THE LAST HOUR.
Palm had returned to his cell without uttering a complaint, a reproach.
Nothing in his bearing betrayed his profound grief, his intense
indignation. He knew that neither his complaints nor his reproaches were
able to change his fate, and consequently he wanted to bear it like a
man.
He greeted Balthasar with a touching smile; the jailer received him at
the door of his cell, and concealed no longer the tears which filled his
eyes.
“My poor friend,” said Palm, kindly, “then you already knew what was
in store for me, and it cut you to the quick to see me so merry and
unconcerned! Well, now you may accept my gift, for now I shall be free,
so free that no shackles and chains will ever be able to hold me again.
And you promised me not to reject my gift when I should be restored to
liberty. I have got it, my friend,--take my present, therefore!”
He took the breastpin from the table and handed it to the jailer. The
latter received it with a scarcely suppressed groan, and when he bent
down to kiss the hand which had given it to him, a scalding tear fell
from his eyes on Palm’s hand.
“Oh,” said Palm, feelingly, “I gave you only a small trinket, and you
return to me a diamond for it! I thank you, my friend; I know you will
pray for me in my last moments. Now leave me alone for an hour, for I
must collect my thoughts and consult with God about what is in store for
me. Are you allowed to give me pen and ink?”
“I have already placed writing-materials in the drawer of your table,”
said Balthasar, in a low voice, “for all prisoners like you have the
right to draw up their last will for their family, and I solemnly swear
to you that I will forward what you are going to write to its address.”
“I thank you, my friend; leave me alone, then, so that I may write. But
listen! Do not go too far away; remain in the corridor so that you can
open the door to her as soon as SHE comes.”
“SHE!” asked the jailer. “Who is it?”
Palm hesitated; he was unable to utter the word at once, for the tears
arose from his heart and paralyzed his tongue. “My wife!” he said,
painfully, at last. “Go and await her, for I am sure she will come!”
He motioned Balthasar to withdraw, and then sat down, weary and
exhausted, in his cane-chair. For a moment he was overwhelmed by the
whole misery of his position, and his grief rolled like an avalanche on
his poor heart. He dropped his head on his breast; his arms hung down
heavy and powerless, and a few tears, as large as those of children, and
burning like fire, rolled over his cheeks. But this did not last long,
for these scalding drops aroused him from the stupor of his grief.
He raised his head again and dried the tears on his cheeks. “I have no
time to spare for weeping,” he said to himself in a low voice; “my hours
are numbered, and I must write to my poor Anna my will for her and my
children!”
He took from the drawer the writing-materials which Balthasar had kindly
placed there, and took a seat at the table in order to write. He placed
his chair, however, in such a manner that he was able to see the door of
his cell, and frequently, while writing, raised his eyes from the paper
and fixed them anxiously on the door.
Now he really heard approaching steps, and the key was put into the
lock.
Palm laid his pen aside and rose.
The door opened--Anna entered. She glided toward him with a heavenly
smile; he clasped her in his arms, and, kissing her head which she had
laid on his breast, whispered: “God bless you for having come to me! I
knew that I should not look for you in vain!”
The jailer stood at the open door and wept. His sobs reminded Palm of
his presence.
“Balthasar,” he said, imploringly, and pointing his hand at Anna who was
still reposing on his breast, “Balthasar, I am sure you will leave me
alone with her, my friend?”
“I have received stringent orders never to leave prisoners under
sentence of death alone with others,” murmured Balthasar. “They might
easily furnish arms or poison to them; that is what my superiors told
me.”
Palm placed his hand on his wife’s head as if going to take a solemn
oath. “Balthasar,” he said, “by this sacred and beloved head I swear to
you that I shall not commit suicide. Let my murderers take my life. Will
you now leave me alone with her?”
“I will, for it would be cruel not to do so,” said Balthasar. “God alone
ought to hear what you have to say to each other! I give you half an
hour; then the officers and the priest will come, and it will no longer
be in my power to keep this door locked. But until then nobody shall
disturb you.”
He left the cell and locked the door.
Man and wife were alone now; they had half an hour for their last
interview, their last farewell.
There are sacred moments which, like the wings of the butterfly, are
injured by the slightest touch of the human hand, and which, therefore,
must not be approached; there are words which no human ear ought to
listen to, and tears which God alone ought to count.
Half an hour later the jailer opened the door and reentered. Palm and
his wife stood in the middle of the cell, and, encircling each other
with one arm, looked calmly, serenely, and smilingly at each other like
two spirits removed from earth.
The paper on which Palm had written was no longer on the table; it
reposed now on Anna’s heart; the golden wedding-ring which Palm had worn
on his finger had disappeared, and glittered now on Anna’s hand near her
own wedding-ring.
“The priest is there,” said the jailer, “and the soldiers, too, are
already in the corridor. It is high time.”
“Go, then, Anna,” said Palm, withdrawing his arm from her neck.
But she clung with a long scream of despair to his breast. “You want
me to live, then?” she exclaimed, reproachfully. “You want to sever our
paths? Oh, be merciful, my beloved; remember that we have sworn at the
altar to share life and death with each other! Let me die with you,
therefore!”
“No,” he said, tenderly and firmly. “No, Anna, you shall live with me!
My children are my life and my heart; they will live with you. Every
morning I shall greet you from the eyes of our children, and when
they embrace you, think it were my arms encircling you. Live for our
children, Anna; teach them to love their father who, it is true, will
be no longer with them, but whose soul will ever surround you and
them! Swear to me that you will live and bear your fate firmly and
courageously!”
“I swear it,” she said in a low voice.
“And now, beloved Anna, leave me! My last moments belong to God!”
He kissed her lips, which were as cold as marble, and led her gently to
the door.
Anna now raised her head in order to fix a long, last look on him.
“You want me to live,” she said; “I shall do so long as it pleases God.
I bid you, therefore, farewell, but not forever, nor even for a very
long while. All of us are nothing but poor wanderers whom God has sent
on earth to perform their pilgrimage. But at length He opens to us again
the doors of our paternal house and calls us home! I long for my return
home, my beloved! Farewell, then, until we meet again!”
“Farewell until we meet again!”
They shook hands once more, and gazed at each other with a smile which
lighted up their faces like the last beam of the setting sun.
Then Anna, walking backward in order to see him still, and to engrave
his image deeply on her heart, crossed the threshold as the jailer
hastily closed the door behind her.
Palm heard a heart-rending cry outside; then every thing was silent.
A few minutes later the door opened again, and a Catholic priest
entered.
“My wife has fainted, I suppose?” asked Palm.
“No, a sudden vertigo seemed to seize her when the door closed, but she
overcame her weakness and hurried away. May the Lord God have mercy on
her!”
“He will,” said Palm, confidently.
“May He have mercy on you, too, my son,” said the priest. “Let us pray;
open to me your soul and your heart.”
“My soul and my heart lie open before God; He will see and judge
them,” said Palm. “I do not belong to your church, my father; I am a
Protestant. But if you will pray with me, do so; if you will give me
your blessing, I shall thankfully accept it, for a dying man always
likes to feel a blessing-hand on his forehead.”
The clock struck two, and now the drums commenced rolling, and the
death-knell resounded from the church-steeple. An awful silence reigned
in the whole city of Braunau. All the houses were closed; all the
windows were covered.
Nobody wanted to witness the dreadful spectacle which the despotism of
the foreign tyrant was preparing for the citizens of Braunau. The women
and children had returned to their houses, and were kneeling and praying
in their darkened rooms. The men concealed themselves in order not to
show their shame and rage.
Nobody was, therefore, on the street when the terrible procession
approached. A miserable cart rumbled along in the midst of soldiers and
gens-d’armes, Palm was seated in this cart, backward, and his hands tied
on his back; opposite him sat the priest, holding the crucifix in his
hand and muttering prayers.
The German inhabitants of Braunau had done well to close their doors and
cover their windows, for the disgrace and humiliation of Germany were at
this hour rumbling through their streets.
But not all of them had been so happy as to be permitted to stay at
home. The will of the foreign despot had forbidden it, and the members
of the municipality and other authorities, in their full official robes,
had repaired to the place of execution.
There they stood, dumb with shame, astonishment, and horror, with
downcast eyes, like slaves passing under the yoke.
About a hundred spectators stood behind them, but not persons to whom
executions are merely a piquant spectacle, a rare amusement, but men
with sombre, angry eyes--men who had come to swear secretly in their
hearts, on this spot where the last remnant of German honor was to bleed
to death, a terrible oath of vengeance to the foreign despot. The blood
of the martyr was to stir up their enthusiasm for the long-deferred,
sacred deed of atonement.
Palm had alighted from the cart, and walked with rapid, resolute steps
to the spot which was indicated to him, and behind which an open grave
was yawning.
Refusing the assistance of the provost, he himself took off his coat and
threw it into the open grave. He then turned his eyes to the side where
the authorities of Braunau and his German brethren were standing.
“Friends,” he said, aloud, “may my death be a blessing to you; may my
blood not be shed in vain, but make you--”
A loud roll of the drum drowned his words.
The general waved his hand; six guns were discharged.
Palm sank to the ground, but he rose again. Only one bullet had struck
him; the blood was gushing from his heart, but he still lived.
Another file of soldiers stepped forward, and once more six guns were
discharged at him.
But the soldiers, who were accustomed to aim steadily in battle, had
here, where they were to be executioners, averted their eyes, and their
hands, which never had trembled in battle, were trembling now.
Palm rose again from the ground, a panting, bleeding victim, and seemed,
with his uplifted and blood-stained hands, to implore Heaven to avenge
him on his murderers.
A third volley resounded.
This time Palm did not rise again. He was dead! God had received his
soul. His bleeding remains lay on the German soil, as if to fertilize it
for the day of retribution.