THE EXECUTION.
Jeanne waited for her counsel to come and announce her fate; but, being
now at ease, said to herself, “What do I care that I am thought more
guilty than M. de Rohan? I am banished—that is to say, I can carry away
my million and a half with me, and live under the orange trees of
Seville during the winter, and in Germany or England in the summer.
Then I can tell my own story, and, young, rich, and celebrated, live as
I please among my friends.”
Pleasing herself with these notions, she commenced settling all her
future plans, the disposal of her diamonds, and her establishment in
London. This brought to her mind M. Reteau. “Poor fellow!” thought she,
“it is he who pays for all; some one must suffer, and it always falls
on the humblest instrument. Poor Reteau pays now for his pamphlets
against the queen; he has led a hard life of blows and escapes, and now
it terminates with the galleys.” She dined with M. and Madame Hubert,
and was quite gay; but they did not respond, and were silent and
uneasy. Jeanne, however, felt so happy that she cared little for their
manner towards her. After dinner, she asked when they were coming to
read her sentence.
M. Hubert said they were probably waiting till she returned to her
room. She therefore rose to go, when Madame Hubert ran to her and took
her hands, looking at her with an expression of so much pity and
sympathy, that it struck her for a moment with terror. She was about to
question her, but Hubert took her hand, and led her from the room. When
she reached her own apartment, she found eight soldiers waiting
outside; she felt surprised, but went in, and allowed the man to lock
her up as usual. Soon, however, the door opened again, and one of the
turnkeys appeared.
“Will madame please to follow me?” he said.
“Where?”
“Below.”
“What for? What do they want with me?”
“Madame, M. Viollet, your counsel, wishes to speak to you.”
“Why does he not come here?”
“Madame, he has received letters from Versailles, and wishes to show
them to you.”
“Letters from Versailles,” thought Jeanne; “perhaps the queen has
interested herself for me, since the sentence was passed. Wait a
little,” she said; “Till I arrange my dress.” In five minutes she was
ready. “Perhaps,” she thought, “M. Viollet has come to get me to leave
France at once, and the queen is anxious to facilitate the departure of
so dangerous an enemy.”
She followed the turnkey down-stairs, and they entered a room, which
looked like a vault; it was damp, and almost dark.
“Sir,” said she, trying to overcome her terror, “where is M. Viollet?”
The man did not reply.
“What do you want?” continued she; “have you anything to say to me? you
have chosen a very singular place for a rendezvous.”
“We are waiting for M. Viollet,” he replied.
“It is not possible that M. Viollet should wish for me to wait for him
here.” All at once, another door, which Jeanne had not before observed,
opened, and three men entered. Jeanne looked at them in surprise, and
with growing terror. One of them, who was dressed in black, with a roll
of papers in his hand, advanced, and said:
“You are Jeanne de St. Rémy de Valois, wife of Marie Antoine, Count de
la Motte?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Born at Fontette, on the 22d of July, 1756?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You live at Paris, Rue St. Claude?”
“Yes, sir; but why these questions?”
“Madame, I am the registrar of the court, and I am come to read to you
the sentence of the court of the 31st of May, 1786.”
Jeanne trembled again, and now looked at the other two men; one had a
gray dress with steel buttons, the other a fur cap on and an apron,
which seemed to her spotted with blood. She drew back, but the
registrar said, “On your knees, madame, if you please.”
“On my knees?” cried Jeanne; “I, a Valois!”
“It is the order, madame.”
“But, sir, it is an unheard-of thing, except where some degrading
sentence has been pronounced; and banishment is not such.”
“I did not tell you you were sentenced to banishment,” said he gravely.
“But to what, then?”
“I will tell you, madame, when you are on your knees.”
“Never!”
“Madame, I only follow my instructions.”
“Never! I tell you.”
“Madame, it is the order that when the condemned refuse to kneel, they
should be forced to do it.”
“Force—to a woman!”
“There is no distinction in the eyes of justice.”
“Ah!” cried Jeanne, “this is the queen’s doings; I recognize the hands
of an enemy.”
“You are wrong to accuse the queen; she has nothing to do with the
orders of the court. Come, madame, I beg you to spare me the necessity
of violence, and kneel down.”
“Never!” and she planted herself firmly in a corner of the room.
The registrar then signed to the two other men, who, approaching,
seized her, and in spite of her cries dragged her into the middle of
the room. But she bounded up again.
“Let me stand,” said she, “and I will listen patiently.”
“Madame, whenever criminals are punished by whipping, they kneel to
receive the sentence.”
“Whipping!” screamed Jeanne; “miserable wretch, how dare you——”
The men forced her on her knees once more, and held her down, but she
struggled so furiously that they called out, “Read quickly, monsieur,
for we cannot hold her.”
“I will never hear such an infamous sentence,” she cried; and indeed
she drowned his voice so effectually with her screams, that although he
read, not a word could be heard.
He replaced his papers in his pocket, and she, thinking he had
finished, stopped her cries. Then he said, “And the sentence shall be
executed at the place of executions, Cour de Justice.”
“Publicly!” screamed she.
“Monsieur de Paris, I deliver you this woman,” said the registrar,
addressing the man with the leathern apron.
“Who is this man?” cried Jeanne, in a fright.
“The executioner,” replied the registrar.
The two men then took hold of her to lead her out, but her resistance
was so violent that they were obliged to drag her along by force, and
she never ceased uttering the most frantic cries. They took her thus
into the court called Cour de Justice, where there was a scaffold and
which was crowded with spectators. On a platform, raised about eight
feet, was a post garnished with iron rings, and with a ladder to mount
to it. This place was surrounded with soldiers. When she appeared,
cries of “Here she is!” mingled with much abuse, were heard from the
crowd. Numbers of the partisans of M. de Rohan had assembled to hoot
her, and cries of “A bas la Motte, the forger!” were heard on every
side, and those who tried to express pity for her were soon silenced.
Then she cried in a loud voice, “Do you know who I am? I am of the
blood of your kings. They strike in me, not a criminal, but a rival;
not only a rival, but an accomplice. Yes,” repeated she, as the people
kept silence to listen, “an accomplice. They punish one who knows the
secrets of——”
“Take care,” interrupted the registrar.
She turned and saw the executioner with the whip in his hand. At this
sight she forgot her desire to captivate the multitude, and even her
hatred, and sinking on her knees she said, “Have pity!” and seized his
hand; but he raised the other, and let the whip fall lightly on her
shoulders. She jumped up, and was about to try and throw herself off
the scaffold, when she saw the other man, who was drawing from a fire a
hot iron. At this sight she uttered a perfect howl, which was echoed by
the people.
“Help! help!” she cried, trying to shake off the cord with which they
were tying her hands. The executioner at last forced her on her knees,
and tore open her dress; but she cried, with a voice which was heard
through all the tumult, “Cowardly Frenchmen! you do not defend me, but
let me be tortured; oh! it is my own fault. If I had said all I knew of
the queen I should have been——”
She could say no more, for she was gagged by the attendants: then two
men held her, while the executioner performed his office. At the touch
of the iron she fainted, and was carried back insensible to the
Conciergerie when the crowd gradually dispersed.