by Eugène Sue
“He may watch over them as much as he likes,” cried the widow, with settled hatred in her looks, “vice and destitution will have greater effect than his words, and some of these days they will avenge their father, mother, and sister!”
“Your horrible expectations, mother, will never be fulfilled,” replied the indignant Martial; “neither my young brother, sister, nor self have anything to fear from want. La Louve saved the life of the young girl Nicholas tried to drown, and the relations of the young person offered us either a large sum of money or a smaller sum and some land at Algiers; we preferred the latter, and to-morrow we quit Europe, with the children, for ever.”
“Is that absolutely true?” asked the widow of Martial, in a tone of angry surprise.
“Mother, when did I ever tell you a falsehood?”
“You are doing so now to try and put me into a passion!”
“What, displeased to learn that your children are provided for?”
“Yes, to find that my young wolves are to be turned into lambs, and to hear that the blood of father, mother, and sister have no prospect of being avenged!”
“Do not talk so — at a moment like this!”
“I have murdered, and am murdered in my turn, — the account is even, at any rate.”
“Mother, mother, let me beseech you to repent ere you die!”
Again a peal of fiendish laughter burst from the pallid lips of the condemned woman.
“For thirty years,” cried she, “have I lived in crime; would you have me believe that thirty years’ guilt is to be repented of in three days, with the mind disturbed and distracted by the near approach of death? No, no, three days cannot effect such wonders; and I tell you, when my head falls its last expression will be rage and hatred!”
“Brother, brother,” ejaculated Calabash, whose brain began to wander, “help, help! Take me from hence,” moaned she in an expiring voice; “they are coming to fetch me — to kill me! Oh, hide me, dear brother, hide me, and I will love you ever more!”
“Will you hold your tongue?” cried the widow, exasperated at the weakness betrayed by her daughter. “Will you be silent? Oh, you base, you disgraceful creature! And to think that I should be obliged to call myself your parent!”
“Mother,” exclaimed Martial, nearly distracted by this horrid scene, “will you tell me why you sent for me?”
“Because I thought to give you heart and hatred; but he who has not the one cannot entertain the other. Go, coward, go!”
At this moment a loud sound of many footsteps was heard in the corridor; the old soldier looked at his watch.
A rich ray of the golden brightness, which marked the rising of that day’s sun, found its way through the loopholes in the walls, and shed a flood of light into the very midst of the wretched cell, rendered now completely illumined by means of the opening of the door at the opposite end of the passage to that in which the condemned cell was situated. In the midst of this blaze of day appeared two gaolers, each bearing a chair; an officer also made his appearance, saying to the widow in a voice of sympathy:
“Madame, the hour has arrived.”
The mother arose on the instant, erect and immovable, while Calabash uttered the most piercing cries. Then four more persons entered the cell; four of the number, who were very shabbily dressed, bore in their hands packets of fine but very strong cord. The taller man of the party was dressed in black, with a large cravat; he handed a paper to the officer. This individual was the executioner, and the paper a receipt signifying his having received two females for the purpose of guillotining them. The man then took sole charge of these unhappy creatures, and, from that moment, was responsible for them.
To the wild terror and despair which had first seized Calabash, now succeeded a kind of stupefaction; and so nearly insensible was she that the assistant executioners were compelled to seat her on her bed, and to support her when there; her firmly closed jaws scarcely enabled her to utter a sound, but her hollow eyes rolled vacantly in their sockets, her chin fell listlessly on her breast, and, but for the support of the two men, she would have fallen forwards a lifeless, senseless mass.
After having bestowed a last embrace on his wretched sister, Martial stood petrified with terror, unable to speak or move, and as though perfectly spellbound by the horrible scene before him.
The cool audacity of the widow did not for an instant forsake her; with head erect, and firm, collected manner, she assisted in taking off the strait-waistcoat she had worn, and which had hitherto fettered her movements; this removed, she appeared in an old black stuff dress.
“Where shall I place myself?” asked she, in a clear, steady voice.
“Be good enough to sit down upon one of those chairs,” said the executioner, pointing to the seats arranged at the entrance of the dungeon.
With unfaltering step, the widow prepared to follow the directions given her, but as she passed her daughter she said, in a voice that betokened some little emotion:
“Kiss me, my child!”
But as the sound of her mother’s voice reached her ear, Calabash seemed suddenly to wake up from her lethargy, she raised her head, and, with a wild and almost frenzied cry, exclaimed:
“Away! Leave me! And if there be a hell, may it receive you!”
“My child,” repeated the widow, “let us embrace for the last time!”
“Do not approach me!” cried the distracted girl, violently repulsing her mother; “you have been my ruin in this world and the next!”
“Then forgive me, ere I die!”
“Never, never!” exclaimed Calabash; and then, totally exhausted by the effort she had made, she sank back in the arms of the assistants.
A cloud passed over the hitherto stern features of the widow, and a moisture was momentarily visible on her glowing eyeballs. At this instant she encountered the pitying looks of her son. After a trifling hesitation, during which she seemed to be undergoing some powerful internal conflict, she said:
“And you?”
Sobbing violently, Martial threw himself into his mother’s arms.
“Enough!” said the widow, conquering her emotion, and withdrawing herself from the close embrace of her son; “I am keeping this gentleman waiting,” pointing to the executioner; then, hurrying towards a chair, she resolutely seated herself, and the gleam of maternal sensibility she had exhibited was for ever extinguished.
“Do not stay here,” said the old soldier, approaching Martial with an air of kindness. “Come this way,” continued he, leading him, while Martial, stupefied by horror, followed him mechanically.
The almost expiring Calabash having been supported to a chair by the two assistants, one sustained her all but inanimate form, while the other tied her hands behind with fine but excessively strong whipcord, knotted into the most inextricable meshes, while with a cord of the same description he secured her feet, allowing her just so much liberty as would enable her to proceed slowly to her last destination. The widow having borne a similar pinioning with the most imperturbable composure, the executioner, drawing from his pocket a pair of huge scissors, said to her with considerable civility:
“Be good enough to stoop your head, madame.”
Yielding immediate obedience to the request, the widow said:
“We have been good customers to you; you have had my husband in your hands, and now you have his wife and daughter!”
Without making any reply, the executioner began to cut the long gray hairs of the prisoner very close, especially at the nape of the neck.
“This makes the third time in my life,” continued the widow, with a dismal smile, “that I have had my head dressed by a professor: when I took my first communion the white veil was arranged; then on my marriage, when the orange-flowers were placed there; and upon the present occasion; upon my word, I hardly know which became me most. You cannot guess what I am thinking of?” resumed the widow, addressing the executioner, after having again contemplated her daughter.
But the man made her
no sort of answer, and no sound was heard but that of the scissors, and the sort of convulsive and hysterical sob that occasionally escaped from Calabash.
At this moment a venerable priest approached the governor, and addressed him in a low, earnest voice, the import of which was to express his desire to make another effort to rescue the souls of the condemned.
“I was thinking that at five years old my daughter, whose head you are going to cut off, was the prettiest child I ever saw, with her fair hair and red cheeks. Who that saw her then would have said that—” She was silent for a moment, and then said, with a burst of indescribable laughter, “What a farce is destiny!”
At this moment the last of her hair was cut off.
“I have done, madame,” said the executioner, politely.
“Many thanks; and I recommend my son Nicholas to you,” said the widow; “you will cut off his hair some day.” A turnkey came in and said a few words to her in a low tone. “No, — I have already said no!” she answered, angrily.
The priest hearing these words, and seeing any further interference useless, immediately withdrew.
“Madame, we are all ready to go. Will you take anything?” inquired the executioner, civilly.
“No, I thank you; this evening I shall take a mouthful of earth.” And after this remark the widow rose firmly. Her hands were tied behind her back, and a rope was also attached to each ankle, allowing her sufficient liberty to walk. Although her step was firm and resolute, the executioner and his assistant offered to support her; but she turned to them disdainfully, and said, “Do not touch me, I have a steady eye and a firm foot, and they will hear on the scaffold whether or not I have a good voice.” Calabash was carried away in a dying state.
After having traversed the long corridor, the funereal cortège ascended a stone staircase, which led to an exterior court, where was a picquet of gens-d’armes, a hackney-coach, and a long, narrow carriage with a yellow body, drawn by three post-horses, who were neighing loudly.
“We shall not be full inside,” said the widow, as she took her seat.
The two vehicles, preceded and followed by the picquet of gens-d’armes, then quitted the outer gate of Bicêtre, and went quickly towards the Boulevard St. Jacques.
CHAPTER X.
MARTIAL AND THE CHOURINEUR.
BEFORE WE PROCEED we have a few words to say as to the acquaintance recently established between the Chourineur and Martial.
When Germain had left the prison, the Chourineur proved very easily that he had robbed himself; and making a statement of his motive for this singular mystification to the magistrate, he was set at liberty, after having been severely admonished.
Desirous of recompensing the Chourineur for this fresh act of devotion, Rodolph, in order to realise the wishes of his rough protégé, had lodged him in the hôtel of the Rue Plumet, promising that he should accompany him on his return to Germany.
The Chourineur’s blind attachment to Rodolph was like that of a dog for his master. When, however, the prince had found his daughter, all was changed, and, in spite of his warm gratitude for the man who had saved his life, he could not make up his mind to take with him to Germany the witness of Fleur-de-Marie’s fallen state; yet, determined to carry out the Chourineur’s wishes, he sent for him, and told him that he had still another service to ask of him. At this the Chourineur’s countenance brightened up; but he was greatly distressed when he learned that he must quit the hôtel that very day, and would not accompany the prince to Germany.
It is useless to mention the munificent compensations which Rodolph offered to the Chourineur, — the money he intended for him, the farm in Algeria, anything he could desire. The Chourineur was wounded to the heart, refused, and (perhaps for the first time in his life) wept. Rodolph was compelled to force his presents on him.
Next day the prince sent for La Louve and Martial, and inquired what he could do for them. Remembering what Fleur-de-Marie had told him of the wild taste of La Louve and her husband, he proposed to the hardy couple either a considerable sum of money, or half the sum and land in full cultivation adjoining the farm he had bought for the Chourineur, believing that by bringing them together they would sympathise, from their desire to seek solitude, the one in consequence of the past, and the other from the crimes of his family.
He was not mistaken. Martial and La Louve accepted joyfully; and then, talking the matter over with the Chourineur, they all three rejoiced in the prospects held out to them in Algeria. A sincere good feeling soon united the future colonists. Persons of their class judge quickly of each other, and like one another as speedily.
The Chourineur accompanied his new friend Martial to the Bicêtre and awaited him in the hackney-coach, which conducted them back to Paris after Martial, horror-struck, had left the dungeon of his mother and sister.
The countenance of the Chourineur had completely changed; the bold expression and jovial humour which usually characterised his harsh features had given way to extreme dejection; his voice had lost something of its coarseness; a grief of heart, until then unknown to him, had broken down his energetic temperament. He looked kindly at Martial, and said:
“Courage! You have done all that good intentions could do; it is ended. Think now of your wife, and the children whom you have prevented from becoming criminals like their father and mother. To-night we leave Paris never to return to it, and you will never again hear of what so much distresses you now.”
“True — true! But, after all, they are my sister and mother!”
“Yes; but when things must be, we must submit!” said the Chourineur, checking a deep sigh.
After a moment’s silence, Martial said, kindly, “And I ought, in my turn, to try and console you who are so sad. My wife and I hope that when we have left Paris this will cease.”
“Yes,” said the Chourineur, with a shudder, “if I leave Paris!”
“Why, we go this evening!”
“Yes, — you do; you go this evening!”
“And have you changed your intention, then?”
“No! Yet, Martial, you’ll laugh at me; but yet I will tell you all. If anything happens to me it will prove that I am not deceived. When M. Rodolph asked if we would go to Algeria together, I told you my mind at once, and also what I had been.”
“Yes, you did; let us mention it no more. You underwent your punishment, and are now as good as any one. But, like myself, I can imagine you would like to go and live a long way off, instead of living here, where, however honest we may be, they might at times fling in your teeth a misdeed you have atoned for and repented, and, in mine, my parents’ crimes, for which I am by no means responsible. The past is the past between us, and we shall never reproach each other.”
“With you and me, Martial, the past is the past; but, you see, Martial, there is something above, — I have killed a man!”
“A great misfortune, assuredly; but, at the moment, you were out of your senses, — mad. And besides, you have since saved the lives of other persons, and that will count in your favour.”
“I’ll tell you why I refer to my misdeed. I used to have a dream, in which I saw the sergeant I killed. I have not had it for a long time until last night, and that foretells some misfortune for to-day. I have a foreboding that I shall not quit Paris.”
“Oh, you regret at leaving our benefactor! The thought of coming with me to the Bicêtre agitated you; and so your dream recurred to you.”
The Chourineur shook his head sorrowfully and said, “It has come to me just as M. Rodolph is going to start, — for he goes to-day. Yesterday I sent a messenger to his hôtel, not daring to go myself. They sent me word that he went this morning at eleven o’clock by the barrier of Charenton, and I mean to go and station myself there to try and see him once more, — for the last time!”
“He seems so good that I easily understand your love for him.”
“Love for him!” said the Chourineur, with deep and concentrated emotion. “Yes, yes, Martial, —
to lie on the earth, eat black bread, be his dog, to be where he was, I asked no more. But that was too much, — he would not consent.”
“He has been very generous towards you!”
“Yet it is not for that I love him, but because he told me I had heart and honour. Yes, and that at a time when I was as fierce as a brute beast. And he made me understand what was good in me, and that I had repented, and, after suffering great misery, had worked hard for an honest livelihood, although all the world considered me as a thorough ruffian, — and so, when M. Rodolph said these words to me, my heart beat high and proudly, and from this time I would go through fire and water to serve him.”
“Why, it is because you are better than you were that you ought not to have any of those forebodings. Your dream is nothing.”
“We shall see. I shall not try and get into any mischief, for I cannot have any worse misfortune than not to see again M. Rodolph, whom I hoped never again to leave. I should have been in my way, you see, always with him, body and soul, — always ready. Never mind, perhaps he was wrong, — I am only a worm at his feet; but sometimes, Martial, the smallest may be useful to the greatest.”
“One day, perhaps, you may see him.”
“Oh, no; he said to me, ‘My good fellow, you must promise never to seek nor see me, — that will be doing me a service.’ So, of course, Martial, I promised; and I’ll keep my word, though it is very hard.”
“Once at Algeria, you will forget all your vexations.”
“Yes, yes; I’m an old trooper, Martial, and will face the Bedouins.”
“Come, come, you’ll soon recover your spirits. We’ll farm and hunt together, and live together, or separate, just as you like. We’ll bring up the children like honest people, and you shall be their uncle, — for we are brothers, and my wife is good at heart; and so we’ll be happy, eh?” And Martial extended his hand to the Chourineur.
“So we will, Martial,” was the reply; “and my sorrow will kill me, or I shall kill my sorrow.”
“It will not kill you. We shall pass our days together; and every evening we will say, ‘brother, thanks to M. Rodolph,’ — that shall be our prayer to, him.”
