CHIQUITA’S DECLARATION OF LOVE
A compact crowd filled the Place de Grève, despite the early hour
indicated by the clock of the Hôtel de Ville.
The tall buildings on the eastern side of the square threw their
shadows more than half-way across it, and upon a sinister-looking
wooden framework, which rose several feet above the heads of the
populace, and bore a number of ominous, dull red stains. At the windows
of the houses surrounding the crowded square, a few heads were to be
seen looking out from time to time, but quickly drawn back again as
they perceived that the interesting performance, for which all were
waiting, had not yet begun. Clinging to the transverse piece of the
tall stone cross, which stood at that side of the open square nearest
the river, was a forlorn, little, ragged boy, who had climbed up to it
with the greatest difficulty, and was holding on with all his might,
his arms clasped round the cross-piece and his legs round the upright,
in a most painful and precarious position. But nothing would have
induced him to abandon it, so long as he could possibly maintain
himself there, no matter at what cost of discomfort, or even actual
distress, for from it he had a capital view of the scaffold, and all
its horribly fascinating details—the wheel upon which the criminal was
to revolve, the coil of rope to bind him to it, and the heavy bar to
break his bones.
If any one among the anxious crowd of spectators, however, had
carefully studied the small, thin countenance of the child perched up
on the tall stone cross, he would have discovered that its expression
was by no means that of vulgar curiosity. It was not simply the fierce
attractions of an execution that had drawn thither this wild,
weird-looking young creature, with his sun-burned complexion, great,
flashing, dark eyes, brilliant white teeth, unkempt masses of thick,
black hair, and slender brown hands—which were convulsively clinging to
the rough, cold stone. The delicacy of the features would seem to
indicate a different sex from the dress—but nobody paid any attention
to the child, And all eyes were turned towards the scaffold, or the
direction from which the cart bearing the condemned criminal was to
come. Among the groups close around the scaffold were several faces we
have seen before; notably, the chalky countenance and fiery red nose of
Malartic, and the bold profile of Jacquemin Lampourde, also several of
the ruffians engaged in the abduction of Isabelle, as well as various
other _habitués_ of the Crowned Radish. The Place de Grève, to which
sooner or later they were all pretty sure to come and expiate their
crimes with their lives, seemed to exercise a singular fascination over
murderers, thieves, and criminals of all sorts, who invariably gathered
in force to witness an execution. They evidently could not resist it,
and appeared to find a fierce satisfaction in watching the terrible
spectacle that they themselves would some day probably furnish to the
gaping multitude. Then the victim himself always expected his friends’
attendance—he would be hurt and disappointed if his comrades did not
rally round him at the last. A criminal in that position likes to see
familiar faces in the throng that hems him in. It gives him courage,
steadies his nerves.
He cannot exhibit any signs of cowardice before those who appreciate
true merit and bravery, according to his way of thinking, and pride
comes to his aid. A man will meet death like a Roman under such
circumstances, who would be weak as a woman if he were despatched in
private.
The criminal to be executed on that occasion was a thief, already
notorious in Paris for his daring and dexterity, though he had only
been there a few months. But, unfortunately for himself—though very
much the reverse for the well-to-do citizens of the capital in
general—he had not confined himself to his legitimate business. In his
last enterprise—breaking into a private dwelling to gain possession of
a large sum of money that was to be kept there for a single night—he
had killed the master of the house, who was aroused by his entrance;
and, not content to stop there, had also brutally murdered his wife, as
she lay quietly sleeping in her bed—like a tiger, that has tasted blood
and is wild for more. So atrocious a crime had roused the indignation
of even his own unscrupulous, hardened companions, and it was not long
ere his hiding-place was mysteriously revealed, and he was arrested,
tried, and condemned to death. Now he was to pay the penalty of his
guilt.
As the fatal hour approached, a carriage drove down along the quay,
turned into the Place de Grève, and attempted to cross it; but,
becoming immediately entangled in the crowd, could make little or no
progress, despite the utmost exertions of the majestic coachman and
attendant lackeys to induce the people to make way for it, and let it
pass.
But for the grand coat of arms and ducal coronet emblazoned on the
panels, which inspired a certain awe as well as respect in the motley
throng of pedestrians, the equipage would undoubtedly have been roughly
dealt with-but as it was, they contented themselves with resolutely and
obstinately barring its passage, after it had reached the middle of the
square. The indignant coachman did not dare to urge his spirited horses
forward at all hazards, ruthlessly trampling down the unlucky
individuals who happened to be directly in his way, as he would
certainly have done in any ordinary crowd, for the _canaille_, that
filled the Place de Grève to overflowing, was out in too great force to
be trifled with—so there was nothing for it but patience.
“These rascals are waiting for an execution, and will not stir, nor let
us stir, until it is over,” said a remarkably handsome young man,
magnificently dressed, to his equally fine looking, though more
modestly attired friend, who was seated beside him in the luxurious
carriage. “The devil take the unlucky dog who must needs be broken on
the wheel just when we want to cross the Place de Grève. Why couldn’t
he have put it off until to-morrow morning, I should like to know!”
“You may be sure that the poor wretch would be only too glad to do so
if he could,” answered the other, “for the occasion is a far more
serious matter to him than to us.”
“The best thing we can do under the circumstances, my dear de Sigognac,
is to turn our heads away if the spectacle is too revolting—though it
is by no means easy, when something horrible is taking place close at
hand. Even Saint Augustine opened his eyes in the arena at a loud cheer
from the people, though he had vowed to himself beforehand to keep them
closed.”
“At all events, we shall not be detained here long,” rejoined de
Sigognac, “for there comes the prisoner. See, Vallombreuse, how the
crowd gives way before him, though it will not let us move an inch.”
A rickety cart, drawn by a miserable old skeleton of a horse, and
surrounded by mounted guards, was slowly advancing through the dense
throng towards the scaffold. In it were a venerable priest, with a long
white beard, who was holding a crucifix to the lips of the condemned
man, seated beside him, the executioner, placed behind his victim, and
holding the end of the rope that bound him, and an assistant, who was
driving the poor old horse. The criminal, whom every one turned to gaze
at, was no other than our old acquaintance, Agostino, the brigand.
“Why, what is this!” cried de Sigognac, in great surprise. “I know that
man—he is the fellow who stopped us on the highway, and tried to
frighten us with his band of scarecrows, as poor Matamore called them.
I told you all about it when we came by the place where it happened.”
“Yes, I remember perfectly,” said Vallombreuse; “it was a capital
story, and I had a good laugh over it. But it would seem that the
ingenious rascal has been up to something more serious since then—his
ambition has probably been his ruin. He certainly is no coward—only
look what a good face he puts on it.”
Agostino, holding his head proudly erect, but a trifle paler than usual
perhaps, seemed to be searching for some one in the crowd. When the
cart passed slowly in front of the stone cross, he caught sight of the
little boy, who had not budged from his excessively uncomfortable and
wearisome position, and a flash of joy shone in the brigand’s eyes, a
slight smile parted his lips, as he made an almost imperceptible sign
with his head, and said, in a low tone, “Chiquita!”
“My son, what was that strange word you spoke?” asked the priest. “It
sounded like an outlandish woman’s name. Dismiss all such subjects from
your mind, and fix your thoughts on your own hopes of salvation, for
you stand on the threshold of eternity.”
“Yes, my father, I know it but too well, and though my hair is black
and my form erect, whilst you are bowed with age, and your long beard
is white as snow, you are younger now than I—every turn of the wheels,
towards that scaffold yonder, ages me by ten years.”
During this brief colloquy the cart had made steady progress, and in a
moment more had stopped at the foot of the rude wooden steps that led
up to the scaffold, which Agostino ascended slowly but
unfalteringly—preceded by the assistant, supported by the priest, and
followed by the executioner. In less than a minute he was firmly bound
upon the wheel, and the executioner, having thrown off his showy
scarlet cloak, braided with white, and rolled up his sleeves, stooped
to pick up the terrible bar that lay at his feet. It was a moment of
intense horror and excitement. An anxious curiosity, largely mixed with
dread, oppressed the hearts of the spectators, who stood motionless,
breathless, with pale faces, and straining eyes fixed upon the tragic
group on the fatal scaffold. Suddenly a strange stir ran through the
crowd—the child, who was perched up on the cross, had slipped quickly
down to the ground, and gliding like a serpent through the closely
packed throng, reached the scaffold, cleared the steps at a bound, and
appeared beside the astonished executioner, who was just in the act of
raising the ponderous bar to strike, with such a wild, ghastly, yet
inspired and noble countenance—lighted up by a strength of will and
purpose that made it actually sublime—that the grim dealer of death
paused involuntarily, and withheld the murderous blow about to fall.
“Get out of my way, thou puppet!” he roared in angry tones, as he
recovered his _sang-froid_, “or thou wilt get thy accursed head
smashed.”
But Chiquita paid no attention to him—she did not care whether she was
killed too, or not. Bending over Agostino, she passionately kissed his
forehead, whispered “I love thee!”—and then, with a blow as swift as
lightning, plunged into his heart the knife she had reclaimed from
Isabelle. It was dealt with so firm a hand, and unerring an aim, that
death was almost instantaneous—scarcely had Agostino time to murmur
“Thanks.”
With a wild burst of hysterical laughter the child sprang down from the
scaffold, while the executioner, stupefied at her bold deed, lowered
his now useless club; uncertain whether or not he should proceed to
break the bones of the man already dead, and beyond his power to
torture.
“Well done, Chiquita, well done, and bravely!” cried Malartic—who had
recognised her in spite of her boy’s clothes—losing his self-restraint
in his admiration. The other ruffians, who had seen Chiquita at the
Crowned Radish, and wondered at and admired her courage when she stood
against the door and let Agostino fling his terrible _navaja_ at her
without moving a muscle, now grouped themselves closely together so as
to effectually prevent the soldiers from pursuing her. The fracas that
ensued gave Chiquita time to reach the carriage of the Duke of
Vallombreuse—which, taking advantage of the stir and shifting in the
throng, was slowly making its way out of the Place de Grève. She
climbed up on the step, and catching sight of de Sigognac within,
appealed to him, in scarcely audible words, as she panted and
trembled—“I saved your Isabelle, now save me!”
Vallombreuse, who had been very much interested by this strange and
exciting scene, cried to the coachman, “Get on as fast as you can, even
if you have to drive over the people.”
But there was no need—the crowd opened as if by magic before the
carriage, and closed again compactly after it had passed, so that
Chiquita’s pursuers could not penetrate it, or make any progress—they
were completely baffled, whichever way they turned. Meanwhile the
fugitive was being rapidly carried beyond their reach. As soon as the
open street was gained, the coachman had urged his horses forward, and
in a very few minutes they reached the Porte Saint Antoine. As the
report of what had occurred in the Place de Grève could not have
preceded them, Vallombreuse thought it better to proceed at a more
moderate pace—fearing that their very speed might arouse suspicion—and
gave orders accordingly; as soon as they were fairly beyond the gate he
took Chiquita into the carriage—where she seated herself, without a
word, opposite to de Sigognac. Under the calmest exterior she was
filled with a preternatural excitement—not a muscle of her face moved;
but a bright flush glowed on her usually pale cheeks, which gave to her
magnificent dark eyes—now fixed upon vacancy, and seeing nothing that
was before them—a marvellous brilliancy. A complete transformation had
taken place in Chiquita—this violent shock had torn asunder the
childish chrysalis in which the young maiden had lain dormant—as she
plunged her knife into Agostino’s heart she opened her own. Her love
was born of that murder—the strange, almost sexless being, half child,
half goblin, that she had been until then, existed no longer—Chiquita
was a woman from the moment of that heroic act of sublime devotion. Her
passion, that had bloomed out in one instant, was destined to be
eternal—a kiss and a stab, that was Chiquita’s love story.
The carriage rolled smoothly and swiftly on its way towards
Vallombreuse, and when the high, steep roof of the château came in
sight the young duke said to de Sigognac, “You must go with me to my
room first, where you can get rid of the dust, and freshen up a bit
before I present you to my sister—who knows nothing whatever of my
journey, or its motive. I have prepared a surprise for her, and I want
it to be complete—so please draw down the curtain on your side, while I
do the same on mine, in order that we may not be seen, as we drive into
the court, from any of the windows that command a view of it. But what
are we to do with this little wretch here?”
Chiquita, who was roused from her deep reverie by the duke’s question,
looked gravely up at him, and said, “Let some one take me to Mlle.
Isabelle—she will decide what is to be done with me.”
With all the curtains carefully drawn down the carriage drove over the
drawbridge and into the court. Vallombreuse alighted, took de
Sigognac’s arm, and led him silently to his own apartment, after having
ordered a servant to conduct Chiquita to the presence of the Comtesse
de Lineuil. At sight of her Isabelle was greatly astonished, and,
laying down the book she was reading, fixed upon the poor child a look
full of interest, affection, and questioning.
Chiquita stood silent and motionless until the servant had retired,
then, with a strange solemnity, which was entirely new in her, she went
up to Isabelle, and timidly taking her hand, said:
“My knife is in Agostino’s heart. I have no master now, and I must
devote myself to somebody. Next to him who is dead I love you best of
all the world. You gave me the pearl necklace I wished for, and you
kissed me. Will you have me for your servant, your slave, your dog?
Only give me a black dress, so that I may wear mourning for my lost
love—it is all I ask. I will sleep on the floor outside your door, so
that I shall not be in your way. When you want me, whistle for me, like
this,”—and she whistled shrilly—“and I will come instantly. Will you
have me?”
In answer Isabelle drew Chiquita into her arms, pressed her lips to the
girl’s forehead warmly, and thankfully accepted this soul, that
dedicated itself to her.