In the citadel of Montaignac, within the second line of fortifications,
stands an old building known as the chapel.
Originally consecrated to worship, the structure had, at the time of
which we write, fallen into disuse. It was so damp that it would not
even serve as an arsenal for an artillery regiment, for the guns rusted
there more quickly than in the open air. A black mould covered the walls
to a height of six or seven feet.
This was the place selected by the Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de
Courtornieu for the assembling of the military commission.
On first entering it, Maurice and the abbe felt a cold chill strike
to their very hearts; and an indefinable anxiety paralyzed all their
faculties.
But the commission had not yet commenced its _seance_; and they had time
to look about them.
The arrangements which had been made in transforming this gloomy hall
into a tribunal, attested the precipitancy of the judges and their
determination to finish their work promptly and mercilessly.
The arrangements denoted an absence of all form; and one could divine at
once the frightful certainty of the result.
Three large tables taken from the mess-room, and covered with
horse-blankets instead of tapestry, stood upon the platform. Some
unpainted wooden chairs awaited the judges; but in the centre glittered
the president’s chair, a superbly carved and gilded fauteuil, sent by
the Duc de Sairmeuse.
Several wooden benches had been provided for the prisoners.
Ropes stretched from one wall to the other divided the chapel into two
parts. It was a precaution against the public.
A superfluous precaution, alas!
The abbe and Maurice had expected to find the crowd too great for the
hall, large as it was, and they found the chapel almost unoccupied.
There were not twenty persons in the building. Standing back in the
shadow of the wall were perhaps a dozen men, pale and gloomy, a sullen
fire smouldering in their eyes, their teeth tightly clinched. They were
army officers retired on half pay. Three men, attired in black, were
conversing in low tones near the door. In a corner stood several
country-women with their aprons over their faces. They were weeping
bitterly, and their sobs alone broke the silence. They were the mothers,
wives, or daughters of the accused men.
Nine o’clock sounded. The rolling of the drum made the panes of the
only window tremble. A loud voice outside shouted, “Present arms!” The
military commission entered, followed by the Marquis de Courtornieu and
several civil functionaries.
The duke was in full uniform, his face a little more crimson, and his
air a trifle more haughty than usual.
“The session is open!” pronounced the Duc de Sairmeuse, the president.
Then, in a rough voice, he added:
“Bring in the culprits.”
He had not even the grace to say “the accused.”
They came in, one by one, to the number of twenty, and took their places
on the benches at the foot of the platform.
Chanlouineau held his head proudly erect, and looked composedly about
him.
Baron d’Escorval was calm and grave; but not more so than when, in days
gone by, he had been called upon to express his opinion in the councils
of the Empire.
Both saw Maurice, who was so overcome that he had to lean upon the abbe
for support. But while the baron greeted his son with a simple bend of
the head, Chanlouineau made a gesture that clearly signified:
“Have confidence in me--fear nothing.”
The attitude of the other prisoners betrayed surprise rather than fear.
Perhaps they were unconscious of the peril they had braved, and the
extent of the danger that now threatened them.
When the prisoners had taken their places, the chief counsel for the
prosecution rose.
His presentation of the case was characterized by intense violence, but
lasted only five minutes. He briefly narrated the facts, exalted the
merits of the government, of the Restoration, and concluded by a demand
that sentence of death should be pronounced upon the culprits.
When he ceased speaking, the duke, addressing the first prisoner upon
the bench, said, rudely:
“Stand up.”
The prisoner rose.
“Your name and age?”
“Eugene Michel Chanlouineau, aged twenty-nine, farmer by occupation.”
“An owner of national lands, probably?”
“The owner of lands which, having been paid for with good money and made
fertile by labor, are rightfully mine.”
The duke did not wish to waste time on discussion.
“You have taken part in this rebellion?” he pursued.
“Yes.”
“You are right in avowing it, for witnesses will be introduced who will
prove this fact conclusively.”
Five grenadiers entered; they were the men whom Chanlouineau had held at
bay while Maurice, the abbe, and Marie-Anne were entering the carriage.
These soldiers declared upon oath that they recognized the accused; and
one of them even went so far as to pronounce a glowing eulogium upon
him, declaring him to be a solid fellow, of remarkable courage.
Chanlouineau’s eyes during this deposition betrayed an agony of anxiety.
Would the soldiers allude to this circumstance of the carriage? No; they
did not allude to it.
“That is sufficient,” interrupted the president.
Then turning to Chanlouineau:
“What were your motives?” he inquired.
“We hoped to free ourselves from a government imposed upon us by
foreigners; to free ourselves from the insolence of the nobility, and to
retain the lands that were justly ours.”
“Enough! You were one of the leaders of the revolt?”
“One of the leaders--yes.”
“Who were the others?”
A faint smile flitted over the lips of the young farmer, as he replied:
“The others were Monsieur Lacheneur, his son Jean, and the Marquis de
Sairmeuse.”
The duke bounded from his gilded arm-chair.
“Wretch!” he exclaimed, “rascal! vile scoundrel!”
He caught up a heavy inkstand that stood upon the table before him: and
one would have supposed that he was about to hurl it at the prisoner’s
head.
Chanlouineau stood perfectly unmoved in the midst of the assembly, which
was excited to the highest pitch by his startling declaration.
“You questioned me,” he resumed, “and I replied. You may gag me if my
responses do not please you. If there were witnesses _for_ me as there
are against me, I could prove the truth of my words. As it is, all the
prisoners here will tell you that I am speaking the truth. Is it not so,
you others?”
With the exception of Baron d’Escorval, there was not one prisoner
who was capable of understanding the real bearing of these audacious
allegations; but all, nevertheless, nodded their assent.
“The Marquis de Sairmeuse was so truly our leader,” exclaimed the daring
peasant, “that he was wounded by a sabre-thrust while fighting by my
side.”
The face of the duke was more purple than that of a man struck with
apoplexy; and his fury almost deprived him of the power of speech.
“You lie, scoundrel! you lie!” he gasped.
“Send for the marquis,” said Chanlouineau, tranquilly, “and see whether
or not he is wounded.”
A refusal on the part of the duke could not fail to arouse suspicion.
But what could he do? Martial had concealed his wound the day before; it
was now impossible to confess that he had been wounded.
Fortunately for the duke, one of the judges relieved him of his
embarrassment.
“I hope, Monsieur, that you will not give this arrogant rebel the
satisfaction he desires. The commission opposes his demand.”
Chanlouineau laughed loudly.
“Very naturally,” he exclaimed. “To-morrow my head will be off, and
you think nothing will then remain to prove what I say. I have another
proof, fortunately--material and indestructible proof--which it is
beyond your power to destroy, and which will speak when my body is six
feet under ground.”
“What is the proof?” demanded another judge, upon whom the duke looked
askance.
The prisoner shook his head.
“I will give it to you when you offer me my life in exchange for it,”
he replied. “It is now in the hands of a trusty person, who knows its
value. It will go to the King if necessary. We would like to
understand the part which the Marquis de Sairmeuse has played in
this affair--whether he was truly with us, or whether he was only an
instigating agent.”
A tribunal regardful of the immutable rules of justice, or even of its
own honor, would, by virtue of its discretionary powers, have instantly
demanded the presence of the Marquis de Sairmeuse.
But the military commission considered such a course quite beneath its
dignity.
These men arrayed in gorgeous uniforms were not judges charged with the
vindication of a cruel law, but still a law--they were the instruments,
commissioned by the conquerors, to strike the vanquished in the name of
that savage code which may be summed up in two words: “_vae victis_.”
The president, the noble Duc de Sairmeuse, would not have consented to
summon Martial on any consideration. Nor did his associate judges wish
him to do so.
Had Chanlouineau foreseen this? Probably. Yet, why had he ventured so
hazardous a blow?
The tribunal, after a short deliberation, decided that it would not
admit this testimony which had so excited the audience, and stupefied
Maurice and Abbe Midon.
The examination was continued, therefore, with increased bitterness.
“Instead of designating imaginary leaders,” resumed the duke, “you would
do well to name the real instigator of this revolt--not Lacheneur,
but an individual seated upon the other end of the bench, the elder
d’Escorval----”
“Monsieur le Baron d’Escorval was entirely ignorant of the conspiracy, I
swear it by all that I hold most sacred----”
“Hold your tongue!” interrupted the counsel for the prosecution.
“Instead of wearying the patience of the commission by such ridiculous
stories, try to merit its indulgence.”
Chanlouineau’s glance and gesture expressed such disdain that the man
who interrupted him was abashed.
“I wish no indulgence,” he said. “I have played, I have lost; here is
my head. But if you were not more cruel than wild beasts you would take
pity on the poor wretches who surround me. I see at least ten among them
who were not our accomplices, and who certainly did not take up arms.
Even the others did not know what they were doing. No, they did not!”
Having spoken, he resumed his seat, proud, indifferent, and apparently
oblivious to the murmur which ran through the audience, the soldiers of
the guard and even to the platform, at the sound of his vibrant voice.
The despair of the poor peasant women had been reawakened, and their
sobs and moans filled the immense hall.
The retired officers had grown even more pale and gloomy; and tears
streamed down the wrinkled cheeks of several.
“That one is a man!” they were thinking.
The abbe leaned over and whispered in the ear of Maurice:
“Evidently Chanlouineau has some plan. He intends to save your father.
How, I cannot understand.”
The judges were conversing in low tones with considerable animation.
A difficulty had presented itself.
The prisoners, ignorant of the charges which would be brought against
them, and not expecting instant trial, had not thought of procuring a
defender.
And this circumstance, bitter mockery! frightened this iniquitous
tribunal, which did not fear to trample beneath its feet the most sacred
rules of justice.
The judges had decided; their verdict was, as it were, rendered in
advance, and yet they wished to hear a voice raised in defence of those
who were already doomed.
It chanced that three lawyers, retained by the friends of several of the
prisoners, were in the hall.
They were the three men that Maurice, on his entrance, had noticed
conversing near the door of the chapel.
The duke was informed of this fact. He turned to them, and motioned them
to approach; then, pointing to Chanlouineau:
“Will you undertake this culprit’s defence?” he demanded.
For a moment the lawyers made no response. This monstrous _seance_ had
aroused a storm of indignation and disgust within their breasts, and
they looked questioningly at each other.
“We are all disposed to undertake the prisoner’s defence,” at last
replied the eldest of the three; “but we see him for the first time;
we are ignorant of his grounds of defence. We must ask a delay; it is
indispensable, in order to confer with him.”
“The court can grant you no delay,” interrupted M. de Sairmeuse; “will
you accept the defence, yes or no?”
The advocate hesitated, not that he was afraid, for he was a brave man:
but he was endeavoring to find some argument strong enough to trouble
the conscience of these judges.
“I will speak in his behalf,” said the advocate, at last, “but not
without first protesting with all my strength against these unheard-of
modes of procedure.”
“Oh! spare us your homilies, and be brief.”
After Chanlouineau’s examination, it was difficult to improvise there,
on the spur of the moment, a plea in his behalf. Still, his courageous
advocate, in his indignation, presented a score of arguments which would
have made any other tribunal reflect.
But all the while he was speaking the Duc de Sairmeuse fidgeted in his
gilded arm-chair with every sign of angry impatience.
“The plea was very long,” he remarked, when the lawyer had concluded,
“terribly long. We shall never get through with this business if each
prisoner takes up as much time!”
He turned to his colleagues as if to consult them, but suddenly changing
his mind he proposed to the prosecuting counsel that he should unite
all the cases, try all the culprits in a body, with the exception of the
elder d’Escorval.
“This will shorten our task, for, in case we adopt this course, there
will be but two judgments to be pronounced,” he said. “This will not, of
course, prevent each individual from defending himself.”
The lawyers protested against this. A judgment in a lump, like that
suggested by the duke, would destroy all hope of saving a single one of
these unfortunate men from the guillotine.
“How can we defend them,” the lawyers pleaded, “when we know nothing of
the situation of each of the prisoners? we do not even know their names.
We shall be obliged to designate them by the cut of their coats and by
the color of their hair.”
They implored the tribunal to grant them a week for preparation,
four days, even twenty-four hours. Futile efforts! The president’s
proposition was adopted.
Consequently, each prisoner was called to the desk according to the
place which he occupied upon the benches. Each man gave his name, his
age, his abode, and his profession, and received an order to return to
his place.
Six or seven prisoners were actually granted time to say that they were
absolutely ignorant of the conspiracy, and that they had been arrested
while conversing quietly upon the public highway. They begged to be
allowed to furnish proof of the truth of their assertions; they invoked
the testimony of the soldiers who had arrested them.
M. d’Escorval, whose case had been separated from the others, was not
summoned to the desk. He would be interrogated last.
“Now the counsel for the defence will be heard,” said the duke; “but
make haste; lose no time! It is already twelve o’clock.”
Then began a shameful, revolting, and unheard-of scene. The duke
interrupted the lawyers every other moment, bidding them be silent,
questioning them, or jeering at them.
“It seems incredible,” said he, “that anyone can think of defending such
wretches!”
Or again:
“Silence! You should blush with shame for having constituted yourself
the defender of such rascals!”
But the lawyers persevered even while they realized the utter
uselessness of their efforts. But what could they do under such
circumstances? The defence of these twenty-nine prisoners lasted only
one hour and a half.
Before the last word was fairly uttered, the Duc de Sairmeuse gave a
sigh of relief, and in a tone which betrayed his delight, said:
“Prisoner Escorval, stand up.”
Thus called upon, the baron rose, calm and dignified. Terrible as his
sufferings must have been, there was no trace of it upon his noble face.
He had even repressed the smile of disdain which the duke’s paltry
affection in not giving him the title which belonged to him, brought to
his lips.
But Chanlouineau sprang up at the same time, trembling with indignation,
his face all aglow with anger.
“Remain seated,” ordered the duke, “or you shall be removed from the
court-room.”
Chanlouineau, nevertheless, declared that he would speak; that he had
some remarks to add to the plea made by the defending counsel.
Upon a sign from the duke, two gendarmes approached and placed their
hands upon his shoulders. He allowed them to force him back into his
seat though he could easily have crushed them with one pressure of his
brawny arm.
An observer would have supposed that he was furious; secretly, he was
delighted. The aim he had had in view was now attained. In the glance he
cast upon the abbe, the latter could read:
“Whatever happens, watch over Maurice; restrain him. Do not allow him to
defeat my plans by any outbreak.”
This caution was not unnecessary. Maurice was terribly agitated; he
could not see, he felt that he was suffocating, that he was losing his
reason.
“Where is the self-control you promised me?” murmured the priest.
But no one observed the young man’s condition. The attention was rapt,
breathless. So profound was the silence that the measured tread of the
sentinels without could be distinctly heard.
Each person present felt that the decisive moment for which the tribunal
had reserved all its attention and efforts had come.
To convict and condemn the poor peasants, of whom no one would think
twice, was a mere trifle. But to bring low an illustrious man who had
been the counsellor and faithful friend of the Emperor! What glory, and
what an opportunity for the ambitious!
The instinct of the audience spoke the truth. If the tribunal had acted
informally in the case of the obscure conspirators, it had carefully
prepared its suit against the baron.
Thanks to the activity of the Marquis de Courtornieu, the prosecution
had found seven charges against the baron, the least grave of which was
punishable by death.
“Which of you,” demanded M. de Sairmeuse, “will consent to defend this
great culprit?”
“I!” exclaimed three advocates, in a breath.
“Take care,” said the duke, with a malicious smile; “the task is not
light.”
“Not light!” It would have been better to say dangerous. It would have
been better to say that the defender risked his career, his peace, and
his liberty; very probably, his life.
“Our profession has its exigencies,” nobly replied the oldest of the
advocates.
And the three courageously took their places beside the baron, thus
avenging the honor of their robe which had just been miserably sullied,
in a city where, among more than a hundred thousand souls, two pure and
innocent victims of a furious reaction had not--oh, shame!--been able to
find a defender.
“Prisoner,” resumed M. de Sairmeuse, “state your name and profession.”
“Louis Guillaume, Baron d’Escorval, Commander of the Order of the Legion
of Honor, formerly Councillor of State under the Empire.”
“So you avow these shameful services? You confess----”
“Pardon, Monsieur; I am proud of having had the honor of serving my
country, and of being useful to her in proportion to my ability----”
With a furious gesture the duke interrupted him.
“That is excellent!” he exclaimed. “These gentlemen, the commissioners,
will appreciate that. It was, undoubtedly, in the hope of regaining your
former position that you entered into a conspiracy against a magnanimous
prince with these vile wretches!”
“These peasants are not vile wretches, but misguided men, Monsieur.
Moreover, you know--yes, you know as well as I do myself--that I have
had no hand in this conspiracy.”
“You were arrested in the ranks of the conspirators with weapons in your
hands!”
“I was unarmed, Monsieur, as you are well aware; and if I was among
the peasantry, it was only because I hoped to induce them to relinquish
their senseless enterprise.”
“You lie!”
The baron paled beneath the insult, but he made no reply.
There was, however, one man in the assemblage who could no longer endure
this horrible and abominable injustice, and this man was Abbe Midon,
who, only a moment before, had advised Maurice to be calm.
He brusquely quitted his place, and advanced to the foot of the
platform.
“The Baron d’Escorval speaks the truth,” he cried, in a ringing voice;
“the three hundred prisoners in the citadel will swear to it; these
prisoners here would say the same if they stood upon the guillotine; and
I, who accompanied him, who walked beside him, I, a priest, swear before
the God who will judge all men, Monsieur de Sairmeuse, I swear that all
which it was in human power to do to arrest this movement we have done!”
The duke listened with an ironical smile.
“They did not deceive me, then, when they told me that this army of
rebels had a chaplain! Ah! Monsieur, you should sink to the earth with
shame. You, a priest, mingle with such scoundrels as these--with these
enemies of our good King and of our holy religion! Do not deny this!
Your haggard features, your swollen eyes, your disordered attire soiled
with dust and mud betray your guilt. Must I, a soldier, remind you of
what is due your sacred calling? Hold your peace, Monsieur, and depart!”
The counsel for the prisoner sprang up.
“We demand,” they cried, “that this witness be heard. He must be heard!
Military commissions are not above the laws that regulate ordinary
tribunals.”
“If I do not speak the truth,” resumed the abbe, “I am a perjured
witness, worse yet, an accomplice. It is your duty, in that case, to
have me arrested.”
The duke’s face expressed a hypocritical compassion.
“No, Monsieur le Cure,” said he, “I shall not arrest you. I would avert
the scandal which you are trying to cause. We will show your priestly
garb the respect the wearer does not deserve. Again, and for the last
time, retire, or I shall be obliged to employ force.”
What would further resistance avail? Nothing. The abbe, with a face
whiter than the plastered walls, and eyes filled with tears, came back
to his place beside Maurice.
The lawyers, meanwhile, were uttering their protests with increasing
energy. But the duke, by a prolonged hammering upon the table with his
fists, at last succeeded in reducing them to silence.
“Ah! you wish testimony!” he exclaimed. “Very well, you shall have it.
Soldiers, bring in the first witness.”
A movement among the guards, and almost immediately Chupin appeared.
He advanced deliberately, but his countenance betrayed him. A close
observer could have read his anxiety and his terror in his eyes, which
wandered restlessly about the room.
And there was a very appreciable terror in his voice when, with hand
uplifted, he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth.
“What do you know regarding the prisoner d’Escorval?” demanded the duke.
“I know that he took part in the rebellion on the night of the fourth.”
“Are you sure of this?”
“I can furnish proofs.”
“Submit them to the consideration of the commission.”
The old scoundrel began to gain more confidence.
“First,” he replied, “it was to the house of Monsieur d’Escorval that
Lacheneur hastened after he had, much against his will, restored to
Monsieur le Duc the chateau of Monsieur le Duc’s ancestors. Monsieur
Lacheneur met Chanlouineau there, and from that day dates the plot of
this insurrection.”
“I was Lacheneur’s friend,” said the baron; “it was perfectly natural
that he should come to me for consolation after a great misfortune.”
M. de Sairmeuse turned to his colleague.
“You hear that!” said he. “This d’Escorval calls the restitution of a
deposit a great misfortune! Go on, witness.”
“In the second place,” resumed Chupin, “the accused was always prowling
about Lacheneur’s house.”
“That is false,” interrupted the baron. “I never visited the house but
once, and on that occasion I implored him to renounce.”
He paused, comprehending only when it was too late, the terrible
significance of his words. But having begun, he would not retract, and
he added:
“I implored him to renounce this project of an insurrection.”
“Ah! then you knew his wicked intentions?”
“I suspected them.”
“Not to reveal a conspiracy makes one an accomplice, and means the
guillotine.”
Baron d’Escorval had just signed his death-warrant.
Strange caprice of destiny! He was innocent, and yet he was the only one
among the accused whom a regular tribunal could have legally condemned.
Maurice and the abbe were prostrated with grief; but Chanlouineau, who
turned toward them, had still upon his lips a smile of confidence.
How could he hope when all hope seemed absolutely lost?
But the commissioners made no attempt to conceal their satisfaction. M.
de Sairmeuse, especially, evinced an indecent joy.
“Ah, well! Messieurs?” he said to the lawyers, in a sneering tone.
The counsel for the defence poorly dissimulated their discouragement;
but they nevertheless endeavored to question the validity of such a
declaration on the part of their client. He had said that he _suspected_
the conspiracy, not that he _knew_ it. It was quite a different thing.
“Say at once that you wish still more overwhelming evidence,”
interrupted the duke. “Very well! You shall have it. Continue your
deposition, witness.”
“The accused,” continued Chupin, “was present at all the conferences
held at Lacheneur’s house. The proof of this is as clear as daylight.
Being obliged to cross the Oiselle to reach the Reche, and fearing the
ferryman would notice his frequent nocturnal voyages, the baron had an
old boat repaired which he had not used for years.”
“Ah! that is a remarkable circumstance, prisoner; do you recollect
having your boat repaired?”
“Yes; but not for the purpose which this man mentions.”
“For what purpose, then?”
The baron made no response. Was it not in compliance with the request of
Maurice that the boat had been put in order?
“And finally,” continued Chupin, “when Lacheneur set fire to his house
to give the signal for the insurrection, the prisoner was with him.”
“That,” exclaimed the duke, “is conclusive evidence.”
“I was, indeed, at the Reche,” interrupted the baron; “but it was, as
I have already told you, with the firm determination of preventing this
outbreak.”
M. de Sairmeuse gave utterance to a little disdainful laugh.
“Ah, gentlemen!” he said, addressing the commissioners, “can you not
see that the prisoner’s courage does not equal his depravity? But I will
confound him. What did you do, prisoner, when the insurgents left the
Reche?”
“I returned to my home with all possible haste, took a horse and
repaired to the Croix d’Arcy.”
“Then you knew that this was the spot appointed for the general
rendezvous?”
“Lacheneur had just informed me.”
“If I believed your story, I should tell you that it was your duty to
have hastened to Montaignac and informed the authorities. But what you
say is untrue. You did not leave Lacheneur, you accompanied him.”
“No, Monsieur, no!”
“And what if I could prove this fact beyond all question?”
“Impossible, Monsieur, since such was not the case.”
By the malicious satisfaction that lighted M. de Sairmeuse’s face, the
abbe knew that this wicked judge had some terrible weapon in his hands,
and that Baron d’Escorval was about to be overwhelmed by one of those
fatal coincidences which explain, although they do not justify, judicial
errors.
At a sign from the counsel for the prosecution, the Marquis de
Courtornieu left his seat and came forward to the platform.
“I must request you, Monsieur le Marquis,” said the duke, “to have the
goodness to read to the commission the deposition written and signed by
your daughter.”
This scene must have been prepared in advance for the audience. M. de
Courtornieu cleaned his glasses, drew from his pocket a paper which he
unfolded, and amid a death-like silence, he read:
“I, Blanche de Courtornieu, do declare upon oath that, on the evening
of the fourth of February, between ten and eleven o’clock, on the public
road leading from Sairmeuse to Montaignac, I was assailed by a crowd of
armed brigands. While they were deliberating as to whether they should
take possession of my person and pillage my carriage, I overheard one
of these men say to another, speaking of me: ‘She must get out, must she
not, Monsieur d’Escorval?’ I believe that the brigand who uttered these
words was a peasant named Chanlouineau, but I dare not assert it on
oath.”
A terrible cry, followed by inarticulate moans, interrupted the marquis.
The suffering which Maurice endured was too great for his strength and
his reason. He was about to spring forward and cry:
“It was I who addressed those words to Chanlouineau. I alone am guilty;
my father is innocent!”
But fortunately the abbe had the presence of mind to hold him back, and
place his hand over the poor youth’s lips.
But the priest would not have been able to restrain Maurice without the
aid of the retired army officers, who were standing beside him.
Divining all, perhaps, they surrounded Maurice, took him up, and carried
him from the room by main force, in spite of his violent resistance.
All this occupied scarcely ten seconds.
“What is the cause of this disturbance?” inquired the duke, looking
angrily over the audience.
No one uttered a word.
“At the least noise the hall shall be cleared,” added M. de Sairmeuse.
“And you, prisoner, what have you to say in self-justification, after
this crushing accusation by Mademoiselle de Courtornieu?”
“Nothing,” murmured the baron.
“So you confess your guilt?”
Once outside, the abbe confided Maurice to the care of three officers,
who promised to go with him, to carry him by main force, if need be, to
the hotel, and keep him there.
Relieved on this score, the priest re-entered the hall just in time to
see the baron seat himself without making any response, thus indicating
that he had relinquished all intention of defending his life.
Really, what could he say? How could he defend himself without betraying
his son?
Until now there had not been one person who did not believe in the
baron’s entire innocence. Could it be that he was guilty? His silence
must be accepted as a confession of guilt; at least, some present
believed so.
Baron d’Escorval appeared to be guilty. Was that not a sufficiently
great victory for the Duc de Sairmeuse?
He turned to the lawyers, and with an air of weariness and disdain he
said:
“Now speak, since it is absolutely necessary; but no long phrases! We
should have finished here an hour ago.”
The oldest lawyer rose, trembling with indignation, ready to dare
anything for the sake of giving free utterance to his thought, but the
baron checked him.
“Do not try to defend me,” he said, calmly; “it would be labor wasted.
I have only a word to say to my judges. Let them remember what the noble
and generous Marshal Moncey wrote to the King: ‘The scaffold does not
make friends.’”
This recollection was not of a nature to soften the hearts of the
judges. The marshal, for that saying, had been deprived of his office,
and condemned to three months’ imprisonment.
As the advocates made no further attempt to argue the case, the
commission retired to deliberate. This gave M. d’Escorval an opportunity
to speak with his defenders. He shook them warmly by the hand, and
thanked them for their devotion and for their courage.
The good man wept.
Then the baron, turning to the oldest among them, quickly and in a low
voice said:
“I have a last favor to ask of you. When the sentence of death shall
have been pronounced upon me, go at once to my son. You will say to him
that his dying father commands him to live; he will understand you. Tell
him it is my last wish; that he live--live for his mother!”
He said no more; the judges were returning.
Of the thirty prisoners, nine were declared not guilty, and released.
The remaining twenty-one, and M. d’Escorval and Chanlouineau were among
the number, were condemned to death.
But the smile had not once forsaken Chanlouineau’s lips.