CHAPTER XXII. THE TRIBUNAL
At the Bar of the Revolutionary Tribunal stood Deputy Caron La Boulayeupon his trial for treason to the Nation and contravention of the endsof justice. Fouquier-Tinvillle, the sleuth-hound Attorney-General,advanced his charges, and detailed the nature of the youngrevolutionist's crime. But there was in Fouquier-Tinvillle's prosecutiona lack of virulence for once, just as among La Boulaye's fellows,sitting in judgment, there was a certain uneasiness, for the Revolutionwas still young, and it had not yet developed that Saturnian habit ofdevouring its own children which was later to become one of its mainfeatures.
The matter of La Boulaye's crime, however, was but too clear, anddespite the hesitancy on the part of the jury, despite the unwontedtameness of Tinvillle's invective, the Tribunal's course waswell-defined, and admitted of not the slightest doubt. And so, theproduction of evidence being dispensed with by Caron's ready concurrenceand acknowledgment of the offence, the President was on the point offormally asking the jury for their finding, when suddenly there happeneda commotion, and a small man in a blue coat and black-rimmed spectaclesrose at Tinvillle's side, and began an impassioned speech for thedefence.
This man was Robespierre, and the revolutionists sitting therelistened to him in mute wonder, for they recalled that it was uponthe Incorruptible's own charge their brother-deputy had been arrested.Ardently did Maximilien pour out his eloquence, enumerating the manyvirtues of the accused and dwelling at length upon his vast services tothe Republic, his hitherto unfaltering fidelity to the nation and thepeople's cause, and lastly, deploring that in a moment of weakness heshould have committed the indiscretion which had brought him where hestood. And against this thing of which he was now accused, Robespierrebade the Deputies of the jury balance the young man's past, and the muchthat he had done for the Revolution, and to offer him, in considerationof all that, a chance of making atonement and regaining the position oftrust and of brotherly affection which for a moment he had forfeited.
The Court was stirred by the address. They knew the young sans-culotte'sworth, and they were reluctant to pass sentence upon him and to send himto the death designed for aristocrats and traitors. And so they readilypronounced themselves willing to extend him the most generous measureof mercy, to open their arms and once more to clasp to their hearts thebrother who had strayed and to reinstate him in their confidence andtheir councils. They pressed Robespierre to name the act of atonementby which he proposed La Boulaye should recover his prestige, andRobespierre in answer cried:
"Let him repair the evil he has done. Let him neutralise the treacheryinto which a moment of human weakness betrayed him. Let him return tous the aristocrat he has attempted to save, and we will forget hisindiscretion and receive him back amongst us with open arms, as was theprodigal son received."
There was a salvo of applause. Men rose to their feet excitedly, andwith arms outstretched in Caron's direction they vociferously imploredhim to listen to reason as uttered by the Incorruptible, to repent himand to atone while there was yet time. They loved him, they swore invoices of thunder, each seeking to be heard above his neighbour's din,and it would break their hearts to find him guilty, yet find him guiltythey must unless he chose the course which this good patriot Maximilienpointed out to him.
La Boulaye stood pale but composed, his lips compressed, his keen eyesalert. Inwardly he was moved by this demonstration of goodwill, thisvery storm of fraternity, but his purpose remained adamant, and when atlast the President's bell had tinkled his noisy judges into silence, hisvoice rose clear and steady as he thanked them for leaning to clemencyon his behalf.
"Helas," he ended, "words cannot tell you how deeply I deplore that itis a clemency of which I may not avail myself. What I have done I maynot undo. And so, Citizens, whilst I would still retain your love andyour sympathy, you must suffer me to let justice take its course. Todelay would be but to waste your time the Nation's time."
"But this is rank defiance," roared Tinvillle, roused at last into somesemblance of his habitual bloodthirstiness. "He whose heart can be soinsensible to our affections merits no clemency at this bar."
And so the President turned with a shrug to his colleagues, and theverdict was taken. The finding was "Guilty," and the President was onthe point of passing sentence, when again Robespierre sprang to hisfeet. The Incorruptible's complexion looked sicklier than its wont, formortification had turned him green outright. A gust of passion sweptthrough his soul, such as would have made another man call for the deathof this defiant youth who had withstood his entreaties. But such wasRobespierre's wonderful command of self, such was his power of makinghis inclinations subservient to the ends he had in view that he had butrisen to voice a fresh appeal.
He demanded that the sentence should be passed with the reservation thatthe accused should have twenty-four hours for reflection. Should heat the end of that time be disposed to tell them where the ci-devantVicomte d'Ombreval was to be found, let them reconsider his case. On theother hand, should he still continue obdurate by the noon of to-morrow,then let the sentence be consummated.
There was some demur, but Robespierre swept it fiercely aside withpatriotic arguments. La Boulaye was a stout servant of the Nation, whomit must profit France to let live that he might serve her; Ombrevalwas a base aristocrat, whose death all true Republicans should aim atencompassing. And so he won the day in the end, and when the sentenceof death was passed, it was passed with the reservation that should theprisoner, upon reflection, be inclined to show himself more loyal toFrance and the interests of the Republic by telling them how Ornbrevalmight be recaptured, he would find them still inclined to mercy andforgiveness. Allowing his eyes to stray round the Court at that moment,La Boulaye started at sight of an unexpected face. It was Mademoisellede Bellecour, deathly pale and with the strained, piteous look thathaunts the eyes of the mad. He shivered at the thought of the perilto herself in coming into that assembly; then, recovering himself, heturned to his judges.
"Citizen-President, Citizens all, I thank you; but I should beunappreciative of your kindness did I permit you to entertain falsehopes. My purpose is unalterable."
"Take him away," the President commanded impatiently, and as theyremoved him Mademoiselle crept from the Court, weeping softly in herpoignant grief, and realising that not so much for the President's earas for her own had La Boulaye uttered those words. They were meant tofortify her and to give her courage with the assurance that Ombrevalwould not be betrayed. To give her courage! Her lip was twisted into anoddly bitter smile at the reflection, as she stepped into her cabriolet,and bade the driver return to Choisy. Caron was doing this for her.He was casting away his young, vigorous life, with all its wealth ofpromise, to the end that her betrothed--the man whom he believed sheloved--might be spared. The greatness, the nobility of the sacrificeoverwhelmed her. She remembered the thoughts that in the past she hadentertained concerning this young revolutionist. Never yet had shebeen able to regard him as belonging to the same order of beings asherself-not even when she had kissed his unconscious lips that eveningon the Ridge road. An immeasurable gulf had seemed to yawn betweenthem--the gulf between her nobility and his base origin. And now, asher carriage trundled out of Paris and took the dusty high road, sheshuddered, and her cheeks burned with shame at the memory of the wrongthat by such thoughts she had done him. Was she, indeed, the nobler? Byaccident of birth, perhaps, but by nature proper he was assuredly thenoblest man that ever woman bore.
In the Place de la Revolution a gruesome engine they called theguillotine was levelling all things, and fast establishing the reign ofabsolute equality. But with all the swift mowing of its bloody scythe,not half so fast did it level men as Mademoiselle de Bellecour'sthoughts were doing that afternoon.
So marked was the disorder in her countenance when she reached Choisythat even unobservant Ombreval whom continuous years of self-complacencyhad rendered singularly obtuse--could not help but notice it,and--fearing, no doubt, that this agitation might in so
me way concernhimself--he even went the length of questioning her, his voice soundingthe note of his alarm.
"It is nothing," she answered, in a dejected voice. "At least, nothingthat need cause you uneasiness. They have sentenced La Boulaye todeath," she announced, a spasm crossing her averted face.
He took a deep breath of relief.
"God knows they've sentenced innocent men enough. It is high time theybegan upon one another. It augurs well-extremely well."
They were alone in Henriette's kitchen; the faithful woman was atmarket. Mademoiselle was warming herself before the fire. Ombreval stoodby the window. He had spent the time of her absence in the care of hisclothes, and he had contrived to dress himself with some semblance ofhis old-time elegance which enhanced his good looks and high-born air.
"You seem to utterly forget, Monsieur, the nature of the charge uponwhich he has been arraigned," she said, in a tired voice.
"Why, no," he answered, and he smiled airily; "he was sufficiently afool to be lured by the brightest eyes in France into a service fortheir mistress. My faith! He's not the first by many a thousand whom awoman's soft glances have undone--"
"The degree in which you profit by the service he is doing those brighteyes, appears singularly beneath the dignity of your notice."
"What a jester you are becoming, ma mie," he laughed and at the soundshe shuddered again and drew mechanically nearer to the fire as thoughher shuddering was the result of cold.
"It is yet possible that he may not die," she said almost as if speakingto herself. "They have offered him his liberty, and his reinstatementeven--upon conditions."
"How interesting!" he murmured nonchalantly. "They have an odd way ofdispensing justice."
"The conditions imposed are that he shall amend the wrong he has done,and deliver up to the Convention the person of one ci-devant Vicomted'Ombreval."
"My God!"
It was a gasp of sudden dismay that broke from the young nobleman. Thecolour swept out of his face, and his eyes dilated with horror. Watchinghim Suzanne observed the sudden change, and took a fierce joy in havingproduced it.
"It interests you more closely now, Monsieur?" she asked.
"Suzanne," he cried, coming a step nearer, and speaking eagerly; "heknows my whereabouts. He brought me here himself. Are you mad, girl,that you can sit there so composedly and tell me this?"
"What else would you have me do?" she inquired.
"Do? Why, leave Choisy at once. Come; be stirring. In God's name, girl,bethink you that we have not a moment to lose. I know these Republicans,and how far they are to be trusted. This fellow would betray me to savehis skin with as little compunction as--"
"You fool!" she broke in, an undercurrent of fierce indignationvibrating through her scorn. "What are you saying? He would betray you?He?" She tossed her arms to Heaven, and burst into a laugh of infinitederision. "Have no fear of that, M. le Vicomte, for you are dealing witha nature of a nobility that you cannot so much as surmise. If he wereminded to betray you, why did he not do so to-day, when they offeredhim his liberty in exchange for information that would lead to yourrecapture?"
"But although he may have refused to-day," returned the Vicomtefrenziedly, "he may think better of it to-morrow-perhaps even tonight.Ciel! Think of the risk we run; already it may be too late. Oh, why," hedemanded reproachfully, "why didn't you listen to me when, days ago, Icounselled flight?"
"Because it neither was, nor is, my intention to fly."
"What?" he cried, and, his jaw fallen and his eyes wide, he regardedher. Then suddenly he caught her by the arm and shook her roughly. "Areyou mad?" he cried, in a frenzy of anger and fear. "Am I to die likea dog that a scum of a Republican may save his miserable neck? Is thiscanaille of a revolutionist to betray me to his rabble Tribunal?"
"Already have I told you that you need fear no betrayal."
"Need I not?" he sneered. "Ma foi! but I know these ruffians. There isnot an ounce of honour in the whole National Convention."
"Fool!" she blazed, rising and confronting him with an anger beforewhich he recoiled, appalled. "Do you dare to stand there and prate ofhonour--you? Do you forget why he stood his trial? Do you forget whyhe is dying, and can you not see the vile thing that you are doing inarguing flight, that you talk of honour thus, and deny his claim to it?Mon Dieu! Your effrontery stifles me! La Boulaye was right when he saidthat with us honour is but a word--just so much wind, and nothing more."
He stared at her in uncomprehending wonder. He drew away another step.He accounted her mad, and, that he might humour her, he put by hisown fears for the moment--a wonderful unselfishness this in the mostnobly-born Vicomte d'Ombreval.
"My poor Suzanne," he murmured. "Our trouble has demoralised yourunderstanding. You take a false view of things. You do not apprehend thesituation."
"In God's name, be silent!" she gasped.
"But the time is not one for silence," he returned.
"So I had thought," quoth she. "Yet since you can be silent and furtivein other matters, I beg that you will be silent in this also. You talkin vain, Monsieur, in any case. For I am not minded to leave Choisy. Ifyou urge me further I shall burn our passport."
And with that she left him, to seek the solitude of her own room. In apassion of tears she flung herself upon the little bed, and there shelay, a prey to such an anguish as had never touched her life before.
And now, in that hour of her grief, it came to her--as the sun piercesthe mist--that she loved La Boulaye; that she had loved him, indeed,since that night at Boisvert, although she had stifled the very thought,and hidden it even from herself, as being unworthy in one of her stationto love a man so lowly-born as Caron. But now, on the eve of his death,the truth would no longer be denied. It cried, perchance, the louder byvirtue of the pusillanimity of the craven below stairs in whose placeCaron was to die; but anyhow, it cried so loudly that it overbore thestern voice of the blood that had hitherto urged her to exclude thesentiment from her heart. No account now did she take of any differencein station. Be she nobler a thousand times, be he simpler a thousandtimes, the fact remained that she was a woman, he a man, and beyond thatshe did not seek to go.
Low indeed were the Lilies of France when a daughter of the race oftheir upholders heeded them so little and the caste they symbolised.
Henriette came to her that afternoon, and, all ignorant of the sourcesof her grief, she essayed to soothe and comfort her, in which, at last,she succeeded.
In the evening Ombreval sent word that he wished to speak to her--andthat his need was urgent. But she returned him the answer that she wouldsee him in the morning. She was indisposed that evening, she added, inapology.
And in the morning they met, as she had promised him. Both pale,although from different causes, and both showing signs of having sleptbut little. They broke their fast together and in silence, which at lasthe ended by asking her whether the night had brought her reflection, andwhether such reflection had made her appreciate their position and theneed to set out at once.
"It needed no reflection to make me realise our position better than Idid yesterday," she answered. "I had hoped that it would have broughtyou to a different frame of mind. But I am afraid that it has not doneso."
"I fail to see what change my frame of mind admits of," he answeredtestily.
"Have you thought," she asked at last, and her voice was cold andconcentrated, "that this man is giving his life for you?"
"I have feared," he answered, with incredible callousness, "that to savehis craven skin he might elect to do differently at the last moment."
She looked at him in a mighty wonder, her dark eyes open to theirwidest, and looking black by the extreme dilation of the pupils. So vastwas her amazement at this unbounded egotism that it almost overruled herdisgust.
"You cast epithets about you and bestow titles with a magnificentunconsciousness of how well they might fit you."
"Ah? For example?"
"In calling this man a craven, you take no t
hought for the cowardicethat actuates you into hiding while he dies for you?"
"Cowardice?" he ejaculated. Then a flush spread on his face. "Mafoi, Mademoiselle," said he, in a quivering voice, "your words betraythoughts that would be scarcely becoming in the Vicomtesse d'Ombreval."
"That, Monsieur, is a point that need give you little thought. I am notlikely to become the Vicomtesse."
He bestowed her a look of mingling wonder and anger. Had he, indeed,heard her aright? Did her words imply that she disdained the honour?
"Surely," he gasped, voicing those doubts of his, "you do not mean thatyou would violate your betrothal contract? You do not--"
"I mean, Monsieur," she cut in, "that I will give myself to no man I donot love."
"Your immodesty," said he, "falls in nothing short of the extraordinaryframe of mind that you appear to be developing in connection with othermatters. We shall have you beating a drum and screeching the Ca ira inthe streets of Paris presently, like Mademoiselle de Mericourt."
She rose from the table, her face very white, her hand pressing upon hercorsage. A moment she looked at him. Then:
"Do not let us talk of ourselves," she exclaimed at last. "There isa man in the Conciergerie who dies at noon unless you are forthcomingbefore then to save him. He himself will not betray you because he--Nomatter why, he will not. Tell me, Monsieur, how do you, who accountyourself a man of honour above everything, intend to deal with thissituation?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Once he is dead and done with--provided that he does not first betrayme--I trust that, no longer having this subject to harp upon, you willconsent to avail yourself of our passport, and accompany me out ofFrance."
"Honour does not for instance, suggest to you that you should repairto the Conciergerie and take the place that belongs to you, and whichanother is filling?"
A sudden light of comprehension swept now into his face.
"At last I understand what has been in your mind since yesterday, whathas made you so odd in your words and manner. You have thought that itwas perhaps my duty as a man of honour to go and effect the rescue ofthis fellow. But, my dear child, bethink you of what he is, and ofwhat I am. Were he a gentleman--my equal--my course would stand clearlydefined. I should not have hesitated a moment. But this canaille! Mafoi! let me beg of you to come to your senses. The very thought isunworthy in you."
"I understand you," she answered him, very coldly. "You use a coward'sarguments, and you have the effrontery to consider yourself a man ofhonour--a nobleman. I no longer marvel that there is a revolution inFrance."
She stood surveying him for a moment, then she quietly left the room. Hestared after her.
"Woman, woman!" he sighed, as he set down his napkin and rose in histurn.
His humour was one of pitying patience for a girl that had not thewit to see that to ask him--the most noble d'Ombreval--to die that LaBoulaye might live was very much like asking him to sacrifice his lifeto save a dog's.
The Trampling of the Lilies Page 22
