The instructions for death given and received, Georges took a diamond ring from his finger. “I have no money here,” he said to the Negro. “But take this, so that you will not have entirely wasted your time.”
“I am forbidden to accept any gifts from condemned prisoners,” replied the black man. “But I can inherit things from them. Leave the ring on your finger, and I will remove it after you are dead.”
“Very well.” Nodding calmly, Georges returned the ring to his hand. The Negro departed. Georges now turned to the priest, who sat in his chair, his face deathly pale.
“My son,” the old man murmured, “never yet have I met with a soul as firm as yours. I must tell you that tomorrow will be the first time I have accompanied a condemned man as he walks to the scaffold; I fear I will lose my nerve. You will hold me up if I do, will you not?”
“You may be sure of it, Father,” Georges replied. The old priest was gratified. His small church lay along the route to the scaffold, and it was there that the condemned men usually stopped to hear a final mass. The church was called Saint-Sauveur.
Promising to return later in the evening, the priest departed. Georges was left alone.
What passed through Georges’s mind and over his face during the hours of solitude, no one could know. Perhaps all his years of self-discipline failed him and nature, pitiless nature, overcame him, and he became as weak as he had formerly been strong. Perhaps, once the curtain had fallen and he was no longer obliged to act stoic for the benefit of others, his tranquility gave way to real agony. But it is probable that none of this happened—for when the key to his door turned and a guard appeared with his dinner, he found Georges rolling a small cigar as calmly as if he were a fashionable vacationer on the Puerta del Sol in Madrid or the boulevard de Gand in Paris.
Georges ate with his usual good appetite, then called the guard and asked to be awakened at half past five, and for a bath to be drawn by six o’clock.
In his prodigious reading over the years, Georges had perused many accounts of the awakening of condemned men and women on the mornings of their executions, and wondered if those unfortunate individuals had really been able to sleep. The time had now come for him to learn the truth firsthand.
The priest returned at nine o’clock as he had promised. Georges lay in bed, reading. What was the book he was reading to prepare himself for death, the old man inquired: perhaps Phaedo, or the Bible? Georges handed it to him. It was Bernardin de Saint-Pierre’s Paul et Virginie, the famous novel set on île de France. How strange it was, thought the priest, that on this terrible night the young man had chosen to read a story of such poetry and peace!
The clergyman stayed until eleven o’clock. Georges spoke nearly the entire time, sharing his perception of God and his theories about the immortality of the soul. The young man had always been eloquent, but now, during this last evening of his life, he was sublime! Tonight, he—a condemned man—was the teacher. It was the priest who listened, and learned.
At eleven o’clock Georges rose and announced that he must retire. He would need strength, he said, for what was to come. As the old man went to the door, though, Georges suddenly called him back—a painful conflict appeared to be raging in his heart.
But no sooner had the old man returned to his side than the young man, controlling himself with a visible effort, again told him to go. “It is nothing, Father,” he said, “nothing at all.” He was lying, of course; it was Sara’s name that had risen once more to his lips. But still he held back, and the priest finally bade him farewell and departed none the wiser.
At half past five the next morning the guard entered and found Georges sleeping soundly. “Ah, so it is true,” the young man said as he awoke. “A condemned man can pass his final hours at rest.” But how long had he stayed awake the night before to achieve that result? It is impossible to say.
They brought in his bath.
The surgeon entered. “You see,” Georges said to him, “how I keep to the customs of antiquity. The Athenians always bathed before going into battle.”
The doctor was at a loss for words. Finally he fell back on the empty phrases always used by physicians when there is nothing else to say: “How do you feel?”
“Very well,” said Georges, smiling. “I am beginning to think that my wound will not kill me after all.” He placed his will, folded and sealed, in the doctor’s hands. “I have named you as my executor,” he said. “A few lines in this document concern you, as well; I wished to leave you something in remembrance.”
The physician dashed away a tear and murmured a few words of thanks. Georges got into the bath.
“Tell me,” he said after a short silence. “Under normal circumstances, how many times does a healthy man’s heart beat in one minute?”
“Between sixty-four and sixty-six,” said the doctor.
“Take my pulse, please,” said Georges. “I would like to feel how my body is reacting as death grows closer.”
Pulling out his watch, the physician took Georges’s wrist. “Sixty-eight,” he said after a minute.
“Good; I am well pleased!” Georges exclaimed. “What do you think, monsieur?”
“It is a miracle,” said the surgeon. “You must be made of iron.”
Georges smiled with pride. “The whites are in quite a hurry to see me die,” he said. “Well, I will give them a good show—and a lesson in courage, besides!”
The jailer entered the cell and announced that it was almost six o’clock. “My dear doctor,” said Georges, “may I have a moment of privacy to dress myself? Please, do not go far. I should like to shake hands with you before I depart.”
The surgeon left the room. Georges got out of the bath and donned his white trousers, polished boots, and cambric shirt—the collar of which he carefully turned down. Standing before the mirror, he combed his jet-black hair, mustache, and beard with as much care as if he were preparing for a ball. Then, going to the door, he knocked to indicate that he was ready. The priest, who had just arrived, looked at him in wonder. The young man had never been more handsome. His eyes shone, and his face glowed.
“Oh, my son!” cried the priest, involuntarily. “Beware of pride! Already it has cost you your life; do not let it destroy your soul!”
“But you have promised to pray for me, Father,” Georges reminded him. “Surely God will not ignore the prayers of a man as holy as you.”
At that moment he became aware of the executioner, standing half hidden in the shadows by the doorway. The Negro was wrapped in a billowing cloak beneath which, Georges knew, the ax hung concealed. “Good morning, my friend,” he said. “I trust your ax is well sharpened?”
“It is,” replied the Negro. “You may rest easy on that score.”
“Good,” said Georges. He noticed the executioner’s eyes moving to his hand, looking at the diamond ring he had been promised the evening before. The ring had turned and the stone, now facing inward, was hidden. “Do not worry,” he said, turning the ring so the diamond was visible again. “You shall have your reward. Indeed, let me make sure you will have no trouble getting it.” Taking off the jewel, he handed it to the priest with instructions that, when he was dead, it should go to the big Negro.
Now he went to the desk and, opening it, removed two letters. One was addressed to his father; the other, to his brother. He gave them to the priest as well. Then, again, he hesitated. Placing his hand on the old man’s shoulder, he gazed at him and opened his mouth as if to speak—but, once more, his will was stronger than his emotions, and the name he yearned to say died away on his lips. Six o’clock struck.
“It is time; let us go,” Georges said. He strode out of the cell, followed by the priest and the executioner. The physician waited at the bottom of the steps to bid him a last farewell. Georges grasped his hand and leaned over to whisper a single phrase in his ear: “I commend my body to you.”
Then, shoulders squared, he walked to the courtyard.
XXVIII
&
nbsp; THE CHURCH OF SAINT-SAUVEUR
As may be imagined, the prison gate was thronged with curious spectators. Spectacles are rare in Port Louis, and everyone wanted to watch the condemned man—if not as he met his end, at least as he made his way to the scaffold. As a last act of kindness, the warden had asked Georges how he wished to go to his death, and Georges had requested—and obtained—permission to go on foot. It was a final gesture of friendship on the part of the governor.
Eight mounted artillery soldiers waited at the gate. The streets through which Georges would walk were lined with soldiers, both to guard the prisoner and to keep the populace under control. As the condemned man passed, a hum of murmurs arose—but contrary to what Georges had expected, most of the voices did not sound hostile, only interested, and pitying. The simple fact was that the sight of a proud and handsome man going to his death held, as it always does, a powerful fascination.
Georges walked with a firm step, his head held high and his features impassive—but inside, his heart was twisted with grief and despair. He thought only of Sara, who had not even attempted to see him in prison. Sara, who had not written a single word or sent a single remembrance of their passion. Sara, in whom he had believed completely, and because of whom he now suffered his final disappointment. If he had been sure of her love, Georges would have felt much more regret at dying—but her indifference had left him drained of emotion. His lover had betrayed him; his pride had deluded him. He had failed at everything. All his superiority of character and education, his long struggle, had led him nowhere but to the steps of the scaffold, alone. He would be remembered as nothing but a madman.
As he walked, looking at the crowd, a faint smile crossed his lips. It was an expression that concealed pure bitterness. Still, at every corner, every window, he looked for Sara. Surely she, who had dropped her bouquet at his feet when he raced Antrim to victory in the Yamsé festival, would spare a tear for him as he trod the path to the scaffold!
But she was nowhere to be found.
Coming to the end of the rue de Paris, he turned right toward the Church of Saint-Sauveur. It was draped in black, as if for a funeral—and indeed, what is a condemned man en route to the scaffold but a living corpse? As he approached the church door, Georges started in surprise. The good priest was there, waiting for him, and at his side was a woman dressed in black, her face covered by a long veil. Why was she there? For whom did she wait?
Despite himself, Georges walked more quickly. He could not tear his gaze away from the woman in black. As he approached her, his heart beat wildly in his chest. He, who had been so calm in the face of his imminent death, now grew feverish. As he mounted the first step to the church door, she moved forward to meet him. Georges leapt the remaining four steps in a single bound, threw back her veil, and fell to his knees with a cry.
It was Sara.
She extended a hand slowly and solemnly, and silence fell over the enormous crowd.
“Listen to me; all of you,” she said. “Here, on the threshold of this holy place about to serve as Georges Munier’s tomb, I ask you to bear witness. Before all of you—before God—I, Sara de Malmédie, ask this man to do me the honor of taking me as his bride.”
Georges burst into tears.
“Oh, Sara,” he murmured. “You are the noblest, most gracious, most generous of women!” He stood, drawing himself up to his full height, and enfolded her in his arms, holding her tightly as if he were afraid she would disappear. “Come, then, my widow,” he said. They entered the church.
In an instant everything had changed for Georges. Defeated the moment before, now he was triumphant beyond measure. With a few words Sara had raised him far above the crowd that had watched him pass. No longer was he a madman, stymied in all he had attempted and dying in disgrace; now he was the victor, about to fall at the height of his triumph. He was Epaminondas, mortally wounded on the field of battle but able to watch his enemies flee as he died.
By his will alone, by the power of his character, he, a mulatto, had won the love of a white woman. He had not pursued her; he had not tried to influence her with letters or words or signals; yet she had come, draped in black, to wait for him on his way to the scaffold—had, in front of the entire population of Port Louis, taken the unprecedented action of choosing him for her husband.
Now, Georges felt, he could die. His long struggle had paid off. He had fought prejudice with his bare hands, and—though he had been mortally wounded in the process—he had vanquished it after all.
These thoughts made Georges radiant as he led Sara into the church. He was no longer the condemned man about to climb the scaffold. Now he was a martyr, surely, joyfully, on his way to heaven.
Twenty soldiers flanked the main aisle of the church, and four more guarded the choir. Georges passed by them without noticing, and knelt with Sara at the altar. The priest began the nuptial mass, but the young man was deaf to the words he spoke. He held Sara’s hand in his own, turning now and then to throw the crowd a look of supreme disdain. He gazed at Sara, who was pale as death, and felt her hand tremble in his. His eyes shone down at her, full of gratitude and love, and he fought down the rising sorrow in his breast. What a life he could have had, with such a woman at his side! It would have been heavenly indeed—but after all, heaven is not for the living.
The mass was proceeding apace when Georges caught sight of Miko-Miko, gesturing and trying frantically to break through the ranks of soldiers and get to his master’s side. He must have come as a final act of allegiance, hoping to meet Georges’s eye once more, to shake his hand one last time. Georges murmured a few words to the commanding officer, asking permission for the Chinese man to be allowed to approach him. This was a harmless favor to grant the condemned man, and the soldiers drew aside to let Miko-Miko into the choir.
We have seen how the poor merchant had been devoted to Georges from their first meeting. Miko-Miko had risked his own life to save the mulatto when he had been held prisoner at the guardhouse; now he did so once again, in the very shadow of the scaffold. He threw himself on his knees in front of Georges, who held out his hand. The Chinese man took it, and pressed it to his lips—and at the same moment, Georges felt the peddler slip a small piece of paper into his hand. The young man felt a jolt of surprise. Miko-Miko rose silently and left the choir. He had not uttered a single word. Georges grasped the bit of paper in his hand, frowning. What could this mean? It must be important, but he dared not look at it. He turned his attention back to the wedding ceremony.
Sara was so beautiful, so devoted, so far beyond all earthly love, that a feeling of deep anguish gripped Georges’s heart like an iron fist as he looked at her. The prospect of so much happiness with her as his wife had renewed his desire to live. He had prepared his soul for the flight to heaven, but his heart was firmly bound to earth.
For the first time, he felt afraid to die.
The slip of paper seemed to burn his hand. He could not possibly read it now and risk the soldiers seeing it, but what if it contained some message to give him hope? It was madness even to think such a thing, he knew, in the present situation. Impatience and curiosity raged within him, but with his usual self-control he kept his face perfectly impassive. Only the hand that held the note was clenched so tightly that the fingernails pressed into the flesh.
Sara was still kneeling, lost in prayer. They had now come to the administration of the sacred Host. The priest held the offering aloft, and at the sound of the chorister’s bell everyone in the church dropped to his knees. Georges knelt as well, and took advantage of the moment to look at the note in his hand. It contained a single line: “We are here. Be ready.”
The first sentence was in his brother Jacques’s handwriting; the second in Pierre Munier’s.
Georges, astonished and alone in the midst of the kneeling crowd, raised his head and looked around. At that instant the church doors burst open. Eight sturdy sailors rushed toward the altar, seizing the four soldiers guarding the choir and holdin
g them immobile at dagger point. Now Jacques and Pierre Munier appeared; the former scooped Sara into his arms, while the latter seized Georges by the hand. They dashed toward the sacristy; the eight sailors holding the stunned British troops at bay and using their four captives as human shields. Jacques and Pierre slammed the sacristy door. Beyond the outer doors of the church there was open countryside. Two horses stood ready, saddled and bridled. One of them was a stallion named Yambo. The other was Antrim.
“Now mount up, you and Sara! Make like the wind for the Bay of Tombeau!” Jacques shouted.
“What about you and Father?” Georges cried.
“Bah! Let them come and try to take us, with my men protecting us!” Jacques placed Sara on her horse, while Pierre Munier hoisted his son onto Antrim. “Come to us, my fine Lascars!” Jacques bellowed. A hundred and twenty men, armed to the teeth, burst from among the trees at the base of Mont Longue and came toward them.
“Flee, now!” Jacques commanded Sara. “Take Georges away—make sure he is safe!”
“And you?” Sara asked.
“Don’t worry; we will soon follow!”
“Georges!” cried Sara. “In the name of heaven, come with me!” The girl rode off at full gallop.
“Father, Father!” cried Georges again.
“I promise you, I will protect him with my life!” Jacques vowed. He struck Antrim’s rump with the flat of his sword, and the stallion flew away like the wind. In less than ten minutes Georges and Sara had disappeared beyond the Malabar camp. Jacques and Pierre Munier and their men followed so rapidly that the English soldiers did not even have time to rouse themselves from their astonishment before the little band was on the other side of the Pucelles stream, and out of the range of their guns.
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