It is a very common subject of remark in newspapers, and as invariably
repeated with astonishment by the readers, how well and soundly such
a criminal slept on the night before his execution. It reads like a
wonderful evidence of composure, or some not less surprising proof of
apathy or indifference. I really believe it has as little relation to
one feeling as to the other, and is simply the natural consequence of
faculties overstrained, and a brain surcharged with blood; sleep being
induced by causes purely physical in their nature. For myself, I can say
that I was by no means indifferent to life, nor had I any contempt for
the form of death that awaited me. As localities which have failed to
inspire a strong attachment become endowed with a certain degree of
interest when we are about to part from them for ever, I never held
life so desirable as now that I was going to leave it; and yet, with all
this, I fell into a sleep so heavy and profound, that I never awoke
till late in the evening. Twice was I shaken by the shoulder ere I could
throw off the heavy weight of slumber; and even when I looked up, and
saw the armed figures around me, I could have lain down once more and
composed myself to another sleep.
The first thing which thoroughly aroused me, and at once brightened up
my slumbering senses, was missing my jacket, for which I searched every
corner of my cell, forgetting that it had been taken away, as the
nature of my sentence was declared _infamante_. The next shock was still
greater, when two sapeurs came forward to tie my wrists together behind
my back; I neither spoke nor resisted, but in silent submission complied
with each order given me.
All preliminaries being completed, I was led forward, preceded by a
pioneer, and guarded on either side by two sapeurs of ‘the guard’; a
muffled drum, ten paces in advance, keeping up a low monotonous rumble
as we went.
Our way led along the ramparts, beside which ran a row of little
gardens, in which the children of the officers were at play. They ceased
their childish gambols as we drew near, and came closer up to watch us.
I could mark the terror and pity in their little faces as they gazed at
me; I could see the traits of compassion with which they pointed me out
to each other, and my heart swelled with gratitude for even so slight
a sympathy. It was with difficulty I could restrain the emotion of that
moment, but with a great effort I did subdue it, and marched on, to all
seeming, unmoved. A little farther on, as we turned the angle of the
wall, I looked back to catch one last look at them. Would that I had
never done so! They had quitted the railings, and were now standing in
a group, in the act of performing a mimic execution. One, without his
jacket, was kneeling on the grass. But I could not bear the sight, and
in scornful anger I closed my eyes, and saw no more.
A low whispering conversation was kept up by the soldiers around me.
They were grumbling at the long distance they had to march, as the
‘affair’ might just as well have taken place on the glacis as two miles
away. How different were my feelings--how dear to me was now every
minute, every second of existence; how my heart leaped at each turn of
the way, as I still saw a space to traverse and some little interval
longer to live!
‘And mayhap after all,’ muttered one dark-faced fellow, ‘we shall have
come all this way for nothing. There can be no fusillade without the
general’s signature, so I heard the adjutant say; and who’s to promise
that he ‘ll be at his quarters?’
‘Very true,’ said another; ‘he may be absent, or at table.’
‘At table!’ cried two or three together; ‘and what if he were?’
‘If he be,’ rejoined the former speaker, ‘we may go back again for our
pains! I ought to know him well; I was his orderly for eight months,
when I served in the “Légers,” and can tell you, my lads, I wouldn’t be
the officer who would bring him a report or a return to sign when once
he had opened out his napkin on his knee; and it’s not very far from his
dinner-hour now.’
What a sudden thrill of hope ran through me! Perhaps I should be spared
for another day.
‘No, no we’re all in time,’ exclaimed the sergeant; ‘I can see the
general’s tent from this; and there he stands, with all his staff around
him.’
‘Yes; and there go the other escorts--they will be up before us if we
don’t make haste; quick-time, lads. Come along, _mon cher,_’ said he,
addressing me--‘thou’rt not tired, I hope?’
‘Not tired!’ replied I; ‘but remember, sergeant, what a long journey I
have before me.’
‘_Pardi!_ I don’t believe all that rhodomontade about another world,’
said he gruffly; ‘the Republic settled that question.’
I made no reply, for such words, at such a moment, were the most
terrible of tortures to me. And now we moved on at a brisker pace, and
crossing a little wooden bridge, entered a kind of esplanade of closely
shaven turf, at one corner of which stood the capacious tent of the
Commander-in-chief, for such, in Moreau’s absence, was General Berthier.
Numbers of staff-officers were riding about on duty, and a large
travelling-carriage, from which the horses seemed recently detached,
stood before the tent.
We halted as we crossed the bridge, while the adjutant advanced to
obtain the signature to the sentence. My eyes followed him till they
swam with rising tears, and I could not wipe them away, as my hands were
fettered. How rapidly did my thoughts travel during those few moments.
The good old Père Michel came back to me in memory, and I tried to think
of the consolation his presence would have afforded me; but I could do
no more than think of them.
‘Which is the prisoner Tiernay?’ cried a young aide-decamp, cantering up
to where I was standing.
‘Here, sir,’ replied the sergeant, pushing me forward.
‘So,’ rejoined the officer angrily, ‘this fellow has been writing
letters, it would seem, reflecting upon the justice of his sentence, and
arraigning the conduct of his judges. Your epistolary tastes are like to
cost you dearly, my lad; it had been better for you if writing had been
omitted in your education. Reconduct the others, sergeant, they are
respited; this fellow alone is to undergo his sentence.’
The other two prisoners gave a short and simultaneous cry of joy as they
fell back, and I stood alone in front of the escort.
‘_Parbleu!_ he has forgotten the signature,’ said the adjutant, casting
his eye over the paper: ‘he was chattering and laughing all the time,
with the pen in his hand, and I suppose fancied that he had signed it.’
‘Nathalie was there, perhaps,’ said the aide-de-camp significantly.
‘She was, and I never saw her looking better. It’s something like eight
years since I saw her last; and I vow she seems not only handsomer but
fresher, and more youthful, to-day than then.’
‘Where is she going?--have you heard?’
‘Who can tell? Her passport is like a firman--she may travel where she
pleases. The rumour of the day says Italy.’
‘I thought she looked provoked at Moreau’s absence; it seemed like want
of attention on his part, a lack of courtesy she’s not used to.’
‘Very true; and her reception of Berthier was anything but gracious,
although he certainly displayed all his civilities in her behalf.’
‘Strange days we live in!’ sighed the other; ‘when a man’s promotion
hangs upon the favourable word of a----’
‘Hush!--take care!--be cautious!’ whispered the other. ‘Let us not
forget this poor fellow’s business. How are you to settle it? Is the
signature of any consequence? The whole sentence is all right and
regular.’
‘I shouldn’t like to omit the signature,’ said the other cautiously; ‘it
looks like carelessness, and might involve us in trouble hereafter.’
‘Then we must wait some time, for I see they are gone to dinner.’
‘So I perceive,’ replied the former, as he lighted his cigar, and seated
himself on a bank. ‘You may let the prisoner sit down, sergeant, and
leave his hands free; he looks wearied and exhausted.’
I was too weak to speak, but I looked my gratitude; and sitting down
upon the grass, covered my face and wept heartily.
Although quite close to where the officers sat together chatting and
jesting, I heard little or nothing of what they said. Already the things
of life had ceased to have any hold upon me; and I could have heard of
the greatest victory, or listened to a story of the most fatal defeat,
without the slightest interest or emotion. An occasional word or a name
would strike upon my ear, but leave no impression nor any memory behind
it.
The military band was performing various marches and opera airs before
the tent where the general dined, and in the melody, softened by
distance, I felt a kind of calm and sleepy repose that lulled me into a
species of ecstasy.
At last the music ceased to play, and the adjutant, starting hurriedly
up, called on the sergeant to move forward.
‘By Jove!’ cried he, ‘they seem preparing for a promenade, and we shall
get into a scrape if Berthier sees us here. Keep your party yonder,
sergeant, out of sight, till I obtain the signature.’
And so saying, away he went towards the tent at a sharp gallop.
A few seconds, and I watched him crossing the esplanade; he dismounted
and disappeared. A terrible choking sensation was over me, and I
scarcely was conscious that they were again tying my hands. The adjutant
came out again, and made a sign with his sword.
‘We are to move on!’ said the sergeant, half in doubt.
‘Not at all,’ broke in the aide-de-camp; ‘he is making a sign for you
to bring up the prisoner! There, he is repeating the signal--lead him
forward.’
I knew very little of how--less still of why--but we moved on in the
direction of the tent, and in a few minutes stood before it. The
sounds of revelry and laughter--the hum of voices, and the clink of
glasses-together with the hoarse bray of a brass band, which again
struck up--all were commingled in my brain, as, taking me by the arm, I
was led forward within the tent, and found myself at the foot of a table
covered with all the gorgeousness of silver plate, and glowing with
bouquets of flowers and fruits. In the one hasty glance I gave, before
my lids fell over my swimming eyes, I could see the splendid uniforms of
the guests as they sat around the board, and the magnificent costume of
a lady in the place of honour next the head.
Several of those who sat at the lower end of the table drew back their
seats as I came forward, and seemed as if desirous to give the general a
better view of me.
Overwhelmed by the misery of my fate, as I stood awaiting my death, I
felt as though a mere word, a look, would have crushed me but one moment
back; but now, as I stood there before that group of gazers, whose
eyes scanned me with looks of insolent disdain, or still more insulting
curiosity, a sense of proud defiance seized me, to confront and dare
them with glances haughty and scornful as their own. It seemed to me so
base and unworthy a part to summon a poor wretch before them, as if to
whet their new appetite for enjoyment by the aspect of his misery, that
an indignant anger took possession of me, and I drew myself up to my
full height, and stared at them calm and steadily.
‘So, then!’ cried a deep soldierlike voice from the far end of the
table, which I at once recognised as the general-in-chief s--‘so, then,
gentlemen, we have now the honour of seeing amongst us the hero of the
Rhine! This is the distinguished individual by whose prowess the passage
of the river was effected, and the Swabian infantry cut off in their
retreat! Is it not true, sir?’ said he, addressing me with a savage
scowl.
‘I have had my share in the achievement,’ said I, with the cool air of
defiance.
‘_Parbleu!_ you are modest, sir. So had every drummer-boy that beat his
tattoo! But yours was the part of a great leader, if I err not?’
I made no answer, but stood firm and unmoved.
‘How do you call the island which you have immortalised by your valour?’
‘The Fels Insel, sir.’
[Illustration: 190]
‘Gentlemen, let us drink to the hero of the Fels Insel,’ said he,
holding up his glass for the servant to fill it. ‘A bumper--a full, a
flowing bumper! And let him also pledge a toast in which his interest
must be so brief. Give him a glass, Contard.’
The order was obeyed in a second; and I, summoning up all my courage to
seem as easy and indifferent as they were, lifted the glass to my lips,
and drained it off.
‘Another glass now to the health of this fair lady, through whose
intercession we owe the pleasure of your company,’ said the general.
‘Willingly,’ said I; ‘and may one so beautiful seldom find herself in a
society so unworthy of her!’
A perfect roar of laughter succeeded the insolence of this speech; amid
which I was half pushed, half dragged, up to the end of the table where
the general sat.
‘How so, _coquin_; do you dare to insult a French general at the head of
his own staff!’
‘If I did, sir, it were quite as brave as to mock a poor criminal on his
way to his execution!’
‘That is the boy!--I know him now!--the very same lad!’ cried the lady,
as, stooping behind Berthier’s chair, she stretched out her hand towards
me. ‘Come here; are you not Colonel Mahon’s godson?’
I looked her full in the face; and whether her own thoughts gave the
impulse, or that something in my stare suggested it, she blushed till
her cheeks grew crimson.
‘Poor Charles was so fond of him!’ whispered she in Berthier’s ear; and
as she spoke, the expression of her face at once recalled where I had
seen her, and I now perceived that she was the same person I had seen at
table with Colonel Mahon, and whom I believed to be his wife.
A low whispering conversation now ensued between the general and her, at
the close of which he turned to me and said--
‘Madame Merlancourt has deigned to take an interest in you--you are
pardoned. Remember, sir, to whom you owe your life, and be grateful to
her for it.’
I took the hand she extended towards me, and pressed it to my lips.
‘Madame,’ said I, ‘there is but one favour more I would ask in this
world, and with it I could think myself happy.’
‘But can I grant it, _mon cher_?’ said she, smiling.
‘If I am to judge from the influence I have seen you wield, madame, here
and elsewhere, this petition will easily be accorded.’
A slight flush coloured the lady’s cheek, while that of the general
became dyed red with anger. I saw that I had committed some terrible
blunder, but how, or in what, I knew not.
‘Well, sir,’ said Madame Merlancourt, addressing me with a stately
coldness of manner, very different from her former tone, ‘let us hear
what you ask, for we are already taking up a vast deal of time that our
host would prefer devoting to his friends--what is it you wish?’
‘My discharge from a service, madame, where zeal and enthusiasm are
rewarded with infamy and disgrace; my freedom to be anything but a
French soldier.’
‘You are resolved, sir, that I am not to be proud of my protégé,’ said
she haughtily; ‘what words are these to speak in presence of a general
and his officers?’
‘I am bold, madame, as you say, but I am wronged.’
‘How so, sir--in what have you been injured?’ cried the general hastily,
‘except in the excessive condescension which has stimulated your
presumption. But we are really two indulgent in this long parley.
Madame, permit me to offer you some coffee under the trees. Contardo,
tell the band to follow us. Gentlemen, we expect the pleasure of your
society.’
And so’ saying, Berthier presented his arm to the lady, who swept
proudly past without deigning to notice me. In a few minutes the tent
was cleared of all, except the servants occupied in removing the remains
of the dessert, and I fell back, unremarked and unobserved, to take my
way homeward to the barracks, more indifferent to life than ever I had
been afraid of death.
As I am not likely to recur at any length to the somewhat famous person
to whom I owed my life, I may as well state that her name has since
occupied no inconsiderable share of attention in France, and her
history, under the title of _Mémoires d’une Contemporaine_, excited a
degree of interest and anxiety in quarters which one might have fancied
far above the reach of her revelations. At the time I speak of, I
little knew the character of the age in which such influences were
all powerful, nor how destinies very different from mine hung upon the
favouritism of ‘La belle Nathalie.’ Had I known these things, and, still
more, had I known the sad fate to which she brought my poor friend,
Colonel Mahon, I might have scrupled to accept my life at such hands,
or involved myself in a debt of gratitude to one for whom I was
subsequently to feel nothing but hatred and aversion. It was indeed
a terrible period, and in nothing more so than the fact that acts of
benevolence and charity were blended up with features of falsehood,
treachery, and baseness, which made one despair of humanity, and think
the very worst of their species.