; one might have thought they had
come out of the Apocalypse to assist at the Revolution. They
seemed to have been unharnessed from Ezekiel's chariot to drag
the dung-cart of Sanson.
On the President's table was a huge hand-bell almost large
enough to have served for a church, a great copper ink-
stand, and a parchment folio, which was the book of official
reports.
Many times freshly severed heads, borne aloft on the tops
of pikes, sprinkled their blood-drops over this table.
The tribune was reached by a staircase of nine steps.
These steps were high, steep, and hard to mount. One day
Gensonne stumbled as he was going up. " It is a scaffold-
148 NINETY-THREE
ladder," said he. " Serve your apprenticeship," Carrier cried
out to him.
In the angles of the hall, where the wall had looked too
naked, the architect had put Roman fasces for decorations,
with the axe turned to the people.
At the right and left of the tribune were square blocks
supporting two candelabra twelve feet in height, having each
four pairs of lamps. There was a similar candelabrum in
each public box.
On the pedestals were carved circles, which the people called
guillotine-collars.
The benches of the Assembly reached almost to the cornice
of the tribunes ; so that the Representatives and the spectators
could talk together.
The outlets from the tribunes led into a labyrinth of sombre
corridors, often filled with a savage din.
The Convention overcrowded the palace and flowed into
the neighbouring mansions, — the Hotel de Longueville and
the Hotel de Coigny. It was to the Hotel de Coigny, if one
may believe a letter of Lord Bradford's, that the royal
furniture was carried after the 10th of August. It took two
months to empty the Tuileries.
The committees were lodged in the neighbourhood of the
hall : in the Pavilion Egalite were those of Legislation, Agri-
culture, and Commerce; in the Pavilion of Liberty were the
Marine, the Colonies, Finance, Assignats, and Public Safety ;
the War Department was at the Pavilion of Unity.
The Committee of General Security communicated directly
with that of Public Safety by an obscure passage, lighted day
and night with a reflector-lamp, where the spies of all parties
came and went. People spoke there in whispers.
The bar of the Convention was several times moved. Gen-
erally it was at the right of the President.
At the far ends of the hall the vertical partitions which
closed the concentric semicircles of the amphitheatre left be-
tween them and the wall a couple of narrow, deep passages,
from which opened two dark square doors.
NINETY-THREE 149
The Representatives entered directly into the hall by a door
opening on the Terrace des Fenillants.
This hall, dimly lighted during the day by deep-set win-
dows, took a strange nocturnal aspect when, with the approach
of twilight, it was badl} T illuminated by lamps. Their pale
glare intensified the evening shadows, and the lamplight ses-
sions were lugubrious.
It was impossible to see clearly ; from the opposite ends of
the hall, to the right and to the left, indistinct groups of faces
insulted each other. People met without recognizing one an-
other. One day Laignelot, hurrying toward the tribune, hit
against some person in the sloping passage between the
benches. " Pardon, Robespierre," said he. " For whom do
you take me?" replied a hoarse voice. "Pardon, Marat,"
said Laignelot.
At the bottom, to the right and left of the President, were
two reserved tribunes ; for, strange to say, the Convention
had its privileged spectators. These tribunes were the only
ones that had draperies. In the middle of the architrave two
gold tassels held up the curtains. The tribunes of the people
were bare.
The whole surroundings were peculiar and savage, yet cor-
rect. Regularity in barbarism is rather a type of revolution.
The hall of the Convention offered the most complete specimen
of what artists have since called " architecture Messidor ; " it
was massive, and yet frail.
The builders of that time mistook symmetry for beauty.
The last word of the Renaissance had been uttered under
Louis XV., and a reaction followed. The noble was pushed
to insipidity, and the pure to absurdity. Prudery may exist
in architecture. After the dazzling orgies of form and colour
of the eighteenth century, Art took to fasting, and only al-
lowed herself the straight line. This species of progress ends
in ugliness, and Art reduced to a skeleton is the phenomenon
which results. The fault of this sort of wisdom and absti-
nence is, that the style is so severe that it becomes meagre.
Outside of all political emotion, there was something in the
150 NINETY-THREE
very architecture of this hall which made one shiver. One re-
called confusedly the ancient theatre with its garlanded boxes,
its blue and crimson ceiling, its prismed lustres, its girandoles
with diamond reflections, its brilliant hangings, its profusion
of Cupids and Nymphs on the curtain and draperies, the
whole royal and amorous idyll — painted, sculptured, gilded
— which had brightened this sombre spot with its smile, where
now one saw on every side hard rectilinear angles, cold and
sharp as steel; it was something like Boucher guillotined by
David.
CHAPTER IV
BUT when one saw the Assembly, the hall was forgotten.
Whoever looked at the drama no longer remembered
the theatre. Nothing more chaotic and more sublime. A
crowd of heroes ; a mob of cowards. Fallow deer on a moun-
tain ; reptiles in a marsh. Therein swarmed, elbowed one an-
other, provoked one another, threatened, struggled, and lived,
all those combatants who are phantoms to-day.
A convocation of Titans.
To the right, the Gironde, — a legion of thinkers ; to the
left, the Mountain, — a group of athletes. On one side Bris-
sot, who had received the keys of the Bastille; Barbaroux,
whom the Marseillais obeyed; Kervelegan, who had under his
hand the battalion of Brest, garrisoned in the Faubourg Saint
Marceau ; Gensonne, who had established the supremacy of
the Representatives over the generals ; the fatal Guadet, to
whom the queen one night, at the Tuileries, showed the sleep-
ing Dauphin: Guadet kissed the forehead of the child, and
caused the head of the father to fall. Salles, the crack-
brained denouncer of the intimacy between the Mountain and
Austria. Sillery, the cripple of the Right, as Couthon was
the paralytic of the Left. Lause-Duperret, who, having been
called a scoundrel by a journalist, invited him to dinner, say-
NINETY-THREE 151
ing, " I know that by scoundrel you simply mean a man
who does not think like yourself." Rabaut Saint-Eticnnc,
who commenced his almanac for 1790 with this saying:
" The Revolution is ended." Quinette, one of those who over-
threw Louis XVI. ; the Jansenist Camus, Avho drew up the
civil constitution of the clergy; believed in the miracles of the
Deacon Paris, and prostrated himself each night before a
figure of Christ seven feet high, which was nailed to the wall
of his chamber. Fauchet, a priest, who, with Camille Dcs-
moulins, brought about the 14th of July; Isnard, who com-
mitted the crime of saying, " Paris will be destroyed," at the
same moment when Brunswick was saying, " Paris shall be
burned." Jacob Dupont, the first who cried, " I am an Athe-
ist," and to whom Robespierre replied, " Atheism is aristo-
cratic." Lanjuinais, stern, sagacious, and valiant Breton;
Ducos, the Euryalus of Boyer-Fonf rede ; Rebecqui, the
Py lades of Barbaroux (Rebecqui gave in his resignation be-
cause Robespierre had riot yet been guillotined). Richaud,
who combated the permanency of the Sections. Lasource,
who had given utterance to the murderous apothegm, " Woe
to grateful nations ! " and who was afterward to contradict
himself at the foot of the scaffold by this haughty sarcasm
flung at the Mountainists : " We die because the people
sleep ; you will die because the people awake." Biroteau, who
caused the abolition of inviolability to be decreed ; who was
also, without knowing it, the forger of the axe, and raised the
scaffold for himself. Charles Villatte, who sheltered his con-
science behind this protest : " I will not vote under the
hatchet." Louvet, the author of " Faublas," who was to end
as a bookseller in the Palais Royal, with Lodoiska behind
the counter. Mercier, author of the " Picture of Paris," who
exclaimed, " On the 21st of January, all kings felt for the
backs of their necks ! " Marec, whose anxiety was " the fac-
tion of the ancient limits." The journalist Carra, who said
to the headsman at the foot of the scaffold, " It bores me to
die. I would have liked to see the continuation." Vigee,
who called himself a grenadier in the second battalion of May-
152 NINETY-THREE
enne and Loire, and who, when menaced by the public tri-
bunals, cried, " I demand that at the first murmur of the
tribunals we all withdraw and march on Versailles, sabre in
hand ! " Buzot, reserved for death by famine ; Valaze des-
tined to die by his own dagger; Condorcet, who was to perish
at Bourg-la-Reine (become Bourg-Egalite), betrayed by the
Horace which he had in his pocket ; Petion, whose destiny
was to be adored by the crowd in 1792 and devoured by wolves
in 1794: twenty others still, — Pontecoulant, Marboz, Lidon,
Saint-Martin, Dussaulx, the translator of Juvenal, who had
been in the Hanover campaign; Boileau, Bertrand, Lesterp-
Beauvais, Lesage, Gomaire, Gardien, Mainvelle, Duplentier,
Lacaze, Antiboul, and at their head a Barnave, who was styled
Vergniaud.
On the other side, Antoine Louis Leon Florelle de Saint-
Just, pale, with a low forehead, a regular profile, eye mys-
terious, a profound sadness, aged twenty-three. Merlin of
Thionville, whom the Germans called Feuerteufel, — " the fire-
devil." Merlin of Douai, the culpable author of the " Law
of the Suspected." Soubrany, whom the people of Paris at
the first Prairial demanded for general. The ancient priest
Lebon, holding a sabre in the hand which had sprinkled holy
water; Billaud Varennes, who foresaw the magistracy of the
future, without judges or arbiters; Fabre d'Eglantine, who
fell upon a delightful treasure-trove, — the Republican Cal-
endar, — just as Rouget de Lisle had a single sublime in-
spiration, — the " Marseillaise ; " neither one nor the other
ever produced a second. Manuel, the attorney of the Com-
mune, who had said, " A dead king is not a man the less."
Goujon, who had entered Tripstadt, Neustadt, and Spires, and
had seen the Prussian army flee. Lacroix, a lawyer turned
into a general, named Chevalier of Saint Louis, six days be-
fore the 10th of August. Freron Thersites, the son of Freron
Zoilus. Ruth, the inexorable searcher of the iron cupboard,
predestined to a great republican suicide, — he was to kill
himself the day the Republic died. Fouche, with the soul of
a demon and the face of a corpse. Carnboulas, the friend
NINETY-THREE 153
of Father Duchesne, who said to Guillotin, "Thou belongesl
to the Club of the Feuillants, but thy daughter belongs to the
Jacobin Club." Jagot, who to such as complained to him of
the nudity of the prisoners, replied by this savage saying, " A
prison is a dress of stone." Javogues, the terrible desccrator
of the tombs of Saint Denis. Osselin, a proscribcr, who hid
one of the proscribed, Madame Charry, in his house. Benta-
bollc, who, when he was in the chair, made signs to the tribunes
to applaud or hoot. The journalist Robert, the husband of
Mademoiselle Keralio, who wrote: "Neither Robespierre nor
Marat come to my house. Robespierre may come when he
wishes — Marat, never." Garan Coulon, who, when Spain in-
terfered in the trial of Louis XVI., haughtily demanded
that the Assembly should not deign to read the letter of a
king in behalf of a king. Gregoire, a bishop, at first worthy
of the Primitive Church, but who afterward, under the Em-
pire, effaced Gregoire the republican beneath the Count Gre-
goire. Amar, who said : " The whole earth condemns Louis
XVI. To whom, then, appeal for judgment? To the
planets?" Rou}^er, who, on the 21st of January, opposed
the firing of the cannon of Pont Neuf, saying, " A king's
head ought to make no more noise in falling than the head
of another man." Chenier, the brother of Andre ; Vadier, one
of those who laid a pistol on the tribunes ; Tanis, who said to
Momoro, —
" I wish Marat and Robespierre to embrace at my table."
" Where dost thou live? "
" At Charenton."
" Anywhere else would have astonished me," replied Mo-
moro.
Legendre, who was the butcher of the French Revolution,
as Pride had been of the English. " Come, that I may knock
you down," he cried to Lanjuinais.
" First have it decreed that I am a bullock," replied Lan-
juinais.
Collot d'Herbois, that lugubrious comedian who had the
face of the antique mask, with two mouths which said yes
154 NINETY-THREE
and no, approving with one while he blamed with the other;
branding Carrier at Nantes and defying Chalier at Lyons;
sending Robespierre to the scaffold and Marat to the Pan-
theon. Genissieux, who demanded the penalty of death against
whomsoever should have upon him a medallion of " Louis
XVI. martyred." Leonard Bourdon, the schoolmaster, who
had offered his house to the old man of Mont Jura. Topsent,
sailor; Goupilleau, lawyer; Laurent Lecointre, merchant; Du-
hem, physician; Sergent, sculptor; David, painter; Joseph
Egalite, prince.
Others still: Lecointe Puiraveau, who asked that a decree
should be passed declaring Marat mad. Robert Lindet, the
disquieting creator of that devil-fish whose head was the Com-
mittee of General Surety, and which covered France with
its one-and-twenty thousand arms called revolutionary com-
mittees. Leboeuf, upon whom Girez-Dupre, in his " Christmas
of False Patriots," had made this epigram, —
" Leboeuf vit Legendre et beugla."
Thomas Payne, the clement American; Anacharsis Cloots,
German, baron, millionaire, atheist, Hebertist, candid. The
upright Lebas, the friend of the Duplays. Rovere, one of
those strange men who are wicked for wickedness' sake, — for
the art, from love of the art, exists more frequently than peo-
ple believe. Charlier, who wished that " you " should be em-
ployed in addressing aristocrats. Tallien, elegiac and fero-
cious, who will bring about the 9th Thermidor from love.
Cambaceres, a lawyer, who will be a prince later. Carrier, an
attorney, who will become a tiger. Laplanche, who will one
d.iy cry, " I demand priority for the alarm-gun." Thuriot,
who desired the vote of the revolutionary tribunal to be given
aloud. Bourdon of the Oise, who challenged Chambon to a
duel, denounced Payne, and was himself denounced by Hebert.
Fayau, who proposed the sending of " an army of incendi-
aries " into the Vendee. Tavaux, who, on the 13th of April,
was almost a mediator between the Gironde and the Mountain.
Vernier, who proposed that the chiefs of the Gironde and the
Mountain should be sent to serve as common soldiers. Rew-
NINETY-THREE 155
bell, who shut himself up in Mayence. Bourbottc, who had
his horse killed under him at the taking of Suuinur. Guim-
berteau, who directed the army of the Cherbourg coast. Jard
Panvilliers, who managed the army of the coasts of Rochelle.
Lecarpentier, who led the squadron of Cancale. Roberjot,
for whom the ambush of Rastadt was waiting. Prieur, of the
Marne, who bore in camp his old rank of major. Levasseur
of the Sarthe, who by a word decided Serrent, commandant
of the battalion of Saint-Amand, to kill himself. Reverchon,
Maure, Bernard de Saintes, Charles Richard, Lequinio, and at
the summit of this group a Mirabeau, who was called Danton.
Outside the two camps, and keeping both in awe, rose the
man Robespierre.
CHAPTER V
BELOW crouched Dismay, which may be noble ; and Fear,
which is base. Beneath passions, beneath heroisms,
beneath devotion, beneath rage, was the gloomy cohort of the
Anonymous. The shoals of the Assembly were called the
Plain. There was eveiything there which floats ; the men who
doubt, who hesitate, who recoil, who adjourn, who wait, each
one fearing somebody. The Mountain was made up of the
Select ; the Gironde of the Select ; the Plain was a crowd.
The Plain was summed up and condensed in Sieyes.
Sieyes, a profound man, who had grown chimerical. He
had stopped at the Tiers-Etat, and had not been able to
mount up to the people. Certain minds are made to rest
half-way. Sieyes called Robespierre a tiger, and was called a
mole by Robespierre. This metaphysician had stranded, not
on wisdom, but prudence. He was the courtier, not the servi-
tor, of the Revolution. He seized a shovel, and went with the
people to work in the Champ de Mars, harnessed to the same
cart as Alexander de Beauharnais. He counselled energy, but
never showed it. He said to the Girondists, " Put the cannon
156 NINETY-THREE
on jour side." There are thinkers who are wrestlers : those
were, like Condorcet, with Vergniaud; or like Camille Des-
nioulins, with Danton. There are thinkers whose aim is to
preserve their lives : such were with Sieves.
The best working vats have their lees. Underneath the
Plain even was the Marsh, — a hideous stagnation which ex-
posed to view the transparencies of egotism. There shivered
the fearful in dumb expectation. Nothing could be more
abject, — a conglomeration of shames feeling no shame; hid-
den rage; revolt under servitude. They were afraid in a
cynical fashion ; they had all the desperation of cowardice ;
they preferred the Gironde and chose the Mountain ; the final
catastrophe depended upon them; they poured toward the
successful side ; they delivered Louis XVI. to Vergniaud, Verg-
niaud to Danton, Danton to Robespierre, Robespierre to Tal-
lien. They put Marat in the pillory when living, and deified
him when dead. They upheld everything up to the day when
they overturned everything. They had the instinct to give
the decisive push to whatever tottered. In their eyes — since
they had undertaken to serve on condition that the basis was
solid — to waver was to betray them. They were number;
they were force; they were fear. From thence came the au-
dacity of turpitude.
Thence came May 31st, the 11th Terminal, the 9th Ther-
midor, — tragedies knotted by giants and untied by dwarfs.
CHAPTER VI
AMONG these men full of passions were mingled men
filled with dreams. Utopia was there under all its
forms, — under its warlike form, which admitted the scaffold,
and under its innocent form, which would abolish capital pun-
ishment ; phantom as it faced thrones ; angel as it regarded
the people. Side by side with the spirits that fought were the
NINETY-THREE 157
spirits that brooded. These had war in their heads, those
peace. One brain, Carnot, brought forth fourteen armies;
another intellect, Jean Debry, meditated a universal demo-
cratic federation.
Amid this furious eloquence, among these shrieking and
growling voices, there were fruitful silences. Lakanal re-
mained voiceless, and combined in his thoughts the system of
public national education ; Lanthcnas held his peace, and cre-
ated the primary schools; Rcvelliere Lepaux kept still, and
dreamed of the elevation of Philosophy to the dignity of Re-
ligion. Others occupied themselves with questions of detail,
smaller and more practical. Guy ton Morveaux studied means
for rendering the hospitals healthy ; Maire, the abolition of
existing servitudes; Jean Bon Saint-Andre, the suppression
of imprisonment for debt and constraint of the person ;
Romme, the proposition of Chappe; Duboe, the putting the
archives in order; Coren Fustier, the creation of the Cabinet
of Anatomy and the Museum of Natural History ; Guyomard,
river navigation and the damming of the Scheldt. Art had
its monomaniacs. On the 21st of January, while the head
of monarchy was falling on the Place de la Revolution,
Bezard, the Representative of the Oise, went to see a picture
of Rubens, which had been found in a garret in the Rue Saint-
Lazare. Artists, orators, prophets, men-giants like Danton,
child-men like Cloots, gladiators and philosophers, all had the
same goal, — progress. Nothing disconcerted them. The
grandeur of the Convention was, the searching how much
reality there is in what men call the impossible. At one
extreme, Robespierre had his eye fixed on Law; at the other,
Condorcet had his fixed on Duty.
Condorcet was a man of reverie and enlightenment.
Robespierre was a man of execution ; and sometimes, in the
final crises of worn-out orders, execution means extermina-
tion. Revolutions have two currents, — an ebb and a flow ;
and on these float all seasons, from that of ice to flowers.
Each zone of these currents produces men adapted to its cli-
mate, from those who live in the sun to those who dwell among
the thunderbolts.
158 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER VII
PEOPLE showed each other the recess of the left-hand
passage where Robespierre had uttered low in the ear
of Garat, Claviere's friend, this terrible epigram : " Claviere
has conspired wherever he has respired." In this same recess,
convenient for words needed to be spoken aside and for half-
voiced cholers, Fabre d'Eglantine had quarrelled with Romme,
and reproached him for having disfigured his calendar by
changing " Fervidor " into " Thermidor." So, too, was
shown the angle where, elbow to elbow, sat the seven Repre-
sentatives of the Haute-Garonne, who, first called to pro-
nounce their verdict upon Louis XVI., thus responded, one
after the other : Mailhe, " Death ; " Delmas, " Death ; " Pro-
jean, "Death;" Cales, "Death;" Ayral, "Death;" Julien,
" Death ; " Desaby, " Death," — eternal reverberation which
fills all history, and which, since human justice has existed,
has always given an echo of the sepulchre to the wall of the
tribunal. People pointed out with their fingers, among that
group of stormy faces, all the men from whose mouths had
come the uproar of tragic notes, — Paganel, who said :
" Death ! A king is only made useful by death." Millaud,
who said : " To-day, if death did not exist it would be neces-
sary to invent it." The old Raff on du Trouillet, who said:
" Speedy death ! " Goupilleau, who cried : " The scaffold at
once. Delay aggravates dying." Sieyes, who said, with
funereal brevity : " Death ! " Thuriot, who had re j ected the
appeal to the people proposed by Buzot : " What ! the pri-
mary assemblies ! What ! Forty-four thousand tribunals !
A case without limit. The head of Louis XVI. would have
time to whiten before it would fall." Augustin Bon Robes-
pierre, who, after his brother, cried : " I know nothing of
the humanity which slaughters the people and pardons despots.
Death ! To demand a reprieve is to substitute an appeal to
tyrants for the appeal to the people." Foussedoire, the sub-
NINETY-THREE 159
stitute of Bernardin dc Saint-Pierre, who had said : " I have
a horror of human bloodshed, but the blood of a king is not a
man's blood. Death!" Jean Bon Saint-Andre, who said:
" No free people without a dead tyrant." Lavicomteric, who
proclaimed this formula: "So long as the tyrant breathes,
Liberty is suffocated! Death!" Chateauneuf Randon, who
had uttered this cry: "Death to the last Louis!" Guyar-
din, who had said: "Let the Barriere Renversce be exe-
cuted." (The Barriere Renversee was the Barriere du
Trone.) Tellier, who had said: "Let there be forged, to
aim against the enemy, a cannon of the calibre of Louis XVI. 's
head. And the indulgents, — Gentil, who said : " I vote for
confinement. To make a Charles I. is to make a Cromwell."
Bancel, who said : " Exile. I want to see the first king of
the earth condemned to a trade in order to earn his liveli-
hood." Albouys, who said : " Banishment ! Let this living
ghost go wander among the thrones." Zangiacomi, who said:
'* Confinement. Let us keep Capet alive as a scarecrow."
Chaillon, who said: "Let him live. I do not wish to make
a dead man of whom Rome will make a saint."
While these sentences fell from those severe lips and dis-
persed themselves one after another into history, women in
low-necked dresses and decorated with gems sat in the tri-
bunes, list in hand, counting the voices and pricking each
vote with a pin.
Where tragedy entered, horror and pity remain.
To see the Convention, no matter at what period of its
reign, was to see anew the trial of the last Capet. The
legend of the 21st of January seemed mingled with all its
acts ; the formidable Assembly was full of those fatal breaths
which blew upon the old torch of monarchy, that had burned
for eighteen centuries, and extinguished it. The decisive
trials of all kings in that judgment pronounced upon one
king was like the point of departure in the great war made
against the Past. Whatever might be the sitting of the
Convention at which one was present, the shadow of Louis
XVI.'s scaffold was seen thrust forward within it. Specta-
160 NINETY-THREE
tors recounted to one another the resignation of Kersaint,
the resignation of Roland, Duchatel, the deputy of the
Deux-Sevrcs, who, being ill, had himself carried to the Con-
vention on his bed, and dying voted the king's life which
caused Marat to laugh ; and they sought with their eyes the
Representative whom history has forgotten, he who, after
that session of thirty-seven hours, fell back on his bench
overcome by fatigue and sleep, and when roused by the usher
as his turn to vote arrived, half opened his eyes, said
" Death," and fell asleep again.
At the moment Louis XVI. was condemned to death,
Robespierre had still eighteen months to live; Danton, fifteen
months ; Vergniaud, nine months ; Marat, five months and
three weeks; Lcpelleticr Saint-Fargeau, one day. Quick and
terrible blast from human mouths !
CHAPTER VIII
THE people had a window opening on the Convention, —
the public tribunes ; and when the window was not
sufficient, they opened the door, and the street entered the
Assembly. These invasions of the crowd into that senate
make one of the most astounding visions of history. Or-
dinarily those irruptions were amicable. The market-place
fraternized with the curule chair; but it was a formidable
cordiality, — that of a people who one day took within three
hours the cannon of the Invalides and forty thousand
muskets besides. At each instant a troop interrupted the de-
liberations; deputations presented at the bar petitions,
homages, offerings. The pike of honour of the Faubourg
Saint Antoine entered, borne by women. Certain English
offered twenty thousand pairs of shoes for the naked feet
of our soldiers. " The citizen Arnoux," announced the
*' Moniteur," " Cure of Aubignan, Commandant of the Battal-
NINETY-THREE 161
ion of Drome, asks to march to the frontiers, and desires that
his cure may be preserved for him."
Delegates from the Sections arrived, bringing on hand-
barrows, dishes, patens, chalices, monstrances, heaps of gold,
silver, and enamel, presented to the country by this multi-
tude in rags, who demanded for recompense the permission to
dance the Carmagnole before the Convention. Chenard, Nar-
bonne, and Vallierc came to sing couplets in honour of the
Mountain. The Section of Mont Blanc brought the bust of
Lepelletier, and a woman placed a red cap on the head of the
President, who embraced her. The citizenesses of the Sec-
tion of the Mail " flung flowers " to the legislators. " The
pupils of the country " came, headed by music, to thank the
Convention for having prepared the prosperity of the century.
The women of the Section of the Gardes Franchises offered
roses ; the women of the Champs Elysees Section gave a crown
of oak-leaves; the women of the Section of the Temple came to
the bar to swear " only to unite themselves with true Republi-
cans." The Section of Moliere presented a medal of Franklin,
which was suspended by decree to the crown of the statue of
Liberty. The Foundlings — declared the Children of the Re-
public — filed through, habited in the national uniform. The
young girls of the Section of Ninety-two arrived in long
white robes, and the " Moniteur " of the following morning
contained this line : " The President received a bouquet from
the innocent hands of a young beauty." The orators saluted
the crowds, sometimes flattered them: they said to the mul-
titude, " Thou art infallible ; thou art irreproachable ; thou
art sublime." The people have an infantile side: they like
those sugar-plums. Sometimes Riot traversed the Assembly :
entered furious and withdrew appeased, like the Rhone which
traverses Lake Leman, and is mud when it enters and pure
and azure when it pours out.
Sometimes the crowd was less pacific, and Henriot was
obliged to come with his furnaces for heating shot to the
entrance of the Tuileries.
11
162 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER IX
AT the same time that it threw off revolution, this As-
sembly produced civilization. Furnace, but forge too.
In this caldron, where terror bubbled, progress fermented.
Out of this chaos of shadow, this tumultuous flight of clouds,
spread immense rays of light parallel to the eternal laws,
— rays that have remained on the horizon, visible forever in
the heaven of the peoples, and which are, one, Justice; an-
other, Tolerance ; another, Goodness ; another, Right ; an-
other, Truth; another, Love.
The Convention promulgated this grand axiom : " The
liberty of each citizen ends where the liberty of another
citizen commences," — which comprises in two lines all hu-
man social law. It declared indigence sacred ; it declared
infirmity sacred in the blind and the deaf and dumb, who
became wards of the State ; maternity sacred in the girl-
mother, whom it consoled and lifted up ; infancy sacred in
the orphan, whom it caused to be adopted by the country ;
innocence sacred in the accused who was acquitted, whom
it indemnified. It branded the slave-trade; it abolished
slavery. It proclaimed civic joint responsiblity. It decreed
gratuitous instruction. It organized national education by
the normal school of Paris ; central schools in the chief towns ;
primary schools in the communes. It created the academies
of music and the museums. It decreed the unity of the Code,
the unity of weights and measures, and the unity of calcula-
tion by the decimal system. It established the finances of
France, and caused public credit to succeed to the long mo-
narchical bankruptcy. It put the telegraph in operation.
To old age it gave endowed almshouses; to sickness, purified
hospitals ; to instruction, the Polytechnic School ; to science, the
Bureau of Longitudes ; to human intellect, the Institute. At
the same time that it was national it was cosmopolitan. Of
the eleven thousand two hundred and ten decrees which
NINETY-THREE 163
emanated from the Convention, a third had a political aim;
two thirds, a human aim. It declared universal morality the
basis of society, and universal conscience the basis of law.
And all that servitude abolished, fraternity proclaimed, hu-
manity protected, human conscience rectified, the law of work
transformed into right, and from onerous made honourable,
— national riches consolidated, childhood instructed and
raised up, letters and sciences propagated, light illuminat-
ing all heights, aid to all sufferings, promulgation of all
principle, — the Convention accomplished, having in its bowels
that hydra, the Vendee; and upon its sholders that heap of
tigers, the kings.
CHAPTER X
IMMENSE place ! All types were there, — human, inhu-
man, superhuman. Epic gathering of antagonisms, —
Guillotin avoiding David, Bazire insulting Chabot, Gaudet
mocking Saint-Just, Vergniaud disdaining Danton, Louvet
attacking Robespierre, Buzot denouncing Egalite, Chambon
branding Pache; all execrating Marat. And how many
names remain still to be registered! — Armonville, styled Bon-
net Rouge, because he always attended the sittings in a
Phrygian cap, a friend of Robespierre, and wishing, " after
Louis XVI., to guillotine Robespierre in order to restore an
equilibrium ; " Massieu, colleague and counterpart of that
good Lamourette, a bishop fitted to leave his name to a kiss ;
Lehardy of the Mobihan, stigmatizing the priests of Brit-
tany; Barere, the man of majorities, who presided when
Louis XVI. appeared at the bar, and who was to Pamela
what Louvet was to Lodoiska ; the Oratorian Danou, who said,
" Let us gain time ; " Dubois Crance, close to whose ear
leaned Marat ; the Marquis de Chateauneuf , Laclos, Herault
of Sc'chclles, who recoiled before Henriot crying, " Gunners,
to your pieces ; " Julien, who compared the Mountain to
164 NINETY-THREE
Thermopylae ; Gamon, who desired a public tribune reserved
solely for women; Laloy, who adjudged the honours of the
seance to the Bishop Gobel coming into the Convention to
lay down his mitre and put on the red cap ; Lecomte, who
exclaimed, " So the honours are for whosoever will unfrock
himself;" Feraud, whose head Boissy d'Anglas saluted, leav-
ing this question to history " Did Boissy d'Anglas salute
the head, — that is to say the victim, — or the pike ; that is
to say the assassins ? " the two brothers Duprat, one a member
of the Mountain, the other of the Gironde, who hated each
other like the two brothers Chenier.
At this tribune were uttered those mysterious words which
sometimes possess unconsciously to those who pronounce them
the prophetic accent of revolutions, and in whose wake ma-
terial facts appear suddenly to assume an inexplicable dis-
content and passion, as if they had taken umbrage at the
things just heard; events seem angered by words: catastro-
phes follow furious, and as if exasperated by the speech of
men. Thus a voice upon a mountain suffices to set the
avalanche in motion. A word too much may be followed
by a landslip. If no one had spoken, the catastrophe
would not have happened. You might say sometimes that
events are irascible.
It was thus, by the hazard of an orator's ill-comprehended
word, that Madame Elizabeth's head fell.
At the Convention intemperance of language was a right.
Threats flew about and crossed one another like sparks in
a conflagration.
Petion : " Robespierre, come to the point."
Robespierre : " The point is yourself, Petion ; I shall
come to it, and you will see it."
A voice : " Death to Marat ! "
Marat : " The day Marat dies there will be no more Paris,
and the day that Paris expires there will be no longer a Re-
public."
Billaud Varennes rises, and says, " We wish — "
Barere interrupts him : " Thou speakest like a king."
NINETY-THREE 165
Another day, Philippeaux, " A member has drawn his
sword upon me."
Audouin : " President, call the assassin to order."
The President: "Wait."
Panis : " President, I call you to order — I ! "
There was rude laughter moreover.
Lecointre: "The Cure of Chant de Bout complains of
Fauchet, his bishop, who forbids his marrying."
A voice: " I do not see why Fauchet, who has mistresses,
should wish to hinder others from having wives."
A second voice: " Priest, take a wife ! "
The galleries joined in the conversation. They said
" thee " and " thou " to the members. One day the Repre-
sentative Ruamps mounted to the tribune. He had one hip
very much larger than the other. A spectator, crying out,
thus jeered him: "Turn that toward the Right, since thou
hast a cheek a la David."
Such were the liberties the people took with the Conven-
tion. On one occasion, however, during the tumult of the
11th of April, 1793, the President commanded a disorderly
person in the tribunes to be arrested.
One day when the session had for witness the old
Buonarotti, Robespierre takes the floor and speaks for two
hours, staring at Danton, sometimes straight in the face,
which was serious; sometimes obliquely, which was worse. He
thunders on to the end, however. He closes with an indig-
nant outburst full of menacing words : " The conspirators arc
known, the corrupters and the corrupted are known ; the
traitors are known ; they are in this assembly. They hear
us; we see them, and we do not move our eyes from
them. Let them look above their heads, and they will see
the sword of the law; let them look into their conscience,
and they will see their own infamy. Let them beware ! "
And when Robespierre has finished, Danton, with his face
raised toward the ceiling, his eyes half closed, one arm hang-
ing loosely down, throws himself back in his seat, and is heard
to hum, —
1G6 NINETY-THREE
" Cadet Roussel fait des discours,
Qui ne sont pas longs quand ils sont courts." 1
Imprecations followed one another, — conspirator ! assassin !
scoundrel ! factionist ! moderate ! They denounced one an-
other to the bust of Brutus that stood there, — apostrophes,
insults, challenges ; furious glances from one side to the
other; fists shaken; pistols allowed to be seen; poniards half
drawn ; terrible blazing forth in the tribune. Certain per-
sons talked as if they were driven back against the guillotine ;
heads wavered, frightened and awed. Mountainists, Giron-
dists, Feuillantists, Moderates, Terrorists, Jacobins, Cordeliers,
eighteen regicide priests, — all these men a mass of vapours
driven wildly in every direction.
CHAPTER XI
SPIRITS which were a prey of the wind. But this was
a miracle-working wind. To be a member of the Con-
vention was to be a wave of the ocean. This was true even of
the greatest there. The force of impulsion came from on
Irish. There was a Will in the Convention which was that
of all, and yet not that of any one person. This Will was
an Idea, — an idea indomitable and immeasurable, which
swept from the summit of heaven into the darkness below.
We call this Revolution. When that Idea passed, it beat
down one and raised up another; it scattered this man into
foam and dashed that one upon the reefs. This Idea knew
whither it was going, and drove the whirlpool before it. To
ascribe the Revolution to men is to ascribe the tide to the
waves.
The Revolution is a work of the Unknown. Call it good
i " Cadet Roussel doth make his speech
Quite short when it no length doth reach."
NINETY-THREE 167
or bad, according as you yearn toward the future or the
past, but leave it to the power which caused it. It seems the
joint work of grand events and grand individualities mingled,
but it is in reality the result of events. Events dispense,
men suffer; events dictate, men sigh. The 14th of July is
signed Camille Desmoulins; the 10th of August is signed
Danton; the 2d of September is signed Marat; the 21st of
September is signed Gregoire; the 21st of January is signed
Robespierre; but Desmoulins, Danton, Marat, Gregoire, and
Robespierre are mere scribes. The great and mysterious
writer of these grand pages has a name, — God ; and a mask,
Destiny. Robespierre believed in God : yea, verily !
The Revolution is a form of the eternal phenomenon which
presses upon us from every quarter, and which we call Ne-
cessity. Before this mysterious complication of benefits and
sufferings arises the Wherefore of history. Because: this
answer of him who knows nothing is equally the response of
him who knows all.
In presence of these climacteric catastrophes which dev-
astate and revivify civilization, one hesitates to judge their
details. To blame or praise men on account of the result
is almost like praising or blaming ciphers on account of the
total. That which ought to happen happens ; the blast which
out to blow blows. The Eternal Serenity does not suffer
from these north winds. Above revolutions Truth and Jus-
tice remain as the starry sky lies above and beyond tempests.
CHAPTER XII
SUCH was the unmeasured and immeasurable Convention,
— a camp cut off from the human race, attacked by
all the powers of darkness at once; the night-fires of the be-
sieged army of Ideas ; a vast bivouac of minds upon the edge
of a precipice. There is nothing in history comparable to
168 NINETY-THREE
this group, at the same time senate and populace, conclave and
street-crossing, Areopagus and public square, tribunal and
the accused.
The Convention always bent to the wind; but that wind
came from the mouth of the people, and was the breath of
God.
And to-day, after eighty-four years have passed away, al-
ways when the Convention presents itself before the reflec-
tion of any man, whosoever he may be, — historian or phi-
losopher, — that man pauses and meditates. It would be im-
possible not to remain thoughtfully attentive before this
grand procession of shadows.
CHAPTER XIII
MARAT IN THE GREEN-ROOM.
MARAT, in accordance with his declaration to Simonne
Evrard, went to the Convention the morning after
that interview in the Rue du Paon. There was in the Con-
vention a marquis who was a Maratist, Louis de Montaut, the
same who afterward presented to the Convention a decimal
clock surmounted by the bust of Marat. At the moment
Marat entered, Chabot had approached De Montaut. He be-
gan : —
" Ci-devant —"
Montaut raised his eyes. " Why do you call me ci-
devant? "
" Because you are so."
"I?"
" For you were a marquis."
" Never."
"Bah!"
NINETY-THREE 169
" My father was a soldier; my grandfather was a weaver."
" What song is that you are singing, Montaut? '
" I do not call myself Montaut."
"What do you call yourself, then?"
" Maribon."
" In point of fact," said Chabot, " it is all the same to
me." And he added between his teeth : " No marquis on
any terms."
Marat paused in the corridor to the left and watched
Montaut and Chabot. Whenever Marat entered, there
was a buzz, but afar from him. About him people kept
silence.
Marat paid no attention thereto. He disdained " the
croaking of the mud-pool." In the gloomy obscurity of the
lower row of seats, Compe of the Oise, Prunelle, Villars, a
bishop who was afterward a member of the French Academy,
Boutroue, Petit, Plaichard, Bonet, Thibaudeau, and Val-
druchc pointed him out to one another.
" See Marat ! "
"Then he is not ill?"
" Yes, for he is here in a dressing-gown."
" In a dressing-gown ! "
" Zounds, yes ! "
" He takes liberties enough ! "
" He dares to come like that into the Convention ! "
" As he came one day crowned with laurels, he may cer-
tainly come in a dressing-gown."
" Face of brass and teeth of verdigris."
" His dressing-gown looks new."
"What is it made of?"
" Reps."
" Striped."
" Look at the lapels."
" They are fur."
" Tiger-skin."
" No ; ermine."
" Imitation."
170 NINETY-THREE
" He has stockings on ! "
" That is odd."
" And shoes with buckles ! "
" Of* silver ! "
" Camboula's sabots will not pardon that."
People in other seats affected not to see Marat. They
talked of indifferent matters. Santhonax accosted Dussaulx,
" Have you heard, Dussaulx ? "
"What?"
" The ci-devant Count de Brienne? "
" Who was in La Force with the ci-devant Duke de Vil-
leroy? "
" Yes."
" I knew them both."
"Well?"
" They were so horribly frightened that they saluted all
the red caps of all the turnkeys, and one day they refused
to play a game of piquet because somebody offered them cards
that had kings and queens among them."
"Well?"
" They were guillotined yesterday."
"The two of them?"
" Both."
" Indeed; how had they behaved in prison? "
" As cowards."
" And how did they show on the scaffold? "
" Intrepid."
Then Dussaulx ejaculated: " It is easier to die than to
live ! "
Barere was reading a report; it was in regard to the
Vendee. Nine hundred men of Morbihan had started with
cannon to assist Nantes. Redon was menaced by the peas-
ants. Paimboeuf had been attacked. A fleet was cruising
about Maindrin to prevent invasions. From Ingrande, as
far as Maure, the entire left bank of the Loire was bristling
with royalist batteries. Three thousand peasants were mas-
ters of Pornic. They cried, " Long live the English ! " A
NINETY-THREE 171
letter from Santerre to the Convention, which Barere was read-
ing, ended with these words : —
" Seven thousand peasants attacked Vannes. We repulsed them,
and they have left in our hands four cannon — "
"And how many prisoners?" interrupted a voice.
Barere continued: "Postscript of the letter: —
" ' We have no prisoners, because we no longer make any.' " i
Marat, standing motionless, did not listen ; he appeared
absorbed by a stern preoccupation. He held in his hand a
paper, which he crumpled between his fingers ; had any one
unfolded it, he might have read these lines in Momoro's
writing, — probably a response to some question he had been
asked by Marat : —
" No opposition can be offered to the full powers of delegated com-
missioners, above all, those of the Committee of Public Safety. Genis-
sieux in vain said, in the sitting of May 6th, ' Each Commissioner is
more than a king; it had no effect. Life and death are in their hands.
Massade at Angers; Trull, rd at Saint- Amand; Nyon with General
Marce; Parrein with the army of Sables; Millier with the army of
Niort: they are all-powerful. The Club of the Jacobins has gone so
far as to name Parrein brigadier-general. The circumstances excuse
everything. A delegate from the Committee of Public Safety holds in
check a commander-in-chief."
Marat ceased crumpling the paper, put it in his pocket,
and walked slowly toward Montaut and Chabot, who continued
to converse, and had not seen him enter.
Chabot was saying : " Maribon, or Montaut, listen to this :
I have just come from the Committee of Public Safety."
" And what is being done there ? "
" They are setting a priest to watch a noble."
" Ah ! "
" A noble like yourself — "
" I am not a noble," interrupted Montaut.
i Moniteur, vol. xix. p. 81.
172 NINETY-THREE
" To be watched by a priest — "
" Like you."
" I am not a priest," said Chabot.
They both began to laugh.
" Make your story explicit," resumed Montaut.
" Here it is then. A priest named Cimourdain is dele-
gated with full powers to a viscount named Gauvain ; this
viscount commands the exploring column of the army of the
coast. The question will be to keep the nobleman from
trickery and the priest from treason."
" It is very simple," replied Montaut. " It is only neces-
sary to bring death into the matter."
" I come for that," said Marat.
They looked up.
" Good-morning, Marat," said Chabot. " You rarely at-
tend our meetings."
" M} r doctor has ordered me baths," answered Marat.
" One should beware of baths," returned Chabot. " Seneca
died in one."
Marat smiled.
" Chabot, there is no Nero here."
" Yes, there is you," said a rude voice.
It was Danton who passed and ascended to his seat.
Marat did not turn round. He thrust his head in be-
tween Montaut and Chabot.
" Listen ; I come about a serious matter. One of us three
must propose to-day the draft of a decree to the Conven-
tion."
" Not I," said Montaut ; " I am never listened to. I am
a marquis."
" And I," said Chabot — " I am not listened to. I am a
Capuchin."
" And I," said Marat — " I am not listened to. I am
Marat."
There was a silence among them.
It was not safe to interrogate Marat when he appeared
preoccupied, still Montaut hazarded a question.
NINETY-THREE 173
" Marat, what is the decree that you wish passed? '
" A decree to punish with death any military chief who
allows a rebel prisoner to escape."
C'habot interrupted, —
" The decree exists; it was passed in April."
" Then it is just the same as if it did not exist," said
Marat. " Everywhere, all through Vendee, anybody who
chooses helps prisoners to escape, and gives them an asylum
with impunity."
" Marat, the fact is, the decree has fallen into disuse."
" Chabot, it must be put into force anew."
" Without doubt."
" And to do that, the Convention must be addressed."
" Marat, the Convention is not necessary ; the Committee
of Public Safety will suffice."
" The end will be gained," added Montaut, " if the Com-
mittee of Public Safety cause the decree to be placarded in
all the communes of the Vendee, and make two or three
good examples."
" Of men in high position," returned Chabot, — " of gen-
erals."
Marat grumbled : " In fact that will answer."
" Marat," resumed Chabot, " go yourself and say that to
the Committee of Public Safety."
Marat stared straight into his eyes, which was not pleas-
ant even for Chabot.
"The Committee of Public Safety," said he, "sits in
Robespierre's house ; I do not go there."
" I will go myself," said Montaut.
" Good ! " said Marat.
The next morning an order from the Committee of Public
Safety was sent in all directions among the towns and vil-
lages of Vendee, enjoining the publication and strict execution
of the decree of death against any person conniving at the
escape of brigands and captive insurgents. This decree
proved only a first step: the Convention was to go further
than that. A few months later, the 11th Brumaire, Year II.
174 NINETY-THREE
(November, 1793), when Laval opened its gates to the Ven-
dean fugitives, the Convention decreed that any city giving
asylum to the rebels should be demolished and destroyed. On
their side, the princes of Europe, in the manifesto of the
Duke of Brunswick, conceived by the emigrants and drawn
up by the Marquis de Linnon, intendant of the Duke of
Orleans, had declared that every Frenchman taken with arms
in his hand should be shot, and that, if a hair of the king's
head fell, Paris should be razed to the ground.
Cruelty against barbarity.
PART III
LA VENDEE
BOOK I
LA VENDEE
CHAPTER I
THE FORESTS
THERE were at that time seven ill-famed forests in
Brittany. The Vendean war was a revolt of priests.
This revolt had the forests as auxiliaries. These spirits of
darkness aid one another.
The seven Black Forests of Brittany were the forest of
Fougeres, which stopped the way between Dol and Avranches ;
the forest of Prince, which was eight leagues in circumfer-
ence; the forest of Paimpol, full of ravines and brooks,
almost inaccessible on the side toward Baignon, with an easy
retreat upon Concornet, which was a royalist town ; the for-
est of Rennes, from whence could be heard the tocsin of the
republican parishes, always numerous in the neighbourhood
of the cities (it was in this forest that Puysaye lost Focard) ;
the forest of Machecoul, which had Charette for its wild
beast; the forest of Garnache, which belonged to the Tre-
175
176 NINETY-THREE
moilles, the Gauvains, and the Rohans ; and the forest of
Broceliande, which belonged to the fairies.
One gentleman of Brittany bore the title of Lord of the
Seven Forests: this was the Viscount de Fontenay, Breton
Prince. For the Breton Prince existed distinct from the
French Prince. The Rohans were Breton princes. Gamier
de Saintes, in his report to the Convention of the 15th
Nivose, Year II., thus distinguishes the Prince de Talmont :
" This Capet of the brigands, Sovereign of Maine and of
Normandy."
The record of the Breton forests from 1792 to 1800 would
form a history of itself, mingling like a legend with the vast
undertaking of the Vendee. History has its truth: Legend
has hers. Legendary truth is wholly different from historic;
legendary truth is invention that has reality for a result.
Still history and legend have the same aim, — that of depict-
ing the external type of humanity.
La Vendee can only be completely understood by adding
legend to history ; the latter is needed to describe its entirety,
the former the details. We may say, too, that La Vendee
is worth the pains. La Vendee was a prodigy.
This war of the Ignorant, so stupid and so splendid, so
abject yet magnificent, was at once the desolation and the
pride of France. La Vendee is a wound which is at the same
time a glory.
At certain crises human society has its enigmas, — enig-
mas which resolve themselves into light for sages, but which
the ignorant in their darkness translate into violence and
barbarism. The philosopher is slow to accuse; he takes into
consideration the agitation caused by these problems, which
cannot pass without casting about them shadows dark as
those of the storm-cloud.
If one wish to comprehend Vendee, one must picture to
one's self this antagonism : on one side the French Revolu-
tion, on the other the Breton peasant. In face of these un-
paralleled events — an immense promise of all benefits at
once, a fit of rage for civilization, an excess of maddened
NINETY-THREE 177
progress, an improvement that exceeded measure and com-
prehension — must be placed this grave, strange, savage man,
with an eagle glance and flowing hair; living on milk and
chestnuts; his ideas bounded by his thatched roof, his hedge,
and his ditch, able to distinguish the sound of each vil-
lage bell in the neighbourhood; using water only to drink;
wearing a leather jacket covered with silken arabesques, un-
cultivated but clad embroidered; tattooing his garments as
his ancestors the Celts had tattooed their faces; looking up
to a master in his executioner; speaking a dead language,
which was like forcing his thoughts to dwell in a tomb;
driving his bullocks, sharpening his scythe, winnowing his
black grain, kneading his buckwheat biscuit ; venerating his
plough first, his grandmother next ; believing in the Blessed
Virgin and the White Lady; devoted to the altar, but also
to the lofty mysterious stone standing in the midst of the
moor; a labourer in the plain, a fisher on the coast, a poacher
in the thicket; loving his kings, his lords, his priests, his
very lice ; pensive, often immovable for entire hours upon
the great deserted sea-shore, a melancholy listener to the
sea.
Then ask 3'ourself if it would have been possible for this
blind man to welcome that light.
CHAPTER II
THE PEASANTS
THE peasant had two points on which he leaned, — the
field which nourished him, the wood which concealed
him.
It is difficult to picture to one's self what those Breton
forests really were. They were towns. Nothing could be
more secret, more silent, and more savage than those inextri-
12
178 NINETY-THREE
cable entanglements of thorns and branches ; those vast thick-
ets were the home of immobility and silence; no solitude could
present an appearance more death-like and sepulchral. Yet
if it had been possible to fell those trees at one blow, as by
a flash of lightning, a swarm of men would have stood
revealed in those shades. There were wells ? round and nar-
row, masked by coverings of stones and branches, the interior
at first vertical, then horizontal, spreading out underground
like funnels, and ending in dark chambers. Cambyses found
such in Egypt, and Westermann found the same in Brittany.
There they were found in the desert, here in the forest ;
the caves of Egypt held dead men, the caves of Brittany
were filled with the living. One of the wildest glades of
the wood of Misdon, perforated by galleries and cells amid
which came and went a mysterious society, was called " the
great city." Another glade, not less deserted above ground
and not less inhabited beneath, was styled " the place royal."
This subterranean life had existed in Brittany from time
immemorial. From the the earliest days man had there hid-
den, flying from man. Hence those hiding-places, like the
dens of reptiles, hollowed out below the trees. They dated
from the era of the Druids, and certain of those crypts wex'e
as ancient as the cromlechs. The larvae of legend and the
monsters of history all passed across that shadowy land, —
Toutates, Caesar, Hoel, Neomenes, Geoffrey of England, Alain
of the iron glove, Pierre Manclerc ; the French house of Blois,
the English house of Montfort ; kings and dukes, the nine
barons of Brittany, the judges of the Great Days, the Counts
of Nantes contesting with the Counts of Rennes: highway-
men, banditti, Free Lances ; Rene II., Viscount de Rohan ; the
governors for the king ; " the good Duke of Chaulnes," hang-
ing the peasants under the windows of Madame de Sevigne ;
in the fifteenth century the butcheries by the nobles, in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the wars of religion, in
the eighteenth century the thirty thousand dogs trained to
hunt men. Beneath these pitiless tramplings the inhabitants
made up their minds to disappear. Each in turn — the
NINETY-THREE 179
Troglodytes to escape the Celts, the Celts to escape the
Romans, the Bretons to escape the Normans, the Huguenots
to escape the Roman Catholics, the smugglers to escape the
excise officers — took refuge first in the forest and then
underground, the resource of hunted animals. It is this to
which tyranny reduces nations. During two thousand years
despotism under all its forms — conquest, feudality, fanati-
cism, taxes — beset this wretched, distracted Brittany : a sort
of inexorable battue, which only ceased under one shape to
recommence under another. Men hid underground. When
the French Republic burst forth, Terror, which is a species of
rage, was already latent in human souls, and when the Repub-
lic burst forth, the dens were ready in the woods. Brittany
revolted, finding itself oppressed by this forced deliverance,
— a mistake natural to slaves.
CHAPTER III
CONNIVANCE OF MEN AND FORESTS
THE gloomy Breton forests took up anew their ancient
role, and were the servants and accomplices of this re-
bellion, as they had been of all others. The subsoil of every
forest was a sort of madrepore, pierced and traversed in all
directions by a secret highway of mines, cells, and galleries.
Each one of these blind cells could shelter five or six men.
There are in existence certain strange lists which enable one
to undei'stand the powerful organization of that vast peasant
rebellion. In Ille-et-Vilaine, in the forest of Pertrc, the
refuge of the Prince dc Talmont, not a breath was heard, not a
human trace to be found, yet there were collected six thou-
sand men under Focard. In the forest of Meulac, in Mor-
bihan, not a soul was to be seen, yet it held eight thousand
men. Still, these two forests, Pertre and Meulac, do not
180 NINETY-THREE
count among the great Breton forests. If one trod there,
the explosion was terrible. Those hypocritical copses, filled
with fighters waiting in a sort of underground labyrinth,
were like enormous black sponges whence, under the pressure
of the gigantic foot of Revolution, civil war spurted out.
Invisible battalions lay there in wait. These untrackable
armies wound along beneath the republican troops ; burst sud-
denly forth from the earth and sank into it again ; sprang
up in numberless force and vanished at will ; gifted with a
strange ubiquity and power of disappearance, an avalanche
at one instant, gone like a cloud of dust at the next ; colossal,
yet able to become pygmies at will ; giants in battle, dwarfs
in ability to conceal themselves, jaguars with the habits of
moles.
There were not only the forests, there were the woods.
Just as below cities there are villages, below these forests there
were woods and underwoods. The forests were united by
the labyrinths (everywhere scattered) of the woods. The
ancient castles, which were fortresses; the hamlets, which were
camps ; the farms, which were enclosures for ambushes and
snares, traversed by ditches and palisaded by trees, — were the
meshes of the net in which the republican armies were caught.
This whole formed what is called the " Bocage."
There was the wood of Misdon, which had a pond in its
centre, and which was held by Jean Chouan. There was the
wood of Gennes, which belonged to Taillefer. There was the
wood of Huisserie, which belonged to Gouge-le-Bruant ; the
wood of Charnie, where lurked . Courtille-le-Batard, called
Saint-Paul, chief of the camp of the Vache Noire; the wood
of Burgault, which was held by that enigmatical Monsieur
Jacques, reserved for a mysterious end in the vault of
Juvardeil.
There was the wood of Charreau, where Pimousse and
Petit-Prince, when attacked by the garrison of Chateau-
neuf, rushed forward and seized the grenadiers in the repub-
lican ranks about the waist and carried them back prisoners;
the wood of La Heureuserie, the witness of the rout of
NINETY-THREE 181
the military post of Longue-Faye ; the wood of Aulnr, whence
the route between Rcnnes and Laval could be overlooked;
the wood of La Gravelle, which a prince of La Tremoille
had won at a game of bowls; the wood of Lorges, in
the Cotes-du-Nord, where Charles dc Boishardy reigned after
Bernard de Villeneuve; the wood of Bagnard, near Fontenay,
where Lescure offered battle to Chalbos, who accepted the
challenge, although one against five ; the wood of La Duron-
dais, which in old days had been disputed by Alain le Redru
and Herispoux, the son of Charles the Bald; the wood of
Croqueloup, upon the edge of that moor where Coquereau
sheared the prisoners ; the wood of Croix-Bataille, which wit-
nessed the Homeric insults of Jambe d'Argent to Moriere and
of Moriere to Jambe d'Argent; the wood of La Saudraie,
which we have seen being searched by a Paris regiment. There
were many others besides. In several of these forests and
woods there were not only subterranean villages grouped
about the burrow of the chief, but also actual hamlets of low
huts, hidden under the trees, sometimes so numerous that the
forest was filled with them. Frequently they were betrayed
by the smoke. Two of these hamlets of the -wood of Misdon
have remained famous, — Lorriere, near Letang, and the
group of cabins called the Rue de Bau, on the side toward
Saint-Ouen-les-Toits.
The women lived in the huts, and the men in the cellars.
In carrying on the war they utilized the galleries of the
fairies and the old Celtic mines. Food was carried to the
buried men. Some were forgotten, and died of hunger; but
these were awkward fellows, who had not known how to open
the mouth of their well. Usually the cover, made of moss
and branches, was so artistically fashioned that, although im-
possible on the outside to distinguish from the surrounding
turf, it was very easy to open and close on the inside. These
hiding places were dug with care. The earth taken out of
the well was flung into some neighbouring pond. The sides
and the bottom were carpeted with ferns and moss. These
nooks were called " lodges." The men were as comfortable
X82 NINETY-THREE
there as could be expected, considering that they lacked light,
fire, bread, and air.
It was a difficult matter to unbury themselves and come up
among the living without great precaution. They might find
themselves between the legs of an army on the march. These
were formidable woods, snares with a double trap; the Blues
dared not enter, the Whites dared not come out.
CHAPTER IV
THEIR LIFE UNDERGROUND
THE men grew weary of their wild-beast lairs. Some-
times in the night they came forth at any risk, and went
to dance upon the neighbouring moor; else they prayed, in
order to kill time. " Every day," says Bourdoiseau, " Jean
Chouan made us count our rosaries."
It was almost impossible to keep those of the Bas-Maine
from going out for the Fete de la Gerbe when the season came.
Some of them had ideas peculiar to themselves. " Denys,"
says Tranche Montagne, " disguised himself as a woman, in
order to go to the theatre at Laval, then went back into his
hole." Suddenly they would rush forth in search of death,
exchanging the dungeon for the sepulchre. Sometimes they
raised the cover of their trench, and listened to hear if there
were fighting in the distance; they followed the combat with
their ears. The firing of the republicans was regular; the
firing of the royalists, open and dropping, — this guided
them. If the platoon-firing ceased suddenly, it was a sign
that the royalists were defeated; if the irregular firing con-
tinued, and retreated toward the horizon, it was a sign that
they had the advantage. The Whites always pursued; the
Blues never, because they had the country against them.
These underground belligerents were kept perfectly in-
NINET Y-Tl TREE 180
formed of what was going on. Nothing could he more rapid,
nothing more mysterious, than their means of communication.
They had cut all the bridges, broken up all the wagons; yet
they found means to tell each other everything, to give each
other timely warning. Relays of emissaries were established
from forest to forest, from village to village, from farm to
farm, from cottage to cottage, from bush to bush. A p<
ant with a stupid air passed by: he carried dispatches in his
hollow stick. An ancient constituent, Boetidoux, furnished
them, to pass from one end of Brittany to the other, with re-
publican passports according to the new form, with blanks for
the names, of which this traitor had bundles. It was impos-
sible to discover these emissaries. Says Puysaye : " The se-
crets confided to more than four hundred thousand individuals
were religiously guarded."
It appeared that this quadrilateral — closed on the south
by the line of the Sables to Thouars, on the east by the line of
Thouars to Saumur and the river of Thoue, on the north by
the Loire, and on the west by the ocean — possessed every-
where the same nervous activity, and not a single point of
this soil could stir without shaking the whole. In the twin-
kling of an c} r e Lucon had information in regard to Noir-
moutier, and the camp of La Loue knew what the camp of
Croix-Morineau was doing. It seemed as if the very birds of
the air carried tidings. The 7th Messidor, Year III., Hoche
wrote : " One might believe that they have telegraphs."
They were in clans, as in Scotland; each parish had its cap-
tain. In that war my father fought, and I can speak ad-
visedly thereof.
184. NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER V
THEIR LIFE IN WARFARE
ANY of them were only armed with pikes. Good fowl-
ing-pieces were abundant. No marksmen could be
more expert than the poachers of the Bocage and the smug-
glers of the Loroux. They were strange combatants, terrible
and intrepid.
The decree for the levy of three hundred thousand men had
been the signal for the tocsin to sound in six hundred villages.
The blaze of the conflagration burst forth in all quarters at
the same time. Poitou and Anjou exploded on one day.
Let us add that a premonitory rumbling had made itself heard
on the moor of Kerbader upon the 8th of July, 1792, a month
before the 10th of August. Alain Redeler, to-day forgot-
ten, was the precusor of La Roche jacquelein and Jean
Chouan. The royalists forced all able-bodied men to march
under pain of death. They requisitioned harnesses, carts, and
provisions. At once Sapinaud had three thousand soldiers,
Cathelineau ten thousand, Stofflet twenty thousand, and Cha-
rette was master of Noirmoutier. The Viscount de Sccpeaux
roused the Haut Anjou; the Chevalier de Dieuzie, the Entre
Vilaine et Loire ; Tristan l'Hermite, the Bas-Maine ; the barber
Gaston, the city of Guemenee ; and Abbe Bernier all the rest.
It needed but little to rouse all those multitudes. In the
altar of a priest who had taken the oath to the republic — a
" priest swearer," as the people said — was placed a great
black cat, which sprang suddenly out during Mass. " It
is the devil ! " cried the peasants, and a whole canton rose in
revolt. A breath of fire issued from the confessionals. In
order to attack the Blues and to leap the ravines, they had
their poles fifteen feet in length, called ferte, an arm available
for combat and for flight. In the thickest of the frays, when
the peasants were attacking the republican squares if they
•haneed to meet upon the battle-field a cross or a chapel, aU
NINETY-THREE 185
fell upon their knees and said a prayer under the enemy's fire ;
the rosary counted, such as were still living sprang up again
and rushed upon the foe! Alas, what giants! They loaded
their guns as they ran; that was their peculiar talent. They
were made to believe whatever their leaders chose. The priests
showed them other priests whose necks had been reddened by
means of a cord, and said to them, " These are the guillotined
who have been brought back to life." They had their spasms
of chivalry: they honoured Fesque, a republican standard-
bearer, who allowed himself to be sabred without losing hold
of his flag. The peasants had a vein of mockery : they called
the republican and married priests " Des sans-calottes devenus
sans-culottes ! " ("The unpetticoated become the un-
breeched." )
They began by being afraid of the cannon, then they
dashed forward with their sticks and took them. They cap-
tured first a fine bronze cannon, which they baptized " The
Missionary ; " then another which dated from the Roman
Catholic wars, upon which were engraved the arms of Riche-
lieu and a head of the Virgin ; this they named " Marie
Jeanne." When they lost Fontenay they lost Marie Jeanne,
about which six hundred peasants fell without flinching; then
they retook Fontenay in order to recover Marie Jeanne : they
brought it back beneath a fleur-de-lis embroidered banner, and
covered with flowers, and forced the women w T ho passed to kiss
it. But two cannon were a small store. Stofflet had taken
Marie Jeanne; Cathelineau, jealous of his success, started out
of Pin-en-Mange, assaulted Jallais, and captured a third.
Forest attacked Saint-Florent and took a fourth. Two
other captains, Chouppes and Saint Pol, did better ; they simu-
lated cannon by the trunks of trees, gunners by mannikins,
and with this artillery, about which they laughed heartily,
made the Blues retreat to Mareuil. This was their great era.
Later, when Chalbos routed La Marsonniere, the peasants left
behind them on the dishonoured field of battle thirty-two can-
non bearing the arms of England. England at that time paid
the French princes, and as Nantiat wrote on the 10th of May,
186 NINETY-THREE
1794, " sent funds to Monseigneur, because Pitt had been told
that it was proper so to do."
Mellinet, in a report of the 31st of March, said, " Long
live the English ! " is the cry of the rebels. The peasants de-
layed themselves by pillage. These devotees were robbers.
Savages have their vices. It is by these that civilization cap-
tures them later. Puysaye says : 1 " I several times preserved
the burg of Phelan from pillage." And further on, 2 he re-
counts how he avoided entering Montfort: " I made a circuit
in order to prevent the plundering of the Jacobins' houses."
They robbed Cholet; they sacked Challans. After having
failed at Granville, they pillaged Ville-Dieu. They styled the
" Jacobin herd" those of the country people who had joined
the Blues, and exterminated such with more ferocity than
other foes. They loved battle like soldiers, and massacre like
brigands. To shoot the " clumsy fellows " — that is, the
bourgeois — pleased them ; they called that " breaking Lent."
At Fontenay, one of their priests, the Cure Barbotin,
struck down an old man by a sabre stroke. At Saint-Ger-
main-sur-Ille, one of their captains, a nobleman, shot the so-
licitor of the commune and took his watch. At Machecoul,
for five weeks they shot republicans at the rate of thirty a
day, setting them in a row, which was called " the rosary."
Back of the line was a trench, into which some of the victims
fell alive; they were buried all the same. We have seen a
revival of such actions. Joubert, the President of the dis-
trict, had his hands sawed off. They put sharp handcuffs,
forged expressly, on the Blues whom they made prisoners.
They massacred them in the public places, with the hunting
cry, " In at the death ! "
Charette, who signed " Fraternity, the Chevalier Charette,"
and who wore for head-covering a handkerchief knotted about
his brows after Marat's fashion, burned the city of Pornic,
and the inhabitants in their houses. During that time Carrier
was horrible. Terror replied to terror. The Breton insur-
gent had almost the appearance of a Greek rebel, with his
iVol. ii. p. 187. 2 ibid., p. 434.
NINETY-THREE 187
short jacket, his gun slung over his shoulder, his leggings,
and large breeches similar to the fustanella. The peasant lad
resembled the klepht.
Henri de la Roche jacquelein, at the age of onc-and-twenty,
set out for this war armed with a stick and a pair of pistols.
The Yendean army counted a hundred and fifty-four divisions.
They undertook regular sieges; they held Bressuire invested
for three days. One Good Friday ten thousand peasants can-
nonaded the town of Sables with red-hot balls. They succeeded
in a single day in destroying fourteen republican cantons,
from Montigne to Courbeveillcs. On the high wall of
Thouars this dialogue was heard between La Roche jacquelein
and a peasant lad as they stood below: —
" Charles ! "
" Here I am."
" Stand so that I can mount on your shoulders."
" Jump up."
" Your gun."
" Take it."
And Rochejacquelein leaped into the town, and the towers
which Duguesclin had besieged were taken without the aid of
ladders.
They preferred a cartridge to a gold louis. They wept
when they lost sight of their village belfry. To run away
seemed perfectly natural to them; at such times the leaders
would cry : " Throw off your sabots, but keep your guns."
When munitions were wanting, they counted their rosaries and
rushed forth to seize the powder in the caissons of the repub-
lican artillery; later; D'Elbee demanded powder from the
English. If they had wounded men among them, at the ap-
proach of the enemy they concealed these in the grain-fields or
among the ferns, and went back in search of them when the
fight was ended. They had no uniforms. Their garments
were torn to bits. Peasants and nobles wrapped themselves in
any rags they could find. Roger Mouliniers wore a turban
and a pelisse taken from the wardrobe of the theatre of La
Fleche ; the Chevalier de Beauvilliers wore a barrister's gown,
188 NINETY-THREE
and set a woman's bonnet on his head over a woollen cap. All
wore the white belt and a scarf; different grades were marked
by the knots; Stofflet had a red knot; La Rochejacquelein
had a black knot; Wimpfen, who was half a Girondist, and
who for that matter never left Normandy, wore the leather
/jacket of the Carabots of Caen. They had women in their
ranks, — Madame de Lescure, who became Madame de la
Rochejacquelein; Therese de Mollien, the mistress of La
Rouarie (she who burned the list of the chiefs of the par-
ishes) ; Madame de la Rochefoucauld (beautiful, young),
who, sabre in hand, rallied the peasants at the foot of the
great tower of the castle of Puy Rousseau ; and that An-
toinette Adams, styled the Chevalier Adams, who was so brave
that when captured she was shot standing, out of respect for
her courage.
This epic period was a cruel one. Men were mad.
Madame de Lescure made her horse tread upon the republi-
cans stretched on the ground : dead, she averred, — only
wounded perhaps. Sometimes the men proved traitors ; the
women never. Mademoiselle Fleury, of the Theatre Francais,
went from La Rouarie to Marat; but it was for love. The
captains were often as ignorant as the soldiers. Monsieur de
Sapinaud could not spell ; he was at fault in regard to the
orthography of the commonest word. There was enmity
among the leaders ; the captains of the Marais cried, " Down
with those of the High Country ! " Their cavalry was not
numerous, and difficult to form. Puysaye writes : " Many a
man who would cheerfully give me his two sons grows luke-
warm if I ask for one of his horses." Poles, pitchforks, reap-
ing-hooks, guns, old and new, poachers' knives, spits, cudgels
bound and studded with iron, — these were their arms ; some
of them carried slung round them crosses made of dead men's
bones. They rushed to an attack with loud cries, springing
up suddenly from every quarter, from the woods, the hills,
the bushes, the hollows of the roads, — killing, exterminating,
destroying ; then were gone. When they marched through a
republican town they cut down the liberty pole, set it on fire,
NINETY-THREE 189
and danced in circles about it as it burned. All their habits
were nocturnal. The Vendean rule was always to appear un-
expectedly. They would march fifteen leagues in silence, not
so much as stirring a blade of grass as they went. When
evening came, after the chiefs had settled what republican
posts should be surprised on the morrow, the men loaded their
guns, mumbled their prayers, pulled off their sabots, and filed
in long columns through the woods, marching barefoot across
the heath and moss, without a sound, without a word, without
a breath. It was like the march of cats through the dark-
ness.
CHAPTER VI
THE SPIRIT OF THE PLACE PASSES INTO THE MAN
THE Vendee in insurrection did not number less than five
hundred thousand, counting men, women, and children.
A half-million of combatants is the sum total given by Tuffin
de la Rouarie.
The federalists helped them; the Vendee had the Gironde
for accomplice. La Lozere sent thirty thousand men into the
Bocage. Eight departments coalesced, — five in Brittany,
three in Normandy. Evreux, which fraternized with Caen,
was represented in the rebellion by Chaumont its mayor, and
Gardembas a man of note. Buzot, Gorsas, and Barbaroux at
Caen, Brissot at Moulins, Chassan at Lyons, Rabaut-Saint-
Etienne at Nismes, Meillen and Duchatel in Brittany, — all
these mouths blew the furnace.
There were two Vendees, — the great, which carried on the
war of the forests ; and the little, which waged the war of the
thickets. It is that shade which separates Charette from Jean
Chouan. The little Vendee was honest, the great corrupt ; the
little was much better. Charette was made a marquis, lieu-
tenant-general of the king's armies, and received the great
cross of Saint Louis, Jean Chouan remained Jean Chouan.
190 NINETY-THREE
Charette borders on the bandit ; Jean Chouan on the paladin.
As to the magnanimous chiefs Bonchamps, Lescure, La
Roche jacquelein, — they deceived themselves. The grand
Catholic army was an insane attempt ; disaster could not fail
to follow it. Let any one imagine a tempest of peasants at-
tacking Paris, a coalition of villages besieging the Pantheon,
a troop of herdsmen flinging themselves upon a host governed
by the light of intellect. Le Mans and Savenay chastised
this madness. It was impossible for the Vendee to cross the
Loire ; she could do everything except that leap. Civil war
does not conquer. To pass the Rhine establishes a Cassar
and strengthens a Napoleon; to cross the Loire killed La
Rochejacquelein. The real strength of Vendee was Vendee
at home; there she was invulnerable, unconquerable. The
Vendean at home was smuggler, labourer, soldier, shepherd,
poacher, sharp-shooter, goatherd, bell-ringer, peasant, spy, as-
sassin, sacristan, wild beast of the wood.
La Rochejacquelein is only Achilles; Jean Chouan is Pro-
teus.
The rebellion of the Vendee failed. Other revolts have suc-
ceeded, — that of Switzerland, for example. There is this
difference between the mountain insurgent like the Swiss and
the forest insurgent like the Vendean, — that almost always
the one fights for an ideal, the other for a prejudice. The
one soars, the other crawls ; the one combats for human ity, the
other for solitude; the one desires liberty, the other wishes
isolation ; the one defends the commune, the other the parish,
— " Communes ! Communes ! " cried the heroes of Morat ;
the one has to deal with precipices, the other with quagmires ;
the one is the man of torrents and foaming streams, the other
of stagnant puddles where pestilence lurks ; the one has his
head in the blue sky, the other in the thicket; the one is on a
summit, the other in a shadow.
The education of heights and shallows is very different.
The mountain is a, citadel; the forest is an ambuscade: one
inspires audacity, the other teaches trickery. Antiquity
placed the gods on heights and the satyrs in copses. The
NINETY-THREE 191
satyr is the savage, half man, half brute. Free countries have
Apennines, Alps, Pyrenees, and Olympus. Parnassus is a
mountain. Mont Blanc is the colossal auxiliary of William
Tell. Below and above those immense struggles of souls
against the night which fills the poems of India, the Hima-
layas may be seen. Greece, Spain, Italy, Helvetia have for
their likeness the mountain; Cimmeria, Germany, Brittany h
the wood. The forest is barbarous.
The configuration of soil decides many of man's actions.
The earth is more his accomplice than people believe. Id
presence of certain savage landscapes one is tempted to ex-
onerate man and criminate creation. One feels a certain hid-
den provocation on the part of Nature; the desert is some-
times unhealthy for the conscience, especially for the con-
science that is little illuminated. Conscience may be a giant,
— then she produces a Socrates, a Christ; she may be a dwarf,
— then she moulds Atreus and Judas. The narrow conscience
becomes quickly reptile in its instincts: forests where twilight
reigns; the bushes, the thorns, the marshes beneath the
branches, — all have a fatal attraction for her; she under-
goes the mysterious infiltration of evil persuasions. Optical
illusions, unexplained mirages, the terrors of the hour or the
scene, throw man into this sort of fright, — half religious,
half bestial, which engenders superstition in ordinary times,
and brutality at violent epochs. Hallucinations hold the
torch which lights the road to murder. The brigand is
dizzied by a vertigo. Nature in her immensity has a double
meaning, which dazzles great minds and blinds savage souls.
AVhcn man is ignorant, when his desert is peopled with visions,
the obscurity of solitude adds itself to the obscurity of intel-
ligence; hence come depths in the human soul, black and pro-
found as an abyss. Certain rocks, certain ravines, certain
thickets, certain wild openings in the trees through which night
looks down, push men on to mad and atrocious actions. One
might almost say that there are places which are the home of
the spirit of evil. How many tragic sights have been watched
by the sombre hill between Baignon and Phelan ! Vast
192 NINETY-THREE
horizons lead the soul on to wide, general ideas ; circumscribed
horizons engender narrow, one-sided conceptions, which con-
demn great hearts to be little in point of soul. Jean Chouan
was an example of this truth. Broad ideas are hated by
partial ideas ; this is in fact the struggle of progress.
Neighbourhood, country, — these two words sum up the
whole of the Vendean war: a quarrel of the local idea against
the universal; of the peasant against the patriot.
CHAPTER VII
LA VENDEE ENDED BRITTANY
BRITTANY is an ancient rebel. Each time she revolted
during two thousand years she was in the right ; but
the last time she was wrong. Still, at bottom (against the
revolution as against monarchy, against the acting Represent-
atives as against governing dukes and peers, against the rule
of assignats as against the sway of excise officers, whosoever
might be the men that fought, Nicolas Rapin, Francois de la
Noue, Captain Pluviaut, the Lady of La Garnache or Stofflet,
Coquereau, and Lechandelier de Pierreville ; under De Rohan
against the king, and under La Rochej acquelein for the king)
it was always the same war that Brittany waged, — the war
of the Local Spirit against the Central. Those ancient prov-
inces were ponds ; that stagnant water could not bear to
flow ; the wind which swept across did not revivify, — it irri-
tated them.
Finistere formed the bounds of France: there the space
given to man ended, and the march of generations stopped.
" Halt ! " the ocean cried to the land, to barbarism and to
civilization. Each time that the centre — Paris — gives an
impulse, whether that impulse come from royalty or republi-
canism, whether it be in the interest of despotism or liberty,
it is something new, and Brittany bristles up against it.
NINETY-THREE 195
" Leave us in peace ! What is it they want of us ? ' The
Marais seizes the pitchfork, the Bocage its carbine. All our
attempts, our initiative movement in legislation and in educa-
tion, our encyclopedias, our philosophies, our genius, our
glories, all fail before the Houroux ; the tocsin of Bazouges
menaces the French Revolution, the moor of Faou rises in re-
bellion against the voice of our towns, and the bell of the
Haut-dcs-Pres declares war against the Tower of the Louvre.
Terrible blindness ! The Vendean insurrection was the re-
sult of a fatal misunderstanding.
A colossal scuffle, a jangling of Titans, an immeasurable re-
bellion, destined to leave in history only one word, — the Ven-
dee, — word illustrious yet dark ; committing suicide for the
absent, devoted to egotism, passing its time in making to cow-
ardice the offer of a boundless bravery ; without calculation,
without strategy, without tactics, without plan, without aim,
without chief , without responsibility ; showing to what extent
Will can be impotent; chivalric and savage; absurdity at its
climax, a building up a barrier of black shadows against the
light ; ignorance making a long resistance at once idiotic and
superb against justice, right, reason, and deliverance; the ter-
ror of eight years, the rendering desolate fourteen depart-
ments, the devastation of fields, the destruction of harvests,
the burning of villages, the ruin of cities, the pillage of houses,
the massacre of women and children, the torch in the thatch,
the sword in the heart, the terror of civilization, the hope of
Mr. Pitt, — such was this war, the unreasoning effort of the
parricide.
In short, by proving the necessity of perforating in every
direction the old Breton shadows, and piercing this thicket
with arrows of light from every quarter at once, the Vendue
served Progress. The catastrophes had their uses.
13
BOOK II
THE THREE CHILDREN
CHAPTER I
PLUSQUAM CIVILIA BELLA
THE summer of 1792 had been very rainy; the summer
of 1793 was dry and hot. In consequence of the civil
war, there were no roads left, so to speak, in Brittany. Still
it was possible to get about, thanks to the beauty of the sea-
son. Dry fields make an easy route.
At the close of a lovely July day, about an hour before
sunset, a man on horseback, who came from the direction of
Avranches, drew rein before the little inn called the Croix-
Branchard, which stood at the entrance of Pontorson, and
which for years past had borne this inscription on its sign :
" Good cider on draught." It had been warm all day, but the
wind was beginning now to rise.
The traveller was enveloped in an ample cloak which cov-
ered the back of his horse. He wore a broad hat with a tri-
coloured cockade, which was a sufficiently bold thing to do in
this country of hedges and gunshots, where a cockade was a
target. The cloak, fastened about his neck, was thrown back
to leave his arms free, and beneath glimpses could be had of
a tricoloured sash and two pistols thrust in it. A sabre hung
down below the cloak.
At the sound of the horse's hoofs the door of the inn
194
NINETY-THREE 195
opened and the landlord appeared, a lantern in his hand. It
was the intermediate hour between day and night: still light
along the highway, but dark in the house. The host looked
at the cockade.
" Citizen," said he, " do you stop here? "
" No."
" Where are you going, then? "
" To Dol."
' In that case go back to Avranches or remain at Pontor-
son."
"Why?"
" Because there is fighting at Dol."
" Ah ! " said the horseman.
Then he added, —
" Give my horse some oats."
The host brought the trough, emptied a measure of oats
into it, and took the bridle off the horse, which began to snuff
and eat.
The dialogue continued : —
" Citizen, has that horse been seized? "
" No."
" It belongs to you ? "
" Yes. I bought and paid for it."
" Where do you come from ? "
" Paris."
"Not direct?"
" No."
" I should think not ! The roads are closed, but the post
runs still."
" As far as Alencon. I left it there."
" Ah ! Very soon there will be no longer any posts in
France. There are no more horses. A horse worth three
hundred livres costs six hundred, and fodder is beyond all
price. I have been postmaster, and now I am keeper of a
cookshop. Out of thirteen hundred and thirteen postmasters
that there used to be, two hundred have resigned. Citizen,
you travelled according to the new tariff? "
196 NINETY-THREE
*5
" That of the 1st of May — yes.
" Twenty sous a post for a carriage, twelve for a gig, five
sous for a van. You bought your horse at Alencon? M
" Yes."
" You have ridden all day ? "
" Since dawn."
" And yesterday ? "
" And the day before."
" I can see that. You came by Domfront and Mortain."
" And Avranches."
" Take my advice, citizen ; rest yourself. You must be
tired. Your horse is certainly."
" Horses have a right to be tired ; men have not."
The host again fixed his eyes on the traveller, whose face
was grave, calm, and severe, and framed by grey hair.
The innkeeper cast a glance along the road, which was
deserted as far as the eye could reach, and said, —
" And you travel alone in this fashion? "
" I have an escort."
"Where is it?"
" My sabre and pistols."
The innkeeper brought a bucket of water, and while the
horse was drinking, studied the traveller, and said mentally :
" All the same, he has the look of a priest."
The horseman resumed : " You say there is fighting at
Dol?"
" Yes. That ought to be about beginning."
"Who is fighting?"
" One ci-devant against another ci-devant."
" You said — "
" I say that an ex-noble who is for the Republic is fighting
against another ex-noble who is for the king."
" But there is no longer a king."
" There is the little fellow ! The odd part of the business
is that these two ci-devants are relations."
The horseman listened attentively. The innkeeper con-
tinued : —
NINETY-THREE 107
" One is young, the other old. It is the grand-nephew who
fights the great-uncle. The uncle is a royalist, the nephew a
patriot. The uncle commands the Whites, the nephew com-
mands the Blues. Ah, they will show no quarter, I'll warrant
you. It is a war to the death."
"Death?"
" Yes, citizen. Hold ! would you like to see the compliments
they fling at each other's heads? Here is a notice the old
man finds means to placard everywhere, on all the houses and
all the trees, and that he has had stuck up on my very door."
The host held up his lantern to a square of paper fastened
on a panel of the double door, and as the placard was written
in large characters, the traveller could read it as he sat on his
horse : —
" The Marquis de Lantenac has the honour of informing his grand-
nephew, the Viscount Gauvain, that, if the Marquis has the good
fortune to seize his person, he will cause the Viscount to be decently
shot."
" Here," added the host, " is the reply."
He went forward, and threw the light of the lantern upon
a second placard placed on a level with the first upon the other
leaf of the door. The traveller read: —
" Gauvain warns Lantenac that, if he take him, he will have him
shot."
" Yesterday," said the host, " the first piacard was stuck on
my door, and this morning the second. There was no wait-
ing for the answer."
The traveller in a half-voice, and as if speaking to himself,
uttered these words, which the innkeeper heard without really
comprehending, —
" Yes ; this is more than war in the country ; it is war in
families. It is necessary, and it is well. The grand restora-
tion of the people must be bought at this price."
And the traveller raised his hand to his hat and saluted the
second placard, on which his eyes were still fixed.
198 NINETY-THREE
The host continued : —
" So, citizen, you understand how the matter lies. In the
cities and the large towns we are for the Revolution, in the
country they are against it; that is to say, in the towns people
are Frenchmen, and in the villages they are Bretons. It is a
war of the townspeople against the peasants. They call us
clowns, we call them boors. The nobles and the priests are
with them."
" Not all," interrupted the horseman.
" Certainly not, citizen, since we have here a viscount
against a marquis."
Then he added to himself : " And I feel sure I am speaking
to a priest."
The horseman continued : " And which of the two has the
best of it?"
" The viscount so far. But he has to work hard. The old
man is a tough one. They belong to the Gauvain family, —
nobles of these parts. It is a family with two branches : there
is the great branch, whose chief is called the Marquis de
Lantenac ! and there is the lesser branch, whose head is called
the Viscount Gauvain. To-day the two branches fight each
other. One does not see that among trees, but one sees it
among men. This Marquis de Lantenac is all-powerful in
Brittany; the peasants consider him a prince. The very day
he landed, eight thousand men joined him; in a week, three
hundred parishes had risen. If he had been able to get foot-
hold on the coast, the English would have landed. Luckily
this Gauvain was at hand, — the other's grand-nephew : odd
chance! He is the republican commander, and he has check-
mated his grand-uncle. And then, as good luck would have
it, when this Lantenac arrived, and was massacring a heap
of prisoners, he had two women shot, one of whom had three
children that had been adopted by a Paris battalion. And
that made a terrible battalion ; they call themselves the Bat-
talion of the Bonnet Rouge. There are not many of those
Parisians left, but they are furious bayonets. They have
been incorporated into the division of Commandant Gauvain?
NIXETY-TIIREE 199
nothing can stand against them. They mean to avenge the
women and retake the children. Nobody knows what the old
man lias done with the little ones: that is what enraged the
Parisian grenadiers. Suppose those babies had not been mixed
up in the matter, the war would not be what it is. The vis-
count is a good, brave young man ; but the old fellow is a
terrible marquis. The peasants call it the war of Saint
Michael against Beelzebub. You know, perhaps, that Saint
Michel is an angel of the district; there is a mountain named
after him out in the bay; they say he overcame the demon,
and buried him under another mountain near here, which is
called Tombelaine."
" Yes," murmured the horseman ; " Tumba Beleni, the tomb
of Belenus, — Belus, Bel, Belial, Beelzebub."
" I see that you are well informed." And the host again
spoke to himself : " He understands Latin ! Decidedly he is
a priest." Then he resumed : " Well, citizen, for the peas-
ants it is that war beginning over again. For them the royal-
ist general is Saint Michael, and Beelzebub is the republican
commander. But if there is a devil, it is certainly Lantenac;
and if there is an angel, it is Gauvain. You will take noth-
ing, citizen? "
" I have my gourd and a bit of bread. But you do not tell
me what is passing at Dol ! "
" This. Gauvain commands the exploring column of the
coast. Lantenac's aim was to rouse a general insurrection,
and sustain Lower Brittany by the aid of Lower Normandy,
open the door to Pitt, and give a shove forward to the Vendean
army, with twenty thousand English, and two hundred thou-
sand peasants. Gauvain cut this plan short : he holds the
coast, and he drives Lantenac into the interior and the Eng-
lish into the sea. Lantenac was here, and Gauvain has dis-
lodged him ; has taken from him the Pont-au-Beau, has driven
him out of Avranches, chased him out of Villedieu, and kept
him from reaching Granville. He is manoeuvring to shut him
up again in the forest of Fougercs, and to surround him.
Yesterday everything was going well: Gauvain was here with
200 NINETY-THREE
his division. All of a sudden, an alarm ! the old man, who is
skilful, made a point; information comes that he has marched
on Dol. If he takes Dol, and establishes a battery on Mount
Dol (for he has cannon), then there will be a place on the
coast where the English can land, and everything is lost.
That is why, as there was not a minute to lose, that Gauvain,
who is a man with a head, took counsel with nobody but him-
self, asked no orders and waited for none, but sounded the
signal to saddle, put to his artillery, collected his troop, drew
his sabre, and while Lantenac throws himself on Dol, Gauvain
throws himself on Lantenac. It is at Dol that these two Bre-
ton heads will knock together. There will be a fine shock.
They are at it now."
" How long does it take to get to Dol? "
" At least three hours for a troop with cannon ; but they
are there now."
The traveller listened, and said : " In fact, I think I hear
cannon."
The host listened. " Yes, citizen ; and the musketry.
They have opened the ball. You would do well to pass the
night here. There will be nothing good to catch over there."
" I cannot stop. I must keep on my road."
" You are wrong. I do not know your business ; but the
risk is great, and unless it concern what you hold dearest in
the world — "
" In truth, it is that which is concerned," said the cavalier.
" Something like your son — "
« Very nearly that," said the cavalier.
The innkeeper raised his head, and said to himself.
" Still this citizen gives me the impression of being a
priest." Then, after a little reflection : " All the same, a
priest may have children."
" Put the bridle back on my horse," said the traveller.
" How much do I owe you? " He paid the man.
The host set the trough and the bucket back against the
wall, and returned toward the horseman. " Since you are
determined to go, listen to my advice. It is clear that you are
<->
NINETY-THREE 201
going to Saint Malo. Well, do not pass by Dol. Then' are
two roads, — the road by Dol, and the road along the sea-
shore. There is scarcely any difference in their length. The
sea-shore road passes by Saint-Georges-dc-Brehaigne, Cher-
rueix, and Hirelle-Vivier. You leave Dol to the south and
Cancale to the north. Citizen, at the end of the street you
will find the branching off of the two routes; that of Dol is on
the left, that of Saint-Georgcs*de-Brehaigne on the right.
Listen well to me: if you go by Dol, you will fall into the
middle of the massacre. That is why you must not take to
the left, but to the right."
" Thanks," said the traveller. He spurred his horse for-
ward. The obscurity was now complete; he hurried on into
the night. The innkeeper lost sight of- him.
When the traveller reached the end of the street where the
two roads branched off, he heard the voice of the innkeeper
calling to him from afar, —
" Take the right ! "
He took the left.
CHAPTER II
DOL
DOL, a Spanish city of France in Brittany, as the guide-
books style it, is not a town ; it is a street, — a great
old Gothic street, bordered all the way on the right and the
left by houses with pillars, placed irregularly, so that they
form nooks and elbows in the highway, which is nevertheless
very wide. The rest of the town is only a network of lanes,
attaching themselves to this great diametrical street, and pour-
ing into it like brooks into a river. The city, without gates
or walls, open, overlooked by Mount Dol, could not have sus-
tained a siege ; but the street might have sustained one. The
202 NINETY-THREE
promontories of houses, which were still to be seen fifty years
back, and the two-pillared galleries which bordered the street,
made a battle-ground that was very strong and capable of
offering great resistance. Each house was a fortress in fact,
and it would be necessary to take them one after another.
The old market was very nearly in the middle of the street.
The innkeeper of the Croix-Branchard had spoken truly,
— a mad conflict filled Dol- at the moment he uttered the
words. A nocturnal duel between the Whites, that morning
arrived, and the Blues, who had come upon them in the
evening, burst suddenly over the town. The forces were un-
equal : the Whites numbered six thousand; there were only
fifteen hundred of the Blues. But there was equality in
point of obstinate rage; strange to say, it was the fifteen
hundred who had attacked the six thousand.
One one side a mob, on the other a phalanx. On one side
six thousand peasants, with blessed medals on their leather
vests, white ribbons on their round hats, Christian devices on
their braces, chaplets at their belts, carrying more pitchforks
than sabres, carbines without bayonets, dragging cannon with
ropes ; badly equipped, ill disciplined, poorly armed, but fran-
tic. In opposition to them wei'e fifteen hundred soldiers, wear-
ing three-cornered hats, coats with large tails and wide lapels,
shoulder-belts crossed, copper-hilted swords, and carrying
guns with long bayonets. They were trained, skilled; docile,
yet fierce ; obeying like men who would know how to command :
volunteers also, shoeless and in rags too, but volunteers for
their country. On the side of Monarchy, peasants who were
paladins ; for the Revolution, barefooted heroes, and each
troop possessing a soul in its leader: the royalists having an
old man, the republicans a young one. On this side, Lan-
tenac; on the other, Gauvain.
The Revolution, side by side with its faces of youthful
giants like those of Danton, Saint-Just, and Robespierre, has
faces of ideal youth, like those of Hoche and Marceau. Gau-
vain was one of these.
He was thirty years old; he had a Herculean bust, the
NINETY-THREE 203
solemn eye of a prophet, and the laugh of a child. He did
not smoke, he did not drink, he did not swear. He carried a
dressing-case through the whole war; he took care of his nails,
his teeth, and his hair, which was dark and luxuriant. Dur-
ing halts he himself shook in the wind his military coat, riddled
with bullets and white with dust. Though always rushi
headlong into an affray, he had never been wounded. His
singularly sweet voice had at command the abrupt imperi-
ousness needed by a leader. He set the example of sleeping
on the ground, in the wind, the rain, and the snow, rolled in
his cloak and with his noble head pillowed on a stone. His
was a heroic and innocent soul. The sabre in his hand trans-
figured him. He had that effeminate air which in battle turns
into something formidable. With all that, a thinker and a
philosopher, a youthful sage, — Alcibiades in appearance,
Socrates in speech.
In that immense improvisation of the French Revolution
this young man had become at once a leader. His division,
formed by himself, was like a Roman legion, a kind of com-
plete little army. It was composed of infantry and cavalry ;
it had its scouts, its pioneers, its sappers, pontoniers ; and as
a Roman legion had its catapults, this one had its cannon.
Three pieces, well mounted, rendered the column strong,
while leaving it easy to guide.
Lantenac was also a thorough soldier, — a more consummate
one. He was at the same time wary and hardy. Old heroes
have more cold determination than young ones, because the}'
are far removed from the warmth of life's morning; more
audacity, because they are near death. What have they to
lose? So very little. Hence the manoeuvres of Lantenac
were at once rash and skilful. But in the main, and almost
always, in this dogged hand-to-hand conflict between the old
man and the young, Gauvain gained the advantage. It was
rather the w r ork of fortune than anything else. All good
luck — even successes which are in themselves terrible — go to
youth. Victory is somewhat of a woman.
Lantenac was exasperated against Gauvain, — justly, be-
204 NINETY-THREE
cause Gauvain fought against him ; in the second place, be-
cause he was of his kindred. What did he mean by turning
Jacobin, — this Gauvain, this mischievous dog! his heir (for
the marquis had no children), his grand-nephew, almost his
grandson ! " Ah," said this quasi-grandfather, " if I put my
hand on him, I will kill him like a dog ! "
For that matter, the Revolution was right to disquiet itself
in regard to this Marquis de Lantenac. An earthquake fol-
lowed his landing. His name spread through the Vendean
insurrection like a train of powder, and Lantenac at once be-
came the centre. In a revolt of that nature, where each is
jealous of the other, and each has ~;is thicket or ravine, the
arrival of a superior rallies the scattered leaderr who have been
equals among themselves. Nearly all the forest captains
had joined Lantenac, and, whether near or far off, they
obeyed him. One man alone had departed; it was the first
who had joined him, — Gavard. Wherefore? Because he
had been a man of trust. Gavard has., known all the cecrets
and adopted all the plans c 1 the ancien '; system 01 civil war ;
Lantenac appeared to replace and supplant him. One does
not inherit from a man of trust - , ti^e rV.r: of J a Eonain did
not fit Lantenac. Gavard departed to oin Bonchamp.
Lantenac, as a military man, belonged, to the rchool of
Frederick II. ; he understood combining tl ? great war with the
little. He would Lave neither c '' confused masc " (like the
great Catholic and Itoyal army), i. crowd destined + o bo
crushed, nor a troop o£ guerillas scattered amon~ the hedge?
and copses, — good to harass, impotent to destroy. Guerillr.
warfare finishes nothing, or finishes ill ; it begins by attacking
a republic and endo by rifling a diligence. Lantenac did not
comprehend this Bretoi. war as the other chiefs had done, —
neither as La Rochejacquelin. who was all for open country
campaigns ; nor as Jean Chouan, all for the forest. He would
have neither Vendee nor CLouannerie ; he wanted real warfare:
he would make use of the peasant, but he meant to depend on
the soldier. He wanted bands for strategy and regiments for
tactics. He found these village armies admirable for attack.
NINETY-THREE 205
for ambush and surprise, quickly gathered, quickly dispersed;
but he felt that they lacked solidity, — they were like water
in his hand. Is wanted to create a solid base in this float-
ing and diffused war; 'ie w .nted to join to the savage army
of the forests regularly drilled troops that would make a pivot
about which he could manoeuvre the peasants. It was a pro-
found and terrible conception ; if it had succeeded, the Ven-
dee T70uh" have been unconquerable.
Bu. w find regular troops ? Where look for soldiers,
whei -? seek for regiments, where discover an army ready made?
In EnglaiK . 1 ience Lantenac's determined idea, — to land
the English. Thus the conscience of parties compromises
with itself. The white cockade hid the red uniform from
Lantenac's sight. He had only one thought, — to get pos-
session of some point on the coast, and deliver it up to Pitt.
That was why, seeing Dol defenceless, he flung himself upon
it; the taking of the town would give him Mount Dol, and
Mount Dol the coast.
The place was well chosen. The cannon of Mount Dol
would sweep the Fresnois on one side and Saint-Brelade on
the other; would keep the cruisers of Cancale at a distance,
and leave the whole beach, from Raz-sur-Couesnon to Saint-
Meloir-des-Oudes, clear for an invasion. For the carrying
out of this decisive attempt, Lantenac had brought with him
only a little over six thousand men, the flower of the bands
which he had at his disposal, and all his artillery, — ten six-
teen-pound culverins, a demi-culvcrin, and a four-pounder.
His idea was to establish a strong battery on Mount Dol,
upon the principle that a thousand shots fired from ten cannon
do more execution than fifteen hundred fired with five. Suc-
cess appeared certain. They were six thousand men. Toward
Avranches, they had only Gauvain and his fifteen hundred
men to fear, and Lechelle in the direction of Dinan. It was
true that Lechelle had twenty-five thousand men, but he was
twenty leagues away. So Lantenac felt confidence! on
LcchehVs side he put the great distance against the great
numbers; with Gauvain, the size of the force against their
206 NINETY-THREE
propinquity. Let us add that Lechelle was an idiot, who later
on allowed his twenty-five thousand men to be exterminated
in the landes of the Croix-Bataille. — a blunder which he
attoned for by suicide.
So Lantenac felt perfect security. His entrance into Dol
was sudden and stern. The Marquis de Lantenac had a stern
reputation ; he was known to be without pity. No resistance
was attempted. The terrified inhabitants barricaded them-
selves in their houses. The six thousand Vendeans installed
themselves in the town with rustic confusion ; it was almost like
a fair-ground, without quartermasters, without allotted camp,
bivouacking at hazard, cooking in the open air, scattering
themselves among the churches, forsaking their guns for their
rosaries. Lantenac went in haste with some artillery officers
to reconnoitre Mount Dol, leaving the command to Gouge-
le-Bruant, whom he had appointed field-sergeant.
This Gouge-le-Bruant has left a vague trace in history.
He had two nicknames, Brise-bleu, on account of his massa-
cre of patriots, and Imanus, because he had in him a some-
thing that was indescribably horrible. Imanus, derived from
imanis, is an old bas-Norman word which expresses super-
human ugliness, something almost divine in its awfulness, — a
demon, a satyr, an ogre. An ancient manuscript says,
" With my two eyes I saw Imanus." The old people of the
Bocage no longer know to-day who Gouge-le-Bruant was, nor
what Brisebleu signifies; but they know, confusedly, Imanus.
Imanus is mingled with the local superstitions; they talk of
him still at Tremorel and at Plumaugat, two villages where
Gouge-le-Bruant has left the trace of his sinister course. In
the Vendee the others were savages ; Gourge-le-Bruant was the
barbarian. He was a species of cacique, tattooed with Chris-
tian crosses and fleur-de-lis; he had on his face the hideous,
almost supernatural glare of a soul which no other human
soul resembled. He was infernally brave in combat ; atrocious
afterward. His was a heart full of tortuous intricacies, ca-
pable of all forms of devotion, inclined to all madnesses. Did
he reason ? Yes ; but as serpents crawl, in a twisted fashion.
NINETY-THREE 207
He started from heroism to reach murder. It was impossible
to divine whence his resolves came to him ; they were some-
times grand from their very monstrosity. He was capable of
every possible unexpected horror; his ferocity was epic.
Hence his mysterious nickname, Imanus. The Marquis de
Lantenac had confidence in his cruelty. It was true that
Imanus excelled in cruelty, but in strategy and in tactics he
was less clever, and perhaps the marquis erred in making him
his field-sergeant. However that might be, he left Imanus
behind him with instructions to replace him and look after
everything. Gouge-le-Bruant, a man more of a fighter than
a soldier, was fitter to cut the throats of a clan than to guard
a town. Still he posted main-guards.
When evening came, as the Marquis de Lantenac was re-
turning toward Dol, after having decided upon the ground
for his battery, he suddenly heard the report of cannon. He
looked forward. A red smoke was rising from the principal
street. There had been surprise, invasion, assault; they were
fighting in the town. Although very difficult to astonish, he
was stupefied. He had not been prepared for anything of the
sort. Who could it be? Evidently it was not Gauvain. No
man would attack a force that numbered four to his one.
Was it Lechelle? But could he have made such a forced
march ? Lechelle was improbable ; Gauvain impossible.
Lantenac urged on his horse; as he rode forward he en-
countered the flying inhabitants; he questioned them. They
were mad with terror ; they cried, " The Blues ! the Blues ! "
W 7 hen he arrived, the situation was a bad one. This is what
had happened.
208 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER III
SMALL ARMIES AND GREAT BATTLES
AS we have just seen, the peasants, on arriving at Dol,
dispersed themselves through the town, each man fol-
lowing his own fancy, as happens when troops " obey from
friendship," a favourite expression with the Vendeans, — a
species of obedience which makes heroes, but not troopers.
They thrust the artillery out of the way along with the bag-
gage, under the arches of the old market-hall. They were
weary ; they ate, drank, counted their rosaries, and lay down
pell-mell across the principal street, which was encumbered
rather than guarded.
As night came on, the greater portion fell asleep, with their
heads on their knapsacks, some having their wives beside them,
for the peasant women often followed their husbands, and the
robust ones acted as spies. It was a mild July evening; the
constellation glittered in the deep purple of the sky. The
entire bivouac, which resembled rather the halt of a caravan
than an army encamped, gave itself up to repose. Suddenly,
amid the dull gleams of twilight, such as had not yet closed
their eyes saw three pieces of ordnance pointed at the entrance
of the street. It was Gauvain's artillery. He had surprised
the main-guard. He was in the town, and his column held
the top of the street.
A peasant started up, crying, " Who goes there? " and fired
his musket ; a cannon-shot replied. Then a furious discharge
of musketry burst forth. The whole drowsy crowd sprang
up with a start. A rude shock, — to fall asleep under the
stars and wake under a volley of grape-shot.
The first moments were terrific. There is nothing so tragic
as the aimless swarming of a thunderstricken crowd. They
flung themselves on their arms ; they yelled, they ran ; many
fell. The assaulted peasants no longer knew what they were
NINETY-THREE 200
.'ihout, and blindly shot one another. The townspeople,
stunned with fright, rushed in and out of their houses, and
wandered frantically amid the hubbub. Families shrieked to
one another. A dismal combat ensued, in which women and
children were mingled. The halls, as they whistled overhead,
streaked the darkness with rays of light. A fusilade poured
from every dark corner. There was nothing but smoke and
tumult. The entanglement of the baggage-wagons and the
cannon-carriages was added to the confusion. The horses be-
came unmanageable; the wounded were trampled under foot.
The groans of the poor wretches, helpless on the ground, filled
the air. Horror here, stupefaction there. Soldiers and offi-
cers sought for one another. In the midst of all this could be
seen creatures made indifferent to the awful scene by personal
preoccupations. A woman sat nursing her new-born babe,
seated on a bit of wall, against which her husband leaned with
his leg broken; and he, while his blood was flowing, tranquilly
loaded his rifle and fired at random, straight before him into
the darkness. Men lying fiat on the ground fired across the
spokes of the wagon-wheels. At moments there rose a hideous
din of clamours, then the great voices of the cannon drowned
all. It was awful. It was like a felling of trees ; they dropped
one upon another. Gauvain poured out a deadly fire from his
ambush, and suffered little loss.
Still the peasants, courageous amid their disorder, ended
by putting themselves on the defensive; they retreated into
the market, — a vast, obscure redoubt, a forest of stone pil-
lars. There they again made a stand; anything which re-
sembled a wood gave them confidence. Imanus supplied the
absence of Lantenac as best he could. They had cannon, but
to the great astonishment of Gauvain they did not make use
of it ; that was owing to the fact that the artillery officers had
gone with the marquis to reconnoitre Mount Dol, and the
peasants did not know how to manage the culverins and demi-
culverins. But they riddled with balls the Blues who can-
nonaded them ; they replied to the grape-shot by volleys of
musketry. It was now they who were sheltered. They had
14
210 NINETY-THREE
heaped together the drays, the tumbrels, the casks, all the
litter of the old market, and improvised a lofty barricade, with
openings through which they could pass their carbines.
From these holes their fusilade was murderous. The whole
was quickly arranged. In a quarter of an hour the market
presented an impregnable front.
This became a serious matter for Gauvain. This market
suddenly transformed into a citadel was unexpected. The
peasants were inside it, massed and solid. Gauvain's surprise
had succeeded, but he ran the risk of defeat. He got down
from his saddle. He stood attentively studying the darkness,
his arms folded, clutching his sword in one hand, erect, in the
glare of a torch which lighted his battery. The gleam, falling
on his tall figure, made him visible to the men behind the
barricade. He became an aim for them, but he did not notice
it. The shower of balls sent out from the barricade fell about
him as he stood there, lost in thought. But he could oppose
cannon to all these carbines, and cannon always ends by get-
ting the advantage. Victory rests with him who has the
artillery. His battery, well manned, insured him the su-
periority.
Suddenly a lightning-flash burst from the shadowy mar-
ket ; there was a sound like a peal of thunder, and a ball broke
through a house above Gauvain's head. The barricade was
replying to the cannon with its own voice. What had hap-
pened? Something new had occurred. The artillery was
no longer confined to one side. A second ball followed the
first and buried itself in the wall close to Gauvain. A third
knocked his hat off on the ground. These balls were of a
heavy calibre. It was a sixteen-pounder that fired.
" They are aiming at 30U, commandant," cried the artil-
lerymen.
They extinguished the torch. Gauvain, as if in a reverie,
picked up his hat. Some one had in fact aimed at Gauvain :
it was Lantenac. The marquis had just arrived within the
barricade from the opposite side. Imanus had hurried to
meet him.
NINETY-THREE 2 1 1
" Monseigneur, we arc surprised!"
"By whom?"
" I do not know."
" Is the route to Dinan free? "
" I think so."
" We must begin a retreat."
" It has commenced. A good many have run away."
" We must not run ; we must fall back. Why are you not
making use of this artillery?"
" The men lost their heads ; besides, the officers were not
here."
" I am come."
" Monseigneur, I have sent toward Fougeres all I could
of the baggage, the women, evei^thing useless. What is to
be done with the three little prisoners? "
" Ah, those children ! "
" Yes."
" They are our hostages. Have them taken to La
Tourgue."
This said, the marquis rushed to the barricade. With the
arrival of the chief the whole face of affairs changed. The
barricade was ill-constructed for artillery ; there was only
room for two cannon ; the marquis put in position a couple
of sixteen-pounders, for which loop-holes were made. As he
leaned over one of the guns, watching the enemy's battery
through the opening, he perceived Gauvain.
" It is he ! " cried the marquis.
Then he took the swab and rammer himself, loaded the
piece, sighted it, and fired. Thrice he aimed at Guavain and
missed. The third time he only succeeded in knocking his
hat off.
" Numbskull ! " muttered Lantenac ; " a little lower, and I
should have taken his head." Suddenly the torch went out,
and he had only darkness before him. " So be it! " said he.
Then turning toward the peasant gunners, he cried: " Now let
them have it ! "
Gauvain, on his side, was not less in earnest. The se-
212 NINETY-THREE
riousness of the situation increased. A new phase of the com-
bat developed itself. The barricade had begun to use can-
non. Who could tell if it were not about to pass from the
defensive to the offensive? Pie had before him, after de-
ducting the killed and fugitives, at least five thousand com-
batants, and he had left only twelve hundred serviceable men.
What would happen to the republicans if the enemy per-
ceived their paucity of numbers? The roles were reversed.
He had been the assailant, — he would become the assailed.
If the barricade were to make a sortie, everything might be
lost. What was to be done? He could no longer think
of attacking the barricade in front ; an attempt at main force
would be foolhardy : twelve hundred men cannot dislodge five
thousand. To rush upon them was impossible; to wait would
be fatal. He must make an end. But how?
Gauvain belonged to the neighbourhood; he was acquainted
with the town ; he knew that the old market-house where the
Vendcans were intrenched was backed by a labyrinth of nar-
row and crooked streets. He turned towards his lieutenant,
who was that valiant Captain Guechamp, afterward famous
for clearing out the forest of Concise, where Jean Chouan
was born, and for preventing the capture of Bourgneuf by
holding the dike of La Chaine against the rebels.
" Guechamp," said he, " I leave you in command. Fire
as fast as you can. Riddle the barricade with cannon-balls.
Keep all those fellows over yonder busy."
" I understand," said Guechamp.
" Mass the whole column with their guns loaded, and hold
them ready to make an onslaught." He added a few words
in Guechamp's ear.
" I hear," said Guechamp.
Gauvain resumed: "Are all our drummers on foot?"
" Yes."
" We have nine. Keep two and give me seven."
The seven drummers ranged themselves in silence in front
of Gauvain. Then he said : " Battalion of the Bonnet
Rouge ! "
NINETY-THREE 218
Twelve men, of whom one was a sergeant, stepped out
from the main body of the troop.
" I demand the whole battalion," said Gauvain.
" Here it is," replied the sergeant.
" You are twelve ! "
" There are twelve of us left."
" It is well," said Gauvain.
This sergeant was the good, rough trooper lladoub, who
had adopted, in the name of the battalion, the three children
they had encountered in the wood of La Saudraie. It will
be remembered that only a demi-battalion had been ex-
terminated at Herbc-en-Pail, and Radoub was fortunate
enough not to have been among the number.
There was a forage-wagon standing near; Gauvain pointed
toward it with his finger. " Sergeant, order your men to
make some straw ropes and twist them about their guns, so
that there will be no noise if they knock together."
A minute passed; the order was silently executed in the
darkness.
" It is done," said the sergeant.
" Soldiers, take off your shoes," commanded Gauvain.
" We have none," returned the sergeant.
They numbered, counting the drummers, nineteen men ;
Gauvain made the twentieth. He cried: "Follow me! Sin-
gle file ! The drummers next to me, the battalion behind them.
Sergeant, you will command the battalion."
He put himself at the head of the column, and while
the firing on both sides continued, these twenty men, gliding
along like shadows, plunged into the deserted lanes. The line
marched thus for some time, twisting along the fronts of
the houses. The whole town seemed dead ; the citizens were
hidden in their cellars. Every door was barred; every shut-
ter closed; no light to be seen anywhere. Amid this silence
the principal street kept up its din ; the cannonading con-
tinued; the republican battery and the royalist barricade spit
forth their volleys with undiminished fury.
After twenty minutes of this tortuous march, Gauvain,
214 NINETY-THREE
who kept his way unerringly through the darkness, reached
the end of a lane which led into the broad street, but on the
other side of the market-house. The position was turned.
In this direction there was no intrenchment, according to the
eternal imprudence of barricade builders; the market was
open, and the entrance free among the pillars where some
baggage-wagons stood ready to depart. Gauvain and his
nineteen men had the five thousand Vendeans before them,
but their backs instead of their faces.
Gauvain spoke in a low voice to the sergeant ; the soldiers
untwisted the straw from their guns ; the twelve grenadiers
posted themselves in line behind the angle of the lane, and
the seven drummers waited with their drumsticks lifted.
The artillery firing was intermittent. Suddenly, in a pause
between the discharges, Gauvain waved his sword, and cried
in a voice which rang like a trumpet through the silence:
" Two hundred men to the right ; tw 7 o hundred men to the left ;
all the rest in the centre ! "
The twelve muskets fired, and the seven drums beat.
Gauvain uttered the formidable battle-cry of the Blues:
" To your bayonets ! Down upon them ! "
The effect was prodigious. This whole peasant mass felt
itself surprised in the rear, and believed that it had a fresh
army at its back. At the same instant, on hearing the drums,
the column which Guechamp commanded at the head of the
street began to move, sounding the charge in its turn, and
flung itself at a run on the barricade. The peasants found
themselves between two fires. Panic magnifies : a pistol-shot
sounds like the report of a cannon ; in moments of terror the
imagination heightens every noise; the barking of a dog
sounds like the roar of a lion. Add to this the fact that
the peasant catches fright as easily as thatch catches fire, and
as quickly as a blazing thatch becomes a conflagration, a panic
among peasants becomes a rout. An indescribably confused
flight ensued.
In a few instants the market-hall was empty; the terrified
rustics broke away in all directions ; the officers were power-
NINETY-THREE 215
less; Imanus uselessly killed two or three fugitives; nothing
was to be heard but the cry, " Save yourselves!" The army
poured through the streets of the town like water through
the holes of a sieve, and dispersed into the open country
with the rapidity of a cloud carried along by a whirlwind.
Some fled toward Chateauneuf, some toward Plerguer, others
toward Antrain.
The Marquis de Lantenac watched this stampede. He
spiked the guns with his own hands and then retreated, —
the last of all, slowly, composedly, saying to himself, " De-
cidedly, the peasants will not stand. We must have the
English."
CHAPTER IV
" IT IS THE SECOND TIME "
THE victory was complete. Gauvain turned toward the
men of the Bonnet Rouge battalion, and said : " Y ou
are twelve, but you are equal to a thousand." Praise from
a chief was the cross of honour of those times.
Guechamp, dispatched beyond the town by Gauvain, pur-
sued the fugitives and captured a great number. Torches
were lighted and the town was searched. All who could not
escape surrendered. They illuminated the principal street
with fire-pots. It was strewn with dead and dying. The root
of a combat must always be torn out ; a few desperate groups
here and there still resisted; they were surrounded, and threw
down their arms.
Gauvain had remarked, amid the frantic pell-mell of the
retreat, an intrepid man, a sort of agile and robust form,
who protected the flight of others, but had not himself fled.
This peasant had used his gun so energetically — the barrel
for firing, the butt-end for knocking down — that he had
had broken it ; now he grasped a pistol in one hand — and a
216 NINETY-THREE
sabre in the other. No one dared approach him. Suddenly
Gauvain saw him reel and support himself against a pillar of
the broad street. The man had just been wounded; but he
still clutched the sabre and pistol in his fists. Gauvain put
his sword under his arm and went up to him. " Surrender ! "
said he.
The man looked steadily at him. The blood ran through
his clothing from a wound which he had received, and made
a pool at his feet.
" You are my prisoner," added Gauvain. The man re-
mained silent. " What is your name? "
The man answered, " I am called the Shadow-dancer."
" You are a brave man," said Gauvain. And he held out
his hand.
The man cried, " Long live the king ! " Gathering up all
his remaining strength, he raised both arms at once, fired his
pistol at Gauvain's heart, and dealt a blow at his head with
the sabre.
He did it with the swiftness of a tiger; but some one else
had been still more prompt. This was a man on horseback,
who had arrived unobserved a few minutes before. This man,
seeing the Vendean raise the sabre and pistol, rushed between
him and Gauvain. But for this interposition, Gauvain would
have been killed.
The horse received the pistol-shot, the man received the
sabre-stroke, and both fell. It all happened in the time it
would have needed to utter a cry.
The Vendean sank on his side upon the pavement. The
s.ibre had struck the man full in the face ; he lay senseless on
the stones. The horse was killed.
Gauvain approached. " Yv r ho is this man?" said he. He
studied him. The blood from the gash inundated the wounded
man, and spread a red mask over his face. It was impossible
to distinguish his features, but one could see that his hair
was grey. " This man has saved my life," continued Gau-
vain. "Does any one here know him?"
" Commandant," said a soldier, " he came into the town a
"The wounded man, restored by the cold water, began to come to
himself."
X i nety-three. Page 217.
NINETY-THREE 217
few minutes ago. I saw him enter; he came by the road from
Pontorson."
The chief surgeon hurried up with his instrument-case. The
wounded man was still insensible. The Burgeon examined him
and said: "A simple gash. It is nothing. [1 can be sewed
up. In eight days lie will be on his feet again. It was a
beautiful sabre-stroke! "
The sufferer wbre a cloak, a tricolourcd sash, pistols, i
a sabre. He was laid on a litter. They undressed him. A
bucket of fresh water was brought: the surgeon washed the
cut: the face began to be visible. Gauvain studied it with
profound attention.
" Has he any papers on him? " lie asked.
The surgeon felt in the stranger' side-pocket aad drew
out a pocket-book, which he handed to Gauvain. The
wounded man, restored by the cold water, began to come to
himself. His eyelids moved slightly.
Gauvain examined the pocket-book; 1.2 found '. . it a sheet
of paper, folded four times ; he opened this and read : —
"Committee of Public Safety. The Citizen Cimourdain."
He uttered a cry : " Cimourdain ! "
The wounded man opened his eyes at this exclamation.
Gauvain was astounded. " Cimourdain ! It is you ! This
is the second time j-ou have saved my life."
Cimourdain looked at him. A gleam of ineffable joy
lighted his bleeding face.
Gauvain fell on his knees beside him, crying, " My mas-
ter ! "
" Thy father," said Cimourdain.
218 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER V
THE DROP OF COLD WATER
THEY had not met for many years, but their hearts had
never been parted ; they recognized each other as if they
had separated the evening before.
An ambulance had been improvised in the town-hall of Dol.
Cimourdain was placed on a bed in a little room next the
great common chamber of the other wounded. The surgeon
sewed up the cut and put an end to the demonstrations of
affection between the two men, judging that Cimourdain ought
to be left to sleep. Besides, Gauvain was claimed by the thou-
sand occupations which are the duties and cares of victory.
Cimourdain remained alone, but he did not sleep: he was
consumed by two fevers, — that of his wound and that of his
joy. He did not sleep, and still it did not seem to himself
that he was awake. Could it be possible that his dream was
realized? Cimourdain had long ceased to believe in luck, yet
here it was. He had refound Gauvain. He had left him a
child, he found him a man ; he found him great, formidable,
intrepid. He found him triumphant, and triumphing for the
people. Gauvain was the real support of the Revolution in
Vendee; and it was he, Cimourdain, who had given this tower
of strength to the Republic. This victor was his pupil. The
light which he saw illuminating this j^outhful face (reserved
perhaps for the Republican Pantheon) was his own thought, —
his, Cimourdain's. His disciple — the child of his spirit —
was from henceforth a hero, and before long would be a glory.
It seemed to Cimourdain that he saw the apotheosis of his own
soul. He had just seen how Gauvain made war; he was like
Chiron, who had watched Achilles fight. There was a mys-
terious analogy between the priest and the centaur, for the
priest is only half man.
All the chances of this adventure, mingled with the sleep-
NINETY-THREE 219
lessness caused by his wound, filled Cimourdain with a sort
of mysterious intoxication. He saw a glorious youthful d< 8-
tiny rising; and what added to his profound joy was the
possession of full power over this destiny. Another BUCC
like that which he had just witnessed, and Cimourdain would
only need to speak a single word to induce the Republic to
confide an army to Gauvain. Nothing dazzles like the aston-
ishment of complete victory. It was an era when each man
had his military dream; each one wanted to make a general.
Danton wished to appoint Westermann ; Marat wished to ap-
point Rossignol ; Hebert wished to appoint Ronsin ; Robe-
spierre wished to put these all aside. Why not Gauvain,
asked Cimourdain of himself; and he dreamed. All possibili-
ties were before him : he passed from one hypothesis to an-
other; all obstacles vanished. When a man puts his foot on
that ladder, he doefs not stop, it is an infinite ascent : one starts
from earth and one reaches the stars. A great general is
only a leader of armies ; a great captain is at the same time a
leader of ideas. Cimourdain dreamed of Gauvain as a great
captain. He seemed to see — for reverie travels swiftly —
Gauvain on the ocean, chasing the English ; on the Rhine,
chastising the Northern kings; on the Pyrenees, repulsing
Spain ; on the Alps, making a signal to Rome to rouse itself.
There were two men in Cimourdain, — one tender, the other
stern ; both were satisfied, for the inexorable was his ideal ; and
at the same time that he saw Gauvain noble, he saw him ter-
rible. Cimourdain thought of all that it was necessary to
destroy before beginning to build up, and said to himself:
" Verily, this is no time for tendernesses. Gauvain will be
* up to the mark,' " an expression of the period. Cimourdain
pictured Gauvain spurning the shadows with his foot, with a
breastplate of light, a meteor-glare on his brow, rising on the
grand ideal wings of Justice, Reason, and Progress, but with
a sword in his hand : an angel, — a destroyer likewise.
In the height of this reverie, which was almost an ecstasy,
he heard through the half-open door a conversation in the
great hall of the ambulance which was next his chamber. He
220 NINETY-THREE
recognized Gauvain's voice; through all those years of separa-
tion that voice had rung ever in his car, and the voice of the
man had still a tone of the childish voice he had loved. He
listened. There was a sound of soldiers' footsteps; one of the
men said : — -
" Commandant, this is the man who fired at you. While
nobody was watching, he dragged himself into a cellar. We
found him. Here he is."
Then Cimourdain heard this dialogue between Gauvain and
the prisoner: —
" You are wounded? "
" I am well enough to be shot."
" Lay that man on a bed. Dress his wounds ; take care of
him; cure him."
' ; I wish to die."
" You must live. You tried to kill me in the king's name ;
I show you mercy in the name of the Republic."
A shadow passed across Cimourdain's forehead. He was
like a man waking up with a start, and he murmured with ;i
sort of sinister dejection: " In truth, he is one of the merci-
ful."
CHAPTER VI
A HEALED BREAST; A BLEEDING HEART
A CUT heals quickly ; but there was in a certain place a
l'\ person more seriously wounded than Cimourdain. It
was the woman who had been shot, whom the beggar Tell-
niarch had picked up out of the great lake of blood at the farm
of Herbe-en-Pail.
Michelle Flechard was even in a more critical situation than
Tellmarch had believed. There was a wound in the shoulder-
blade corresponding to the wound above the breast; at the
same time that the ball broke her collar-bone, another ball
NINETY-THREE 221
traversed her shoulder, hut, as the lungs were not touched,
she might recover. Tellmarch was a " philospoher," — a
peasant phrase which means a little of a doctor, a little of a
surgeon, and a little of a sorcerer. He carried the wounded
nan to his forest lair, laid her upon his sea-weed bed, and
treated in r by the aid of those mysterious things called ,k sim-
ples;" and thanks to him she lived. The collar-bone knitted
together, the wounds in the breast and shoulder closed; after
a few weeks she was convalescent. One morning she was able
to walk out of the carnichot, leaning on Tellmarch, and seat
herself beneath the trees in the sunshine. Tellmarch knew
little about her; wounds in the breast demand silence, and dur-
ing the almost death-like agony which had preceded her recov-
ery she had scarcely spoken a word. When she tried to speak,
Tellmarch stopped her, but she kept up an obstinate reverie;
he could see in her eyes the sombre going and coining of poign-
ant thoughts. But this morning she was quite strong; she
could almost walk alone; a cure is a paternity, and Tellmarch
watched her with delight. The good old man began to smile.
He said to her : —
" We are upon our feet again ; we have no more wounds."
" Except in the heart," said she. She added, presently :
" Then you have no idea where they are."
" Who are ' they ? ' " demanded Tellmarch.
" My children."
This " then " expressed a whole world of thoughts ; it sig-
nified : " Since you do not talk to me, since you have been
so many days beside me without opening your mouth, since
you stop me each time I attempt to break the silence, since you
seem to fear that I shall speak, it is because you have nothing
to tell me." Often in her fever, in her wanderings, her de-
lirium, she had called her children, and had seen clearly (for
delirium makes its observations) that the old man did not
reply to her.
The truth was, Tellmarch did not know what to say to her.
It is not easy to tell a mother that her children are lost. And
then, what did he know? Nothing. He knew that a mother
222 NINETY-THREE
had been shot ; that this mother had been found on the ground
by himself; that when he had taken her up she was almost a
corpse; that this quasi-corpse had three children; and that
Lantenac, after having had the mother shot, carried off the
little ones. All his information ended there. What had be-
come of the children? Were they even living? He knew,
because he had inquired, that there were two boys and a little
girl, barely weaned. Nothing more. He asked himself a
host of questions concerning this unfortunate group, but could
answer none of them. The people of the neighbourhood whom
he had interrogated contented themselves with shaking their
heads. The Marquis de Lantenac was a man of whom they
did not willingly talk. They did not willinglly talk of De
Lantenac, and they did not willingly talk to Tellmarch.
Peasants have a species of suspicion peculiar to themselves.
They did not like Tellmarch. Tellmarch the Caimand was
a puzzling man. Why was he always studying the sky?
What was he doing and what was he thinking in his long hours
of stillness? Yes, indeed, he was odd! In this district in
full warfare, in full conflagration, in high tumult ; where all
men had only one business, — devastation ; and one work, —
carnage ; where whosoever could burned a house, cut the throats
of a family, massacred an outpost, sacked a village ; where
nobody thought of anything but laying ambushes for one
another, drawing one another into snares, killing one another,
— this solitary, absorbed in Nature, as if submerged in the
immense peacefulness of its beauties, gathering herbs and
plants, occupied solely with the flowers, the birds, and the
stars, was evidently a dangerous man. Plainly he was not in
possession of his reason ; he did not lie in wait behind thickets ;
he did not fire a shot at any one. Hence he created a certain
dread about him. " That man is mad," said the passers-by.
Tellmarch was more than an isolated man, — he was
shunned. People asked him no questions and gave him few
answers ; so he had not been able to inform himself as he could
have wished. The war had drifted eleswhere; the armies had
gone to fight farther off; the Marquis de Lantenac had dis-
NINETY-THREE
appeared from the horizon, and in Tellmarch'a state of mind
for him to be conscious there- was a war it was necessary for
it to set its foot on him.
After that cry, " My children," Tellmarch ceased to smile,
and the woman went back to her thoughts. What was passing
in that soul ? It was as if she looked out from the depths of
a gulf. Suddenly she turned toward Tellmarch, and cried
anew, almost with an accent of rage: "My children!"
Tellmarch drooped his head like one guilty. He was think-
ing of this Marquis dc Lantcnac, who certainly was not think-
ing of him, and who probably no longer remembered that he
existed. He accounted for this to himself, saying, " A lord,
when he is in danger, he knows you ; when he is once out of
it, he does not know you any longer." And he asked himself:
" But why, then, did I save this lord? " And he answered
his own question : " Because he was a man." Thereupon he
remained thoughtful for some time, then began again men-
tally : " Am I very sure of that ? " He repeated his bitter
words : " If I had known ! "
This whole adventure overwhelmed him, for in that which
he had done he perceived a sort of enigma. He meditated
dolorously. A good action might sometimes be evil. He who
saves the wolf kills the sheep. He who sets the vulture's
wing is responsible for his talons. He felt himself in truth
guilty. The unreasoning anger of this mother was just.
Still, to have saved her consoled him for having saved the
marquis. But the children?
The mother meditated also. The reflections of these two
went on side b} r side; and, perhaps, though without speech,
met one another amid the shadows of reverie. The woman's
eyes, with a night-like gloom in their depths, fixed themselves
anew on Tellmarch. " Nevertheless, that cannot be allowed to
pass in this way," said she.
" Hush ! ". returned Tellmarch, laying his finger on his lips.
She continued : " You did wrong to save me, and I am
angry with you for it. I would rather be dead, because I am
sure I should see them then. I should know where they are.
224 NINETY-THREE
They would not sec me, but I should be near them. The dead,
— they ought to have power to protect."
He took her arm and felt her pulse. " Calm yourself; you
arc bringing back your fever."
She asked him almost harshly, " When can I go away from
here?"
"Go away?"
" Yes. Walk."
" Never, if you are not reasonable. To-morrow, if you are
wise."
" What do you call being wise? "
" Having confidence in God."
" God! What has he done with my children? " Her mind
seemed wandering. Her voice became very sweet. " You
understand," she said to him, " I cannot rest like this. You
have never had any children, but I have. That makes a dif-
ference. One cannot judge of a thing when one does not
know what it is. You never had any children, had you ? "
" No," replied Tellmarch.
" And I — I had nothing besides them. What am I with-
out my children? I should like to have somebody explain to
me why I have not my children. I feel that things happen,
but I do not understand. They killed my husband; they shot
me: all the same, I do not understand it."
" Come," said Tellmarch, " there is the fever taking you
again. Do not talk any more."
She looked at him and relapsed into silence. From this
day she spoke no more. Tellmarch was obeyed more abso-
lutely than he liked. She spent long hours of stupefaction,
crouched at the foot of an old tree. She dreamed, and held
her peace. Silence makes an impenetrable refuge for simple
souls that have been down into the innermost depths of suf-
fering. She seemed to relinquish all effort to understand.
To a certain extent despair is unintelligible to the despairing.
Tellmarch studied her with sympathetic interest. In pres-
ence of this anguish the old man had thoughts such as might
have come to a woman. " Oh, yes," he said to himself, " her
NINETY-THREE 225
lips do not speak, but her eyes talk. I know well what is the
matter, — what her one idea is. have been a mother, and
to be one no longer ! To have been a nurse, and to be so no
more! She cannot resign herself. She thinks about the
tiniest child of all, that she was nursing not long ago. She
thinks of it ; thinks, thinks. In truth, it must be so sweet to
feel a little rosy mouth that draws your very soul out of your
body, and who, with the life that is yours, makes a life for
itself." He kept silence on his side, comprehending the im-
potency of speech in face of an absorption like this. The
persistence of an all-absorbing idea is terrible. And how to
make a mother thus beset hear reason? Maternity is inex-
plicable; you cannot argue with it. That it is which renders
a mother sublime ; she becomes unreasoning ; the maternal in-
stinct is divinely animal. The mother is no longer a woman,
she is a wild creature; her children are her cubs. Hence in
the mother there is something at once inferior and superior to
argument. A mother has an unerring instinct. The im-
mense mysterious Will of creation is within her and guides her.
Hers is a blindness superhumanly enlightened.
Now Tellmarch desired to make this unhappy creature
speak ; he did not succeed. On one occasion he said to her :
" As ill-luck will have it, I am old, and I cannot walk any
longer. At the end of a quarter of an hour my strength is
exhausted, and I am obliged to rest; if it were not for that
I would accompany you. After all, perhaps it is fortunate
that I cannot. I should be rather a burden than useful to
you. I am tolerated here ; but the Blues are suspicious of me,
as being a peasant; and the peasants suspect me of being a
wizard."
He waited for her to reply. She did not even raise her eyes.
A fixed idea ends in madness or heroism. But of what hero-
ism is a poor peasant woman capable? None. She can be a
mother, and that is all. Each day she buried herself deeper
in her reverie. Tellmarch watched her. He tried to give
her occupation ; he brought her needles and thread and a thim-
ble , and at length, to the satisfaction of the poor Caimand,
15
226 NINETY-THREE
she began some sewing. She dreamed, but she worked, — a
sign of health ; her energy was returning little by little. She
mended her linen, her garments, her shoes ; but her eyes looked
cold and glassy as ever. As she bent over her needle, she
sang unearthly melodies in a low voice. She murmured names,
— probably the names of children, — but not distinctly enough
for Tellmarch to catch them. She would break off abruptly
and listen to the birds, as if she thought they might have
brought her tidings. She watched the weather. Her lips
would move, — she was speaking low to herself. She made a
bag and filled it with chestnuts. One morning Tellmarch saw
her preparing to set forth, her eyes gazing away into the
depths of the forest.
" Where are you going? " he asked.
She replied, " I am going to look for them."
He did not attempt to detain her.
CHAPTER VII
THE TWO POLES OF THE TRUTH
AT the end of a few weeks, which had been filled with the
vicissitudes of civil war, the district of Fougeres could
talk of nothing but the two men who were opposed to each
other, and yet were occupied in the same work ; that is, fight-
ing side by side the great revolutionary combat.
The savage Vendean duel continued, but the Vendee was
losing ground. In Ule-et-Vilaine in particular, thanks to the
young commander who had at Dol so opportunely replied to
the audacity of six thousand royalists by the audacity of fif-
teen hundred patriots, the insurrection, if not quelled, was at
least greatly weakened and circumscribed. Several lucky hits
had followed that one, and out of these successes had grown
a new position of affairs. Matters had changed their face,
but a singular complication had arisen.
NINETY-THREE 227
In all this portion of the Vendee the Republic had the
upper hand, — that was beyond a doubt. But which republic?
In the triumph which was opening out, two forms of republic
made themselves felt, — the republic of terror, and the re-
public of clemency ; the one desirous to conquer by rigour, and
the other by mildness. Which would prevail? These two
forms — the conciliating and the implacable — were repre-
sented by two men, each of whom possessed his special influence
and authority : the one a military commander, the other a civil
delegate. Which of them would prevail?
One of the two, the delegate, had a formidable basis of
support ; he had arrived bearing the threatening watchword
of the Paris Commune to the battalions of Santerre : " No
mercy ; no quarter ! " He had, in order to put everything
under his control, the decree of the Convention, ordaining
" death to whomsoever should set at liberty and help a captive
rebel chief to escape." He had full powers, emanating from
the Committee of Public Safety, and an injunction command-
ing obedience to him as delegate, signed Robespierre, Dan-
tox, Marat. The other, the soldier, had on his side only
this strength, — pity. He had only his own arm, which chas-
tised the enemy ; and his heart, which pardoned them. A con-
queror, he believed that he had the right to spare the con-
quered.
Hence arose a conflict, hidden but deep, between these two
men. The two stood in different atmospheres; both combat-
ing the rebellion, and each having his own thunderbolt, — that
of the one, victory ; that of the other, terror.
Throughout all the Bocage nothing was talked of but them ;
and what added to the anxiety of those who watched them from
every quarter was the fact that these two men so diametrically
opposed were at the same time closely united. These two an-
tagonists were friends. Never sympathy loftier and more
profound joined two hearts; the stern had saved the life of
the clement, and bore on his face the wound received in the
effort. These two men were the incarnation, — the one of life,
the other of death; the one was the principle of destruction,
228 NINETY-THREE
the other of peace, and they loved each other. Strange prob-
lem ! Imagine Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless. Pic-
ture Arimanes the brother of Ormus !
Let us add that the one of the pair who was called " the
ferocious " was, at the same time, the most brotherly of men.
He dressed the wounded, cared for the sick, passed his da} r s
and nights in the ambulance and hospitals, was touched by the
sight of barefooted children, had nothing for himself, gave
all to the poor. He was present at all the battles ; he marched
at the head of the columns and in the thickest of the fight,
armed, — for he had in his belt a sabre and two pistols, — yet
disarmed, because no one had ever seen him draw his sabre or
touch his pistols. He faced blows, and did not return them.
It was said that he had been a priest.
One of these men was Gauvain ; the other was Cimourdain.
There was friendship between the two men, but hatred between
the two principles; this hidden war could not fail to burst
forth. One morning the battle began.
Cimourdain said to Gauvain : " What have we accom-
plished? "
Gauvain replied : " You know as well as I. I have dis-
persed Lantenac's bands. He has only a few men left.
Then he is driven back to the forest of Fougeres. In eight
days he will be surrounded."
" And in fifteen days? "
" He will be taken."
"And then?"
" You have read my notice ? "
"Yes. Well?"
" He will be shot."
" More clemency ! He must be guillotined."
" As for me," said Gauvain, " I am for a military death."
" And I," replied Cimourdain, " for a revolutionary death."
He looked Gauvain in the face, and added: "Why did you
set at liberty those nuns of the convent of Saint Marc-le-
Blanc?"
" I do not make war on women," answered Gauvain.
NINETY-THREE 229
"Those women hate the people; and where hate is con-
cerned, one woman outweighs ten men. Why did you refuse
to send to the revolutionary tribunal all that herd of old
fanatical priests who were taken at Louvigne? "
" I do not make war on old men."
" An old priest is worse than a young one. Rebellion is
more dangerous preached by white hairs. Men have faith in
wrinkles. No false pity, Gauvain ! The regicides are lib-
erators. Keep your eye fixed on the tower of the Temple."
" The Temple tower ! I would bring the Dauphin out of
it. I do not make war on children."
Cimourdain's eyes grew stern. " Gauvain, learn that it
is necessary to make war on a woman when she calls herself
Marie Antoinette, on an old man when he is named Pius VI.
and Pope, and upon a child when he is named Louis Capet."
" My master, I am not a politician."
" Try not to be a dangerous man. Why, at the attack on
the post of Cosse, when the rebel Jean Treton, driven back
and lost, flung himself alone, sabre in hand, against the whole
column, didst thou cry, ' Open the ranks ! Let him pass ? ' "
" Because one does not set fifteen hundred to kill a single
man."
" Why, at the Cailleterie d'Astille, when you saw your
soldiers about to kill the Vendean Joseph Bezier, who was
wounded and dragging himself along, did you exclaim, ' Go
on before ! This is my affair ! ' and then fire your pistol in
che air? "
" Because one does not kill a man on the ground."
" And you were wrong. Both are to-day chiefs of bands.
Joseph Bezier is Mustache, and Jean Treton is Jambe
d' Argent. In saving those two men you gave two enemies
to the Republic."
" Certainly I could wish to give her friends, and not ene-
mies."
" Why, after the victory of Landean, did you not shoot
your three hundred peasant prisoners?"
" Because Bonchamp had shown mercy to the republican
230 NINETY-THREE
prisoners, and I wanted it said that the Republic showed mercy
to the royalist prisoners."
" But, then, if you take Lantenac you will pardon him? "
" No."
" Why ? Since you showed mercy to the three hundred
peasants ? "
" The peasants are ignorant men ; Lantenac knows what
he does."
" But Lantenac is your kinsman."
" France is the nearest."
" Lantenac is an old man."
" Lantenac is a stranger. Lantenac has no age. Lantenac
summons the English. Lantenac is invasion. Lantenac is
the enemy of the country. The duel between him and me can
only finish by his death or mine."
" Gauvain, remember this vow."
" It is sworn."
There was silence, and the two looked at each other.
Then Gauvain resumed : " It will be a bloody date, this
year '93 in which we live."
" Take care ! " cried Cimourdain. " Terrible duties exist.
Do not accuse that which is not accusable. Since when is it
that the illness is the fault of the physician? Yes, the char-
acteristic of this tremendous year is its pitilessness. Why?
Because it is the grand revolutionary year. This year in
which we live is the incarnation of the Revolution. The Revo-
lution has an enemy, — the old world, — and it is without pity
for it; just as the surgeon has an enemy, — gangrene, — and
is without pity for it. The Revolution extirpates royalty in
the king, aristocracy in the noble, despotism in the soldier.,
superstition in the priest, barbarism in the judge; in a word,
everything which is tyranny, in all which is the tyrant. The
operation is fearful ; the Revolution performs it with a sure
hand. As to the amount of sound flesh which it sacrifices, de-
mand of Boerhaave what he thinks in regard to that. What
tumour does not cause a loss of blood in its cutting away?
Does not the extinguishing of a conflagration demand an
NINETY-THREE 231
energy as fierce as that of the fire itself? These formidable
necessities are the very condition of success. A surgeon re-
sembles a butcher ; a healer may have the appearance of an ex-
ecutioner. The Revolution devotes itself to its fatal work.
It mutilates, but it saves. What! you demand pity for the
virus? You wish it to be merciful to that which is poisonous?
It will not listen. It holds the post, — it will exterminate it.
It makes a deep wound in civilization, from whence will spring
health to the human race. You suffer? Without doubt.
How long will it last? The time necessary for the operation.
After that you will live. The Revolution amputates the
world. Hence this haemorrhage, — '93."
" The surgeon is calm," said Gauvain, " and the men that
I sec are violent."
" The Revolution," replied Cimourdain, " needs savage
workmen to aid it! It pushes aside every hand that trembles.
It has only faith in the inexorables. Danton is the terrible,
Robespierre is the inflexible; Saint-Just is the immovable,
Marat is the implacable. Take care, Gauvain! these names
are necessary. They are worth as much as armies to us ; they
will terrify Europe."
" And perhaps the future also," said Gauvain. He checked
himself, and resumed : " For that matter, my master, you
err. I accuse no one. According to me, the true point of
view of the Revolution is its irresponsibility. Nobody is in-
nocent, nobody is guilty. Louis XVI. is a sheep thrown
among lions: he wishes to escape, he tries to flee, he seeks
to defend himself; he would bite if he could. But one is not
a lion at will; his craze to be one passes for crime. This
enraged sheep shows his teeth: 'The traitor!' cry the lions;
and they eat him. That done, they fight among themselves."
" The sheep is a brute."
" And the lions, what are they ? "
This retort set Cimourdain thinking. He raised his head,
and answered : " These lions are consciences. These lions
are ideas. These lions are principles."
" They produce the reign of Terror."
232 NINETY-THREE
" One day, the Revolution will be the justification of this
Terror."
" Beware lest the Terror become the calumny of the Revo-
lution." Gauvain continued : " Liberty, Equality, Frater-
nity, — these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. Why
give them an alarming aspect? What is it we want? To
bring the peoples to a universal republic. Well, do not let
us make them afraid. What can intimidation serve? The
people can no more be attracted by a scarecrow than birds can.
One must not do evil to bring about ^ood; one does not over-
turn the throne in order to leave the gibbet standing. Death
to kings, and life to nations ! Strike off the crowns ; spare
the heads! The Revolution is concord, not fright. Clement
ideas are ill served by cruel men. Amnesty is to me the most
beautiful word in human language. I will only shed blood
in risking my own. Besides, I simply know how to fight; I
am nothing but a soldier. But if I may not pardon, victory
is not worth the trouble it costs. During battle let us be the
enemies of our enemies, and after the victory f heir brothers."
" Take care ! " repeated Cimourdain, for the vhird time.
" Gauvain, you are more to me than a son ; take care ! ' Then
he added thoughtfully : " In a period like ours, pity may
become one of the forms of treason."
Any one listening to the talk of these two men might have
fancied he heard a dialogue between the sword and the axe.
CHAPTER VIII
DOLOROSA
IN the mean while the mother was seeking her little ones.
She went straight forward. How did she live? It is
impossible to say ; she did not know herself. She walked day
and night ; she begged, she ate herbs, she lay on the ground,
NINETY-THREE 233
she slept in the open air, In the thickets, under the shirs,
sometimes in the rain and wind. She wandered from village
to village, from farm to farm, seeking a clew. She stopped
on the thresholds of the peasants' cots. Her dress was in
rags. Sometimes she was welcomed, sometimes she was driven
away; when she could not get into the houses, she went into
the woods. She did not know the district ; she was ignorant
of everything except Siscoignard and the parish of Aze.
She had no route marked out ; she retraced her steps, travelled
roads already gone over, made useless journeys; sometimes
she followed the highway, sometimes a cart-track, as often the
paths among the copses. In these aimless wanderings she had
worn out her miserable garments ; she had shoes at first, then
she walked barefoot, then with her feet bleeding. She crossed
the track of warfare, among gun-shots, hearing nothing, see-
ing nothing, avoiding nothing, — seeking her children. Re-
volt was everywhere ; there were no more gendarmes, no more
mayors, no authorities of any sort. She had only to deal
with chance passers. She spoke to them, she asked, —
" Have you seen three little children anywhere? "
Those she addressed would look at her.
" Two boys and a girl," she would say. Then she would
name them : " Rene-Jean, Gros-Alain, Georgette. You have
not seen them? "
She would ramble on thus : " The eldest is four years and
a half old; the little girl is twenty months." Then would
come the cry: " Do you know where they are? They have
been taken from me."
The listeners would stare at her, and that was all.
When she saw that she was not understood, she would say :
" It is because they belong to me, — that is why."
The people would pass on their way. Then she would stand
still, uttering no further w T ord, but digging at her breast with
her nails.
However, one day, a peasant listened to her. The good
man set himself to thinking. " Wait, now," said he.
"Three children?"
234 NINETY-THREE
" Yes."
" Two boys — "
" And a girl."
" You are hunting for them ? "
" Yes."
" I have heard talk of a lord who had taken three little
children, and had them with him."
" Where is this man? " she cried. " Where are they? "
The peasant replied : " Go to La Tourgue."
" Shall I find my children there? "
" It may easily be."
" You say — "
" La Tourgue."
" What is that,-— La Tourgue? "
" It is a place."
" Is it a village, a castle, a farm ? "
" I never was there."
" Is it far? "
" It is not near."
" In which direction? "
" Toward Fougeres."
" Which way must I go ? "
" You are at Ventortes," said the peasant ; " you must leave
Ernee to the left and Coxelles to the right ; you will pass by
Lorchamps and cross the Leroux." He pointed his finger to
the west. " Always straight before you and toward the sun-
set."
Ere the peasant had dropped his arm, she was hurrying on.
He cried after her : " But take care. They are fighting
over there."
She did not answer or turn round; on she went, straight
before her.
JVEXETY-THUEE 235
CHAPTER IX
A PROVINCIAL BASTILE
1. La Tourgue.
FORTY years ago, a traveller who entered the forest of
Fougeres from the side of Laignelet, and left it toward
Parigne, was met on the border of this vast old wood by a
sinister spectacle. As he came out of the thickets, La Tourgue
rose abruptly before him. Not La Tourgue living, but La
Tourgue dead, — La Tourgue cracked, battered, seamed, dis-
mantled.
The ruin of an edifice is as much its ghost as a phantom
is that of man. No more lugubrious vision could strike the
gaze than that of La Tourgue. What the traveller had before
his eyes was a lofty round tower, standing alone at the corner
of the wood like a malefactor. This tower, rising from a
perpendicular rock, was so severe and solid that it looked
almost like a bit of Roman architecture, and the frowning
mass gave the idea of strength even amid its ruin. It was
Roman in a way, since it was Romanic. Begun in the ninth
century, it had been finished in the twelfth, after the third
Crusade. The peculiar ornaments of the mouldings told its
age. On ascending the height, one perceived a breach in the
wall ; if one ventured to enter, he found himself within the
tower, — it was empty. It resembled somewhat the inside of
a stone trumpet set upright on the ground, — from top to
bottom no partitions, no ceilings, no floors. There were places
where arches and chimneys had been torn away ; falconet em-
brasures were seen ; at different heights, rows of granite
corbels and a few transverse beams marked where the different
stories had been : these beams were covered with the ordure
of night-birds. The colossal wall was fifteen feet in thickness
at the base and twelve at the summit ; here and there were
236 NINETY-THREE
chinks and holes which had been doors, through which one
caught glimpses of staircases in the shadowy interior of the
wall. The passer-by who penetrated there at evening heard
the cry of the wood-owl, the goat-suckers, and the bats, and
saw beneath his feet brambles, stones, reptiles, and above his
head, across a black circle which looked like the mouth of an
enormous well, he could perceive the stars.
The neighbourhood kept a tradition that in the upper stories
of this tower there were secret doors formed like those in the
tombs of the kings of Judah, of great stones turning on
pivots, opening by a spring, and forming part of the wall
when closed, — an architectural mystery which the Crusaders
had brought from the East along with the pointed arch.
When these doors were shut, it was impossible to discover
them, so accurately were they fitted into the other stones. At
this day such doors may still be seen in those mysterious cities
of the Anti-Libanus which escaped the burial of the twelve
towns in the time of Tiberius.
2. The Breach.
The breach by which one entered the ruin had been the
opening of a mine. For a connoisseur, familiar with Errard,
Sardi, and Pagan, this mine had been skilfully planned. The
fire-chamber, shaped like a mitre, was proportioned to the
strength of the keep it had been intended to disembowel; it
must have held at least two hundredweight of powder. The
channel was serpentine, which does better service than a
straight one. The crumbling of the mine left naked among
the broken stones the saucisse which had the requisite diameter,
that of a hen's egg. The explosion had left a deep rent in
the wall by which the besiegers could enter.
This tower had evidently sustained at different periods real
sieges conducted according to rule. It was scarred with balls,
and these balls were not all of the same epoch. Each pro-
jectile has its peculiar way of marking a rampart; and those
of every sort had left their traces on this keep, from the stone
NINETY-THREE 237
balls of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of the
eighteenth. The breach gave admittance into what must have
been the ground-floor. In the wall of the tower opposite the
breach there opened the gateway of a crypt cut in the rock,
and stretching among the foundations of the tower under the
whole extent of the ground-floor hall. This crypt, three
fourths filled up, was cleared out in 1855 under the direction
of Monsieur Auguste le Prevost, the antiquary of Bernay.
3. The Oubliette.
This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep had one. This
crypt, like many penal prisons of that era, had two stories.
The upper floor, which was entered by the wicket, was a
vaulted chamber of considerable size, on a level with the
ground-floor hall. On the walls could be seen two parallel
and vertical furrows, extending from one side to the other,
and passing along the vault of the roof, in which they had
left deep ruts like old wheel-tracks. It was what they were
in fact; these two furrows had been hollowed by two wheels.
Formerly, in feudal daj^s, victims were torn limb from limb
in this chamber by a method less noisy than dragging them
at the tails of horses. There had been two wheels, so im-
mense that they touched the walls and an arch. To each of
these wheels an arm and a leg of the victim were attached;
then the wheels were turned in the inverse direction, which
crushed the man. It required great force; hence the furrows
which the wheels had worn in the wall as they grazed it. A
chamber of this kind may still be seen at Vianden.
Below this room there was another. That was the real
dungeon. It was not entered by a door; one penetrated into
it by a hole. The victim, stripped naked, was let down by
means of a rope placed under his armpits into the dungeon,
through an opening left in the centre of the flagging of the
upper chamber. If he persisted in living, food was flung to
him through this aperture. A hole of this sort maj' yet be
seen at Bouillon. The wind swept up through this opening.
238 NINETY-THREE
The lower room, dug out beneath the ground-floor hall,
was a well rather than a chamber. It had water at the bot-
tom, and an icy wind filled it. This wind, which killed the
prisoner in the depths, preserved the life of the captive in the
room above ; it rendered his prison respirable. The captive
above, groping about beneath his vault, only got air by this
hole. For the rest, whatever entered or fell there could not
get out again. It was for the prisoner to be cautious in the
darkness. A false step might make the prisoner in the upper
room a prisoner in the dungeon below. That was his affair.
If he clung to life, this hole was a peril; if he wished to be
rid of it, this hole was his resource. The upper floor was the
dungean ; the lower, the tomb, a superposition which resem-
bled society at that period. It was what our ancestors called
a moat-dungeon. The thing having disappeared, the name
has no longer any significance in our ears. Thanks to the
Revolution, we hear the words pronounced with indifference.
Outside the tower, above the breach, which forty years
since was the only means of ingress, might be seen an opening
larger than the other loophole, from which hung an iron
grating bent and loosened.
4. The Bridge-Castle.
Ox the opposite side from the breach a stone bridge was
connected with the tower, having three arches still in almost
perfect preservation. This bridge had supported a building
of which some fragments remained. It had evidently been
destroyed by fire; there were left only portions of the frame-
work, between whose blackened ribs the daylight peeped, as
it rose beside the tower like a skeleton beside a phantom.
This ruin is to-day completely demolished, — not a trace of it
is left. It only needs one day and a single peasant to destroy
that which it took many centuries and many kings to build.
La Tourgue is a rustic abbreviation for La Tour-Gauvain,
just as La Jwpelle stands for La Jupelliere, and Pinson-le-
Tort, the nickname of a hunchbacked leader, is put for Pin-
NINETY-THREE 28fl
son-le-Tortu. La Tourgue, which forty years since was a
ruin, and which is to-day a shadow, was a fortress in 1793.
It was the old bastile of the Gauvains; toward the west guard-
ing the entrance to the forest of Fougeres, — a forest which
is itself now hardly a grove. This citadel had been built on
one of the great blocks of slate which abound between Mayenne
and Dinan, scattered everywhere among the thickets and
heaths, like missiles that had been flung in some conflict be-
tween Titans. The tower made up the entire fortress; be-
neath the tower was the rock, and at the foot of the rock one
of those water-courses which the month of January turns into
a torrent, and which the month of June dries up.
Thus protected, this fortress was in the Middle Ages almost
impregnable. The bridge alone weakened it. The Gothic
Gauvains had built without bridge. They got into it by one
of those swinging foot-bridges which a blow of an axe suf-
ficed to break away. As long as the Gauvains remained vis-
counts they contented themselves with this; but when they
became marquises and left the cavern for the court, they flung
three arches across the torrent, and made themselves accessible
on the side of the plain just as they had made themselves
accessible to the king. The marquises of the seventeenth cen-
tury and the marquises of the eighteenth no longer wished
to be impregnable. An imitation of Versailles replaced the
traditions of their ancestors.
Facing the tower, on the western side, was a high plateau
which ended in two plains ; this plateau almost touched the
tower, only separated from it by a very deep ravine, through
which ran the water-course, which was a tributary of the
Couesnon. The bridge which joined the fortress and the
plateau was built up high on piers ; and on these piers was
constructed, as at Chenonceaux, an edifice in the Mansard
style, more habitable than the tower. But customs were still
very rude ; the lords continued to occupy chambers in tke keep
which were like dungeons. The building on the bridge,
which was a sort of small castle, was made into a long corri-
dor, that served as an entrance, and was called the hall of
240 NINETY-THREE
the guards; above this hall of the guards, which was a kind
of entresol, a library was built ; above the library, a granary.
Long windows, with small panes in Bohemian glass; pilasters
between the windows ; medallions sculptured on the wall ; three
stories : below, bartizans and muskets ; in the middle, books ;
on high, sacks of oats, — the whole at once somewhat savage
and very princely.
The tower rose gloomy and stern at the side. It overlooked
this coquettish building with all its lugubrious height. From
its platform one could destroy the bridge.
The two edifices — the one rude, the other elegant — clashed
rather than contrasted. The two styles had nothing in keep-
ing with each other. Although it should seem that two semi-
circles ought to be identical, nothing can be less alike than a
Romanic arch and the classic archivault. That tower, in
keeping with the forests, made a stronger neighbour for that
bridge, worthy of Versailles. Imagine Alain Barte-Torte
giving his arm to Louis XIV. The juxtaposition was sinister.
These two majesties thus mingled made up a whole which
had something inexpressibly menacing in it.
From a military point of view, the bridge (we must insist
upon this) was a traitor to the tower. It embellished, but
disarmed; in gaining ornament, the fortress lost strength.
The bridge put it on a level with the plateau. Still impreg-
nable on the side toward the forest, it became vulnerable toward
the plain. Formerly it commanded the plateau ; now it was
commanded thereby. An enemy installed there would speedily
become master of the bridge. The library and the granary
would be for the assailant and against the citadel. A library
and a granary resemble each other in the fact that both books
and straw are combustible. For an assailant who serves him-
self by fire, to burn Homer or to burn a bundle of straw,
provided it make a flame, is all the same; the French proved
this to the Germans by burning the library at Heidelburg, and
the Germans proved it to the French by burning the library
of Strasburg. This bridge, added to the Tourgue, was, there-
fore, strategically an error; but in the seventeenth century,
NINETY-THREE 241
under Colbert and Louvois, the Gauvain princes no more con-
sidered themselves besiegable than did the princes of Rohan
or the p rinses of La Tremoille. Still, the builders of the
bridge had used certain precautions. In the first place they
had foreseen the possibility of conflagration: below the three
casements that looked down the stream they had fastened
transversely to cramp-irons, which could still be seen half a
century back, a strong ladder, whose length equalled the height
of the two stories of the bridge, — a height which surpa-. od
that of the three ordinary stories. Secondly, they had
guarded against assault, — they had cut off the bridge by
means of a low, heavy iron door. This door was arched; it
was locked by a great key, which was hidden in a place known
to the master alone, and, once closed, this door could defy a
battering-ram and almost brave a cannon-ball. It was neces-
sary to cross the bridge in order to reach this door, and to
pass through the door in order to enter the tower. There
was no other entrance.
5. The Iron Door.
The second story of the castle on the bridge was raised by
the arches, so that it corresponded with the second story of the
tower. It was at this height, for greater security, that the
iron door had been placed. The iron door opened toward the
library on the bridge side, and toward a grand vaulted hall,
with a pillar in the centre, on the side to the tower.
This hall, as has already been said, was the second .story
of the keep. It was circular, like the tower ; a long loop-hole,
looking out on the fields, lighted it. The rude wall was naked,
and nothing hid the stones, which were however symmetrically
laid. This hall was reached by a winding staircase built in
the wall, — a very simple thing when walls are fifteen feet in
thickness. In the Middle Ages a town had to be taken street
by street; a street, house by house; a house, room by room.
A fortress was besieged story by story. In this respect La
Tourgue was very skilfully disposed, and was very intractable
16
242 NINETY-THREE
and difficult. A spiral staircase, at first very steep, led from
one floor to the other. The doors were askew, and were not
of the height of a man. To pass through, it was necessary
to bow the head; now, a head bowed was a head cut off, and
at each door the besieged awaited the besiegers.
Below the circular hall with the pillar were two similar
chambers, which made the first and the ground floor; and
above were three. Upon these six chambers, placed one upon
another, the tower was closed by a lid of stone, which was the
platform, and which could only be reached by a narrow watch-
tower. The fifteen feet thickness of wall which it had been
necessary to pierce in order to place the iron door, and in the
middle of which it was set, embedded it in a long arch ; so
that the door when closed was, both on the side toward the
tower and on that toward the bridge, under a porch six or
seven feet deep; when it was open, these two porches joined
and made the entrance-arch.
In the thickness of the wall of the porch toward the bridge
opened the low gate of Saint Gille's screw-stairway, which led
into the corridor of the first story beneath the library. This
offered another difficulty to besiegers. The small castle of the
bridge showed, on the side toward the plateau, only a perpen-
dicular wall; and the bridge was cut there. A draw-bridge
put the besieged in communication with the plateau ; and this
draw-bridge (on account of the height of the plateau, never
lowered except at an inclined plane) allowed access to the
long corridor, called the guard-room. Once masters of this
corridor, besiegers, in order to reach the iron door, would
have been obliged to carry by main force the winding stair-
case which led to the second story.
6. The Library.
As for the library, it was an oblong room, the width and
length of the bridge, with a single door, — - the iron one. A
false leaf-door hung with green cloth, which it was only neces-
sary to push, masked in the interior the entrance-arch of the
NINETY-THREE 243
tower. The library wall from floor to ceiling was filled with
glazed book-cases, in the beautiful style of the seventeenth-
century cabinet-work. Six great windows, three on either
side, one above each arch, lighted this library. Through these
windows the interior could be seen from the height of the
plateau. In the spaces between these windows stood six marble
busts on pedestals of sculptured oak, — Hermolaus, of By-
zantium ; Athenaeus, the grammarian of Naucratis; Suidas;
Casaubon; Clovis, King of France; and his chancellor, An-
achalus, who for that matter was no more chancellor than
Clovis was king.
There were books of various sorts in this library. One has
remained famous. It was an old quarto with prints, having
for title " Saint Bartholomew," in great letters ; and for second
title, " Gospel according to Saint Bartholomew, preceded by
a dissertation by Pantoenus, Christian philosopher, as to
whether this gospel ought to be considered apocryphal, and
whether Saint Bartholomew was the same as Nathaniel." This
book, considered a unique copy, was placed on a reading-desk
in the middle of the library. In the last century, people
came to see it as a curiosity.
7. The Granary.
As for the granary, which took, like the library, the oblong
form of the bridge, it was simply the space beneath the wood-
work of the roof. It was a great room filled with straw and
hay, and lighted by six Mansard windows. There was no
ornament except a figure of Saint Bartholomew carved on the
door, with this line beneath, —
" Barnabus sanctus falcem jubet ire per herbara."
Thus it was a lofty, wide tower of six stories, pierced here
and there with loop-holes, having for entrance and egress a
single door of iron leading to a bridge-castle closed by a draw-
bridge ; behind the tower a forest ; in front a plateau of heath,
244 NINETY-THREE
higher than the bridge, lower than the tower; beneath the
bridge a deep, narrow ravine full of brushwood. — a torrent in
winter, a brook in spring-time, a stony moat in summer.
This was the Tower Gauvain, called La Tourgue.
CHAPTER X
THE HOSTAGES
JULY passed; August came. A blast, fierce and heroic,
swept over France. Two spectres had just passed be-
yond the horizon, — Marat with a dagger in his heart, Char-
lotte Corday headless. Affairs everywhere were waxing for-
midable.
As to the Vendee, beaten in grand strategic schemes, she
took refuge in little ones, — more redoubtable, we have already
said. This war was now an immense fight, scattered about
among the woods. The disasters of the large army, called
the Catholic and Royal, had commenced. The army from
M¥ce had been ordered into the Vendee. Eight thousand
Vcn deans had fallen at Ancenis; the}' had been repulsed from
Nantes, dislodged from Montaigu, expelled from Thouars,
chased from Noirmoutier, flung headlong out of Cholet, Mor-
tagne, and Saumur; they had evacuated Parthenay, abandoned
Clisson, fallen back from Chatillon, lost a flag at Saint-
Hilaire ; they had been beaten at Pornic, at the Sables, at Fon-
tcnay, at Doue, at the Chateau d'Eau, at the Ponts-de-Ce;
they were kept in check at Lucon, were retreating from the
Chataigneraye, and were routed at the Roche-sur-Yon. But
on the one hand they were menacing Rochelle; and on the
other an English fleet in the Guernsey waters, commanded by
General Craig, and bearing several English regiments and
some of the best officers of the French navy, only waited a
signal from the Marquis dc Lantenac to land. This landing
might make the royalist revolt again victorious.
NINETY-THREE 245
Pitt was in truth a State malefactor. Folic y has treasons
sure as an assassin's dagger. Pitt stabbed our country and
betrayed his own : to dishonour his country was to betray it.
Under him and through him England waged a Punic war;
she spied, she cheated, she hid. Poacher and forger, she
stopped at nothing; she descended to the very minutiae of
hatred. She monopolized tallow, which cost five francs a
pound. An Englishman was taken at Lille on whom was
found a letter from Prigcnt, Pitt's agent in Vendee, which
contained these lines : —
*' I beg you to spare no money. We hope that the assassinations will
he committed with prudence; disguised priests and women are the per-
sons most fit for this duty. Send sixty thousand francs to Rouen and
fifty thousand to Caen."
This letter was read in the Convention on the first of August
by Barerc. The cruelties of Parrein, and later the atrocities
of Carrier, replied to these perfidies. The republicans of
Mctz and the republicans of the South were eager to march
against the rebels. A decree ordered the formation of eighty
companies of pioneers for burning the copses and thickets of
the Bocage. It was an unheard-of crisis. The war only
ceased on one footing to begin on another. " No mercy ! No
prisoners ! " was the cry of both parties. The history of that
time is black with awful shadows.
During this month of August, La Tourgue was besieged.
One evening, just as the stars were rising amid the calm twi-
light of the dog-days, when not a leaf stirred in the forest,
not a blade of grass trembled on the plain, across the stillness
of the night swept the sound of a horn. This horn was blown
from the top of the tower. The peal was answered by the
voice of a clarion from below. On the summit of the tower
stood an armed man; at the foot, a camp spread out in the
shadow.
In the obscurity about the Tower Gauvain could be dis-
tinguished a moving mass of black shapes. It was a bivouac.
A few fires began to blaze beneath the trees of the forest and
246 NINETY-THREE
among the heaths of the plateau, pricking the darkness here
and there with luminous points, as if the earth were studding
itself with stars at the same instant as the sky; but they were
the sinister stars of war. On the side toward the plateau the
bivouac stretched out to the plains, and on the forest side ex-
tended into the thicket. La Tourgue was invested.
The outstretch of the besiegers' bivouac indicated a numer-
ous force. The camp tightly clasped the fortress, coming
close up to the rock on the side toward the tower, and close
to the ravine on the bridge side.
There was a second sound of the horn, followed by another
peal from the clarion. This time the horn questioned, and
the trumpet replied. It was the demand of the tower to the
camp: "Can we speak to you?" The clarion was the
answer for the camp ; " Yes."
At this period the Vendeans, not being considered belliger-
ents by the Convention, and a decree having forbidden the
exchange of flags of truce with " the brigands," the armies
supplemented as they could tl^e means of communication which
the law of nations authorizes in ordinary war and interdicts
in civil strife. Hence on occasion a certain understanding
between the peasant's horn and the military trumpet. The
first call was only to attract attention ; the second put the
question, "Will you listen?" If on this second summons
the clarion kept silent, it was a refusal ; if the clarion replied,
it was a consent. It signified, " Truce for a few moments."
The clarion having answered the second appeal, the man
on the top of the tower spoke, and these words could be
heard : —
" Men, who listen to me, I am Gouge ie-Bruant, sur-
named Brise-Bleu because I have exterminated many of yours ;
surnamed also Imanus, because I mean to kill still more than
I have already done. My finger was cut off by a blow from
a sabre on the barrel of my gun in the attack of Granville ; at
Laval you guillotined my father, my mother, and my sister
Jacqueline, aged eighteen. This is who I am. I speak to you
in the name of my lord Marquis GauvaiD de Lantenac, Vis-
NINETY-THREE 247
count dc Fontenay, Breton prince, lord of the Seven Forests,
— my master.
"Learn, first, that Monseigncur the Marquis, before shut-
ting himself in this tower where you hold him blockaded, dis-
tributed the command among six chiefs, his lieutenants. lie
gave to Deliere the district between the road to Brest and the
road to Ernec; to Treton, the district between Roe and
Laval; to Jacquet, called Taillefer, the border of the Haut-
Maine; to Gaulicr, named Grand Pierre, Chateau Gontier;
to Lecomte, Craon ; to Dubois Guy, Fougeres ; and to De
Rochambeau, all of Mayenne. So the taking of this fortress
will not end matters for you; and even if Monseigncur the
Marquis should die, the Vendee of God and the king will still
live. That which I say — know this — is to warn you.
Monseigneur is here by my side; I am the mouth through
which his words pass. You who are besieging us, keep silence.
This is what it is important for you to hear: —
" Do not forget that the Avar you are making against us is
without justice. We are men inhabiting our own country,
and we fight honestly ; we are simple and pure, — beneath the
will of God, as the grass is beneath the dew. It is the Re-
public which has attacked us ; she comes to trouble us in
our fields ; she has burned our houses, our harvests, and ruined
our farms, while our women and children were forced to wan-
der with naked feet among the woods when the winter robin
was still singing. You who are down there and who hear
me, you have enclosed us in the forest and surrounded us in
this tower; you have killed or dispersed those who joined us;
you have cannon; you have added to your troop the garri-
sons and posts of Mortain, of Barenton, of Teilleul, of
Landivy, of Evran, of Tinteniac, and of Vitre — by which
means you are four thousand five hundred soldiers who at-
tack us ; and we — we are nineteen men who defend ourselves.
You have provisions and munitions. You have succeeded in
mining and blowing up a corner of our rock and a bit of
our wall. That has made a gap at the foot of the tower,
and this gap is a breach by which you can enter, although
248 NINETY-THREE
it is not open to the sky; and the tower, still upright rind
strong, makes an arch above it. Now, you are preparing the
assault; and we, — first, Monseigneur the Marquis, who is
Prince of Brittany, and secular Prior of the Abbey of Saint
Marie de Lantenac, where a daily Mass was established by
Queen Jeanne; and, next to him, the other defenders of the
tower, who are the Abbe Turmeau, whose military name is
Grand Francoeur; my comrade Guinoiseau, who is captain of
Camp Vert ; my comrade Chante-en-Hiver, who is captain of
Camp Avoinc ; 1113^ comrade Musette, who is captain of Camp
Fourmis; and I, peasant, born in the town of Daon, througn
which runs the brook Moriandre, — we all, all have one thing
to say to you. Men, who are at the bottom of this tower, lis-
ten!
" We have on our hands three prisoners, who are three
children. These children were adopted by one of your regi-
ments, and they belong to you. We offer to surrender these
three children to you, on one condition; it is that we shall
depart freely. If you refuse, listen well. You can only at-
tack us in one of two w T ays, — by the breach, on the side of
the forest ; or by the bridge, on the side of the plateau. The
building on the bridge has three stories; in the lower story,
I, Imanus — I who speak to you — have put six hogsheads
of tar and a hundred fascines of dried heath ; in the top story
there is straw ; in the middle story there are books and papers.
The iron door which communicates between the bridge and
the tower is closed, and Monseigneur carries the key; I have
myself made a hole under the door, and through this hole
passes a sulphur slow-match, one end of which is in the tar
and the other within reach of my hand, inside the tower. I
can fire it when I choose. If you refuse to let us go out, the
three children will be placed in the second floor of the bridge,
between the story where the sulphur-match touches the tar
and the floor where the straw is, and the iron door will be
shut on them. If you attack by the bridge, it will be you who
set the building on fire ; if you attack by the breach it will be
we; if you attack by the breach and the bridge at the same
NINETY-THREE 249
time, the fire will be kindled at the same instant by us both,
and, in any case, the three children will perish.
" Now, accept or refuse. If you accept, we come out. If
you refuse, the children die. I have spoken."
The man speaking from the top of the tower became silent.
A voice from below cried : " We refuse ! "
This voice was abrupt and severe. Another voice, less
harsh, though firm, added : " We give you four-and-twenty
hours to surrender at discretion." There was a silence, then
the same voice continued: " To-morrow, at this hour, if you
have not surrendered, we commence the assault."
And the first voice resumed: " And then no quarter! "
To this savage voice another replied from the top of the
tower! Between the two battlements a lofty figure bent for-
ward, and in the starlight the stern face of the Marquis de
Lantenac could be distinguished; his sombre glance shot down
into the obscurity and seemed to look for some one; and he
cried: " Hold, it is thou, priest!"
" Yes, traitor; it is I," replied the stern voice from below.
CHAPTER XI
TERRIBLE AS THE ANTIQUE
THE implacable voice was, in truth, that of Cimourdain ;
the younger and less imperative that of Gauvain.
The Marquis de Lantenac did not deceive himself in fancy-
ing that he recognized Cimourdain. As we know, a few
weeks in this district, made bloody by civil war, had rendered
Cimourdain famous; there was no notoriety more darkly sinis-
ter than his. People said : Marat at Paris, Chalier at Lyons,
Cimourdain in Vendee. They stripped the Abbe Cimourdain
of all the respect which he had formerly commanded; that
is the consequence of a priest's unfrocking himself. Cimour-
250 NINETY-THREE
dain inspired horror. The severe are unfortunate; those who
note their acts condemn them, though perhaps, if their con-
sciences could be seen, they would stand absolved. A Ly-
curgus misunderstood appears a Tiberius. Those two men,
the Marquis de Lantenac and the Abbe Cimourdain, were
equally poised in the balance of hatred. The maledictions of
the royalists against Cimourdain made a counterpoise to the
execrations of the republicans against Lantenac. Each of
these men was a monster to the opposing camp; so far did
this equality go, that while Prieur, of the Marne, was setting
a price on the head of Lantenac, Charette at Noirmoutiers set
a price on the head of Cimourdain. Let us add, these two
men — the marquis and the priest — were up to a certain
point the same man. The bronze mask of civil war has two
profiles, — the one turned toward the past, the other set to-
ward the future; but both equally tragic. Lantenac was
the first of these profiles, Cimourdain the second; only, the
bitter sneer of Lantenac was full of shadow and night, and
on the fatal brow of Cimourdain shone a gleam from the
morning.
And now the besieged of La Tourgue had a respite.
Thanks to the intervention of Gauvain, a sort of truce for
twenty-four hours had been agreed upon.
Imanus had, indeed, been well informed. Through the req-
uisitions of Cimourdain, Gauvain had now four thousand
five hundred men under his command, part national guards,
part troops of the Line; with these he had surrounded Lan-
tenac in La Tourgue, and was able to level twelve cannon at
the fortress, — a masked battery of six pieces on the edge
of the forest toward the tower, and an open battery of six
on the plateau, toward the bridge. He had succeeded in
springing the mine and making a breach at the foot of the
tower.
Thus, when the twenty-four hours' truce was ended, the
attack would begin under these conditions : On the plateau
and in the forest were four thousand five hundred men. In
the tower nineteen ! History might find the names of those
NINETY-THREE 251
besieged nineteen in the list of outlaws. Wc shall perhaps
encounter them.
As commander of these four thousand five hundred men,
which almost made an army, Cimourdain had wished Gauvain
to allow himself to be made adjutant-general. Gauvain re-
fused, saying, " When Lantenac is taken, we will see. As
yet, I have merited nothing." Those great commands, with
low regimental rank, were, for that matter, a custom among
the republicans. Bonaparte was, after this, at the same time
colonel of artillery and gcneral-in-chief of the army of Italy.
The Tower Gauvain had a strange destiny, — a Gauvain
attacked, a Gauvain defended it. From that fact rose a cer-
tain reserve in the attack, but not in the defence; for Lantenac
was a man who spared nothing. Moreover, he had always
lived at Versailles, and had no personal associations with La
Tourgue, which he scarcely knew indeed. He had sought
refuge there because he had no other asylum, — that was all ;
he would have demolished it without scruple. Gauvain had
more respect for the place.
The weak point of the fortress was the bridge; but in
the library, which was on the bridge, were the family archives.
If the assault took place on that side, the burning of the
bridge would be inevitable. To burn the archives seemed to
Gauvain like attacking his forefathers. La Tourgue was the
ancestral dwelling of the Gauvains; in this tower centred all
their fiefs of Brittany, just as all the fiefs of France cen-
tred in the tower of the Louvre. The home associations of
Gauvain were there ; he had been born within those walls.
The tortuous fatalities of life forced him, a man, to attack
this venerable pile which had sheltered him when a child.
Could he be guilty of the impiety of reducing this dwelling
to ashes? Perhaps his very cradle was stored in some corner
of the granary above the library. Certain reflections are
emotions. Gauvain felt himself moved in the presence of
this ancient house of his family. That was why he had
spared the bridge. He had confined himself to making any
sally or escape impossible by this outlet, and had guarded
252 NINETY-THREE
the bridge by a battery, and chosen the opposite side for the
attack. Hence the mining and sapping at the foot of the
tower.
Cimourdain had allowed him to take his own way. He
reproached himself for it; his stern spirit revolted against
all these Gothic relics, and he no more believed in pity for
buildings than for men. Sparing a castle was a beginning
of clemency. Now, clemency was Gauvain's weak point.
Cimourdain, as we have seen, watched him, — drew him
back from this, in his eyes, fatal weakness. Still, he him-
self, though he felt a sort of rage in being forced to admit
it to his soul, had not revisited La Tourgue without a secret
shock ; he felt himself softened at the sight of that study
where were still the first books he had made Gauvain read.
He had been the priest of the neighbouring village, Parigne ;
he, Cimourdain, had dwelt in the attic of the bridge-castle ; it
was in the library that he had held Gauvain between his
knees as a child, and taught him to lisp out the alphabet;
it was within those four old walls that he had seen grow this
well-beloved pupil, the son of his soul, increase physically and
strengthen in mind. This library, this small castle, these
walls full of his blessings upon the child, — was he about to
overturn and burn them ? He had shown them mercy, — not
without remorse. He had allowed Gauvain to open the siege
from the opposite point. La Tourgue had its savage side,
the tower, and its civilized side, the library. Cimourdain had
allowed Gauvain to batter a breach in the savage side alone.
In truth, attacked by a Gauvain, defended by a Gauvain
this old dwelling returned in the height of the Fernch Revolu-
tion to feudal customs. Wars between kinsmen make up
the history of the Middle Ages : the Eteocles and Polynices are
Gothic as well as Grecian, and Hamlet does at Elsinore what
Orestes did in Argos.
NINKTV-TIIKEE 253
CHAPTER XII
POSSIBLE ESCAPE
THE whole night was consumed in preparations on tin-
one side and the other. As soon as the sombre parky
which we have just heard had ended, Gauvain's first act was
to call his lieutenant.
Guechamp, of whom it will be necessary to know some-
what, was a man of second-rate, honest, intrepid, mediocre;
a better soldier than leader; rigorously intelligent up to the
point where it ceases to be a duty to understand; never
softened ; inaccessible to corruption of any sort, — whether of
venality, which corrupts the conscience; or of pity, which
corrupts justice. He had on soul and heart those two shades,
— discipline and the countersign, as a horse has his blinkers
on both eyes; and he walked unflinchingly in the space thus
left visible to him. His way was straight, but narrow. A
man to be depended on ; rigid in command, exact in obedience.
Gauvain spoke rapidly to him. " Guechamp, a ladder."
" Commandant, we have none."
" One must be had."
" For scaling? "
" No, for escape."
Guechamp reflected an instant, then answered : " I under-
stand. But for what you want, it must be very high."
" At least three stories."
" Yes, Commandant, that is pretty nearly the height."
" It must even go beyond that, for we must be certain of
success."
" Without doubt."
" How does it happen that you have no ladder? "
" Commandant, you did not think best to besiege La Tour-
gue by the plateau; you contented yourself with blockading
it on this side. You wished to attack, not by the bridge, but
254 NINETY-THREE
the tower; so we only busied ourselves with the mine, and
the escalade was given up. That is why we have no ladders."
" Have one made immediately."
" A ladder three stories high cannot be improvised."
" Have several short ladders joined together."
" One must have them in order to do that."
" Find them."
" There are none to be found. All through the country
the peasants destroy the ladders, just as they break up the
carts and cut the bridges."
" It is true; they try to parahyze the Republic."
" They want to manage so that we can neither transport
baggage, cross a river, nor escalade a wall."
" Still, I must have a ladder."
" I just remember, Commandant, at Javene, near Fougeres,
there is a large carpenter's shop. They might have one
there."
" There is not a minute to lose."
" When do you want the ladder? "
" To-morrow at this hour, at the latest."
" I will send an express full speed to Javene. He can
take a requisition. There is a post of cavalry at Javene
which will furnish an escort. The ladder can be here to-
morrow before sunset."
" It is well ; that will answer," said Gauvain. " Act
quickly ; go."
Ten minutes after, Guechamp came back and said to
Gauvain : " Commandant, the express has started for
Javene."
Gauvain ascended the plateau and remained for a long time
with his eyes fixed on the bridge-castle across the ravine.
The gable of the building, without other means of access
than the low entrance closed by the raising of the draw-
bridge, faced the escarpment of the ravine. In order to
reach the arches of the bridge from the plateau, it was neces-
sary to descend this escarpment, — a feat possible to ac-
complish by clinging to the brushwood. But once in the
NINETY-THREE 255
moat, the assailants would he exposed to all the projectiles
that might rain from the three stories.
Gauvain finished by convincing himself that at the point
which the siege had reached, the veritable attack ought to
be by the breach of the tower. He took every measure to
render anv escape out of the question; he increased the strict-
ness of the investment; drew closer the ranks of his battalions,
so that nothing could pass between. Gauvain and Cimourdain
divided the investment of the fortress between them. Gauvain
reserved the forest side for himself, and gave Cimourdain
the side of the plateau. It was agreed that while Gauvain,
seconded by Guechamp, conducted the assault through the
mine, Cimourdain should guard the bridge and ravine, with
every match of the open battery lighted.
CHAPTER XIII
WHAT THE MARQUIS WAS DOING
WHILE without every preparation for the attack was
going on, within everything was preparing for re-
sistance.
It is not without a real analogy that a tower is called a
" douve ; " and sometimes a tower is breached by a mine, as
a cask is bored by an auger. The wall opens like a bung-
hole. This was what had happened at La Tourgue. The
great blast of two or three hundredweight of powder had
hurst the mighty wall through and through. This breach
started from the foot of the tower, traversed the wall in its
thickest part, and made a sort of shapeless arch in the
ground-floor of the fortress. On the outside the besiegers,
in order to render this gap practicable for assault, had en-
larged and finished it off by cannon-shots.
The ground-floor which this breach penetrated was a great
256 NINETY-THREE
round hall, entirely empty, with a central pillar which sup-
ported the keystone of the vaulted roof. This chamber, the
largest in the whole keep, was not less than forty feet in
diameter. Each story of the tower was composed of a similar
room, but smaller, with guards to the embrasures of the
loop-holes. The ground-floor chamber had neither loop-holes
nor air-holes; there was about as much air and light as in
a tomb. The door of the dungeon, made more of iron than
wood, was in this ground-floor room. Another door opened
upon a staircase which led to the upper chambers. All the
staircases were contrived in the interior of the wall. It was
into this lower room that the besiegers could arrive by the
breach they had made. This hall taken, there would still be
the tower to take. It had always been impossible to breathe
in that hall for any length of time. Nobody ever passed
twenty-four hours there without suffocating. Now, thanks
to the breach, one could exist there. That was why the be-
sieged had not closed the breach. Besides, of what service
would it have been? The cannon would have re-opened it.
They stuck an iron torch-holder into the wall, and put a
torch in it, which lighted the ground-floor.
Now, how to defend themselves? To wall up the hole
would be easy, but useless. A retirade would be of more
service. A retirade is an intrenchment with a re-entering
angle, — a sort of rafted barricade, which admits of converg-
ing the fire upon the assailants, and while leaving the breach
open exteriorly blocks it on the inside. Materials were not
lacking. They constructed a retirade with fissures for the
passage of the gun-barrels. The angle was supported by
the central pillar ; the wings touched the wall on cither side.
The marquis directed everything. Inspirer, commander,
guide, and master, — a terrible spirit. Lantenac belonged
to that race of warriors of the eighteenth century, who at
eighty years saved cities. He resembled that Count d'Alberg
who, almost a centenarian, drove the King of Poland from
Riga. " Courage, friends," said the marquis ; " at the com-
mencement of this century, in 1713, at Bender, Charles XII..
NINETY-THREE 257
shut up in a house with three hundred Swedes, held his own
against twenty thousand Turks."
They barricaded the two lower floors, fortified the cham-
bers, battlemented the alcoves, supported the doors with joists
driven in by blows from a mallei ; and thus formed a sort of
hut tress. It was necessary to leave free the spiral staircase
which joined the different floors, for they must be able to
get up and down, and to stop it against the besiegers woidd
have been to close it against themselves. The defence of any
place has thus always some weak side.
The marquis, indefatigable, robust as a young man, set
an example, — lifted beams, carried stones, put his hand to
the work, commanded, aided, fraternized, laughed with this
ferocious clan, but remained always the noble still, — haughty,
familiar, elegant, savage. He permitted no reply to his or-
ders. He had said: "If the half of you should revolt, I
would have them shot by the other half, and defend the place
with those that were left." Such things make a leader
adored.
CHAPTER XIV
WHAT IMANUS WAS DOING
WHILE the marquis occupied himself with the breach
and the tower, Imanus was busy with the bridge.
At the beginning of the siege, the escape-ladder which hung
transversely below the windows of the second story had been
removed by the marquis's orders, and Imanus had put it in
the library. (It was, perhaps, the loss of this ladder which
Gauvain wished to supply. ) The windows of the lower floor,
called the guard-room, were defended by a triple bracing of
iron bars set in the stone, so that neither ingress nor egress
was possible by them. The library windows had no bars, but
thev were very high.
17
258 NINETY-THREE
Imanus took three men with him, who, like himself, possessed
capabilities and resolution that would carry them through
anything: these men were Hoisnard, called Branche d'Or, and
the two brothers Piquc-en-Bois. Imanus, carrying a dark
lantern, opened the iron door and carefully visited the three
stories of the bridge-castle. Branche d'Or was implacable
as Imanus, having had a brother killed by the Republicans.
Imanus examined the upper room filled with hay and straw,
and the ground-floor, where he had several fire-pots added to
the tuns of tar ; he placed the heap of fascines so that they
touched the casks, and assured himself of the good condition
of the sulphur-match, of which one end was in the bridge
and the other in the tower. He spread over the floor, under
the tuns and fascines, a pool of tar, in which he dipped the
end of the sulphur-match. Then he brought into the library,
between the ground-floor where the tar was and the garret
filled with straw, the three cribs in which lay Rene-Jean,
Gros-Alain, and Georgette, buried in deep sleep. They car-
ried the cradles very gently in order not to awaken the little
ones. They were simple village cribs, a sort of low osier-
basket, which stood on the floor so that a child could get out
unaided. Near each cradle Imanus placed a porringer of
soup, with a wooden spoon. The escape-ladder, unhooked
from its cramping-irons, had been set on the floor against the
wall ; Imanus arranged the three cribs, end to end, in front of
the ladder. Then, thinking that a current of air might be
useful, he opened wide the six windows of the library; the
summer night was warm and starlight. He sent the brothers
Pique-en-Bois to open the windows of the upper and lower
stories. He had noticed on the eastern facade of the build-
ing a great dried old ivy, the colour of tinder, which cov-
ered one whole side of the bridge from top to bottom, and
framed in the windows of the three stories. He thought this
ivy might be left.
Imanus took a last watchful glance at everything; that
done, the four men left the chatelet and returned to the
tower. Imanus double-locked the heavy iron door, studied
NINETY-THREE 259
attentively the enormous bolts, and nodded his head in a sat-
isfied way at the sulphur-match which passed through the
hole he had drilled, and was now the sole communication be-
tween the tower and the bridge. This train or wick started
from the round chamber, passed beneath the iron door, en-
tered under the arch, twisted like a snake down the spiral 1
stair-case leading to the lower story of the bridge, crept
over the floor, and ended in the heap of dried fascines laid
on the pool of tar. Imanus had calculated that it would
take about a quarter of an hour for this wick, when lighted
in the interior of the tower, to set fire to the pool of tar
under the library. These arrangements all concluded, and
every work carefully inspected, he carried the key of the
iron door back to the marquis, who put it in nis pocket.
It was important that every movement of the besiegers
should be watched. Imanus, with his cowherd's horn in his
belt, posted himself as sentinel on the watch-tower of the
platform at the top of the tower. While keeping u constant
look-out, one eye on the forest and one on the plateau, I.e
worked at making cartridges, having near him, in the em-
brasure of the watch-tower window, a powder-horn, a canvas-
bag full of good-sized balls, and some old newspapers, which
he tore up for wadding.
When the sun rose it lighted in the forest eight battalions,
with sabres at their sides, knapsacks on their backs, and
guns with fixed bayonets, ready for the assault; on the
plateau, a battery with caissons, cartridges, and boxes of case-
shot; within the fortress, nineteen men loading several guns,
muskets, blunderbusses, and pistols, — and three children
sleeping in their cradles.
BOOK III
THE MASSACRE OF SAINT BARTHOLOMEW
CHAPTER I
THE children woke. The little girl was the first to open
her eyes. The waking of children is like the un-
closing of flowers, — a perfume seems to exhale from those
fresh young souls.
Georgette, twenty months old, the youngest of the three
who was still a nursing baby in the month of May, raised
her little head, sat up in her cradle, looked at her feet, and
began to chatter. A ray of the morning fell across her
crib; it would have been difficult to decide which was the
rosiest, — Georgette's foot or Aurora. The other two still
slept ; the slumber of boys is heavier. Georgette, gay and
happy, began to chatter. Rene-Jean's hair was brown, Gros-
Alain's was auburn, Georgette's blond. These tints would
change later in life. Rene-Jean had the look of an infant
Hercules; he slept lying on his stomach, with his two fists in
his eyes. Gros-Alain had thrust his legs outside his little
bed.
All three were in rags. The garments given them by the
battalion of the Bonnet Rouge had worn to shreds; they had
not even a shirt between them. The two boys were almost
naked; Georgette was muffled in a rag which had once been
a petticoat, but was now little more than a jacket. Who had
taken care of these children? Impossible to say. Not a
mother. These savage peasant fighters, who dragged them
260
NINETY-THREE 261
along j'rom forest to forest, had given them their portion
of soup. That was all. The little ones lived as they could.
They had everybody for master, and nobody for father.
But even about the rags of childhood there hangs a halo.
These three tiny creatures were lovely.
Georgette prattled. A bird sings, a child prattles; but
it is the same hymn, — hymn indistinct, inarticulate, but full
of profound meaning. The child, unlike the bird, has the
sombre destiny of humanity before it: this thought saddens
any man who listens to the joyous song of a child. The
most sublime psalm that can be heard on this earth is the
lisping of a human soul from the lips of childhood. This
confused murmur of thought which is as yet only instinct,
holds a strange unreasoning appeal to eternal justice; per-
chance it is a protest against life while standing on its
threshold, — a protest unconscious, yet heart-rending. This
ignorance, smiling at infinity, lays upon all creation the bur-
den of the destiny which shall be offered to this feeble, un-
armed creature; if unhappiness comes, it seems like a be-
trayal of confidence. The babble of an infant is more and
less than speech : it is not measured, and yet it is a song ;
not syllables, and yet a language, — a murmur that began in
heaven, and will not finish on earth; it commenced before hu-
man birth, and will continue in the sphere beyond! These
lispings are the echo of what the child said when he was an
angel, and of what he will say when he enters eternit} 7 . The
cradle has a yesterday, just as the grave has a to-morrow:
this morrow and this yesterday join their double mystery in
that incomprehensible warbling; and there is no such proof
of God, of eternity, and the duality of destiny, as in this awe-
inspiring shadow flung across that flower-like soul.
There was nothing saddening in Georgette's prattle ; her
whole lovely face was a smile. Her mouth smiled, her eyes
smiled, the dimples in her cheeks smiled. There was a serene
acceptance of the morning in this smile. The soul has faith
in the sunlight. The sky was blue, warm, beautiful. This
frail creature, who knew nothing, who comprehended noth-
262 NINETY-THREE
ing, softly cradled in a dream which was not thought, felt
herself in safety amidst the loveliness of Nature, — these
sturdy trees, this pure verdure, this landscape fair and peace-
ful, with its noises of birds, brooks, insects, leaves, above which
glowed the brightness of the sun.
After Georgette, Rene-Jean, the eldest, who was past four,
awoke. He sat up, jumped in a manly way over the side of
his cradle, found out the porringer, considered that quite
natural, and so sat down on the floor and began to eat his
soup.
Georgette's prattle had not awakened Gros-Alain, but at
the sound of the spoon in the porringer he turned over with
a start, and opened his eyes. Gros-Alain was the one three
years old. He saw his bowl; he had only to stretch out his
arm and take it. So, without leaving his bed, he followed
Rene-Jean's example, seized the spoon in his little fists, and
began to eat, holding the bowl on his knees.
Georgette did not hear them ; the modulations of her voice
seemed measured by the cradling of a dream. Her great
eyes, gazing upward, were divine. No matter how dark the
ceiling in the vault above the child's head, heaven is reflected
in its eyes.
When Rene-Jean had finished his portion, he scraped the
bottom of the bowl with his spoon, sighed, and said with
dignity, " I have eaten my soup."
This roused Georgette from her reverie. " Thoup ! " said
she. Seeing that Rene-Jean had eaten, and that Gros-Alain
was eating, she took the porringer which was placed by her
cradle, and began to eat in her turn, — not without carry-
ing the spoon to her ear much oftener than to her mouth.
From time to time she renounced civilization, and ate with
her fingers.
When Gros-Alain had scraped the bottom of his porringer
too, he leaped out of bed and joined his brother.
NINETY-THREE 203
CHAPTER II
SUDDENLY from without, down below, on the side of the
forest, came the stern, loud ring of a trumpet. To
this clarion-blast a horn from the top of the tower replied.
This time it was the clarion which called, and the horn which
made answer. The clarion blew a second summons, and the
horn again replied. Then from the edge of the forest rose
a voice, distant but clear, which cried thus : —
" Brigands, a summons ! If at sunset you have not sur-
rendered at discretion, we commence the attack."
A voice, which sounded like the roar of a wild animal, re-
sponded from the summit of the tower : " Attack ! "
The voice from below resumed : " A cannon will be fired, as
a last warning, half an hour before the assault."
The voice from on high repeated : " Attack ! "
These voices did not reach the children, but the trumpet
and the horn rose loud and clear. At the first sound of the
clarion, Georgette lifted her head, and stopped eating; at
the sound of the horn, she dropped her spoon into the por-
ringer; at the second blast of the trumpet, she lifted the
little forefinger of her right hand, and, raising and depressing
it in turn, marked the cadences of the flourish which pro-
longed the blast. When the trumpet and the horn ceased,
she remained with her finger pensively lifted, and murmured,
in a half voice, " Muthic." We suppose that she wished to
say, " Music."
The two elders, Rene-Jean and Gros-Alain, had paid no
attention to the trumpet and horn; they were absorbed by
something else: a wood-louse was just making a journey
across the library floor.
Gros-Alain perceived it, and cried : " There is a little crea-
ture!" Rene-Jean ran up. Gros-Alain continued: "It
stings."
" Do not hurt it," said Rene-Jean.
264 NINETY-THREE
And both remained watching the traveller.
Georgette proceeded to finish her soup; that done, she
looked about for her brothers. Rene-Jean and Gros-Alain
were in the recess of one of the windows, gravely stooping
over the wood-louse, — their foreheads touching, their curls
mingling. They held their breath in wonder, and examined
the insect, which had stopped, and did not attempt to move,
though not appreciating the admiration it received.
Georgette seeing that her brothers were watching some-
thing, must needs know what it was. It was not an easy
matter to reach them; still, she undertook the journey. The
way was full of difficulties. There were things scattered
over the floor. There were footstools overturned, heaps of
old papers, packing-cases forced open and empty, trunks,
rubbish of all sorts, in and out of which it was necessary to
sail, — a whole archipelago of reefs ; but Georgette risked
it. The first task was to get out of her crib; then she en-
tered the chain of reefs, twisted herself through the straits,
— pushed a footstool aside, crept between two coffers, got
over a heap of papers, climbing up one side and rolling
down the other, regardless of the exposure to her poor little
naked legs, and succeeded in reaching what a sailor would
have called an open sea, — that is, a sufficiently wide space
of the floor which was not littered over, and where there were
no more perils; then she bounded forward, traversed this
space, which was the whole width of the room, on all fours
with the agility of a kitten, and got near to the window.
There a fresh and formidable obstacle encountered her: the
great ladder lying along the wall reached to this window,
the end of it passing a little beyond the corner of the recess ;
it formed between Georgette and her brothers a sort of cape,
which must be crossed. She stopped and meditated; her in-
ternal monologue ended, she came to a decision. She reso-
lutely twisted her rosy fingers about one of the rungs, which
were vertical, as the ladder lay along its side; she tried to
raise herself on her feet, and fell back; she began again,
and fell a second time ; the third effort was successful. Then,
NINETY-THREE 265
standing up, she caught hold of the rounds in succession,
and walked the length of the ladder. When she reached the
extremity there was nothing more to support her; she tot-
tered, but seizing in her two hands the end of one of the
great poles, which held the rungs, she rose again, doubled the
promontory, looked at Rene-Jean and Gros-Alain, and began
to laugh.
CHAPTER III
AT that instant, Rene-Jean, satisfied with the result of
his investigations of the wood-louse, raised his head,
and announced, " 'T is a she-creature."
Georgette's laughter made Rene-Jean laugh, and Rene-
Jean's laughter made Gros-Alain laugh. Georgette seated
herself beside her brothers, the recess forming a sort of
little reception chamber; but their guest, the wood-louse had
disappeared. He had taken advantage of Georgette's laugh-
ter to hide himself in a crack of the floor.
Other incidents followed the wood-louse's visit. First, a
flock of swallows passed. They probably had their nests
under the edge of the overhanging roof. They flew close
to the window, a little startled b}' the sight of the children,
describing great circles in the air, and uttering their me-
lodious spring song. The sound made the three little ones
look up, and the wood-louse was forgotten.
Georgette pointed her finger toward the swallows, and cried,
" Chicks ! "
Rene-Jean reprimanded her. " Miss, you must not say
' chicks ; ' they are birds."
" Birz," repeated Georgette.
And all three sat and watched the swallows.
Then a bee entered. There is nothing so like a soul as
a bee. It goes from flower to flower as a soul from star
to star, and gathers honey as the soul does light. This
2f>6 NINETY-THREE
visitor made a great noise as it came in; it buzzed at the
top of its voice, seeming to say, " I have come ! I
have first been to see the roses, now I come to see the children.
What is going on here?" A bee is a house-wife; its song
is a grumble. The children did not take their eyes off the
new comer as long as it stayed with them. The bee explored
the library, rummaged in the corners, fluttered about with the
air of being at home in a hive, and wandered, winged and
melodious, from book-case to book-case, examining the titles
of the volumes through the glass doors as if it had an intel-
lect. Its explorations finished, it departed.
" She is going to her own house," said Rene-Jean.
" It is a beast," said Gros-Alain.
" No," replied Rene-Jean, " it is a fly."
" A f'y," said Georgette.
Thereupon Gros-Alain, who had just found on the floor
a cord with a knot in one end, took the opposite extremity
between his thumb and forefinger, and made a sort of wind-
mill of the string, watching its whirls with profound atten-
tion.
On her side, Georgette, having turned into a quadruped
again, and recommenced her capricious course back and for-
ward across the floor, discovered a venerable tapestry-covered
armchair, so eaten by moths that the horse-hair stuck out in
several places. She stopped before this seat. She enlarged
the holes, and diligently pulled out the long hairs. Sud-
denly she lifted one finger ; that meant, " Listen ! "
The two brothers turned their heads. A vague, distant
noise surged up from without: it was probably the attacking
camp executing some strategic manoeuvre in the forest,
horses neighed, drums beat, caissons rolled, chains clanked,
military calls and responses, — a confusion of savage sounds,
whose mingling formed a sort of harmony. The children
listened in delight.
" It is the good God who does that," said Rene-Jean.
NINETY-THREE 207
CHAPTER IV
THE noise ceased. Rene-Jean remained lost in a dream.
How do ideas vanish and reform themselves in the
brains of those little ones? What is the mysterious motive
of those memories at once so troubled and so brief? Thi
was in that sweet, pensive little soul a mingling of ideas of
the good God, of prayer, of joined hands, the light of a
tender smile it had formerly known and knew no longer ;
and Rene-Jean murmured, half aloud, " Mamma ! "
" Mamma ! " repeated Gros-Alain.
" Mamma ! " cried Georgette.
Then Rene-Jean began to leap. Seeing this, Gros-Alain
leaped too. Gros-Alain repeated every movement and ges-
ture of his brother. Three years copies four years; but
twenty months keeps its independence.
Georgette remained seated, uttering a word from time to
time. Georgette could not yet manage sentences. She was
a thinker ; she spoke in apothegms ; she was monosyllabic.
Still, after a little, example proved infectious and she ended by
trying to imitate her brothers ; and these three little pairs of
naked feet began to dance, to run, to totter amidst the dust of
the old polished oak floor, beneath the grave aspects of the
marble busts toward which Georgette from time time cast an
unquiet glance, murmuring " Momommes." Probably in
Georgette's language this signified something which looked
like a man, but yet was not one, — perhaps the first glim-
mering of an idea in regard to phantoms. Georgette, oscil-
lating rather than walking, followed her brothers, but her
favourite mode of locomotion was on all fours.
Suddenly Rene-Jean, who had gone near a window, lifted
his head, then dropped it, and hastened to hide himself in a
corner of the wall made by the projecting window recess.
He had just caught sight of a man looking at him. It
was a soldier, from the encampment of Blues on the plat'
268 NINETY-THREE
who profiting by the truce, and perhaps infringing it a little,
had ventured to the very edge of the escarpment, whence
the interior of the library was visible. Seeing Rene-Jean
hide himself, Gros-Alain hid too ; he crouched down beside his
brother, and Georgette hurried to hide herself behind them.
So they remained, silent, motionless, Georgette pressing her
finger against her lips. After a few instants, Rene-Jean
ventured to thrust out his head; the soldier was there still.
Rene-Jean retreated quickly, and the three little ones dared
not even breathe. This suspense lasted for some time.
Finally the fear began to bore Georgette; she gathered cour-
age to look out. The soldier had disappeared. They began
again to run about and play.
Gros-Alain, although the imitator and admirer of Rene-
Jean, had a specialty, — that of discoveries. His brother
and sister saw him suddenly galloping wildly about, drag-
ging after him a little cart, which he had unearthed behind
some box. This doll's wagon had lain forgotten for years
among the dust, living amicably in the neighbourhood of the
printed works of genius and the busts of sages. It was,
perhaps, one of the toys that Gauvain had played with when
a child.
Gros-Alain had made a whip of his string, and cracked it
loudly ; he was very proud. Such are discoverers. The
child discovers a little wagon ; the man, an America : the
spirit of adventure is the same.
But it was necessary to share the godsend. Rene-Jean
wished to harness himself to the carriage, and Georgette
wished to ride in it. She succeeded in seating herself. Rene-
Jean was the horse. Gros-Alain was the coachman. But
the coachman did not understand his business ; the horse
began to teach him. Rene- Jean shouted, " Say ' Whoa ! ' "
" Whoa ! " repeated Gros-Alain.
The carriage upset. Georgette rolled out. Child-angels
can shriek; Georgette did so. Then she had a vague wish
to weep.
" Miss," said Rene-Jean, " you are too big."
NINETY-THRE E 2G0
" Mc big!" stammered Georgette. And her size consoled
her for her fall.
The cornice of entablature outside the windows was very
broad; the dust blowing from the plain of heath had collected
there; the rains had hardened it into soil, the wind had brought
seeds; a blackberry-bush had profited by the shallow bed to
grow up there. This bush belonged to the species called fox
blackberry. It was August now, and the bush was covered
with berries; a branch passed in by the window, and hung
down nearly to the floor. Gros-Alain, after having discov-
ered the cord and the wagon, discovered this bramble. He
went up to it. He gathered a berry and ate.
" I am hungry," said Rene-Jean.
Georgette arrived, galloping up on her hands and knees.
The three between them stripped the branch, and ate all the
berries. They stained their faces and hands with the purple
juice till the trio of little seraphs was changed into a knot of
little fauns, which would have shocked Dante and charmed
Virgil. They shrieked with laughter. From time to time
the thorns pricked their fingers. There is always a pain at-
tached to every pleasure. Georgette held out her finger to
Rene-Jean, on which showed a tiny drop of blood, and point-
ing to the bush, said, " P'icks."
Gros-Alain, who had suffered also, looked suspiciously at
the branch and said: " It is a beast."
" No," replied Rene-Jean ; " it is a stick."
" Then a stick is wicked," retorted Gros-Alain.
Again Georgette, though she had a mind to cry, burst out
laughing.
270 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER V
IN the mean time Rene- Jean, perhaps jealous of the dis-
coveries made by his younger brother, had conceived a
grand project. For some minutes past, while busy eating
the berries and pricking his ringers, his eyes turned fre-
quently toward the chorister's desk mounted on a pivot and
isolated like a monument in the centre of the library. On
this desk lay the celebrated volume of " Saint Bartholomew."
It was in truth a magnificent and priceless folio. It had
been published at Cologne by the famous publisher of the
edition of the Bible of 1682, Blceuw, or, in Latin, Coesius. It
was printed, not on Dutch paper, but upon that beautiful
Arabian paper so much admired by Edrisi, which was made
of silk and cotton and never grew yellow; the binding was
of gilt leather, and the clasps of silver; the boards were
of that parchment which the parchment sellers of Paris
took an oath to buy at the Hall Saint Mathurin, " and no-
where else." The volume was full of engravings on wood
and copper, with geographical maps of many countries; it
had on a fly-leaf a protest of the printers, paper-makers,
and publishers against the edict of 1635, which set a tax on
" leather, fur, cloven-footed animals, sea-fish, and paper ; "
and at the back of the frontispiece could be read a dedica-
tion to the Gryphes, who were to Lyons what the Elzevirs
were to Amsterdam. These combinations resulted in a fa-
mous copy almost as rare as the " Apostol " at Moscow.
The book was beautiful; it was for that reason Rene-Jean
looked at it, too long perhaps. The volume chanced to be
open at a great print representing Saint Bartholomew car-
rying his skin over his arm. He could see this print where
he stood. When the berries were all eaten, Rene-Jean watched
it with a feverish longing, and Georgette, following the
direction of her brother's eyes, perceived the engraving, and
said " Pic'sure."
NINETV THREE 271
This exclamation seemed to decide Rene- Jean. Then, to
the utter stupefaction of Gros-Alain, an extraordinary thing
happened. A great oaken chair stood in one corner of the
library; Rene-Jean marched toward it, seized and dragged it
unaided up to the desk. Then In- mounted thereon and laid
his two hands on the volume. Arrived at this summit, he
felt a necessity for being magnificently generous ; he took
bold of the upper end of the " pic'sure " and tore it care-
fully down. The tear went diagonally over the saint, but
that was not the fault of Rene- Jean ; it left in the book the
left side, one eye, and a bit of the halo of the old apocryphal
evangelist. He offered Georgette the other half of the saint
and all his skin. Georgette took the saint, and observed,
" Momommes."
" And I ! " cried Gros-Alain.
The tearing of the first page of a book by children is
like the shedding of the first drop of blood by men, — it
decides the carnage. Rene-Jean turned the leaf; next to
the saint came the Commentator Pantcenus. Rene-Jean be-
stowed Pantoenus upon Gros-Alain. Meanwhile Georgette
tore her large piece into two little morsels, then the two into
four, and continued her work till history might have noted
that Saint Bartholomew, after having been flayed in Armenia,
was torn limb from limb in Brittany.
CHAPTER VI
THE quartering completed, Georgette held out her hand
to Rene-Jean, and said, " More ! " After the saint
and the commentator followed portraits of frowning glos-
sarists. The first in the procession was Gavantus : Rene-Je.tn
tore him out and put Gavantus into Georgette's hand. The
whole group of Saint Bartholomew's commentators met the
same fate in turn.
272 NINETY-THREE
There is a sense of superiority in giving. Rene-Jean kept
nothing for himself. Gros-Alain and Georgette were watch-
ing him, — he was satisfied with that; the admiration of his
public was reward enough. Rene- Jean, inexhaustible in his
magnanimity, offered Frabricio Pignatelli to Gros-Alain,
and Father Stilting to Georgette; he followed these by the
bestowal of Alphonse Tostat on Gros-Alain, and Cornelius a
Lapide upon Georgette. Then Gros-Alain received Henry
Hammond, and Georgette received Father Roberti, together
with a view of the city of Douai, where that father was born,
in 1619. Gros-Alain received the protest of the stationers,
and Georgette obtained the dedication to the Gryphes. Then
it was the turn of the maps. Rene-Jean proceeded to dis-
tribute them. He gave Gros-Alain Ethiopia, and Lycaonia
fell to Georgette. This done he tumbled the book upon the
floor.
This was a terrible moment. With mingled ectasy and
fright Gros-Alain and Georgette saw Rene-Jean wrinkle his
brows, stiffen his legs, clinch his fists, and push the massive
folio off the stand. The majestic old tome was fairly a
tragic spectacle. Pushed from its resting-place, it hung
for an instant on the edge of the desk,— *■seemed to hesitate,
trying to balance itself, — then crashed down, and broken,
crumpled, torn, ripped from its bindings, its clasps frac-
tured, flattened itself miserably upon the floor. Fortunately
it did not fall on the children ; they were only bewildered,
not crushed. Victories do not always finish so well. Like
all glories it made a great noise, and left a cloud of dust.
Having flung the book on the ground, Rene-Jean de-
scended from the chair. There was a moment of silence and
fright; victory has its terrors. The three children seized
one another's hands and stood at a distance, looking toward
the vast dismantled tome. But after a brief reverie Gros-
Alain approached it quickly and gave it a kick. Nothing
more was needed. The appetite for destruction grows rap-
idly. Rene-Jean kicked it, Georgette dealt a blow with her
little foot which overset her, though she fell in a sitting
NINETY-THREE 273
position, by which she profited to fling herself on Saint
Bartholomew. The spell was completely broken. Rene-Jean
pounced upon the saint, Gros-Alain dashed upon him, and
joyous, distracted, triumphant, pitiless, tearing the prints,
slashing the leaves, pulling out the markers, scratching the
binding, ungluing the gilded leather, breaking off the nails
from the silver corners, ruining the parchment, making
mince-meat of the august test, working with feet, hands, nails,
teeth, — rosy, laughing, ferocious, the three angels of prey
demolished the defenceless evangelist. They annihilated
Armenia, Judea, Benevento, where rest the relics of the saint ;
Nathaniel, who is perhaps the same as Bartholomew ; the Pope
Gelasius, who declared the Gospel of Saint Bartholomew (Na-
thaniel, apocryphal; all the portraits, all the maps; and the
inexorable massacre of the old book absorbed them so en-
tirely that a mouse ran past without their perceiving it.
It was an extermination. To tear in pieces history, legend,
science, miracles, whether true or false, the Latin of the
Church, superstitions, fanaticisms, mysteries, — to rend a
whole religion from top to bottom would be a work for three
giants ; but the three children completed it. Hours passed in
the labour, but they reached the end; nothing remained of
Saint Bartholomew.
When they had finished, when the last page was loosened,
the last print lying on the ground, when nothing was left of
the book but the edges of the text and pictures in the
skeleton of the binding, Rene-Jean sprang to his feet, looked
at the floor covered with scattered leaves, and clapped his
hands. Gros-Alain clapped his hands likewise. Georgette
took one of the pages in her hand, rose, leaned against the
window-sill, which was on a level with her chin, and com-
menced to tear the great leaf into tiny bits, and scatter
them out of the casement. Seeing this, Rene-Jean and Gros-
Alain began the same work. They picked up and tore into
small bits, picked up again and tore, and flung the
pieces out of the window, as Georgette had done, page by
18
274 NINETY-THREE
page. Rent by these little desperate fingers, the entire an-
cient volume almost flew down the wind.
Georgette thoughtfully watched these swarms of little
white papers dispersed by the breeze, and said: "Butter-
Pies ! "
So the massacre ended with these tiny ghosts vanishing
in the blue of heaven !
CHAPTER VII
THUS was Saint Bartholomew for the second time made
a martyr, — he who had been the first time sacrificed
in the year of our Lord 49.
Then the evening came on; the heat increased; there was
sleep in the air. Georgette's eyes began to close; Rene- Jean
went to his crib, pulled out the straw sack which served in-
stead of a mattress, dragged it to the window stretched him-
self thereon, and said, " Let us go to bed." Gros-Alain laid
his head against Rene-Jean, Georgette placed hers on Gros-
Alain, and the three malefactors fell asleep.
The warm breeze entered by the open windows, the per-
fume of wild flowers from the ravines and hills mingled with
the breath of evening. Nature was calm and pitiful ; every-
thing beamed, was at peace, full of love; the sun gave its
caress, which is light, to all creation ; everywhere could be
heard and felt that harmony which is thrown off from the
infinite sweetness of inanimate things. There is a mother-
hood in the infinite, — she perfects her grandeur by her good-
ness ; creation is a miracle in full bloom. It seemed as if
one could feel some invisible Being take those mysterious pre-
cautions which in the formidable conflict of opposing ele-
ments of life protect the weak against the strong; at the same
time there was beauty everywhere, — the splendour equalled
the gentleness. The landscape that seemed asleep had those
NINETY-THREE 275
lovely hazy effects which the changings of light and shadow
produce on the fields and rivers; the mists mounted toward
the clouds like reveries changing into dreams; the birds cir-
cled noisily about La Tourgue; the swallows looked in through
the windows, as if they wished to be certain that the children
slept well.
They were prettily grouped upon one another, motionless,
half-naked, posed like little Cupids; they were adorable and
pure; the united ages of the three did not make nine years.
The} r were dreaming dreams of paradise, which were re-
flected on their lips in vague smiles. Perchance God whis-
pered in their ears. They were of those whom all human
languages call the weak and blessed ; thev were made ma-
jestic by innocence. All was silence about them, as if the
breath from their tender bosoms was the care of the universe,
and listened to by the whole creation; the leaves did not rustle,
the grass did not stir. It seemed as if the vast starry
world held its breath for fear of disturbing these three hum-
ble angelic sleepers, and nothing could have been so sublime
as that reverent respect of Nature in presence of this little-
ness.
The sun was near its setting ; it almost touched the horizon.
Suddenly, across this profound peace burst a lightning-like
glare, which came from the forest; then a savage noise. A
cannon had just been fired. The echoes seized upon this
thundering, and repeated it with an infernal din; the pro-
longed growling from hill to hill was terrible. It woke
Georgette. She raised her head slightly, lifted her little fin-
ger, and said : " Boom ! " The noise died away ; the silence
swept back ; Georgette laid her head on Gros-Alain, and fell
asleep once more.
BOOK VI
THE MOTHER
CHAPTER I
DEATH PASSES
WHEN this evening came, the mother whom we saw
wandering almost at random had walked the whole
day. This was indeed the history of all her days, — to go
straight before her without stopping. For her slumbers of
exhaustion, given in to in any corner that chanced to be near-
est, were no more rest than the morsels she ate here and there
(as the birds pick up crumbs) were nourishment. She ate
and slept just what was absolutely necessary to keep her from
falling down dead. She had passed the previous night in an
empty barn; civil wars leave many such. She had found
in a bare field four walls, an open door, a little straw be-
neath the ruins of a roof; and she had slept on the straw
under the rafters, feeling the rats slip about beneath, and
watching the stars rise through the gaping wreck above. She
slept for several hours; then she woke in the middle of the
night and set out again in order to get over as much road
as possible before the great heat of the day should set in.
For any one who travels on foot in the summer, midnight
is more fitting than noon.
She had followed to the best of her ability the brief itiner-
ary the peasant of Vautortcs had marked out for her: she
had gone as straight as possible toward the west. Had there
276
NINETY-THREE 277
been any one near, he might have heard her ceaselessly mur-
mur, half aloud, " La Tourgue." Except the names of her
children, this word was all she knew. As she walked, she
dreamed. She thought of the adventures with which she
had met; she thought of all she had suffered, all which she
had accepted, — of the meetings, the indignities, the terms
offered; the bargains proposed and submitted to, — now for
a shelter, now for a morsel of bread, sometimes simply to
obtain from some one information as to her route. A
wretched woman is more unfortunate than a wretched man,
for she may be a prey to lust. Frightful wandering march!
But nothing mattered to her, provided she could discover her
children.
Her first encounter this day had been a village. The
dawn was beginning to break ; everything was still tinged
with the gloom of night. A few doors were already half
open in the principal streets, and curious faces looked out of
the windows ; the inhabitants were agitated like a disturbed
bee-hive: this arose from a noise of wheels and chains which
had been heard. On the church square a frightened group
with their heads raised, watched something descend a high
hill along the road toward the village. It was a four-
wheeled wagon drawn by five horses, harnessed with chains.
On this wagon could be distinguished a heap like a pile of
long joists, in the middle of which lay some shapeless ob-
ject, covered with a large canvas resembling a pall. Ten
horseman rode in front of the wagon, and ten others behind;
these men wore three-cornered hats, and above their shoulders
rose what seemed to be the points of naked sabres. This
whole cortege, advancing slowly showed black and distinct
against the horizon, the wagon looked black, the harness
looked black, the horsemen looked black. Behind them
gleamed the pallor of the morning. They entered the vil-
lage and moved toward the square. Daylight had come on
while the wagon was going down the hill, and the cortege
could be distinctly seen; it was like watching a procession of
shadows, for not a man in the party uttered a word. The
278 NINETY-THREE
horsemen were gendarmes; they did in truth carry drawn
sabres. The cover was black.
The wretched wandering mother entered the village from
the opposite side, and approached the mob of peasants at
the moment the gendarmes and the wagon reached the square.
Among the crowd, voices whispered questions and replies: —
"What is it?"
" The guillotine."
"Whence does it come?"
" From Fougeres."
" Where is it going;? "
" I do not know. They say to a castle in the neighbour-
hood of Parigne."
" Parigne."
" Let it go where it likes, provided it does not stop here."
This great cart, with its lading hidden by a sort of shroud ;
this team, these gendarmes, the noise of the chains, the silence
of the men, the grey dawn, — all made up a whole that was
spectral. The group traversed the square and passed out
of the village. The hamlet lay in a hollow between two hills :
at the end of a quarter of an hour, the peasants, who had
stood still as if petrified, saw the lugubrious procession reap-
pear on the summit of the western hill; the heavy wheels
jolted along the ruts, the chains clanked in the morning wind,
the sabres shone in the rising sun, — ihen the road turned
off, and the cortege disappeared.
It was the very moment when Georgette woke in the
library by the side of her still sleeping brothers, and wished
her rosy feet good-morning.
NINETY-THREE 272
CHAPTER II
DEATH SPEAKS
THE mother watched this mysterious procession, but
neither comprehended nor sought to understand ; her
eyes were busy with another vision, — her children, lost amidst
the darkness. She went out of the village also, a little after
the cortege which had filed past, and followed the same route
at some distance behind the second squad of gendarmes. Sud-
denly the word " guillotine " recurred to her. " Guillotine! "
she said to herself. This rude peasant, Michelle Flechard, did
not know what that was, but instinct warned her. She shiv-
ered without being able to tell wherefore; it seemed horrible
to her to walk behind this thing and she turned to the left,
quitted the high-road, and passed into a wood, which was the
forest of Fougeres. After wandering for some time, she per-
ceived a belfry and some roofs ; it was one of the villages scat-
tered along the edge of the forest. She went toward it; she
was hungry. It was one of the villages in which the repub-
licans had established military posts. She passed on to the
square in front of the mayoralty.
In this village there was also fright and anxiety. A crowd
pressed up to the flight of steps. On the top step stood a
man, escorted by soldiers; he held in his hand a great open
placard; at his right was stationed a drummer, at his left a
bill-sticker, carrying a paste-pot and brush. Upon the bal-
cony over the door appeared the mayor, wearing a tricoloured
scarf over his peasant dress. The man with the placard was
a public crier. He wore his shoulder-belt, with a small wallet
hanging from it, — a sign that he was going from village to
village, and had something to publish throughout the district.
At the moment Michelle Flechard approached, he had unfolded
the placard, and was beginning to read. He read in a loud
voice : —
280 NINETY-THREE
" THE FRENCH REPUBLIC : ONE AND INDIVISIBLE."
The drum beat. There was a sort of movement among the
assembly. A few took off their caps ; others pulled their hats
closer over their heads. At that time and in that country one
could almost recognize the political opinions of a man by his
head- gear: hats were royalists; caps republican. The con-
fused murmur of voices ceased; everybody listened; the crier
read : —
" In virtue of the orders we have received, and the authority dele-
gated to us by the Committee of Public Safety — "
The drum beat the second time. The crier continued : —
" And in execution of the decree of the National Convention, which
puts beyond the law all rebels taken with arms in their hands, and
which ordains capital punishment to whomsoever shall give them shelter
or help them to escape — "
A peasant asked, in a low voice of his neighbour: " What
is that, — capital punishment ? "
His neighbour replied : " I do not know."
The crier fluttered the placard : —
" In accordance with Article 17th of the law of April 30, which
gives full power to delegates and sub-delegates against rebels, we de-
clare outlaws — "
He made a pause, and resumed : —
"The individuals known under the names and surnames which fol-
low—"
The whole assemblage listened intently. The crier's voice
sounded like thunder. He read : —
" Lantenac, brigand — "
" That is Monseigneur," murmured a peasant. And
through the whole crowd went the whisper: "It is Mon-
seigneur." The crier resumed : —
NINETY-THREE 281
"Lantenac, ci-devant marquis, brigand. Iinunus, brigand — *
Two peasants glanced sideways at each other.
" That is Gouge-lc-Bruant."
" Yes ; it is Brise-Bleu."
The crier continued to read the list : —
"Grand Francoeur, brigand — "
The assembly murmured, —
" He L a priest."
" Yes ; the Abbe Turmeau."
" Yes ; he is cure somewhere in the neighbourhood of the
wood of Chapelle."
" And brigand," said a man in a cap.
The crier read : —
" Boisnouveau, brigand. The two brothers, Pique-en-Bois, brigands.
Houzard, brigand — "
" That is Monsieur de Quelen," said a peasant.
" Panier, brigand — "
" That is Monsieur Sepher."
"Place Nette, brigand—"
" That is Monsieur Jamois."
The crier continued his reading without noticing these com-
mentaries : —
" Guinoiseau, brigand. Chatenay, styled Robi, brigand — "
A peasant whispered : " Guinoiseau is the same as Le Blond :
Chatenay is from Saint Oucn."
" Hoisnard, brigand — " pursued the crier.
Among the crowd could be heard, —
" He is from Ruille."
" Yes ; it is Branche d'Or."
" His brother was killed in the attack on Pontorson."
" Yes ; Hoisnard Malonnierc."
282 NINETY-THREE
" A fine young chap of nineteen."
*• Attention ! " said the crier. " Listen to the last of the
list : —
" Belle Vigue, brigand. La Musette, brigand. Sabretout, brigand.
Brin d' Amour — "
A lad nudged the elbow of a young girl. The girl smiled
The crier continued : —
" Chante-en-Hiver, brigand. Le Chat, brigand — "
A peasant said, " That is Moulard."
" Tabouze, brigand — "
Another peasant said : " That is Gauffre."
" There are two of the GaufFres," added a woman.
" Both good fellows," grumbled a lad.
The crier shook the placard, and the drum beat. The crier
resumed his reading : —
" The above-named, in whatsoever place taken, and their identity
established, shall be immediately put to death."
There was a movement among the crowd. The crier went
on: —
" Any one affording them shelter or aiding their escape, will be
brought before a court-martial and put to death. Signed — "
The silence grew profound.
" The Delegate of the Committee of Public Safety,
" ClMOUBDATN.
" A priest," said a peasant.
" The former cure of Parigne," said another.
A townsman added, " Turmeau and Cimourdain — A Blue
priest and a White."
" Both black," said another townsman.
The mayor, who was on the balcony lifted his hat, and
cried : " Long live the Republic ! "
A roll of the drum announced that the crier had not fin-
ished.
NINETY-THREE 283
He was making a sign with his hand. "Attention!" said
lie. " Listen to the last four lines of the Government procla-
mation. They are signed by the Chief of the exploring col-
umn of the North Coasts, Commandant Gauvain."
"Listen!" exclaimed the voices of the crowd. And the
crier read : —
" Under pain of death — "
All were silent.
" It is forbidden, in pursuance of the above order, to give aid or
succour to the nineteen rebels above named, at this time shut up and
surrounded in La Tourgue."
" What? " cried a voice. It was the voice of a woman; of
the mother.
CHAPTER in
MTJTTERINGS AMONG THE PEASANTS
MICHELLE FLECHARD had mingled with the crowd.
She had listened to nothing, but one hears certain
things without listening. She caught the words " La Tour-
gue." She raised her head. " What ? " she repeated " La
Tourgue ! "
People stared at her. She appeared out of her mind. She
was in rags. Voices murmured, " She looks like a brigand."
A peasant woman, who carried a basket of buckwheat biscuits,
drew near, and said to her in a low voice : " Hold your
tongue ! "
Michelle Flechard gazed stupidly at the woman. Again
she understood nothing. The name La Tourgue had passed
through her mind like a flash of lightning and the darkness
closed anew behind it. Had she not a right to ask informa-
284 NINETY-THREE
tion? What had she done that they should stare at her in
this way?
But the drum had beat for the last time; the bill-sticker
posted up the placard ; the mayor retired into the house ; the
crier set out for some other village, and the mob dispersed.
A group remained before the placard; Michelle Flechard
joined this knot of people. They were commenting on the
names of the men declared outlaws. There were peasants and
townsmen among them ; that is to say, Whites and Blues.
A peasant said: "After all, they have not caught every-
body. Nineteen are only nineteen. They have not got Riou,
they have not got Benjamin Moulins, nor Goupil of the
parish of Andouille."
" Nor Lorieul of Monjean," said another.
Others added, —
" Nor Brice Denys."
" Nor Francois Dudouet."
" Yes, him of Laval."
" Nor Huet of Launey Villiers."
" Nor Gregis."
" Nor Pilon."
" Nor Filleul."
" Nor Menicent."
" Nor Gueharree."
" Nor the three brothers Logerais."
" Nor Monsieur Lechandelier de Pierreville."
" Idiots ! " said a stern-faced, white-haired old man. " They
have all if they have Lantenac."
" They have not got him yet," murmured one of the young
men.
The old man added : " Lantenac taken, the soul is taken.
Lantenac dead, La Vendee is slain."
" Who, then, is this Lantenac? " asked a townsman.
A townsman replied : " He is a ci-devant."
Another added: " He is on? of those who shoot women."
Michelle Flechard heard and said : " It is true."
They turned toward her.
NINETY-THREE 285
She went on : " For he shot me."
It was a strange speech ; it was like hearing a living woman
declare herself dead. People began to look at her a little
suspiciously. She was indeed a startling object; trembling
at everything, scared, quaking, showing a sort of wild-animal
trouble, so frightened that she was frightful. There is al-
ways something terrible in the feebleness of a despairing
woman ; she is a creature who has reached the furthest limits
of destiny. But peasants have not a habit of noticing details.
One of them muttered, " She might easily be a spy."
" Hold your tongue and get away from here," the good
woman who had already spoken to her said in a low tone.
Michelle Flechard replied: "I am doing no harm. I am
looking for my children."
The good woman glanced at those who were staring at
Michelle, touched her forehead with one finger and winked,
saying : " She is a simpleton." Then she took her aside and
gave her a biscuit. Michelle Flechard, without thanking her,
began to eat greedily.
" Yes," said the peasants, " she eats like an animal ; she is
an idiot." So the tail of the mob dwindled away. They
all went away, one after another.
When Michelle Flechard had devoured her biscuit, she said
to the peasant woman : " Good ! I have eaten. Now where
is La Tourgue? "
" It is taking her again ! " cried the peasant.
" I must go to La Tourgue ! Show me the way to La
Tourgue ! "
" Never ! " exclaimed the peasant. " Do you want to get
yourself killed, eh? Besides, I don't know. Oh, see here!
You are really crazy ! Listen, poor woman, you look tired.
Will you come to my house and rest yourself? "
" I never rest," said the mother.
" And her feet are torn to piece;? ! " murmured the peasant.
Michelle Flechard resumed : " Don't I tell you that they
have stolen my children? — a little girl and two boys. I
come from the carnichot in the forest. You can ask Tell-
286 NINETY-THREE
march the Caimand about me, and the man I met in the field
down yonder. It was the Caimand who cured me; it seems I
had something broken. All that is what happened to me.
Then there is Sergeant Radoub besides, — you can ask him, he
will tell thee. Why, he was the one we met in the wood.
Three, — I tell you three children ! even the oldest one's name,
— Rene-Jean. I can prove all that. The other's name is
Gros-Alain, and the little girl's is Georgette. My husband is
dead, — they killed him; he was the farmer at Siscoignard.
You look like a good woman, — show me the road ! I am not
crazy ; I am a mother ! I have lost my children ; I am trying
to find them, — that is all. I don't know exactly which way
I have come. I slept last night in a barn on the straw. La
Tourgue, that is where I am going. I am not a thief. You
must see that I am telling the truth ; you ought to help me
find my children. I do not belong to the neighbourhood. I
was shot, but I do not know where."
The peasant shook her head, and said : " Listen, traveller.
In times of revolution you mustn't say things that cannot be
understood ; you may get yourself taken up in that way."
" But La Tourgue ! " cried the mother. " Madame, for
the love of the Child Jesus and the Blessed Virgin up in
Paradise, I beg you, madame, I entreat you, I conjure you,
tell me which way I must go to get to La Tourgue ! "
The peasant woman went into a passion. " I do not know !
And if I knew I would not tell! It is a bad place. People
do not go there."
" But I am going," said the mother. And she set forth
again.
The woman watched her depart, muttering, " Still, she must
have something to eat." She ran after Michelle Flechard and
put a roll of black bread in her hand : " There is for your
supper."
Michelle Flechard took the buckwheat bread, did not answer,
did not turn her head, but walked on. She went out of the vil-
lage. As she reached the last houses she met three ragged,
barefooted little children. She approached them, and said;
NINETY-THREE 287
" These are two girls and a boy." Noticing that they looked
at the bread, she gave it to them. The children took the
bread, then grew frightened. She plunged into the forest.
CHAPTER IV
A MISTAKE
ON the same morning, before the dawn appeared, this
happened amidst the obscurity of the forest, along the
crossroad which goes from Javene to Lecousse.
All the roads of the Breage are between high banks ; but of
all the routes, that leading from Javene to Parigne by the way
of Lecousse is the most deeply embedded. Besides that, it is
winding; it is a ravine rather than a road. This road comes
from Yitre, and had the honour of jolting Madame de
Sevigne's carriage. It is, as it were, walled in to the right
and left by hedges. There could be no better place for an
ambush.
On this morning, an hour before Michelle Flechard from
another point of the forest reached the first village where she
had seen the sepulchral apparition of the wagon escorted by
gendarmes, a crowd of men filled the copses where the Javene
road crosses the bridge over the Couesnon. The branches
hid them. These men were peasants, all wearing jackets of
skins, which the kings of Brittany wore in the sixth century
and the peasants in the eighteenth, The men were armed, —
some with guns, others with axes. Those who carried axes
had just prepared in an open space a sort of pyre of dried
fagots and billets, which only remained to be set on fire;
those who had guns were stationed at the two sides of the
road in watchful positions. Anybody who could have looked
through the leaves would have seen everywhere fingers on
triggers, and guns aimed toward the openings left by the
288 NINETY-THREE
interlacing branches. These men were on the watch All
the guns converged toward the road, which the first gleams
of day had begun to whiten. In this twilight low voices held
converse : —
" Are you sure of that? "
" Well, they say so."
" She is about to pass? "
" They say she is in the neighbourhood."
" She must not go out."
" She must be burned."
" We are three villages who have come out for that."
" Yes; but the escort? "
" The escort will be killed."
" But will she pass by this road? "
" They say so."
" Then she comes from Vitre ? "
"Why not?"
" But somebody said she was coming from Fougeres."
" Whether she comes from Fougeres or Vitre, she comes
from the devil."
" Yes."
" And must go back to him."
" Yes."
" So she is going to Parigne?"
" It appears so.
" She will not go.
" No."
" No, no, no ! "
" Attention."
" It became prudent now to be silent, for the day was
breaking. Suddenly these ambushed men held their breath;
they caught a sound of wheels and horses' feet. They peered
through the branches, and could perceive indistinctly a long
wagon, an escort on horseback, and something on the wagon,
coming toward them along the high-banked road.
" There she is," said one, who appeared to be the leader.
" Yes," said one of the scouts ; " with the escort."
55
NINETY-THREE 289
" How many men ? "
" Twelve." '
" We were told they were twenty."
" Twelve or twenty, we must kill the whole."
" Wait until they get within sure aim."
A little later, the wagon and its escort appeared at a turn
in the road. "Long live the king!" cried the chief peasant.
A hundred guns were fired at the same instant.
When the smoke scattered, the escort was scattered also.
Seven horsemen had fallen ; five had fled. The peasants
rushed up to the wagon.
" Hold ! " cried the chief ; " it is not the guillotine ! It is
a ladder."
A long ladder was, in fact, all the wagon carried. The
two horses had fallen wounded; the driver had been killed,
but not intentionally.
"All the same," said the chief; "a ladder with an escort
looks suspicious. It was going toward Parignc. It was for
the escalade of La Tourgue, very sure."
" Let us burn the ladder ! " cried the peasants.
And they burned the ladder. As for the funereai wagon
for which they had been waiting, it was pursuing another
road, and was already two leagues off, in the village where
Michelle Flechard saw it pass at sunrise.
CHAPTER V
VOX IN DESERTO
WHEN Michelle Flechard left the three children to whom
she had given her bread, she took her way at random
through the wood. Since nobody would point out the road,
she must find it out for herself. Now and then she sat down,
then rose, then reseated herself again. She was borne down
by that terrible fatigue which first attacks the muscles, then
19
290 NINETY-THREE
passes into the bones, — weariness like that of a slave. She
was a slave in truth, — the slave of her lost children. She
must find them; each instant that elapsed might be to their
hurt. Whoso has a duty like this woman's has no rights; it
is forbidden even to stop to take breath. But she was very
tired. In the extreme of exhaustion which she had reached,
another step became a question, — Can one make it? She
had walked all the day, encountering no other village, not
even a house. She took first the right path, then a wrong
one, ending by losing herself amidst leafy labyrinths, re-
sembling one another precisely. Was she approaching her
goal? Was she nearing the term of her Passion? She was
in the Via Dolorosa, and felt the overwhelming of the last
station. Was she about to fall in the road, and die there?
There came a moment when to advance farther seemed im-
possible to her. The sun was declining, the forest growing
dark ; the paths were hidden beneath the grass, and she was
helpless. She had nothing left but God. She began to
call ; no voice answered.
She looked about ; she perceived an opening in the branches
turned in that direction, and found herself suddenly <. \ the
edge of the wood. She had before her a valley, narrow as a
trench, at the bottom of which a clear streamlet ran along
over the stones. She discovered then she was burning with
thirst; she went down to the stream, knelt by it, and drank.
She took advantage of her kneeling position to say her
prayers.
When she rose she tried to decide upon a course. She
crossed the brook. Beyond the little valley stretched, as far
as the eye could reach, a plateau covered with short under-
brush, which, starting from the brook, ascended in an inclined
plain, and filed the whole horizon. The forest had been a
solitude; this plain was a desert. Behind every bush of the
forest she might meet some one ; on the plateau, as far as she
could see, nothing met her gaze. A few birds, which seemed
frightened, were flying away over the heath. Then, in the
midst of this awful abandonment, feeling her knees give way
NINETY-THREE 291
under her, and as if gone suddenly mad, the distracted mother
flung forth this strange cry into the silence: "Is there any
one here? "
She waited for an answer. It came. A low, deep voice
burst forth; it proceeded from the verge of the horizon, was
borne forward from echo to echo; it was either a peal of
thunder or a cannon, and it seemed as \1 the voice replied to
the mother's question, and that it said, " Yes." Then the
silence closed in anew.
The mother rose, animated with fresh life. There was
some one ; it seemed to her as if she had now some person
with whom she could speak. She had just drank and prayed;
her strength came back ; she began '. o ascend the plateau in
the direction whence she had heard that vast and far-off voice.
Suddenly she saw a lofty tower start up on the extreme edge
of the horizon. It was the only object visible amidst the
savage landscape; a ray from the Hing sun crimsoned its
summit. It was more than a league away. Behind the tower
spread a great sweep of scattered verdure lost in the midst: it
was the forest of Fougeres. This tower appeared to her to
be the point whence came the thundering which had sounded
like a summons in her ear. Was it that which had given
the answer to her cry?
Michelle Flechard reached the top of the plateau; she had
nothing but the plain before her. She walked toward the
tower.
CHAPTER VI
THE SITUATION
THE moment had come. The inexorable held the pitiless.
Cimourdain had Lantenac in his hand.
The old royalist rebel was taken in his form ; it was evident
that he could not escape, and Cimourdain meant that the mar-
292 NINETY-THREE
quis should be beheaded here, — upon his own territory, his
own lands,— on this very spot, in sight of his ancestral dwell-
ing-place, that the feudal stronghold might see the head of
the feudal lord fall, and the example thus be made memorable.
It was with this intention that he had sent to Fougeres for the
guillotine, which we lately saw upon its road. To kill Lan-
tenac, was to slay the Vendee ; to slay the Vendee was to save
France. Cimourdain did not hesitate. The conscience of
this man was quiet; he was urged to ferocity by a sense of
duty.
The marquis appeared lost ; as far as that went, Cimourdain
was tranquil. But there was a consideration which troubled
him. The struggle must inevitably be a terrible one. Gau-
vain would direct it, and perhaps would wish to take part.
This young chief was a soldier at heart; he was just the man
to fling himself into the thick of this pugilistic combat. If
he should be killed, — Gauvain, his child ! the unique affection
he possessed on earth! So far fortune had protected the
youth; but fortune might grow weary. Cimourdain trem-
bled. His strange destiny had placed him here between these
two Gauvains, — for one of whom he wished death, for the
other life.
The cannon-shot which had roused Georgette in her cradle
and summoned the mother in the depths of her solitude had
done more than that. Either by accident, or owing to the
intention of the man who fired the piece, the ball, although
only meant as a warning, had struck the guard of iron bars
which protected the great loop-hole of the first floor of the
tower, broken it and half wrenched it away. The besieged
had not had time to repair this damage.
The besieged had been boastful, but they had very little
ammunition. Their situation, indeed, was much more critical
than the besiegers supposed. If they had had powder enough
they would have blown up La Tourgue when they and the
enemy should be together within it ; this had been their dream.
But their reserves were exhausted; they had not more than
thirty charges left for each man. They had plenty of guns,
NINETY-THREE 293
blunderbusses, and pistols, but few cartridges. They had
loaded all the weapons in order to keep up a steady fire; but
how long could this steady firing last? They must lavishly
exhaust the resources which they required to husband. That
was the difficulty. Fortunately (sinister fortune) the strug-
gle would be mostly man to man ; sabre and poniard would be
more needed than firearms. The conflict would be rather a
duel with knives than a battle with guns. This was the hope
of the besieged.
The interior of the tower seemed impregnable. In the
lower hall, which the mine had breached, the retirade so skil-
fully constructed guarded the entrance. Behind the retirade
was a long table covered with loaded weapons, blunderbusses,
carbines, and muskets ; sabres, axes, and poniards. Since
they had no powder to blow up the tower, the crypt of the
oubliettes could not be utilized ; therefore the marquis had
closed the door of the dungeon. Above the ground-floor hall
was the round chamber which could only be reached by the
narrow, winding staircase. This chamber (in which there
also set a table covered with loaded weapons ready to the
hand) was lighted by the great loop-hole, the grating of
which had just been broken by the cannon-ball. From this
chamber the spiral staircase ascended to the circular room on
the second floor, in which was the iron door communicating
with the bridge-castle. This chamber was called indiffer-
ently the " room with the iron door," or the " mirror-room,"
from numerous small looking-glasses hung to rusty old nails
on the naked stones of the wall, — a fantastic mingling of
elegance and savage desolation. Since the apartments on the
upper floor could not be successfully defended, this mirror-
room became what Manesson Mallet, the law-giver in regard to
fortified places, calls " the last post where the besieged can
capitulate." The struggle, as we have already said, would
be to keep the assailants from reaching this room. This
second-floor round chamber was lighted by loop-holes ; still, a
torch burned there. This torch, in an iron holder like the one
in the hall below, had been kindled by Imanus, and the end of
294 NINETY-THREE
the sulphur-match placed near it. Terrible carefulness ! At
the end of the ground-floor hall was a board placed upon
trestles, which held food, like the arrangement in a Homeric
cavern ; great dishes of rice, furmety of black grain, hashed
veal, hotchpotch, biscuits, stewed fruit, and jugs of cider.
Whoever wished could eat and drink.
The cannon-shot set them all on the watch. Not more
than a half hour of quiet remained to them. From the top of
the tower Imanus watched the approach of the besiegers.
Lantenac had ordered his men not to fire as the assailants
came forward. He said : " They are four thousand five hun-
dred. To kill outside is useless. When they try to enter, we
are as strong as they." Then he laughed, and added:
" Equality, Fraternity."
It had been agreed that Imanus should sound a warning
on his horn when the enemy began to advance. The little
troop, posted behind the retirade or on the stairs, waited with
one hand on their muskets, the other on their rosaries.
This was what the situation had resolved itself into: For
the assailants a breach to mount, a barricade to force, three
rooms (one above the other) to take in succession by main
strength, two winding staircases to be carried step by step
under a storm of bullets. For the besieged — to die !
CHAPTER VII
PRELIMINARIES
GAUVAIN on his side arranged the order of attack.
He gave his last instructions to Cimourdain, whose
part in the action, it will be remembered, was to guard the
plateau, and to Guechamp, who was to wait with the main
body of the army in the forest camp. It was understood
that neither the masked battery of the wood nor the open
NINETY-THREE 295
battery of the plateau would fire unless there should be a sor-
tie or an attempt at escape on the part of the besieged.
Gauvain had reserved for himself the command of the storm-
ing column. It was that which troubled Cimourdain.
The sun had just set. A tower in an open country re-
sembles a ship in open sea. It must be attacked in the same
manner: it is a boarding rather than an assault. No cannon;
nothing useless attempted. What would be the good of can-
nonading walls fifteen feet thick? A port-hole; men forc-
ing it on the one side, men guarding it on the other; axes,
knives, pistols, fists, and teeth, — that is the undertaking.
Gauvain felt that there was no other way of carrying La
Tourgue. Nothing can be more murderous than a conflict so
close that the combatants look into one another's eyes. He
had lived in this tower when a child, and knew its formidable
recesses by heart. He meditated profoundly.
A few paces from him his lieutenant, Guechamp, stood with
a spy-glass in his hand, examining the horizon in the direction
of Parigne. Suddenly he cried " Ah ! at last ! "
This exclamation aroused Gauvain from his reverie.
"What is it, Guechamp?"
" Commandant, the ladder is coming.'
" The escape-ladder ? "
" Yes."
" How? It has not yet got here? "
" No, Commandant. And I was troubled. The express
that I sent to Javene came back."
" I know it."
" He told me that he had found at the carpenter's shop
in Javene a ladder of the requisite dimensions ; he took it ; he
had it put on a cart; he demanded an escort of twelve horse-
men, and he saw them set out from Parigne, — the cart, the
escort, and the ladder. Then he rode back full speed, and
made his report; and he added that the horses being good
and the departure having taken place about two o'clock in
the morning the wagon would be here before sunset."
"I know all that. Well?"
»>
296 NINETY-THREE
" Well, Commandant, the sun has just set, and the wagon
which brings the ladder has not jet arrived."
" Is it possible? Still, we must commence the attack.
The hour has come. If we were to wait, the besieged would
think we hesitated."
" Commandant, the attack can commence."
" But the escape-ladder is necessary."
" Without doubt."
" But we have not got it."
" We have it."
"How?"
" It was that which made me say, ' Ah ! at last ! ' The
wagon did not arrive; I took my telescope, and examined the
route from Parigne to La Tourgue, and, Commandant, I am
satisfied. The wagon and the escort are coming down yon-
der; they are descending a hill. You can see them."
Gauvain took the glass and looked. " Yes ; there it is.
There is not light enough to distinguish very clearly. But
I can see the escort, — it is certainly that. Only the escort
appears to me more numerous than you said, Guechamp."
" And to me also."
" They are about a quarter of a league off."
" Commandant, the escape-ladder will be here in a quarter
of an hour."
"We can attack."
It was indeed a wagon which they saw approaching, but
not the one they believed. As Gauvain turned he saw Ser-
geant Radoub standing behind him, upright, his eyes down-
cast, in the attitude of military salute.
" What is it, Sergeant Radoub? "
" Citizen commandant, we, the men of the Battalion of
the Bonnet Rouge, have a favour to ask of you."
"What?"
" To have us killed."
" Ah ! " said Gauvain.
" Will you have that kindness ? "
But — that is according to circumstances," said Gauvain.
a
NINETY-THREE 297
" Listen, Commandant. Since the affair of Dol, you are
careful of us. We are still twelve."
"Well?"
" That humiliates us."
" You are the reserve."
" We would rather be the advance-guard."
" But I need you to decide success at the close of the en-
gagement. I keep you back for that."
" Too much."
" No. You are in the column. You march."
" In the rear. Paris has a right to march in front."
" I will think of it, Sergeant Radoub."
" Think of it to-day, my commandant. There is an op-
portunity. There are going to be hard blows to give or to
take. It will be lively. La Tourgue will burn the fingers of
those that touch her. We demand the favour of being in the
party." The sergeant paused, twisted his moustache, and
added, in an altered voice : " Besides, look you, my command-
ant, our little ones are in this tower. Our children are there,
— the children of the battalion, — our three children. That
abominable beast called Brise-Bleu and Imanus, this Gouge-le-
Bruant, this Bouge-le-Gruant, this Fouge-le-Truant, this
thunder-clap of the devil, threatens our children. Our chil-
dren, — our pets, Commandant. If all the earthquakes should
mix in the business, we cannot have any misfortune happen
to them. Do you hear that — authority ? We will have
none of it. A little while ago I took advantage of the truce,
and mounted the plateau, and looked at them through a win-
dow ; yes, they are certainly there, — you can see them from
the edge of the ravine. I did see them, and they were afraid
of me, the darlings. Commandant, if a single hair of their
little cherub pates should fall, I swear by the thousand names
of everything sacred, — I, Sergeant Radoub, — that I will
have revenge out of somebody. And that is what all the bat-
talion: either we want the babies saved, or we want to be
all killed. It is our right : yes — all killed. And now, salute
and respect."
298 NINETY-THREE
Gauvain held out his hand to Radoub, and said : " You are
brave men. You shall have a place in the attacking column.
I will divide you into two parties. I will put six of you in
the vanguard to make sure that the troops advance, and six
in the rear-guard to make sure that nobody retreats."
" Shall I command the twelve, as usual? "
" Certainly."
" Then, my commandant, thanks. For I am of the van-
guar
d."
Radoub made another military salute, and went back to
his company.
Gauvain drew out his watch, spoke a few words in
Guechamp's ear, and the storming column began to form.
CHAPTER VIII
THE WORD AND THE ROAR
NOW, Cimourdain, who had not yet gone to his post on
the plateau, approached a trumpeter. " Sound your
trumpet ! " said he.
The clarion sounded; the horn replied. Again the trumpet
and the horn exchanged a blast.
" What does that mean ? " Gauvain asked Guechamp.
"What is it Cimourdain wants?"
Cimourdain advanced toward the tower, holding a white
handkerchief in his hand. He spoke in a loud voice : " Men
who are in the tower, do you know me ? "
A voice — the voice of Imanus — replied from the summit :
" Yes."
The following dialogue between the two voices reached the
ears of those about : —
" I am the Envoy of the Republic."
'* You are the late Cure of ParigneV*
NINETY-THREE 290
" I am the delegate of the Committee of Public Safety."
" You are a priest."
" I am the representative of the law."
" You are a renegade."
" I am the commissioner of the Revolution."
" You are an apostate."
" I am Cimourdain."
" You are the demon."
" Do you know me? "
" We hate you."
" Would you be content if you had me in your power? ' :
" We are here eighteen, who would give our heads to have
yours."
" Very well ! I come to deliver myself up to you."
From the top of the tower rang a burst of savage laughter,
and this cry : " Come ! "
The camp waited in the breathless silence of expectancy.
Cimourdain resumed: "On one condition."
" What ? "
" Listen."
" Speak."
"You hate me?"
" Yes."
" And I love you. I am your brother."
The voice from the top of the tower replied : " Yes, Cain."
Cimourdain went on in a singular tone, at once loud and
sweet : " Insult me ; but listen. I come here under a flag
of truce. Yes, you are my brothers. You are poor mis-
taken creatures. I am your friend. I am the light, and I
speak to ignorance. Light is always brotherhood. Besides,
have we not all the same mother, — our country? Well, lis-
ten to me: you will know hereafter, or your children will know,
or your children's children will know, that what is done in
this moment is brought about by the law above, and that
the Revolution is the work of God. While awaiting the time
when all consciences, even yours, shall understand this; when
all fanaticisms, even yours, shall vanish, — while waiting for
300 NINETY-THREE
this great light to spread, will no one have pity on your
darkness? I come to you. I offer you my head. I do
more, — I hold out my hand to you. I demand of you the
favour to destroy me in order to save yourselves. I have un-
limited authority, and that which I say I can do. This is a
supreme insant. I make a last effort. Yes, he who speaks
to you is a citizen and in this citizen — yes — there is a
priest. The citizen defies you, but the priest implores you.
Listen to me. Many among you have wives and children. I
am defending your children and your wives, — defending them
against yourselves. Oh, my brothers — "
" Go on ! Preach ! " sneered Imanus.
" My brothers, do not let the terrible horn sound. Throats
are to be cut. Many among us who are here before you will
not see to-morrow's sun ; yes, many of us will perish, and you
— you are all going to die. Show mercy to yourselves.
Why shed all this blood, when it is useless? Why kill so
many men, when it would suffice to kill two? "
" Two? " repeated Imanus.
" Yes. Two."
"Who?"
" Lantenac and myself." Cimourdain spoke more loudly.
" Two men are too many. Lantenac for us ; I for you.
This is what I propose to you, and you will all have your
lives safe. Give us Lantenac, and take me. Lantenac will be
guillotined, and you shall do what you choose with me."
" Priest," howled Imanus, " if we had thee we would roast
thee at a slow fire! "
" I consent," said Cimourdain. He went on : " You, the
condemned who are in this tower, you can all in an hour be
living and free. I bring you safety. Do you accept?"
Imanus burst forth : " You are not only a villain, you are
a madman. Ah, why do you come here to disturb us. Who
begged you to come and speak to us? We give up Monseig-
neur? What is it you want? "
" His head. And I offer — "
" Your skin. Oh, we would flay you like a dog, Cure
NINETY-THREE 301
Cimourdain! Well, no; your skin is not worth his head.
Get away with you ! "
" The massacre will be horrible. For the last time — re-
flect."
Night had come on during this strange colloquy, which
could be heard without and within the tower. The Marquis
de Lantenac kept silence, and allowed events to take their
course. Leaders possess such sinister egotism ; it is one of
the rights of responsibility.
Imanus sent his voice beyond Cimourdain ; he shouted :
" Men, who attack us, we have submitted our propositions to
you : they are settled ; we have nothing to change in them.
Accept them, else woe to all! Do you consent? We will
give you up the three children, and you will allow liberty and
life to us all ! "
" To all, yes," replied Cimourdain, " except one."
" And that?"
" Lantenac."
" Monseigneur! Give up Monseigneur? Never!
" We can only treat with you on that condition."
" Then begin."
Silence fell. Imanus descended after having sounded the
signal on his horn; the marquis took his sword in his hand;
the nineteen besieged grouped themselves in silence behind
the retirade of the lower hall and sank upon their knees.
They could hear the measured tread of the column as it ad-
vanced toward the tower in the gloom. The sound came
nearer; suddenly they heard it close to them, at the very
mouth of the breach. Then all, kneeling, aimed their guns
and blunderbusses accross the openings of the barricade, and
one of them — Grand Francceur, who was the priest Turmeau
— raised himself, with a naked sabre in his right hand and
a crucifix in his left, saying, in a solemn voice, —
" In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy
Ghost ! "
All fired at the same time, and the battle began.
302 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER IX
TITANS AGAINST GIANTS
THE encounter was frightful. This hand-to-hand con-
test went beyond the power of fancy in its awfulness.
To find anything similar, it would be necessary to go back to
the great duels of /Eschylus or the ancient feudal butcheries ;
to " those attacks with short-arms " which lasted down to the
seventeenth century, when men penetrated into fortified places
be concealed breaches, tragic assaults, where, says the old
sergeant of the province of Alentejo, " when the mines had
done their work, the besiegers advanced bearing planks cov-
ered with sheets of tin, and, armed with round shields and
furnished with grenades, they forced those who held the in-
trenchments or retirades to abandon them ; and thus become
masters, they vigorously drove in the besieged."
The place of attack was terrible; it was what in military
language is called " a covered breach," — that is to say, a
crevice traversing the wall through and through, and not an
extended fracture open to the sky. The powder had acted
like an auger. The effect of the explosion had been so vio-
lent that the tower was cracked for more than forty feet
above the chamber of the mine. But this was only a crack ;
the practicable rent which served as a breach, and which gave
admittance into the lower hall, resembled a thrust from a lance
which pierces, rather than a blow from an axe which gashes.
It was a puncture in the flank of the tower ; a long cut, some-
thing like the mouth of a well ; a passage, twisting and mount-
ing like an intestine along the wall fifteen feet in thickness;
a misshapen cylinder, encumbered with obstacles, traps, stones
broken by the explosion, where any one entering struck his
head against the granite rook, his feet against the rubbish,
while the darkness blinded him.
The assailants saw before them this black gap, the mouth
NINETY-THREE 303
of a gulf, which had for upper and lower jaws all the stones
of the jagged wall: a shark's mouth has not more teeth than
had this frightful opening. It was necessary to enter this
gap and to get out of it. Within was the wall; without rose
the retirade, — without ; that is to say, in the hall of the
ground-floor.
The encounters of sappers in covered galleries when the
countermine succeeds in cutting the mine, the butcheries in
the gun-decks of vessels boarded in a naval engagement,
alone have this ferocity. To fight in the bottom of a grave,
— it is the supreme degree of horror ; it is frightful for men
to meet in the death-struggle in such narrow bounds. At the
instant when the first rush of besiegers entered, the whole
retirade blazed with lightnings ; it was like a thunder-bolt
bursting under-ground. The thunder of the assailants re-
plied to that of the ambuscade ; the detonations answered one
another. Gauvain's voice was heard shouting, " Drive them
back ! " Then Lantenac's cry, " Hold firm against the
enemy ! " Then Imanus's yell, " Here, you men of the
Main ! " Then the clash of sabres against sabres, and echo
after echo of terrible discharges that killed right and left.
The torch fastened against the wall dimly lighted the horrible
scene. It was impossible clearly to distinguish anything; the
combatants struggled amidst a lurid night; whoever entered
was suddenly struck deaf and blind, — deafened by the noise,
blinded by the smoke. The combatants trod upon the
corpses; they lacerated the wounds of the injured men lying
helpless amidst the rubbish, stamped recklessly upon limbs
already broken ; the sufferers uttered awful groans ; the dy-
ing fastened their teeth in the feet of their unconscious tor-
mentors. Then for an instant would come a silence more
dreadful than the tumult: the foes collared each other; the
hissing sound of their breath could be heard ; the gnashing of
teeth, death-groans, curses, — then the thunder would recom-
mence. A stream of blood flowed out from the tower through
the breach and spread away across the darkness, and formed
smoking pools upon the grass. One might have said that
304 NINETY-THREE
the tower had been wounded, and that the giantess was bleed-
ing.
Strange thing! scarcely a sound of the struggle could be
heard without. The night was very black, and a sort of
funereal calm reigned in plain and forest about the be-
leaguered fortress. Hell was within, the sepulchre without.
This shock of men exterminating one another amidst the dark-
ness, these musket volleys, these clamours, these shouts of
rage, — all that din expired beneath that mass of walls and
arches ; air was lacking, and suffocation added itself to the
carnage. Scarcely a sound reached those outside the tower.
The little children slept.
The desperate strife grew madder. The retirade held firm.
Nothing more difficult than to force a barricade with a re-
entering angle. If the besieged had numbers against them,
they had at least the position in their favour. The storm-
ing-column lost many men. Stretched in a long line outside
the tower, it forced its way slowly in through the opening
of the breach like a snake twisting itself into its den.
Gauvain, with the natural imprudence of a youthful
leader, was in the hall in the thickest of the melee, with the
bullets flying in every direction about his head. Besides the
imprudence of his age, he had the assurance of a man who
has never been wounded. As he turned about to give an
order, the glare of a volley of musketry lighted up a face
close beside him. " Cimourdain ! " he cried. " What are
you doing here ? "
It was indeed Cimourdain. He replied : " I have come to
be near you."
"But you will be killed!"
" Very well : you — what are you doing, then ? "
" I am necessary here ; you are not."
" Since you are here, I must be here too."
" No, my master ! "
"Yes, my child!"
And Cimourdain remained near Gauvain.
The dead lay in heaps on the pavement of the hall. Al-
NINETY-THREE 305
though the retirade was not yet carried, numbers would evi-
dently conquer at last. The assailants were sheltered, and
the assailed under cover; ten besiegers fell to one among the
besieged, but the besiegers were constantly renewed ; the as-
sailants increased, and the assailed grew less. The nineteen
besieged were all behind the retirade, because the attack was
made there. They had dead and wounded among them ; not
more than fifteen could fight now. One of the most furious,
Chante-en-IIivcr, had been horribly mutilated. He was a
stubby, woolly-haired Breton, little and active; he had an
eye shot out, and his jaw broken. He could walk still; he
dragged himself up the spiral staircase, and reached the
chamber of the first floor, hoping to be able to say a prayer
there and die. He backed himself against the wall near the
loop-hole in order to breathe a little fresh air.
Beneath, in front of the barricade, the butchery became
more and more horrible. In a pause between the answering
discharges, Cimourdain raised his voice : " Besieged ! " cried
he. " Why let any more blood flow ? You are beaten.
Surrender! Think! we are four thousand five hundred men
against nineteen, — that is to say, more than two hundred
against one. Surrender ! "
" Let us stop these babblings," retorted the Marquis de
Lantenac; and twenty balls answered Cimourdain.
The retirade did not reach to the arched roof; this space
permitted the besieged to fire upon the barricade, but it also
gave the besiegers an opportunity to scale it.
" Assault the retirade ! " cried Gauvain. " Is there any
man willing to scale the retirade?
" I ! " said Sergeant lladoub.
20
5J
306 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER X
RADOUB
THEN a sort of stupor seized the assailants. Radoub had
entered the breach at the head of the column, and of
those men of the Parisian battalion of which he made the
sixth, four had already fallen. After he had uttered that
shout, " I ! " he was seen to recoil instead of advance. Stoop-
ing, bending forward, almost creeping between the legs of the
combatants, he regained the opening of the breach and
rushed out. Was it a flight? A man like this to fly ! What
did it mean?
When he was outside, Radoub, still blinded by the smoke,
rubbed his eyes as if to clear them from the horror of the
cavernous night he had just left, and studied the wall of the
tower by the starlight. He nodded his head, as if to say,
" I was not mistaken."
Radoub had noticed that the deep crack made by the ex-
plosion of the mine extended above the breach to the loop-
hole of the upper story, whose iron grating had been shat-
tered, and by a ball. The net-work of broken bars hung
loosely down, so that a man could enter. A man could enter,
but could he climb up? By the crevice it might have been
possible for a cat to mount. That was what Radoub was.
He belonged to the race which Pindar calls " the agile ath-
letes." One may be an old soldier and a young man.
Radoub, who had belonged to the French guards, was not
yet forty ; he was a nimble Hercules.
Radoub threw his musket on the ground, took off his
shoulder-belts, laid aside his coat and jacket, guarding his
two pistols, which he thrust in his trousers' belt, and his naked
sabre, which he held between his teeth ; the butt-ends of the
pistols protruded above his belt. Thus lightened of every-
thing useless, and followed in the obscurity by the eyes of all
NINETY-THREE 307
such of the attacking column as had not yet entered the
breach, he began to climb the stones of the cracked wall as if
they had been the steps of a staircase. Having no shoes
was an advantage; nothing can cling like a naked foot. He
twisted his toes into the holes of the stones; he hoisted him-
self with his fists, and bore his weight on his knees. The
ascent was a hazardous one; it was somewhat like climbing
along the teeth of a gigantic saw. " Luckily," thought he,
4 * there is nobody in the chamber of the first story, else I
should not be allowed to climb up like this."
Radoub had not more than forty feet left to mount. He
was somewhat encumbered by the projecting butt-ends of his
pistols; and, as he climbed, the crevice narrowed, rendering
the ascent more and more difficult, so that the danger of fall-
ing increased as he went on. At last he reached the frame
of the loop-hole and pushed aside the twisted and broken
grating so that he had space enough to pass through. He
raised himself for a last powerful effort, rested his knee on
the cornice of the ledge, seized with one hand a bar of the
grating at the left, with the other a bar at the right, lifted
half his body in front of the embrasure of the loop-hole, and,
sabre between his teeth, hung thus suspended by his two
fists over the abyss. It only needed one spring more to
land him in the chamber of the first floor.
But a face appeared in a loop-hole. Radoub saw a fright-
ful spectacle rise suddenly before him in the gloom, — an eye
torn out, a jaw fractured, a bloody mask. This mask, which
had only one e} 7 e left, was watching him. This mask had two
hands; these two hands thrust themselves out of the darkness
of this loop-hole and clutched at Radoub ; one of them seized
the two pistols in his belt, the other snatched the sword from
between his teeth. Radoub was disarmed. His knee slipped
upon the inclined plane of the cornice; his two fists, cramped
about the bars of the grating, barely sufficed to support him,
and beneath was a sheer descent of forty feet.
This mask and these hands belonged to Chante-en-Hiver.
Suffocated by the smoke which nose from the room below,
308 NINETY-THREE
Chante-en-Hiver had succeeded in entering the embrasure of
the loop-hole : the air from without had revived him ; the
freshness of the night had congealed the blood, and his
strength had in a measure come back. Suddenly he per-
ceived the torso of Radoub rise in front of the embrasure.
Radoub, having his hands twisted about the bars, had no
choice but to let himself fall or allow himself to be disarmed;
so Chante-en-Hiver, with a horrible tranquillity, had taken the
two pistols out of his belt and the sabre from between his
teeth.
Then commenced an unheard-of duel, — a duel between
the disarmed and the wounded. Evidently the dying man
had the victory in his own hands. A single shot would suf-
fice to hurl Radoub into the yawning gulf beneath his feet.
Luckily for Radoub, Chante-en-Hiver held both pistols
in the same hand, so that he could not fire either, and
was forced to make use of the sabre. He struck Ra-
doub a blow on the shoulder with the point. The sabre-
stroke wounded Radoub, but saved his life. The sol-
dier was unarmed, but in full possession of his strength. Re-
gardless of his wound, which indeed was only a flesh-cut, he
swung his body vigorously forward, loosed his hold of the
bars, and bounded through the loop-hole. There he found
himself face to face with Chante-en-Hiver, who had thrown
the sabre behind him and was clutching a pistol in either
hand. Chante-en-Hiver had Radoub close to the muzzle as he
took aim upon his knees, but his enfeebled arm trembled, and
he did not fire at once.
Radoub took advantage of this respite to burst out laugh-
ing. " I say, ugly face ! " cried he, " do you suppose you
frighten me with your bloody bullock's jaws? Thunder and
Mars, how they have shattered your features ! "
Chante-en-Hiver took aim.
Radoub continued : " It is not polite to mention it, but the
grape-shot has dotted your mug very neatly. Bellona has
disturbed your physiognomy, my lad. Come, come; spit out
your little pistol-shot, my good fellow ! "
'Chante-en-hiver uttered a howl of pain and fainted."
Ninety-three. Page 309.
NINETY-THREE 309
Chante-en-Hiver fired ; the ball passed so close to Radoub' s
head that it carried away part of his ear. His foe raised the
second pistol in his other hand.
Radoub did not give him time to take aim. " It is enough
to lose one ear ! " cried he. " You have wounded me twice.
It is my turn now."
He flung himself on Chante-en-Hiver, knocked aside his
arm with such force that the pistol went off and the ball
whizzed against the ceiling. He seized his enemy's broken
jaw in both hands and twisted it about. Chante-en-Hiver
uttered a howl of pain and fainted. Radoub stepped across
his body and left him lying in the embrasure of the loop-hole.
" Now that I have announced my ultimatum, don't you stir
again," said he. " Lie there, you ugly crawling snake !
You may fancy that I am not going to amuse myself by
massacring you. Crawl about on the ground at your ease, —
under foot is the place for you. Die, — you can't get rid of
that ! In a little w T hile you will learn what nonsense your
priest has talked to you. Away with you into the great
mystery, peasant ! " And he hurried forward into the
room. " One cannot see an inch before one's nose," grum-
bled he.
Chante-en-Hiver began to writhe convulsively upon the
floor, and uttered fresh moans of agony.
Radoub turned back. "Hold your tongue! Do me the
favour to be silent, citizen, without knowing it. I cannot
trouble myself further with you ; I should scorn to make an
end of you. Just let me have quiet."
Then he thrust his hands into his hair as he stood watch-
ing Chante-en-Hiver. "But here, what am I to do now?
It is all very fine, but I am disarmed. I had two shots to
fire, and you have robbed me of them, animal ! and with all
that, a smoke that would blind a dog ! "
Then his hand touched his wounded ear. " Ai'e ! " he said.
Then he went on : " You have gained a great deal by con-
fiscating one of my cars ! However, I would rather have
one less of them than anything else: an ear is only an orna-
810 NINETY-THREE
ment. You have scratched my shoulder, too; but that is
nothing. Expire, villager! I forgive you."
He listened. The din from the lower room was fearful.
The combat had grown more furious than ever. " Things
are going well down there ; " he muttered. " How they
howl ' Live the king ! ' One must admit that they die
bravely."
His foot struck against the sabre. He picked it up, and
said to Chante-en-Hiver, who no longer stirred, and who
might indeed be dead : " See here, man of the woods, I will
take my sabre; you have left me that, anyway. But I
needed my pistols. The devil fly away with you, savage!
Oh, there, what am I to do? I am no good whatever here."
He advanced into the hall trying to guide his steps in the
gloom. Suddenly, in the shadow behind the central pillar,
he perceived a long table upon which something gleamed
faintly. He felt the objects. They were blunderbusses,
carbines, pistols, a whole row of firearms laid out in order to
his hand ; it was the reserve of weapons the besieged had pro-
vided in this chamber, which would be their second place of
stand, a whole arsenal.
" A sideboard ! " cried Radoub ; and he clutched them right
and left, dizzy with joy. Thus armed, he became formid-
able.
He could see back of the table the door of the staircase,
which communicated with the rooms above and below, stand-
ing wide open. Radoub seized two pistols, and fired them at
random through the doorway ; then he snatched a blunderbuss,
and fired that, — then a blunderbuss loaded with buckshot, and
discharged it. The blunderbuss, vomiting forth its fifteen
balls, sounded like a volley of grape-shot. He got his
breath back, and shouted down the staircase, in a voice of
thunder, " Long live Paris ! " Then seizing a second blun-
derbuss, still bigger than the first, he aimed it toward the
staircase and waited.
The confusion in the lower hall was indescribable. This
unexpected attack from behind paralyzed the besieged with
NINETY-THREE 311
astonishment. Two balls from Radoub's triple fire had taken
effect: one had killed the elder of the brothers Pique-en-Bois;
the other had killed De Quelen, nicknamed Houzard.
" They are on the floor above ! " cried the marquis.
At this cry the men abandoned the retirade, — a flock of
birds could not have fled more quickly; they plunged madly
toward the staircase.
The marquis encouraged the flight. " Quick, quick ! " he
exclaimed. " There is most courage now in escape. Let us
all get up to the second floor. We will begin again there."
He left the retirade the last. This brave act saved his
life.
Radoub, ambushed at the top of the stairs, watched the
retreat, finger on trigger. The first who appeared at the
turn of the spiral steps received the discharge of his gun
full in their faces, and fell. Had the marquis been among
them, he would have been killed. Before Radoub had time
to seize another weapon, the others passed him, — the mar-
quis behind all the rest, and moving more slowly.
Believing the first-floor chambers filled with the besiegers,
the men did not pause there, but rushed on and gained the
room above, which was the hall of the mirrors. There was
the iron door; there was the sulphur-match; it was there they
must capitulate or die.
Gauvain had been as much astounded as the besieged by
the detonations from the staircase, and was unable to under-
stand how aid could have reached him in that quarter; but
he took advantage without waiting to comprehend. He
leaped over the retirade, followed by his men, and pursued
the fugitives up to the first floor. There he found Radoub.
The sergeant saluted, and said : " One minute, my com-
mandant. I did that. I remembered Dol; I followed your
plan : I took the enemy between two fires."
" A good scholar," answered Gauvain, with a smile.
After one has been a certain length of time in the dark-
ness, the eyes become accustomed to the obscurity like those
of a night-bird. Gauvain perceived that Radoub was cov-
312 NINETY-THREE
ered with blood. " But you are wounded, comrade ! " he
exclaimed.
" Never mind that, my commandant ! What difference
does it make, — an ear more or less? I got a sabre-thrust,
too, but it is nothing. One always cuts one's self a little
in breaking a window ; it is only losing a little blood."
The besiegers made a halt in the first-floor chamber,
which had been conquered by Radoub. A lantern was
brought. Cimourdain rejoined Gauvain. They held a
council. It was time to reflect, indeed. The besiegers were
not in the secrets of their foes; they were unaware of the
lack of munitions; they did not know that the defenders
of the tower were short of powder, that the second floor
must be the last post where a stand could be made; the
assailants could not tell but the staircase might be mined.
One thing was certain, — the enemy could not escape. Those
who had not been killed were as safe as if under lock and
key. Lantenac was in the trap.
Certain of this, the besiegers could afford to give them-
selves time to choose the best means of bringing about the
end. Numbers among them had been killed already. The
thing now was to spare the men as much as possible in this
last assault. The risk of this final attack would be great.
The first fire would without doubt be a hot one. The com-
bat was interrupted. The besiegers, masters of the ground
and first floors, waited the orders of the commander-in-chief
to renew the conflict. Gauvain and Cimourdain were hold-
ing counsel.
Radoub assisted in silence at their deliberation. At length
he timidly hazarded another military salute. " Command-
ant ! "
"What is it, Radoub?"
"Have I a right to a little recompense?"
" Yes, indeed. Ask what you like."
* I ask permission to mount the first."
It was impossible to refuse him ; indeed, he would have
done it without permission.
NINETY-TIIUEE 313
CHAPTER XI
DESPERATE
WHILE this consultation took place on the first floor,
the besieged were barricading the second. Success
is a fury ; defeat is a madness. The encounter between the
foes would be frenzied. To be close on victory intoxicates.
The men below were inspired by hope, which would be the
most powerful of human incentives if despair did not exist.
Despair was above, — a calm, cold sinister despair.
When the besieged reached the hall of refuge, beyond
which they had no resource, no hope, their first care had
been to bar the entrance. To lock the door was useless ; it
was necessary to block the staircase. In a position like
theirs, an obstacle across which they could see, and over
which they could fight, was worth more than a closed door.
The torch which Imanus had planted in the wall near the
sulphur-match lighted the room. There was in the cham-
ber one of those great, heavy oak chests which were used
to hold clothes and linen before the invention of chests of
drawers. They dragged this chest out, and stood it on end
in the door-way of the staircase. It fitted solidly and closed
the entrance, leaving open at the top a narrow space by
which a man could pass ; but it was scarcely probable that
the assailants would run the risk of being killed one after
another by any attempt to pass the barrier in single file.
This obstruction of the entrance afforded the besieged a
respite. They numbered their company. Out of the nine-
teen only seven remained, of whom Imanus made one. With
the exception of Imanus and the marquis, they were all
wounded. The five wounded men (active still, for in the
heat of combat any wound less than mortal leaves a man able
to move about) were Chatenay (called Robi), Guinoiseau,
Hoisnard (Branche d'Or), Brin d' Amour, and Grand
314 NINETY-THREE
Francoeur. All the others were dead. They had no muni-
tions left ; the cartridge-boxes were almost empty : they
counted the cartridges. How many shots were there left for
the seven to fire? Four! They had reached the pass where
nothing remained but to fall. They had retreated to the pre-
cipice ; it yawned black and terrible ; they stood upon the
very edge. Still, the attack was about to recommence, —
slowly, and all the more surely on that account. They
could hear the butt-end of the muskets sound along; the stair-
case step by step, as the besiegers advanced. No means of
escape. By the library? On the plateau bristled six can-
non with every match lighted. By the upper chambers ? To
what end? They gaze on the platform: the only resource
when that was reached would be to fling themselves from
the top of the tower.
The seven survivors of this Homeric band found them-
selves inexorably enclosed and held fast by that thick wall
which at once protected and betrayed them. They were not
yet taken, but they were already prisoners.
The marquis spoke : " My friends, all is finished." Then
after a silence, he added : " Grand Francoeur, become again
the Abbe Turmeau."
All knelt, rosary in hand. The measured stroke of the
muskets sounded nearer. Grand Francoeur covered with
blood from a wound which had grazed his skull and torn
away his leather cap, raised the crucifix in his right hand.
The marquis, a sceptic at bottom, bent his knee to the
ground.
" Let each one confess his faults aloud," said Grand
Francoeur. " Monseigncur, speak."
The marquis answered, " I have killed."
" I have killed," said Hoisnard.
" I have killed," said Guinoiseau.
" I have killed," said Brin d' Amour.
" I have killed," said Chatenay.
" I have killed," said Imanus.
And Grand Francoeur replied : " In the name of the most
NINETY-THREE 815
Holy Trinity I absolve you. May your souls depart in
peace ! "
" Amen," replied all the voices.
The marquis raised himself. " Now let us die," he said.
" And kill," added Imanus.
The blows from the butt-end of the besiegers' muskets be-
gan to shake the chest which barred the door.
" Think of God," said the priest; " earth no longer exist*
for you."
" It is true," replied the marquis ; " we are in the tomb.'-
All bowed their heads and smote their breasts. The mar-
quis and the priest were alone standing. The priest prayed s
keeping his eyes cast down; the peasants prayed; the mar-
quis reflected. The coffer echoed dismally, as if under the
stroke of hammers.
At this instant a rapid, strong voice sounded suddenly
behind him, exclaiming: "Did I not tell you so, mon-
seigneur? "
All turned their heads in stupefied wonder. A gap had
just opened in the wall. A stone, perfectly fitted into the
others, but not cemented, and having a pivot above and a
pivot below, had just revolved like a turnstile, leaving the
wall open. The stone having revolved on its axis, the open-
ing was double, and offered two means of exit, — one to the
right .and one to the left ; narrow, but leaving space enough
to allow a man to pass. Beyond this door, so unexpectedly
opened, could be seen the first steps of a spiral staircase. A
face appeared in the opening. The marquis recognized Hal-
malo.
316 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER XII
DELIVERANCE
"TS it you, Halmalo?"
X " It is I, monseigneur. You see there are stones that
turn; they really exist; you can get out of here. I am just
in time; but come quickly. In ten minutes you will be in
the heart of the forest."
" God is great," said the priest.
" Save yourself, monseigneur ! " cried the men in con-
cert.
" All of you go first," said the marquis.
" You must go first, monseigneur," returned the Abbe Tur-
meau. " I go the last."
And the marquis added, in a severe tone : " No struggle
of generosity; we have no time to be magnanimous. You
are wounded ; I order you to live and to fly. Quick ! Take
advantage of this outlet. Thanks, Halmalo."
" Marquis, must we separate? " asked the Abbe Turmeau.
" Below, without doubt. We can only escape one by one."
" Does Monseigneur assign us a rendezvous? "
" Yes ; a glade in the forest, — La Pierre Gauvain. Do
you know the place? "
" We all know it."
" I shall be there to-morrow at noon. Let all those who
can walk meet me at that time."
" Every man will be there."
66 And we will begin the war anew," said the marquis.
As Halmalo pushed against the turning-stone, he found
that it did not stir. The aperture could not be closed again.
" Monseigneur," he said, " we must hasten. The stone
will not move. I was able to open the passage, but I cannot
shut it."
The stone, in fact, had become deadened, as it were, on
NINETY-THREE 317
its hinges from long disuse. It was impossible to make it
revolve back into its place.
" Monseigneur," resumed Halmalo, " I had hoped to close
the passage, so that the Blues, when they got in and found
no one, would think you must have flown off in the smoke.
But the stone will not budge. The enemy will see the out-
let open, and can follow. At least, do not let us lose- a
second. Quick! everybody make for the staircase!"
Imanus laid his hand on Halmalo's shoulder. " Comrade,
how much time will it take to get from here to the forest
and to safety? "
* Is there any one seriously wounded? " asked Halmalo.
They answered, " Nobody."
" In that case a quarter of an hour will be enough."
;< Go," said Imanus ; " if the enemy can be kept out of here
for a quarter of an hour — "
" They may follow ; they cannot overtake us."
" But," said the marquis, " they will be here in five min-
utes ; that old chest cannot hold out against them any longer.
A few blows from their muskets will end the business. A
quarter of an hour! Who can keep them back for a quarter
of an hour? "
" I," said Imanus.
"You, Gouge-le-Bruant? "
" I, monseigneur. Listen. Five out of six of you are
wounded. I have not a scratch."
" Nor I," said the marquis.
" You are the chief, monseigneur. I am a soldier. Chief
and soldier are two.
" I know we have each a different duty."
" No, monseigneur, we have, you and I, the same duty ;
it is to save you."
Imanus turned toward his companions. " Comrades, the
thing necessary to be done is to hold the enemy in check
and retard the pursuit as long as possible. Listen. I am in
possession of my full strength; I have not lost a drop of
blood; not being wounded, I can hold out longer than any
318 NINETY-THREE
of the others. Fly, all of you ! Leave me your weapons ;
I will make good use of them. I take it on myself to stop
the enemy for a good half hour. How many loaded pistols
are there? "
" Four."
" Lay them on the floor." His command was obeyed.
" It is well. I stay here. They will find somebody to talk
with. Now, quick ! get away."
Life and death hung in the balance; there was no time
for thanks, — scarcely time for those nearest to grasp his
hand.
" We shall meet soon," the marquis said to him.
" No, monseigneur ; I hope not, — not soon ; for I am go-
ing to die."
They got through the opening one after another and
passed down the stairs, the wounded going first. While the
men were escaping, the marquis took a pencil out of a note-
book which he carried in his pocket and wrote a few words
on the stone, which, remaining motionless, left the passage
gaping open.
" Come, monseigneur, they are all gone but you," said
Halmalo. And the sailor began to descend the stairs. The
marquis followed.
Imanus remained alone.
CHAPTER XIII
THE EXECUTIONEIl
THE four pistols had been laid on the flags, for the
chamber had no flooring. Imanus grasped a pistol in
either hand. He moved obliquely toward the entrance to
the staircase which the chest obstructed and masked.
The assailants evidently feared some surprise, — one of
NINETY-THREE 319
those final explosions which involve conqueror and conquered
in the same catastrophe. This last attack was as slow and
prudent as the first had been impetuous. They had not been
able to push the chest backward into the chamber, — per-
haps would not have done it if they could. They hud
broken the bottom with blows from their muskets, and pierced
the top with bayonet holes; by these holes they were trying
to sec into the hall before entering. The light from the
lanterns with which they had illuminated the staircase shone
throuqji these chinks.
Imanus perceived an eye regarding him through one of
the holes. He aimed his pistol quickly at the place, and
pulled the trigger. To his jo}', a horrible cry followed the
report. The ball had entered the eye and passed through
the brain of the soldier, who fell backward down the stairs.
The assailants had broken two large holes in the cover;
Imanus thrust his pistol through one of these and fired at
random into the mass of besiegers. The ball must have re-
bounded, for he heard several cries, as if three or four were
killed or wounded; then there was a great tramping and
tumult as the men fell back. Imanus threw down the two
pistols which he had just fired, and, taking the two which
still remained, peered out through the holes in the chest.
He was able to see what execution his shots had done.
The assailants had descended the stairs. The twisting of
the spiral staircase only allowed him to look down three or
four steps; the men he had shot lay writhing there in the
death agony. Imanus waited. " It is so much time gained,"
thought he. Then he saw a man flat on his stomach creep-
ing up the stairs; at the same instant the head of another
soldier appeared lower down from behind the pillar about
which the spiral wound. Imanus aimed at this head and
fired. A cry followed, the soldier fell; and Imanus, while
watching, threw away the empty pistol, and changed the
loaded one from his left hand to his right. As he did so
he felt a horrible pain, and, in his turn, uttered a yell of
agony. A sabre had traversed lis bowels. A fist (the fist
320 NINETY-THREE
of the man who had crept up the stairs) had just been
thrust through the second hole in the bottom of the chest,
and this first had plunged a sabre into Imanus's body. The
wound was frightful; the abdomen was pierced through and
through.
Imanus did not fall. He set his teeth together and
muttered, " Good ! " Then he dragged himself, tottering
along, and retreated to the iron door, at the side of which
the torch was still burning. He laid his pistol on the stones
and seized the torch, and while with his left hand he held
together the terrible wound through which his intestines pro-
truded, with the right he lowered the torch till it touched
the sulphur-match. It caught fire instantaneously ; the wick
blazed.
Imanus dropped the torch ; it lay on the ground still
burning. He seized his pistol anew, dropped forward upon
the flags, and with what breath he had left blew the wick.
The flame ran along it, passed beneath the iron door, and
reached the bridge-castle. Then seeing that his execrable
exploit had succeeded, — prouder, perhaps, of this crime
than of the courage he had before shown, — this man, who
had just proved himself a hero, only to sink into an assassin,
smiled as he stretched himself out to die, and muttered:
" They will remember me. I take vengeance on their little
ones for the fate of our little one, — the king shut up in the
Temple!"
CHAPTER XIV
IMANUS ALSO ESCAPES
AT this moment there was a great noise; the chest was
hurled violently back into the hall, and gave passage
to a man who rushed forward, sabre in hand, crying, —
" It is I — Radoub ! What are you going to do ? It
NINETY-THREE 321
bores me to wait. I have risked it. Anyway I have just
disembowelled one. Now I attack the whole of you.
Whether the rest follow me or don't follow me, here I am.
How many are there of you ? "
It was indeed Radoub, and he was alone !
After the massacre Imanus had caused upon the stairs,
Gauvain, fearing some secret mine, had drawn back his men
and consulted with Cimourdain. Radoub, standing sabre in
hand upon the threshold, sent his voice anew into the ob-
scurity of the chamber across which the nearly extinguished
torch cast a faint gleam, and repeated his question, " I am
one. How many are you?"
There was no answer. He stepped forward. One of those
sudden jets of light which an expiring fire sometimes sends
out, and which seem like its dying throes, burst from the
torch and illuminated the entire chamber. Radoub caught
sight of himself in one of the mirrors hanging against the
wall, — approached it, and examined his bleeding face and
wounded ear. " Horrible mutilation ! " said he.
Then he turned about, and, to his utter stupefaction, per-
ceived that the hall was empty. " Nobody here ! " he ex-
claimed. " Not a creature ! "
Then he saw the revolving stone, and the staircase be-
yond the opening. " Ah ! I understand ! The key to the
fields. Come up, all of you ! " he shouted. " Comrades,
come up ! They have run away ! They have filed off,
dissolved, evaporated, cut their lucky! This old jug of a
tower has a crack in it. There is the hole they got out by,
che beggars ! How is anybody to get the better of Pitt and
Coburg while they are able to play such comedies as this?
The very devil himself came to their rescue. There is no-
body here ! "
The report of a pistol cut his words short : a ball grazed
his elbow and flattened itself against the wall.
" Aha ! " said he. " So there is somebody left. Who was
good enough to show me that little politeness?"
" I," answered a voice.
21
322 NINETY-THREE
Radoub looked about, and caught sight of Imanus in the
gloom. " Ah ! " cried he. " I have got one at all events.
The others have escaped, but you will not, I promise you."
"Do you believe it?" retorted Imanus.
Radoub made a step forward and paused. " Hey, you,
lying on the ground there ! Who are you ? "
" I am a man who laughs at you who are standing up."
" What is it you are holding in your right hand? "
" A pistol."
"And in your left hand?"
" My entrails."
" You are my prisoner."
" I defy you ! "
Imanus bowed his head over the burning wick, spent his
last breath in stirring the flame, and expired.
A few seconds after, Gauvain and Cimourdain, followed
by the whole troop of soldiers, were in the hall. They all saw
the opening. They searched the corners of the room and
explored the staircase; it had a passage at the bottom which
led to the ravine. The besieged had escaped. They raised
Imanus, — he was dead. Gauvain, lantern in hand, examined
the stone which had afforded an outlet to the fugitives: he
had heard of the turning-stone, but he too had always dis-
believed the legend. As he looked he saw some lines written
in pencil on the massive block; he held the lantern closer,
and read these words : —
" Au revoir, Viscount.
" Lantenac."
Guechamp was standing by his commandant. Pursuit
was utterly useless ; the fugitives had the whole country to
aid them, — thickets, ravines, copses, the inhabitants. Doubt-
less they were already far away. There would be no
possiblity of discovering them ; they had the entire forest of
Fougeres, with its countless hiding-places, for a refuge.
What was to be done? The whole struggle must begin anew.
NINETY-THREE 323
Gauvain and Guechamp exchanged conjectures and expres-
sions of disappointment.
Cimourdain listened gravely, but did not utter a word.
" And the ladder, Guechamp? " said Gauvain.
" Commandant, it has not come."
" But we saw a wagon escorted by gendarmes."
Guechamp only replied : " It did not bring the ladder."
"What did it bring, then?"
" The guillotine," said Cimourdain.
CHAPTER XV
NEVER PUT A WATCH AND A KEY IN THE
SAME POCKET
THE Marquis de Lantenac was not so far away as they
believed. But he was none the less in safety, and com-
pletely out of their reach. He had followed Halmalo.
The staircase by which they descended in the wake of
the other fugitives ended in a narrow vaulted passage close
to the ravine and the arches of the bridge. This passage
opened upon a deep natural fissure, which led into the ravine
on one side and into the forest on the other. The wind-
ings of the path were completely hidden among the thickets;
it would have been impossible to discover a man concealed
there. A fugitive, once arrived at this point, had only to
twist away like a snake. The opening from the staircase
into the secret passage was so completely obstructed by
brambles that the builders of the passage had not thought
it necessary to close the way in any other manner.
The marquis had only to go forward now. He was not
placed in any difficulty by lack of a disguise. He had not
thrown aside his peasant's dress since coming to Brittany,
thinking it more in character.
324 NINETY-THREE
When Halmalo and the marquis passed out of the passage
into the cleft, the five other men — Guinoiseau, Hoisnard
(Branche d'Or), Brin d'Amour, Chatenay, and the Abbe
Turmeau — were no longer there.
i " They did not take much time to get away," said Hal-
fmalo.
" Follow their example," returned the marquis.
" Must I leave, monseigneur? "
" Without doubt. I have already told you so. Each
must escape alone to be safe. One man passes where two
cannot. We should attract attention if we were together.
You would lose my life and I yours."
" Does Monseigneur know the district ? "
" Yes."
" Monseigneur still gives the rendezvous for the Pierre
Gauvain ? "
" To-morrow, — at noon."
" I shall be there. We shall all be there." Then Halmalo
burst out : " Ah, monseigneur ! When I think that we were
together in the open sea, that we were alone, that I wanted
to kill you, that you were my master, that you could have told
me so, and that you did not speak ! What a man you are ! "
The marquis replied : " England ! There is no other re-
source. In fifteen days the English must be in France."
" I have much to tell monseigneur. I obeyed his orders."
" We will talk of all that to-morrow."
" Farewell till to-morrow, monseigneur."
" By-the-way, are you hungry ? "
" Perhaps I am, monseigneur. I was in such a hurry to
get here that I am not sure whether I have eaten to-day."
The marquis took a cake of chocolate from his pocket,
broke it in half, gave one piece to Halmalo, and began to
eat the other himself.
" Monseigneur," said Halmalo, " at your right is the ra-
vine; at your left, the forest."
" Very good. Leave me. Go your own way."
Halmalo obeyed. He hurried off through the darkness.
NINETY-THREE 325
For a few instants the marquis could hear the crackling of
the underbrush, then all was still. By that time it would
have been impossible to track Halmalo. This forest of the
Bocage was the fugitive's auxiliary. He did not flee, — he
vanished. It was this facility for disappearance which made
our armies hesitate before this ever-retreating Vendee, so
formidable as it fled.
The marquis remained motionless. He was a man who
forced himself to feel nothing; but he could not restrain
his emotion on breathing this free air, after having been so
long stifled in blood and carnage. To feel himself com-
pletely at liberty after having seemed so utterly lost ; after
having seen the grave so close, to be swept so suddenly
beyond its reach; to come out of death back into life, — it
was a shock even to a man like Lantcnac. Familiar as he
was with danger, in spite of all the vicissitudes he had passed
through he could not at first steady his soul under this.
He acknowledged to himself that he was content. But he
quickly subdued this emotion, which was more like joy than
any feeling he had known for years. He drew out his watch
and struck the hour. What time was it?
To his great astonishment, the marquis found that it was
only ten o'clock. When one has just passed through some
terrible convulsion of existence in which every hope and
life itself were at stake, one is always astounded to find that
those awful minutes were no longer than ordinary ones.
The warning cannon had been fired a little before sunset,
and La Tourgue attacked by the storming-party half an hour
later, between seven and eight o'clock, — just as night was
falling. The colossal combat, begun at eight o'clock, had
ended at ten. This whole epopee had only taken a hundred
and twenty minutes to enact. Sometimes catastrophes sweep
on with the rapidity of lightning, — the climax is overwhelm-
ing from its suddenness. On reflection, the astonishing thing
was that the struggle could have lasted so long. A resist-
ance for two hours of so small a number against so large
a force was extraordinary ; and certainly it had not been short
326 NINETY-THREE
or quickly finished, this battle of nineteen against four
thousand.
But it was time he should be gone. Halmalo must be far
away, and the marquis judged that it would not be necessary
to wait there longer. He put his watch back into his waiscoat,
but not into the same pocket ; for he discovered that the key
of the iron door given him by Imanus was there, and the
crystal might be broken against the key. Then he moved
toward the forest in his turn. As he turned to the left,
it seemed to him that a faint gleam of light penetrated the
darkness where he stood. He walked back, and across the un-
derbrush, clearly outlined against a red background and be-
come visible in their tiniest outlines, he perceived a great
glare in the ravine; only a few paces separated him from it.
He hurried forward, — then stopped, remembering what folly
it was to expose himself in that light. Whatever might have
happened, after all it did not concern him. Again he set
out in the direction Halmalo had indicated, and walked a
little way toward the forest.
Suddenly, deep as he was hidden among the brambles, he
heard a terrible cry echo over his head. This cry seemed
to proceed from the very edge of the plateau which stretched
above the ravine. The marquis raised his eyes and stood
still.
BOOK V
IN D^MONE DEUS
CHAPTER I
FOUND, BUT LOST
AT the moment Michelle Flechard caught sight of the
tower, she was more than a league away. She, who
could scarcely take a step, did not hesitate before these miles
which must be traversed. The woman was weak, but the
mother found strength. She walked on.
The sun set ; the twilight came, then the night. Always
pressing on, Michelle heard a bell afar off, hidden by the
darkness, strike eight o'clock, then nine. The peal probably
came from the belfry of Parigne. From time to time she
paused to listen to strange sounds like the deadened echo of
blows, which might perhaps be the wind in the distance. She
walked straight on, breaking the furze and the sharp heath-
stems beneath her bleeding feet. She was guided by a faint
light which shone from the distant tower, defining its out-
lines against the night, and giving a mysterious glow to the
tower amidst the surrounding gloom. This light became
more distinct when the noise sounded louder, then faded sud-
denly.
The vast plateau across which Michelle Flechard journeyed
was covered with grass and heath ; not a house, not a tree
appeared. It rose gradually, and, as far as the eye could
reached, stretched in a straight hard line against the sombre
327
328 NI]\ T ET Y-THREE
horizon where a few stars gleamed. She had always the
tower before her eyes ; the sight kept her strength from fail-
ing. She saw the massive pile grow slowly as she walked on.
We have just said the smothered reports and the pale
gleams of light starting from the tower were intermittent;
they stopped, then began anew, offering an enigma full of
agony to the wretched mother. Suddenly they ceased; noise
and gleams of light both died. There was a moment of
complete silence, — an ominous tranquillity.
It was just at this moment that Michelle Flechard reached
the edge of the plateau. She saw at her feet a ravine, whose
bottom was lost in the wan indistinctness of the night; also
at a little distance, on the top of the pleateau, an entangle-
ment of wheels, metal, and harness, which was a battery ;
and before her, confusedly lighted by the matches of the
cannon, an enormous edifice that seemed built of shadows
blacker than the shadows which surrounded it. This mass
of buildings was composed of a bridge whose arches were em-
bedded in the ravine, and of a sort of castle which rose upon
the bridge; both bridge and castle were supported against a
lofty circular shadow, — the tower toward which this mother
had journeyed from so far. She could see lights come and
go in the loop-holes of the tower, and from the noise which
surged up she divined that it was filled with a crowd of men;
indeed, now and then their gigantic shadows were flung out
on the night. Near the battery was a camp, whose outposts
she might have perceived through the gloom and the under-
brush, but she had as yet noticed nothing. She went close
to the edge of the plateau, so near the bridge that it seemed
to her she could almost touch it with her hand. The depth
of the ravine alone kept her from reaching it. She could
make out in the gloom the three stories of the bridge-castle.
How long she stood there Michelle Flechard could not have
told, for her mind, absorbed in her mute contemplation of
this gaping ravine and this shadowy edifice, took no note
of time. What was this building? What was going on
within? Was it La Tourgue? A strange dizziness seized
NINETY-THREE 329
her; in her confusion she could not tell if this were the
goal she had been seeking on the starting-point of a ter-
rible journey. She asked herself why she was there. She
looked ; she listened.
Suddenly a gnat blackness shut out every object. A cloud
of smoke swept up between Michelle and the pile she was
watching; a sharp report forced her to close her eyes.
Scarcely had she done so, when a great light reddened the
lids. She opened them again. It was no longer the night
she had before her ; it was the day, — but a fearful day !
the da}' born of fire! She was watching the beginning of
a conflagration. From black the smoke had become scar-
let, filled with a mighty flame, which appeared and disap-
peared, writhing and twisting in serpentine coils. The flame
burst out like a tongue from something which resembled
blazing jaws; it was the embrasure of a window filled with
fire. This window, covered by iron bars, already reddening
in the heat, was a casement in the lower story of the bridge-
castle. Nothing of the edifice was visible except this win-
dow. The smoke covered even the plateau, leaving only the
mouth of the ravine black against the vermilion flames.
Michelle Flechard stared in dumb wonder. It was like
a dream ; she could no longer tell where reality ended, and
the confused fancies of her poor troubled brain began.
Ought she to fly? Should she remain? There was noth-
ing real enough for any definite decision to steady her mind.
A wind swept up and burst the curtain of smoke ; in the open-
ing the frowning bastile rose suddenly in view, — donjon,
bridge, chatelet, — dazzling in the terrible gilding of con-
flagration which framed it from top to bottom.
The appalling illumination showed Michelle Flechard every
detail of the ancient keep. The lowest story of the castle
built on the bridge was burning. Above rose the other two
stories, still untouched, but as it were supported on a corbel
of flames. From the edge of the plateau where Michelle
Flechard stood, she could catch broken glimpses of the in-
terior between the clouds of smoke and fire. The windows
330 NINETY-THREE
were all open. Through the great casements of the second
story she could make out the cupboards stretched along
the walls, which looked to her full of books, and by one of
the windows could see a little group lying on the floor, in
the shadow, indistinct and massed together like birds in a
nest, which at times she fancied she saw move. She looked
fixedly in this direction. What was that little group lying
there in the shadow? Sometimes it flashed across her mind
that those were living forms ; but she had fever ; she had
eaten nothing since morning; she had walked without inter-
mission ; she was utterly exhausted. She felt herself giv-
ing way to a sort of hallucination, which she had still reason
enough to struggle against. Still, her eyes fixed themselves
ever more steadily upon that one point; she could not look
away from that little heap upon the floor, — a mass of in-
animate objects, doubtless, that had been left in that room
below which the flames roared and billowed.
Suddenly the fire, as if animated by a will and purpose,
flung downward a jet of flame toward the great dead ivy
which covered the facade whereat Michelle Flechard was gaz-
ing. It seemed as if the fire had just discovered this out-
work of dried branches ; a spark darted greedily upon it,
and a line of flame spread upward from twig to twig with
frightful rapidity. In the twinkling of an eye it reached
the second story. As they rose, the flames illuminated the
chamber of the first floor, and the awful glare threw out
in bold relief the three little creatures lying asleep upon
the floor. A lovely, statuesque group of legs and arms
interlaced, closed eyes, and angelic, smiling faces.
The mother recognized her children ! She uttered a ter-
rible cry. That cry of indescribable agony is only given
to mothers. No sound is at once so savage and so touching.
When a woman utters it, you seem to hear the yell of a sea-
wolf; when the sea-wolf cries thus, you seem to hear the
voice of a woman. This cry of Michelle Flechard was a
howl. Hecuba howled, says Homer.
It was this cry which reached the Marquis de Lantenac
NINETY-THREE 331
When he heard it lie stood still. The marquis was between
the outlet of the passage through which he had been guided
by Halmalo and the ravine. Across the brambles which en-
closed him he saw the bridge in flames, and La Tourgue red
with the reflection. Looking upward through the opening
which the branches left above his head, he perceived close
to the edge of the plateau on the opposite side of the gulf,
in front of the burning castle, in the full light of the con-
flagration, the haggard, anguish-stricken face of a woman
bending over the depth. It was this woman who had uttered
that cry.
The face was no longer that of Michelle Flechard; it was
a Gorgon's. She was appalling in her agony; the peasant
woman was transformed into one of the Eumenides ; this
unknown villager, vulgar, ignorant, unreasoning, had risen
suddenly to the epic grandeur of despair. Great sufferings
swell the soul to gigantic proportions. This was no longer
a simple mother, — all maternity's voice cried out through
hers : whatever sums up and becomes a type of humanity
grows superhuman. There she towered on the edge of that
ravine, in front of that conflagration, in presence of that
crime, like a power from beyond the grave ; she moaned like
a wild beast, but her attitude was that of a goddess; the
mouth, Avhich uttered imprecations, was set in a flaming
mask. Nothing could have been more regal than her eyes
shooting lightnings through her tears. Her look blasted the
conflagration.
The marquis listened. The mother's voice flung its echoes
down upon his head, — inarticulate, heart-rending ; sobs rather
than words : —
" Ah, my God, my children ! Those are my children !
Help! Fire! fire! fire! O you brigands! Is there no one
here? My children are burning up! Georgette! My
babies! Gros-Alain ! Rene- Jean ! What does it mean?
Who put my children there? They are asleep. Oh, I am
mad ! It is impossible ! Help, help ! "
A great bustle of movement was apparent in La Tourgue
382 NINETY-THREE
and upon the plateau. The whole camp rushed out to the
fire which had just burst forth. The besiegers, after meet-
ing the grape-shot, had now to deal with the conflagration.
Gauvain, Cimourdain, and Guechamp were giving orders.
What was to be done? Only a few buckets of water could
be drained from the half-dried brook of the ravine. The
consternation increased. The whole edge of the plateau was
covered with men whose troubled faces watched the progress
of the flames. What they saw was terrible: they gazed, and
could do nothing.
The flames had spread along the ivy and reached the top-
most story, leaping greedily upon the straw with which it
was filled. The entire granary was burning now. The
flames wreathed and danced as if in fiendish joy. A cruel
breeze fanned the pyre. One could fancy the evil spirit of
Imanus urging on the fire, and rejoicing in the destruction
which had been his last earthly crime. The library, though
between the two burning stories, was not yet on fire ; the
height of its ceiling and the thickness of the walls retarded
the fatal moment ; but it was fast approaching. The flames
from below licked the stones ; the flames from above whirled
down to caress them with the awful embrace of death: be-
neath, a cave of lava ; above, an arch of embers. If the
floor fell first, the children would be flung into the lava
stream ; if the ceiling gave way, they would be buried beneath
burning coals.
The little ones slept still; across the sheets of flame and
smoke which now hid, now exposed the casements, the children
were visible in that fiery grotto, within that meteoric glare,
peaceful, lovely, motionless, like three confident cherubs
slumbering in a hell. A tiger might have wept to see those
angels in that furnace, those cradles in that tomb.
And the mother was wringing her hands : " Fire ! I say,
fire! Are they all deaf, that nobody comes? They are
burning my children ! Come, come, you men that I see
yonder. Oh, the days and days that I have hunted, — and
this is where I find them ! Fire ! Help ! Three angels, —
NINETY-THREE 833
to think of three angels burning there! What have they
done, the innocents? They shot me; they arc burning my
little ones! Who is it does such things? Help! save my
children! Do you not hear me? A dog, — one would have
pity on a dog! My children! my children ! They are asleep.
O Georgette, — I sec her face! Rene-Jean, Gros-Alain, —
those are their names : you may know I am their mother.
Oh, it is horrible! I have travelled days and nights! Why,
this very morning I talked of them with a woman! Help,
help! Where are those monsters? Horror, horror! The
eldest not five years old, the youngest not two. I can see
their little bare legs. They are asleep, Holy Virgin!
Heaven gave them to me, and devils snatch them away.
To think how far I have journeyed! My children, that I
nourished with my milk! I, who thought nvysclf wretched
because I could not find them, — have pity on me ! I want
my children; I must have my children! And there they are
in the fire ! See, how my poor feet bleed ! Help ! It is
not possible, if there are men on the earth, that my little
ones will be left to die like this. Help ! Murder ! Oh, such
a thing was never seen! O assassins! What is that dread-
ful house there? They stole my children from me in order
to kill them. God of mercy, give me my children! They
shall not die! Help! help! help! Oh, I shall curse Heaven
itself, if they die like that ! "
While the mother's awful supplications rang out, other
voices rose upon the plateau and in the ravine.
" A ladder ! "
" There is no ladder ! "
" Water ! "
" There is no water ! "
" Up yonder, in the tower, on the second story, there is
a door."
" It is iron."
" Break it in ! "
" Impossible ! "
And the mother, redoubling her agonized appeals : " Fire !
334 NINETY-THREE
Help! Hurry, I say, if you will not kill me! My children,
my children ! Oh, the horrible fire ! Take them out of it,
or throw me in ! "
In the interval between these clamours the triumphant
crackling of the flames could be heard.
The marquis put his hand in his pocket and touched the
key of the iron door. Then, stooping again beneath the
vault through which he had escaped, he turned back into the
passage from whence he had just emerged.
CHAPTER II
FROM THE DOOR OF STONE TO THE IRON DOOR
A WHOLE army distracted by the impossibility of giv-
ing aid; four thousand men unable to succour three
children, — such was the situation. Not even a ladder to be
had ; that sent from Javene had not arrived. The flaming
space widened like a crater that opens. To attempt the stay-
ing of the fire by means of the half-dried brook would have
been mad folly, — like flinging a glass of water on a volcano.
Cimourdain, Guechamp, and Radoub had descended into
the ravine ; Gauvain remounted to the room in the second
story of the tower, where were the stone that turned, the
secret passage, and the iron door leading into the library.
It was there that the sulphur-match had been lighted by
Imanus ; from these the conflagration had started. Gauvain
took with him twenty sappers. There was no possible re-
source except to break open the iron door; its fastenings
were terribly secure. They began by blows with axes. The
axes broke. A sapper said: " Steel snaps like glass against
that iron." The door was made of double sheets of wrought-
iron, bolted together ; each sheet three fingers in thickness.
They took iron bars and tried to shake the door beneath their
NINETY-THREE 335
blows ; the bars broke " like matches ! " said one of the sap-
pers.
Gauvain murmured gloomily: "Nothing but a ball could
open that door. If we could only get a cannon up here ! "
" But how to do it?" answered the sapper.
There was a moment of consternation. Those powerless
arms ceased their efforts. Mute, conquered, dismayed, these
men stood staring at the immovable door. A red reflection
crept from beneath it ; behind, the conflagration was each in-
stant increasing. The frightful corpse of Imanus lay on
the floor, — a demoniac victor. Only a few moments more
and the whole bridge-castle might fall in. What could be
done? There was not a hope left.
Gauvain, with his e} r es fixed on the turning-stone and the
secret passage, cried furiously : " It was by that the Marquis
de Lantenac escaped."
" And returns," said a voice.
The face of a white-haired man appeared in the stone
frame of the secret opening. It was the marquis ! Many
years had passed since Gauvain had seen that face so near.
He recoiled. The rest all stood petrified with astonishment.
The marquis held a large key in his hand; he cast a
haughty glance upon the sappers standing before him, walked
straight to the iron door, bent beneath the arch, and put
the key in the lock. The iron creaked, the door opened,
revealing a gulf of flame ; the marquis entered it. He entered
with a firm step, his head erect. The lookers-on followed
him with their eyes. The marquis had scarcely moved half
a dozen paces down the blazing hall when the floor, under-
mined by the fire, gave way beneath his feet and opened
a precipice between him and the door. He did not even
turn his head, — he walked steadily on. He disappeared in
the smoke. Nothing more could be seen.
Had the marquis been able to advance farther? Had a
new gulf of fire opened beneath his feet? Had he only suc-
ceeded in destroying himself? They could not tell. They
had before them only a wall of smoke and flame. The mar-
quis was beyond that, living or dead.
336 NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER III
WHERE WE SEE THE CHILDREN WAKE THAT WE SAW
GO ASLEEP
THE little ones opened their eyes at last. The conflagra-
tion had not yet entered the library, but it cast a rosy
glow across the ceiling. The children had never seen an
aurora like that ; they watched it. Georgette was in ecsta-
sies.
The conflagration unfurled all its splendours ; the black
hydra and the scarlet dragon appeared amidst the wreath-
ing smoke in awful darkness and gorgeous vermilion. Long
streaks of flame shot far out and illuminated the shadows, like
opposing comets pursuing one another. Fire is recklessly
prodigal with its treasures ; its furnaces are filled with gems
which it flings to the winds ; it is not for nothing that char-
coal is identical with the diamond. Fissures had opened in
the wall of the upper story, through which the embers poured
like cascades of jewels; the heaps of straw and oats burning
in the granary began to stream out of the windows in an
avalanche of golden rain, the oats turning to amethyst and
the straw to carbuncles.
" Pretty ! " said Georgette.
They all three raised themselves.
" Ah ! " cried the mother. " They have awakened ! "
Rene-Jean got up, then Gros-Alain, and Georgette fol-
lowed. Rene-Jean stretched his arms toward the window and
said, " I am warm."
" Me warm," cooed Georgette.
The mother shrieked : " My children ! Rene ! Alain !
Georgette ! "
The little ones looked about. They strove to comprehend.
When men are frightened, children are only curious. He
who is easily astonished is difficult to alarm ; ignorance is
NINETY-THREE 337
intrepidity. Children have so little claim to purgatory that
if they saw it they would admire.
The mother repeated: " Rene! Alain! Georgette! "
Rene-Jean turned his head ; that voice roused him from
his reverie. Children have short memories, but their rec-
ollections are swift ; the whole past is yesterday to them.
Rem'- Jean saw his mother; found that perfectly natural;
and feeling a vague want of support in the midst of those
strange surroundings, he called " Mamma ! "
"Mamma!" said Gros-Alain.
" M'ma ! " said Georgette. And she held out her little
arms.
" My children ! " shrieked the mother.
All three went close to the window-ledge; fortunately the
fire was not on that side.
" I am too warm," said Rene-Jean. He added, " It burns."
Then his eyes sought the mother. " Come here, mamma ! "
he cried.
" Turn, m'ma," repeated Georgette.
The mother, with her hair streaming about her face, her
garments torn, her feet and hands bleeding, let herself roll
from bush to bush down into the ravine. Cimourdain and
Guechamp were there, as powerless as Gauvain was above.
The soldiers, desperate at being able to do nothing, swarmed
about. The heat was unsupportable, but nobody felt it.
They looked at the bridge, the height of the arches, the
different stories of the castle, — the inaccessible windows.
Help to be of any avail must come at once. Three stories
to climb ; no way of doing it !
Radoub, wounded, with a sabre-cut on his shoulder and one
ear torn off, rushed forward dripping with sweat and blood.
He saw Michelle Flechard. "Hold!" cried he. "The
woman that was shot! So you have come to life again?"
My children ! " groaned the mother.
You are right," answered Radoub, " we have no time to
occupy ourselves about ghosts." He attempted to climb the
bridge, but in vain ; he dug his nails in between the stones
22
« A
338 NINETY-THREE
and clung there for a few seconds, but the layers were as
smoothly joined as if the wall had been new; Radoub fell
back.
The conflagration swept on, each instant growing more ter-
rible. They could see the heads of the three children framed
in the red light of the window. In his frenzy Radoub
shook his clinched hand at the sky, and shouted, " Is there
no mercy yonder ? "
The mother on her knees, clung to one of the piers, cry-
ing, " Mercy, mercy ! "
The hollow sound of cracking timbers rose above the
roar of the flames. The panes of glass in the book-cases of
the library cracked and fell with a crash. It was evident
that the timber-work had given way. Human strength
could do nothing. Another moment and the whole would
fall. The soldiers only waited for the final catastrophe.
They could hear the little voices repeat, " Mamma ! mamma ! ' :
The whole crowd was paralyzed with horror!
Suddenly, at the casement near that where the children
stood, a tall form appeared against the crimson background
of the flames. Every head was raised, every eye fixed. A man
was above there,— a man in the library, in the furnace ! The
face showed black against the flames, but they could see the
white hair; they recognized the Marquis de Lantenac. He
disappeared, then appeared again. The indomitable old
man stood in the window shoving out an enormous ladder.
It was the escape ladder deposited in the library; he had
seen it lying upon the floor and dragged it to the window.
He held it by one end; with the marvellous agility of an
athlete he slipped it out of the casement, and slid it along
the wall down into the ravine.
Radoub folded his arms about the ladder as it descended
within his reach, crying, " Long live the Republic ! "
The marquis shouted, " Long live the King ! "
Radoub muttered : " You may cry what you like, and talk
nonsense if you please, you are an angel of mercy all the
same."
NINETY-THREE 339
The ladder was settled in place, and communication es-
tablished between the burning floor and the ground. Twenty
men rushed up, Radoub at their head, and in the twinkling
of an eye they were hanging to the rungs from the top to
the bottom, making a human ladder. He had his face turned
toward the conflagration. The little army scattered among
the heath and along the sides of the ravine pressed forward,
overcome by contending emotions, upon the plateau, into the
ravine, out on the platform of the tower.
The marquis disappeared again, then reappeared bearing
a child in his arms. There was a tremendous clapping of
hands. The marquis had seized the first little one that he
found within reach. It was Gros-Alain.
Gros-Alain cried, " I am afraid."
The marquis gave the boy to Radoub; Radoub passed him
on to the soldier behind, who passed him to another;
and just as Gros-Alain, greatly frightened and sobbing
loudly, was given from hand to hand to the bottom of the
ladder, the marquis, who had been absent for a moment, re-
turned to the window with Rene-Jean, who struggled and wept
and beat Radoub with his little fists as the marquis passed
him on to the sergeant.
The marquis went back into the chamber that was now
filled with flames. Georgette was there alone. He went up
to her. She smiled. This man of granite felt his eyelids
grow moist. He asked, " What is your name? "
" Orgette," said she.
He took her in his arms; she was still smiling, and at the
instant he handed her to Radoub, that conscience, so lofty
and yet so darkened, was dazzled by the beauty of innocence:
the old man kissed the child.
" It is the little girl ! " said the soldiers ; and Georgette in
her turn descended from arm to arm till she reached the
ground, amidst cries of exultation. They clapped their
hands ; they leaped ; the old grenadiers sobbed, and she smiled
at them.
The mother stood at the foot of the ladder breathless, mad,
340 NINETY-THREE
intoxicated by this change, — flung, without transition, from
hell into paradise. Excess of joy lacerates the heart in its
own way. She extended her arms; she received first Gros-
Alain, then Rene- Jean, then Georgette. She covered them
with frantic kisses, then burst into a wild laugh and fainted.
A great cry rose: " They are all saved."
All were indeed saved, except the old man. But no one
thought of him, — not even he himself, perhaps. He re-
mained for a few instants leaning against the window-ledge
lost in a reverie, as if he wished to leave the gulf of flames
time to make a decision. Then, without the least haste, slowly
indeed and proudly, he stepped over the window-sill, and erect,
upright, his shoulders against the rungs, having the con-
flagration at his back, the depth before him, he began to de-
scend the ladder in silence, with the majesty of a phantom.
The men who were on the ladder sprang off; every witness
shuddered. About this man thus descending from that
height there was a sacred horror as about a vision ; but he
plunged calmly into the darkness before him. They re-
coiled; he drew nearer them. The marble pallor of his face
showed no emotion ; his haughty eyes were calm and cold. At
each step he made toward those men whose wondering eyes
gazed upon him out of the darkness, he seemed to tower
higher ; the ladder shook and echoed under his firm tread : one
might have thought him the statue of the " Commendatore "
descending anew into his sepulchre.
As the marquis reached the bottom, and his foot left the
last rung and planted itself on the ground, a hand seized his
shoulder. He turned about.
" I arrest you," said Cimourdain.
" I approve of what you do," said Lantenac.
BOOK VI
AFTER THE VICTORY THE COMBAT BEGINS
CHAPTER I
LANTENAC TAKEN
THE marquis had indeed descended into the tomb. He was
led away.
The crypt dungeon of the ground-floor of La Tourgue was
immediately opened under Cimourdain's lynx-eyed Superin-
tendence. A lamp was placed within, a jug of water and a
loaf of soldier's bread; a bundle of straw was flung on the
ground, and in less than a quarter of an hour from the in-
stant when the priest's hand seized Lantenac the door of the
dungeon closed upon him. This done, Cimourdain went to
find Gauvain; at that instant eleven o'clock sounded from the
distant church-clock of Parigne.
Cimourdain said to his former pupil : " I am going to
convoke a court-martial; you will not be there. You are a
Gauvain, and Lantenac is a Gauvain. You are too near a
kinsman to be his judge; I blame Egalite for having voted
upon Capet's sentence. The court-martial will be composed
of three judges, — an officer, Captain Guechamp ; a non-com-
missioned officer, Sergeant Radoub ; and m} r self . I shall pre-
side. Nothing of all this concerns you any longer. We will
conform to the decree of the Convention; we will confine our-
selves to proving the identity of the ci-devant Marquis dc
341
342 NINETY-THREE
Lantenac. To-morrow the court-martial; day after to-mor-
row the guillotine. The Vendee is dead."
Gauvain did not answer a word, and Cimourdain, pre-
occupied by the final task which remained for him to fulfil,
left the young man alone. Cimourdain had to decide upon
the hour, and choose the place. He had — like Lequinio at
Granville, like Tallien at Bordeaux, like Chalier at Lyons, like
Saint-Just at Strasbourg — the habit of assisting personally
;it executions; it was considered a good example for the judge
to come and see the headsman do his work, — a custom bor-
rowed by the Terror of '93 from the parliaments of France
and the Inquisition of Spain.
Gauvain also was preoccupied. A cold wind moaned up
from the forest. Gauvain left Guechamp to give the neces-
sary orders, went to his tent in the meadow which stretched
along the edge of the wood at the foot of La Tourgue, took
his hooded cloak and enveloped himself therein. This cloak
was bordered with the simple galoon which, according to the
republican custom (chary of ornament), designated the com-
mander-in-chief. He began to walk about in this bloody field
where the attack had begun. He was alone there. The fire
still continued, but no one any longer paid attention to it.
Radoub was beside the children and their mother, almost as
maternal as she. The bridge-castle was nearly consumed;
the sappers hastened the destruction. The soldiers were dig-
ging trenches in order to bury the dead ; the wounded were
being cared for; the retirade had been demolished; the cham-
bers and stairs disencumbered of the dead; the soldiers were
cleansing the scene of carnage, sweeping away the terrible
rubbish of the victory, — with true military rapidity setting
everything in order after the battle.
Gauvain saw nothing of all this. So profound was his
reverie that he scarcely cast a glance toward the guard about
the tower, doubled by the orders of Cimourdain. He could
distinguish the breach through the obscurity, perhaps two
hundred feet away from the corner of the field where he had
taken refuge. He could see the black opening. It was there
NINETY-THREE 343
the attack had begun three hours before; it was by this dark
gap that lie (Gauvain) had penetrated into the tower; there
was the ground-floor where the retirade had stood ; it was on
that same floor that the door of the marquis's prison opened.
The guard at the breach watched this dungeon. While his
eyes were absently fixed upon the heath, in his ear rang
confusedl}', like the echo of a knell, these words: "To-
morrow the court-martial ; day after to-morrow, the guillo-
tine."
The conflagration, which had been isolated, and upon
which the sappers had thrown all the water that could be
procured, did not die away without resistance; it still cast
out intermittent flames. At moments the cracking of the
ceilings could be heard, and the crash one upon another of
the different stories as they fell in a common ruin ; then a
whirlwind of sparks would fly through the air, as if a gigan-
tic torch had been shaken ; a glare like lightning illuminated
the farthest verge of the horizon, and the shadow of La Tour-
gue, growing suddenly colossal, spread out to the edge of the
forest.
Gauvain walked slowly to and fro amidst the gloom in
front of the breach. At intervals he clasped his two hands
at the back of his head, covered with his soldier's hood. He
was thinking.
CHAPTER II
gauvain's self-questioning
HIS reverie was fathomless. A seemingly impossible
change had taken place. The Marquis de Lantenac
had been transfigured.
Gauvain had been a witness of this transfiguration. He
would never have believed that such a state of affairs would
344 NINETY-THREE
arrive from any complication of events, whatever they might
be. Never would he have imagined, even in a dream, that
anything similar would be possible. The unexpected - — that
inexplicable power which plays with man at will — had seized
Gauvain, and held him fast. Pie had before him the impos-
sible become a reality, visible, palpable, inevitable, inexorable.
What did he think of it — he, Gauvain ? There was no
chance of evasion ; the decision must be made. A question
was put to him ; he could not avoid it. Put by whom ? By
events. And not alone by events ; for when events, which are
mutable, address a question to our souls, Justice, which is un-
changeable, summons us to reply. Above the cloud which
casts its shadow upon us is the star that sends toward us its
light. We can no more escape from the light than from the
shadow.
Gauvain was undergoing an interrogatory. He had been
arraigned before a judge: before a terrible judge, — his con-
science. Gauvain felt everjr power of his soul vacillate. His
resolutions the most solid, his promises the most piously ut-
tered, his decisions the most irrevocable, all tottered in this
terrible overwhelming of his will. There arc moral earth-
quakes. The more he reflected upon that which he had lately
seen, the more confused he became. Gauvain, republican, be-
lieved himself, and was, just. A higher justice had re-
veiled itself. Above the justice of revolutions is that of
humanity. What had happened could not be eluded; the
case was grave; Gauvain made part of it; he could not with-
draw himself; and although Cimourdain had said, "It con-
cerns you no further," he felt within his soul the pang which
a tree may feel when torn upward from its roots.
Every man has a basis ; a disturbance of this base causes
a profound trouble; it was what Gauvain now felt. He
pressed his head between his two hands, searching for the
truth. To state clearly a situation like his is not easy ; noth-
ing could be more painful. He had before him the formidable
ciphers which he must sum up into a total ; to judge a human
destiny by mathematical ^n]pa His head whirled. He tned;
NINETY-THREE 345
he endeavoured to consider the matter; he forced himself to
collect his ideas, to discipline the resistance which he felt within
himself, and to recapitulate the facts. He set them all before
his mind.
To whom has it not arrived to make such a report, and to
interrogate himself in some supreme circumstances upon the
route which must be followed, — whether to advance or re-
treat ?
Gauvain had just been witness of a miracle. Before the
earthly combat had fairly ended, there came a celestial strug-
gle,— the conflict of good against evil. A heart of adamant
had been conquered. Given the man with all that he had of
evil within him, violence, error, blindness, unwholesome obsti-
nacy, pride, egotism, — Gauvain had just witnessed a miracle:
the victory of humanity over the man. Humanity had con-
quered the inhuman. And by what means; in what manner?
How had it been able to overthrow that colossus of wrath and
hatred? What arms had it employed; what implement of
war? The cradle!
Gauvain had been dazzled. In the midst of social war,
in the very blaze of all hatreds and all vengeances, at the
darkest and most furious moment of the tumult, at the hour
when crime gave all its fires, and hate all its blackness, — at
that instant of conflict, when every sentiment becomes a pro-
jectile; when the melee is so fierce that one no longer knows
what is justice, honesty, or truth,- 1 — suddenly the Unknown
(mysterious warner of souls) sent the grand rays of eternal
truth resplendent across human light and darkness. Above
that sombre duel between the false and the relatively true,
there, in the depths, the face of truth itself abruptly ap-
peared. Suddenly the force of the feeble had interposed.
He" Had seen three poor creatures, almost new born, um-eason-
ing, abandoned, orphans, alone, lisping, smiling; having
against them civil war, retaliation, the horrible logic of re-
prisals, murder, carnage, fratricide, rage, hatred, all the
Gorgons, — he had seen them triumph against those powers.
He had seen the defeat and extinction of a horrible conflagra-
346 NINETY-THREE
tion that had been charged to commit a crime; he had seen
atrocious premeditations disconcerted and brought to naught ;
he had seen ancient feudal ferocity, inexorable disdain, pro-
fessed experiences of the necessities of war, reasons of State,
all the arrogant resolves of a savage old age, vanish before
the clear gaze of those who had not yet lived. And this was
natural ; for he who has not yet lived has done no evil : he is
justice, truth, purity; and the highest angels of heaven hover
about those souls of little children.
A useful spectacle, a counsel, a lesson. The maddened,
merciless combatants, in face of all the projects, all the out-
rages of war, fanaticism, assassination, revenge kindling the
fagots, death coming torch in hand, had suddenly seen all-
powerful Innocence raise itself above this enormous legion
of crimes. And Innocence had conquered. One could say :
No, civil war does not exist ; barbarism does not exist ; hatred
does not exist ; crime does not exist ; darkness does not exist.
To scatter these spectres it only needed that divine aurora, — -
innocence. Never in any conflict had Satan and God been
more plainly visible.
This conflict had a human conscience for its arena. The
conscience of Lantenac. Now the battle began again — more
desperate, more decisive still perhaps — in another conscience,
— the conscience of Gauvain..
What a battle-ground is the soul of man ! We are given
up to those gods, those monsters, those giants, — our thoughts.
Often these terrible belligerents trample our very souls down
in their mad conflict.
Gauvain meditated. The Marquis de Lantenac, surrounded,
doomed, condemned, outlawed ; shut in like the wild beast in
the circus, held like a nail in the pincers, enclosed in his refuge
become his prison, bound on every side by a wall of iron and
fire, — had succeeded in stealing away. He had performed
a miracle in escaping ; he had accomplished that masterpiece,
— the most difficult of all in such a war, — flight. He had
again taken possession of the forest, to intrench himself there-
in ; of the district, to fight there ; of the shadow, to disappear
NINETY-THREE 347
within it. He had once more become the formidable, the dan-
gerous wanderer, the captain of the invincible*, the chief of
the underground forces, the master of the woods. Gauvain
had the victory, but Lantenac had his liberty. Henceforth
Lantenac had security before him, limitless freedom, an in-
exhaustible choice of asylums. He was indiscernible, unap-
proachable, inaccessible. The lion had been taken in the
snare, and had broken through.
Well, he had re-entered it. The Marquis de Lantenac had
voluntarily, spontaneously, by his own free act, left the for-
est, the shadow, security, liberty, to return to that horrible
peril : intrepid when Gauvain saw him the first time plunge
into the conflagration at the risk of being engulfed therein ;
intrepid a second time, when lie descended that ladder which
delivered him to his enemies, — a ladder of escape to others,
of perdition to him. And why had he thus acted? To save
three children. And now what was it they were about to do
to this man? Guillotine him. Had these three children been
his own? No. Of his family? No. Of his rank? No.
For three little beggars — chance children, foundlings, un-
known, ragged, barefooted — this noble, this prince, this old
man, free, safe, triumphant (for evasion is a triumph), had
risked all, compromised all, lost all ; and at the same time
he restored the babes, had proudly brought his own head, —
and this head, hitherto terrible, but now august, he offered
to his foes. And what were they about to do? Accept the
sacrifice.
The Marquis de Lantenac had had the choice between the
life of others and his own : in this superb option he had chosen
death. And it was to be granted him ; he was to be killed.
What a reward for heroism ! Respond to a generous act by
a barbarous one ! What a degrading of the Revolution, what
a belittling of the Republic! As this man of prejudice and
servitude, suddenly transformed, returned into the circle of
humanity, the men who strove for deliverance and freedom
elected to cling to the horrors of civil war, to the routine of
blood, to fratricide! The divine law of forgiveness, abnega-
348 NINETY-THREE
Hon, redemption, sacrifice, existed for the combatants of error,
and did not exist for the soldiers of truth ! What !
Not to make a struggle in magnanimity: resign themselves to
this defeat? They, the stronger, to show themselves the
weaker ; they, victorious, to become assassins, and cause it to
be said that there were those on the side of monarchy who
saved children, and those on the side of the Republic who slew
old men?
The world would see this great soldier, this powerful octo-
genarian, this disarmed warrior, — stolen rather than captured,
seized in the performance of a good action ; seized by his own
permission, with the sweat of a noble devotion still upon his
brow, — mount the steps of the scaffold as he would mount
to the grandeur of an apotheosis ! And they would put be-
neath the knife that head about which would circle, as sup-
pliants, the souls of the three little angels he had saved! And
before this punishment — infamous for the butchers — a smile
would be seen on the face of that man, and the blush of shame
on the face of the Republic! And this would be accomplished
in the presence of Gauvain, the chief. And he who might
hinder this would abstain. He would rest content under that
haughty absolution, " This concerns thee no longer." And
he was not even to say to himself that in such a case abdication
of authority was complicity ! He was not to perceive that of
two men engaged in an action so hideous, he who permits the
thing is worse than the man who does the work, because he is
the coward!
But this death, — had he, Gauvain, not promised it? Had
not he, the merciful, declared that Lantenac should have no
mercy; that he would himself deliver Lantenac to Cimourdain?
That head, — he owed it. Well, he would pay the debt ; so bo
it. But it was, indeed, the same head.
Hitherto Gauvain had seen in Lantenac only the barbarous
warrior, the fanatic of royalty and feudalism, the slaughterer
of prisoners, an assassin whom war had let loose, a man of
blood. That man he had not feared; he had proscribed that
proscriber: the implacable would have found him inexorable.
NINETY -THREE 341
Nothing more simple; the road was marked out and terriblj
plain to follow; everything foreseen: those who killed must be
killed; the path of horror was clear and straight. Unex-
pectedly thai straight line had been broken; a sudden turn in
the way revealed a new horizon; a metamorphosis had taken
place. An unknown Lantenac entered upon the scene. A hero
sprang up from the monster: more than a hero, — a man;
more than a soul, — a heart. It was no longer a murderer
that Gauvain had before him, but a saviour. Gauvain was
flung to the earth by a flood of celestial radiance. Lantenac
had struck him with the thunder-bolt of generosity.
And Lantenac transfigured could not transfigure Gauvain '
What! Was this stroke of light to produce no counter
stroke? Was the man of the Past to push on in front, and
the man of the Future to fall back? Was the man of bar
barism and superstition suddenly to unfold angel pinions, ant'
soar aloft to watch the man of the ideal crawl beneath him in
the mire and the night? Gauvain to lie wallowing in tin
blood-stained rut of the past, while Lantenac rose to a new
existence in the sublime future?
Another thing still. Their family! This blood which he
was about to spill, — for to let it be spilled was to spill it
himself, — was not this his blood, his, Gauvain's? His grand-
father was dead, but his grand-uncle lived, and this grand-
uncle was the Marquis de Lantenac. Would not that ancestor
who had gone to the grave rise to prevent his brother from
being forced into it? Would he not command his grandson
hencefortn to respect that crown of white hairs, become pure
as his own angelic halo? Did not a spectre loom with in-
dignant eyes between him, Gauvain, and Lantenac? Was,
then, the aim of the Revolution to denaturalize man? Had
she been born to break the ties of family and to stifle the in-
stincts of humanity? Far from it. It was to affirm these
glorious realities, not to deny them, that '89 had risen. To
overturn the bastiles was to deliver humanity; to abolish
feudality was to found families. The author being the point
from whence authority sets out, and authority being included in
350 N 1NETY-THREE
the author, there can be no other authority than paternity:
hence the legitimacy of the queen-bee who creates her people,
and who, being mother, is queen ; hence the absurdity of the
king-man, who not being father, cannot be master. Hence
the suppression of the king ; hence the Republic that comes
from all this ! Family, humanity, revolution. Revolution
is the accession of the peoples; and, at the bottom, the People
is Man. The thing to decide was, whether when Lantenac
returned into humanity, Gauvain should return to his family.
The thing to decide was, whether the uncle and nephew should
meet again in a higher light, or whether the nephew's recoil
should reply to the uncle's progress. The question in this
pathetic debate between Gauvain and his conscience had re-
solved itself into this; and the answer seemed to come of it-
self, — he must save Lantenac.
Yes; but France? Here the dizzying problem suddenly
changed its face. What! France at bay? France betrayed,
flung open, dismantled? Having no longer a moat. Ger-
many would cross the Rhine ; no longer a wall, Italy would
leap the Alps, and Spain the Pyrenees. There would remain
to France that great abyss, the ocean. She had for her the
gulf; she could back herself against it, and, giantess, sup-
ported by the entire sea, could combat the whole earth, — a
position, after all, impregnable. Yet no; this position would
fail her. The ocean no longer belonged to her. In this ocean
was England. True, England was at a loss how to traverse
it. Well, a man would fling her a bridge; a man would ex-
tend his hand to her; a man would go to Pitt, to Craig, to
Cornwallis, to Dundas, to the piraies, and say, " Come! " A
man would cry, " England, seize France ! " And this man
was the Marquis de Lantenac. This man was now held fast.
After three months of chase, of pursuit, of frenzy, he had at
last been taken. The hand of the Revolution had just closed
upon the accursed one; the clinched fist of '93 had seized this
royalist murderer by the throat. Through that mysterious
premeditation from on high which mixes itself in human af-
fairs, it was in the dungeon belonging to his family that this
NINETY-THREE 351
parricide awaited his punishment. The feudal lord was in
the feudal oubliette. The stones of his own castle rose against
him and shut him in, and he who had sought to betray his
country had been betrayed by his own dwelling. God had
visibly arranged all this; the hour had sounded; the Revolu-
tion had taken prisoner this public enemy; he could no longer
fight, he could no longer struggle, he could no longer harm.
In this Vendee, which owned so many arms, his was the sole
brain ; with his extinction, civil war would be extinct. He
was held fast, — tragic and fortunate conclusion ! After so
many massacres, so much carnage, he was a captive, this man
who had slain so pitilessly ; and it was his turn to die.
And if some one should be found to save him ! Cimourdain,
that is to say, '93, held Lantenac, that is to say, Monarchy ;
and could any one be found to snatch its prey from that hand
of bronze? Lantenac, the man in whom concentrated that
sheaf of scourges called the Past, — the Marquis de Lantenac,
— was in the tomb ; the heavy eternal door had closed upon
him; would some one come from without to draw back the
bolt? This social malefactor was dead, and with him died re-
volt, fratricidal contest, bestial war; and would any one be
found to resuscitate him? Oh, how that death's-head would
laugh! That spectre would say, " It is well; I live again, —
the idiots!" How he would once more set himself at his
hideous work. How joyously and implacably this Lantenac
would plunge anew into the gulf of war and hatred, and on
the morrow would be seen again houses burning, prisoners
massacred, the wounded slain, women shot !
And, after all, did not Gauvain exaggerate this action
which had fascinated him? Three children were lost; Lan-
tenac saved them. But who had flung them into that peril?
Was it not Lantenac? Who had set those three cradles in
the heart of the conflagration? Was it not Imanus? Who
was Imanus? The lieutenant of the marquis. The one re-
sponsible is the chief. Hence the incendiary and the assassin
was Lantenac. What had he done so admirable? He had
not persisted, — that was ail. After having conceived the
352 NINETY-THREE
crime, he had recoiled before it. He had become horrified at
himself. That mother's cry had awakened in him those re-
mains of human mercy which exist in all souls, even the most
hardened ; at this cry he had returned upon his steps. Out
of the night where he had buried himself, he hastened toward
the day; after having brought about the crime, he caused its
defeat. His whole merit consisted in this, — not to have been
a monster to the end.
And in return for so little, to restore him all. To give
him freedom, the fields, the plains, air, day ; restore to him
the forest, which he would employ to shelter his bandits ; re-
store him liberty, which he would use to bring about slavery ;
restore life, which he would devote to death. As for trying to
come to an understanding with him ; attempting to treat with
that arrogant soul ; propose his deliverance under certain con-
ditions ; demand if he would consent, were his life spared,
henceforth to abstain from all hostilities and all revolt, — what
an error such an offer would be! what an advantage it would
give him ! against what scorn would the proposer wound him-
self! how he would freeze the questioner by his response,
" Keep such shame for yourself : kill me ! "
There was, in short, nothing to do with this man but to
slay or set him free. He was ever ready to soar or to sacri-
fice himself; his strange soul held at once the eagle and the
abyss. To slay him, — what a pang ! To set him free, —
what a responsibility ! Lantenac saved, all was to begin anew
with the Vendee, — like a struggle with a hydra whose heads
had not been severed. In the twinkling of an eye, with the
rapidity of a meteor, the flame extinguished by this man's
disappearance would blaze up again. Lantenac would never
stop to rest until he had carried out that execrable plan, —
to fling, like the cover of a tomb, Monarchy upon the Repub-
lic, and England upon France. To save Lantenac was to
sacrifice France. Life to Lantenac was death to a host of
innocent beings, — men, women, children, caught anew in that
domestic war; it was the landing of the English, the recoil
of the Revolution ; it was the sacking of the villages, the rend-
NINETY-THREE 353
ing of the people, the mangling of lirittany; it was flinging
the prey hack into the tiger's claw. And Gauvain, in the
midst of uncertain gleams and rays of introverted light, be-
held, vaguely sketched across his reverie, this problem rise, —
the setting the tiger at liberty.
And then the question reappeared under its first aspect;
the stone of Sisyphus, which is nothing other than the com-
bat of man with himself, fell back. Was Lantenac that
tiger? Perhaps he had been ; but was he still?
Gauvain was dizzy beneath the whirl and conflict in his
soul ; his thoughts turned and circled upon themselves with
serpentine swiftness. After the closes' examination, could
any one deny Lantenac's devotion ; his stoical self-abnegation,
his superb disinterestedness? What! to attest his humanity
in the presence of the open jaws of civil wlarl What! in this
contest of inferior truths, to bring the highest truth of all !
What ! to prove that above royalties, above revolutions, above
earthly questions, is the grand tenderness of the human soul,
— the recognition of the protection due to the feeble from
the strong, the safety due to thoso who are perishing from
those who are saved, the paternity due to all little children
from all old men! To prove these magnificent truths by the
gift of his head! to be a general, and renounce strategy, bat-
tle, revenge! What! to be a royalist, and to take a balance
and put in one scale the King of France, a monarchy
of fifteen centuries, old laws to re-establish, ancient so-
ciety to restore, and in the other three little unknown peasants,
and to find the king, the throne, the sceptre, and fifteen cen-
turies of monarchy too light to weigh against these three
innocent creatures! What! was all that nothing? What!
could he who had done this remain a ' iger ! Ought he to be
treated like a wild beast? No, no, no! The man who had
just illuminated the abyss of civil war by the light of a divine
action was not a monster. The sword-bearer was metamor-
phosed into the angel of day. The infernal Satan had again
become the celestial Lucifer. Lantenac had atoned for all his
barbarities by one act of sacrifice; in losing himself materially
23
354 NINETY-THREE
he had saved himself morally ; he had become innocent again,
he had signed his own pardon. Does not the right of self-
forgiveness exist? Henceforth he was venerable.
Lantcnac had just shown himself almost superhuman; it
was now Gauvain's turn. Gauvain was called upon to answer
him. The struggle of good and evil passions made the world
a chaos at this epoch: Lantcnac, dominating the chaos, had
just brought humanity out of it; it now remained for Gauvain
to bring forth their family therefrom.
What was he about to do? Was Gauvain about to betray
the trust Providence had shown in him? No; and he mur-
mured within himself, " Let us save Lantenac." And a voice
answered, " It is well. Go on ; aid the English ; desert ; pass
over to the enemy. Save Lantenac and betray France ! "
And Gauvain shuddered. " Thy solution is no solution, O
dreamer ! " Gauvain saw the Sphinx smile bitterly in the
shadow.
This situation was a sort of formidable meeting-ground
where hostile truths confronted one another, and where the
three highest ideas of man — humanity, family, country —
looked in one another's faces. Each of these voices took up
the word in its turn, and each uttered truth. Each in its
turn seemed to find the point where wisdom and justice met,
and said, " Do this! " Was that the thing he ought to do?
Yes : no. Reasoning said one thing, and feeling another :
the two counsels were in direct opposition. Reasoning is only
reason ; feeling is often conscience. The one comes from man
himself, the other from a higher source; hence it is that feel-
ing has less clearness and more power. Still, what force
stern reason possesses !
Gauvain hesitated. Maddening perplexity! Two abysses
opened before him. Should he let the marquis perish? Should
he save him? He must plunge into one depth or the other.
Toward which of the two gulfs did Duty point?
NINETY-THREE 355
CHAPTER III
THE COMMANDANT'S MANTLE
IT was, after all, with Duty that these victors had to deal.
Duty raised herself, — stern to Cimourdain's eyes ; ter-
rible to those of Gauvain. Simple before the one; complex,
diverse, tortuous, before the other.
Midnight sounded ; then one o'clock. Without being con-
scious of it, Gauvain had gradually approached the entrance
to the breach. The expiring conflagration only flung out in-
termittent gleams ; the plateau on the other side of the tower
caught the reflection and became visible for an instant, then
disappeared from view as the smoke swept over the flames.
This glare, reviving in jets and cut by sudden shadows, dis-
proportioned objects, and made the sentinels look like phan-
toms. Lost in his reverie, Gauvain mechanically watched the
strife between the flame and smoke. These appearances and
disappearances of the light before his eyes had a strange,
subtle analogy with the revealing and concealment of truth
in his soul.
Suddenly, between two clouds of smoke, a long streak of
flame, shot out from the dying brazier, illuminated vividly
the summit of the plateau, and brought out the skeleton of a
wagon against the vermilion background. Gauvain stared at
this wagon. It was surrounded by horsemen wearing gen-
darmes' hats ; it seemed to him the wagon which he had looked
at through Guechamp's glass several hours before, when the
sun was setting and the wagon away off on the verge of the
horizon. Some men were mounted on the cart and appeared
to be unloading it; that which they took off seemed to be
heavy, and now and then gave out the sound of clanking iron.
It would have been difficult to tell what it was ; it looked like
beams for a frame-work. Two of the men lifted between
356 NINETY-THREE
them and set upon the ground a box, which, as well as he
could judge by the shape, contained a triangular object.
The flame sank; all was again buried in darkness. Gau-
vain stood with fixed eyes lost in thought upon that which the
darkness hid. Lanterns were lighted, men came and went on
the plateau ; but the forms of those moving about were con-
fused, and, moreover, Gauvain was below and on the other side
of the ravine, and therefore could see little of what was pass-
ing.
Voices spoke, but he could not catch the words. Now and
then came a sound like the shock of timbers striking together.
He could hear also a strange metallic creaking, like the sharp-
ening of a scythe.
Two o'clock struck. Slowly, and like one who strove to
retreat and yet was forced by some invisible power to advance,
Gauvain approached the breach. As he came near, the senti-
nel recognized in the shadow the cloak and braided hood of the
commandant, and presented arms. Gauvain entered the hall
of the ground-floor, which had been transformed into a guard-
room. A lantern hung from the roof; it cast just light
enough so that one could cross the hall without treading upon
the soldiers who lay, most of them asleep, upon the straw.
There they lay ; they had been fighting a few hours before ;
the grape-shot, partially swept away, scattered its grains of
iron and lead over the floor and troubled their repose some-
what, but they were weary, and so slept. This hall had been
the battle-ground, the scene of frenzied attack ; there men had
groaned, howled, ground their teeth, struck out blindly in
their death-agony, and expired. Many of these sleepers' com-
panions had fallen dead upon this floor, where they now lay
down in their weariness ; the straw which served them for a
pillow had drunk the blood of their comrades. Now all was
ended ; the blood had ceased to flow, the sabres were dried ; the
dead were dead; these sleepers slumbered peacefully. Such is
war. And then, perhaps to-morrow, the slumber of all will
be the same.
At Gauvain's entrance a few of the men rose, — among
NINETY-THREE 357
others, the officers in command. Gauvain pointed to the door
of the dungeon. " Open it," he said to the officer. The bolts
were drawn back ; the door opened. Gauvain entered the dun
geon. The door closed behind him.
BOOK VII
FEUDALITY AND REVOLUTION
CHAPTER I
THE ANCESTOR
A LAMP was placed on the flags of the crypt at the side
of the air-hole in the oubliette. There could also be
seen on the stones a jug of water, a loaf of army bread, and
a truss of straw. The crypt being cut out in the rock, the
prisoner who had conceived the idea of setting fire to the straw
would have done it to his own hurt, — no risk of conflagration
to the prison, certainty of suffocation to the prisoner.
At the instant the door turned on its hinges the marquis
was walking to and fro in his dungeon, — that mechanical
pacing natural to wild animals in a cage. At the noise of
the opening and shutting of the door he raised his head, and
the lamp which set on the floor between Gauvain and the mar-
quis struck full upon the faces of both men. They looked at
each other, and something in the glance of either kept the
two motionless.
At length the marquis burst out laughing, and exclaimed:
" Good-evening, sir. It is a long time since I have had the
pleasure of meeting you. You do me the favour of paying
me a visit ; I thank you. I ask nothing better than to con-
verse a little ; I was beginning to bore myself. Your friends
lose a great deal of time; proofs of identity, court-martials,
— all those ceremonies take a long while ; I could go much
358
NINETY-THREE 359
quicker at need. Here I am in my house; take the trouble
to enter. Well, what do you say of all that is happening?
Original, is it not? Once on a time there was a king and a
queen : the king was the king; the queen was — France. They
cut the king's head off, and married the queen to Robes-
pierre; this gentleman and that lady have a daughter named
Guillotine, with whom it appears I am to make acquaintance
to-morrow morning. I shall be delighted — as I am to see
you. Did you come about that? Have you risen in rank?
Shall you be the headsman? If it is a simple visit of friend-
ship, I am touched. Perhaps, Viscount, you no longer know
what a nobleman is ; well, you see one, — it is I. Look at the
specimen. It is an odd race; it believes in God, it believes in
tradition, it believes in family, it believes in its ancestors, it
believes in the example of its father, — in fidelity, loyalty,
duty toward its prince, respect to ancient laws, virtue, justice;
and it would shoot you with pleasure. Have the goodness to
sit down, I pray you, — on the stones, it must be, it is true,
for I have no armchair in my salon ; but he who lives in the
mire can sit on the ground. I do not say that to offend you,
for what we call the ' mire ' you call the ' nation.' I fancy
that you do not insist I shall shout ' Liberty, Equality, Fra-
ternity '? This is an ancient chamber of my house: formerly
the lords imprisoned clowns here; now clowns imprison the
lords. These stupidities are called a Revolution. It appears
that my head is to be cut off in thirty-six hours. I see noth-
ing inconvenient in that ; still, if my captors had been polite,
they would have sent me my snuff-box : it is up in the chamber
of the mirrors, where you used to play when you were a
child, where I used to dance you on my knees. Sir, let me
tell you one thing: You call yourself Gauvain, and, strange
to say, you have noble blood in your veins, — yes, by Heaven !
the same that runs in mine; yet the blood that made me a
man of honour makes you a rascal. Such are personal
idiosyncrasies ! You will tell me it is not your fault that you
are a rascal ; nor is it mine that I am a gentleman. Zounds !
one is a malefactor without knowing it : it comes from the air
360 NINETY-THREE
one breathes. In times like these of ours one is not respon-
sible for what one does ; the Revolution is guilty for the whole
world, and all your great criminals are great innocents.
What blockheads! To begin with yourself. Permit me to
admire you. Yes, I admire a youth like you, who, a man of
quality, well placed in the State, having noble blood to shed
in a noble cause, Viscount of this Tower-Gauvain, Prince of
Brittany, able to be duke by right, and peer of France by
heritage, — which is about all a man of good sense could de-
sire here below, — amuses himself, being what he is, to be what
you are ; playing his part so well that he produces upon his
enemies the effect of a villain, and on his friends of an idiot.
By the way, give my compliments to the Abbe Cimourdain."
The marquis spoke perfectly at his ease, quietly, emphasiz-
ing nothing, in his polite society voice, his eyes clear and
tranquil, his hand in his waistcoat-pocket. He broke off, drew
a long breath, and resumed : "I do not conceal from you
that I have done what I could to kill you. Such as you
see me, I have myself, in person, three times aimed a cannon
at you. A discourteous proceeding, — I admit it ; but it
would be giving rise to a bad example to suppose that in war
your enemy tries to make himself agreeable to you. For we
are in war, monsieur my nephew; everything is put to fire
and sword. Into the bargain, it is true that they have killed
the king. A pretty century ! "
He checked himself again, and again resumed : " When
one thinks that none of these things would have happened if
Voltaire had been hanged and Rousseau sent to the galleys!
Ah, those men of mind, — what scourges! But there, what
is it you reproach that monarchy with? It is true that the
Abbe Pucelle was sent to his Abbey of Portigny with as much
time as he pleased for the journey; and as for your Monsieur
Titon, who had been, begging your pardon, a terrible de-
bauchee, and had gone the rounds of the loose women before
hunting after the miracles of the Deacon Paris, he was trans-
ferred from the Castle of Vincennes to the Castle of Ham in
Ficardy, which is ; I confess, a sufficiently ugly place. There
NINETY-THREE 361
are wrongs for you! I recollect: I cried out also in my day;
I was as stupid as you."
The marquis felt in his pocket as if seeking his snuff-box,
then continued: "But not so wicked. We talked just for
talk's sake. There was also the mutiny of demands and pe-
titions; and then up came those gentlemen the philosophers,
and their writings were burned instead of the authors. The
Court cabals mixed themselves in the matter; there were all
those stupid fellows. Turgot, Quesnay, Malesherbes, the
phvsiocratists, and so forth, — and the quarrel began. The
whole came from the scribblers and the rhymesters. The
Encyclopedia; Diderot D'Alerabert, — ah, the wicked scoun-
drels! To think of a well-born man like the King of Prussia
joining them! I would have suppressed all those paper-
scratchers. Ah, we were justiciaries, our family; you may see
there on the wall the marks of the quartcring-wheel. We did
not jest. No, no; no scribblers! While there are Arouets,
there will be Marats ; as long as there are fellows who scribble
there will be scoundrels who assassinate; as long as there is
ink, there will be black stains; as long as men's claws hold a
goose's feather, frivolous stupidities will engender atrocious
ones. Books cause crimes. The word ' chimera ' has two
meanings, — it signifies dream, and it signifies monster. How
dearly one pays for idle trash ! What is that you sing to us
about your rights? The rights of man! rights of the peo-
ple ! — is that empty enough, stupid enough, visionary
enough, sufficiently void of sense? When I say Havoise, the
sister of Conan II., brought the county of Brittany to Hoel
Count of Nantes and Cornouailles, who left the throne to Alain
Fergant the uncle of Bertha, who espoused Alain-le-noir Lord
of Rosche-sur-Yon, and boi*e him Conan the Little, grand-
father of Guy, or Gauvain de Thouars, our ancestor, — I state
a thing that is clear, and there is a right. But your scoun-
drels, your rascals, your wretches, what do they call their
rights? Dcicide and regicide! Is it not hideous? Oh, the
clowns! I am sorry for you, sir, but you belong to this
proud Brittany blood; you and I had Gauvain de Thouars
362 NINETY-THREE
for our ancestor; Ave had for another that great Duke of
Montbazon who was peer of FYance and honoured with the
Grand Collar of the Orders, who attacked the suburb of Tours,
and was wounded at the Battle of Arques, and died Grand
Huntsman of France, in his house of Couzieres in Touraine,
aged eighty-six. I could tell you still further of the Duke
de Laudunois, son of the Lady of Garnache ; of Claude de
Lorraine, Duke de Chevreuse and of Henri de Lenoncourt, and
of Francoise de Laval-Boisdauphin, — but to what purpose?
Monsieur has the honour of being an idiot, and considers him-
self the equal of my groom. Learn this : I was an old man
while you were still a brat ; I remain as much 3'our superior
as I was then. As you grew up you found means to belittle
yourself. Since we ceased to see each other each has gone
his own way: I followed honesty, you went in the opposite
direction. Ah, I do not know how all that will finish : those
gentlemen, your friends, are full-blown wretches ! Verily, it
is fine, I grant you, a marvellous step gained in the cause of
progress, — to have suppressed in the army the punishment
of the pint of water inflicted on the drunken soldier for three
consecutive days ; to have the Maximum, the Convention, the
Bishop Gobel, Monsieur Chaumette, and Monsieur Hebert ;
to have exterminated the Past in one mass from the Bas'tille
to the peerage ! They replace the saints by vegetables ! So
be it, citizens ! you are masters ; reign, take your ease, do
what you like, stop at nothing! All this does not hinder the
fact that religion is religion, that royalty fills fifteen hundred
years of our history, and that the old French nobility are
loftier than you, even with their heads off. As for your cavil-
ling over the historic rights of royal races, we shrug our
shoulders at that. Chilperic, in reality, was only a monk
named Daniel ; it was Rainfroi who invented Chilperic, in
order to annoy Charles Martel: we know those things just
as well as you do. The question does not lie there; the
question is this: To be a great kingdom, to be the ancient
France, to be a country perfectly ordered, wherein were to
be considered, first, the sacred person of its monarchs, abso-
NINETY-THREE 363
lute lords of the State; then the princes; then the officers of
the crown for the armies on land and sea, for the artillery,
for the direction and superintendence of the finances; after
that the officers of justice, great and small, those for the man-
agement of taxes and general receipts; and, lastly, the police
of the kingdom in its three orders. All this was fine and
nobly regulated; you have destroyed it. You have destroyed
the provinces, like the lamentably ignorant creatures you are,
without even suspecting what the provinces really were. The
genius of France held the genius of the entire continent ;
each province of France represented a virtue of Europe: the
frankness of Germany was in Picardy ; the generosity of
Sweden, in Champagne; the industry of Holland, in Bur-
gundy; the activity of Poland, in Langucdoc; the gravity of
Spain, in Gascony; the wisdom of Italy, in Provence; the
subtlety of Greece, in Normandy ; the fidelity of Switzerland,
in Dauphiny. You knew nothing of all that; you have
broken, shattered, ruined, demolished; you have shown your-
selves simply idiotic brutes. Ah, you will no longer have
nobles? Well, you shall have none! Get your mourning
ready: you shall have no more paladins, no more heroes; say
good-night to the ancient grandeurs; find me a D'Assas at
present ! You are all of you afraid for your skins. You will
have no more the chivalry of Fontenoy, who saluted before
killing one another; you will have no more combatants like
those in silk stockings at the siege of Lerida ; you will have
no more plumes floating past like meteors: you are a people
finished, come to an end. You will suffer the outrage of inva-
sion. If Alaric II. could return, he would no longer find him-
self confronted by Clovis; if Abderaman could come back, he
would no longer find himself face to face with Charles Martel ;
if the Saxons, they would no longer find Pepin before them.
You will have no more Agnadel, Rocroy, Lens, Staffarde,
Neerwinden, Steinkirke, La Marsaille, Rancoux, Lawfeld, Ma-
rion ; you will have no Marignan, with Francis I.; you
will have no Bouvines, with Philip Augustus taking prisoner
with one hand Renaud Count of Boulogne, and with the
364 NINETY-THREE
other, Ferrand Count of Flanders ; you will have Agincourt,
but you will have no more the Sieur de Bacqueville, grand
bearer of the oriflannne, enveloping himself in his banner to
die. Go on, go on ; do your work ! Be the new men ! become
dwarfs ! "
The marquis was silent for an instant, then began again :
" But leave us great. Kill the kings, kill the nobles, kill the
priests ; tear down, ruin, massacre ; trample under foot, crush
ancient laws beneath your heels ; overthrow the throne ; stamp
upon the altar of God, dash it in pieces, dance above it ! On
with you to the end ! You are traitors and cowards, incapable
of devotion or sacrifice. I have spoken ; now have me guillo-
tined, monsieur the viscount. I have the honour to be your
very humble servant."
Then he added : " Ah, I do not hesitate to set the truth
plainly before you. What difference can it make to me? I
am dead."
" You are free," said Gauvain. He unfastened his com-
mandant's cloak, advanced toward the marquis, threw it about
his shoulders, and drew the hood close down over his eyes.
The two men were of the same height.
" Well, what are you doing? " the marquis asked.
Gauvain raised his voice, and cried : " Lieutenant, open
to me."
The door opened.
Gauvain exclaimed : " Close the door carefully behind
me ! " And he pushed the stupefied marquis across the
threshold.
The hall turned into a guard-room was lighted, it will be
remembered, by a horn lantern, whose faint rays only broke
the shadows here and there. Such of the soldiers as were not
asleep saw dimly a man of lofty stature, wrapped in the man-
tle and hood of the commander-in-chief, pass through the
midst of them and move toward the entrance. They mada a
military salute, and the man passed on.
The marquis slowly traversed the guard-room, the breach
(not without hitting his head more than once), and went out.
NINETY-THREE 365
The sentinel, believing that he saw Gauvain, presented arms.
When he was outside, having the grass of the fields under his
feet, within two hundred paces of the forest, and before him
space, night, liberty, life, — he paused, and stood motionless
for an instant like a man who has allowed himself to be pushed
on; who has yielded to surprise, and who, having taken ad-
vantage of an open door, asks himself if he has done well or
ill, hesitates to go farther, and gives audience to a last re-
flection. After a few seconds' deep reverie he raised his right
hand, snapped his thumb and middle finger, and said, " My
faith ! " And he hurried on.
The door of the dungeon had closed again. Gauvain was
within.
CHAPTER II
THE COURT-MARTIAL.
AT that period all courts-martial were very nearly discre-
tionary. Dumas had offered in the Assembly a rough
plan of military legislation, improved later by Talot in the
Council of the Five Hundred ; but the definitive code of war-
councils was only drawn up under the Empire. Let us add
in parenthesis, that from the Empire dates the law imposed
on military tribunals to begin receiving the votes by the low-
est grade. Under the Revolution this law did not exist. In
1793 the president of a military tribunal was almost the tri-
bunal in himself. He chose the members, classed the order
of grades, regulated the manner of voting, — was at once
master and judge.
Cimourdain had selected for the hall of the court-martial
that very room on the ground-floor where the retirade had
been erected, and where the guard was now established. He
wished to shorten everything, — the road from the prison to
the tribunal, and the passage from the tribunal to \V<? scaffold.
I
366 NINETY-THREE
In conformity with his orders the court began its sitting
at midday, with no other show of state than this : three straw-
bottomed chairs, a pine table, two lighted candles, a stool in
front of tli2 table. The chairs were for the judges, and the
stool for the accused. At either end of the table also stood a
stool, — one for the commissioner auditor, who was a quarter-
master ; the other for the registrar, who was a corporal. On
the table were a stick of red sealing-wax, a brass seal of the
Republic, two ink-stands, some sheets of white paper, and two
printed placards spread open, — the first containing the dec-
laration of outlawry ; the second, the decree of the Conven-
tion. The tricoloured flag hung on the back of the middle
chair: in that period of rude simplicity decorations were
quickly arranged, and it needed little time to change a guard-
room into a court of justice. The middle chair, intended for
the president, stood in face of the prison door. The soldiers
made up the audience. Two gendarmes stood on guard by
the stool.
Cimourdain was seated in the centre chair, having at his
right Captain Guechamp, first judge; and at his left Sergeant
Radoub, second judge. Cimourdain wore a hat with a tri-
coloured cockade, his sabre at his side, and his two pistols in
his belt ; his scar, of a vivid red, added to his savage appear-
ance. Radoub's wound had been only partially stanched; he
had a handkerchief knotted about his head, upon which a
bloodstain slowly widened.
At midday the court had not yet opened its proceedings.
A messenger, whose horse could be heard stamping outside,
stood near the table of the tribunal. Cimourdain was writing,
— writing these lines : —
" Citizen Members of the Committee of Public Safety, — Lantenac
is taken. He will be executed to-morrow."
He dated and signed the dispatch ; folded, sealed, and
handed it to the messenger, who departed. This done, Ci-
mourdain called in a loud voice : " Open the dungeon ! "
NINETY-THREE 367
The two gendarmes drew back the bolts, opened the door
of the dungeon, and entered.
Cimourdain lifted his head, folded his arms, fixed his eyes
on the door and cried: " Bring out the prisoner!"
A man appeared between the two gendarmes, standing be-
ne;., tli the arch of the door-way. It was Ganvain.
Cimourdain started. " Gauvain ! " he exclaimed. Then he
added, " I demand the prisoner."
" It is I," said Gauvain.
"Thou?"
a j J?
" And Lantenac? "
" He is free."
"Free?"
" Yes."
"Escaped?"
" Escaped."
Cimourdain trembled as he stammered : " In truth the cas-
tle belongs to him; he knows all its outlets. The dungeon
may communicate with some secret opening. I ought to have
remembered that he would find means to escape ; he would not
need any person's aid for that."
" He was aided," said Gauvain.
"To escape?"
" To escape."
"Who aided him?"
" j »
"Thou?"
" j »
" Thou art dreaming ! "
" I went into the dungeon ; I was alone with the prisoner.
I took off my cloak ; I put it about his shoulders ; I drew the
hood down over his face; he went out in my stead, and I re-
mained in his. Here I am!"
"Thou didst not do it!"
" I did it."
" It is impossible ! "
368 NINETY-THREE
" It is true."
" Bring me Lantenac ! "
" He is no longer here. The soldiers, seeing the command-
ant's mantle, took him for me, and allowed him to pass. It
was still night."
" Thou art mad ! "
" I tell you what was done.'"
A silence followed. Cimourdain stammered : " Then thou
hast merited - — "
" Death," said Gauvain.
Cimourdain was pale as a corpse. He sat motionless as
a man who had just been struck by lightning. He no longer
seemed to breathe. A great drop of sweat stood out on his
forehead. He forced his voice into firmness, and said:
" Gendarmes, seat the accused."
Gauvain placed himself on the stool.
Cimourdain added: "Gendarmes, draw your sabres."
His voice had got back to its ordinary tone. " Accused,"
said he, " you will stand up." He no longer said " thee
and " thou " to Gauvain.
n
CHAPTER III
THE VOTES
GAUVAIN rose.
"What is your name?" demanded Cimourdain.
The answer came unhesitatingly : " Gauvain."
Cimourdain continued the interrogatory : " Who are
you ? "
" I am Commander-in-Chief of the Expeditionary Column
of the C6tes-du-Nord."
" Are you a relative or a connection of the man who has
escaped? "
NINETY-THREE 369
" I am his grand-nephew."
" You are acquainted with the decree of the Convention? "
" I see the placard lying on jour table."
" What have you to say in regard to this decree? "
"That I countersigned it; that I ordered its carrying out;
that it was I who had this placard written, at the bottom of
which is my name."
" Choose a defender."
" I will defend myself."
" You can speak."
Cimourdain had become again impassible. But his impas-
sibility resembled the sternness of a rock rather than the calm-
ness of a man.
Gauvain remained silent for a moment, as if collecting his
thoughts.
Cimourdain spoke again: " What have you to say in your
defence? "
Gauvain slowly raised his head, but without fixing his eyes
upon either of the judges, and replied: " This: One thing
prevented my seeing another; a good action seen too near hid
from me a hundred criminal deeds. On one side an old man ;
on the other, three children, — all these put themselves be-
tween me and duty. I forgot the burned villages, the rav-
aged fields, the butchered prisoners, the slaughtered wounded,
the women shot ; I forgot France betrayed to England. I
set at liberty the murderer of our country ; I am guilty. In
speaking thus, I seem to speak against myself; it is a mistake,
— I speak in my own behalf. When the guilty acknowledges
his fault, he saves the only thing worth the trouble of saving,
— honour."
" Is that," returned Cimourdain, " all you have to say in
your own defence?"
" I add, that being the chief I owed an example ; and that
3 r ou in your turn, being judges, owe one."
""•What example do you demand?"
" My death."
"You find that just?"
24
370 NINETY-THREE
" And necessary."
" Be seated."
The quartermaster, who was auditor-commissioner, rose
and read, first, the decree of outlawry against the ci-devant
Marquis de Lantenac; secondly, the decree of the Convention
ordaining capital punishment against whosoever should aid
the escape of a rebel prisoner. He closed with the lines
printed at the bottom of the placard, forbidding " to give aid
or succour to the below named rebel, under penalty of death ;
signed " Commander-in-Chief of the Expeditionary Column,
— Gauvain." These notices read, the auditor-commissioner
sat down again.
Cimourdain folded his arms and said : " Accused, pay at-
tention. Public, listen, look, and be silent. You have before
you the law. The votes will now be taken. The sentence
will be given according to the majority. Each judge will
announce his decision aloud, in presence of the accused, justice
having nothing to conceal."
Cimourdain continued: "The first judge will give his
vote. Speak, Captain Guechamp."
Captain Guechamp seemed to see neither Cimourdain nor
Gauvain. His downcast lids concealed his eyes, which re-
mained fixed upon the placard of the decree as if they were
staring at a gulf. He said : " The law is immutable. A
judge is more and less than a man: he is less than a man
because he has no heart ; he is more than a man because lie
holds the sword of justice. In the four hundred and four-
teenth year of Rome, Manlius put his son to death for the
crime of having conquered without his orders ; violated dis-
cipline demanded an example. Here it is the law which has
been violated, and the law is still higher than discipline.
Through an emotion of pity, the country is again endangered.
Pity may wear the proportions of a crime. Commandant
Gauvain has helped the rebel Lantenac to escape. Gauvain
is guilty. I vote — death."
" Write, registrar," said Cimourdain.
The clerk wrote, " Captain Guechamp : death."
NINETY-THREE 871
Gauvain's voice rang out, clear and firm. " Guechamp,"
said he, " you have voted well, and I thank you."
Ciniourdain resumed: " It is the turn of the second judge.
Speak, Sergeant Radoub."
Radoub rose, turned toward Gauvain, and made the accused
a military salute. Then he exclaimed : " If that is the way
it goes, then guillotine me, for I give here, before God, my
most sacred word of honour that I would like to have done,
first, what the old man did, and, after that, what my com-
mandant did. When I saw that old fellow, eighty years of
age, jump into the fire to pull three brats out of it, I said
' Old fellow, you are a brave man ! ' And when I hear that
my commandant has saved that old man from your beast of
a guillotine, I say, ' My commandant, you ought to be my
general, and you are a true man ; and, as for me, thunder !
I would give you the Cross of Saint Louis if there were still
crosses, or saints, or Louises.' Oh, there ! are we going to
turn idiots at present? If it was for these things that we
gained the Battle of Jemmapcs, the Battle of Valmy, the
Battle of Fleurus, and the Battle of Wattignies, then you
had better say so. What ! here is Commandant Gauvain, who
for these four months past has been driving those asses of
royalists to the beat of the drum, and saving the Republic
by his sword ; who did a thing at Dol which needed a world
of brains to do, — and when you have a man like that, you
try to get rid of him ! Instead of electing him your general,
you want to cut off his head ! I say it is enough to make a
fellow throw himself off the Pont Neuf head foremost ! You,
yourself, Citizen Gauvain, my commandant, if you were ray
corporal instead of being my superior, I would tell you that
you talked a heap of infernal nonsense just now. The old
man did a fine thing in saving the children ; you did a fine
thing in saving the old man; and if we are going to guillotine
people for good actions, why, then, get away with you all
to the devil, for I don't know any longer what the question is
about ! There's nothing to hold fast to ! It is not true, is.
it, all this? I pinch myself to see if I am awake! I can't
372 NINETY-THREE
understand. So the old man ought to have let the babies
burn alive, and my commandant ought to have let the eld
man's head be cut off ! See here ! guillotine me ! I would as
lief have it done as not. Just suppose: if the children had
been killed, the battalion of the Bonnet Rouge would have
been dishonoured! Is that what was wished for? Why,
then, let us eat one another up and be done ! I understand
politics as well as any of you: I belonged to the Club of
the Section of Pikes. Zounds, we are coming to the end ! I
sum up the matter according to my way of looking at it. I
don't like things to be done which are so puzzling you don't
know any longer where you stand. What the devil is it we
get ourselves killed for? In order that somebody may kill
our chief! None of that, Lisette! J, want my chief; I will
have my chief ; I love him better to-day than I did yesterday.
Send him to the guillotine? Why, you make me laugh!
Now, we are not going to have anything of that sort. I have
listened. People may say what they please. In the first
place it is not possible ! "
And Radoub sat down again. His wound had reopened.
A thin stream of blood exuded from under the kerchief, and
ran along his neck from the place where his ear had been.
Cimourdain turned toward the sergeant. " You vote for
the acquittal of the accused? "
" I vote," said Radoub, " that he be made general."
" I ask if you vote for his acquittal."
" I vote for his being made head of the Republic."
" Sergeant Radoub, do you vote that Commandant Gauvain
be acquitted, — yes or no?"
" I vote that my head be cut off in place of his."
" Acquittal," said Cimourdain. " Write it, registrar."
The clerk wrote, " Sergeant Radoub: acquittal."
Then the clerk said : " One voice for death. One voice
for acquittal. A tie."
It was Cimourdain's turn to vote. He rose. He took off
his hat and laid it on the table. He was no longer pale or
livid. His face was the colour of clay. Had all the specta-
NINETY-THREE 373
tors been corpses lying there In their winding-sheets, the
silence could not have been more profound.
Cimourdain said, in a solemn, slow, firm voice : " Accused,
the case has been heard. In the name of the Republic, the
court-martial, by a majority of two voices — "
He broke off; there was an instant of terrible suspense.
Did he hesitate before pronouncing the sentence of death?
Did he hesitate before granting life? Every listener held his
breath.
Cimourdain continued: "Condemns you to death."
His face expressed the torture of an awful triumph.
Jacob, when he forced the angel, whom he had overthrown in
the darkness, to bless him, must have worn that fearful smile.
It was only a gleam — it passed ; Cimourdain was marble
again. He seated himself, put on his hat, and added:
" Gauvain, you will be executed to-morrow at sunrise."
Gauvain rose, saluted, and said: " I thank the court."
" Lead away the condemned," said Cimourdain. He made
a sign: the door of the dungeon re-opened; Gauvain entered;
the door closed. The two gendarmes stood sentinel, — one on
cither side of the arch, sabre in hand.
Sergeant Radoub fell senseless upon the ground, and was
carried away.
CHAPTER IV
AFTER CIMOURDAIN THE JUDGE COMES CIMOURDAIN THE
MASTER
A CAMP is a wasp's nest, — in revolutionary times above
all. The civic sting which is in the soldier moves
quickly, and does not hesitate to prick the chief after having
chased away the enemy.
The valiant troop which had taken La Tourgue was filled
with diverse commotions, — at first against Commandant Gau-
874
NINETY-THREE
vain when it learned that Lantcnac had escaped. As Gauvain
issued from the dungeon which had been believed to hold the
marquis, the news spread as if by electricity, and in an instant
the whole army was informed. A murmur burst forth ; it
was : " They are trying Gauvain ; but it is a sham. Trust
ci-devants and priests! We have just seen a viscount save a
marquis, and now we are going to see a priest absolve a
noble ! "
When the news of Gauvain's condemnation came, there was
a second murmur : " It is horrible ! Our chief, our brave
chief, our young commander, — a hero ! He may be a vis-
count, — very well ; so much the more merit in his being a Re-
publican. What, he, the liberator of Pontorson, of Ville-
dieu, of Pont-au-Beau ; the conqueror of Dol and La Tourgue,
— he who makes us invincible ; he, the sword of the Republic
in Vendee; the man who for five months has held the Chouans
at bay, and repaired all the blunders of Lechcile and the
others ! — this Cimourdain to dare to condemn him to death!
For what? Because he saved an old man who had saved three
children ! A priest kill a soldier ! "
Thus muttered the victorious and discontented camp. A
stern rage surrounded Cimourdain. Four thousand men
against one, — that should seem a power ; it is not. These
four thousand men were a crowd; Cimourdain was a will. It
Avas known that Cimourdain's frown came easily, and noth-
ing more was needed to hold the army in respect. In those
stern days it was sufficient for a man to have behind him the
shadow of the Committee of Public Safety to make that man
formidable ; to make imprecation die into a whisper, and the
whisper into silence.
Before, as after the murmurs, Cimourdain remained the
arbiter of Gauvain's fate as he did of the fate of all. They
knew there was nothing to ask of him, that he would only
obey his conscience, — a superhuman voice audible to his ear
alone. Everything depended upon him. That which he had
done as martial judge, he could undo as civil delegate. He
only could show mercy. He possessed unlimited power: by
NINETY-THREE 375
a sign he could set Gauvain at liberty. He was master of lifc-
and death; he commanded the guillotine. In this tragic mo-
ment he was the man supreme. They could only wait.
Night came.
CHAPTER V
THE DUNGEON
THE hall of justice had become again a guard room; the
guard was doubled as upon the previous evening ; two
sentinels stood on duty before the closed door of the prison.
Toward midnight, a man who held a lantern in his hand
traversed the hall, made himself known to the sentries, and
ordered the dungeon open. It was Cimourdain. He entered
and the door remained ajar behind him. The dungeon was
dark and silent. Cimourdain moved forward a step in the
gloom, set the lantern on the ground, and stood still. He
could hear amidst the shadows the measured breath of a
sleeping man. Cimourdain listened thoughtfully to this
peaceful sound.
Gauvain lay on a bundle of straw at the farther end of
the dungeon. It was his breathing which caught the new
comer's ear. He was sleeping profoundly.
Cimourdain advanced as noiselessly as possible, moved close,
and looked down upon Gauvain. The glance of a mother
watching her nursling's slumber could not have been more
tender or fuller of love. Even Cimourdain's will could not
control that glance. He pressed his clinched hands against
his eyes with the gesture one sometimes sees in children, and
remained for a moment motionless. Then he knelt, softly
raised Gauvain's hand, and pressed it to his lips.
Gauvain stirred. He opened his eyes, full of the wonder
of sudden waking. He recognized Cimourdain in the dim
light which the lantern cast about the cave. " Ah." said he,
376 NINETY-THREI 1
" it is you, my master." And he added : " I dreamed that
Death was kissing my hand."
Cimourdain started as one does sometimes under the sudden
rush of a flood of thoughts. Sometimes the tide is so high
and so stormy that it seems as if it would drown the soul.
Not an echo from the overcharged depths of Cimourdain's
heart found vent in words. He could only say, " Gauvain ! "
And the two gazed at each other, — Cimourdain with his
eyes full of those flames which burn up tears; Gauvain with
his sweetest smile.
Gauvain raised himself on his elbow and said : " That scar
I &ee on your face is the sabre-cut you received for me. Yes-
terday, too, you were in the thick of that melee, at my side,
and on my account. If Providence had not placed you near
my cradle, where should I be to-day? In utter darkness. If
I have any true conception of duty, it is from you that it
comes to me. I was born with my hands bound, — preju-
dices are ligatures : you loosened those bonds ; you gave my
growth liberty, and of that which was already only a mummy
you made anew a child. Into what would have been an
abortion you put a conscience. Without you I should have
grown up a dwarf. I exist by you. I was only a lord, you
made me a citizen; I was only a citizen, you have made
me a mind. You have made me, as a man, fit for this
earthly life; you have educated my soul for the celestial
existence ; you have given me human reality, the key of truth,
and, to go beyond that, the key of light. O my master! I
thank you. It is you who have created me."
Cimourdain seated himself on the straw beside Gauvain,
and said : " I have come to sup with thee."
Gauvain broke the black bread and handed it to him.
Cimourdain took a morsel; then Gauvain offered the jug of
water.
" Drink first," said Cimourdain.
Gauvain drank, and passed the jug to his companion, who
drank after him. Gauvain had only swallowed a mouthful.
Cimourdain drank great draughts. During this supper,
NINETY-THREE 377
Gauvain ate, and CImourdain drank, — a sign of the calmness
of the one, and of the fever which consumed the other. A
serenity so strange that it was terrible reigned in this dun-
geon. The two men conversed.
Gauvain said: "Grand events are sketching themselves.
What the Revolution does at this moment is mysterious. Be-
hind the visible work stands the invisible; one conceals the
other. The visible work is savage, the invisible sublime. In
this instant I perceive all very clearly. It is strange and
beautiful. It has been necessary to make use of the materials
of the Past. Hence this marvellous '93. Beneath a scaffold-
ing of barbarism a temple of civilization is building."
' Yes," replied Cimourdain. " From this provisional will
rise the definitive. The definitive — that is to say, right and
duty — are parallel: taxes proportional and progressive; mili-
tary service obligatory; a levelling without deviation; and
aboveJJie whole, making part of all, that straight line, the
i-:iv.-,-- • the Republic of the absolute^*"
"I prefer," said Gauvain, "the ideal Republic." He
paused for an instant, then continued: "O my master! in
all which you have just said, where do you place devotion, sac-
rifice, abnegation, the sweet interlacing of kindnesses, love?
To set all in equilibrium, it is well; to put all in harmony, it
is better. Above the Balance is the Lyre. Your Republic
weighs, measures, regulates man; mine lifts him into the
open sky. It is the difference between a theorem and an
eagle."
" You lose yourself in the clouds."
" And you in calculation."
" Harmony is full of dreams."
" There are such, too, in algebra."
" I would have man made by the rules of Euclid."
16 And I," said Gauvain, " would like him better as pictured
by Homer."
Cimourdain's severe smile remained fixed upon Gauvain,
as if to hold that soul steady: " Poesy! Mistrust poets."
" Yes, I know that saying. Mistrust the zephyrs, mistrust
878 NINETY-THREE
the sunshine, mistrust the sweet odours of spring, mistrust
the flowers, mistrust the stars ! "
" None of these things can feed man."
" How do you know? Thought is nourishment. To think
is to eat."
" No abstractions ! The Republic is the law of two and
two make four. When I have given to each the share which
belongs to him — "
" It still remains to give the share which does not belong
to him.
>j
"What do you understand by that?"
" I understand the immense reciprocal concession which
each owes to all, and which all owe to each, and which is the
whole of social life."
" Beyond the strict law there is nothing."
" There is everything."
" I only see justice."
" And I, — I look higher."
5>
" What can there be above justice?
" Equity."
At certain instants they paused as if lightning flashes sud-
denly chilled them.
Cimourdain resumed: " Particularize; I defy you."
" So be it. You wish military service made obligatory.
Against whom. Against other men. I, — I would have no
military service; I want peace. You wish the wretched suc-
coured; I wish an end put to suffering. You want propor-
tional taxes ; I wish no tax whatever. I wish the general
expense reduced to its most simple expression, and paid by
the social surplus."
"What do you understand by that?"
" This : First, suppose parasitisms, — the parasitisms of
the priest, the judge, the soldier. After that, turn your
riches to account. You fling manure into the sewer; cast it
into the furrow. Three parts of the soil are waste land : clear
up France ; suppress useless pasture-grounds ; divide the com-
munal lands ; let each man have a farm and each farm a man.
NINETY-THREE 370
You will increase a hundred-fold the social product. At this
moment France only gives her peasants meat four days in
the year; well cultivated, she would nourish three hundred
millions of men — all Europe. Utilize Nature, that immense
auxiliary so disdained; make every wind toil for you, every
water-fall, every magnetic effluence. The glohe has a sub-
terranean net-work of veins; there is in this net-work a pro-
digious circulation of water, oil, fire. Pierce those veins :
make this water feed your fountains, this oil your lamps, this
fire your hearths. Reflect upon the movements of the waves,
their flux and reflux, the ebb and flow of the tides. What
is the ocean? An enormous power allowed to waste. How
stupid is earth not to make use of the sea!"
" There you are in the full tide of dreams."
" That is to say, of full reality."
Gauvain added : " And woman, what will you do with
her? "
Cimourdain replied : " Leave her where she is, — the ser-
vant of man."
" Yes. On one condition."
"What?"
" That man shall be the servant of woman."
"Can you think of it?" cried Cimourdain. " Mas i
servant? Never! Man is master. I admit only one roy-
alty,— that of the fireside. Man in his house is king. 1 **
" Yes. On one condition."
"What?"
" That woman shall be queen there."
" That is to say, you wish for man and woman — "
" Equality."
" Equality! Can you dream of it? The two creature.' are
different."
" I said equality ; I did not say identity."
There was another pause, like a sort of truce between two
spirits flinging lightnings.
Cimourdain broke the silence: "And the offspring, to
whom do you consign them ? "
380 NINETY-THREE
" First to the father who engenders ; then to the mother who
gives birth; then to the master who rears; then to the city
that civilizes; then to the country which is the mother su-
preme ; then to humanity, who is the great ancestor."
" You do not speak of God? "
* " Each of those degrees — father, mother, muster, city,
' country, humanity — is one of the rungs in the ladder which
leads to God."
Cimourdain was silent.
Gauvain continued : " When one is at the top of the lad-
der, one has reached God. Heaven opens, — one has only to
enter."
Cimourdain made a gesture like a man calling another back :
" Gauvain, return to earth. We wish to realize the possible."
" Do not commence by rendering it impossible."
" The possible always realizes itself."
" Not always. If one treats Utopia harshly, one slays it.
Nothing is more defenceless than the egg."
" Still, it is necessary to seize Utopia, to put the yoke of
the real upon it, to frame it in the actual. The abstract idea
must transform itself into the concrete : what it loses in beauty,
it will gain in usefulness; it is lessened, but made better.
Right must enter into law, and when right makes itself law, it
becomes absolute. That is what I call the possible."
" The possible is more than that."
" Ah, there you are in dream-land again I "
" The possible is a mysterious bird, always soaring above
man's head."
" It must be caught."
" Living." Gauvin continued : " This is my thought :
Constant progression. If God had meant man to retrograde,
he would have placed an eye in the back of his head. Let
us look always toward the dawn, the blossoming, the birth.
That which falls encourages that which mounts ; the cracking
of the old tree is an appeal to the new. Each century must
do its work : to-day civic, tomorrow human ; to-day the ques-
tion of right, to-morrow the question of salary. Salary and
NINETY-THREE 381
right, — the same word at bottom. Man docs not live to be
paid nothing. In giving life, God contracts a debt. Right
is the payment inborn ; payment is right acquired."
Gauvain spoke with the earnestness of a prophet. Cimour-
dain listened. Their rules were changed; now it seemed the
pupil who was master.
Cimourdain murmured: "You go rapidly."
" Perhaps because I am a little pressed for time," said Gau-
vain, smiling. And he added, "O my master! behold t In-
difference between our two Utopias! You wish the garrison
obligatory, I the school. You dream of man the soldier ; I
dream of man the citizen. You want him terrible; I want
him a thinker. You found a Republic upon swords; I
found — "
He interrupted himself: "I would found a Republic of
intellects,
-•
Cimourdain bent his eyes on the pavement of the dungeon,
and said: "And while waiting for it, what would you
have?"
" That which is."
" Then you absolve the present moment? "
" yes."
"Wherefore?"
" Because it is a tempest. A tempest knows always what
it does. For one oak uprooted, how many forests purified !
Civilization had the plague ; this great wind cures it. Per-
haps it is not so careful as it ought to be; but could it do
otherwise than it does? It is charged with a difficult task.
Before the horror of miasma, I comprehend the fury of the
blast."
Gauvain continued: "Moreover, why should I fear the
tempest if I had my compass? How can events affect me if I
have my conscience? r And he added, in a low, solemn voice:
" There is a power that must always be allowed to guide."
"What?" demanded Cimourdain.
Gauvain raised his finger above his head. Cimourdain's
eyes followed the direction of that uplifted finger, and it
382 NINETY-THREE
seemed to him that across the dungeon vault he beheld the
starlit sky. Both were silent again.
Cimourdain spoke first: " Society is greater than Nature.
I tell you, this is no longer possibility — it is a dream."
" It is the goal. Otherwise of what use is society? Re-
main in Nature ; be savages. Otaheite is a paradise, — only
the inhabitants of that paradise do not think. An intelligent
hell would be preferable to an imbruted heaven. But, no, —
no hell; let us be a human society. Greater than Nature?
Yes. If you add nothing to Nature, why go beyond her?
Content yourself with work, like the ant ; with honey, like the
bee, — remain the working drudge instead of the queen intel-
ligence. If you add to Nature, you necessarily become
greater than she : to add is to augment ; to augment is to
grow. Society is Nature sublimated. I want all that is lack-
ing to bee-hives, all that is lacking to ant-hills, — monuments,
arts, poesy, heroes, genius. To bear eternal burdens is not
the destiny of man. No, no, no ! no more pariahs, no more
slaves, no more convicts, no more damned ! I desire that each
of the attributes of man should be a symbol of civilization
and a patron of progress ; I would place liberty before the
spirit, equality before the heart, fraternity before the soul.
No more yokes ! Man was made not to drag chains, but to
soar on wings. No more of man reptile ! I wish the trans-
figuration of the larva into the winged creature; I wish the
worm of the earth to turn into a living flower and fly away.
I wish — "
He broke off. His eyes blazed. His lips moved. He
ceased to speak.
The door had remained open. Sounds from without pene-
trated into the dungeon. The distant peal of trumpets could
be heard, probably the reveille ; then the butt-end of muskets
striking the ground as the sentinels were relieved; then, quite
near the tower, as well as one could judge, a noise like the
moving of planks and beams, followed by muffled, intermittent
echoes like the strokes of a hammer.
Cimourdain grew pale as he listened. Gauvain heard noth-
NIXETV-TIIREE 383
ing. His reverie became more and more profound. He
seemed no longer to breathe, so lost was he in the vision that
shone upon his soul. Now and then he started slightly.
The morning which illuminated his eves waxed grander.
Some time passed thus. Then Cimourdain asked: "Of
what are you thinking?"
" Of the future," replied Gauvain.
He sank back into his meditation. Cimourdain rose from
the bed of straw where the two were sitting. Gauvain did not
perceive it. Keeping his eyes fixed upon the dreamer,
Cimourdain moved slowly backward toward the door and went
out. The dungeon closed again.
CHAPTER VI
WHEN THE SUN KOSE
DAY broke along the horizon, — and with the day an ob-
ject, strange, motionless, mysterious, which the birds
of heaven did not recognize, appeared upon the plateau of La
Tourgue and towered above the forest of Fougeres. It had
been placed there in the night ; it seemed to have sprung up
rather than to have been built. It lifted high against tr.e
horizon a profile of straight, hard lines, looking like a Hebrew
letter, or one of those Egyptian hieroglyphics which made
part of the alphabet of the ancient enigma.
At the first glance the idea which this object roused was
its lack of keeping with the surroundings. It stood amidst
the blossoming heath. One asked one's self for what purpose
it could be useful? Then the beholder felt a chill creep over
him as he gazed. It was a sort of trestle, having four posts
for feet; at one end of the trestle two tall joists upright and
straight, and fastened together at the top by a cross-beam,
raised and held suspended some triangular object which
884 NINETY-THREE
showed black against the blue sky of morning. At the other
end of the staging was a ladder. Between the joists, and di-
rectly beneath the triangle, could be seen a sort of panel com-
posed of two movable sections, which, fitting into each other,
left a round hole about the size of a man's neck. The upper
section of this panel slid in a groove, so that it could be
hoisted or lowered at will ; for the time, the two crescents,
which formed the circle when closed, were drawn apart. At
the foot of the two posts supporting the triangle was a plank
turning on hinges, looking like a see-saw. By the side of
this plank was a long basket ; and between the two beams, in
front and at the extremity of the trestle, was a square basket.
The monster was painted red. The whole was made of wood
except the triangle, — that was iron. One would have known
the thing must have been constructed by man, it was so ugly
and evil looking; at the same time it was so formidable that
it might have been reared there by evil genii. This shapeless
thing was the guillotine.
In front of it, a few paces off, another monster rose out
of the ravine. La Tourgue, — a monster of stone rising up
to hold companionship with the monster of wood. For when
man has touched wood or stone they no longer remain inani-
mate matter ; something of man's spirit seems to enter into
them. An edifice is a dogma ; a machine, an idea. La
Tourgue was that terrible offspring of the Past called the
Bastille in Paris, the Tower of London in England, the Spiel-
berg in Germany, the Escurial in Spain, the Kremlin in Mos-
cow, the Castle of Saint Angelo in Rome.
In La Tourgue were condensed fifteen hundred years (the
Middle Age), vassalage, servitude, feudality; in the guillo-
tine one year, — '93 ; and these twelve months made a coun-
terpoise to those fifteen centuries. La Tourgue was Mon-
archy ; the guillotine was Revolution, — tragic confrontation !
On one side the debtor, on the other the creditor. On one
side the inextricable Gothic complication of serf, lord, slave,
master, plebeian, nobility, the complex code ramifying into
customs, judge and priest in coalition, shackles innumerable,
NINETY-THREE 385
fisell impositions, excise laws, mortmain, taxes, exemptions,
prerogatives, prejudices, fanaticisms, the royal privilege ot*
bankruptcy, the sceptre, the throne, the regal will, the divine
right; on the other, this simple thing, — a knife. On one
side the noose, on the other, the axe.
La Tourgue had long stood alone in the midst of this wil-
derness. There she had frowned with her maehicolated case-
ments, from whence had streamed boiling oil. blazing pitch,
and melted lead; her oubliettes paved with human skeletons,
her torture-chamber, — the whole hideous tragedy with which
she was filled. Rearing her funereal front above the forest,
she had passed fifteen centuries of savage tranquillity amidst
its shadows ; she had been the one power in tin's land, the one
object of respect and fear; she had reigned supreme, she had
been the realization of barbarism : and suddenly she saw rise
before her and against her, something (more than something)
as terrible as herself, — the guillotine.
Inanimate objects sometimes appear endowed with a strange
power cf sight. A statue notices, a tower watches, the face
of an edifice contemplates. La Tourgue seemed to be study-
ing the guillotine. She seemed to question herself concerning
it. What was that object? It looked as if it had sprung out
of the earth. It was from there, in truth, that it had risen.
The sinister tree had germinated in the fatal ground. Out
of the soil watered by so much of human sweat, so many tears,
so much blood ; out of the earth in which had been dug so
many trenches, so many graves, so many caverns, so many
ambuscades — out of this earth wherein had rolled the count-
less victims of countless tyrannies — out of this earth spread
above so many abysses wherein had been buried so many crimes
(terrible germs) had sprung in a destined day this unknown,
this avenger, this ferocious sword-bearer, and '93 had said
to the Old World, "Behold me!" And the guillotine had
the right to say to the donjon tower, "I am thy daughter."
And, at the same time, the tower — for those fatal objects
possess a strange vitality — felt herself slain by this newly
risen force.
25
386 NINETY-THREE
Before this formidable apparition La Tourgue seemtd to
shudder. One might have said that she was afraid. The
monstrous mass of granite was majestic, but infamous; that
plank with its black triangle was worse. The all-powerful
fallen trembled before the all-powerful risen. Criminal his-
tory was studying judicial history. The violence of by-gone
days was comparing itself with the violence of the present ;
the ancient fortress, the ancient prison, the ancient seigneury
where tortured victims had shrieked out their lives ; that con-
struction of war and murder, now useless, defenceless, violated,
dismantled, uncrowned, a heap of stones with no more than
a heap of ashes, hideous yet magnificent, dying, dizzy with
the awful memories of all those by-gone centuries, watched the
terrible living Present sweep up. Yesterday trembled before
to-day, antique ferocity acknowledged and bowed its head be-
fore this fresh horror. The power which was sinking into
nothingness opened eyes of fright upon this new-born terror ;
the phantom stared at the spectre.
Nature is pitiless ; she never withdraws her flowers, her
music, her fragrance, and her sunlight from before human
cruelty or suffering. She overwhelms man by the contrast
between divine beauty and social hideousness. She spares him
nothing of her loveliness, neither wing or butterfly nor song
of bird. In the midst of murder, vengeance, barbarism, he
must feel himself watched by holy things ; he cannot escape
the immense reproach of universal nature and the implacable
serenity of the sky. The deformity of human laws is forced
to exhibit itself naked amidst the dazzling rays of eternal
beauty. Man breaks and destroys ; man lays waste ; man
kills ; but the summer remains summer ; the lily remains the
lily ; the star remains the star.
Never had a morning dawned fresher and more glorious than
this. A soft breeze stirred the heath, a warm haze rose
amidst the branches ; the forest of Fougeres permeated by the
breath of hidden brooks, smoked in the dawn like a vast
censer filled with perfumes ; the blue of the firmament, the
whiteness of the clouds, the transparency of the streams, the
NINETY-THREE 387
verdure, that harmonious gradation of colour from aqua-
marine to emerald, the groups of friendly trees, the mats of
grass, the peaceful fields, all breathed that purity which is
Nature's eternal counsel to man. In the midst of all this
rose the horrible front of human shamelcssness ; in the midst
of all this appeared the fortress and the scaffold, war and
punishment, — the incarnations of the bloody age and the
bloody moment ; the owl of the night of the Past and the bat
of the cloud-darkened dawn of the Future. And blossoming,
odour-giving creation, loving and charming, and the grand
sky golden with morning spread about La Tourgue and the
guillotine, and seemed to say to man, "Behold my work and
yours."
Such are the terrible reproaches of the sunlight!
This spectacle had its spectators. The four thousand men
of the little expeditionary army were drawn up in battle order
upon the plateau. They surrounded the guillotine on three
sides in such a manner as to form about it the shape of a
letter E ; the battery placed in the centre of the largest line
made the notch of the E. The red monster was enclosed by
these three battle fronts ; a sort of wall of soldiers spread out
on two sides of the edge of the plateau ; the fourth side, left
open, was the ravine, which seemed to frown at La Tourgue.
These arrangements made a long square, in the centre of
which stood the scaffold.
Gradually, as the sun mounted higher, the shadow of the
guillotine grew shorter on the turf. The gunners were at
their pieces ; the matches lighted. A faint blue smoke rose
from the ravine, the last breath of the expiring conflagration.
This cloud encircled without veiling La Tourgue, whose lofty
platform overlooked the whole horizon. There was only the
width of the ravine between the platform and the guillotine.
The one could have parleyed with the other.
The table of the tribunal and the chair shadowed by the
tricoloured flags had been set upon the platform. The sun
rose higher behind La Tourgue, bringing out the black mass
of the fortress clear and defined, and revealing upon its sum-
388 NINETY-TITTIES
mit the figure of a man in the chair beneath the banners, sit-
ting motionless, his arms crossed upon his breast. It was
Cimourdain. He wore, as on the previous day, his civil dele-
gate's dress ; on his head was the hat with the tricoloured
cockade; his sabre at his side; his pistols in his belt. He sat
silent.
The whole crowd was mute. The soldiers stood with down-
cast eyes, musket in hand, — stood so close that their shoul-
ders touched ; but no one spoke. They were meditating con-
fusedly upon this war, — -the numberless combats, the hedge-
fusillades so bravely confronted ; the hosts of peasants driven
back by their might ; the citadels taken, the battles won, the
victories gained ; and it seemed to them as if all that glory
had turned now to their shame. A sombre expectation con-
tracted every heart. They could see the executioner come
and go upon the platform of the guillotine. The in-
creasing splendour of the moraing filled the sky with its
majesty.
Suddenly the sound of muffled drums broke the stillness.
The funereal tones swept nearer. The ranks opened — a cor-
tege entered the square and moved toward the scaffold. First,
the drummers with their crape-wreathed drums ; then a com-
pany of grenadiers with reversed arms ; then a platoon of
gendarmes with drawn sabres ; then the condemned, — Gau-
vain. He walked forward with a free, firm step. He had no
fetters on hands or feet. He was in an undress uniform, ami
wore his sword. Behind him marched another platoon of
gendarmes.
Gauvain's face was still lighted by that pensive joy which
had illuminated it at the moment when he said to Cimourdain,
"I am thinking of the Future." Nothing could be more
touching and sublime than that smile. When he reached the
fatal square, his first glance was directed toward the summit
of the tower. He disdained the guillotine. He knew that
Cimourdain would make it an imperative duty to assist at the
execution. His eyes sought the platform ; he saw him there.
Cimourdain was ghastly and cold. Those standing near
NINETY-THREE aau
him could not catch even the sound of hi? breathing. Not a
tremor shook his frame when he saw Gauvain.
Gauvain moved toward the scaffold. As he walked on, he
looked at Cimourdain, and Cimourdain looked at him. It
seemed as if Cimourdain rested his very soul upon that clear
glance. Gauvain reached the foot of the scaffold. He as-
cended it. The officer who commanded the grenadiers fol-
lowed him. He unfastened his sword, and handed it to the
officer; he undid his cravat, and gave it "to the executioner.
He looked like a vision. Never had he been so hand-
some.
His brown curls floated on the wind ; at the time it was not
the custom to cut off the hair of those about to be executed.
His white neck reminded one of a woman ; his heroic and sov-
ereign glance made one think of an archangel. He stood
there on the scaffold lost in thought. Th d place of pun-
ishment was a height too. Gauvain stood upon it, erect,
proud, tranquil. The sunlight streamed about him till he
seemed to stand in the midst of a halo. But he must be
bound. The executioner advanced, cord in hand.
At this moment, when the soldiers saw their young leader
so close to the knife* they could restrain themselves no longer,
the hearts of those stern warriors gave way. A mighty sound
swelled up, — the united sob of a whole army. A clamour
rose: "Mery! mercy!" Some fell upon their knees; others
flung away their guns and stretched their arms toward the
platform where Cimourdain was seated. One grenadier
pointed to the guillotine, and cried, "A substitute ! A sub-
stitute ! Take me!" All repeated frantically, "Mercy!
mercy !" Had a troop of lions heard, they must have been
softened or terrified, the tears of soldiers are terrible.
The executioner hesitated, no longer knowing what to do.
Then a voice, quick and low, but so stern that it was audible
to every ear, spoke from the top of the tower : "Fulfil the
law !"
All recognized that inexorable tone. Cimourdain had
spoken. The army shuddered.
390 NINETY-THREE
The executioner hesitated no longer. He approached,
holding out the cord.
"Wait !" said Gauvain. He turned toward Cimourdain,
made a gesture of farewell with his right hand, which was still
free, then allowed himself to be bound.
When he was tied, he said to the executioner: "Pardon.
One instant more." And he cried: "Long live the Re-
public !"
He was laid upon the plank. That noble head was held
by the infamous yoke. The executioner gently parted his
hair aside, then touched the spring. The triangle began to
move, — slowly at first, then rapidly ; a terrible blow was
heard —
At the same instant another report sounded. A pistol-
shot had answered the blow of the axe. Cimourdain had seized
one of the pistols from his belt, and as Gauvain's head rolled
into the basket, Cimourdain sank back pierced to the heart
by a bullet his own hand had fired. A stream of blood burst
from his mouth ; he fell dead.
And those two souls, united still in that tragic death,
soared away together, the shadow of the one mingled with
the radiance of the other. •
THE END.
"The executioner hesitated no longer. He approached, holding out
the cord."
Ninety-three. Page 390
THINGS SEEN
CONTENTS
THINGS SEEN.
PAGE
1838. Talleyrand 1
1839. Diary of a Passer-by during the Riot of the Twelfth of
May 3
1840. Funeral of Napoleon. — Notes taken on the Spot ... 12
1841. Origin of Fantine 37
1842. Fieschi 41
The Death of the Duke of Orleans 44
A Dream 49
1843. Royer-Collard 52
1844. King Louis-Philippe 56
Saint-Cloud 60
1845. Villemain 62
1846. Attempt of Lecomte 69
Attempt of Joseph Henri 80
Visit to the Conciergerie 88
Count Mortier IIS
Soiree at M. Guizot's 122
1847. Lord Normanby 124
Dinner at M. de Salvandy's 125
Funeral of Mlle. Mars 128
Fete at the Duke of Montpensier's 130
The Teste and Cubieres Trial 135
1847. The Condemned Convicts' Prison 152
The Duke of Praslin 162
Beranger 171
The Death of Mme. Adelaide 174
1848. The Flight of Louts-Philippe 176
The Fifteenth of May 182
The National Assembly 184
• • •
111
iv CONTENTS
PAGE
1849. The Chancellor Pasquier 192
Mlle. Georgls 195
1850. At the Academie 197
The Death of Balzac 198
1853. Hubert, the Spy ...... 202
1858. Tapner 231
1871. Thiers and Rochefort . 252
1875. A Retrospect 254
THINGS SEEN
1838
TALLEYRAND
May 19.
IN the Rue Saint-Florentin there are a palace and a sewer.
The Palace, which is of a rich, handsome, and gloomy
style of architecture, was long called Hotel de l'lnfantado ;
nowadays may be seen on the frontal of its principal door-
way Hotel Talleyrand. During the forty years that he re-
sided in this street, the last tenant of this palace never, per-
haps, cast his eyes upon this sewer.
He was a strange, redoubtable, and important personage;
his name was Charles Maurice de Perigord ; he was of noble
descent, like Machiavelli, a priest like Gondi, unfrocked like
Fouche, witty like Voltaire, and lame like the devil. It might
be averred that everything in him was lame like himself, — the
nobility which he had placed at the service of the Republic,
the priesthood which he had dragged through the parade-
ground, then cast into the gutter, the marriage which he had
broken off through a score of exposures and a voluntary
separation, the understanding which he disgraced by acts of
baseness.
This man, nevertheless, had grandeur; the splendours of
the two regimes were united in him ; he was Prince de Vaux
in the Kingdom of France, and a Prince of the French Em-
pire. During thirty years, from the interior of his palace,
2 THINGS SEEN
from the interior of his thoughts, he had almost controlled
Europe. He had permitted himself to be on terms of famil-
iarity with the Revolution, and had smiled upon it, — iron-
ically, it is true, but the Revolution had not perceived this.
He had come in contact with, known, observed, penetrated,
influenced, set in motion, fathomed, bantered, inspired all the
men of his time, all the ideas of his time ; and there had been
moments in his life, when, holding in his hand the four or
five great threads which moved the civilized universe, he had
for his puppet Napoleon I., Emperor of the French, King
of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Media-
tor of the Swiss Confederation. That is the game which was
played by this man.
After the Revolution of July, the old race, of winch he was
the high chamberlain, having fallen, he found himself once
more on his feet, and said to the people of 1830, seated bare-
armed upon a heap of paving-stones, "Make me your am-
bassador !"
He received the confession of Mirabeau and the first con-
fidence of Thiers. He said of himself that he was a great
poet, and that he had composed a triology in three dynasties :
Act L, the Empire of Bonaparte; Act II., the House of
Bourbon; Act III., the House of Orleans.
He did all this in his palace ; and in this palace, like a spider
in his web, he allured and caught in succession heroes, think-
ers, great men, conquerors, kings, princes, emperors, Bona-
parte, Sieyes, Madame de Stael, Chateaubriand, Benjamin
Constant, Alexander of Russia, William of Prussia, Francis
of Austria, Louis XVIII., Louis Philippe, all the gilded and
glittering flies who buzz through the history of the last forty
years. All this glistening throng, fascinated by the pene-
trating eye of this man, passed in turn under that gloomy
entrance bearing upon the architrave the inscription Hotel
Talleyrand.
Well, the day before yesterday, May 17, 1838, this man
died. Doctors came and embalmed the body. To do this
they, like the Egyptians, removed the bowels from the stomach
DIARY OF A PASSEIl-BY 3
and the brain from the skull. The work done, after having
transformed the Prince de Talleyrand into a mummy, and
nailed down this mummy in a coffin lined with white satin, they
retired, leaving upon a table the brain, — that brain which
had thought so many things, inspired so many men, creeled
so many buildings, led two revolutions, duped twenty kings,
held the world. The doctors being gone, a servant entered :
he saw what they had left: "Hulloa! they have forgotten
this." What was to be done with it? It occured to him
that there was a sewer in the street ; he went there, and threw
the brain into this sewer.
Finis rerum.
1839
DIARY OF A PASSER-BY
DURING THE RIOT OF THE 12TH OF MAY
Sunday, May 12.
Mde TOGORES has just left my house. We have
• been talking of Spain. To my mind, geographic-
ally, since the formation of the continents, historically since
the conquest of the Gauls, politically since the Duke d'Anjou,
Spain forms an integral part of France. Jose primero is the
same fact as Felipe quint o; the idea of Louis XIV. was con-
tinued by Napoleon. We cannot, therefore, without grave
imprudence, neglect Spain. In illness she weights upon us;
well and strong she supports us. It is one of our members ;
we cannot amputate it, it must be tended and cured. Civil
war is a gangrene. Woe betide us if we let it grow worse;
it will spread upon us. French blood is largely mixed with
Spanish blood through Rousillon, Navarre, and Beam. The
Pyrenees are simply a ligature, efficacious only for a time.
M. de Togores was of my opinion. It was also, he said,
4 THINGS SEEN
the opinion of his uncle, the Duke de Frias, when he was
President of the Council to Queen Christina.
We also spoke of Mile. Rachel, whom he considered
mediocre as Eriphila, and whom I had not yet seen.
At three o'clock I return to my study.
My little daughter, in a state of excitement, opens my door
and says, "Papa, do you know what is going on? There is
fighting at the Pont Saint-Michel."
I do not believe a word of it. Fresh details. A cook in
our house and a neighbouring wine-shop keeper have seen the
occurrence. I ask the cook to come up. It is true ; while
passing along the Quai des Orfevres he saw a throng of
young men firing musket-shots at the Prefecture of Police.
A bullet struck the parapet near him. From there the as-
sailants ran to the Place due Chatelet and the Hotel de
Ville, still firing. They set out from the Morgue, which the
good fellow calls the Morne.
Poor young fools ! In less than twenty-four hours a large
number of those who set out from there will have returned
there.
Firing is heard. The houses are in turmoil. Doors and
casements open and shut violently. The women-servants chat
and laugh at the windows. It is said that the insurrection
has spread to the Porte Saint-Martin. I go out and follow
the line of the boulevards. The weather is fine; there are
crowds of promenaders in their Sunday dress. Drums beat
to arms.
At the beginning of the Rue du Pont-aux-Choux are some
groups of people looking in the direction of the Rue de
l'Oseille. There are a great crowd and a great uproar close
to an old fountain which can be seen from the boulevard, and
which forms the angle of an open space in the old Rue du
Temple. In the midst of this hubbub three or four little tri-
coloured flags are seen to pass. Comments. It is perceived
that these flags are simply the ornamentation of a little bar-
row in which some trifle or other is being hawked about.
At the beginning of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire groups
DIARY OF A PASSER-BY 5
of people look in the same direction. Some workmen in
blouses pass near to me. I hear one of them say, "What
does that matter to me? I have neither wife, child, nor
mistress."
Upon the Boulevard du Temple the cafes are closing. The
Cirque Olvmpique is also closing. The Gaite holds out, and
will give a performance.
The crowd of promenaders becomes greater at each step.
Many women and children. Three drummers of the National
Guard — old soldiers, with solemn mien — pass by, beating
to arms. The fountain of the Chateau d'Eau suddenly
throws up its grand holiday streams. At the back, in the
low-lying street, the great railings and doorway of the Town
Hall of the 5th Arrondissement are closed one inside the
other. I notice in the door little loop-holes for muskets.
Nothing at the Porte Saint-Martin, but a large crowd
peacefully moving about across regiments of infantry and
cavalry stationed between the two gate-ways. The Porte
Saint-Martin Theatre closes its box-office. The bills are be-
ing taken down, on which I see the words Marie Tudor. The
omnibuses are running.
Throughout this journey I have not heard any firing, but
the crowd and vehicles make a great noise.
I return to the Marais. In the old Rue du Temple the
women, in a state of excitement, gossip at the doorways.
Here are the details. The riot spread throughout the
neighbourhood. Towards three o'clock two or three hundred
young men, poorly armed, suddenly broke into the Town
Hall of the 7th Arrondissement, disarmed the guard, and
took the muskets. Thence they ran to the Hotel de Yille
and performed the same freak. As they entered the guard-
room they gaily embraced the officer. When they had the
Hotel de Yille, what was to be done with it? They went
away and left it. If they had France, would they be 1
embarrassed with it than they were with the Hotel de Villi ?
There are among them many boys, fourteen or fifteen years
old. Some do not know how to load their muskets ; others
6 THINGS SEEN
cannot carry them. One of these who fired in the Rue de
Paradis fell upon his hind-quarters after the shot. Two
drummers killed at the head of their columns, are placed
in the Royal Printing Establishment, of which the principal
doorway is shut. At this moment barricades are being made
in the Rue des Quatre Fils, at the corner of all the little
Rues de Bretague, de Poitou, de Touraine, and there are
groups of persons listening. A grenadier of the National
Guard passes by in uniform, his musket upon his back,
looking about him with an uneasy look. It is seven
o'clock ; from my balcony in the Place Royale platoon-firing
is heard.
Eight p. m. — I follow the boulevards as far as the Made-
leine. They are covered with troops. National Guards
march at the head of all the patrols. The Sunday prome-
naders intermingle with all this infantry, all this cavalry.
At intervals a cordon of soldiers quietly empty the crowd
from one side of the boulevard to the other. There is a
performance at the vaudeville.
One a. m. — The boulevards are deserted. There remain
only the regiments, who bivouac at short distances apart.
Coming back, I passed through the little streets of the
Marais. All is quite and gloomy. The old Rue du Temple
is as black as a furnace. The lanterns there have been
smashed.
The Place Royale is a camp. There are four great fires
before the Town Hall, round which the soldiers chat and
laugh, seated upon their knapsacks. The flames carve a
black silhouette of some, and cast a glow upon the faces of
the others. The green, fresh leaves of the spring trees rustle
merrily above the braziers.
I had a letter to post. I took some precautions in the
matter, for everything looks suspicious in the eyes of these
worthy National Guards. I recollect that at the periods of
the riots of April, 1834, I passed by a guard-house of the
DIARY OF A PASSER-BY 7
National Guard with a volume of the works of the Duke
de Saint-Simon. I was pointed out as a Saint-Simoniun,
and narrowly escaped being murdered.
Just as I was going in-doors again, a squadron of hussars,
held in reserve all day in the courtyard of the Town Hall,
suddenly issued forth and filed past me at a gallop, going
in the direction of the Rue Saint-Antoine. As I went up-
stairs I heard the horses' foot-falls retreating in the dis-
tance.
Monday, May 13, 8 a. m.
Several companies of the National Guard have come and
joined the Line regiments encamped in the Place Roy ale.
A number of men in blouses walk about among the Na-
tional Guard, observed and observing with an anxious
look. An omnibus comes out upon the Rue du Pas-de-la-
Mule. It is made to go back. Just now my floor-polisher,
leaning upon his broom, said, "Whose side shall I be on?"
He added a moment afterwards, "What a filthy govern-
ment this is ! I have thirty francs owing to me, and cannot
get anything out of the people !"
The drums beat to arms.
I breakfast as I read the papers. M. Duflot arrives. He
was yesterday at the Tuileries. It was at the Sunday re-
ception : the king appeared fatigued, the queen was low-
spirited. Then he went for a walk about Paris. He saw
in the Rue du Grand-Hurleur a man who had been killed —
a workman — stretched upon the ground in his Sunday cloth-
ing, his forehead pierced by a bullet. It was evening. By
his side was a lighted candle. The dead man had rings on
his fingers and his watch in his fob-pocket, from which
issued a great bunch of trinkets.
Yesterday, at half-past three o'clock, at the first mus-
ket-shots, the king sent for Marshal Soult, and said to him,
"Marshal, the waters become troubled. Some ministers must
be fished up."
An hour afterwards the marshal came to the king, and
8 THINGS SEEN
said, as he rubbed his hands, in his Southern accent, "This
time, Sire, I think we shall manage the busniess."
There is in fact, a ministry this morning in the "Mon-
iteur."
Midday. — I go out. Firing can be heard in the Rue
Saint-Louis. The men in blouses have been turned out of
the Place Royale, and now only those persons who live there
are allowed to enter the street. The rioting is in the Rue
Saint-Louis. It is feared that the insurgents will penetrate
one by one to the Place Royale, and fire upon the troops
from behind the pillars of the arcades.
Two hundred and twelve years, two months and two days
ago to-day, Buevron, Bussy d'Ambroise, and Buquet, on the
one hand, and Boutteville, Deschapelles, and Laberthe, on the
other, fought to the death with swords and daggers, in
broad daylight, at this same time and in this same Place
Royale. Pierre Corneille was then twenty-one years of age.
I hear a National Guard express regret at the disappear-
ance of the railing which has just been foolishly pulled down,
and of which the fragments are still at this moment lying
upon the pavement.
Another National Guard says, "I myself am a Repub-
lican, as is natural, for I am a Swiss."
The approaches to the Place Royale are deserted. The
firing continues, very sustained, and very close at hand.
In the Rue Saint-Gilles, before the door of the house oc-
cupied in 1784 by the famous Countess Lamonthe-Valois, of
the Diamond Necklace affair, a Municipal Guard bars my
passage.
I reach the Rue Saint-Louis by the Rue des Douze-Portes.
The Rue Saint-Louis has a singular appearance. At one
of the ends can be seen a company of soldiers, who block
up the whole street and advance slowly, pointing their mus-
kets. I am hemmed in by people running away in every
direction. A young man has just been killed at the corner
of the Rue des Douze-Portes.
DIARY OF A PASSER-BY
It is impossible to go any farther. I return in the direc-
tion of the boulevard.
At the corner of the Rue du Harlay there is a cordon of
National Guards. One of them, who wears the blue ribbon
of July, stops me suddenly. " You cannot pass ! *'• And
then his voice suddenly became milder: "Really, I do not
advise you to go that way, sir." I raise my eyes ; it is my
floor-polisher.
I proceed farther.
I arrive in the Rue Saint-Claude. I have only gone for-
ward a few steps when I see all the foot-passengers hurry-
ing. A company of infantry has just appeared at the end
of the street, near the church. Two old women, one of whom
carries a mattress, utter exclamations of terror. I continue
to make my way towards the soldiers, who bar the end of
the street. Some young scamps in blouses are bolting in
every direction near me. Suddenly the soldiers bring down
their muskets and present them. I have only just time to
jump behind a street-post, which protects, at all events, my
legs. I am fired upon. No one falls in the streets. I make
towards the soldiers, waving my hat, that they may not fire
again. As I come close up to them they open their ranks
for me, I pass, and not a word is exchanged between us.
The Rue Saint-Louis is deserted. It has the appearance
which it presents at four o'clock in the morning in summer:
shops shut, windows shut, no one about, broad daylight. In
the Rue du Roi-Dore the neighbours chat at their doorways.
Two horses, unharnessed from some cart, of which a barricade
has been made, pass up the Rue Seant-Jean-Saint-Francois,
followed by a bewildered carter. A large body of National
Guards and troops of the Line appear to be in ambush at
the end of the Rue Saint-Anastase. I make inquiries.
About half an hour ago seven or eight young workmen came
there, dragging muskets, which they hardly knew how to load.
They were youths of fourteen or fifteen years of age. They
silently prepared their arms in the midst of the people of
the neighbourhood and the pissers-by, who looked on as they
10 THINGS SEEN
did so, then they broke into a house where there were only an
old woman and a little child. There they sustained a siege of
a few moments. The firing in my direction was aimed at
some of them who were running away up the Rue Saint-
Claude.
All the shops are closed, except the wine-shop where the
insurgents drank, and where the National Guard are drink-
ing.
Three o'clock. — I have just explored the boulevards.
They are covered with people and soldiers. Platoon-firing
is heard in the Rue Saint-Martin. Before the windows of
Fieschi I saw a lieutenant-general, in full uniform, pass by,
surrounded by officers and followed by a squadron of very
fine dragoons, sabre in hand. There is a sort of camp at
the Chateau d'Eau ; the actresses of the Ambigu are on the
balcony of their greenroom, looking on. No theatre on the
boulevards will give a performance this evening.
All signs of disorder have disappeared in the Rue Saint-
Louis. The rioting is concentrated in the great central mar-
kets. A National Guard said to me just now, " There are
in the barricades over there more than four thousand of
them." I said nothing in reply to the worthy fellow. In
moments like this all eyes are overflowing vessels.
In a house in course of erection in the Rue des Coutures-
Saint-Gervais the builder's men have resumed work. A man
has just been killed in the Rue de la Perle. In the Rue des
Trois-Pavillons I see some little girls playing at battledore
and shuttlecock. In the Rue de l'Echarpe there is a laun-
dryman in a fright, who says he has seen cannon go by.
He counted eight.
Eight p.m. — The Marais remains tolerably quiet. I am
informed that there are cannon in the Place de la Bastille.
I proceed there, but cannot make out anything ; the twilight
is too deep. Several regiments stand in silent readiness,
infantry and cavalry. A crowd assembles at the sight of
DIARY OF A PASSER-BY 11
the wagons from which supplies are distributed to the men.
The soldiers make ready to bivouac. The unloading of the
wood for the night-fires is heard.
Midnight. — Complete battalions go the rounds upon the
boulevards. The bivouacs are lighted up in all directions,
and throw reflections as of a conflagration on the fronts of
the houses. A man dressed as a woman has just passed
rapidly by me, with a white hat and a very thick black
veil, which completely hides his face. As the church clocks
were striking twelve, I distinctly heard, amid the silence of
the city, two very long and sustained reports of platoon-
firing.
I listen as a long file of carts, making a heavy iron clat-
ter, pass in the direction of the Rue du Temple. Are these
cannon?
Nine a.m. — I return home. I notice from a distance that
the great bivouac fire lighted at the corner of the Rue Saint-
Louis and the Rue de l'Echarpe has disappeared. As I
approach I see a man stooping before the fountain and hold-
ing something under the water of the spout. I look. The
man looks uneasy. I see that he is extinguishing at the
fountain some half-burned logs of wood ; then he loads them
upon his shoulders and makes off*. They are the last brands
which the soldiers have left on the pavement on quitting
their bivouacs. In fact, there is nothing left now but a few
heaps of red ashes. The soldiers have returned to their bar-
racks. The riot is at an end. It will at least have served to
give warmth to a poor wretch in winter-time.
12 THINGS SEEN
1840
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON
NOTES TAKEN ON THE SPOT
December 15.
I HAVE heard the drums beat to arms in the streets since
half -past six o'clock in the morning. I go out at eleven.
The streets are deserted, the shops shut ; no passer-by is to
be seen, save perhaps, an old woman here and there. It is evi-
dent that all Paris has poured forth towards one sides of the
city like fluid in a slanting vessel. It is very cold ; a bright
sun, slight mists over-head. The gutters are frozen. As I
reach the Louis-Philippe bridge a cloud descends, and a few
snoAV-flakes, driven by the northerly wind, lash me in the face.
Passing near Notre-Dame I notice that the great bell does
not ring.
In the Rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts the fevered commotion
of the fete begins to manifest itself. Ay, it is a fete,— the
fete of an exiled coffin returning in triumph. Three men of
the lower classes, of those poor workmen in rags who are cold
and hungry the whole winter-time, walk in front of me re-
joicing. One of them jumps about, dances and goes through
a thousand absurd antics, crying, "Vive PEmpereur!"
Pretty grisettes, smartly dressed, pass by, led by their stu-
dent companions. Hired carriages are making rapidly in
the direction of the Invalides. In the Rue du Four the snow
thickens. The sky becomes black. The snow-flakes are in-
terspersed with white tear-drops. Heaven itself seems to
wish to hang out signs of mourning.
The storm, however, lasts but a short time. A pale streak
of light illumines the angle of the Rue de Grenelle and the
Rue du Bac,and there the Municipal Guards stop the vehicles.
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 13
I pass by. Two great empty wagons conducted by artillery-
men come from behind me, and return to their quarters at
the end of the Rue de Grenellc just as I come out on the
Place des Invalides. Here I fear at first that all is over,
and that the Emperor has passed by, so many arc the
passers-by coming towards me who appear to be return-
ing. It is only the crowd flowing back, driven by a cordon
of Municipal Guards on foot. I show my ticket for the first
platform on the left, and pass the barrier.
These platforms are immense wooden structures, covering,
from the quay to the dome-shaped building, all the grass-
plots of the Esplanade. There are three of these on each
side.
At the moment of my arrival the side of the platforms
on the right as yet hides the square from my view. I hear
a formidable and dismal noise. It seems like innumerable
hammers beating time upon the boarding. It is the hundred
thousand spectators, crowded upon the platforms, who, being
frozen by the northerly wind, are stamping to keep them-
selves warm until such time as the procession shall arrive.
I climb up on the platform. The spectacle is no less strange.
The women, nearly all of them wearing heavy boots, and
veiled like the female ballad-singers of the Pont-Neuf, are
hidden beneath great heaps of furs and cloaks ; the men dis-
play neckerchiefs of extraordinary size.
The decoration of the square, good and bad. Shabbiness
surmounting magnificent. On the two sides of the avenue
two rods of figures, heroic, colossal, pale in this cold sun-
light, producing rather a fine impression. They appear to
be of white marble; but this marble is of plaster. At the
extremity opposite the building, the statue of the Emperor
in bronze; this bronze is also of plaster. In each gap be-
tween the statues a pillar of painted cloth, and gilded in
rather bad taste, surmounted by a brazier, just now filled
with snow.
Behind the statues the platform and the crowd ; between
the statues a straggling file of the National Guard; above
14 THINGS SEEN
the platform masts, on top of which grandly fluttered sixty
sixty long tricoloured pennants.
It appears that there has been no time to finish the decora-
tion of the principal entrance to the building. Above the rail-
ings has been roughly constructed a sort of funeral tri-
umphal arch of painted cloth and crape, with which the wind
plays as with old linen clothes hung out from the garret of a
hovel. A row of poles, plain and bare, rise above the can-
non, and from a distance look like those small sticks which
little children plant in the sand. Clothes and rags, which
are supposed to be black drapery with silver spangles, flutter
and flap together feebly between these poles. At the end
the Dome, with its flag and mourning drapery, sparkling
with a metallic lustre, subdued by the mist in a brilliant sky,
has a sombre and splendid appearance.
It is midday.
The cannon at the building is fired at quarter-hour inter-
vals. The crowd stamp their feet. Gendarmes disguised in
plain clothes, but betraying themselves by their spurs and
the stocks of their uniforms, walk hither and thither. In
front of me a ray of light shows up vividly a rather poor
statue of Joan of Arc, who holds in her hand a palm-branch,
which she appears to use as a shade, as though the sun af-
fected her eyes.
At a few steps from the statue a fire, at which a number
of men of the National Guard warm their feet, is alight in a
heap of sand.
From time to time military bandsmen invade an orchestra,
raised between the two platforms on the opposite side, per-
form a funeral flourish, then come down again hastily and
disappear in the crowd, only to reappear the moment after.
They leave the music for the wine-shop.
A hawker passes along the platform selling dirges at a
half-penny each, and accounts of the ceremony. I buy two
of these documents.
All eyes are fixed upon the corner of the Quai d'Orsay,
whence the procession is to come out. The cold adds to the
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 15
feeling of impatience. Black and white lines of vapour as-
cend here and there through the thick mist of the Champs-
Elysees and detonations are heard in the distance.
Of a sudden the National Guards hasten to arms. An
orderly officer crosses the avenue at a gallop. A line is
formed. Workmen place ladders against the pillars and
begin to light the braziers. A salvo of heavy artillery ex-
plodes loully at the east corner of the Invalides ; a dense yel-
low smoke, mingled with golden flashes, fills this whole cor-
ner. From the position in which I am placed the firing of
the guns can be seen. They are two fine old engraved cannon
of the seventeenth century, which one hears from the noise
are of bronze. The procession approaches.
It is half-past twelve.
At the far end of the esplanade, near the river, a double
row of mounted grenadiers, with yellow shoulder-belts, sol-
emnly debouch. This is the Gendarmerie of the Seine. It
is the head of the procession. At this moment the sun docs
its duty, and appears in its glory. It is the month of Aus-
terlitz.
After the bear-skins of the Gendarmerie of the Seine, the
brass helmets of the Paris Municipal Guard, then the tri-
coloured pennants of the lancers, fluttering in the air in
charming fashion. Flourishes of trumpets and beating of
drums.
A man in a blue blouse climbs over the outside woodwork,
at the risk of breaking his neck, on the platform in front of
me. No one assists him. A spectator in white gloves looks
at him as he does so, and does not hold out a hand to him.
The man, however, reaches his destination.
The procession, including generals and marshals, has an
admirable effect. The sun, striking the cuirasses of the cara-
bineers, lights up the breast of each of them with a dazzling
star. The three military schools pass by with erect and
solemn bearing, then the artillery and infantry, as though
going into action. The ammunition wagons have the spare
wheel at the rear, the soldiers carry their knapsacks upon
16 THINGS SEEN
their backs. A short distance off, a great statue of Louis
XIV., of ample dimensions and tolerably good design, gilded
by the sun, seems to view with amazement all this splendour.
The mounted National Guard appear. Uproar in the
crowd. It is sufficiently well disciplined notwithstanding, but
it is an inglorious regiment, and this detracts from the effect
of a procession of this kind. People laugh. I hear this con-
versation : "Just look at that fat colonel ! How strangely
he holds his sword!" "Who is that fellow?" "That is
Montalivet."
Interminable legions of the infantry of the National Guard
now march past, with arms reversed, like the Line regiments,
beneath the shadow of this grey sky. A mounted National
Guard who lets fall his shako, and so gallops bareheaded for
some time, although successful in catching it, causes much
amusement to the gallery, — that is to say, to a hundred thou-
sand people.
From time to time the procession halts, then continues on
its way. The lighting of the braziers is completed, and they
smoke between the statues like great bowls of punch.
Expectation rises higher. Here is the black carriage with
silver ornamentation of the chaplain of the Belle-Poule, in
the inside of which is seen a priest in mourning; then the
great black velvet coach with mirror panels of the St. Helena
Commission ; four horses to each of these two carriages.
Suddenly the cannon are discharged simultaneously from
three different points of the horizon. This triple sound hems
in the ear in a sort of triangle, formidable and superb.
Drums beat a salute in the distance. The funeral carriage
of the Emperor appears. The sun, obscured until this mo-
ment, reappears at the same time. The effect is prodigious.
In the distance is seen, in the mist and sunlight, against the
grey and russet background of the trees in the Champs-
Elysees, beyond the great white phantom-like statues, a kind
of golden mountain slowly moving. All that can be distin-
guished of it as yet is a sort of luminous glistening, which
makes now stars, now lightning sparkle over the whole sur-j
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 17
face of the car. A mighty roar follows this apparition. It
would seem as though this car draws after it the acclama-
tion of the whole city, as a torch draws after it its smoke.
As it turns in the avenue of the esplanade it remains for a
few momenta at a stand-still, through some contingency, be-
fore a statue which stands at the corner of the avenue and of
the quay. I have since ascertained that this statue was that
of Marshal Ney.
At the moment when the funeral car appeared it was half-
past one.
The procession resumes its progress. The car advances
slowly. The shape begins to display itself.
Here are the saddle-horses of the marshals and generals
who hold the cords of the Imperial pall. Here are the eighty-
six subaltern legionaires bearing the banners of the eighty-
six departments. Nothing prettier to be conceived than this
square, above which flutters a forest of flags. It might be
supposed that a gigantic field of dahlias is on the march.
Here comes a white horse covered from head to foot with
a violet pall, accompanied by a chamberlain in pale blue, em-
broidered with silver, and led by two footmen, dressed in
green, with gold lace. It is the Emperor's livery. A shud-
der goes through the crowd. It is Napoleon's charger ! The
majority firmly believed it. Had the horse been ridden only
for two years by the Emperor, he would be thirty years old,
which is a good age for a horse.
The fact is that this palfrey is a good old supernumerary
horse, who has filled for some ten years the office of charger
in all the military burials over which the Funeral Adminis-
tration presides. This charger of straw carries on his back
the genuine saddle of Bonaparte at Marengo ; a crimson
velvet saddle, with a double row of gold lace, tolerably
well worn.
After the horse come, in close and regular formation, the
five hundred sailors of the Belle-Foule, youthful faces for the
most part, dressed for action, with round packets, round
varnished hats, each with his pistol in his belt, his boarding-
18 THINGS SEEN
axe in hand, and at his side a sword, a cutlass with a large
handle of polished iron.
The salvoes continue. At this moment the story goes the
round of the crowd that the first discharge of cannon at the
Invalides has cut of the legs of a Municipal Guard at the
thighs. By an oversight the gun had not been unloaded. It
is added that a man has fallen down in the Place Louis XV.
under the wheels of the cars, and has been crushed to death.
The car is now very near. It is almost immediately pre-
ceded by the officers of the Belle-Poulc, under the command of
the Prince de Joinville, on horseback. The Prince de Join-
ville's face is covered with a beard (fair), which appears to
me contrary to the rules of the naval forces. He wears for
the first time the grand ribbon of the Legion of Honour.
Hitherto he figured upon the roll of the Legion only as a
plain knight.
Arriving immediately in front of me, a slightly momentary
interruption, I know not from what cause, takes place; the
car halts. It remains stationary for a few minutes between
the statue of Joan of Arc and the statue of Charles V.
I can survey it at leasure. The effect, as a whole, is not
wanting in grandeur. It is an enormous mass, gilt all over,
of which the tiers rise pyramid-like above the four great gilt
wheels which bear it. Under the violet pall, studded with bees,
which covers it from top to bottom, some tolerably fine details
may be observed; the wild-looking eagles of the base, the
fourteen Victories of the top-piece bearing upon a golden
support the representation of a coffin. The real coffin is in-
visible. It has been deposited inside the basement, which
detracts from the sensational effect. That is the grave de-
fect of this car. It conceals what one would wish to see,
what France has demanded, what the people expect, what
every eye seeks, — the coffin of Napoleon.
Upon the sham sarcophagus have been deposited the in-
signia of the Emperor, — the crown, the sword, the sceptre,
and the robe. In the gilded orifice which divides the Vic-
tories on the summit from the eagles at the base can be dis-
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 19
tinotly seen, in spite of the gilding already partly ehipped
off, the joins in the deal planks. Another defect. This gold
is merely imitation. Deal and pasteboard, that is the reality.
I could have wished for the Emperor's funeral car a splen-
dour of a genuine character.
Nevertheless, the greater part, of this sculptural composi-
tion has some boldness and artistic merit, although the con-
ception of the design and the ornamentation hesitate between
the Renaissance and the Rococo.
Two immense bundles of flags, conquered from all the na-
tions of Europe, rise in glorious splendour from the front
and rear of the car.
The car, with all its load, weighs twenty-six thousand
pounds. The coffin alone weighs five thousand pounds.
Nothing more surprising and more superb could be imag-
ined than the set of sixteen horses which draw the car. They
are terrific creatures, adorned with white plumes flowing
down to the haunches, and covered from head to foot with a
splendid caparison of gold cloth, leaving only their eyes visi-
ble, which gives them an indescribable air of phantom steeds.
Valets in the Imperial livery lead this imposing cavalcade.
On the other hand, the worthy and venerable generals who
hold the cords of the pall have an appearance as far removed
from the fantastic as could well be conceived. At the head
two marshals, — The Duke of Reggio, 1 diminutive and blind
'The Duke of Reggio is not really blind in one eye. A few years
ago, as the result of a cold, the marshal had an attack of local paralysis
which affected the right cheek and pupil. Since that time he cannot
open the one eye. However, throughout this ceremony he displayed
wonderful courage. Covered with wounds, and seventy-five years of
age, he remained in the open air, in a temperature of fourteen degrees,
from eight o'clock in the morning until two o'clock in the afternoon, in
full uniform, and without a cloak, out of respect for his general. He
made the journey from Courbevoie to the Invalides on foot, on his three
broken legs, as the Duchess of Reggio wittily said to me. The marshal,
in fact, having suffered two fractures of the right leg and one of the
left, has really had three legs broken.
After all, it is remarkable that, out of so many veterans exposed for
so great a length of time to this severe cold, no mishap should have
happened to any one of them. Strange to say, this funeral did not bury
anybody.
20 THINGS SEEN
in one eye, to the right ; to the left Count Molitor ; in the rear,
on the right, an admiral, Baron Duperre, a stout and jovial
sailor ; on the left a lieutenant-general, Count Bertrand, — old,
exhausted, broken-down, a noble and illustrious figure. All
four wear the red ribbon.
The car, let it be said, by-the-way, was not intended to
be drawn by more than eight horses. Eight horses is a sym-
bolical number which has a significance in the ceremonial.
Seven horses, nine horses, are a wagoner's team ; sixteen
horses are for a stone-mason's dray ; eight horses are for an
Emperor. 1
The spectators upon the platforms have continued without
intermission to stamp with the soles of their boots, except at
the moment when the catafalque passed before them. Then
only are the feet silent. One can tell that a great thought
flashes through the crowd.
The car has resumed its progress, the drums beat a salute,
the firing of the cannon is more rapid. Napoleon is at the
gates of the Invalides. It is ten minutes to two.
Behind the bier come in civilian dress all the survivors of
the Emperor's household, then all the survivors of the sol-
diers of the Guard, clad in their glorious uniforms, already
unfamiliar to us.
The remainder of the procession, made up of regiments
of the regular army and the National Guard, occupies, it is
said, the Quai d'Orsay, the Louis XVI. bridge, the Place de la
1 29th of December, 1840. — It has since been ascertained that the mag-
nificent saddle-cloths of gold brocade which caparisoned the sixteen
horses were of spun glass. An unworthy saving. An unseemly de-
ception. This singular announcement now appears in the newspapers: —
"A large number of persons who came to the spun-glass ware-house
at No. 97 Rue de Charonne, to see the mantle which adorned the
sides of the funeral car of Napoleon, wished to keep a souvenir of the
great ceremony by buying a few eagles from this mantle. The manager
of the establishment, who, in obedience to the command of the Govern-
ment, was obliged to refuse them, is now in a position to accede to their
request."
So we have a bronze statue in plaster, solid gold victories in paste-
board, an imperial mantle in spun glass, and — a fortnight after the
ceremony — eagles for sale.
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 21
Concorde, and the Avenue des Champs-Elysees as far as the
Arc de PEtoile.
The car docs not enter the courtyard of the Invalides ; the
railings planted by Louis XIV. are too low. It turns off to
the right ; sailors are seen to enter into the basement and
issue forth again with the coffin, then disappear beneath the
porch erected at the entrance to the enclosure. They are in
the courtyard.
All is over for the spectators outside. They descend very
noisily and hurriedly from the platforms. Knots of people
stop at short distances apart before some posters stuck to the
boards, and running thus : "Leroy, refreshment contractor,
Rue de la Serpe, near the Invalides. Choice wines and hot
pastry."
I can now examine the decoration of the avenue. Nearly
all these statues in plaster are bad. Some are ridiculous.
The Louis XIV.. which at a distance had solidity, is gro-
tesque at near sight. Macdonald is a good likeness. Mortier
the same. Ney would be so if he had not had so high a fore-
head given to him. In fact, the sculptor has made it exag-
gerated and ridiculous in the attempt to be melancholy. The
head is too large. In reference to this, it is said that in the
hurry of improvising the statues the measurements have
been given incorrectly.
On the day when they had to be delivered, the statuary
sent in a Marshal Ney a foot too tall. What did the
people of the Beaux-Arts department do? They sawed out
of the statue a slice of the stomach twelve inches wide,
and stuck the two pieces together again as well as they were
able.
The bronze-coloured plaster of the statue of the Emperor
is stained and covered with spots, which make the imperial
robe look like a patchwork of old green baize.
This reminds me, for the generation of ideas is a strange
mystery, that this summer, at the residence of M. Thiers, I
heard Marchand, the Emperor's valet-de-chambre, say how
Napoleon loved old coats and old hats. I understand and
22 THINGS SEEN
share this taste. For a brain which works, the pressure of
a new hat is insupportable.
The Emperor, said Marchand, took away with him when he
quitted France, three coats, two surtouts, and two hats ; he
got through his six years at St. Helena with this wardrobe;
he did not wear any uniform.
Marchand added other curious details. The Emperor, at
the Tuileries, often appeared to rapidly change his attire.
In reality, this was not so. The Emperor usually wore civil-
ian dress, — that is to say, breeches of white kerseymere, white
silk stockings, shoes with buckles. But there was always in
the next apartment a pair of riding-boots, lined with white
silk up to the knees. When anything happened which made
it necessary for the Emperor to mount on horseback, he took
off his slippers, put on his boots, got into his uniform, and
was transformed into a soldier. Then he returned home, took
off his boots, put on his slippers again, and became once more
a civilian. The white breeches, the stockings and the shoes
were never worn more than one day. On the morrow these
Imperial cast-off clothes belonged to the valet-de-chambre.
It is three o'clock. A salvo of artillery announces that
the ceremony at the Invalides is at an end. I meet B .
He has just come out. The sight of the coffin has produced
an ineffable impression.
The words which were spoken were simple and grand. The
Prince de Joinville said to the king, "Sire, I present to you
the body of the Emperor Napoleon." The king replied, "I
receive it in the name of France." Then he said to Bertrand,
"General, place upon the coffin the glorious sword of the
Emperor." And to Gourgaud, "General, place upon the
coffin the hat of the Emperor."
Mozart's "Requiem" had but little effect. Beautiful
music already faded with age. Music, too, alas, becomes
faded with age!
The catafalque was only finished one hour before the arrival
of the coffin. B was in the church at eight o'clock in
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 23
the morning. It was as yet only half draped, and ladders,
tools, and workmen encumbered it. The crowd were coming
in during this time. Large gilt palms of five or six feet
in height were tried on the four corners of the catafalque ;
but after being put in position they were seen to produce but
a poor effect. They were removed. 1
The Prince do Joinville, who had not seen his family for
six months, went up and kissed the hand of the queen, and
heartily shook hands with his brothers and sisters. The queen
received him in stately fashion, without demonstration, as a
queen rather than as a mother.
During this time the archbishops, cures, and priests sang
the "Requiescat in pace" around the coffin of Napoleon.
The procession was fine, but too exclusively military, suf-
ficing for Bonaparte, not for Napoleon. All the bodies in
the State should have figured in it, at least by deputy. The
fact is, the thoughtlessness of the Government has been ex-
treme. It was in haste to be done with the affair. Philippe
de Segur, who followed the car as a former aide-de-camp of
the Emperor, told me how at Courbevoie, on the banks of the
river in an atmosphere of fourteen degrees, this morning,
there was not even a waiting-room with a fire in it. These
two hundred veterans of the Emperor's household had to
wait for an hour and a half in a kind of Greek temple, ex-
posed to the wind from all quarters of the compass.
The same neglect was shown with respect to the steamboat ?
which took the body from Havre to Paris, a journey remark
able, nevertheless, for the earnest and solemn demeanour of
the riverside populations. None of these boats was suitably
fitted up. Victuals were wanting. No beds. Orders given
u 2Zd of December. — Since the transfer of the coffin, the church of the
Invalides is open to the crowd who visit it. There pass through it daily
a hundred thousand persons, from ten o'clock in the morning- until four
o'clock in the evening. The lighting of the chapel costs the State three
hundred and fifty francs a day. M. Duchatel, Minister of the Interior
(who, it may be stated, by-the-way, is said to be a son of the Emperor)
groans aloud at this expense.
24 THINGS SEEN
that no one should land. The Prince de Joinville was obliged
to sleep, one of a party of twenty, in a common room upon a
table. Others slept underneath. Some slept on the ground,
and the more fortunate upon benches or chairs. It seemed
as though those in authority were in ill-humour. The prince
complained openly of it, and said, "In this affair all that
emanates from the people is great, all that emanates from the
Government is paltry."
Wishing to reach the Champs-Elysees, I crossed the sus-
pension bridge, where I paid my half-penny, — a real act of
generosity, for the mob which crowds the bridge neglects to
pay.
The legions and regiments are in battle-array in the Avenue
de Neuilly. The avenue is decorated, or rather dishonoured,
along its entire length by fearful statues in plaster repre-
senting figures of Fame, and triumphal columns crowned with
golden eagles and placed in a blank space upon grey marble
pedestals. The street-boys amuse themselves by making holes
in this marble, which is made of cloth.
Upon each column are seen, between two bundles of tri-
coloured flags, the name and the date of one of the victories
of Bonaparte.
An inferior, theatrical-looking group occupies the top of
the Arc de Triomphe,— the Emperor erect upon a car, sur-
rounded by figures of Fame, having on his right Glory,
and on his left Grandeur. What is the meaning of a statue
of grandeur? How can grandeur be expressed by means of
a statue? Is it in making it larger than the others? This
is monumental nonsense.
This scenic effect, poorly gilt, is turned towards Paris. By
going to the other side of the Arc one can see the back of it.
It is a regular theatrical set-piece. On the side looking to-
wards Neuilly, the Emperor, the Glories, and the Fames be-
come simply pieces of framework clumsily shaped.
With regard to this matter, the figures in the Avenue des
Invalides have been strangely chosen, be it said by-the-way.
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 25
The published list gives bold and singular conjunctions of
names. Here is one: "Lobau, Charlemagne, Hugos Capet."
A few months ago I was taking a walk in those same
Champs-Elysecs with Thiers, then Prime Minister. \lo
would, without doubt, have managed the ceremony with
greater success. He would have put his heart into it. He
had ideas. He loves and appreciates Napoleon. He told me
some anecdotes of the Emperor. M. dc Remusat allowed him
to see the unpublished memoirs of his mother. There are
in them a hundred details. The Emperor was good-natured,
and loved to tease people. To tease is the malice of good
men. Caroline, his sister, wanted to be a queen. He made
her a queen, — Queen of Naples. But the poor woman had
many troubles from the moment, she had a throne, and be-
came, as she sat on it, somewhat careworn and faded. One
day Talma was breakfasting with Napoleon, — -etiquette per-
mitted Talma to come only to breakfast. Hereupon Queen
Caroline, just arrived from Naples, pale and fatigued, calls
upon the Emperor. He looks at her, then turns towards
Talma, much embarrassed between these two majesties. "My
dear Talma," he said, "they all want to be queens ; they lose
their beauty in consequence. Look at Caroline. She is a
queen ; she is ugly."
As I pass, the demolition is just being finished of the in-
numerable stands draped with black, and ornamented with
rout seats, which have been erected by speculators at the en-
trance to the Avenue de Neuilly. Upon one of them, facing
the Beaujon garden, I read this inscription: "Seats to let.
Austerlitz grand stand. Apply to M. Berthellemont, con-
fectioner."
On the other side of the Avenue, upon a showman's booth
adorned with frightful pictorial signs representing, one of
them the death of the Emperor, the other the encounter at
Mazagran, I read another inscription : "Napoleon in his cof-
fin. Three half-pence."
26 THINGS SEEN
Men of the lower classes pass by and sing, "Long live my
great Napoleon ! Long live old Napoleon !" Hawkers make
their way through the crowd, shouting tobacco and cigars !
Others offer to the passers-by some kind of hot and steaming
liquor out of a copper tea-urn covered with a black cloth. An
old woman at a stall coolly puts on an undergarment in the
midst of the hurly-burly. Towards five o'clock the funeral
car, now empty, returns by way of the Avenue des Champs-
Elysees, to be put up under the Arc de Triomphe. This is a
capital idea. But the magnificent spectre-horses are tired.
They walk with difficulty, and slowly, notwithstanding all the
efforts of the drivers. Nothing stranger can be imagined
than the shouts of hu-ho and dia-hu lavished upon this im-
perial, but at the same time, fantastic team.
I return home by the boulevards. The crowd there is im-
mense ; suddenly it falls back and looks round with a certain
air of respect. A man passes proudly by in its midst. He is
an old hussar of the Imperial Guard, a veteran of great
height and lusty appearance. He is in full uniform, with
tight-fitting red trousers, a white waistcoat with gold braid,
a sky-blue pelisse, a busby with a grenade and plaited loop,
his sword at his side, his sabretache beating upon his thighs,
an eagle upon his satchel. All round him the little children
cry, "Vive l'Empereur !"
It is certain that all this ceremony has been curiously like
a juggle. The Government appeared to fear the phantom!
which it had raised. It seemed as though the object was
both to show and to hide Napoleon. Everything which
would have been too grand or too touching was left out of
sight.
The real and the grandiose were concealed beneath more or
less splendid coverings, the Imperial procession was juggled
into the military procession, the army was juggled into the
National Guard, the Chambers were juggled into the In-
valides, the coffin was juggled into the cenotaph.
What was wanted, on the contrary, was that Napoleon
should be taken up frankly, honoured, treated royally and
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 27
popularly as Emperor, and then strength would have been
found just where a failure almost took place.
To-day, the 8th of May, I returned to the Invalides to
see the St. Jerome chapel, where the Emperor is temporarily
placed. All traces of the ceremony of the 15th of Decem-
ber have disappeared from the esplanade. The quincunxes
have been cut out afresh; the grass, however, has not yet
grown again. There was some sunshine, accompanied now
and then by clouds of rain. The trees were green and lusty.
The poor old pensioners were talking quietly to a group of
youngsters, and walking in their little gardens full of bou-
quets. It is that delightful period of the year when the late
lilacs have shed their petals, when the early laburnums are in
bloom. The great shadows of the clouds pass rapidly across
the forecourt, where stands under an archivault on the first
floor a plaster equestrian statue of Napoleon, — a rather piti-
ful counterpart of the equestrian Louis XIV., boldly chiselled
in stone over the great portal.
All round the court, below the eaves of the building, are
still stuck up, as the last vestiges of the funeral, the long
narrow strips of black cloth upon which had been painted
in golden letters, three by three, the names of the generals of
the Revolution and the Empire. The wind begins, however,
to tear them down here and there. On one of these strips, of
which the torn end floated in mid-air, I read these three
names, —
SAURET — CHAMBURE — HUG —
The end of the third name had been torn and carried off by
the wind. Was it Hugo or Huguet?
Some young soldiers were entering the church. I followed
these tourlourous, as the phrase goes nowadays. For in time
of war the soldier calls the citizen a pekin; in time of peace
the citizen calls the soldier a tourlourou.
The church was bare and cold, almost deserted. At the
end a large grey cloth covering, stretched from top to bot-
28 THINGS SEEN
torn, hid the enormous archivault of the dome. Behind this
covering could be heard the muffled and almost funereal
sound of hammers.
I walked about for an instant or two, reading upon the
pillars the names of all the warriors buried there.
All along the nave above our heads the flags conquered
from the enemy, that accumulation of splendid tatters, were
gently wafted near the roof. In the intervals between the
blows of the hammers I heard a muttering in a corner of the
church. It was an old woman at confession.
The soldiers went out, and myself behind them. They
turned to the right along the Metz corridor, and we mixed
with a tolerably large and very well-dressed crowd going in
that direction. The corridor leads to the inner court in which
the minor entrance to the dome is situated.
There I found three more statues, of lead, taken I know
not where from, which I remember to have seen on this same
spot as a little child in 1815, at the time of the mutilation "of
buildings, dynasties, and nations, which took place at that
period. These three statues, in the worst style of the Em-
pire, cold as allegory, gloomy as mediocrity, stand alongside
the wall there, on the grass, amid a mass of architectural
capitals, with an indescribable suggestion of tragedies which
have been damned. One of them leads a lion by a chain, and
represents Might. Nothing can appear so much out of place
as a statue standing upon the ground without a pedestal ; it
looks like a horse without a rider, or a king without a throne.
There are but two alternatives for the soldier, — battle or
death ; there are but two for the king, — empire or the tomb ;
there are but two for the statue, — to stand erect against the
sky or to lie flat upon the ground. A statue on foot puzzles
the mind and bothers the eye. One forgets that it is of
plaster or bronze, and that bronze does not walk any more
than plaster ; and one is tempted to say to this poor creature
with a human face so awkward and wretched-looking in its
ostentatious attitude: "Noav then, go on, be off with you,
march, keep going, move yourself! The ground is beneath
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 20
your fcot. What stops you? Who hinders you?" The
pedestal, at least, explains the want of motion. For statues
as for men a pedestal is a small space, narrow and respec-
table, with four precipices around it.
After having passed by the statues, I turned to the right
and entered the church by the great door at the rear, facing
ihe boulevard. Several young women pass through the door-
way at the same time as myself, laughing and calling to each
other. The sentry allowed us to pass. He was a bent and
melancholy-looking old soldier, sword in hand, perhaps an
old grenadier of the Imperial Guard, silent and motionless in
the shadow, and resting the end of his worn wooden leg upon
a marble fleur-de-lis, half chipped out of the stone.
To get to the chapel where Napoleon is, one has to walk-
over a pavement tesselated with fleurs-de-lis. The crowd,
women and soldiers, were in haste. I entered the church with
slow steps.
A light from above, wan and pale, the light of a workshop
rather than of a church, illuminated the interior of the dome.
Immediately under the cupola, at the spot where the altar
was and the tomb will be, stood, covered on the side of the
aisle by the mass of black drapery, the immense scaffolding
used in pulling down the baldachin erected under Louis XIV.
No trace of this baldachin remained save the shafts of six
great wooden columns supporting the head. These columns,
destitute of capital or abacus, were still supported vertically
by six shaped logs which had been put in place of the pedes-
tals. The gold foliage, the spirals of which gave them a
certain appearance of twisted columns, had already disap-
peared, leaving a black mark upon the six gilt shafts. The
workmen perched up here and there inside the scaffolding
looked like great birds in an enormous cage.
Others, below, were tearing up the stone floor. Others
again passed up and down the church, carrying their ladders,
whistling and chatting.
On my right, the chapel of Saint-Augustin was full of
30 THINGS SEEN
debris. Huge blocks, broken and in heaps, of that splen-
did mosaic work in which Louis XIV. had set his fleurs-de-lis
and sunflowers concealed the feet of Saint Monica and Saint
Alipa, looking wonder-stricken and shocked in their niches.
The statue of Religion, by Girardon, erect between the two
windows, looked gravely down upon this confusion.
Beyond the chapel of Saint-Augustin some large marble
slabs which had formed the covering of the dome, placed ver-
tically against each other, half hid a white, war-like, recum-
bent figure of a warrior beneath a rather high pyramid of
black marble fixed in the wall. Underneath this figure, in a
gap between the flagstones, could be read the three letters
U B A
It was the tomb of VavBAn.
On the opposite side of the church, in front of the tomb
of Vauban, was the tomb of Turenne. The latter had been
treated with greater respect than the other. No accumula-
tion of ruins rested against the great sculptural design, more
pompous than funereal, made for the stage rather than the
church, in harmony with the frigid and exalted etiquette
which ruled the art of Louis XIV. No palisade, no mound
of rubbish prevented the passer-by from seeing Turenne, at-
tired as a Roman Emperor, dying of an Austrian bullet above
the bronze bas-relief of the battle of Turckheim, or from
deciphering this memorable date, 1675,— the year in which
Turenne died, the Duke de Saint-Simon was born, and Louis
XIV. laid the foundation-stone of the Hotel des Livalides.
On the right, against the scaffolding of the dome and the
tomb of Turenne, between the silence of this sepulchre and
the noise of the workmen, in a little barricaded and deserted
chapel, I could discern behind a railing, through the opening
of a white arch, a group of gilt statues, placed there pell-
mell, and doubtless torn from the baldachin, conversing ap-
parently in whispers on the subject of all this devastation.
There were six of them, — six winged and luminous angels, six
golden phantoms, gloomily illuminated by a pale stream of
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 81
sunlight. One of these statues Indicated to the others with
uplifted finger the chapel of Saint-Jerome, gloomy, and in
mourning drapery, and seemed to utter with consternation the
word Napoleon. Above these six spectres, upon the cornice
of the little roof of the chapel, a great angel in gilt wood
was playing upon a violoncello, with eyes upturned to heaven,
almost in the attitude which Veronese ascribes to Tintoretto
in the Marriage at Cana.
By this time I had arrived at the threshold of the chapel of
Saint-Jerome.
A great archivault, with a lofty door-curtain of rather
paltry violet cloth, stamped with a fretwork pattern, and with
golden palm-leaves ; at the top of the door-curtain the Im-
perial escutcheon in painted wood ; on the left two bundles
of tricoloured flags, surmounted with eagles looking like cocks
touched up for the occasion ; pensioners, wearing the Legion
of Honour, carrying pikes ; the crowd, silent and reverential,
entering under the arch-way ; at the extremity, eight or ten
paces distant, an iron gate-way, bronzed ; upon the gate-
way, which is of a heavy and feeble style of ornamentation,
lions' heads, gilt N's with a tinsel-like appearance, the arms
of the Empire, the main-de-justice^nd sceptre, the latter sur-
mounted by a seated miniature of Charlemagne, crowned, and
globe in hand ; beyond the gate-way the interior of the chapel,
a something indescribably august, formidable, and striking;
a swinging lamp alight, a golden eagle with wide-spread
wings, the stomach glistening in the gloomy reflection of the
lamp-light, and the wings in the reflection of the sunlight;
under the eagle, beneath a vast and dazzling bundle of ene-
mies' flags, the coffin, the ebony supports and brass handles of
which were visible ; upon the coffin the great imperial crown,
like that of Charlemagne, the gold laurel diadem, like that of
Caesar, the violet velvet pall studded with bees ; in front of the
coffin, upon a credence-table, the hat of St. Helena and the
'The main-de-justice was the sceptre, surmounted by a hand, which
was used at the coronation of the kings of France. — Tr.
32 THINGS SEEN
sword of Eylau ; upon the Avail, to the right of the coffin, in
the centre of a silver shield, the word Wagram; on the left in
the centre of another shield, another word, — Austerlitz; all
round upon the wall a hanging of violet velvet, embroidered
with bees and eagles ; at the top, on the spandrel of the nave,
above the lamp, the eagle, the crown, the sword, and the cof-
fin, a fresco, and in this fresco the angel of judgment sound-
ing the trumpet over the Saint-Jerome asleep, — that is what I
saw at a glance, and that is what a minute sufficed to en-
grave upon my memory for life.
The hat, low-crowned, wide-brimmed, but little worn, trim-
med with a black ribbon, out of which appeared a small tri-
coloured cockade, was placed upon the sword, of which the
chased gold hilt was turned towards the entrance to the
chapel and the point towards the coffin.
There was some admixture of meaness amid all this gran-
deur. It was mean on account of the violet cloth, which was
stamped and not embroidered ; of the pasteboard painted to
look like stone ; of the hollow iron made to look like bronze ;
of that wooden escutcheon ; of those iV's in tinsel ; of that
canvas Roman column, painted to look like granite ; of those
eagles almost like cocks. The grandeur was in the spot, in
the man, in reality, in the sword, in the hat, in that eagle,
in those soldiers, in that assemblage of people, in that ebony
coffin, in that ray of sunlight.
The people were there as before an altar in which the Su-
preme Being should be visible. But in leaving the chapel,
after having gone a hundred steps, they entered to see the
kitchen and great saucepan. Such is the nature of the
people.
It was with profound emotion that I contemplated that
coffin. I remembered that, less than a twelvemonth pre-
viously, in the month of July, a M presented himself at
my house, and after having told me that he was in business as
a cabinet-maker in the Rue des Tourelles, and a neighbour of
mine, begged me to give him my advice respecting an im-
FUNERAL OK NAPOLEON 88
portant and precious article which he was commissioned to
make just then. As I am greatly interested in the improve-
ment of that small internal architecture which is called furni-
ture, I responded favourably to the request, and accompanied
M to the Rue des Tourellcs. There, after having made
me pass through several large, well-filled rooms, and shown
me an immense quantity of oak and mahogany furniture,
Gothic chairs, writing-tables with carved rails, tables with
twisted legs, among which I admired a genuine old side-
board of the Renaissance, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and
marble, very dilapidated and very charming, the cabinet-
maker showed me into a great workshop full of activity,
hustle, and noise, where some twenty workmen were at work
upon some kind or other of pieces of black wood which they
had in their hands. I saw in a corner of the workshop a
kind of large black ebony box, about eight feet long and
three feet wide, ornamented at each end with big brass rings.
I went towards it. " That is precisely," said the employer,
" what I wanted to show to you." This black box was the
coffin of the Emperor. I saw it then, I saw it again to-day.
I saw it empty, hollow, wide open. I saw it once more full,
tenanted by a great souvenir, forever closed.
I remember that I contemplated the inside for a long time.
I looked especially at a long pale streak in the ebony which
formed the left-hand side, and I said to myself, " In a few
months the lid will be closed upon this coffin, and my eyes
will perhaps have been closed for three or four thousand
years before it will be given to any other human eyes to see
what I see at this moment, — the inside of the coffin of Na-
poleon."
I then took all the pieces of the coffin which were not yet
fastened. I raised them and weighed them in my hands.
The ebony was very fine and very heavy. The head of the
establishment, in order to give me an idea of the general effect,
had the lid put on the coffin by six men. I did not like the
commonplace shape given to the coffin, — a shape given now-
adays to all coffins, to all altars, and to all wedding caskets.
34 THINGS SEEN
I should have preferred that Napoleon should have slept in
an Egyptian tomb like Sesostris, or in a Roman sarcophagus
lik^ Merovee. That which is simple is also imposing.
Upon the lid shone in tolerably large characters the name
Napoleon. " What metal are these letters made of? " I asked
the man. He replied, " In copper, but they will be gilded."
" These letters," I rejoined, " must be in gold. In less than
a hundred years copper letters will have become oxydized, and
will have eaten into the wood-work of the coffin. How much
would gold letters cost the State ? " " About twenty thou-
sand francs, sir." The same evening I called on M. Thiers,
who was then President of the Council, and I explained the
matter to him. " You are right," said M. Thiers, " the let-
ters shall be of gold; I will go and give the necessary order
for them." Three days afterward the treaty of the 15th of
July burst upon us; I do not know whether M. Thiers gave
the order, whether it was executed, or whether the letters on
the coffin are gold letters.
I left the chapel of Saint-Jerome as four o'clock was strik-
ing, and I said to myself as I left, " To all appearance, here
is a tinsel N which smashes, eclipses, and supersedes the mar-
ble L's, with their crowns and fleurs-de-lis, of Louis XIV. ;
but in reality it is not so. If this dome is narrow, history is
wide. A day will come when Louis XIV. will have his dome
restored to him, and a sepulchre will be given to Napoleon.
The great King and the great Emperor will each be at home,
in peace the one with the other, both venerated, both illus-
trious, — the one because he personifies royalty in the eyes
of Europe, the other because he represents France in the eyes
of the world."
To-day, the 11th of March, 1841, three months after-
wards, I saw once more the Esplanade of the Invalides.
I went to see an old officer who was ill. The weather was
the finest imaginable ; the sun was warm and young ; it was
a day for the end rather than the beginning of spring.
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 35
The whole esplanade is in confusion. It is encumbered
with the ruins of the funeral. The scaffolding of the plat-
forms has been removed. The squares of grass which they
covered have reappeared, hideously cut up by the deep ruts of
the builder's wagons. Of the statues which lined the tri-
umphal avenue, two only remain standing, — Marccau and
Duguesclin. Here and there heaps of stone, the remains of
the pedestals. Soldiers, pensioners, apple-women, wander
about amid this fallen poetry.
A merry crowd was passing rapidly in front of the In-
valides, going to see the artesian well. In a silent corner of
the esplanade stood two omnibuses, painted a chocolate col-
our (Bcarnaises), bearing this inscription in large letters, —
PUITS DE L'ABATTOIR DE GRENELLE.
Three months ago they bore this one : —
FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON AT THE INVALJPES.
In the courtyard of the building the sun cheered and
warmed a crowd of youngsters and old men, — the most
charming sight imaginable. It was public visiting-day.
The curious presented themselves in great numbers. Gar-
deners were clipping the hedges. The lilacs were bursting
into bud in the little gardens of the pensioners. A little boy
of fourteen years of age was singing at the top of his voice
while sitting up on the carriage of the last cannon on the
right, — the same one which killed a gendarme in firing the
first funeral salvo on the 15th of December.
I may mention, by the way, that during the last three
months these excellent sixteenth and seventeenth century pieces
have been perched upon hideous little cast-iron carriages,
producing a most mean and wretched effect. The old wooden
carriages, enormous, squat, massive, worthily supported these
gigantic and magnificent bronzes. A bevy of children, lan-
guidly looked after by their nurses, each of whom was lean-
ing against her soldier, were playing among the twenty-four
great culverins brought from Constantinc and Algiers.
36 THINGS SEEN
These gigantic engir.es, at least, have been spared the af-
front of uniform carriages. They lie flat on the ground on
two sides of the gate-way. Time has painted the bronze a
light and pretty green colour, and they are covered with
arabesques on large plates. Some of them, the least hand-
some, it must be admitted, are of French manufacture. Upon
the breech is the inscription : " Francois Durand, metal-
founder to the King of France, Algiers."
While I copied the inscription, a tiny little girl, pretty
and fresh-coloured, dressed all in white, amused herself by
filling with sand, with her ruddy little fingers, the touchhole
of one of these great Turkish cannon. A pensioner, with
bare sword, standing upon two wooden legs, and no doubt
guarding this artillery, looked at her as she did so, and
smiled.
Just as I was leaving the esplanade, towards three o'clock,
a little group walked slowly across it. It was composed of
a man dressed in black, with a band of crape on his arm and
hat, followed by three others, of whom one, clad in a blue
blouse, held a little boy by the hand. The man with the crape
had under his arm a kind of box of a lightish colour, half
hidden under a black cloth, which he carried as a musician
carries the case in which his instrument is kept. I ap-
proached them. The black man was an undertaker's mute;
the box was a child's coffin.
The course taken by the little procession, parallel with the
front of the Invalides, intersected at a right angle that which,
three months ago, had been followed by the hearse of Na-
poleon.
ORIGIN OF FANT1NE 37
1841
ORIGIN OF FANTINE
VH. was elected to the Academic one Tuesday. Two
. days afterwards Madame de Girardin, who lived at
that time in the Rue Laffitte, invited him to dinner.
At this dinner was Bugeaud, as yet only a general, who had
just been appointed governor-general of Algeria, and who
was just going out to his post.
Bugeaud was then a man of sixty-five years of age, vigor-
ous, with a very fresh complexion, and pitted with small-
pox. He had a certain abruptness of manner which was never
rudeness. He was a mixture of rustic and man of ths world,
old-fashioned and easy mannered, having nothing of the
heaviness of the old martinet, witty and gallant.
Madame de Girardin placed the general on her right and
V. H. on her left. A conversation sprang up between the
poet and the soldier, Madame de Girardin acting as inter-
preter.
The general was in very bad humour with Algeria. He
maintained that this conquest precluded France from speaking
firmly to Europe; that nothing was easier to conquer than
Algeria, that the forces could easily be blockaded there, that
they would be taken like rats, and that they would make but
one mouthful; moreover, that it was very difficult to colonize
Algeria, and that the soil was unproductive ; he had examined
the land himself, and he found that there was a distance of a
foot and a half between each stalk of wheat.
" So then," said V. H., " that is what has become of
what was formerly called the granary of the Romans ! But
even supposing it were as you say, I think our new conquest
is a fortunate and grand affair. It is civilization trampling
upon barbarism. It is an enlightened people which goes out
to a people in darkness. We are the Greeks of the world; it
38 THINGS SEEN
is for us to illumine the world. Our mission is being accom-
plished, I only sing Hosanna! You differ from me, it is
clear. You speak as a soldier, as a man of action. I speak
as a philosopher and a thinker." *
V. H. left Madame de Girardin rather early. It was on
the 9th of January. It was snowing in large flakes. He
had on thin shoes, and when he was in the street he saw that
it was impossible to return home on foot. He went along the
Rue Taitbout, knowing that there was a cab-rank on the
boulevard at the corner of that street. There was no cab
there. He waited for one to come.
He was thus waiting, like an orderly on duty, when he saw
a young man, well and stylishly dressed, stoop and pick up a
great handful of snow, and put it down the back of a woman
of the streets who stood at the corner of the boulevard in a
low-necked dress. The woman uttered a piercing shriek, fell
upon the dandy, and struck him. The young man returned
the blow, the woman responded, and the battle went on in a
crescendo, so vigorously and to such extremities that the police
hastened to the spot.
They seized hold of the woman and did not touch the man.
Seeing the police laying hands upon her, the unfortunate
woman struggled with them. But when she was securely
seized she manifested the deepest grief. While two police-
men were pushing her along, each holding one of her arms,
she shouted, " I have done no harm, I assure you ! It is the
gentleman who interfered with me. I am not guilty ; I im-
i In 1846 — five years afterwards — the opinion of Marshal Bugeaiul
had completely changed. He came to see Victor Hugo, then a Peer of
France, to beg him to speak on the subject of the Budget. Bugeaud
said, experience had convinced him that the annexation of Algeria to
France had excellent points; that he had discovered a suitable system
of colonization; that he would people the Mitidja — a great table-land
in the interior of Africa — with civilian colonists; that, side by side, he
would establish a colony of soldiers. He took a lance as a comparison:
the handle would be the civilians, the spear the troops; so that the two
colonies would join without being intermingled, etc., etc. To sum up,
General Bugeaud, whom Africa had made a marshal and Duke d'Isly,
had become very favourable to Africa.
ORIGIN OF FANTINE 30
plore you leave nic alone! I have done no harm, reallv,
really ! "
" Come, move on ; you will have six months for this busi-
ness."
The poor woman at these words, " You will have six months
for this business," once more began to defend her conduct,
and redoubled her supplications and entreaties. The police-
men, not much moved by her tears, dragged her to a police-
station in the Rue Chauchat, at the back of the Opera.
V. H.j interested in spite of-himself in the unhappy woman,
followed them, amid that crowd of people which is never want-
ing on such an occasion.
Arriving near the station, V. H. conceived the idea of
going in and taking up the cause of the woman. But he said
to himself that he was well known, that just then the news-
papers had been full of his name for two days past, and that
to mix himself up in such an affair was to lay himself open
to all kinds of disagreeable banter. In short, he did not
go in.
The office into which the girl had been taken was on the
ground-floor, overlooking the street. He looked through the
windows at what was going on. He saw the poor woman
lie down upon the floor in despair and tear her hair; he was
moved to pity, he began to reflect, and the result of his re-
flections was that he decided to go in.
When he set foot in the office a man who was seated befo' -
a table, lighted by a candle, writing, turned round and sa
to him in a sharp, peremptory tone of voice, " What do yo;
want, sir?" " Sir, I was a witness of what took place just
now; I come to make a deposition as to what I saw, and to
speak to you in this woman's favour." At these words the
woman looked at V. H. in mute astonishment, and as though
dazed. " Your deposition, more or less interested, will be un-
availing. This woman has been guilty of an assault in a pub-
lic thoroughfare. She struck a gentleman. She will get six
months' imprisonment for it."
The woman once more began to cry, scream, and roll over
40 THINGS SEEN
and over. Other women, who had come and joined her said to
her. " We will come and see you. Never mind. We will
bring you some linen things. Take that for the present."
And at the same time they gave her money and sweetmeats.
" When you know who I am," said V. H., " you will, per-
haps, change your manner and tone, and will listen to me."
" Who are you, then ? "
V. H. saw no reason for not giving his name.
He gave his name. The Commissary of Police, for he was
a Commissary of Police, was prolific of excuses, and became
as polite and deferential as he had before been arrogant ;
offered him a chair, and begged him to be good enough to be
seated.
V. H. told him that he had seen with his own eyes a gentle-
man pick up a snowball and throw it down the back of the
woman ; that the latter, who could not even see the gentle-
man, had uttered a cry indicating sharp pain ; that indeed she
had attacked the gentleman, but that she was within her
right; that apart from the rudeness of the act, the violent
and sudden cold occasioned by the snow might, in certain cir-
cumstances, do the woman the most serious injury; that so
far from taking away from this woman, who had possibly a
mother or a child to support, the bread so miserably earned, it
should rather be the man guilty of this assault upon her
whom he should condemn to pay a fine; in fact, that it was
not the woman who should have been arrested, but the man.
During this defence, the woman, more and more surprised,
beamed with joy and emotion. " How good the gentleman
is ! " she said, " how good he is ! I never knew so good a
gentleman. But then I never saw him. I do not know him
at all."
The Commissary of Police said to V. H. : " I believe all that
you allege, but the policemen have reported the case, and there
is a charge made out. Your deposition will be entered in the
charge-sheet, you may be sure. But justice must take its
course, and I cannot set the woman at liberty. "
" What! After what I have just told you, and what is the
i
FIESCHI 41
truth — truth which you cannot and do not douht — you arc
going to detain this woman? Then this justice is a horrible
injustice! "
" There is only one condition on which I could end the mat-
ter, and that is that you would sign your deposition. Will
you do so ? "
" If the liberty of this woman depends on my signature,
here it is. "
And V. H. signed.
The woman continually repeated, " How good the gentle-
man is! How good he is!"
These unhappy women arc astonished and grateful not
only when they are treated with sympathy, they are none the
less so when they are treated with justice.
1842
FIESCHI
April 14.
IN the Boulevard du Temple just now the house of Fieschi
is being pulled down. The rafters of the roof are desti-
tute of tiles. The windows, without glass or frames, lay bare
the interior of the rooms. Inside, through the windows at the
eorner of the yard, can be seen the staircase which Fieschi,
IVpin, and Morey went up and down so many times with their
hideous project in their hands. The yard is crowded with lad-
ders and carpenter's work, and the ground-floor is surrounded
by a timber hoarding.
What can be seen of Fieschi's room appears to have been
embellished and decorated by the different lodgers who have
inhabited it since. The walls and ceiling are covered witli a
paper sprinkled with a small pattern of greenish hue; and
upon the ceiling an ornamental beading, also papered, makes
the outline of a Y. This ceiling is, however, already broken
in and much cracked by the builder's pickaxe.
42 THINGS SEEN
Upon the subject of the Fieschi trial I have from the chan-
cellor himself, M. Pasquier, several details which are not
known.
As long as Fieschi, after his arrest, thought that his accom-
plices were in sympathy with him he remained silent. One day
he learned through his mistress, Nini Lassave, the one-eyed
woman, that Morey said, " What a pity the explosion did not
kill him ! " From that moment Fieschi was possessed with
hatred; he denounced Pepin and Morey, and was as assiduous
in ruining them as he had previously been anxious to save
them. Morey and Pepin were arrested. Fieschi became the
energetic supporter of the prosecution. He entered into the
most minute details, revealed everything, threw light on,
traced, explained, unveiled, unmasked everything, and failed
in nothing, never telling any falsehood, and caring little about
putting his head under the knife provided the two other heads
fell.
One day he said to M. Pasquier, " Pepin is such a fool that
he entered in his account-book the money he gave me for the
machine, setting down what it was to be used for. Make a
search at the house. Take his account-book for the six first
months of 1835. You will find at the head of a page an entry
of this kind made with his own hand." His instructions are
followed, the search is ordered, the book is found. M. Pas-
quier examines the book, the procurator-general examines
the book ; nothing is discovered. This seems strange. For the
first time Fieschi was at fault. He is told of it : " Look
again." Useless researches, trouble wasted. The commission-
ers of the court are reinforced by an old examining magistrate
whom this affair makes a councillor at the Royal Court in
Paris (M. Gaschon, whom the Chancellor Pasquier, in telling
me all this, called Gacon or Cachon). This judge, an expert,
takes the book, opens it, and in two minutes finds at the top
of a page, as stated, the memorandum which formed the sub-
ject of Fieschi's accusation. Pepin had been content to strike
it through carelessly, but it remained perfectly legible. The
president of the Court of Peers and the procurator-general,
FIESCHI 43
from a certain habit readily understood, had not read the
passages which were struck through, and this memorandum
had escaped them.
The thing being discovered, Fieschi is brought forward,
and Pepin is brought forward, and they are confronted with
each other before the book. Consternation of Pepin, joy of
Fieschi. Pepin falters, grows confused, weeps, talks of his
wife and his three children; Fieschi triumphs. The examina-
tion was decisive, and Pepin was lost. The sitting had been
long; M. Pasquier dismisses Pepin, takes out his watch, and
says to Fieschi, " Five o'clock ! Come, that will do for to-
day. It is time for you to go to dinner." Fieschi leaped
up : " Dinner ! O, I have dined to-day. I have cut ofF
Pepin's head ! "
Fieschi was correct in the smallest particulars. He said
one day that at the moment of his arrest he had a dagger upon
him. No mention was to be found of this dagger in any of
the depositions. " Fieschi," said M. Pasquier, " what is the
use of telling lies? You had no dagger ! " " Ah, president,"
said Fieschi, " when I arrived at the station-house I took
advantage of the moment when the policemen had their backs
turned to throw the dagger under the camp-bed on which I
had to sleep. It must be there still. Have a search made.
Those gendarmes are a filthy lot. They do not sweep under-
neath their beds." A visit was made to the station-house, the
camp-bed was removed, and the dagger was found.
I was at the Peers' Court the day before his condemnation.
Morey was pale and motionless. Pepin pretended to be read-
ing a newspaper. Fieschi gesticulated while talking loudly
and laughing. At one moment he rose and said, " My lords,
in a few days my head will be severed from my body ; I shall
be dead, and I shall rot in the earth. I have committed a
crime, and I render a service. As for my crime, I am going
to expiate it; as for my service, you will gather the fruits of
it. After me no more riots, no more assassinations, no more
disturbances. I shall have sought to kill the king; I shall
have succeeded in saving him. These words, the gesture,
44 THINGS SEEN
the tone of voice, the hour, the spot, struck me. The man
appeared to me courageous and resolute. I said so to M.
Pasquier, who answered me : " He did not think he was to
die."
He was a bravo, a mercenary, nothing else. He had served
in the ranks, and he mixed up his crime with some sort of
military ideas. " Your conduct is very dreadful," M. Pas-
quier said to him ; " to blow up perfect strangers, people
who have done you no harm whatever, — passers-by." Fieschi
coldly replied, " It is what is done by soldiers in an ambush."
THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF ORLEANS
YESTERDAY, July 13, the Duke of Orleans died of an
accident.
On this subject, when one reflects upon the history of
the last hundred and fifty years, an idea crosses the mind.
Louis XIV. reigned, his son did not reign ; Louis XV. reigned,
his son did not reign ; Louis XVI. reigned, his son did
not reign ; Napoleon reigned, his son did not reign ; Charles
X. reigned, his son did not reign ; Louis-Philippe reigns,
his son will not reign. Extraordinary fact ! Six times
in succession human foresight designates from amid a whole
people the head which is to reign, and it is precisely
that one which does not reign. The fact is repeated with
dreadful and mysterious persistency. A revolution comes
about, a universal upheaval of ideas which ingulfs in a
few years a past of six centuries, and the whole social life
of a great nation. This formidable commotion overturns
everything excepting the fact to which we have referred ;
this, on the contrary, it causes to spring up amid all that
it demolishes, — a great empire is established, a Charlemagne
appears, a new world arises, the fact continues to repeat itself ;
it appears to be of the new world as well as of the old world.
The empire falls, the old blood returns ; Charlemagne has
DEATH OF DUKE OF ORLEANS 45
vanished, exile takes the conqueror, and returns those who
were proscribed ; revolutions gather again and burst, dy-
nasties change three times, event follows event, the tide ebbs
and flows; still the fact remains, perfect, uninterrupted,
without modification, without break. Since monarchies have
existed, law says, " The eldest son of the king always
reigns ; r ' and now for a hundred and forty years the event
has answered, " The eldest son of the king never reigns."
Does it not seem as though it is a law which is revealing
itself, and revealing itself in the inexplicable order of hu-
man occurrences, with a degree of persistency and exactitude
which up to the present had belonged only to material facts?
Would it not be startling if certain laws of history were to
be made manifest to men with the same preciseness, the
same inflexibility, and, so to speak, the same harshness, as
the great laws of Nature?
For the Duke of Orleans, when dying, a few mattresses
were hurriedly thrown upon the ground, and the head of the
bed was made of an old arm-chair turned upside down.
A battered stove was at the back of the prince's head.
Pots and pans and coarse earthenware vessels ornamented a
few boards along the wall. A large pair of shears, a
fowling-piece, one or two-penny coloured pictures fastened,,
with four nails, represented Mazagran, the Wandering Jew,
and the Attempt of Fieschi. A portrait of Napoleon and
a portrait of the Duke of Orleans (Louis-Philippe) as a
colonel-in-chief of hussars, completed the decoration of the
wall. The flooring was a square of plain red bricks. Two
old wardrobes propped up the prince's death-bed on the left-
hand side.
The queen's chaplain, who assisted the vicar of Neuilly at
the moment of the Extreme Unction, is a natural son of
Napoleon, the Abbe , who much resembles the Emperor,
minus the air of genius.
Marshal Gerard was present at the death, in uniform;
Marshal Soult, in a black coat, with his face like that of an
46 THINGS SEEN
old bishop ; M. Guizot, in a black coat ; the king, in 1 lack
trousers and a brown coat. The queen had on a violet silk
gown trimmed with black lace.
July 20.
God has vouchsafed two gifts to man, — hope and igno-
rance. Ignorance is the better of the two.
Every time the Duke of Orleans, the Prince Royal, went
to Villiers to his summer palace, he passed by a rather
squalid-looking house, with only two stories, and a single
window to each of its two stories, and with a wretched shop,
painted green, upon the level of the street. This shop,
without any window on the road-way, had only one door,
through which could be seen in the shadow a counter, a pair
of scales, a few common wares displayed upon the floor,
above which was painted in dirty yellow letters this inscrip-
tion : " Grocery Stores." It is not quite certain that the
Duke of Orleans, young, light-hearted, merry, happy, ever
noticed this doorway; or if he occasionally cast an eye upon
it in passing quickly along the road on pleasure intent, he
probably looked upon it as the door of some wretched shop,
some rookery, some hovel. It was the doorway of his tomb.
To-day, Wednesday, I visited the spot where the prince
fell, now exactly a week ago. It is at that part of the
road-way which is comprised between the twenty-sixth and
twenty-seventh tree on the left, counting the trees from the
intersection of the road in the open circus at the Porte Maillot.
The road-way from side to side is twenty-one paving-stones
wide. The prince smashed his forehead upon the third and
fourth paving-stones on the left near the edge. Had he
been thrown eighteen inches farther, he would have fallen
on the bare earth.
The king has had the two blood-stained paving-stones re-
moved, and to-day could still be distinguished, in spite of
the mud of a rainy day, the two new stones just put in.
Upon the wall opposite, between the two trees, a cross ha.'
DEATH OF DUKE OF ORLEANS 47
been cut in the plaster by passers-by, with the date, July
13, 1842. At the side is 'written the word " Martir " (sic).
From the spot where the prince fell can be seen, on the
right, through a vista formed by the houses and trees, the
Arc de l'Etoile. On the same side, and within pistol-shot,
rises a great white wall surrounded by sheds and rubbish,
bordered by a moat and surmounted by a confused mass of
cranes, windlasses, and scaffoldings. These are the fortifica-
tions of Paris.
While I examined the two paving-stones and the cross
traced upon the wall, a gang of school-boys, all in straw
hats, suddenly surrounded me, and these young fresh-look-
ing and merry faces grouped themselves with heedless cu-
riosity around the fatal spot. A few steps farther on a
young nurse kissed and caressed a little baby, at the same
time shouting with laughter.
The house in which the prince expired is No. 4, and is
situated between a soap manufactory and a low eating-house
and wine-shop keeper's. The shop on the ground-floor is
shut. Against the wall, on the right-hand side of the door,
was placed a rough wooden seat, upon which two or three
old women were basking in the sun. Over their heads was
stuck up, upon the green ground of the coloured wall, a
large bill, bearing these words, " Esprit Putot Mineral
Water." A pair of white calico curtains at the window of
the first floor seem to indicate that the house is still oc-
cupied.
A number of men, sitting at tables and drinking at the
neighbouring wine-shop, talked and laughed noisily. Two
doors farther on upon the house No. 6, nearly opposite the
spot where the prince was killed, is painted up this sign in
black letters, " Chanudet, stone-mason."
Singular fact: the prince fell to the left, and the post-
mortem examination showed that the body was contused and
the skull smashed on the right-hand side.
M. Villeman (it was he himself who told me this the day
before yesterday) arrived at the prince's side hardlv half
48 THINGS SEEN
an hour after the accident. All the royal family were already
there.
On seeing M. Villemain enter, the king hastened towards
him and said, " It is a terrible fall ; he is still unconscious,
but there is no fracture, the limbs are all supple and unin-
jured." The king was right; the whole body of the prince
was healthy and intact save the head, which, without outward
tear or cut, was broken under the skin like a plate, Villemain
told me.
In spite of what has been said on the subject, the prince
neither wept nor spoke. The skull being shattered and the
brain torn, this would have been impossible. There was but
a particle of organic life. The dying man did not see, feel,
or suffer. M. Villemain only saw him move his legs twice.
The left-hand side of the road is occupied by gardens and
summer-houses; on the right-hand side there is nothing but
hovels.
On the 13th of July, when the prince quitted the Tuileries
for the last time, he passed, first of all, that human monu-
ment which awakens most powerfully the idea of endurance,
— the obelisk of Rameses ; but he might have called to mind
that on this same spot had been raised the scaffold of Louis
XVI. He next passed the monument which awakens in most
splendid fashion the idea of glory, — the Arc de Triomphe
de l'Etoile; but he might have called to mind that under the
same arch had passed the coffin of Napoleon. Five hundred
steps farther on he passed a road which owes its ominous
name to the insurrection of the 6th of October, fomented by
Philippe-Egalite against Louis XVI. This road is called
the Route de la Revolte. Just as they entered it, the horses
which conveyed the grandson of Egalite ran away, revolted,
so to speak, and two-thirds of the distance down this fatal
road the prince fell.
The Duke of Orleans was named Ferdinand after his grand-
father of Naples, Philip after his father and grandfather
of France, Louis after Louis XVI., Charles after Charles X.,
A DREAM 40
and Henry after Henry V. In his burial certificate was
omitted (was it by design?) his Sicilian name of Rosolino.
I confess I regretted the omission of this pleasing name,
which recalled Palermo and Sainte-Rosalie. Some sort of
ridicule was feared. Rosolino sounds charming to poets and
whimsical to commonplace people.
As I came back, towards six o'clock in the evening, I
noticed a bill printed in large letters, stuck here and there
upon the walls, with the words, " Fete at Neuilly, July 3d."
A DREAM
November 14.
HERE is a dream which I dreamt this night. I write it
solely on account of the date.
I was at home, but in a home which is not my own, and
which I do not know. There were several large reception-
rooms, very handsome, and brilliantly lighted. It was even-
ing — a summer evening. I was in one of these rooms,
near a table, with some friends, who were my friends in the
dream, but not one of whom do I know. A lively conversa-
tion was going on, accompanied by shouts of laughter. The
windows were all wide open. Suddenly I hear a noise behind
me. I turn round, and I see coming towards me, amid a
group of persons whom I do not know, the Duke of Orleans.
I went up to the prince with an expression of delight, but
otherwise without surprise. The prince appeared very lively
and in good-humour. I do not remember what clothes he
wore.
I held out my hand to him, thanking him for coming thus
cordially to my house without sending up his name. I re-
member very distinctly having said to him, " Thank you,
prince." He answered me wath a shake of the hand.
At that moment I turned my head and saw three or four
men placing upon the mantelpiece a bust of the Duke o€
4
50 THINGS SEEN
Orleans in white marble. I then perceived that there was
already on the same mantelpiece another bust of the prince
in bronze. The men placed the marble bust in the place of
the bronze bust and silently withdrew. The prince led me
towards one of the windows, which, as I have said, were open.
It seems to me that in doing so we went out of one room into
another. My mind is not clear as to this. The prince and
I sat down near the window, which looked out upon a splendid
prospect. It was the interior of a city. In my dream I
perfectly recognized this city, but in reality it was a place I
had never seen.
Underneath the window stretched for a long distance be-
tween two dark blocks of buildings a broad stream, made
resplendent in parts by the light of the moon. At the far
end, in the mist, towered the two pointed and enormous
steeples of a strange sort of cathedral ; on the left, very near
to the window, the eye looked in vain down a little dark alley.
I do not remember that there were in this city any lights
in the windows or inhabitants in the streets.
This place was known to me, I repeat, and I was speaking
of it to the prince as of a city which I had visited, and which
I congratulated him in having come to see in his turn.
The sky was of a tender blue and a lovely softness. In
<me place some trees, barely visible, were wafted in a genial
wind. The stream rippled gently. The whole scene had
an indescribable air of calm. It seemed as though in this spot
one could penetrate into the very soul of things. I called
the attention of the prince to the fineness of the night, and
I distinctly remember that I said these words to him : " You
are a prince; you will be taught to admire human politics;
learn also to admire Nature."
As I was speaking to the Duke of Orleans I felt that my
nose began to bleed; I turned, and I recognized among some
persons who were conversing at a little distance behind us
in low tones M. Melesville and M. Blanqui. The blood which
I felt streaming down my mouth and cheeks was very dark
and thick. The prince looked at it as it streamed, and con-
A DREAM 51
tinned to speak to me without betraying any surprise. I tried
to stop this bleeding with my handkerchief, hut without suc-
cess. At length I turned to M. Blanqui and said, " You are
a doctor; stop this bleeding, and tell me what it means."
M. Blanqui, who was a doctor only in my dream, and who in
reality is a political economist, did not answer me. I con-
tinued to converse with the prince, and the blood continued
to flow.
I do not quite know how it was that I ceased to take any
notice of the blood which deluged my face. At this point
there is a brief interval of mist and confusion, in which
I no longer distinguish, except very imperfectly, the figures
of the dream. What I do know is that suddenly I heard, in
the apartment which we had just left, a fresh commotion,
similar to that which had ushered in the arrival of the Duke
of Orleans. One of my friends came in and said to me,
" It is General Lafayette who has come to see you." I hastily
rose, and re-entered the first apartment. General Lafayette
was really there; I recognized him perfectly, and I looked
upon his visit quite as a matter of course. He was lean-
ing upon his son George, who was broad-faced, ruddy, and
jovial-looking, and who laid hold of my hands, snaking
them very heartily. The general was very pale; he was sur-
rounded by many unknown persons.
It is impossible for me to recall what I said to the general,
and what he said to me in reply. At the end of a few
moments he said to me, " I am in a hurry ; I must go. Give
me your arm to the door." Then he leaned his left elbow
upon my right shoulder, and his right elbow upon the left
shoulder of his son George, and we made our way at a very
slow pace towards the door.
Just as I arrived at the staircase, and was about to de-
scend with the genera], I turned and cast a glance behind
me. My look evidently darted at this instant through the
thickness of all the walls, for I saw all over several apart-
ments. There was no one in them now; there were lights
everywhere still, but all was deserted. But I saw, alone,
52 THINGS SEEN
and still seated in the same place, in the recess of the same
window, the Duke of Orleans looking sadly at me. At this
moment I awoke.
I had this dream on the night of the 13th to the 14th of
November, 1842, precisely four months after the death of
the Duke of Orleans, who was killed on the 13th of July, and
on the very night of the day when the period of mourning
for the death of the prince expired.
1843
BOYEIt-COI/LARD
June 16.
YESTERDAY, at the Academie, the sitting not yet hav-
ing begun, M. Royer-Collard and M. Ballanche came
and sat beside me. We entered into conversation. It was
rather a conversation between two than three. I listened more
than I spoke.
" The hot weather has come at last," said M. Royer-Col-
lard.
"Yes," replied M. Ballanche, "but it is too hot. The
heat is already too much for me."
" What ! are you not a Southerner, then ? "
" No. This heat overpowers me. I submit to it. I re-
sign myself."
" We must resign ourselves to the seasons as to men," said
M. Royer-Collard.
" Resignation is the basis of everything."
" If we could not learn resignation," continued M. Royer-
Collard, " we should die of rage." Then, after a moment's
silence, and emphasizing his words in the manner peculiar
to him, " I do not say we should die in a rage ; I say that
we should die of rage."
ROYER-COLLARD 53
" As for me anger is no longer a part of my disposition.
I have none left."
" I no longer get angry," rejoined M. Royer-Collard,
" because I reflect that half an hour afterwards I shall no
longer be angry."
" And I," replied M. Ballanchc, " no longer get angry,
because it upsets my mind."
After a moment's silence he added, with a smile, " The last
time I was angry was at the period of the Coalition. The
Coalition, — yes, yes ; the Coalition was my last fit of anger."
" Even so early as that? I no longer got angry," replied
M. Royer-Collard. " I looked on at what was being done.
I protested a great deal more inside than outside myself, as
a man protests who does not speak. After that time I re-
mained three years longer in the Chamber. I regret it. It
was three years too long. I remained too long in the Cham-
ber; I should have retired from it sooner. Not, however, at
the period of the Revolution of July ; not at the period of
the refusal of the oath of allegiance, — my motives would
have been misunderstood."
I said, " You are right ; there was in the Revolution of
July a basis of justice which you cannot ignore; you were
not one of those who could protest against it."
" Neither did I do so," replied M. Royer-Collard, smiling.
" I do not blame those who acted otherwise than as I did.
Every one has his conscience, and in public affairs there are
many ways of being honest. Men are honest according to
their lights."
He remained silent for a moment, as though scraping up
his recollections, then he resumed : —
" Well, after all, Charles X., too, was honest." Then he
relapsed into silence.
I left him to ponder for a moment, and wishing to know
his innermost thoughts, I resumed : —
" Whatever may have been said of him, he was, as a king,
an honest man ; and whatever may have been said of him
also, he only fell through his own fault. Historians may
54 THINGS SEEN
represent the matter as they please, but there it is. It was
Charles X. who overthrew Charles X."
" Yes," replied M. Royer-Collard, at the same time nod-
ding his head with a grave token of assent, " it is true he
overthrew himself ; he would have it. It is said he had bad
advisers. It is false, — false. No one advised him. It has
been said that he consulted Cardinal de la Farre, M. de
Latil, M. de Polignac, his suite. Would to Heaven he had
done so! None of those who surrounded him had lost their
heads as completely as he had ; none of them would have given
him such bad advice as he gave himself. All those who sur-
rounded the king, — those who were called the courtiers, —
were wiser than himself."
M. Royer-Collard remained silent for a moment, then
continued with a sad smile, which he often assumed during
the conversation : —
" Wiser, — that is to say, less insane."
Another pause ; then he added,
" No, nobody advised him."
And after another pause: —
" And nothing advised him. He had always, from his
youth upward, preserved his own identity. He was still the
Count d'Artois; he had not changed. Not to change, if one
should live to be eighty years of age, that was the only
quality which he valued. He called that having a 'personality.
He said that since the Revolution there had been in France
and in the era only two men, — M. de Lafayette and himself.
He esteemed M. de Lafayette."
" As a matter of fact," I said, " they were two brains
fashioned in very much the same way; but they harboured
a different idea, — that is all."
" And they were both of them constructed," continued M.
Royer-Collard, " to pursue their idea to the end. Charles
X. was destined to do what he did. It was fatal. I knew
it ; I was acquainted with the king. I saw him from time
to time. As I was a Royalist, he used to receive me with
friendliness., and treat me kindly. I readily foresaw the
ROYER-CGLLARD 55
stroke which lie was meditating. M. de Chateaubriand,
however, did not believe in it. He came to see me on his
return from his mission as Ambassador at Rome, and asked
me what I thought of it. I told him how it was. Opinions
were divided. The best authorities doubted whether such
madness was possible. But I myself did not doubt. I may
say that on the day when I took up to the king the Address
of the two hundred and twenty-one, — it was towards the end
of February, 1830, — I read the events of July in his looks."
" How did he receive you ? " I asked.
" Very coldly. With solemnity, with gentleness. I read
the Address to him, simply but firmly, without emphasizing
any of the passages, but without slurring any of them. The
king listened to it as he would have done to anything else.
When I had finished — " Here M. Royer-Collard stopped
short, and then added, with the same sad smile, " What I am
going to tell you is not very king-like. When I had finished
speaking, — the king was seated on what was called the
throne, — he drew forth from under his thigh a paper, which
he unfolded and read to us. It was his reply to our Address.
He showed no anger. He showed a good deal two years
previously, at the period of the other Address, — you know,
M. Ballanche, that which was drawn up by M. Delalot. It
was the custom to communicate the Address to the Chamber
on the previous evening, so that the king might prepare his
reply. W T hen the king received the Delalot Address, in the
presence of the Ministers, he burst into such a fit of rage
that his shouts could be heard from the Carrousel. He de
clared point-blank that he would not receive the Address, and
that he would dissolve the Chamber. The king was in a state
of fury, and this was at its height. The moment was a
perilous one. M. de Portalis, who was then Keeper of the
Seals, risked it. You know M. de Portalis, Monsieur Victor
Hugo ; I do not tell you he is a hero, but see the influence
of a candid word upon an obstinate disposition. M. de Por-
talis, standing before Charles X., simply said to him, * If such
are the intentions of the king for to-morrow, the king must
56 THINGS SEEN
give us now his orders for the day after to-morrow.' Strange
to say, these few words appeased the anger of Charles X. :
exigui pulveris jactu. He turned with an air of vexation
towards M. de Martignac, and said to him, ' Well, Martignac,
I will receive them; but sit down at the table, take a pen,
and prepare me a plain and uncompromising reply, worthy
of a king of France.' M. de Martignac obeyed. As he
wrote, the anger of the king further subsided; and when M.
de Martignac had finished, and he read to the king the
draft of the answer, already much softened by the con-
ciliatory disposition of Martignac, Charles X. seized the pen
to strike out half of it, and tone down the remainder. That
is how anger disappears, — even the anger of a king ; even
the anger of a stubborn man; even the anger of Charles X."
At this moment, as the sitting had already begun a few
minutes ago, the Director of the Academic (M. Flourens)
rang his bell, and an usher cried, " To your seats, gentle-
men."
M. Royer-Collard rose, and said to me, " But none of
these details will be gathered up, and they will never appear
in history."
" Perhaps," I replied.
1844.
KING LOUIS-PHILIPPE
K
September.
ING LOUIS-PHILIPPE said to me the other day, " I
was never in love but once in my life."
"And who with, Sire?"
" With Madame de Genlis."
" Ah, but she was your tutor."
The king laughed and replied : —
As you say. And a strict tutor, I declare to you. She
u
KING LOUIS-PHILIPPE 57
brought up my sister and myself quite ferociously. Getting
up at six in the morning, summer and winter; i'vd upon milk,
roast meats, and bread; never any luxuries, never any sweet-
meats; plenty of work and no play. It was she who accus-
tomed me to sleep upon boards. She made me learn a great
variety of manual work; thanks to her I can work a little
at every trade, including that of a barber-surgeon. I bleed
my man like Figaro. I am a cabinet-maker, a groom, a
mason, a blacksmith. She was systematic and severe. From
a very little boy I was afraid of her; I was a weak, lazy, and
cowardly boy, I was afraid of mice! She made me a toler-
ably bold man, with some amount of spirit. As I grew up
I perceived that she was very pretty. I knew not what
possessed me when she was present. I was in love and did
not know it. She, who was an adept in the matter, under-
stood and guessed what it was at once. She used me very
badly. It was at the time when she was intimate with
Mirabeau. She constantly said to me, ' Come, now, Monsieur
de (hartres, you great booby, why are you always at my
skirts?' She was thirty-six years of age, I was seventeen."
The king who saw that I was interested, continued:
" Madame de Genlis has been much talked about and little
known. She has had children ascribed to her of whom she
was not the mother, — Pamela and Casimir. This is how it
was: she loved anything beautiful or pretty; she liked to
have smiling faces around her. Pamela was an orphan whom
she took up on account of her beauty; Casimir was the son
of her door-keeper. She thought the child charming; the
father used to beat the son. ' Give him to me,' she said,
one day. The man consented, and that is how she got
Casimir. In a little while Casimir became the master of the
house. She was old then. Pamela she had in her youth, in
our own time. Madame de Genlis adored Pamela. When
it became necessary to go abroad, Madame de Genlis set out
for London with my sister and a hundred louis in money.
She took Pamela to London. The ladies were wretched, and
lived meanly in furnished apartments. It was winter-time.
58 THINGS SEEN
Really, Monsieur Hugo, they did not dine every day. The
tid-bits were for Pamela. My poor sister sighed, and was
the victim, the Cinderella. That is just how it was. My
sister and Pamela, in order to economize the wretched hun-
dred louis, slept in the same room. There were two beds,
but only one blanket. My sister had it at first, but one
evening Madame de Genlis said to her, ' You are well and
strong; Pamela is very cold, I have put the blanket on her
bed.' My sister was annoyed, but dared not rebel; she con-
tented herself with shivering every night. However, my sis-
ter and myself loved Madame de Genlis."
Madame de Genlis died three months after the Revolution
of July. She lived just long enough to see her pupil king.
Louis-Philippe was really in some degree of her making;
she had educated him as though she had been a man and not
a woman. She positively refused to crown her work with
the supreme education of love. A strange thing this in a
woman of so few scruples, that she should have first shaped
the heart, and that she should have disdained to complete the
work.
When she saw the Duke of Orleans king, she simply said,
" I am glad of it." Her last years were poor and almost
wretched.' It is true she had no skill in management, and
scattered her money broadcast in the gutter. The king-
often went to see her; he visited her up to the last days of
her life. His sister, Madame Adelaide, and himself never
ceased to pay every kind of respect and deference to Madame
de Genlis.
Madame de Genlis complained somewhat of what she
called the stinginess of the king. She said, " He was a
prince, I made a man of him ; he was clumsy, I made a
ready man of him ; he was a bore, I made an entertaining man
of him ; he was a coward, I have made a brave man of him ;
he was stingy, I could not make a generous man of him.
Liberal if you like ; generous, no."
KING LOUIS-PHILIPPE 59
September
M. Guizot goes out every day after breakfast, at midday,
and spends an hour at the residence of the Princess <l'
Lieven, in the Rue Saint-Florentin. In the evening he re-
turns, and except on official days he spends his whole even-
ings there.
M. Guizot is fifty-seven years of age; the Princess is
fifty-eight. With regard to this, the king said one even-
ing to M. Duchatel, Minister of the Interior, " Has not
Guizot a friend to advise him? Let him beware of those
North-country women. He does not understand them.
When a North-country woman is old, and gets hold of a man
younger than herself, she sucks him dry." Then the king
burst out laughing. M. Duchatel, who is fat and stout,
who wears whiskers, and who is forty-five years of age, turns
very red.
October.
The king, when at home in the evening, does not usually
wear any decoration. He is attired in a brown coat, black
trousers, and a waistcoat of black satin or white pique.
He has a white cravat, silk stockings, with open-work in
front, and polished shoes. He wears a grey toupet, only
slightly concealed, and arranged in the style of the Restora-
tion. No gloves. He is lively, good-natured, affable, and
chatty.
His travels in England delighted him. He spoke to me
about them for an hour and a half, with much gesticulation,
accompanied by many imitations of English pronunciation
and ways.
" I was exceedingly well received," he said. " Mobs of
people, acclamations, salvoes of artillery, banquets, ceremo-
nies, fetes, visits from the Corporation, an address from the
City of London, — nothing was wanting. In all this, two
things especially touched my feelings. Near Windsor, at
a posting-stage, a man who had run after my carriage came
and stood close to me at the window, shouting, ' Vive le rot!
60 THINGS SEEN
Vive le roll Vive le roil ' in French. Then he added, also
in French, ' Sire, welcome to this old English nation ; you
are in a country which knows how to appreciate you.' That
man had never seen me before, and will never see me again.
He expects nothing of me. It seemed to me as though it
was the voice of the people. This affected me more than any
other compliment. In France, at the next stage beyond Eu,
a drunken man, seeing me pass, shouted, * There is the king
come back ; it is all right now ; the English are satisfied and
the French will be at peace.' The contentment and peace
of the two peoples, that, indeed, was my aim. Yes, I was
well received in England. And if the Emperor of Russia
compared his reception with mine, it must have been quite
painful to him, he is so vain. He went to England before
me to prevent me from making my journey. It was a fool-
ish proceeding. He would have done better to go after
me. They would then have been obliged to treat him in the
same way. In London, in particular, he is not liked. I
do not know whether they would have got the members of
the Corporation to take the trouble to go and see him.
Those aldermen are very resolute."
Louis-Philippe used to make great fun of the elder M.
Dupin, who, thinking to heighten the refinements of Court
language, calls Madame Adelaide, the sister of the king,
Ma belle demoiselle.
SAINT CLOUD
November.
THE king yesterday looked fatigued and careworn.
When he perceived me, he led me into the apartment
behind the queen's room, and said to me, as he showed me
a large-sized tapestry couch, with parrots worked upon it
in medallions, " Let us sit down on these birds." Then he
took my hand, and said, in a somewhat bitter tone of com-
i
SAINT CLOUD 61
plaint, " Monsieur Hugo, I am misunderstood. I am said
to be proud, I am said to be clever; that means that I am
a traitor. It grieves me. I am simply an honest man. I
go the straight road. Those who are acquainted with me
know that I am not wanting in frankness. Thiers, when he
was acting with me, told me one day that we were dis-
agreed: 'Sire, you are proud, but I am prouder than you.'
' The proof that that is not so,' I replied, ' is that you tell
me so.' M. de Talleyrand said to me one day, ' You will
never make anything of Thiers, who, for all that, would be
an excellent instrument. But he is one of those men who
can only be used on condition of satisfying their require-
ments ; and he will never be satisfied. The misfortune for
himself as well as for you is that there is no longer any
possibility of his being a cardinal. Thiers is clever, but he
has too much of the conceit of a self-made man. Guizot is
better. He is a man of weight, a fulcrum ; the species is a
rare one, and I appreciate it. He is superior even to Casimir
Perier, who had a narrow mind. His was the soul of a
banker, weighted to earth like an iron chest. Ah, how rare
is a true minister ! They are all like school-boys. The at-
tendances at the Council are irksome to them ; the most im-
portant affairs are disposed of at a gallop. They are in a
hurry to be off to their departments, their commissions, their
offices, their gossipings. In the period which followed 1830
they had a look of uneasiness and humiliation when I presided ;
moreover, no real appreciation of power, little grandeur at
heart, no sustained aim in policy, no persistency of will.
They leave the Council as a boy leaves his class-room. On
the day he left the Ministry the Duke of Broglie jumped
for joy in the Council chamber. Marshal Soult arrives.
'What is the matter with you, my dear duke?' 'Marshal,
we are leaving the ministry.' ' You entered it like a wise
man,' said the marshal, who had humour, ' and you leave it
like a madman.' Count Mole, now, had a way of yielding to
me and resisting at one and the same time. ' I am of the
king's opinion as to the general question, but not as to the
62 THINGS SEEN
expediency.' Monsieur Hugo, if you only knew how things
go on sometimes at the Council ! The Right of Search
treaty, the famous Right of Search — would you believe it?
— was not even read at the Council ? Marshal Sebastiani,
at that time Minister, said, ' Pray read the treaty, gentle-
men.' I said, ' My dear Ministers, pray read the treaty.'
' Oh, we have no time ; we know what it is. Let the king
sign it,' they said. And I signed."
1845
VILLEMAIN
December 7.
DURING the first days of December, 1845, I called on
Villemain. I had not seen him since the 3d of July,
exactly five months previously. Villemain had been seized
during the last days of December, 1844, with the cruel com-
plaint which marked the close of his political career.
It was cold, the weather was melancholy, I was melancholy
myself; this was the time to go and console somebody. Con-
sequently I went to see Villemain.
He was then living in the rooms allotted to the life-Secre-
tary of the Academie Francaise, on the second floor of the
right-hand staircase, at the far end of the second courtyard
of the Institute. I ascended this staircase and rang at the
door on the right ; no one came. I rang a second time ; the
door opened. It was Villemain himself. He was pale, de-
jected, attired in a long black frock-coat, buttoned at the top
with one solitary button, his grey hair unkempt. He looked
at me with a melancholy look, and said, without a smile, " Ah,
it is you ; good-morning."
Then he added, " I am alone ; I do not know where my
servants are ; come in."
He led me through a long corridor into an apartment, and
VILLEMAIN 63
thence into his bedroom. The whole abode is depressing,
and seems in some way like the attic of a convent. In the
bedroom, lighted by two windows opening on the courtyard,
the only furniture was a mahogany bedstead, without cur-
tains or counterpane, a sheet of white paper carelessly thrown
upon the bed, one or two horsehair chairs, a chest of drawers
between the two windows, and a writing-table covered with
papers, books, newspapers, and opened letters. Nearly all
these letters had printed headings, such as, " House of
Peers," " Institute of France," " Council of State," " Journal
des Savants," etc. Upon the mantelpiece the " Moniteur,"
of the day, a few letters, and a few books, among them the
" History of the Consulate and the Empire," by M. de La-
cretelle, which has just appeared.
Near the bed was a child's cot with mahogany rails, cov-
ered with a green counterpane. Upon the wall opposite the
bed hang three frames containing the lithographed portrait
of Villemain and the portraits of the two eldest of his little
(laughters, painted in oil and tolerably like; upon the man-
telpiece a clock, which is out of order, and shows the wrong
time; in the fireplace a fire nearly out.
Villemain made me sit down, and took hold of my hands.
He was rather disordered-looking, but gentle and earnest:.
He asked me what I had been doing this summer, and said
he had been on a journey; spoke of one or two common
friends, — some with affection, others with distrust. Then
his appearance became calmer, and he conversed for a quar-
ter of an hour on literary topics, adopting a high tone, clear,
simple, elegant, thoughtful, although still gloomy, and not
laughing once.
Suddenly he looked straight, at me and said, " I have a
painful matter in my mind; I am in trouble, I have distressing
anxieties. If you only knew what conspiracies there are
against me ! "
" Villemain," I said, " be calm."
" No," he rejoined, " it is really dreadful." After a pause
he added, as though speaking to himself, " They began by
64 THINGS SEEN
separating me from my wife. I loved her, and still love her.
She had some mental failing; that may have engendered de-
lusions. But what is much more certain is that they suc-
ceeded in arousing in her an antipathy towards me, and then
they separated me from her, and afterwards separated my
children from me. Those poor little girls are charming.
You saw them; they are my delight. Well, I do not dare
to go and see them; and when I see them, I simply assure
myself that they are well, that they are bright and gay and
fresh-looking, and I am afraid even to kiss them on the fore-
head. Great heavens ! my very touch would be made an ex-
cuse, perhaps, for harming them. How do I know what de-
vices they are capable of? Therefore, I am separated
from my wife, separated from my children, and now I am
alone."
After a pause he continued : " No, I am not alone. I am
not even alone. I have enemies, everywhere, — here, outside,
around me, in my dwelling. The fact is, my friend, that
I made a mistake; I ought not to have entered upon political
affairs. To succeed in them, to be firm and strong, I should
have had a support ; an internal support, — happiness ; an
external support, — some one." (He referred, doubtless,
to the king.) " These supports both failed me. I foolishly
threw myself amid men's hatreds. I was naked and unarmed.
They fell violently upon me; at present I have done with
everything."
Then suddenly looking at me with a certain look of an-
guish : " My friend, whatever may be said to you, whatever
you may be told, whatever may be alleged about me, my
friend, promise me that you will not believe any of the calum-
nies. They are so scandalous. My life is very gloomy, but
quite blameless. If you only knew what things they concoct ;
they arc inconceivable. Oh, how infamous they are ! It is
enough to drive me mad. If it were not for my little girls
I should kill myself. Do you know what they say? Oh, I
will not repeat it. They say that at night workmen come in
through that window to sleep in my bed."
VILLEMAIN 65
I burst out laughing. " And that distresses you? Why,
it is foolish and absurd."
" Yes," he said, " I am on the second floor, but they are
so cunning- that they put great ladders at night against the
wall to make people believe it. And when I think that these
things, these villainies, are secretly told and openly believed,
and — no one defends me. Some look on me coldly, others
with dissimulation. Victor Hugo, swear to me that you will
not believe any calumny."
He stood up. I was profoundly touched; I said a few kind
and friendly words to quiet him.
He continued: —
"Ah, what abominable hatreds! This is how it began.
When I went out of doors they managed so that everything
I saw should have an ominous look. I met only men buttoned
up to the chin, people dressed in red, extraordinary costumes;
women dressed half in black, half in violet, who looked at me
and shouted for joy; and everywhere hearses of .little children,
followed by other little children, some in black, others in white.
You will tell me, ' But those are mere omens, and a vigorous
mind is not disturbed by omens.' Well, I know that. It is
not the omens which alarm me, it is the thought that I was so
much hated that people took all this trouble to bring round
about mc so many depressing sights. If a man hates me
sufficiently to surround me constantly with a flight of crows,
what appalls me is not the crows, but his hatred."
Here I again interrupted him. " You have enemies," I
said to him ; " but you also have friends, — think of that."
He abruptly withdrew his hands from mine. " Now, just
listen to what I am going to say to you, Victor Hugo, and
you will know what I have in my mind. You will be able to
tell how I suffer, and how my enemies have succeeded in de-
stroying all confidence and excluding all the light from within
me. I no longer know what I am doing, or what is wanted
of me. Now you, for instance, are as noble a man as any
that exists. You are of the blood of La Vendee, of military
blood; I will go further, and say of warrior's blood. There
5
66 THINGS SEEN
is nothing in you that is not pure and loyal ; you are inde-
pendent of everybody ; I have known you for twenty years,
and I have never seen you do any act which was not upright
and honourable. Well, you may imagine my misery, for in
my soul and conscience I am not sure you have not been sent
here by my enemies to spy upon me."
He was in such anguish that I could not but pity him. I
took his hand once more. He looked at me with a haggard
look.
" Villemain," I said, " doubt that the sky is blue, but do
not doubt that the friend who addresses you is loyal."
" Forgive me," he rejoined, " forgive me. Ah, I know the
tilings I have been saying are absurd. You, at least, have
never failed me, although you may have had sometimes to
complain of me. But I have so many enemies. If you only
knew ! This house is full of them. They are everywhere,
concealed, invisible; they beset me. I feel that their ears are
listening to me, I feel that their looks are fixed upon me.
What an anxiety it is to live like this ! "
At this moment, by one of those strange coincidences which
sometimes happen as though by design, a little door hidden in
the wainscotting near the fireplace suddenly opened. He
turned round on hearing the noise.
" What is it ? " He went to the door. It communicated
with a little corridor. He looked into the corridor.
" Is there any one there? " he asked.
There was no one.
" It is the wind," I said.
He came back to me, placed his finger on his lips, looked
straight at me, and said in a low tone, and with an inde-
scribable tone of horror, " Oh, no ! "
Then he remained for some moments motionless and silent,
with his finger upon his lips, like some one listening for
something, and with his eyes half turned towards the door
which he had left open.
I felt that it was time to speak earnestly to him. I made
him sit down again, and took him by the hand.
VILLEMAIN 67
" Listen, Villcmain," I said, " you have your enemies, —
■lumerous enemies, I admit — " Pic interrupted me, his face
lighted up with a sad joy.
" Ah ! " he said, " you, at all events, admit it. All these
fools tell mc that I have no enemies, and that I am dream-
ing."
" Yes," I replied, " you have your enemies ; but who has
not? Guizot has enemies, Thiers has enemies, Lamartine has
enemies. Have I not myself been fighting for twenty years?
Have I not been for twenty years past hated, rended, sold,
betrayed, reviled, hooted, taunted, insulted, calumniated?
Have not my books been parodied and my deeds travestied? I
also am beset and spied upon ; I also have traps set for me,
and I have even been made to fall in them. Who knows that
I was not followed this very day as I came from my house
to yours? But what is all that to me? I disdain it. It i:
one of the most difficult } r et necessary things in life to learn
to disdain. Disdain protects and crushes. It is a breast-
plate and a club. You have enemies? Why, it is the story
of every man who has done a great deed or created a new
idea. It is the cloud which thunders around everything,
which shines. Fame must have enemies, as light must have
gnats. Do not bother yourself about it ; disdain. Keep your
mind serene as you keep your life clear. Do not give your
enemies the satisfaction of thinking that they cause you grief
or pain. Be happy, be cheerful, be disdainful, be firm."
He shook his head sadly. " That is easy for you to say,
Victor Hugo. As for me, I am weak. Oh, I know myself!
I know my limitations. I have some talent in writing, but
I do not know how far it goes; I have some precision of
thought, but I do not know how far it goes. I am soon
fatigued. I have no staying power. I am w r eak, irresolute,
hesitating. I have not done all that I could have done. In
the realms of thought I do not possess all that is needful for
creating; in the sphere of action I do not possess all that is
needful for struggling. Strength is precisely what I vrr
wanting in ; and disdain is a form of strength.'
»
68 THINGS SEEN
He was jA in thought for a moment, then added, this time
with a smile, " Anyhow, you have done me good ; you have
quieted me 5 I feel better. Equanimity is infectious. Oh, if
I could only bring myself to treat my enemies as you treat
yours ! "
At this moment the door opened and two persons entered.
— a Mo Fortoul, I think, and a nephew of Villemain's. I
rose.
" Are you going already ? " he said to me.
He conducted me through the corridor as far as the stair-
case. " There, my friend," he said to me, " I believe in
you."
" Well," I said, " I have told you to despise your enemies.
Do so. But you have two whom you must take into account,
and of whom you must rid yourself. These two enemies are
solitude and brooding. Solitude brings sadness ; brooding
brings uneasiness. Do not remain alone, and never brood.
Move about, go out, walk, mix your ideas with the surround-
ing air, breathe freely and with long breaths, visit your
friends, come and see me."
" But will you be at home to me? " he said.
" I shall be delighted."
"When?"
" Every evening, if you like."
He hesitated, then said, " Well, I will come. I want to
see you often. You have done me good. Good-by. I shall
see you before long."
He hesitated again, then added, —
" But supposing I do not come? "
" Then," I said, " I shall come to you."
I shook hands with him and went down the stairs.
As I reached the bottom, and was about to step into the
courtyard, I heard his voice saying, " I shall see you before
long, eh? " I looked up. He had come down one flight of
stairs to bid me good-bye with a gentle smile.
ATTEMPT OF LECOMTE 6f
1846
ATTEMPT OF LECOMTE
May 31.
1^ HE Court of Peers is summoned to try the case of another
attempt upon the person of the king.
On the 16th of April last the king went for a drive in the
forest of Fontaincbleau, in a char a bancs. At his side was
M. de Montalivet, and behind him were the queen and several
of their children. They were returning home towards six
o'clock, and were passing by the walls of the Avon enclosure,
when two gunshots were fired from the left. No one was
hit. Rangers, gendarmes, officers of hussars who escorted the
king, all sprang forward. A groom climbed over the wall
and seized a man whose face was half masked with a necker-
chief. He was an ex-Ranger-general of the forests of the
Crown, who had been dismissed from his post eighteen months
before for a grave dereliction of duty.
June 1, midday.
The orator's tribune and the president's chair have been
removed.
The accused is seated on the spot where the tribune usually
stands, and is placed with his back to a green baize curtain,
placed there for the trial, between four gendarmes with grena-
dier's hats, yellow shoulder-straps, and red plumes. In fron*:
of him are five barristers, with white bands at their necks and
black robes. The one in the centre has the Cross of the
Legion of Honour and gray hair. It is Maitre Duvergier,
the batonnier. 1 Behind the prisoner red benches, occupied
by spectators, cover the semi-circle where the chancellor
usually presides.
i The Bdtonnier is the head of the Bar, and presides over the Counse
which regulates the etiquette of the profession. — Th.
70
THINGS SEEN
The prisoner is forty-eight years of age ; he does not ap-
pear to be more than about thirty-six. He has nothing in his
appearance which would suggest the deed which he has done.
It is one of those calm and almost insignificant countenances,
which impress rather favourably than otherwise. General
Voirol, who sits beside me, says to me, " He looks a good-
natured fellow." However, a dark look gradually overspreads
the face, which is somewhat handsome, although of a vulgar
type, and he looks like an ill-natured fellow. From the seat
which I occupy his hair and moustache appear bkck. He has
a long face with ruddy cheeks. He casts his eyes almost con
tinually downward ; when he raises them, every now and then,
he looks right up at the ceiling; if he were a fanatic, I should
say up to heaven. He has a black cravat, a white shirt, and
an old black frock-coat, with a single row of buttons, and
wears no ribbon, although belonging to the Legion of Honour.
General Berthuzene leans forward towards me, and tells me
that Lecomte yesterday remained quiet all day, but that he
became furious when he was refused a new black frock-coat
which he had asked for to appear in before the High Court.
This is a trait of character.
While the names of the Peers were being called over his
eyes wandered here and there., To the preliminary questions
of the chancellor he replied in a low tone of voice. Some of
the Peers called out, " Speak up ! " The chancellor told him
to look towards the Court.
The witnesses were brought in, among whom were one or
two women, very stylishly dressed, and some peasant women.
They are on my right, in the lobby on the left of the trib-
une. M. Decazes walks about among the witnesses. M.
de Montalivet, the first witness, is called. He wears a red
ribbon, together with two stars, one of a foreign order. He
comes in limping, on account of his gout. A footman in ?
russet livery with a red collar assists him.
I have examined the articles brought forward in support
of the indictment, which are in the right-hand passage. The
ATTEMPT OF LECOMTE 71
^'un is double-barrelled, with twisted barrels, the breech orna-
mented with arabesques in the style of the Renaissance; it is
almost a fancy weapon. The blouse worn by the assassin
is blue, tolerably well worn. The neckerchief with which he
hid his face is a cotton neckerchief, coffee-coloured, with white
stripes. On these articles is hung a small card bearing the
signatures of the prosecuting officials and the signature of
" Pierre Lecomte."
June 5.
During an interval in the sitting I observed the man from
a short distance. He looks his age. He has the tanned
skin of a huntsman and the faded skin of a prisoner. When
he speaks, when he becomes animated, when he stands up-
right, his appearance becomes strange. His gesture is ab-
rupt, his attitude fierce. His right eyebrow rises towards the
corner of his forehead and gives him an indescribably wild
and diabolical appearance. He speaks in a muffled but firm
tone.
At one point, explaining his crime, he said,
" I stopped on the 1 5th of April at the Place du Carrousel.
It was raining. I stood under a projecting roof and looked
mechanically at some engravings. There was a conversation
going on in the shop at the side, where there were three men
and a woman. I listened mechanically also. I felt sad.
Suddenly I heard the name of the king; they were talking of
the king. I looked at these men. I recognized them as
servants at the Castle. They said that the king would go the
next day to Fontainebleau. At that instant my idea ap-
peared. It appeared to me plainly, dreadfully. It left off
raining. I stretched out my hand from beneath the projec-
tion of the roof. I found that it no longer rained, and I
went away. I returned home to my room, to my little room,
bare of furniture and wretched. I remained there alone for
three hours. I mused, I pondered, I was very unhappy.
My project continually recurred. And then the rain began
to come down -again. The weather was gloomy; a strong
72 THINGS SEEN
wind was blowing; the sky was nearly black. I felt like a
madman. Suddenly I got up. It was settled. I had made
up my mind. That is how the idea came into my head."
At another moment, when the chancellor said that the crime
was without a motive, he said, —
" How so? I wrote to the king once, twice, three times.
The king did not reply. Oh, then — "
He did not finish what he had to say, but his fist clutched
the rail fiercely. At this moment he was terrific. He was
a veritable wild man. He sits down. He is now composed;
calm and fierce.
While the procurator-general spoke, he moved about like a
wolf, and appeared furious. When his counsel (Duvergier)
spoke, tears came into his eyes. They ran down his cheeks,
heavy and perceptible.
June 6.
This is how it takes place. On his name being called in a
loud voice by the clerk of the Court, each Peer rises and pro-
nounces sentence also in a loud voice.
The thirty-two Peers who have voted before me have all
declared for the parricide's penalty. One or two have miti-
gated this to capital punishment.
When my turn came, I rose and said, —
" Considering the enormity of the crime and the smallness
of the motive, it is impossible for me to believe that the
delinquent acted in the full possession of his moral liberty, of
his will. I do not think he is a human creature having an
exact perception of his ideas and a clear consciousness of his
actions. I cannot sentence this man to any other punishment
but imprisonment for life."
I said these words in very loud tones. At the first words
all the Peers turned round and listened to me in the midst
of a silence which seemed to invite me to continue. I stopped
short there, however, and sat down again.
The calling of the names continued.
The Marquis de Boissy said, —
ATTEMPT OF LECOMTE 73
" We have hoard these solemn words. Viscount Victor
Hugo has given utterance to an opinion which deeply im-
presses me, and to which I give my adhesion. I think, with
him, that the delinquent is not in full possession of his rea-
son. I declare for imprisonment for life."
The calling of the names continues with the lugubriously
monotonous rejoinder: "Capital punishment, parricide's
penalty."
Proceeding by seniority, according to the dates at which
the members of the House have taken their seats, the list comes
down to the names of the oldest Peers. Viscount Dubouchage
being called in his turn, said, —
" Being already uneasy in my mind during the trial, owing
to the manner of the accused, but fully convinced hy the ob-
servations of M. Victor Hugo, I declare that, in my opinion,
the delinquent is not of sound mind. Viscount Hugo gave
the reasons for this opinion in a few words, but in a way
which appears to me conclusive. I support him in his vote,
and I declare, like himself, for imprisonment for life."
The other Peers, of whom a very small number remained,
all voted for the parricide's penalty.
The chancellor, being called on last, rose and said, —
" I declare for the parricide's penalty. Now a second vote
will be taken. The first vote is only provisional, the second
alone is final. All are, therefore, at liberty to retract or con-
firm their votes. An opinion worthy of profound considera-
tion in itself, not less worthy of consideration owing to the
quarter whence it emanates, has been put forward with au-
thority, although supported by a very small minority, during
the progress of the voting. I think it right to declare here
that during the continuance of the long inquiry preceding
the prosecution, during seven weeks, I saw the accused every
day ; I examined him, pressed him, questioned him, and, as old
Parliamentarians say, ' turned him round ' in every direc-
tion. Never for a single moment was his clearness of percep-
tion obscured. I always found that he reasoned correctly
according to the frightful logic of his deed, but without
74 THINGS SEEN
mental derangement, as also without repentance. He is not
a madman : he is a man who knows what he wanted to do, and
who admits what he has done. Let him suffer the conse-
quences."
The second call has begun. The number of Peers voting
for the parricide's penalty has increased. On my name being
called I rose. I said, —
" The Court will appreciate the scruples of one in whose
conscience such formidable questions are suddenly agitated
for the first time. This moment, my lords, is a solemn one
for all, for no one more than for myself. For eighteen years
past I have had fixed and definite ideas upon the subject of ir-
reparable penalties. Those ideas you are acquainted with.
As a mere author I have published them; as a politician, with
God's help I will apply them. As a general rule, irreparable
penalties are repugnant to me ; in no particular instance do I
approve of them. I have listened attentively to the observa-
tions of the chancellor. They are weighty from so eminent
a mind. I am struck by the imposing unanimity of this im-
posing assembly. But while the opinion of the chancellor
and the unanimity of the Court are much, from the point of
view of discussion, they are nothing in face of one's con-
science. Before the speeches began I read, re-read, studied
all the documents of the trial ; during the pleadings I studied
the attitude, the looks, the gestures, I scrutinized the soul of
the accused. Well, I tell this Court, composed as it is of
just men, and I tell the chancellor, whose opinion has so
much weight, that I persist in my vote. The accused has led
a solitary life. Solitude is good for great, and bad for little
minds. Solitude disorders those minds which it does not en-
lighten. Pierre Lecomte, a solitary man with a small mind,
was necessarily destined to become a savage man with a dis-
ordered mind. The attempt upon the king, the attempt on
a father, at such a time, when he was surrounded by his fam-
ily ; the attempt upon a small crowd of women and children,
death dealt out hap-hazard, twenty possible crimes inextricably
added to a crime determined upon, — there is the deed. It h
ATTEMPT OF LECOMTE 7s
mo rous. Now, let us examine the motive. Here it is: A
deduction of twenty francs out of an annual allowance, a
resignation accepted, three letters remaining unanswered.
How can one fail to be struck by such a reconciliation and
sutih an abyss? I repeat, in conclusion, in the presence of
these two extremes, the most monstrous crime, the most in-
significant motive, it is evident to me that the thing is absurd,
that the mind which has made such a reconciliation and crossed
such an abyss is an illogical mind, and that this delinquent,
this assassin, this wild and solitary man, this fierce, savage
being, is a madman. To a doctor, perhaps, he is not a mad-
man ; to a moralist he certainly is. I will add that policy is
here in harmony with justice, and that it is always well to
deny human reason to a crime which revolts against nature,
and shakes society in its foundations. I adhere to my vote."'
The Peers listened to me with profound and sympathetic
attention. M. de Boissy and M. Dubouchage remained firm,
as I did.
There were two hundred and thirty-two voters. This is
how the votes were distributed: —
196 for the parricide's penalty;
33 for capital punishment;
3 for imprisonment for life.
The entire House of Peers may be said to have been dis-
pleased at the execution of Lecomte. He had been condemned
in order that he might be pardoned. It was an opportunity
for mercy held out to the king. The king eagerly seized such
opportunities, and the House knew this. When it learned
that the execution had actually taken place it was surprised,
almost hurt.
Immediately after the condemnation, the chancellor and
Chief President Franck-Carre, were summoned by the king.
M. Franck-Carre was the Peer who had been delegated to draw
tip the case. They went to the king in the chancellor's car-
riage. M. Franck-Carre, although he voted for the parri-
cide's penalty, was openly in favour of a pardon. The chan-
76 THINGS SEEN
cellor also leaned in this direction, although he would not dt
clare himself on the subject. On the way he said to Presi-
dent Franck Carre : " I directed the inquiry, I directed the
prosecution, I directed the trial. I had some influence over
the vote. I will not give my opinion on the subject of a
pardon. I have enough responsibility as it is. They will do
what they like."
In the cabinet of the king he respectfully adopted the same
tone. He declined to commit himself to a definite opinion on
the subject of a pardon. President Franck-Carre was ex-
plicit. The king saw what was the real opinion of the chan-
cellor.
Maitre Duvergier had conceived an affection for his client,
as a barrister always does for the client he has to defend. It
is a common result. The public prosecutor ends by hating
the accused, and the counsel for the defence by loving him.
Lecomte was sentenced on a Friday. On the Saturday M.
Duvergier went to see the king. The king received him in a
friendly manner, but said, " I will see about it ; I will con-
sider it. The matter is a grave one. My danger is the
danger of all. My life is of consequence to France, so that
I must defend it. However, I will think the matter over.
You know that I detest capital punishment. Every time I
have to sign the dismissal of an appeal for a pardon I am the
first to suffer. All my inclinations, all my instincts, all my
convictions are on the other side. However, I am a consti-
tutional king ; I have ministers who decide. And then natu-
rally I must think a little of myself too."
M. Duvergier was dreadfully grieved. He saw that the
king would not grant a pardon.
The Council of Ministers was unanimously in favour of
the execution of the sentence of the Court of Peers.
On the following day, Sunday, M. Duvergier received by
express a letter from the Keeper of the Seals, Martin du
Nord, announcing to him that " the king thought it right to
decide that the law should take its course." He was still
under the influence of the first shock of hope definitively shat~
ATTEMPT OF LECOMTE 77
tercd when a fresh express arrived. Another letter. The
Keeper of the Seals informed the bdtonnier that the king,
wishing to accord to the condemned man, Pierre Lecomte, a
further token of his good-will, had decided that the yearly al-
lowance of the said Lecomte should revert to his sister for
her lifetime, and that his Majesty had placed an immediate
sum of three thousand francs at the disposal of the sister for
her assistance. " I thought, M. lc Batonnier," said the
Keeper of the Seals, in conclusion, " that it would be agree-
able to you to communicate yourself to the unhappy woman
this evidence of the royal favour."
M. Duvergier thought he had made some mistake in read-
ing the first letter. " A further token," he said to one of his
friends, who was present. " I was mistaken, then. The
king grants the pardon." But he re-read the letter, and saw
that he had read it only too correctly. A further token re-
mained inexplicable to him. He refused to accept the com-
mission which the Keeper of the Seals asked him to under-
take.
As to the sister of Lecomte, she refused the three thousand
francs and the pension ; she refused them with something of
scorn and also of dignity. " Tell the king," she said,' " that
I thank him. I should have thanked him better for some-
thing else. Tell him that I do not forget my brother so
quickly as to take his spoils. This is not the boon that I
expected of the king. I want nothing. I am very unhappy
and miserable, I am nearly starving of hunger, but it pleases
me to die like this, since my brother died like that. He who
causes the death of the brother has no right to support the
sister."
M. Marilhac plays throughout this affair a lugubriously
active part. He was a member of the Commission of the
Peers during the preliminaries to the trial. He wanted to
omit from the brief for the prosecution the letter of Dr. Gal-
lois, in which he spoke of Lecomte as a madman. It was at
one moment proposed to suppress the letter.
Lecomte displayed some courage. At the last moment,
78 THINGS SEEN
however, on the night preceding the execution^ he asked, to-
wards two o'clock, to see the procurator-general, M. Hebert;
and M. Hebert, on leaving him after an interview of a quarter
of an hour, said, " He has completely collapsed ; the mind is
gone."
June 12.
I dined 3'esterday at the house or M. Decazes with Lord
Palmerston and Lord Lansdowne.
Lord Palmerston is a stout, short, fair man, who is said
to be a good talker. His face is full, round, broad, red,
merry, and shrewd, slightly vulgar. He wore a red ribbon
and a star, which I think is that of the Bath.
The Marquis of Lansdowne affords a striking contrast to
Lord Palmerston. He is tall, dark, spare, grave, and cour-
teous, with an air of breeding, a gentleman. He had a star
upon his coat, and round his neck a dark-blue ribbon, to
which hung a gold-enamelled decoration, round-shaped, and
surmounted by the Irish harp.
M. Decazes brought these two gentlemen to meet me. We
spoke for some minutes of Ireland, of bread-stuffs, and of the
potato disease.
" Ireland's disease is graver still," I said to Lord Palmer-
ston.
" Yes," he replied ; " the Irish peasants are very wretched.
Now, your country folk are happy. Ah, you are favoured
oy the skies ! What a climate is that of France ! "
"Yes, my lord," I rejoined; "but you are favoured by
the sea. What a citadel is England ! "
Lady Palmerston is graceful and talks well. She must
have been charming at one time. She is no longer young.
Lord Palmerston married her four years ago, after a mutual
passion which had lasted for thirty years. I conclude from
this that Lord Palmerston belongs a little to history and a
great deal to romance.
At table I was between M. de Montalivet and Alexandre
Dumas. M. de Montalivet wore the cross of the Legion of
ATTEMPT OF LECOMTE 79
Honour, and Alexandre Dumas the cross of an order which
he told me was that of St. John, and which I believe to be
Piedmontese.
I led up in conversation with M. de Montalivct to the event
of the 16th of April. lie was, it is well known, in the chat
a bancs by tha king's side.
" What were you conversing with the king about at the
moment of the report? " I said.
" I cannot remember," he replied. " I took the liberty of
questioning the king upon this subject. He could not re-
call it either. The bullet of Lecomte destroyed something in
our memory. All I know is that while our conversation was
not important, we were very intent upon it. If it had not
absorbed our attention we should certainly have perceived Le-
comte when he stood up above us to fire; the king, at all events,
would have done so, for I myself was turning my back some-
what to speak to the king. All that I remember is that I was
gesticulating very much at the moment. When the first shot
w as fired, some one in the suite cried, ' It is a huntsman un-
loading his gun.' I said to the king, ' A strange kind of
huntsman to fire the remains of his powder at kings.' As I
finished speaking the second shot went off. I cried, ' It is
an assassin ! ' ' Oh ! ' said the king, ' not so fast ; do not let
us judge too hastily. Wait, we shall see what it means.'
You see in that the character of the king, do you not? Calm
and serene in the presence of the man who has just fired at
him ; almost kindly. At this moment the queen touched me
gently on the shoulder ; I turned round. She showed me, with-
out uttering a word, the wadding of the gun which had fal-
len upon her lap, and which she had just picked up. There
was a certain calmness in this silence which was solemn and
touching.
" The queen, when the carriage leans over a little, trembles
for fear she will be upset ; she makes the sign of the cross when
it thunders; she is afraid of a display of fireworks; sb*
alights when a bridge has to be crossed. When the king \\
fired upon in her presence she is calm."
80 THINGS SE^EN
ATTEMPT OF JOSEPH HENRI
July 29, midnight.
SUZANNE, the chambermaid, has just returned home.
She has been to the fete to see the fireworks. On com-
ing in — she was radiant — she said, " Oh ! what a lucky
thing, madame ! It was my cousin who arrested the man who
fired upon the king." " What ! Has any one fired at the
king?" "Yes, and my cousin arrested the man. What a
lucky thing! It was this evening, just now. The king was
on the balcony. The man fired two pistol-shots together, and
missed the king. Oh, how people applauded! The king was
pleased. He pointed out himself where the smoke came from.
But my cousin, who is a policeman in plain clothes, was there,
close to the man. He only had to turn round. He took the
man into custody." "What is his name?" "Joseph Le-
gros." "The assassin?" "No, my cousin. He is a tall
fellow. The man is little. I do not know his name. I have
forgotten it. He looked sad; he pretended to be crying.
When he was taken away he said, ' Oh dear ! I must die, then.'
He is fifty years old. Some gold was found on him. I
should think he will have a bad time of it to-night. My
cousin is delighted, and the cure also is delighted." (This is
a canon of Notre-Dame who resides in the same building as the
cousin in the police.) "What luck, eh! Madame, what
luck!"
July 30.
There is close to here, in the Rue de Limoges, a house with
a carriage-way of solemn and gloomy appearance, some old
court-house, with a little square yard. On the left-hand side
of the door is a great black board, in the centre of which are
the Arms of France. Upon this board is an inscription in
wooden letters, formerly gilt, and running thus : —
ATTEMPT OF JOSEPH HENRI 81
SOUVENIRS & USEFUL
f > OFFICE REQUISITES
ARTICLES i( ARMS. )f
of every kind,
for Ladie*. "*^ta—^^^
MANUFACTORY OF FANCY ARTICLES IN EMBOSSED STEEL
AND OTHER GOODS.
8 — JOSEPH HENKI — 8
Joseph Henri is the assassin. He has a wife and three chil
dren.
On the right-hand side in the courtyard there is a house
door, above which is seen : —
JOSEPH HENRI.
THE WAREHOUSE IS OX THE FIRST FLOOR.
The whole house is of a fallen and dismal appearance.
August 1.
The day before yesterday I went to inscribe my name at
the palace of the king, who has gone to Eu. This is done
upon a kind of register, with a green parchment back like a
laundress's book. There are five registers, one for each mem-
ber of the royal family. Every evening the registers are
forwarded to the king, and the queen carefully reads them.
I do not suppose people inscribed their names at the resi-
dence of Louis XIV. or of Napoleon.
This reminds me of the first time I dined at the Tuileries.
A month afterwards I met M. de Remusat, who was among
the guests, and who says, " Have you paid your visit of di-
gestion ? "
Homely manners are charming and graceful, but they go
rather too far sometimes. I thoroughly understand royalty
6
82 THINGS SEEN
living a homely life, but this granted, I prefer the patriarchal
style to the homely style. Patriarchal life is as simple as
homely life, and as majestic as royal life.
M. Lebrun, who came to leave his name at the same time as
I did, was telling me that a few years ago the King of the
Belgians was at the Tuileries. M. Lebrun goes to see him. He
speaks to the hall porter. " Can I sec the King of the Bel-
gians, please? " " The King of the Belgians? Oh! yes, sir,
in the second courtyard, through the little door. Go up to
the third floor and turn to the left along the corridor. The
King of the Belgians is No. 9."
The Prince de Joinville lives in a little attic at the Tuileries.
The Duke of Saxe-Coburg is lodged in the Louvre in a cor-
ridor. Like the King of the Belgians, he has his card nailed
upon the door: " Duke of Saxe-Coburg."
August 25.
The trial of Joseph Henri begins to-day in the Court of
Peers.
The prisoner is brought in after the Court is seated by
our gendarmes, of whom two hold him by the arms. There
were six to Lecomte. Joseph Henri is a little man, who ap-
pears over fifty years of age. He is dressed in a black frock-
coat ; he has a black silk waistcoat and black cravat, whiskers,
black hair, a long nose. He wears eye-glasses.
He enters, bows three times to the Court, as an actor bows
to the pit, and sits down. During the calling of the names he
takes snuff with a profound look of ease.
The chancellor tells him to rise, and asks him his surname
and Christian names. He replies in a low tone of voice, in a
subdued and timid manner. " Speak louder," said the chan-
cellor. The prisoner repeats his replies loudly and very dis-
tinctly. He lookes like a worthy citizen who is taking out a
passport, and who is being questioned by the government em-
ploye. He sits down and whispers a few words to his counsel,
M. Baroche, bdtonnier of the order of barristers. There are
five barristers at the bar. Among the crowd which throngs
ATTEMPT OF JOSEPH HENRI 83
the semi-circle behind the prisoner is a priest. Not far from
the priest is a Turk.
The prisoner is so short that when he stanc" up r does
not reach above the heads of the gendarme seated besid him.
From time to time he blows his nose loudh" in a whi' handker-
chief with blue squares. He has the appearan. 2 oi a country
registrar. His person altogether suggests something in-
effably mild, sad, and subdued. Every now and thjn, how-
ever, he holds his head in his two hands, and a look of despair
penetrates through the air of indifference. He is, in fact,
despairing and indifferent at one and the same time. When
the procurator-general and the chancellor tell him that he is
playing a part, he looks at them without any appearance of
resentment, and like a man who does not understand.
He speaks a great deal, rather fast, sometimes in low, at
others in very loud, tones. He appears to see things only
through a veil, and to hear only through a screen. One would
imagine there was a wall, barely transparent, between the real
world and himself. He looks fixedly, just as if he is seeking
to make out things and distinguish faces from behind a bar-
rier. He utters rambling words in a subdued manner. They
have a meaning, however, for a thoughtful person.
He concludes a long explanation thus : " My crime is with-
out a stain. At present my soul is as in a labyrinth."
The procurator-general said to him, " I am not to be im-
posed on by you. You have an object, and that is to escape
the death penalty by appearing to invite it, and in this way
to secure some less grave penalty."
"Pooh!" he exclaimed; "how can j^ou say so? Other
penalties are a punishment, the penalty of death is annihila-
tion."
He stood musing for a moment, and then added : " For
eighteen years my mind has suffered. I do not know what
state my mind is in ; I cannot say. But you see I am not
trjnng to play the madman."
" You had," the chancellor said, " ferocious ideas."
He replies : " I had no ferocious ideas ; I had only ideas "
84 THINGS SEEN
(here he indicates with a gesture an imaginary flight of birds
hovering round his head) " which I thought came to me from
God."
Then he remains silent for a moment, and continues, al-
most violently : " I have suffered a great deal, — a great
deal" (folding his arms). "And do you think I suffer nc
longer? "
Objection is made to certain passages of what he has writ-
ten.
" Just as you please. All that I have written I have writ-
ten, written, written ; but I have not read it."
At another moment he breaks out unexpectedly amid the
examination with this: "I have beliefs. My principal be-
lief is that there are rewards and punishments above."
The names of all the regicides, of Fieschi, of Alibaud, of
Lecomte, are mentioned to him. His face becomes clouded,
and he exclaims, " How is it you speak to me of all those
whose names you have just mentioned? "
At this moment Viennet comes up behind me, and says,
" He is not a madman, he is a fool."
For myself I should have said the precise contrary.
He is asked, " Why did you write to M. de Lamartine and
M. Raspail ? "
He replies, " Because I had read some of their writings,
and they appeared to me to be philanthropists ; and because
I thought that philanthropy should not be found only in i\
pen point."
He frequently concludes his replies with this word, ad
dressed to the Court, and uttered almost in a whisper, " Ap
predate! "
The procurator-general recapitulates all the charges, and
concludes by asking him, " What have you to say in reply ? v
" I have no reply to make."
And he places his hand on his forehead as if he had a pain
there.
In the midst of a long rambling statement, mingled here
and there with flashes of intelligence, and even of thoughtful-
ATTEMPT OF JOSEPH HENRI 85
ncss, lie stops short to ask for a basin of soup, and gives a
number of directions to the attendant who brings it to him.
He lias a fit of trembling which is plainly perceptible. He
drinks a glass of water several times during the examination.
He trembles so violently that he cannot carry the glass to
his lips without holding it with both hands.
He calls the procurator-general " Monsieur le Procureur."
When he speaks of the king he says " his Majesty."
During the very violent speech, for the prosecution, of the
procurator-general he makes signs of approval. During the
speech for the defence, of his counsel, he makes signs of dis-
agreement. However, he listens to them with profound at-
tention. At one point M. Hebert said, " The prisoner has
no political animus. He even protests his respect and admira-
tion for the king." Joseph Henri nods his head twice in token
of assent. At another moment the procurator-general says
that the prisoner wants to secure a ludicrously inadequate pun-
ishment. He says " No," with a shake of his head, and takes
snuff.
During the temporary rising of the Court Villemain came
to me in the reading-room, and said, " What do you think of
all this? It seems to me that no one here is genuine, —
leither the prisoner, nor the procurator-general, nor the chan-
cellor. They all look to me as though they are shamming,
ind as though not one of them says what he thinks. There is
something false, equivocal, and confused in this affair."
During the trial Villemain contemplated Joseph Henri with
fixed and melancholy interest.
August 27.
The deliberation began at twenty minutes past eight o'clock.
The Peers, without swords or hats, sit with closed doors ; only
the clerks are present. On taking their seats the Peers cried
out on all sides, " Open the ventilators ; let us have some light ;
give us some air ! "
The heat that was in the hermetically sealed room was over-
powering.
86 THINGS SEEN
Two questions were asked by the chancellor : —
" Is the prisoner Henri guilty of the attempt upon the life
of the King? Is he guilty of an attempt upon the person
of the king? "
I should not omit to say that during the calling of the names
Lagrence said to me, " I shall be the only one of the diplo-
matic body who will not vote for the sentence of death." I
congratulated him, and he went and sat down again behind the
bench occupied by Bussiere. %
Another Peer, one of the new ones, whom I did not know,
left his seat, came towards me, and seated himself upon the
empty chair at the side, saying to me, " You do not know
me? ' : " No." " Well, I nursed you when you were little, —
no higher than that, upon my knees. I am a friend of your
father's. I am General Rapatel."
I remembered the name, which my father had often men-
tioned. I shook hands with the general. We conversed af-
fectionately. He spoke to me of my childhood, I spoke to
him of his great battles, and both of us became younger
again. Then silence took place. The voting had begun.
The voting went on, on the question of an attempt on the
life or an attempt on the person, without its being ascertained
beforehand whether the difference in the crime involved any
difference in the penalty. However, it was soon evident that
those Peers who decided that it was an attempt on the person
did not desire the death penalty, and the majority of this
opinion became larger and larger.
As the second vote was about to be taken, I said : " It re-
sults from the deliberation on the whole, and from the earnest
views which have been put forward, that, in the opinion of all
the judges, the words ' person of the king ' have a double sense,
and that they signify the physical person and the moral
person. These two senses, however, are distinct to the con-
science, although they are confounded in the vote. The
physical person has not been injured, has not been seriously
menaced, as nearly all my noble colleagues are agreed. It is
only the moral person who has been not only menaced, but even
ATTEMPT OF JOSEPH HENRI 87
injured. Having given this explanation, and with this reserve,
that it is perfectly understood that it is the moral person only
that is injured, I associate myself with the immense majority
of my colleagues, who declare the prisoner, Joseph Henri,
guilty of an attempt upon the person of the king."
The clerk proclaimed the result : —
One hundred and twenty-two Peers decided for an attempt
on the person; thirty-eight for an attempt on the life; four
for an act of contempt.
The sitting was suspended for a quarter of an hour. The
Peers left the Court, and became scattered in groups in the
lobby. I conversed with M. de la Redorte, and I told him
that if it came to the point I admitted State policy as well as
justice, but on the condition that I should consider State
policy as the human voice, and justice as the Divine voice.
M. dc Mornay came up to me and said that the Anc'icns
abandoned the death penalty; that they were sensible of the
feeling of the House, and gave way to it; but that, in agree-
ment with the majority, they would vote for penal servitude for
life, and I was asked to give my support to this vote. I said
that it was impossible for me to do so ; that I congratulated
our Anciens on having abandoned the death penalty, but that
I should not vote for penal servitude; thst, in my opinion, the
punishment exceeded the offence; that, moreover, it was not
in harmony with the dignity of the Chamber or its precedents.
The sitting was resumed at half-past four.
When my turn came, I simply said, " Detention for life."
Several Peers gave the same vote. Thirteen in all. Four-
teen voted the death penalty; a hundred and thirty-three
penal servitude for life.
Several Peers said to me, " You ought to be satisfied ; there
is no death sentence. The judgment is a good one." I re-
plied, " It might have been better."
The procurator-general and the advocate-general were
brought in, in scarlet robes; then the public rushed in noisily.
There were a number of men in blouses. Two women who
were among the crowd were turned out. The names of the
88 THINGS SEEN
Peers were called; then the chancellor read the judgment amid
profound silence.
P. S.— September 12.
The punishment has not been commuted; the judgment will
be carried out.
Joseph Henri, who had been transferred from the Luxem-
bourg and from the Conciergerie to the prison of La Ro-
quette, started the day before yesterday for Toulon in a
prison-van with cells, accompanied by eight felons. While
the irons were being placed upon him he was weak, and trem-
bled convulsively ; he excited the compassion of everybody.
He could not believe that he was really a convict. He mut-
tered in an undertone " Oh dear ! if I had but known ( . "
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGERIE
I REMEMBER that on Thursday, the 10th of September,
1846, St. Patient's day, I decided to go to the Acade-
mic There was to be a public meeting for the award of
the Montyon prize, with a speech by M. Viennet. Arriving
at the Institute, I ascended the staircase rather irresolutely.
In front of me ran up boldly and cheerfully, with the nimble-
ness of a schoolboy, a member of the Institute in full dress,
with his coat buttoned up, tight-fitting, and nipped in at the
waist, — a lean, spare man, with active step and youthful
figure. Pie turned round. It was Horace Vernet. He had
an immense moustache, and three crosses of different orders
suspended from his neck. In 1846 Horace Vernet was cer-
tainly more than sixty years of age.
Arriving at the top of the staircase, he entered. I felt
neither so young nor so bold as he, and I did not enter.
In the street outside the Institute I met the Marquis of
B. " You have just come away from the Academie? " he
asked. " No," I replied ; " one cannot come away without
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGERIE 89
going in. And you, how is it you are in Paris?'' 'I
have just come from Bourges." The Marquis, a very warm
Legitimist, had been to see Don Carlos, son of him who took
the title of Charles V. Don Carlos, whom the faithful called
Prince of the Asturias, and afterwards King of Spain, and
who was known to European diplomacy as the Count de Monte-
molin, looked with some amount of annoyance upon the mar-
riage of his cousin, Dona Isabella, with the Infante Don
Francisco d'Assiz, Duke of Cadiz, which had just been con-
cluded at this very moment. He plainly showed the Marquis
how surprised he felt, and even let him see a letter addressed
by the Infante to him, the Count de Montemolin, in which
this phrase occurred, word for word : " I will abandon all
thought of my cousin as long as you remain between her
and me."
We shook hands, and M. de B. left me.
As I was returning by the Quai des Morfondus, I passed
by the lofty old towers of Saint-Louis, and I felt an inclina-
tion to visit the prison of the Conciergerie at the Palais de
Justice. It is impossible to say how the idea came into my
head to go in and see how man had contrived to render hide-
ous in the inside what is so magnificent on the outside. I
turned to the right, however, into the little courtyard, and
rang at the grating of the doorway. The door was opened ;
I gave my name. I had with me my peer's medal. A door-
keeper was put at my service to serve as a guide wherever I
wished to go.
The first impression which strikes one on entering a prison
is a feeling of darkness and oppression, diminished respira-
tion and perception, something ineffably nauseous and insipid
intermingled with the funereal and the lugubrious. A prison
has its odour as it has its chiaroscuro. Its air is not air, its
daylight is not daylight. Iron bars have some power, it would
seem, over those two free and heavenly things, — air and
light.
The first room we came to was no other than the old
guard-room of Saint-Louis, an immense hall cut up into a
90 THINGS SEEN
large number of compartments for the requirements of the
prison. Everywhere are elliptical-pointed arches and pillars
with capitals ; the whole scraped, pared, levelled, and marred
by the hideous taste of the architects of the Empire and the
Restoration. I make this remark once for all, the whole
building having been served in the same fashion. In this
warder's room could still be seen on the right-hand side the
nook where the pikes were stacked, marked out by a pointed
moulding at the angle of the two walls.
The outer office in which I stood was the spot where the
toilet of condemned criminals took place. The office itself was
on the left. There was in this office a very civil old fellow,
buried in a heap of cardboard cases, and surrounded by nests
of drawers, who rose as I entered, took off his cap, lighted a
candle, and said:
" You would like, no doubt, to see Heloise and Abelard,
sir?"
" By all means," I said ; " there is nothing I should like
better."
The old man took the candle, pushed on one side a green
case bearing this inscription, " Discharges for the month,"
and showed me in a dark corner behind a great nest of drawers
a pillar and capital, with a representation of a monk and a
nun back to back, the nun holding in her hand an enormous
phallus. The whole was painted yellow, and was called
Heloise and Abelard.
My good man continued: —
" Now that you have seen Heloise and Abelard, you would,
no doubt, like to see the condemned cell? "
" Certainly," I said.
" Show the gentleman the way," said the good man to the
turnkey.
Then he dived once more into his cases. This peaceful
creature keeps the register of the sentences and terms of im-
prisonment.
I returned to the outer office, where I admired as I passed
by a very large and handsome .shell-work table in the brightest
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGERIE 91
and prettiest Louis X\ . taste, with a marble border, but dirty,
unsightly, daubed with colour which had once been white, and
relegated to a dark corner. Then I passed through a gloomy
room, encumbered with wooden bedsteads, ladders, broken
panes of glass, and old window-frames. In this room the
turnkey opened a door with a fearful noise of heavy keys and
drawn bolts, and said, " That is it, sir."
I went into the condemned cell.
It was rather a large place, with a low, arched ceiling, and
paved with the old stone flooring of Saint-Louis, — square
blocks of lias-stone alternating with slabs of slate.
Some of the paving-stones were missing here and there. A
tolerably large semi-circular vent-hole, protected by its iron
bars and projecting shaft, cast a pale and wan sort of light
inside. No furniture, save an old cast-iron stove of the time
of Louis XV., ornamented with panels in relief, which it is
impossible to distinguish owing to the rust, and in front of
the skylight a large arm-chair in oak, with an opening in
the seat. The chair was of the period of Louis XIV., and
covered with leather, which was partly torn away so as to
expose the horse-hair. The stove was on the right of the
door. My guide informed me that when the cell was occu-
pied a folding bedstead was placed in it. xV gendarme and a
warder, relieved once every three hours, watched the con-
demned man da}' and night, standing the whole time, without
a chair or bed, so that they might not fall asleep.
We returned to the outer office, which led to two more
rooms, — the reception room of the privileged prisoners,
who were able to receive their visitors without standing be-
hind a double row of iron bars, and the saloon of the bar-
risters, who are entitled to communicate freely and in private
with their clients. This " saloon," — for so it was described
in the inscription placed over the door, — was a long room,
lighted by an opening in the wall, and furnished with long
wooden benches like the other one. It appears that some
young barristers had been guilty of abusing the privilege of
a legal tete-a-tete. Female thieves and poisoners are occa-
92 THINGS SEEN
sionally very good-looking. The abuse was discovered, and
the " saloon " was provided with a glazed doorway. In this
way it was possible to see, although not to hear.
At this juncture the governor of the Conciergerie, whose
name was Lebel, came up to us. He was a venerable old
man, with some shrewdness in his looks. He wore a long
frock-coat, and in his button-hole the ribbon of the Legion
of Honour. He begged to be excused for not having ascer-
tained before that I was in the place, and asked me to allow
him to accompany me in the tour of inspection which I wished
to make.
The outer office led through an iron barrier into a long,
wide, and spacious vaulted passage.
" What is that? " I asked M. Lebel.
" That," he said, " was formerly connected with the kitchens
of Saint-Louis. It was very useful to us during the riots.
I did not know what to do with my prisoners. The Prefect
of Police sent and asked me, ' Have you plenty of room just
now? How many prisoners can you accommodate?' I re-
plied, ' I can accommodate two hundred.' They sent me
three hundred and fifty, and then said to me, ' How many
more can you accommodate?' I thought they were joking.
However, I made room by utilizing the Women's Infirmary.
' You can,' I said, ' send a hundred prisoners.' They sent
me three hundred. This rather annoyed me; but they said,
' How many can you still find room for ? ' ' You can now
send as many as you like.' Sir, they sent me six hundred !
I placed them here; they slept upon the ground on trusses
of straw. They were very excitable. One of them, La-
grange, the Republican from Lyons, said to me, ' Monsieur
Lebel, if you will let me see my sister, I promise you I will
make all the men keep quiet.' I allowed him to see his sister ;
he kept his word, and the place, with all its six hundred
devils, became a little heaven. My Lyons men thus con-
tinued well behaved and civil until the day when, the House
of Peers having begun to move in the matter, they were
brought in contact, during the official inquiry, with the Paris
VISIT TO THE COXCTERGERIE 98
rioters, who were of Sainte-Pelagie. The latter said to them,
* You must be mad to remain quiet like that. Why, you
should complain, you should shout, you should be furious.'
My Lyons men now became furious, thanks to the Parisians.
They became perfect Satans ! Oh, what trouble I had!
They said to me, ' Monsieur Lebel, it is not because of you, but
of the Government. We want to show our teeth to the Gov-
ernment.' And Revcrchon then undressed himself and stood
stark naked."
" He called that showing his teeth, did he ? " I asked M.
Lebel.
In the mean time the turnkey had opened the great railings
at the far end of the corridor, then other railings and heavy
doors, and I found myself in the heart of the prison.
I could see through the railed arches the men's exercise-
yard. It was a tolerably large, oblong courtyard, above
which towered on every side the high walls of Saint-Louis,
nowadays plastered and disfigured. A number of men were
walking up and down in groups of two or three; others were
seated in the corners, upon the stone benches which surround
the yard. Nearly all wore the prison dress, — large waist-
coats with linen trousers ; two or three, however, wore black
coats. One of the latter was clean and sedate-looking, and
had a certain indescribable air of a town-bred man. It was
the wreck of a gentleman.
This yard had nothing repulsive-looking about it. It is
true that the sun was shining brightly, and that everything
looks smiling in the sun, — even a prison. There were two
beds of flowers with trees, which were small, but of a bright
green, and between the two beds, in the middle of the yard, an
ornamental fountain with a stone basin.
This yard was formerly the cloister of the Palace. The
Gothic architect surrounded the four sides with a gallery orna-
mented with pointed arches. The modern architects have
covered these arches with masonry ; they have placed steps
and partitions in them and made two stories. Each arcade
made one cell on the ground-floor and one on the first floor.
94 THINGS SEEN
These cells, clean and fitted with timber floorings, had noth-
ing very repulsive about them. Nine feet long by six feet
wide, a door opening on to the corridor, a window overlook-
ing the ground, iron bolts, a large lock, and a railed opening
in the door, iron bars to the window, a chain, a bed in the
angle on the left of the door, covered with coarse linen and
coarse blanketing, but very carefully and neatly made, —
that is what these cells were like. It was recreation time.
Nearly all the cells were open, the men being in the yard.
Two or three, however, remained closed, and some of the
prisoners — young workmen, shoemakers and hatters for the
most part — were working there, making a great noise with
their hammers. They were, I was told, hard-working and
well-conducted prisoners, who preferred to do some work
rather than go out for exercise.
The quarters of the privileged prisoners were above. The
cells were rather larger, and, as a result of the greater liberty
enjoyed here at a cost of sixteen centimes a day, rather less
clean. As a general rule, in a prison, the greater the cleanli-
ness the less liberty there is. These wretched beings are so
constituted that their cleanliness is the token of their servi-
tude. They were not alone in their cells; there were, in some
cases, two or three together ; there was one large room in
which there were six. An old man with a kindly and honest-
looking face was engaged in reading. He lifted up his eyes
from his book when I entered, and looked at me like a country
cure reading his breviary and seated upon the grass with the
sky above his head. I made inquiries, but I could not dis-
cover of what this good-man 1 was accused. Upon the white-
washed wall near the door these four lines were written in
pencil : —
" Dans la gendarmerie,
Quand un gendarme rit,
Tous les gendarmes rient
Dans la gendarmerie." 2
i- Sic in the original. — Tr.
2 An untranslatable pun upon the words " ime gendarmerie," or a
station of the mounted police, and " un gendarme rit " : in English, " a
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGERIE 95
Beneath them a parodist hud added : —
" Dans la Conciergerie,
Quand un concierge rit,
Tous les concierges rient
Dans la Conciergerie."
M. Lebel called my attention in the yard to the spot where
a prisoner had made his escape a few years before. The
right angle formed by the two walls of the yard at the north-
ernmost end had sufficed for the accomplishment of the man's
purpose. He planted his back in this angle, and drew him-
self up solely by the muscular force of his shoulders,, elbows,
and heels, as far as the roof, where he caught hold of a stove-
pipe. Had this stove-pipe given way under his weight he
would have been a dead man. On reaching the roof he
climbed down again into the outer enclosure and fled. All this
in broad daylight. He was captured again in the Palais de
Justice. His name was Bottemolle. " Such an escape was
deserving of better luck," said M. Lebel. " I was almost
sorry to see him brought back."
At the beginning of the men's yard there was, on the left,
a little office reserved for the chief warder, with a table placed
at a right angle before the window, a leather-covered chair,
and all kinds of cardboard cases and papers upon the table.
Behind this table and chair was an oblong space of about
eight feet by four. It was the site of the cell formerly oc-
cupied by Louvel. The wall which divided it from the office
had been demolished. At a height of about seven feet the
wall ended, and was replaced by an iron grating reaching
to the ceiling. The cell was lighted only through this and
through the window in the door, the light coming from the
corridor of the office and not from the courtyard. Through
this grating and through the window of the door Louvel,
whose bed was in the corner at the far end, was watched night
and day. For all that, moreover, two turnkeys were placed
policeman laughs." In the parody which follows, the jest is heightened,
of course, by making all the "concierges" laugh in the Conciergerie, us
though it were a place full of " concierges," or door-keepers. — Tu.
96 THINGS SEEN
in the cell itself. When the wall was pulled down the archi-
tect preserved the door — a low-lying door, armed with a
great square lock and round bolt — and had it built into the
outer wall. It was there I saw it.
I remember that in my early youth I saw Louvel cross the
Pont-au-Change on the day on which he was taken to the
Place de Greve. It was, I think, in the month of June. The
sun shone brightly. Louvel was in a cart, with his arms tied
behind his back, a blue coat thrown over his shoulders, and
a round hat upon his head. He was pale. I saw him in pro-
file. His whole countenance suggested a sort of earnest feroc-
ity and violent determination, There was something harsh
and frigid in his appearance.
Before we left the men's quarters M. Lebel said, " Here is
a curious spot." And he made me enter a round, vaulted
room, rather lofty, about fifteen feet in diameter, without
any window or opening in the wall, and lighted only through
the doorway. A circular stone bench stretched all round the
chamber.
" Do you know where you are now ? v asked M. Lebel.
"Yes," I replied.
I recognized the famous chamber of torture. This cham-
ber occupies the ground-floor of the crenellated tower, — the
smallest of the three round towers on the quay.
In the centre was an ominous and singular-looking object.
It was a sort of long and narrow table of lias-stone, joined with
molten lead poured into the crevices, very heavy, and supported
on three stone legs. This table was about two and a half
feet high, eight feet long, and twenty inches wide. On look-
ing up I saw a great rusty iron hook fastened in the round
stone which forms the key-stone of the arch.
This object is the rack. A leather covering used to be put
over it, upon which the victim was stretched. Ravaillac re-
mained for six weeks upon this table, with his feet and hands
tied, bound at the waist by a strap attached to a long chain
hanging from the ceiling. The last ring of this chain was
slipped on to the hook which I still saw fixed above my head.
VISIT TO THE COXCIERGERIE 97
Six gentlemen guards and six guards of the provost's depart-
ment watched him night and da}-. Damiens was guarded like
Ravaillac in this chamber, and tied down upon this table dur-
ing the whole time occupied by the inquiry and the trial of his
case. Desrues, Cartouche, and Voisin were tortured upon it.
The Marchioness de Brinvilliers was stretched upon it stark
naked, fastened down, and, so to speak, quartered by four
chains attached to the four limbs, and there suffered the
frightful " extraordinary torture by water," which caused
her to ask, " How are you going to continue to put that great
barrel of water in this little body ? "
A whole dark history is there, having filtered, so to speak,
drop by drop, into the pores of these stones, these walls, this
vault, this bench, this table, this pavement, this door. There
it all is ; it has never quitted the place. It has been shut up
there, it has been bolted up. Nothing has escaped from it,
nothing has evaporated ; no one has ever spoken, related, be-
trayed, revealed anj'thing of it. This crypt, which is like the
mouth of a funnel turned upside down, this case made by the
hands of man, this stone box, has kept the secret of all the
blood it has drunk, of all the shrieks it has stifled. The
frightful occurrences which have taken place in this judge's
den still palpitate and live, and exhale all sorts of horrible
miasms. What a strange abomination is this chamber !
What a strange abomination this tower placed in the very
middle of the quay, without any moat or wall to separate it
from the passer-by ! Inside, the saws, the boots, the wooden
horses, the wheels, the pincers, the hammers which knock in
the wedges, the hissing of flesh touched with the red-hot iron,
the spluttering of blood upon the live embers, the cold inter-
rogatories of the magistrates, the despairing shrieks of the
tortured man; outside, within four paces, citizens coming
and going, women chattering, children playing, tradespeople
selling their wares, vehicles rolling along, boats upon the river,
the roar of the city, air, sky, sun, liberty !
It is a gloomy reflection that this tower without windows
has always seemed silent to the passer-by ; it made no more
98 THINGS SEEN
noise then than it does now. What must be the thickness of
these walls for the sound of the street not to have reached
the tower, and for the sound of the tower not to have
reached the street !
I contemplated this table in particular with a curiosity,
filled with awe. Some of the prisoners had carved their
names upon it. Towards the centre eight or ten letters, be-
ginning with an M, and forming a word which was illegible,
were rather deeply cut. At one end had been written with a
punch the name of " Merel." (I quote from memory, and
may be mistaken, but I think that is the name.)
The wall was hideous in its nakedness. It seemed as though
one felt its fearful and pitiless solidity. The paving was
the same kind of paving as in the condemned cell, — that is
to say, the old black and white stones of Saint-Louis in alter-
nate squares. A large square brick stove had taken the place
of the old heating furnace for the instruments of torture.
This chamber is used in winter time as a place of warmth for
the prisoners.
We then proceeded to the women's building. After being
in the prison for an hour, I was already so accustomed to the
bolts and bars that I no longer noticed them, any more than
the air peculiar to prisons, which suffocated me as I went in.
It would be impossible, therefore, for me to say what doors
were opened to enable us to walk from the men's to the
women's quarters. I do not remember. I only recollect that
an old woman, with a nose like a bird of prey, appeared at a
railing and opened the gate to us, asking us if we wished to
look round the yard. We accepted the offer.
The women's exercise yard was much smaller and much
more gloomy than that of the men. There was only one bed
of shrubs and flowers, a very narrow one, and I do not think
there were any trees. Instead of the ornamental fountain
there was a wash-house in the corner. A female prisoner
with bare arms was inside washing her clothes. Eight or ten
women were seated in the yard in a group, talking, sewing,
irid working. I raised my hat. They rose and looked at me
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGEUIE 99
with curiosity. They were for the most part apparently of
the lower middle class, and presented the appearance of small
shopkeepers about forty years of age. That appeared to be
the average age. There were, however, two or three young
girls.
By the side of the yard there was a little chamber into
which we entered. There were two young girls there, one
seated, the other standing. The one who was seated appeared
ill ; the other was tending her.
I asked, " What is the matter with that young girl? "
" Oh, it is nothing," said the other, a tall and rather hand-
some dark girl with blue eyes; " she is subject to it. She is
not very well. She was often taken like it at Saint-Lazare.
We were there together. I look after her."
" What is she charged with? " I continued.
" She is a servant. She stole six pairs of stockings of
her employers."
Just then the invalid turned pale and fainted. She was
a poor girl of sixteen or seventeen years of age.
" Give her some air," I said.
The big girl took her in her arms like a child, and carried
her into the yard. M. Lebel sent for some ammonia.
" She took six pairs of stockings," he said; " but it is her
third offence."
We returned to the yard. The girl lay upon the stones.
The women crowded round her, and gave her the ammonia to
smell. The old female warder took off her garters, while the
big dark girl unlaced her clothing. As she undid her stays
she said, —
" This comes over her every time she puts on stays. I will
give you stays, you little fool ! "
In those words, little fool, there was somehow or other a
tone which was tender and sympathizing.
We left the place.
One of the peculiarities of the Conciergerie is that all the
cells occupied by regicides since 1830 are in the women's
quarters.
100 THINGS SEEN
I entered, first of all, the cell which had been occupied by
Leconite, and which had just been tenanted by Joseph Henri.
It was a tolerably large chamber, almost vast, well lighted, and
having nothing of the cell about it but the stone floor, the
door armed with the biggest lock in the Conciergerie, and the
window, — a large railed opening opposite the door. This
chamber was furnished as follows: in the corner near the win-
dow, a boat-shaped mahogany bedstead, four and a half
feet wide, in the most imposing style of the Restoration ; on
the other side of the window a mahogany writing-table; near
the bed a mahogany chest of drawers, with lacquered rings
and handles; upon the chest of drawers a looking-glass, and in
front of the looking-glass a mahogany clock in the form of a
lyre, the face gilded and chased ; a square carpet mat at the
foot of the bed; four mahogany chairs covered with Utrecht
velvet; between the bed and the writing-table a china stove.
This furniture, with the exception of the stove, which would
shock the taste of common-place people, is the very ideal of a
rich shopkeeper. Joseph Henri was dazzled by it. I asked
what had become of this poor madman. After having been
transferred from the Conciergerie to the prison of La Ro-
quette, he had set out that very morning, in the company of
eight felons, for the convict prison of Toulon.
The window of this cell looked out on the women's exercise
yard. It was ornamented with a rusty old projecting shaft,
full of holes. Through these holes could be seen what was
going on in the yard, — an amusement for the prisoner not
altogether without drawbacks for the women, who thought
themselves alone and secluded from observation in the yard.
Near by was the cell formerly occupied by Fieschi and
Alibaud. Ouvrard, who was the first to occupy it, had a
marble chimney-piece placed in it (Saint-Anne marble, black
with white veins), and a large wooden partition forming a
recess and dressing-room. The furniture was of mahogany,
and very similar to that of the apartment of Joseph Henri.
After Fieschi and Alibaud, this cell had had for its occupants
the Abbe de Lamennais and the Marchioness de Larochejac-
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGERIE 101
quelein; then Prince Louis Napoleon; and, finally, that
" stupid Prince de Berghes," as M. Lebel put it.
Opposite these two cells was the entrance to the Women's
Infirmary, a long and broad chamber, too low-lying for its
mzc. There Mere a score of beds there, with no one in tin-
beds. I expressed surprise at this.
" I hardly ever have any invalids," said M. Lebel. " In
the first place, the prisoners only stay here a short time.
They come to await their trial, and go away immediately aft-
erwards ; if acquitted, at liberty ; if convicted, to their desti-
nation. As long as they are here, the anticipation of their
trial keeps them in a state of excitement which leaves room for
nothing else. Yes, they have no time to get ill in; they have
another sort of feverishness than fever. At the period of the
cholera, which was also the great period of riots, I had seven
hundred prisoners here. They were everywhere, — in the
doorways, in the offices, in the waiting-rooms, in the yards,
on the beds, on straw, on the paving-stones. I said, ' Good
heavens! It is to be hoped the cholera will not come in ad-
dition to all this.' Sir, I did not have a single man invalided."
There is certainly a moral in these facts. They show that
strong mental excitement is a preservative against all ailments.
In times of pestilence, while sanitary and hygienic measures
should not be neglected, the people should be entertained by
grand fetes, grand performances, noble impressions. If no
one troubled about the epidemic it would disappear.
" When they had, in the cells on the opposite side, a pris-
oner guilty of an attempt on the person of the king, the
Women's Infirmary was converted into a guard-room. Here
were installed fifteen or twenty warders, kept secluded from
the outer world, like the prisoner himself, seeing no one, not
even their wives, and this for the whole time of the pre-
liminaries of the trial, sometimes six weeks, at others two
months. That is what is done," added M. Lebel, from whom
I had these details, " when I have regicides."
This phrase fell from him in the most natural manner
possible ; to him it was a sort of habit to have regicides.
102 THINGS SEEN
" You spoke," I said, " in a contemptuous manner of
the Prince de Berghes. What do you think of him ? "
He wiped his eye-glasses on his sleeve, and replied :
" Oh, as for that, I do not think anything about him ; he
was a wretched, great simpleton, well-bred, with excellent
manners, and a gentle expression, but a fool. When he ar-
rived here I put him at first in this chamber, in this infirmary,
which is of a good size, so that he might have space and air.
He sent for me. ' Is my case a serious one, sir,' he asked.
I stammered a few hesitating words. ' Do you think,' he
added, ' that I shall be able to get away this evening? ' ' Oh,
no,' I said. ' Well, to-morrow, then ? ' ' Nor to-morrow,' I
replied. ' What ! do you really think they will keep me here
for a week?' 'Perhaps longer.' ' More than a week!
More than a week ! My case really is a serious one, then ?
Do you think my case is serious ? ' He walked about in every
direction, continuing to repeat this question, to which I never
replied. His family, however, did not abandon him. The
duchess his mother, and the princess his wife, came to see him
every day. The princess, a very pretty little woman, asked if
she might share his prison cell. I gave her to understand
that this was impossible. As a matter of fact, what was his
offence? Forgery, certainly; but without any motive. It
was an act of stupidity, nothing more. The jury found him
guilty because he was a prince. If he had been some rich
tradesman's son, he would have been acquitted. After he
was sentenced to three years' imprisonment, he was left here
for some time with me, and then he was transferred to a sani-
tarium, of which a whole wing was secured for his exclusive
use. He has been there nearly a year now, and he will be left
there for six months longer; then he will be pardoned. So
that his being a prince damaged him at his trial, but it benefits
him in his imprisonment."
As we crossed the passage my guide stopped me and called
my attention to a low door about four and a half feet in height,
armed with an enormous square lock and a great bolt, very
similar to the door of Louvel's cell. It was the door of the
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGERIE 103
evil of Marie-Antoinette, — the only thing which had been
preserved just as it was, Louis XVIII. having converted her
cell into a chapel. It was through this door that the queen
went forth to the Revolutionary Court; it was through it also
that she went to the scaffold. The door no longer turned
on its hinges. Since 1814 it had been fixed in the wall.
I have said that it had been preserved just as it was, but I
Mas mistaken. It was daubed over with a fearful nankeen-
coloured picture; but this is of no consequence. What san-
guinary souvenir is there which has not been painted either a
yellow or a rose-colour?
A moment afterwards I was in the chapel, which had for-
merly been a cell. If one could have seen there the bare stone
floor, the bare walls, the iron bars at the opening, the flolding-
bedstead of the queen, and the camp-bedstead of the
gendarme, together with the historic screen which separated
them, it would have created a profound feeling of emotion and
an unutterable impression. There were to be seen a little
wooden altar, which would have been a disgrace to a village
church, a coloured wall (yellow of course), small stained-glass
windows, as in a Turkish cafe, a raised wooden platform, and
upon the wall two or three abominable paintings, in which
the bad style of the Empire had a tussle with the bad taste of
the Restoration. The entrance to the cell had been replaced
by an archivault cut in the wall. The vaulted passage by
which the queen proceeded to the Court had been walled up.
There is a respectful vandalism that is even more revolting
than a vindictive vandalism, because of its stupidity.
Nothing was to be seen there of what came under the eye
of the queen, unless it was a small portion of the paved floor-
ing, which the boards, fortunately, did not entirely cover.
This floor was an old-fashioned, chevroned pavement of bricks,
laid on horizontally, with the narrow side uppermost.
A straw chair, placed upon the platform, marked the spot
where the bed of the queen had rested.
On coming away from this venerable spot, profaned bv a
foolish piety, I went into a large apartment at the side, which
104 TPIINGS SEEN
had been the place of incarceration for the priests during the-
Terror, and which had been converted into the chapel of the
Conciergerie. It was very mean-looking, and very ugly,
like the chapel-cell of the queen. The Revolutionary Court
held its sittings above this apartment.
While walking about in the depths of the old building, I
perceived here and there, through openings in the walls, im-
mense cellars, mysterious and deserted chambers, with port-
cullises opening on to the river, fearful dungeons, dark pas-
sages. In these crypts spiders' webs abounded, as well as
mossy stones, sickly gleams of light, vague, and distorted
forms. I asked M. Lebel, "What is this place?" He re-
plied, " This is no longer used." What had it been used
for?
We had to go back through the men's yard. As we passed
through it M. Lebel pointed out to me a staircase near the
latrines. It was here that a murderer named Savoye, who
had been condemned to the galleys, had hanged himself, not
many days previously, to the railings of the baluster. " The
jury have made a mistake," said this man; " I ought to have
been condemned to death. I will settle the matter." He set-
tled it by hanging himself. He was put under the special
supervision of a prisoner who had been raised to the functions
of a warder and whom M. Lebel dismissed.
While the governor of the Conciergerie furnished me with
these details a decently dressed prisoner came up to us. He
seemed to wish to be spoken to. I asked him several ques-
tions. He was a young fellow who had been a working em-
broiderer and lace-maker, afterwards the assistant to the Paris
executioner, — what was formerly called the " headsman's
valet," — and finally, he said, a groom in the king's stables.
" Pray, sir, ask the governor not to have me put in the
prison-dress, and to leave me my faineant." This word,
which has to be pronounced faignant, means a cloth coat in
the latest slang. He had, in fact, a tolerably good cloth coat.
I obtained permission for him to keep it, and I got him into
conversation.
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGERIE 105
He spoke very highly of M. Sanson, the executioner, his
former master. M. Sanson lived in the Hue du Marais-du-
Temple, in an isolated house, of which the jalousies were
always closed. He received many visits. Numbers of Eng-
lish people went to see him. When visitors presented them-
selves at M. Sanson's they were introduced into an elegant
reception-room on the ground-floor, furnished entirely with
mahogany, in the midst of which there was an excellent piano,
always open, and provided with pieces of music. Shortly
afterwards M. Sanson arrived, and asked his visitors to be
seated. The conversation turned upon one topic and another.
Generally the English people asked to see the guillotine. M.
Sanson complied with this request, no doubt for some con-
sideration, and conducted the ladies and gentlemen to the ad-
joining street (the Rue Albouy, I think), to the house of the
scaffold-manufacturer. There was a shed at this place, where
the guillotine was permanently erected. The strangers
grouped themselves around it, and it was made to work.
Trusses of hay were guillotined.
One day an English family, consisting of the father, the
mother, and three pretty daughters, fair and with rosy cheeks,
presented themselves at Sanson's residence. It was in order
to see the guillotine. Sanson took them to the carpenter's and
set the instrument at work. The knife fell and rose again
several times at the request of the young ladies. One of
them, however, †” the youngest, — was not satisfied with
this.
She made the executioner explain to her, in the minutest de-
tails, what is called the toilet of the condemned. Still she was
not satisfied. At length she turned hesitatingly towards the
executioner.
" Monsieur Sanson," she said.
" Mademoiselle," said the executioner.
" What is done when the man is on the scaffold? How
is he tied down ? "
The executioner explained the dreadful matter to her, and
said, " We call that ' putting him in the oven.' "
106 THINGS SEEN
" Well, Monsieur Sanson," said the young lady, " I want
you to put me in the oven."
The executioner started. He gave an exclamation of sur-
prise. The young lady insisted. " I fancy," she said, " that
I should like to be able to say I have been tied down in it."
Sanson spoke to the father and mother. They replied,
" As she has taken a fancy to have it done, do it."
The executioner had to give in. He made the young Miss
sit down, tied her legs with a piece of string, and her arms
behind her back with a rope, fastened her to the swinging
plank, and strapped her on with the leather strap. Here he
wanted to stop. " No, no, that is not yet all," she said.
Sanson then swung the plank down, placed the head of the
young lady in the dreadful neck-piece, and closed it upon her
neck. Then she declared she was satisfied.
When he afterwards told the story, Sanson said, " I quite
thought she was going to say at last, ' That is not all ; make
the knife fall.' "
Nearly all the English visitors ask to see the knife which
cut off the head of Louis XVI. This knife was sold for old
iron, in the same way as all the other guillotine knives when
they are worn out. English people will not believe it and offer
to buy it of M. Sanson. If he had cared to trade in them,
there would have been as many knives of Louis XVI. sold as
walking-sticks of Voltaire.
From his anecdotes of Sanson, the fellow who said he had
formerly been a groom at the Tuileries, wanted to proceed
to anecdotes of the king. He had heard the conferences of
the king with the ambassadors, etc. I did not trouble him.
I thought of his being a Gascon, 1 and an embroiderer, and
his political revelations appeared to be only fancy articles of a
superior description.
Up to 1826 the Conciergerie had no other entrance than
a grating opening into the courtyard of the Palais de Justice.
It was through this that criminals condemned to death came
i The people of Gascony are proverbially supposed to be hatchet
throwers. — Tr.
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGERIE 10,
out. In 1826 was made the doorway which is to be seen upon
the quay between the two great round towers. These two
towers had, upon the ground-floor, like the tower of the tor-
ture-chamber, a room without a window. The two grotesque
Gothic niches, without any voussoir or equilateral triangle for
a base, which arc still admired here to this day, and which are
masterpieces of ignorance, were opened in these splendid walls
by a sort of stone-mason named Peyre, who held the office of
architect to the Palais dc Justice, and who mutilated, dis-
honoured, and disfigured the building as may be seen. The e
two rooms, thus lighted, make two fine circular apartments.
Their walls arc ornamented with inlaid Gothic arches of ad-
mirable purity, resting upon exquisite brackets. These
charming triumphs of architecture and sculpture were never
intended to sec the light of day, and were made, strange to
say, for horror and darkness.
The first of the two rooms — the nearest to the men's yard
— had been converted into a dormitory for the warders.
There were in it a dozen beds, arranged like the rays of a star,
round a stove placed in the centre. Above each bed a plank,
fixed in the wall through the delicate mullions of the archi-
tecture, held the personal belongings of the warders, — gen-
erally represented by a brush, a trunk, and an old pair of
boots.
Over one of the beds, however, beside the pair of boots,
which was not wanting in any single instance, was a
little heap of books. I noticed this ; it was explained to me.
It was the library of a warder named Peiset, to whom
Lacenaire had imparted literary tastes. This man, seeing
Lacenaire constantly reading and writing, first admired and
then consulted him. He was not without intelligence ; Lace-
naire advised him to study. Some of the books which
were there were those of Lacenaire. Lacenaire gave them to
him.
Peiset had bought a feAV other old books upon the quays;
he took the advice of Lacenaire, who said, " Read this,"' or
" Do not read that." By degrees the jailer became a thinker,
108 THINGS SEEN
and it was thus that an intelligence had been awakened and
had expanded in this repulsive atmosphere.
The other room could only be entered by a door which bore
this inscription : " Entrance reserved for the Governor." M.
Lebel opened it for me very politely, and we found ourselves
in his sitting-room. This apartment was, in fact, trans-
formed into the governor's sitting-room. It was almost
identical with the other, but differently furnished. This sit-
ting-room was made up in extraordinary fashion. The archi-
tecture of Saint-Louis, a chandelier which had belonged to
Ouvrard, hideous wall-paper in the Gothic arches, a mahog-
any writing-desk, some articles of furniture with unbleached
calico coverings, an old legal portrait without an}' case or
frame and nailed askew upon the wall, some engravings, some
heaps of paper, a table looking like a counter ; altogether, the
room, thus furnished, had the characteristics of a palace, a
prison-cell, and a shop-parlour. It was patibulary, magnifi-
cent, ugly, ridiculous, sinister, royal, and vulgar.
It was into this apartment that the visitors of the privi-
leged prisoners were shown. At the time of his detention,
of which many traces remained at the Conciergerie, M.
Ouvrard used to see his friends here. The Prince de Berghes
used to see his wife and mother here. " What does it matter
to me if they do receive their visitors here ? " said M. Lebel.
" They think themselves in a drawing-room, and they are none
the less in a prison." The worthy man looked profoundly
convinced that the Duchess and Princess de Berghes must have
thought they were in a drawing-room.
It was there also that the chancellor, Duke Pasquier, was
in the habit of preparing the preliminaries of the official in-
quiries confided to him in respect of the prosecutions before
the House of Peers.
The governor's room communicated with this apartment.
It was very mean and ugly looking. The species of den
which served as his bedroom was solely dependent upon the
doors for light and air, — that is to say, so far as I could see,
for I passed rapidly through. It was clean, although of a
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGERIE 109
rather mouldy-smelling cleanliness, and had all sorts of frames
in the corners, and old-fashioned knick-knacks, and all those
minutiffi which one sees in the rooms of elderly people. The
dining-room was larger, and had windows. Two or three
good-looking young ladies were seated there upon straw-bot-
tomed chairs, and were at work under the eye of a lady of
about fifty years of age. They rose with a modest and
pleasant look as I passed, and their father, M. Lebel, kissed
them on the forehead. Nothing stranger could be imagined
than this Anglican Presbyterian's home, surrounded by the
infamous interior of a prison, and walled round as it were and
preserved in all its purity amid every vice, every crime, every
disgrace, and ever} 7 shame.
" But," I said to M. Lebel, " What has become of the hall
of the chimney-pieces? Where is it?
He appeared to turn it over in his mind like a person who
fails to understand.
"The hall of the chimney-pieces? Did you say the hall
of the chimney-pieces?"
" Yes," I rejoined, " a great hall which was under the salle
des pas perdus, 1 and where there were in the four corners
four enormous chimney-pieces, constructed in the thirteenth
century. Why, I remember distinctly having come to see it
some twenty years ago, in company with Rossini, Meyerbeer,
and David d'Angers."
" Ah ! " said M; Lebel, " I know what you mean. That is
what we call the Kitchens of Saint-Louis."
" Well, the Kitchens of Saint-Louis then, if that is what
you call them. But what has become of this hall? Besides
the four chimney-pieces, it had some handsome pillars which
supported the roof. I have not seen it even now. Has your
architect, M. Peyre, hidden it away?"
" Oh, no. Only he has made some alterations in it for us."
These words, quietly uttered, made me shudder. The hall
of the chimney-pieces was one of the most remarkable monu-
i The outer hall of a French Court of Justice to which the public are
admitted. — Tb.
110 THINGS SEEN
ments of the Royal and domestic architecture of the Middle
Ages. What might not a creature like the architect Peyre
have done with it? M. Lebel continued: —
" We scarcely knew where to put our prisoners during the
time when they have to undergo their preliminary examina-
tion. M. Peyre took the Kitchens of Saint-Louis and made
a magnificent souricicre 1 with three compartments, — one
for men, one for women, and one for the juveniles. He con-
trived this in the best manner possible, and he did not destroy
the old hall to any great extent, I assure you."
" Will you take me to it? " I said to M. Lebel.
" By all means."
We passed through long, wide, low, and narrow corridors
and passages. Here and there we came across a staircase
crowded with gendarmes, and we saw pass, amid a hubbub of
policemen and warders, some poor wretch whom the ushers
handed to each other, at the same time saying to each other
in a loud tone of voice the word Disponsihle. 2
" What does that word convey? " I said to my guide.
" It means that he has a man whom the examining magis-
trate has done with, and who is at the disposal of the
gendarme."
"To set him at liberty?"
" No, to take him back to prison."
At length the last door opened.
" Here you are," said the governor, " in the room you are
looking for."
I look round.
I was in darkness.
I had a Avail in front of my eyes.
My eyeballs, however, gradually became accustomed to the
darkness, and after a few moments I distinguished on my
right, in a recess, a lofty and magnificent chimney-piece in
the shape of an inverted funnel, built of stone, and resting,
iA room in which prisoners are temporarily detained. — Te.
^ Available, or ready to be disposed of. — Ta.
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGER1E 111
by means of an open buttress of the most exquisite style,
against a pillar which stood in face of it.
" Ah," I said, " here is one of the chimney-pieces. But
where arc the others? "
" This is the only one," replied M. Lebcl, " which remains
intact. Of the three others, two are completely destroyed,
and the third is mutilated; it was necessary for a souricicre.
It is because we had to fill up the intervals between the pillars
with stone-work. We had to put up partitions. The archi-
tect preserved this chimney-piece as a specimen of the archi-
tectural style of the period."
" And," I added, " of the folly of the architects of our
time ! " Thus there was no hall, but a number of compart-
ments; and out of four chimney-pieces three were destroyed.
This was effected under Charles X. This is what the sons
of Saint-Louis made of the souvenirs of Saint-Louis.
" It is true," continued I\I. Lebel, " that this souricicre
might very well have been placed elsewhere. But then, you
know, they did not think of that, and they had this hall a\
able. However, they arranged it very well. It is dividi d
by stone walls in longitudinal compartments, lighted each by
one of the windows of the old hall. The first is that of the
juveniles. Should you like to go in?"
A turnkey opened a heavy door with a peep-hole bored
through it, by means of which the interior of the souricicre
could be watched, and we went in.
The juveniles souricicre was an oblong room, a parallelo-
: it in. provided with two stone benches on the two principal
sides. There were three boys there. The eldest was rather
a big hoy. He appeared to be about seventeen years of age,
and was clad in frightful old vcllowish clothes.
I spoke to the youngest, who had a rather intelligent, al-
though an enervated and degraded, face.
"What is 3 r our age, boy?"
" I am twelve, sir."
" What have yon done to be in here? "
" I took some peaches."
112 THINGS SEEN
"Where?"
" In a garden at Montreuil."
"By yourself?"
" No, with my friend."
" Where is your friend? "
Pic pointed out the other one, who was clad like himself in
the prison material, and was a little bigger than himself, and
said, "There he is?"
" You got over a wall, then ? "
" No sir. The peaches were on the ground in the road."
" You only stooped down? "
" Yes, sir."
" And picked them up? "
" Yes, sir."
At this point M. Lebel leaned towards me, and said, " He
has already been taught his lesson."
It was evident, in fact, that the child was telling a lie.
There was neither decision nor candour in his look. He cast
his eyes down obliquely as he looked at me, as a sharper ex-
amines his victim, and moreover with that delighted expres-
sion of a child who makes a man his dupe.
" You are not telling the truth, my lad," I resumed.
" Yes I am, sir."
This " Yes I am, sir," was said with that kind of impu-
dence in which one feels that everything is wanting, even
assurance. He added boldly, " And for that I have been
sentenced to three years' imprisonment. But, je'n rappelle." l
" Have not your relatives come to claim you ? "
" No, sir."
" And your friend, was he sentenced? "
" No, his relatives claimed him."
" He is a better boy than you, then? "
The boy hung down his head.
M. Lebel said to me, " He has been sentenced to be de-
tained for three years in a House of Correction, to be brought
i For " j'en rappelle," meaning that he has appealed against the sen-
tence. — Tr.
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGERIE 113
dp there, — acquitted, that is to say, for not having acted
* with discretion.' The misfortune and the grief of all the
little vagabonds is to be under sixteen years of age. They
have a thousand ways of trying to persuade the authorities
-hat they are sixteen years of age, and guilty xc-ith discretion,
in fact, when they are sixteen years and one day old they are
punished with a few months' imprisonment for their pranks.
If they are a day less than sixteen years old, they have three
years' detention at La lloquette."
I gave a small sum of money to these poor little wretches,
who perhaps were only wanting in education.
All things considered, society is more guilty towards them
than they are guilty towards society. We may ask them,
What have you done with our peaches? Very well. But
they might reply, what have you done with our intelligence?
" Thank you, sir," said the youngster, putting the money
in his pocket.
" I would have given you twice as much," I told him, " if
you had not told a lie."
" Sir," said the boy, " I have been sentenced, but j'en
rappelle."
" It was bad to take peaches, but it was w r orse to tell a
lie."
The child did not appear to understand.
"Je'n rappelle," he said.
We quitted the cell, and as the door was closed, the boy
followed us with a look, while still repeating, " J'en rappelle."
The two others did not breathe a word. The jailer bolted
the door while muttering, " Keep quiet my little rats."
This word reminded us that we were in a "souriciere." 2
The second compartment was set apart for men, and was
exactly similar to the first. I did not go in, but contented
jnyself with looking through the peep-hole. It was full of
prisoners, among whom the turnkey pointed out to me a youth
with a prepossessing countenance, tolerably dressed, and wcar-
i Equivalent to " my little dears."— Tn.
2 In allusion to its other signification of a mouse-trap. — Ta.
8
(14 THINGS SEEN
;ng a thoughtful air. This was an individual named Pichery,
the ringleader of a gang of thieves who were to be put on
their trial in a few daj's' time.
The third slice cut out of the Kitchens of Saint-Louis was
the women's jail. It was thrown open to us. I saw only
seven or eight inmates, all more than forty years of age, with
the exception of a youngish woman who still retained some
remains of good looks. This poor creature hid herself be-
hind the others. I understood this bashfulness, and I neither
asked nor permitted any question. All kinds of little articles
of women's luggage — baskets, flat baskets, work-bags,
oieces of knitting j ust begun — encumbered the stone
oenches.
There were also great pieces of brown bread. I took up a
piece of this bread. It was of the colour of road scrapings,
smellcd very nasty, and stuck to the fingers like birdlime.
" What is that? " I said to M. Lebel.
" It is the prison bread."
" Why, it is detestable ! "
" Do you think so? "
" Look at it yourself."
" It is a contractor who supplies it."
"And who makes his fortune, does he not?"
" M. Chayet, Secretary at the Prefecture, has to examine
the bread ; he considers it very good, — so good that he does
not have any other on his own table."
" M. Chayet," I said, " is wrong to judge the bread eaten
by the prisoners by the bread he receives himself. If the
speculator does send him every day a delicacy, that does not
prove that he does not send filth to the prisoners."
" You are right ; I will speak about it."
I learned afterwards that the quality of the bread had been
looked into, and that an improvement had been effected.
On the whole, there was nothing remarkable in this cell,
unless it was that the walls were covered all over with inscrip-
tions in black marks. Here are the three which stood out
prominently in larger letters than the others : " Corset."
VISIT TO THE CONCIERGERIE 115
•* Jc suis eodanee a six moia pour vacabonage." "Amour
pour la vie." l
The three doors of the compartments opened on the same
passage, — a long dark corridor, at the two extremities of
which, like two stone tiaras, were the rounded forms of the two
chimney-pieces which had been preserved, and of which, as I
had already said, there was only one which was perfect. The
second had lost its principal ornament, — its buttress. Of
the others all that remained visible was the sites on which they
had stood in the corners of the juvenile compartment and the
women's compartment.
It was upon the easternmost of these two latter chimney-
pieces that the curious figure of the demon Mahidis was carv< d
The demon Mahidis was a Persian demon which Saint-Louis
brought back from the Crusades. It was to be seen upon the
chimney-piece with its five heads, — for he had five heads;
and each of these five heads had composed one of those songs
•vhich are called ragas in India, and which are the oldest music
known. These ragas are still celebrated and dreaded through-
out Hindustan on account of their magic powers. There is
no juggler who is bold enough to sing them. One of these
ragas sung at nuddar makes the night fall instantl; , and to
conjure up from the ground an immense circle of darkness,
which spreads as far as the voice of the singer will carry.
Another is called the Ihupuck raga. Whoever sings it perishes
by fire. A tradition relates how the Emperor Akbar one day
was smitten with a desire to hear this raga sung. He sent for
a famous musician named Na'ik-Gopaul, and said to him:
" Sing me the Ihupuck raga." Thereupon the poor tenor,
trembling from head to foot, falls upon the emperor's knees.
The emperor had his whim, and was inflexible. The only con-
cession the tenor could obtain was to be allowed to go and see
his family for the last time. He sets out, returns to the town
i The first appears to be the name of a prisoner; the second is an illit-
erate inscription by some woman, to the effect that she has been sen-
tenced to six months' imprisonment, as a vagabond; the third expresses
undying affection for some person unknown. — Th.
116 THINGS SEEN
in which he lives, makes his will, embraces his old father and
mother, says adieu to all that he loves in the world, and
returns to the Emperor. Six months elapsed. Eastern kings
have melancholy and tenacious whims. " Ah, there you are,
musician," said Shah Akbar, in a sad but friendly tone.
" Welcome ! You are going to sing me the Ihupuck raga."
Na'ik-Gopaul trembles, and implores once more. But the
emperor is inexorable. It was winter-time. The Jumna was
frozen over; people were skating upon it. Na'ik-Gopaul has
lie ice broken, and gets into the water up to his neck. He
begins to sing. At the second verse the water became warm,
at the second stanza the ice melted, at the third stanza the
river began to boil. Na'ik-Gopaul was cooking; he was cov-
ered with blisters. Instead of singing, he cried, " Mercy,
Sire ! "
; ' Go on," said Akbar, who was no mean lover of music.
The poor wretch went on singing; his face was crimson,
his eyes started out of his head, but he continued to sing,
the emperor listening meanwhile with ecstasy. At length a
few sparks shot out of the hair of the tenor, which stood
on end.
" Mercy ! " he cried, for the last time.
" Sing ! " said the emperor.
He began the last stanza amid shrieks. Suddenty the
flames burst forth from his mouth, then from his entire body,
and the fire consumed him in the midst of the water. That
is one of the habitual effects of the music of this demon
Mahidis, who was represented upon the demolished chimney-
piece. He had a wife named Parbutta, who is the author
of what the Hindoos call the sixth raga. Thirty raginis, a
music of a feminine and inferior character, were dictated by
Boimba. It was to these three devils, or gods, that was due
the invention of the gamut, composed of twenty-one notes,
which forms the basis of the music of India.
As we withdrew three gentlemen in black coats, conducted
by a turnkey, passed near us ; they were visitors. " Three
new members of the Chamber of Deputies," M. Lebel informed
VISIT TO THE CONC1ERGERIE 117
me in a whisper. They had whiskers and high cravats, and
spoke like Provincial academicians. They were lavish in ex-
pressions of admiration; they were in ecstasies, more par-
ticularly at the work which had been done in the way of
embellishing the prison and making it suitable to the require-
ments of the police authorities. One of them maintained that
Paris was being prodigiously embellished, thanks to the archi-
tects of taste who were modernizing (sic) the ancient build-
ings; and he asserted that the Academie Franchise ought
to make these Paris embellishments the subject of a prize
competition in poetry. This set me thinking that M. Peyre
has done for the Palais de Justice what M. Godde has done
for Saint-Germain des Pres, and M. Debret for Saint-Denis ;
and while M. Lebcl was giving some instructions to the
warders, I wrote with a pencil upon a pillar of the hall of
the chimney-pieces these verses, which might be sent in for
the competition if ever the Academie should set up the com-
petition desire by these gentlemen, and which, I hope, would
secure the prize : —
" Un sizain vaut une longue ode
Pour chanter Debret, Peyre, et Godde;
L'oison gloussant, l'ane qui brait,
Fetent Godde, Peyre, et Debret;
Et le dindon, digne compere,
Admire Debret, Godde, et Peyre." 1
As M. Lebel turned round, I finished. He conducted me
to the outer door again, and I issued forth. As I went away,
some one of a group of men in blouses behind me, who ap-
peared to be waiting on the quay, said, " There is one of them
who has been discharged. He is a lucky fellow."
It appears that I looked like a thief. However, I had
i Thi -"light be rendered, —
Six lines are worth a lengthy ode
To sing of Debret, Peyre, and Godde,
The gosling's hiss, the donkey's bray,
Acclaim them all, Godde, Peyre, Debit ?t;
The turkey, too, a worthy mate,
Must worship this triumvirate. — Tr.
118 THINGS SEEN
spent two hours at the Conciergerie, the sitting of the
Academic must still be going on, and I reflected, with much
inward satisfaction, that if I had gone to it I should not
have been " discharged " thus early.
COUNT MORTIER
November 11.
YESTERDAY Chancellor Pasquier comes to the house of
Mme. de Boignes, and finds her in great agitation,
holding a letter in her hand. " What is the matter,
madame? " " This letter which I have received. Read it."
The chancellor took the letter ; it was signed " Mortier," and
said, in effect, " Madame, when you read this letter my two
children and myself will no longer be alive."
It was Count Mortier, a Peer of France, and formerly an
ambassador, but where I cannot remember, who wrote. M.
Pasquier was much concerned. M. Mortier was known as
a confirmed hypochondriac. Four years ago, at Bruges, he
ran after his wife with a razor in his hand, with the inten-
tion of killing her. A month ago he made a similar attempt,
which led to a separation, by the terms of which M. Mortier
retained the custody of the children, a little boy of seven
years of age and a little girl of five. His hypochondria was
caused, it appears, by jealousy, and developed into uncon-
trollable passion.
The chancellor sends for his carriage, and docs not take
a chair. "Where does M. Mortier live?" "In the Rue
Neuvc Saint-Augustin, in the Hotel Chatham," said Mme. de
Boignes.
M. Pasquier arrives at the Hotel Chatham; he finds the
staircase crowded, a commissary of police, a locksmith with
his bunch of keys, the door barricaded. The alarm had been
given. They were going to break open the door.
" I forbid you," said the chancellor. " You would exas-
COUNT MORTIER 119
perate him, and if the mischief were not yet done lie would
rfo it."
For some time, however, M. Mortier had not answered.
There was nothing but a profound silence behind the door, —
a terrible silence, for it seemed that if the children were still
living they should be crying. " It seemed," said the chan-
cellor, when he told me this to-day, " as if it was the door of
a tomb."
The chancellor called out his name : " Count Mortier, it
is I, M. Pasquier, the chancellor, your colleague. You know
my voice, do you not ? "
To this a voice replied, " Yes."
It was the voice of M. Mortier.
The on-lookers breathed again.
" Well," continued M. Pasquier, " you know me ; open the
door."
" No," replied the same voice. Then it obstinately re-
fused to speak again. All was silent once more.
This happened several times. He replied, the dialogue
continued, he refused to open, then he remained silent. Those
outside trembled for fear that in these brief intervals of
silence he might do the dreadful deed.
In the mean time the prefect of police had arrived.
" It is I, your colleague, Dclessert, and your old friend."
(They were school-fellows, I think.)
This parleying lasts for more than an hour. At length he
consents to open the door provided they give him their word
they will not enter. The word is given; he half opens the
door ; they go in.
He was in the anteroom, with an open razor in his hand;
behind him was the inner door of his rooms, locked and with
the key removed. He appeared frenzied.
" If any one approaches me," he said, " there will be an
end of him and me. I will remain alone with Delessert and
speak to him ; I consent to that."
A risky conversation this, with a furious man armed with
a razor. M. Delessert, who behaved bravely, asked every
120 THINGS SEEN
one else to withdraw, remained alone with M. Mortier, and
after a refusal, which lasted for a space of twenty minutes,
persuaded him to put down the razor.
Once disarmed, he was secured.
But were the children dead or living? It was terrible to
reflect upon. To all questions on the subject he replied,
" It is nothing to do with you."
The inner door is broken open, and what is found at the
farther end of the rooms? The two children, crouching
under the furniture.
This is what had happened.
In the morning M. Mortier said to his children, " I am
very unhappy. You love me, and I love you. I am going
to die. Will you die with me?"
The little boy said, resolutely, " No, papa."
As for the little girl, she hesitated. In order to persuade
her the father passed the back of the razor gently around
her neck, and said to her, " There, my dear, it will not hurt
you any more than that."
" Well, then, papa," said the child, " I do not mind dying."
The father goes out, probably to fetch a second razor.
Directly he goes out, the little boy rushes to the key, lays
hold of it, shuts the door, and locks it twice on the inside.
Then he takes his sister to the furthermost end of the
rooms and gets under the furniture with her.
The doctors declared that Count Mortier was a melancholy
and dangerous madman. He was taken to a mad-house.
He had a mania, in fact, for razors. When he was seized
he was searched; besides that which he had in his hand,
one was found in each of his pockets.
On the same day the news arrived in Paris that my
colleague, Count Bresson, had cut his throat at Naples, where
he had recently been appointed Ambassador.
This was a grief to us all, and a great surprise. From a
mere worldly point of view, Count Bresson wanted nothing.
He was a Peer of France, an ambassador, a Grand Cross of
the Legion of Honour. His son had lately been created a
COUNT MORTIER 121
Duke in Spain. As an ambassador he had a salary of two
hundred thousand francs a year. He was an earnest, kindly,
gentle, intelligent, sensible man, very rational in everything,
of high stature, with broad shoulders, a good square face, and
at fifty-five years of age looked only forty ; he had wealth,
greatness, dignity, intelligence, health, and was fortunate in
private as in public life. He killed himself.
Nourrit also went to Naples and killed himself.
Is it the climate? Is it the marvellous sky?
Spleen is engendered just as much under a blue sky as
under a gloomy sky, — more so, perhaps.
As the life of even the most prosperous man is always
in reality more sad than gay, a gloomy sky is in harmony
with ourselves. A brilliant and joyous sky mocks us. Na-
ture in its sad aspects resembles us and consoles us ; Nature,
when radiant, impassive, serene, magnificent, transplendent,
young while we grow old, smiling when we are sighing, su-
perb, inaccessible, eternal, contented, calm in its joyousness,
has in it something oppressive.
By dint of contemplating the sky, — ruthless, unrelenting,
indifferent, and sublime, — one takes a razor and makes an
end of it.
December 1.
In the new hall for private meetings at the Academie the
statue of Racine has been placed in a corner, and the statue
of Corneille in the centre, behind the President's chair.
Formerly it was Racine who was in the centre and Corneille
in the corner. This is a step in the right direction. An-
other demolition, another reconstruction, and it will be Moliere
who will be put in the place of honour.
122 THINGS SEEN
SOIREE AT M. GUIZOT'S
December 18.
RECEPTION at M. Guizot's.
M. Guizot's aged mother is eighty-four or eighty-
five years old. She attends the evening gatherings, seating
herself in the corner by the fireplace, and wearing a chemisette
and a black cap amid all the laces and the stars and rib-
bons. In this room of velvet and gold one would think she
must be an apparition from the Cevennes. M. Guizot said
to her one day, " Do you remember, mother, the time when
your grandmother spoke to us of the dragoons who pur-
sued her in the mountains, and of the bullets which pierced
her clothes ? "
At the period of M. Guizot's birth '89 had not yet re-
stored to Protestants their civil rights. They were outlawed.
M. Guizot was thus legally a bastard when he was born. He
was inscribed in no register when he came into the world,
and would be unable to prove his French nationality.
M. Guizot came up during the evening to a group of which
I happened to make one, and said to me : —
M. Guizot. Well, we are going to begin the struggles
once more.
I. You do not fear anything in our Chamber?
M. Guizot. No. The Opposition intimates to me that
it will not harass me much, excepting M. de Boissy, who
has not informed me beforehand of what he intends to do
at all. M. de Montalembert will speak about Cracow. But
we shall have a paragraph in the Speech from the Throne,
which I hope will leave nothing to be said.
I. And you will be quite right. As for myself, my
opinion is this ; if the Chamber had been sitting at the time
of the Cracow affair, I should have spoken, and I should
have said, I ask permission to congratulate France. To get
rid of Cracow is to restore to us the Rhine. The treaties
of 1815 no longer exist. Those treaties were made against
SOIREE AT M. GUIGOT'S 123
us, they are violated against us, they will he violated again
against us ; the final violation will be for us to make. I
congratulate France, and I glorify Poland.
Viscount de Flavigny. That may be. But is it not a
misfortune that some governments —
M. de Lagrenee. Monarchical governments!
M. de Flavigny. — set the example of the infraction of
treaties and the violation of international law.
I. It is nothing new. M. Guizot, who is a great his-
torian, knows better than we do that nothing is more frequent
in the history of Europe. All governments have from time
to time violated every law, beginning with the law of na-
tions. Cannon were called the ultima ratio. Who has might
has right ; that was the maxim. The little were devoured by
the great ; the fowls eaten by the foxes ; the foxes eaten by
the wolves ; the wolves eaten by the lions. — that was the
practice. That which is new is the respect for law. It is
the glory of the civilization of the nineteenth century to
wish the weak to be respected by the strong, and to rank
eternal morality higher than pikes and muskets. The three
Powers which have destroyed Cracow have committed a blun-
der, not because they have violated the tradition of past
centuries, but because they have outraged the spirit of the
time.
M. Guizot. Just so.
M. de Flavigny. But the history of the popes, then —
I. The history of the popes is better than the history of
kings, but it has also its dark spots. Popes themselves have
also been false to their word and violated their plighted
faith.
M. Guizot {laughing). Oh, do not let us say any harm
of the Papacy just now. There is a pope whom I esteem,
and for whom I have a warm regard.
I. Granted. But the preceding one, Gregory XVI. !
As for Pious IX., I am also among those who live in hopes.
M. Guizot. I esteem him because he appreciates and
invites advice, because he asks for one's opinion, although
124 THINGS SEEN
judging rationally for himself afterwards; because he wishes
to do what is right, seeks it, and often discovers it. I es-
teem him because lie concedes gracefully, and with a good
will, that which is just. I esteem him because he knows also
how to say, " I will never do that." He has gentleness and
firmness.
I. If Pius IX. likes he may become the most power-
ful sovereign in Europe. No one realizes what a pope might
become. A pope who would follow the drift of his times
might govern and might move the world. He has so enor-
mous a lever, — - faith, the conscience, the mind ! Every soul
is a mine ready to be fired by the spark which would
flash from such a pope. What a conflagration, if it pleased
him ! What a coruscation, if he so willed it !
1847
LORD NOHMANBY
January 6.
THE Marquis of Normanby, the English ambassador, said
to me yesterday, " When the secret history of the Cra-
cow affair is known, it will be known that Russia said to
Austria, 'Take Cracow, will you?' 'No.' 'Well, then,
I will take it.' Austria yielded." " Then," I said, " her
audacity is obedience, her violence cowardice, her usurpation
an abdication." Lord Normanby is a man of about fifty
years of age, tall, fair, with a pronounced English look,
elegant, graceful, high-bred, good-natured and dandyish.
He has been Viceroy of Ireland and Home Secretary in Eng-
land. He is the author of two or three novels of high life.
He wears a blue ribbon over his white tie, and a diamond
star upon his dress-coat. He speaks French with difficulty,
but with humour.
Lord Normanby spoke to me of O'Connell, who, in 1847,
DINNER AT M. DE SALVANDYS 125
is beginning to break up. His seventy -three years weigh
him down, notwithstanding his tall figure and wide shoulders.
This man, of such violent and bitter eloquence, is in a
drawing-room obsequious, full of compliments, modest to
humility, mild to affectation. Lord Normanby said to me,
"O'Connell is affected."
O'Connell has in County Kerry an old ancestral hall, where
he goes to shoot for two months in the year, receiving guests
and entertaining them like an old county gentleman, 1 keep-
ing up, Lord Normanby also told me, a savage hospitality.
His eloquence, adapted to the masses and to Ireland, had
little influence upon the Commons of England. However, he
had during his life two or three great successes in Parliament.
But the platform suited him better than the tribune.
DINNER AT M. DE SALVANDY'S
January 14.
YESTERDAY, Thursday, I dined at the house of M. de
Salvandy, Minister of Public Instruction. There were
present Lord Normanby, British ambassador; the Duke of
Caraman, a young nobleman, intelligent and artless, much
occupied in philosophic studies ; Dupin, the elder, with his
rough bourgeois air; M. de Remusat, the eight-days old
Academician, a keen and well-balanced mind; M. Gay-Lussac,
the chemist, whom fame has made a Peer of France, and to
whom nature has given the face of a worthy peasant; the
other chemist, M. Dumas, a man of talent, his hair rather
too elaborately curled, and displaying very prominently the
ribbon of a Commander of the Legion of Honour ; Saint-
Beuve, bald and little; Alfred de Musset, with his youthful
hair, his fair beard, his equivocal opinions, and his intellectual
countenance; M. Ponsard, a man of thirty-two years of age,
1 In the original, " lord campagnard." — Te.
126 THINGS SEEN
with strange-looking features, large dull eyes, rather nar-
row forehead, the whole in a frame- work of black beard and
black hair, a hero of the shop-girls, a great poet to the
bourgeois; M. Michel Chevalier, with his close-cropped head,
his receding forehead, his bird-like profile, and his spare
figure; Alfred de Vigny, another fair man with a bird-like
profile, but with long hair ; Viennet, with his grimace ; Scribe,
with his peaceful air, rather anxious about a piece of his
which was being played the same evening at the Gymnase,
and which failed; Dupaty, sad after his fall of the 7th at
the sitting of the Academie ; Montalembert, with his long hair
and English appearance, mild and disdainful ; Philippe de
Segur, a light and lively talker, with an aquiline nose, deep-
sunk eyes, grey hair, combed in imitation of the Emperor;
Generals Fabvier and Rapatel, in full uniform, — Rapatel
with his round, homely face, Fabvier with his flat-nosed lion's
face; Mignet, smiling and cold; Gustave de Beaumont, with
dark, firm, and energetic face; Halevy, always timid; the
astronomer Leverrier, rather red-faced; Vitet, with his tall
figure and his smile, which is amiable, although it lays bare
his teeth ; M. Victor Leclerc, the candidate for the Academie,
who had that morning been rejected; Ingres, the table ris-
ing to his chin, so that his white tie and his commander's
ribbon seemed to come from under the table-cloth, Pradier,
with his long hair, and his air of a man of forty at sixty
years of age; Auber, with his head on one side, his polite
manners, and his two crosses at his button-hole.
I sat beside Lord Normanby, who is a very amiable man,
although the ambassador of ill-humour; I called his atten-
tion to the end of the table thus composed: Ingres, Pradier,
Auber, — painting, sculpture, and music.
Mine, de Salvandy had Lord Normanby on her right, and
M. Gay-Lussac on her left ; M. de Salvandy had on his right
M. Dupin, and on his left M. de Remusat.
February 5.
Yesterday I was at the Tuileries. There was a represen-
tation there. After the opera every one went into the side-
DINNER AT M. DE SALV ANDY'S 127
rooms in which the buffet was placed and began to converse.
M. Guizot had made during the day in the Chamber of
Deputies a very noble, very fine, and very spirited speech
about our budding dispute with England. This speech was
much spoken of. Some approved, others condemned. Baron
de Billing passed close to me with a lady whom I could not
see on his arm.
" Good evening," he said. " What do you think of the
speech ? " I replied, " I am pleased with it. I like to see
that we are at length holding up our heads again in this
count ry. It is said that this boldness is imprudent, but I
do not think so. The best way not to have a war is to show
that one does not fear it. See how England gave in to the
United States two years ago ; she will give in in the same
way to France. Let us be firm, others will be gentle; if we
are gentle, others will be insolent."
At this moment the lady to whom he was giving his arm
turned towards me, and I recognized the wife of the English
ambassador. She looked very displeased. She said, " Oh,
monsieur ! "
I replied, " Ah, madame ! "
And the war ended there. God send that that may be the
only interchange of words between the Queen of England
and the King of France!
Saturday, February 20.
Opening of the Theatre-Historique. I came out from it
at half -past three in the morning.
March 21.
Mile. Mars was the only person represented in the statuary
of the porch of the Theatre-Historique.
Mme. d'A , hearing this, said, " This places her in the
list of the dead ; she has not long to live."
Mile. Mars died on the 20th of March, a month to a day
after the opening of the Theatre-Historique. She was sixty-
nine years of age, — two years older than Mile. Georges.
Mile. Mars was fifty-two years old when she first performed
128 THINGS SEEN
her original part of Dona Sol, a character supposed to be
seventeen.
She leaves a son in the banking-house of Edward. No
letters announcing the decease, owing to the difficulty of put-
ting, " Mademoiselle Mars is dead. Her son has the hon-
our to inform you of the fact."
FUNERAL OF MLLE. MARS
March 26.
I HAVE been at the burial of Mile. Mars. I arrived at
twelve o'clock. The hearse was already at the Madeleine.
There was an immense crowd, and the most brilliant sun
imaginable. It was the day of the flower-market in the
square outside the church. I penetrated with considerable
difficulty as far as the steps, but there it was impossible to
go any farther; the only door was crowded: no one could get
in. I saw in the dark interior of the church, through the
dazzling light of midday, the ruddy stars of the wax tapers
stuck round a tall catafalque. The paintings on the ceiling
formed a mystic background.
I heard the funeral chant, the sound of which reached as
far as where I stood, and all round me the remarks and
shouts of the crowd. Nothing is so sad as a burial ; one sees
only people who are laughing. Every one gaily accosts his
neighbour, and talks of his concerns.
The church and the front gate are hung with black
drapery, with an escutcheon of silver lace containing the
letter M. I approached the hearse, which was of black velvet
with silver-lace ornamentation, with the same letter M. A
few tufts of black feathers had been thrown upon the place
intended for the coffin.
The people of Paris are like the people of Athens, —
frivolous but intelligent. There were men in blouses there,
with their sleeves tucked up, who said some true and forcible
FUNERAL OF MLLE. MARS 129
things upon the stage, upon art, upon the poets. They
sought and distinguished in the crowd men whose names are
famous. These people must have glory. When there is no
Marengo or Austerlitz, they love and must have their Dumas
and their Lamartines. These are like a light towards which
all eyes are eagerly directed.
I remained under the peristyle, sheltered from the sun by
a column. One or two poets came and joined me and stood
round me, — Joseph Autran, Adolphe Dumas, Auguste Ma-
quet. Alexandre Dumas came over to us with his son. The
crowd recognized him by his thick head of hair, and called
out his name.
Towards one o'clock the body came out of the church, to-
gether with all the people. Remarks broke forth from among
those outside : —
" Ah, there is Bouffe ! "
"But where is Arnal?"
" Here he is."
" Hulloa, those men in black are the societaires of the
Theatre-Francais ! "
" The Theatre-Francais has come to its own burial."
" Look at Frederic-Lemaitre ; he is giving his arm to
Clarisse Miroy."
" Yes ; and Rachel, over there, gives her arm to Mme.
Doche."
" There are some ladies, — Mme. Volnys, Mme. Guyon,
Rose Cheri."
" This one is Dejazet; she is no longer young; this ought
to make her reflect," etc.
The hearse began to move off, and we all followed on foot.
In our rear came some ten mourning carriages and a few
open carriages with some actresses inside them. There were
quite ten thousand persons on foot. They formed a dark
wave, which appeared to push forward the hearse, jolting
;'ts immense black plumes.
On both sides of the boulevard there was another mob,
forming a hedge. Women in red bonnets sat upon a kind
9
130 THINGS SEEN
of step formed by the pavements, smiling; the balconies were
crowded with people. Towards the Porte Saint-Martin I left
the procession and went away musing.
FETE AT THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER'S
July 6.
Mde MONTPENSIER gave a fete this evening in the
. Pare des Minimes, in the Forest of Vincennes.
It was splendid and delightful. The fete cost the prince
two hundred thousand francs. In the forest had been erected
a multitude of tents, borrowed from the government reposi-
tory and the French Museum of Arms, some of which were
historical. This alone cost ten thousand francs. There
were the tent of the Emperor of Morocco taken at the battle
of Isly, and exhibited three years previously at the Tuileries
upon a wooden platform constructed inside the big foun-
tain; the tent of Abd-el-Kader, taken with the Smala, 1 very
handsome, with red and yellow arabesques embroidered in
satin; another tent of the Bey of Constantine, of a wonder-
fully elegant shape; and, finally, the tent given to Napoleon
by the Sultan Selim.
The latter eclipsed all the others. From the outside it
appeared like an ordinary tent, remarkable only for having,
in the canvas, little windows, of which the frames were of
rope, — three windows on each side. The inside was superb.
The visitor found himself inside a great chest of gold bro-
cade; upon this brocade were flowers and a thousand fancy
devices. On looking closely into the cords of the windows,
one discovered that they were of the most magnificent gold and
silver lace; each window had its awning of gold brocade.
The inner lining of the tent was of silk, with large red-and-
blue stripes. If I had been Napoleon I should have liked to
i An assemblage of tents belonging to an Arab cbief.— Tb.
MONTPENSIER'S FETE 131
place my iron bed in this tent of gold and flowers and to
sleep in it on the eve of Wagram, Jena, and Friedland.
These splendid tents were disfigured by fearful mahogany
furniture rather sparingly placed in them.
M. de Montpensier received his guests with much cheer-
fulness and grace.
Dancing took place in an immense marquee, where the
princesses remained. They were all there, with the exception
of the Duchess of Orleans. The Duke of Aumale came back
from Brussels on purpose to take part in the fete.
Queen Maria Christina was there with her daughter,
Madame de Montpensier. The Reyna gobernadora has some
remains of beauty, but she is too stout, and her hair is
quite grey.
The tables were laid out under some other tents ; there were
ample refreshments, and buffets everywhere. The guests,
while numbering more than four thousand, were neither
crowded nor few and far between. Nowhere was there a
crush. There were not enough ladies.
The fete had a splendid military character. Two enor-
mous cannon of the time of Louis XIV. formed the pillars
of the entrance. The artillery soldiers of Vincennes had con-
structed here and there columns of pikes, with pistols for
chapters.
The principal avenue of the park was illuminated with
coloured glass lamps; one might imagine that the emerald
and ruby necklaces of the wood-nymphs were to be seen among
the trees. Sap-matches burned in the hedges, and cast their
glimmering over the forest. There were three tall poplar-
trees illuminated against the dark sky in a fantastic man-
ner which created much surprise. The branches and leaves
were wafted in the wind amid a brilliant scenic display of
lights.
Along each side of the great avenue was a row of Gothic
panoplies from the Artillery Museum, — some leaning against
the oaks and the lime-trees, others erect and with the visor
shut, seated upon dummy steeds, with caparisons and coats-
132 THINGS SEEN
of-arms, with trappings and dazzling chamfrons. These
steel statues, masked and motionless in the midst of the re-
joicings, covered with flashes and streams of light, had some-
thing dazzling and sinister in their appearance. Quadrilles
were danced to vocal music. Nothing more charming could
be conceived than these youthful voices singing melodies
among the trees in soft, deep tones ; one might have fancied
the guests to be enchanted knights tarrying forever in this
wood to listen to the song of fairies.
Everywhere in the trees were suspended coloured lanterns,
presenting the appearance of luminous oranges. Nothing
stranger could be imagined than this illuminated fruit ap-
pearing suddenly upon the branches.
From time to time trumpet-blasts drowned in triumphant
tones the buzz of the festivities.
At the end of the avenue the artillerymen had suspended
a great star of the Legion of Honour constructed of ram-
rods. They had arranged in the hedges, in the form of
benches and chairs, mounds of bullets, Paixhan mortars, and
howitzers.
Two enormous siege-pieces guarded the cross of honour.
Beneath it were busts of the king and queen.
Amid all this moved immense throngs of people, among
whom I saw Auber, Alfred de Vigny, Alexandre Dumas, with
his son, Taylor, Theophile Gautier, Thiers, Guizot, Roths-
child, Count Daru, President Franck-Carre, Generals Gour-
gau^, Lagrange, Saint-Yon, the Duke of Fezensac, Hebert,
Keeper of the Seals, the Prince and Princess of Craon, Lord
Normanby, Narvaez, Duke of Valence, and a host of peers
and ambassadors, etc. The dust was terrible.
Two Arabs in white bernouses were there, — the Cadi of
Constantine and Bou-Maza. Bou-Maza has fine eyes, but an
ugly look; a well-shaped mouth, but a dreadful smile: it is
treacherous and ferocious ; there is in this man something of
the fox and the tiger. I thought, however, that he had a
tolerably fine expression in his face at a moment when, think-
ing there was no one near him in tb° forest, he went up to
MONTPENSIER'S FETE 133
the tent of Abd-el-Kader and stood looking at it. He ap-
peared to be saying to it, " What are you doing here ? "
Bou-Maza is young; he appears about twenty -five years
of age.
Towards one o'clock in the morning some fireworks were
let off, and the forest was illuminated with Bengal lights.
Then supper was served at the table of the princesses; all
the ladies sat down to supper, the gentlemen remaining stand-
ing. Afterwards dancing was resumed.
I regret not having been able to remain to the end. I
should have liked to see appear athwart the dark branches,
amid this festivity about to be extinguished, some of those
waning lights, those expiring illuminations, those wearied
dancers, those women covered with flowers, diamonds, and
dust, those pale faces, those drooping eyelids, those rumpled
dresses, that gleam of daylight, so pale and dismal.
However, I think, I know not why, that this fete will be
remembered; it has left a certain uneasy feeling in my mind.
For a fortnight previously it had been talked about and had
formed an important subject of conversation to the people
of Paris. Yesterday, from the Tuileries, to the Barriere du
Trone, a triple hedge of on-lookers lined the quays, the
streets, and the Faubourg Saint-Antoine as the carriages of
the guests passed by. At frequent intervals this crowd
hurled at the gilded and bedizened passengers in their car-
riages shouts of disgust and hate. It was like a mist of
hatred amid this splendour.
Every one on his return related what had befallen him.
Louis Boulanger and Achard had been hooted; the carriage
of Tony Johannot had been spat into ; mud and dirt had
been thrown into the open carriage of General Narvaez.
Theophile Gautier, so calm and impassive, so Turk-like in his
resignation, was rendered quite thoughtful and gloomy by
the occurrence.
It would not seem, however, that this grand display had
anything impolitic in it, or that it should have proved un-
popular. On the contrary, the Duke of Montpensier, in
134 THINGS SEEN
spending two hundred thousand francs, must have caused
the expenditure of a million. That makes in this time of
distress, a sum of twelve hundred thousand francs put in cir-
culation for the benefit of the people; they ought to be
gratified. Well, it is not so. Luxury is necessary to great
States and to great civilizations, but there are times when
the people must not see it.
But what is luxury which is not seen? This is a prob-
lem. Magnificence in the background, profusion in obscurity,
a display which does not show itself, a splendour which daz-
zles no one's eyes, — is this possible? This must be taken
into consideration, however. When the people have luxury
paraded before them in days of dearth and distress, their
mind, which is that of a child, jumps to a number of con-
clusions at once ; they do not say to themselves that this luxury
enables them to get a living, that this luxury is useful to
them, that this luxury is necessary to them. They say to
themselves that they are suffering, and that these people re-
joice; they ask why all these things are not theirs; they ex-
amine these things, — not at the light of their poverty,
which requires work, and consequently rich people, but by
the light of their envy. Do not suppose that they will con-
clude from that: Well, this will give us so many weeks'
wages and so many good days' employment. No ; they, too,
want not the work, not the wages, but leisure, enjoyment, car-
riages, horses, lackeys, duchesses! It is not bread they re-
quire but luxury. They stretch out their trembling hands
towards these shining realities, which would vanish into thin
air if they were to grasp them. The day on which the dis-
tress of the many seizes upon the riches of the few, dark-
ness reigns; there is nothing left, nothing for anybody.
This is full of perils. When the crowd looks with these eyes
upon the rich, it is not ideas which occupy every mind, it is
events.
That which specially irritates the people is the luxury of
princes and young men ; it is, in fact, only too evident that
the first have not experienced the necessity, and that the
THE TESTE AND CUBIERES TRIAL 135
others have not had the time, to earn it. This seems unjust,
and exasperates them ; they do not reflect that the inequalities
of this life prove the equality of the next.
Equilibrium, equity, — these are the two aspects of the
law of God. He shows us the first aspect in the world
of matter and of the body ; he will show us the second in the
world of souls.
THE TESTE AND CUBIERES TRIAL
July.
ON the evening of the day when the judicial committee
of Peers determined to prosecute M. Teste, chance
willed it that the chancellor had to go to Neuilly with the
Bureau of the Chamber to present to the king a bill which
had been passed.
The chancellor and the Peers of the Bureau (among whom
was Count Daru) found the king in a furious state of mind.
He had been informed of the prosecution of M. Teste. Im-
mediately he caught sight of them he advanced towards
them with rapid strides.
" What ! Chancellor," he said, " was not one of my former
ministers enough for you? Must you have a second? You
have taken Teste now. So that after I have spent seven-
teen years in France in setting up authority once more, in
one day, in one hour, you have allowed it to be cast down
again. You destroy the whole work of my reign. You de-
base authority, power, the government. And you do that,
— you, the chancellor of the House of Peers ! " et cetera.
The squall was a violent one. The chancellor was very
firm. He resolutely refused to give in to the king. He
said that, doubtless, policy was to be considered, but that it
was necessary also to listen to justice; that the Chamber of
Peers also had its independence as a legislative power, and
its sovereignty as a judicial power; that this independence and
sovereignty must be respected, and if need be, would make
136 THINGS SEEN
themselves respected; that, moreover, in the present state of
opinion, it would have been a very serious matter to refuse
satisfaction to it; that it would be doing an injury to the
country and to the king not to do what this opinion de-
manded, and what justice required; that there were times
when it was more prudent to advance than to retreat; and
that finally what had been done was done. " And well done,"
added Daru. " We shall see," said the king.
And from anger he relapsed into uneasiness.
July 8.
Half-past twelve. The Court enters. A crowd in the gal-
leries. No one in the reserved galleries except Colonel
Poizat, governor of the Palace. In the diplomatic galleries
two persons only, — Lord Normanby, the English ambassador,
and Count de Loevenhoelm, the Swedish minister.
The accused are brought in. Three tables, with a green
baize covering, have been placed facing the Court, to each
of these tables there is a chair, and at the back is a bench
for the counsel. President Teste sits down at the middle
table, General Cubieres at the right-hand table, Parmentier
at the left-hand table. All three are dressed in black.
Parmentier entered some time after the two Peers. Teste,
who is a commander of the Legion of Honour, has the rosette
of the decoration in his button-hole; Cubieres, who is a
Grand Officer, the plain ribbon. Before sitting down, the
general converses with his counsel, then turns over, with a
very busy air, the volume of documents relating to the case.
He wears his ordinary look. Teste is pale and calm. He
rubs his hands like a man who is pleased. Parmentier is stout,
bald, has white hair, a red face, a hooked nose, a mouth like
a sabre-cut, thin lips; the appearance of a rascal. He wears
a white tie, as does also President Teste. The general wears
<* black cravat. The three defendants do not look at each
other. Parmentier casts his eyes down, and affects to be
playing with the gold chain of his watch, which he displays
with the ostentation of a country bumpkin against his black
THE TESTE AND CUBIERES TRIAL 137
aaistcoat. A young man with a thin black moustache, who
is said to be his son, is seated on his left.
Being questioned as to his position in life, Teste rises
and says, " I thought it would not be seemly to bring to this
bar the honours which I have had conferred upon me."
(Visible impression on the Court.) "I placed them yester-
day in the hands of the king." (This makes a manifest
favourable impression.)
The indictment is read. It sets forth the following
facts : —
Parmentier, Director of the Mines of Gouhenans, alleges
that he remitted to General Cubieres ninety-four thousand
francs for the purpose of obtaining from M. Teste, Minister
of Public Works, a grant of a salt-mine. M. Teste em-
phatically denies having received this sum. Parmentier is
quite ready to believe that it was intercepted and that he was
thus defrauded of it either by M. Cubieres or another share-
holder in the mines, M. Pellapra, who, it appears, acted as a
go-between from the general to M. Teste. Parmentier is
accused of corruption ; Cubieres and Pellapra of corruption
and fraud ; Teste of " having received gifts and 1 presents
to perform an act of his duty not subject to payment."
Pellapra has fled. Cubieres, Teste, and Parmentier ap-
pear.
While the indictment is being read Cubieres hides his face
and forehead in his left hand, and follows the reading of the
volume which has been circulated. Teste also follows it,
and annotates his copy with a steel pen. He has put on his
eje-glasses. From time to time he takes snuff out of a great
boxwood snuffbox, and converses with his counsel, M. Paillet.
Parmentier appears very attentive.
July 10.
This is what I can make out of it after the two first days.
I have spoken to General Cubieres four or five times in
my life, and to President Teste once only, and yet, in this
affwr, I am as much interested in their fate as though they
138 THINGS SEEN
were friends of mine of twenty years' standing. Why? I
will say at once. It is because I believe them to be innocent.
I " believe " is not strong ; I see them to be innocent.
This view may, perhaps, be modified, for this affair changes
like the waves, and alters its aspect from one moment to an-
other; but at the present time, after much perplexity, after
many transitions, after many painful intervals, in which I
have more than once trembled and shuddered in my conscience,
I am convinced that General Cubieres is innocent of the act
of fraud, that President Teste is innocent of the act of cor-
ruption.
What is this affair, then? To my mind, it resumes itself
in two words, — commission and black-mail ; commission de-
ducted by Pellapra, black-mail extorted by Parmentier. A
commission, tainted with fraud and swindling, was the cause
of the first act alleged in the indictment ; black-mail was the
cause of the scandal. Hence the whole case.
I have no leaning towards guilt which is not invincibly
proved to me. My 7 inclination is to believe in innocence. As
long as there remains in the probabilities of a case a possible
refuge for the innocence of the accused, all my theories, I
will not say incline, but precipitate themselves towards it.
Sunday, July 11.
An adjournment takes place over to-day. The second and
third hearing were devoted to the examination of the ac-
cused.
At the opening of Friday's sitting were read communica-
tions which had been unexpectedly made by Messrs. Leon
de Malleville and Marrast, and which appear to throw a
strong light upon this trial. The defendants entered the
Court pale and dejected, Parmentier, however, with more as-
surance than the others. M. Teste listened to the reading of
the new documents, while leaning his elbow upon the table
and half hiding his face in his hand; General Cubieres, with
his eyes cast downward; Parmentier with perceptible em-
barrassment.
THE TESTE AND CUBIERES TRIAL 139
The examination began with the general.
M. Cubieres has a doll-like face, an undecided look, a
hesitating manner of speaking, red cheeks; I believe him to
be innocent of fraud ; however, I am not deeply impressed
with him. During the examination he stood up, and gently
beat a tattoo upon the table with the tip of a wooden paper-
knife with a look of profound ease. The procurator-gen-
eral, M. Delangle, a rather commonplace lawyer, treated
him once or twice with insolence ; Cubieres, a Waterloo man,
did not venture to say a word in return to make his ears tingle.
I felt for him. In the opinion of the Court he is already con-
victed.
The first part of the examination was badly conducted.
There was but one expression of opinion at the refreshment-
bar. The chancellor is a remarkable veteran, — out of the
common, — but then, he is eighty-two years of age ; at eighty-
two years of age one cannot face either a woman or a crowd.
Parmentier, interrogated by the general, spoke with ease
and a sort of vulgar glibness which was sometimes witty,
at others shrewd, skilful throughout, never eloquent. He is
a man who, to tell the truth, is a scoundrel. He is not
aware of it himself. This shameless creature has a twist
in his mind, and exposes his nakedness just as Venus would
do. A toad who fancies he is beautiful is a repulsive spec-
tacle. He was hissed. At first he either did not hear, or
did not understand; however, he ended by understanding; then
the perspiration stood in beads upon his face. Every now
and then, amid the marks of disgust of the assemblage, he
nervously wiped the streaming surface of his bald head,
looked about him with a certain air of entreaty and bewilder-
ment, feeling that he was lost, and trying to recover him-
self. Yet he continued to speak, and to expose his mental
defects, while low tones of indignation drowned his utter-
ances, and his anguish increased. At this moment I felt pity
for the wretched man.
M. Teste who was examined yesterday, spoke like an in-
nocent man ; frequently he was exceedingly eloquent. He
140 THINGS SEEN
was not an advocate; he was a real man, who suffered, who
tore out his very vitals and exposed them to view before his
judges, saying, " See there!" He profoundly impressed me.
While he spoke, a light broke in upon me that this whole
affair might be explained by a fraud committed by Pellapra.
Teste is sixty-seven years of age; he has a southern ac-
cent, a large and expressive mouth, a tall forehead, giving
him a look of intelligence, the eyes deep set and at times
sparkling; his whole bodily activity overwhelmed and
crushed, but he is energetic withal. He moved about, started,
shrugged his shoulders, smiled bitterly, took snuff, turned over
his papers, annotated them rapidly, held in check the pro-
curator-general or the chancellor, shielded Cubieres, who is
his ruin, showed his contempt for Parmetier, who defends him,
threw out notes, interruptions, replies, complaints, shouts.
He was turbulent, yet ingenuous ; overcome with emotion,
yet dignified. He was clear, rapid, persuasive, supplicating,
menacing, full of anguish without any trepidation, moderate
and violent, haughty and tearful. At one point he power-
fully affected me. His very soul found expression in the
cries which he uttered. I was tempted to rise and say to
him, " You have convinced me ; I will leave my seat and take
up my position on the bench at your side ; will you let me be
your counsel? " And then I restrained myself, thinking
that if his innocence continued to be made manifest to me,
I should perhaps be more useful to him as a judge among
his judges.
Pellapra is the pivot on which the case turns. Teste ap-
pears sincerely grieved at his flight. If Pellapra returns,
all will be clear. I ardently hope that Teste is innocent, and
that, if innocent, he will be saved.
At the rising of the Court, I followed him with my eyes
as he went out. He slowly and sadly crossed the benches
of the Peers, looking to right and left upon these chairs,
which perhaps he will never occupy again. Two ushers,
who guarded him, walked one in front of him, and the other
behind him.
THE TESTE AND CUB1ERES TRIAL 141
July 12.
The aspect of the case has suddenly changed. Some
fresh documents l are terribly incriminating to Teste. Cu-
bieres rises, and confirms the authenticity and importance of
these documents. Teste replies haughtily and energetically,
but for all that his confidence diminishes. His mouth con-
tracts. I feel uneasy about him. I begin to tremble for
fear he has been deceiving us all. Parmentier listens, almost
with a smile, and with his arms carelessly folded. Teste sits
down again, and takes an immense number of pinches of
snuff out of his great boxwood snuffbox, then wipes the
perspiration off his forehead with a red silk handkerchief.
The Court is profoundly agitated.
" I can imagine what he suffers by what I suffer myself,"
M. de Pontecoulant said to me. " What torture it is ! " said
General Neigre. " It is a slow guillotine stroke," said Ber-
tin de Vaux. Apprehension is at its height among the mem-
bers of the Court and the public. All are anxious not to
lose one word. The Peers cry out to those who address
them, " Speak up! Speak up! We cannot hear." The
chancellor begs the Court to consider his great age.
The heat is insupportable.
The stock-broker Goupil gives his evidence. Teste makes
a desperate struggle.
M. Charles Dupin questions the stock-broker. Teste fol-
lows him with his eyes, and applauds him with a smile. Any-
thing more doleful than this smile could not be imagined.
On this occasion the private conference was held before the
sitting in the old Chamber. The Peers buzzed like a swarm
of bees. The chancellor came to the bench on which I was
seated, and spoke to me of matters connected with the
Academic; then of the trial, of his feeling of fatigue and
iA letter of Madame Pellapra, signed " Emilie Pellapra;" six notes
written by Teste and recognized by him (he took them in his trembling
hand and said, "They are mine"); an extract from the accounts of
Pellapra, appearing to show that he had remitted the ninety-four thou-
sand francs to Teste.
142 THINGS SEEN
grief; saying how pleasant was a meeting of the Academie
after a sitting of the Court of Peers.
In his evidence M. Legrand, Under-secretary of State for
Public Works, described Teste as " a person who is sitting
behind me." Teste shrugged his shoulders.
After the serious evidence of the notary Roquebert, the face
of Teste assumes an agonized expression.
At the production of the document for the Treasury he
turned red, wiped his forehead in anguish, and turned to-
wards his son. They exchanged a few words ; then Teste be-
gan once more to turn over his papers, and the son buried
his head in his hands.
In one hour Teste has aged ten years ; his head moves,
his lower lip twitches. Yesterday he was a lion; to-day he
is a booby.
Everything in this affair moves by fits and starts. Yes-
terday I saw that Teste was innocent, to-day I see that he is
guilty. Yesterday I admired him, to-day I should be tempted
to despise him were he not so miserable. But I no longer
feel anything but pity for him.
This trial was one of the most terrible spectacles which
I have ever witnessed in my life. It is a moral dismember-
ment.
That which our forefathers saw eighty years ago in the
Place de Greve, on the day of the execution of Damiens, we
have seen to-day, on the day of the execution of President
Teste in the Court of Peers. We have seen a man tortured
with hot irons and dismembered in the spirit. Every hour,
every minute, something was torn from him: at twelve o'clock
his distinction as a magistrate; at one o'clock his reputation
as an upright minister; at two o'clock his conscience as an
honest man ; half an hour later, the respect of others ; a
quarter of an hour afterwards, his own self-respect. In the
end, he was but a corpse. It lasted for six hours.
For my own part, as I said to the Chief President
Legagneur, I doubt whether I should ever have the hardi-
hood, even were Teste convicted and guilty, to add any pun-
THE TESTE AND CUBIEKES TRIAL 143
ishment whatever to this unparalleled chastisement, to this
frightful torment.
July 13.
As I entered the cloak-room Viscount Lemercier, who was
there, said to me, "Have you heard the news?" "No."
" Teste has attempted to commit suicide, and failed."
The fact is as stated. M. Teste, yesterday evening, at
nine o'clock, fired two pistol-shots at himself; he fired two
shots simultaneously, one with each hand. One he aimed
in his mouth, and the cap missed fire; the other at his heart,
and the bullet rebounded, the shot being fired from too close
a distance.
The chancellor read in the private conference the official
documents detailing the occurrence ; they were afterwards re-
read at the public sitting. The pistols were deposited upon
the table of the Court. They are two very little pistols, quite
new, with ivory handles.
Teste, not having succeeded in destroying himself, refuses
henceforth to appear before the Court. He has written to
the chancellor a letter in which he abandons his defence, " the
documents produced yesterday leaving no room for contradic-
tion." This is the language of an advocate, not of a man ;
a man would have said, " I am guilty."
When we entered the Court, M. Dupin the elder, who was
seated behind me on the Deputies' bench, said to me, " Guess
what book Teste sent for to kill time with? " " I do not
know." " ' Montc-Cristo ! ' ' Not the first four volumes,'
he said, ' I have read them.' ' Monte-Cristo ' was not to be
found in the library of the House of Peers. It had to be
borrowed from a public reading-room, which only had it in
periodical parts. Teste spends his time in reading these
parts."
My neighbour, the Duke of Brancas, who is a kind and
worthy veteran, says to me, " Do not oppose the condemna-
tion. It is God's justice which will be done."
Yesterday evening, when General Cubieres was informed
144 THINGS SEEN
that Teste had fired two pistol-shots at himself, he wept
bitterly.
I note that to-day is a fatal day, — the 13th of July. The
seat lately occupied by Teste is empty at the sitting. The
clerk of the court, La Chauviniere, reads the indictment. M.
Cubieres listens with an air of profound sadness, then hides
his face in his hand. Parmentier holds his head down the
whole time. The events of yesterday — the attempted suicide
of Teste and his letter to the chancellor — destroy in its very
foundations the abominable line of defence of Parmentier.
At ten minutes past one the Procurator-general Delangle
rises to address the Court. He twice repeats, amid the pain-
ful impression which prevails, " Messieurs les Pairs " — then
stops short, and continues : " The trial is ended." The pro-
curator-general spoke only for ten minutes.
It is a curious fact that Teste and Delangle have all their
lives been brought into close association, Delangle following
Teste, and in the end prosecuting him. Teste was the
bdtonnier of the bar; Delangle held the office immediately
after him. Teste was appointed president of the Court of
Cassation ; Delangle entered the same court as advocate-gen-
eral. Teste is accused, Delangle is procurator-general.
I now understand the meaning of the movement of the
father and son which I noticed yesterday at the moment of
the production of the document from the Treasury ; the father
said to the son, " Give me the pistols." The son handed them
to him, and then sank his head in his hands. It is in this
way, I think, the sombre tragedy must have happened.
At the opening of the sitting the chancellor reads a let-
ter, in which Cubieres resigns his position as a Peer.
The question is put as to whether the accused are guilty.
"Is Cubieres guilty of fraud?" Unanimously "No."
Upon the question of corruption : —
"Is Teste guilty?" Unanimously "Yes."
"Is Cubieres guilty?' 1 Unanimously, with the exception
of three votes, " Yes."
"Is Parmentier guilty?" Unanimously "Yes."
THE TESTE AND CUBIERES TRIAL 145
Sentences : —
Teste is sentenced to civil degradation unanimously, with
the exception of one vote.
Upon the question of the fines, I rose in my turn, and said,
" I desire to punish a guilty man ; I do not desire to punish
a family, — that is to say, innocent persons. The restitution
of the money received, to my mind, would be sufficient. No
fine. My lords, the example is not in a fine; the example is
in the terrible things which you have seen; the example is in
the terrible act to which you have just committed yourselves.
A fine deteriorates the example. It places a question of
money in the place of a question of honour."
Teste was condemned to pay a fine of ninety-four thousand
francs.
At half-past six a fresh letter from General Cubieres is
read, in which he states that he has requested that he may be
placed on the retired list. The unhappy man throws some-
thing overboard at every moment.
July 15.
At half-past twelve the calling of the names takes place.
The Court is profoundly and painfully agitated. The law
officials claim the whole law, the whole penalty, against Cu-
bieres; the nobles are more humane.
The Court proceeds to pass sentence.
Upon the question whether Teste should be imprisoned,
I said, " My lords, the guilty man has already been sufficiently
punished. At the present moment he is sixty-seven years of
age; in five years he will be seventy-two. I will not add one
word. No imprisonment ! "
Teste is sentenced to three years' imprisonment.
Respecting Cubieres and the penalty of civic degradation,
when my turn came, I said, " I feel that the Court is weary,
and I am suffering myself from a feeling of agitation which
unsettles me ; I rise notwithstanding. I have studied, as you
have, my lords, with whatever intelligence and power of at-
tention I may have, the whole of the indictment in this de-
10
146 THINGS SEEN
plorable case. I have examined facts. I have contrasted
persons. I have endeavoured to penetrate not only into the
heart of the case, but into the hearts of these men you are
trying at this moment. Well, this is the conclusion I have
arrived at : In my opinion, General Cubieres was led astray,
— led astray by Pellapra, defrauded by Parmentier. Under
these circumstances, there has been, I acknowledge, weakness,
— a weakness censurable, inexcusable, gravely culpable even,
but after all only weakness; and weakness is not baseness,
and I do not wish to punish weakness with infamy. I will
avow, and the Court will pardon this avowal, that during the
many hours that this unfortunate affair has occupied our
minds I imagined that you were going to render an altogether
different decision in your all-powerful and sovereign justice.
I should have wished to leave in his terrible isolation the
painful and conspicuous figure of the principal defendant.
This man, who, by dint of talent, has contrived — a miracle
which, for my part, I should always have thought impossible
— to be great in his abasement and touching in his shame ;
this man I should have liked to punish simply with civic deg-
radation. And I should have wished to add nothing to this
fearful penalty ; in such a case that which increases diminishes.
For the weak and unfortunate General Cubieres, I should
have wished a sentence of deprivation, for a certain period of
time, of the civic and civil rights mentioned in Article 401.
And finally, for the men of money, I should have wished
money penalties ; for the miscreants, humiliating penalties ;
for Parmentier, fine and imprisonment. For these men of
such diversity of guilt I should have wished for a diversity of
penalties, which your omnipotence would permit you to de-
cree, and the observance of this proportion between the mis-
deeds and the punishments appeared to me to be in accordance
with conscience, and I will add, — although that concerns me
less, — in accordance with public opinion. In your wisdom
you have judged otherwise. I bow to it, but I beg you,
nevertheless, to approve my remaining of the same opinion.
In an assembly in which there are so many men of im-
THE TESTE AND CUBIERES TRIAL 147
portancc who have occupied, or who will yet occupy, the
highest functions in the State and the government, I ap-
preciate, I honour, I respect that noble feeling of outraged
decency which leads you to inflict unusually heavy penalties
at this juncture, and to afford not only the most just but
also the most cruel satisfaction to public opinion. I, gentle-
men, am not a lawyer, I am not a soldier, I am not a public
functionary, I am an ordinary tax-payer; I am a member,
like any one else, of the great crowd from which emanates
that public opinion to which you defer; and it is for this, it
is because I am simply this, that I am perhaps qualified to
say to you, Enough! Stop! Go as far as the limits of
justice; do not overstep them. The example has been set.
Do not destroy that isolation of the condemned man Teste,
which is the grand aspect, the grand moral lesson of the
trial. As long as it was a question only of this unhappy man,
I spoke to you merely in the language of pity; I speak to
you now in the language of equity, solemn and austere equity.
I conjure you, give credit to General Cubieres for his sixty
years of honourable life, give credit to him for the agony he
has suffered for those four years of torture which he en-
dured at the villainous hands of Parmentier, for this public
exposure upon that bench during the four days; give credit
to him for that unjust accusation of fraud, which was also
a torture to him; give credit to him for his generous hesi-
tation to save himself by ruining Teste; give credit to him,
finally, for his heroic conduct upon the battle-field of Water-
loo, where I regret that he did not remain. I formally pro-
pose to sentence M. Cubieres to the penalty provided by Arti-
cle 401, together with Article 42; that is to say, to a suspen-
sion of civil and civic rights for ten years. I vote against
civic degradation."
At seven o'clock there still remain eighty Peers who have
not voted. The chancellor proposes an adjournment until
the morrow. Objections are made: An adjournment while
the voting is taking place ! M. Cauchy reads precedent from
the Quenisset trial. Uproar. The adjournment is carried.
148 THINGS SEEN
July 16.
Continuation of the voting upon the question of the penalty
to be inflicted upon General Cubieres.
The penalty of civic degradation is carried by 130 votes
to 48.
He is condemned besides to a fine of ten thousand francs.
No imprisonment.
It appears that the decision in favour of inflicting the
penalty of civic degradation upon General Cubieres, which has
just been arrived at, has reached the prison. Just now I
heard in the street the dreadful cries of Madame de Cubieres
and Madame de Sampays, her sister, who were with the gen-
eral at the moment when the news was communicated to him.
July 17.
Sentence upon Parmentier.
Upon the question of civic degradation I said, " I should
have wished, as the Court is aware, in order that a great ex-
ample might be made, that President Teste should have been
left in his degrading isolation, alone under the burden of
civic degradation." The Court did not agree with me; it
thought proper to associate with him General Cubieres. I
cannot do otherwise than associate with him Parmentier. I
vote for civic degradation, while profoundly regretting that I
am obliged, after this great social and public penalty has been
inflicted upon two ex-Ministers, upon two Peers of France, to
whom it is everything, to inflict it upon this wretch to whom it
is nothing.
Parmentier is condemned to civic degradation and a fine of
ten thousand francs. No imprisonment.
As we were about to leave, and were in the cloak-room, Ana-
tole de Montesquiou, who constantly voted in the most lenient
sense, pointed out to me, in the second compartment of the
cloak-room near that in which I am putting on my things, an
old Peer's robe hanging at the side of the robe of the Minister
of Public Instruction. This robe is worn at the elbows, the
gilt of the buttons is rubbed off, the embroidery faded ; an
THE TESTE AND CUBIERES TRIAL 149
old ribbon of the Legion of Honour is in the button-hole,
more yellow than red, and half untied. Above this coat was
written, according to the custom, the name of him to whom
it belonged : " M. Teste."
My opinion is that the public will consider the decree of
the Court of Peers just in the case of Teste, harsh in that of
Cubieres, and lenient in that of Parmentier.
At half-past four the doors were thrown open to the pub-
lic. An immense crowd had been waiting since the morning.
In a moment the galleries were noisily filled. It was like a
wave. Then profound silence when the calling of the names
began. The Peers replied, generally speaking, in a barely
audible and weary tone of voice.
Then the chancellor put on his shaped hat of black velvet
lined with ermine, and read the decree. The procurator-gen-
eral was at his post. The chancellor read the decree in a
firm tone, very remarkable in an old man of eighty years of
age. Whatever may have been said by certain newspapers,
he did not shed " silent tears."
The judgment will be read presently by the Chief Clerk
of the Court to the condemned men.
It will be just a month ago to-morrow, the 18th, that
Teste was arraigned by the judicial committee of the Peers,
and that he said to them, " I thank you for placing me in
a position which gives me the precious privilege of defending
myself."
July 21.
It is a curious fact that M. Teste, who, as Minister of Pub-
lic Works, had this Luxembourg prison built, is the first min-
ister who has been confined in it. This reminds one of the
gibbet of Montfaucon, and of Enguerrand de Marigny.
M. Teste occupies in this prison an apartment separated
only by a partition from the apartment of General Cubieres.
The partition is so thin that, as M. Teste speaks loudly,
Mme. de Cubieres was obliged on the first day to tap upon
the wall to warn M. Teste that she heard all he said. The
150 THINGS SEEN
pistol-shot, too, made General Cubieres start as though It
had been fired in his own apartment.
The sitting of the 12th had been so decisive that some act
of desperation was thought probable. During the very sit-
ting the Duke Decazes had had iron bars put to the windows
of the prisoners. They found these bars in the windows on
coming back, but did not feel any surprise on seeing them.
They also had their razors taken from them, and had to dine
without knives.
Policemen were to remain day and night by their side.
However, it was thought that M. Teste might be left alone
with his son and the counsel who were defending him. He
dined with them almost in silence, — a remarkable fact, for
he was a great talker. The little he did say was concerning
matters foreign to the trial. At nine o'clock the son and the
barristers retired. The policeman who was to watch M. Teste
received orders to go up directly. It was during the few
minutes which elapsed between the departure of his son and
the entrance of the policeman that M. Teste made his attempt
to commit suicide.
Many persons had doubted whether this attempt was se-
riously intended. This was the tone of the comments in the
Chamber. M. Delessert, the prefect of police, whom I ques-
tioned on this subject, told me there could be no doubt
about it that M. Teste had tried to kill himself in down-
right good earnest, but he believes that only one pistol-shot
was fired.
After his condemnation, General Cubieres received many
visits ; the sentence of the Court missed its mark by reason
of its excessive severity. The general's visitors, in going to
his cell, passed before that of Parmentier, which was only
closed with a door having, instead of a glass pane, a white
curtain, through which he could be seen. All of them in
passing by loaded Parmentier with terms of contempt, which
obliged the fellow to hide in a corner where he was no longer
visible.
During the trial the heat was intense. At every moment
THE TESTE AND CUBIERES TRIAL 151
the chancellor had to summon back the Peers who went off to
the refreshment-bars or the lobbies.
Lord Normanby did not miss a single sitting.
July 22.
The name of Teste has already been removed from his
seat in the House of Peers. It is General Achard now who
occupies his chair.
Yesterday, Tuesday, the 21st of July, as I was proceed-
ing from the Academie to the House of Peers, towards four
o'clock, I met near the exit of the Institute, in the most de-
serted part of the Rue Mazarine, Parmentier coming out of
prison. He was going in the direction of the Quay. His son
accompanied him. Parmentier, dressed in black, carried his
hat in his hand behind his back; with his other arm he leaned
upon his son. The son had a downcast look. Parmentier
appeared completely overwhelmed. He had the appearance
of exhaustion,— of a man who has just come from a long
walk. His bald head seemed to bend beneath his shame.
They were walking slowly.
It was stated to-day at the Chamber that Madame de Cu-
bieres gave a soiree two days after the condemnation. It ap-
pears that in reality she simply contented herself with not
shutting her door. She has just written to the newspapers
a letter, which will not do her husband much good, but in
which there is nevertheless one fine passage, as follows : " He
has had his peerage, his rank, everything taken from him,
even to his dignity as a citizen. He retains his wounds."
The chancellor offered to let M. de Cubieres leave the prison
by one of the private gates of the chancellor's official resi-
dence in the Luxembourg. A hired conveyance would have
awaited M. de Cubieres, and he would have got in without
being seen by any one in the street. M. de Cubieres refused.
An open carriage, drawn by two horses, came and took up its
position at the gate-way of the Rue de Vaugerard, in the
midst of the crowd. M. de Cubieres got into it, accompanied
by his wife and Madame de Sampays, and this is how he came
152 THINGS SEEN
out of prison. Since then he has had, every evening, more
than a hundred visitors. There are always some forty car-
riages at his door.
THE CONDEMNED CONVICTS' PRISON
THE prison for condemned convicts, built by the side of,
and as a comparison to, the prison for youthful offend-
ers, is a living and striking antithesis. It is not only that
the beginning and the ending of the evil-doer face each other ;
there is also the perpetual confronting of the two penal sys-
tems, — solitary confinement and imprisonment in common.
This is almost enough to decide the question. It is a dark
and silent duel between the dungeon and the cell, between the
old prison and the new.
On one side were all the condemned, pell-mell, — the child
of seventeen with the old man of seventy ; the prisoner of
thirteen months with the convict for life; the beardless lad
who had filched apples and the assassin of the highway,
snatched from the Place Saint-Jacques and sent to Toulon
in consequence of " extenuating circumstances ;" the almost
innocent and the quasi-condemned ; the blue-eyed and the grey-
beard ; hideous, pestilential workshops, where they sewed and
worked in semi-darkness, amid things dirty and foetid, without
air, daylight, speech ; without looking at each other ; without
interest ; horrible, mournful spectres, some of whom terrified
one by their age, and others by their youth.
On the other side a cloister, a hive, each worker in his cell,
each soul in its alveole: an immense edifice of three stories,
inhabited by neighbours who never saw each other; a town
composed of small hermitages ; nothing but children, and chil-
dren who do not know each other, who live years close to each
other without ever hearing the echo of each other's foot-falls
or the sound of their voices, separated by .a wall, by an abyss :
work, study, tools, books; eight hours' sleep, one hour of re-
CONDEMNED CONVICTS' PRISON 153
pose, one hour of play, in a small walled court ; prayers morn-
ing and evening; thought ever!
On one side the cesspool, on the other cultivation !
You enter a cell ; you find a child standing up before a
bench lighted by a dirty window, of which one square pane
at the top can be opened. The child is clad in coarse serge;
clean, grave, quiet. He ceases working and salutes. You
question him; he replies with a serious gaze, and in subdued
tones.
Some are making locks, a dozen a day; others are carving
furniture, etc., etc. There are as many conditions as stories;
as many workshops as corridors. The child can read and
write besides. He has in prison a master for his brain as
well as for his body.
You must not think that because of its mildness the prison
is insufficient punishment. No; it is profoundly sad. All
the prisoners have an appearance of punishment which is
peculiar.
There are still many more criticisms to be passed; the cell
system begins. It has almost all its improvements to come ;
but, incomplete and imperfect as it is at present, it is ad-
mirable when compared with the system of imprisonment in
common.
The prisoner — a captive on all sides, and only at all free
on the working side — interests himself in what he makes,
whatever it may be. Thus, a lad who hated all occupations
becomes a most furiously industrious mechanic. When one is
in solitary confinement one manages to find light in the dark-
est dungeon.
August 5.
The other day I was visiting the convict prison, and I said
to the governor, who accompanied me: —
" You have a man condemned to death here now? "
" Yes, sir, a man named Marquis, who tried to murder a
girl, Torisse, with intent to rob her."
" I should like to speak to that man," I said.
154 THINGS SEEN
" Sir," replied the governor, " I am here to take your
orders, but I cannot admit you into the condemned cell."
"Why not?"
" Sir, the police regulations do not permit us to introduce
.everybody into the cells of the condemned."
I replied, " I am not acquainted with the conditions of the
police regulations, M. le Directeur de la Prison, but I know
what the law permits. The law places the prisons under the
authority of the Chambers, and the officials under the surveil-
lance of the Peers of France, who can be called upon to judge
them. Wherever it is possible that an abuse may exist, the
legislature may come in and search for it. Evil may exist in
the cell of a man condemned to death. It is therefore my
duty to enter, and yours to open it."
The governor made no reply, and led me forward.
We skirted a small courtyard in which were some flowers,
and which was surrounded by a gallery. This was the exer-
cise-ground of the condemned prisoners. It was surrounded
by four lofty buildings. In the centre of one of the sides of
the gallery there is a heavy door bound with iron. A wicket
opened, and I found myself in a kind of ante-chamber,
gloomy, and paved with stone. Before me were three doors,
— one directly opposite me, the others on either hand : three
heavy doors, pierced with a grating, and cased with iron.
These three doors opened into three cells, appropriated to the
use of the condemned criminals who awaited their fate after
the double appeal to the judge and to the Supreme Courts.
This generally means a respite of two months.
" We have never had more than two of these cells occupied
at the same time," said thp governor.
The door of the centre one was opened. It was that of
the condemned cell then occupied.
I entered.
As I crossed the threshold a man rose quickly and stood up.
This man was at the other end of the cell. I saw him at
once. A pale gleam of daylight which descended from a wide,
deeply-set window above his head lighted it up from the back
CONDEMNED CONVICTS' PRISON 155
His head was bare, his neck was bare ; he had shoes on and a
strait-waistcoat, and pantaloons of brown woollen stuff. The
sleeves of this waistcoat, of thick grey linen, were tied in front.
His hand could be distinguished resting on this, and holding
a pipe quite full of tobacco. He was on the point of lighting
this pipe at the moment the door was opened. This was the
condemned man.
Nothing could be seen through the window but a glimpse
of the rainy sky.
There was a moment's silence. I was too greatly moved
to be able to speak.
He was a young man, evidently not more than twenty-two
or twenty-three years old. His chestnut hair, which curled
naturally, was cut short ; his beard had not been trimmed. He
had beautiful large eyes, but his glance was low and villainous,
his no 
