On the morning that followed the scene I have spoken of came the news of
the arrest, the trial, and the death of the Duc d'Enghien. That terrible
tragedy--which yet weighs, and will weigh forever, on the memory of
the period--reached us in our prison with all the terrible force of
circumstances to make it a day of sorrow and mourning. Such details as
the journals afforded but little satisfied our curiosity. The youth, the
virtues, the bravery of the prince had made him the idol of his party;
and while his death was lamented for his own sake, his followers read
in it the determination of the Government to stop at nothing in their
resolve to exterminate that party. A gloomy silence sat upon the
Chouans, who no longer moved about as before, regardless of their
confinement to a prison. Their chief remained apart: he neither spoke
to any one nor seemed to notice those who passed; he looked stunned and
stupefied, rather than deeply affected, and when he lifted his eyes,
their expression was cold and wandering. Even the other prisoners, who
rarely gave way to feeling of any kind, seemed at first overwhelmed by
these sad tidings; and doubtless many who before had trusted to rank and
influence for their safety, saw how little dependence could be placed on
such aid when the blow had fallen upon a “Condé” himself.
I, who neither knew the political movements of the time nor the sources
of the danger the Consul's party anticipated, could only mourn over the
unhappy fate of a gallant prince whose daring had cost him his life,
and never dreamed for a moment of calling in question the honor or good
faith of Bonaparte in an affair of which I could have easily believed
him totally ignorant. Such, indeed, was the representation of the
“Moniteur;” and whatever doubts the hints about me might have excited,
were speedily allayed by the accounts I read of the Consul's indignation
at the haste and informality of the trial, and his deep anger at the
catastrophe that followed it.
“Savary will be disgraced for this,” said I to the Abbé, who leaned over
my shoulder while I read the paper; “Bonaparte can never forgive him.”
“You mistake, my dear sir,” replied he, with a strange expression I
could not fathom. “The Consul is the most forgiving of men; he never
bears malice.”
“But here was a dreadful event,--a crime, perhaps.”
“Only a fault,” resumed he. “By the bye, Colonel, this order about
closing the barriers will be excessively inconvenient to the good people
of Paris.”
“I have been thinking over that, too,” said an overdressed,
affected-looking youth, whose perfumed curls and studied costume formed
a strange contrast with the habits of his fellow-prisoners. “If
they shut up the Barriére de de l'Étoile, what are they to do for
Longchamps?”
“_Parbleu!_ that did not strike me,” interposed the colonel, tapping his
forehead with his finger. “I 'll wager a crown that they haven't thought
of that themselves.”
“The Champs Éllysés are surely long enough for such tomfoolery,” said
the quartermaster, in a gruff, savage tone.
“Not one half,” was the imperturbable reply of the youth;
“and Longchamps promised admirably this year. I had ordered a
_calèche_,--light blue, with gilt circles on the wheels, and a bronze
carving to the pole,--like an antique chariot.”
“_Parbleu!_ you are more likely to take your next airing in a simpler
conveyance,” said the quartermaster with a grin.
“I was to have driven la Comtesse de Beauflers to the Bois de Boulogne.”
“You must content yourself with the Comte de la Marque” (the prison name
of the executioner) “instead,” growled out the other.
I turned away, no less disgusted at the frivolity that could only see in
the dreadful event that took place the temporary interruption to a vain
and silly promenade, than at the savage coarseness that could revel in
the pain common misfortune gave him the privilege of inflicting.
Such, however, was the prevalent tone of thinking and speaking there.
The death of friends,--the ruin of those best loved and cared for; the
danger that each day came nearer to themselves,--were all casualties to
which habit, recklessness of life, and libertinism had accustomed them;
while about former modes of life,--the pleasures of the capital, its
delights and dissipation,--they conversed with the most eager interest.
It is thus, while in some natures misfortunes will call forth into
exercise the best and noblest traits that in happier circumstances had
never found the necessity that gave them birth; so, in others, adversity
depresses and demoralizes those weaker temperaments that seemed formed
to sail safely in the calm waters, but never destined to brave the
stormy seas of life.
With such associates I could have neither sympathy nor friendship; and
my life passed on in one unbroken and dreary monotony, day succeeding
day and night following night, till my thoughts, turned ever inward, had
worn as it were a track for themselves in which the world without and
its people had no share whatever. Not only was my application to
the minister unanswered, but I was never examined before any of the
tribunals; and sometimes the dreadful fate of those prisoners who in the
Reign of Terror passed their whole life in prison, their crimes, their
very existence forgotten, would cross my mind, and strike me with terror
unspeakable.
If in the sombre atmosphere of the Temple a sad and cheerless monotony
prevailed, events followed fast on each other in that world from which
its gloomy walls excluded us. Every hour was some new feature of the
dark conspiracy brought to light; the vigilance of Monsieur Réal slept
not night or day; and all that bribery, terror, or torture could effect,
was put into requisition to obtain full and precise information as to
every one concerned in the plot.
It was a bright, fresh morning in April, the sixth of the month,--the
day is graven on my memory,--when, on walking forth into the garden, I
was surprised to see the prisoners standing in a circle round a tree on
which a placard was fastened, with glances eagerly turned towards the
paper or bent sadly to the ground. They stood around, sad and silent. To
my question of what had occurred, a significant look at the tree was the
only reply I received, while in the faces of all I perceived that some
dreadful news had reached them. Forcing my way with difficulty through
the crowd, I at length approached near enough to read the placard, on
which in large letters was written,--
“6 Avril. Le Temple.
“Charles Pichegru, ez-Général Républicain, s'est é tranglé
dans sa prison.”
“And did Pichegru, the great conqueror of Holland, die by his own hand?”
said I, as my eye rested on the fatal bulletin.
“Don't you read it, young man?” replied a deep, solemn voice beside me,
which I at once knew was that of General George himself, “Can you doubt
the accuracy of information supplied by the police?”
The bystanders looked up with a terrified and frightened expression, as
if dreading lest the very listening to his words might be construed into
an acquiescence in them.
“Trust me, he is dead,” continued he. “They who have announced his fate
here have a right to be relied on. It now only remains to be seen how he
died. These prison maladies have a strange interest for us who live
in the infected climate; and, if I mistake not, I see the 'Moniteur',
yonder, a full hour before its usual time. See what a blessing,
gentlemen, you enjoy in a paternal Government, which in moments of
public anxiety can feel for your distress and hasten to alleviate it!”
The tone of sarcasm he spoke in, the measured fall of every word, sank
into the hearers' minds, and though they stood mute, they did not even
move from the spot.
“Here is the 'Moniteur' now,” said the quartermaster, opening the paper
and reading aloud.
“To his oft-repeated assurances that he would make no attempt upon his
life--'”
A rude burst of laughter from George interrupted the reader here.
“I ask your pardon, sir,” said he, touching his cap; “proceed. I promise
not to interrupt you again.”
“'That he would make no attempt upon his life, Greneral Pichegru
obtained permission that the sentries should be stationed outside his
cell during the night. Having provided himself with a fagot, which
he secreted beneath his bed, he supped as usual in the evening of
yesterday, eating heartily at eleven o'clock, and retiring to rest by
twelve. When thus alone he placed the stick within the folds of the
black silk cravat he generally wore round his neck, in such a manner as,
when twisted, to act like a tourniquet; and having turned it with such
a degree of force as to arrest the return of blood from the head, he
fastened it beneath his head and shoulders, and in this manner, apoplexy
supervening, expired.'”
“_Par Saint Louis_, sir,” cried George, “the explanation is admirable,
and most satisfactorily shows how a man may possess life long enough
to be certain he has killed himself. The only thing wanting is for the
general to assist in dressing the proces-verbal, when doubtless his own
views of his case would be equally edifying and instructive. And see,
already the ceremony has begun.”
As he spoke, he pointed to a number of persons who crossed the terrace,
preceded by Savary in his uniform of the Gendarmes d'Élite, and who went
in the direction of the cell where the dead body lay.
The prisoners now fell into little knots and groups, talking beneath
their breath, and apparently terrified at every stir about them. Each
compared his sensation of what he thought he heard during the night with
the other's. Some asserted that they distinctly heard the chains of the
drawbridge creak long after midnight; others vouched for the quick tramp
of feet along the corridors, and the sounds of strange voices; one,
whose cell was beneath that of Pichegru, said that he was awoke
before day by a violent crash overhead, followed by a harsh sound like
coughing, which continued for some time and then ceased entirely. These
were vague, uncertain signs, yet what horrible thoughts did they not
beget in each listener's mind!
As I stood terror-struck and speechless, I felt a tap oif my shoulder.
I turned; it was the Abbé, who, with a smile of peculiar irony, stood
behind me.
“Poor Savary!” said he, in a whisper; “how will he ever get over this
blunder, and it so very like the former one!”
He did not wait for a reply, but moved away.
“Who is to be the next, sir?” cried George, with a deep voice, as he saw
the assemblage thus accidentally collected about to break up. “Moreau,
perhaps. One thing I bid you all bear witness to: suicide is a crime I
'll never commit; let no narrative of a cravat and a fagot--”
“Do you never eat mushrooms, General?” said the Abbé, dryly; and
whether from the manner of the speaker, or the puzzled look of him
to whom the speech was addressed, the whole crowd burst into a fit of
laughter,--the emotion seemed like one in which relief was felt by all.
They laughed long and loud; and now the faces that a minute before were
marked by every character of deep affliction, looked merry and happy.
Each had some story, some apropos to tell, or some smart witticism to
let off against his neighbor; and to hear them you would say that never
was there a subject more suggestive of drollery than the one of suicide
and sudden death.
And thus was it ever. No event, however dreadful,--no circumstance,
however shocking,--could do more than momentarily affect those whose
life possessed no security, was governed by no principle. Levity and
unbelief--unbelief that extended not only to matters of religion, but
actually penetrated every relation of life, rendering them sceptical of
friendship, love, truth, honor, and charity--were the impulses under
which they lived; and they would have laughed him to scorn who should
have attempted to establish another code of acting or thinking. Such
feelings, if they made them but little suited to all the habits and
charities of life, certainly rendered them most indifferent to death;
and much of that courage so much lauded and admired on the scaffold
had no other source than in the headlong recklessness the prison had
inculcated,--the indifference to everything, where everything was
questionable and doubtful.
I struggled powerfully against the taint of such a consuming malady.
I bethought me of my boyhood and its early purpose,--of him who first
stirred my soul to ambition,--and asked myself, what would he have
thought of me had I yielded to such a trial as this? I pictured before
me a career when such devotion as I felt, aided by a stout heart, must
win its way to honor; and when roused to thought, these low, depressing
dreams, these dark hours of doubt and despair, vanished before it. But
gradually my health gave way, my lethargic apathy increased upon me, the
gloomy walls of my cell had thrown their shadow over my spirit, and I
sank into a state of moping indifference in which I scarcely marked the
change of day and night; and felt at length that had the sentence been
pronounced which condemned me for life to the walls of the Temple, I
could have heard it without emotion.
“Come, sous-lieutenant, it's your turn now!” said the turnkey, entering
my cell one morning, where I sat alone at breakfast; “I have just
received the orders for your appearance.”
“How! where?” said I, scarcely able to do more than guess at the meaning
of his words; “before the préfet, is it?”
“No, no; a very different affair, indeed. You are summoned with the
_Chouan_ prisoners to appear at the Palais de Justice.”
“The Palais!” said I, as for the first time for weeks past a sentiment
of fear crept through me. “Are we to be tried without having a list of
the charges alleged against us?”
“You 'll hear them time enough in court.”
“Without an advocate to defend us.”
“The President will name one for that purpose.”
“And can the jury--”
“Jury! There is no jury; the Consul has suspended trial by jury for
two years. Come, come, don't be downhearted; your friends without are
singing away as gayly as though it were a festival. My faith, that
Greneral George is made of iron, I believe. He has been confined _au
secret_ these ten days, his rations diminished to almost a starvation
level, and yet there is he now, with his countenance as calm and his
look as firm as if he were at large on the hills of La Vendée. Cheer up,
then; let the example of your chief--”
“Chief! he is no chief of mine.”
“That 's as it may, or may not be,” replied he, gruffly, as though
wounded by what he deemed a want of confidence in his honor. “However,
make haste and dress, for the carriages will be here to convey you to
the Palais. And there now are the Gendarmes d'Élite assembling in the
court.”
As I proceeded to dress, I could see from the window of my cell that a
squadron of gendarmes, in full uniform, were drawn up in the square of
the prison, along one side of which were several carriages standing,
each with two gendarmes seated on the box. The prisoners were confined
to their walls; but at every window some face appeared peering anxiously
at the proceedings beneath, and watching with inquisitive gaze every,
even the slightest, movement.
Just as the clock struck nine the door of my cell was opened, and a
greffier of the court entered, and, taking from a black portmanteau at
his side a roll of paper, began without delay to repeat in a sing-song
recitative tone a formal summons of the Grand Tribunal for the
“surrender of the body of Thomas Burke, sous-lieutenant of the huitieme
hussars, now in the prison of the Temple, and accused of the crime of
treason.”
The last word made me shudder as it fell from him; and not all my
stoical indifference of weeks past was proof against such an accusation.
The jailer having formally listened to the document, and replied by
reading aloud another, delivered me over to the officer, who desired me
to follow him.
In the court beneath the greater number of the prisoners were already
assembled. George, among the number, was conspicuous, not only by his
size and proportions, but by a handsome uniform, in the breast of which
he wore his decoration of St. Louis, from which descended a bright bow
of crimson ribbon. A slight bustle at one of the doorways of the tower
suddenly seemed to attract his attention, and I saw that he turned
quickly round, and forced his way through the crowd to the place.
Eager to learn what it was, I followed him at once. Pushing with some
difficulty forward, I reached the doorway, on the step of which lay a
young man in a fainting fit. His face, pale as death, had no color save
two dark circles round the eyes, which, though open, were upturned and
filmy. His cravat had been hastily removed by some of the bystanders,
and showed a purple welt around his neck, on one side of which a mass
of blood escaping beneath the skin, made a dreadful-looking tumor. His
dress denoted a person of condition, as well as the character of his
features; but never had I looked upon an object so sad and woe-begone
before. At his side knelt Greorge; his strong arm round his back, while
his great massive hand patted the water on his brow. The stern features
of the hardy Breton, which ever before had conveyed to me nothing
but daring and impetuous passion, were softened to a look of womanly
kindliness, his blue eye beaming as softly as though it were a mother
leaning over her infant.
“Bouvet, my dear, dear boy, remember thou art a Breton; rally thyself,
my child,--bethink thee of the cause.”
The name of the youth at once recalled him whom I had seen some months
before among the _Chouan_ prisoners, and who, sad and sickly as he then
seemed, was now much further gone towards the tomb.
“Bouvet,” cried Greorge, in an accent of heartrending sorrow, “this will
disgrace us forever!”
The youth turned his cold eyes round till they were fixed on the other's
face; while his lips, still parted, and his cheek pale and flattened,
gave him the appearance of a corpse suddenly called back to life.
“There, my own brave boy,” said Greorge, kissing his forehead--“there,
thou art thyself again!” He bent over till his lips nearly touched
the youth's ear, and then whispered: “Dost thou forget the last words
Monsieur spoke to thee, Bouvet? 'Conserve-toi pour tes amis, et centre
nos ennemis communs!'”
The boy started up at the sounds, and looked wildly about him, while his
hands were open wide with a kind of spasmodic motion.
“_Tonnerre de ciel!_” cried George, with frantic passion; “what have they
done with him? his mind is gone. Bouvet! Bouvet de Lozier! knowest
thou this?” He tore from his bosom a miniature, surrounded with large
brilliants, and held it to the eyes of the youth.
A wild shriek broke from the youth as he fell back in strong
convulsions. The dreadful cry seemed like the last wail of expiring
reason, so sad, so piercing was its cadence.
“Look, see!” said George, turning a savage scowl upon the crowd; “they
have taken away his mind; he is an idiot.”
“The General George Cadoudal,” cried a loud voice from the centre of the
court.
“Here,” was the firm reply.
“This way, sir; the carriage yonder.”
“Monsieur Sol de Gisolles!”
“Here,” replied a tall, aristocratic-looking personage, in deep
mourning.
Sous-Lieutenant Burke was next called, and I followed the others, and
soon found myself seated in a close calecfie, with a gendarme beside me,
while two mounted men of the corps sat at either side of the carriage
with drawn swords. Picot, the servant of George, the faithful Breton,
was next summoned; and Lebourgeois, an old but handsome man, in the
simple habit of a farmer, with his long white hair, and soft kind
countenance. Many other names were called over, and nearly an hour
elapsed before the ceremony was concluded, and the order was given to
move forward.
At last the heavy gates were opened, and the procession issued forth.
I was surprised to see that the entire Boulevard was lined with troops,
behind which thousands of people were closely wedged, all the windows,
and even the housetops, being filled with spectators.
When we reached the quays, the crowd was greater still, and it required
all the efforts of the troops to keep it back sufficiently to permit an
open space for the carriages; while at all the streets that opened
at the quays, mounted dragoons were stationed to prevent any carriage
passing down. Never had I beheld such a vast multitude of people;
and yet, through all that crowded host, a deep, solemn silence
prevailed,--not a cry nor a shout was heard in all the way. Once only,
at the corner of the Pont Neuf, a cry of “Vive Moreau!” was given by
some one in the crowd; but it was a solitary voice, and the moment
after I saw a gendarme force his way through the mass, and seizing a
miserable-looking creature by the neck, hurry him along beside his horse
towards the guardhouse. On crossing the bridge, I saw that a company of
artillery and two guns were placed in position beside Desaix's
monument, so as to command the Pont Neuf: all these preparations clearly
indicating that the Government felt the occasion such as to warrant the
most energetic measures of security. There was something in the earnest
look of the cannoniers, as they stood with their lighted matches beside
the guns, that betrayed the resolve of one whose quick determination was
ever ready for the moment of danger.
The narrow streets of the Isle St. Louis, more densely crowded than any
part of the way, slackened our pace considerably, and frequently the
gendarmes were obliged to clear the space before the carriages could
proceed. I could not help feeling struck, as we passed along these
miserable and dark alleys,--where vice and crime, and wretchedness of
every type herded together,--to hear at every step some expressions
of pity or commiseration from those who themselves seemed the veriest
objects of compassion.
“Ah, Voilà,” cried an old creature in rags, on whose cotton bonnet a
faded and dirty tricolored ribbon was fastened--“voilà Moreau! I'd know
his proud face any day. Poor general, I hope it will not go hard with
you to-day!” “Look there,” screamed a hag, as the carriage in which
Bouvet sat passed by--“look at the handsome youth that's dying! Holy
Virgin! he'll not be living when they reach the gate of the Palais!”
“And there,” cried another, “there's a hussar officer, pale enough, I
trow he is. Come, I 'll say a prayer or two for him there; it can do him
no harm anyhow.”
The hoarse rattle of a drum in front mingled with the noise of the
cavalcade, and I now could hear the clank of a guard turning out. The
minute after we stood before a colossal gateway, whose rich tracery
shone in the most gorgeous gilding; it was in the splendid taste of
Louis the Fourteenth, and well became the entrance of what once had been
a royal palace. “Alas!” thought I, “how unlike those who once trod this
wide court is the melancholy cortege that now enters it!”
As each carriage drew up at the foot of a wide flight of stone steps,
the prisoners descended, and escorted by gendarmes on each side, were
led into the building. When all had reached the hall, the order was
given to move forward, and we walked on till we came to a long gallery.
On either side was a range of massive pillars, between which views were
obtained of various spacious but dimly-lighted chambers, apparently
neglected and unused; some benches here and there, an old cabinet, and
a deal table, were all the furniture. Here we halted for a few moments,
till a door opening at the extreme end, a sign was made for us to
advance. And now we heard a low rushing sound, like the distant breaking
of the sea in a calm night; it grew louder as we went, till we could
mark the mingling of several hundred voices, as they conversed in a
subdued and under tone. Then, indeed, a dreadful thrill ran through me,
as I thought of the countless mass before whom I was to stand forth a
criminal, and it needed every effort in my power to keep my feet.
A heavy curtain of dark cloth yet separated us from a view of the court;
but we could hear the voice of the president commanding silence, and
the monotonous intonation of the clerk reading the order for the
proceedings. This concluded, a deep voice called out, “Introduce the
prisoners!” and the words were repeated still louder by a huissier at
the entrance; and at a signal the line moved forward, the curtain was
drawn back, and we advanced into the court.
The crowd of faces that filled the vast space from the body of the court
below to the galleries above, turned as we passed on to the bench, at
one side of the raised platform near the seat of the judges. A similar
bench, but unoccupied, ran along the opposite side; while directly in
front of the judges were ranged the advocates in rows, closely packed
as they could sit,--a small desk, somewhat advanced from the rest, being
the seat reserved for the Procureur-Général of the court.
The vast multitudes of spectators; the pomp and circumstance of a court
of justice; the solemn look of the judges, arrayed in their dark robes
and square black caps, reminding one of the officers of the Inquisition,
as we see them in old paintings; the silence where so many were
assembled,--all struck me with awe, and I scarcely dared to look up,
lest in the glances bent upon me I should meet some whose looks might
seem to condemn me.
“Proclaim the _séance_,” said the President. And with: a loud voice
the _huissier_ of the court made proclamation that the tribunal had
commenced its sitting.
This concluded, the Procureur-Général proceeded to read the names of the
accused, beginning with Général Moreau, Armand de Polignac, Charles de
Rivière, Sol de Gisolles, George Cadoudal, and some twenty others
of less note, among which I heard with a sinking heart my own name
pronounced.
Some customary formalities seemed now to occupy the court for a
considerable time; after which the _huissier_ called silence once more.
“Général Moreau!” said the President, in a deep voice that was heard
throughout the entire court. “Rise up, sir,” added he, after a few
seconds' pause.
I looked down the bench, at the farthest end of which I saw the
tall and well-knit figure of a man in the uniform of a general of the
Republic; his back was turned towards me, but his bearing and carriage
were quite enough to distinguish the soldier.
“Your name and surname,” said the President.
Before an answer could be returned, a dull sound, like something heavy
falling, resounded through the court, and in an instant several persons
around me stood up. I bent forward to see, and beheld the figure of
Bouvet de Lozier stretched insensible upon the ground; beside him his
faithful friend George was stooping, and endeavoring to open his vest to
give him air.
“Bring some water here quickly!” cried the hardy Breton, in a tone that
showed little respect for where he stood. “Your absurd ceremonial has
frightened the poor boy out of his senses.”
“Respect the court, sir, or I commit you!” said the President, in a
voice of anger.
A contemptuous look, followed by a still more contemptuous shrug of the
shoulders, was his reply.
“Remove the prisoner,” said the President, pointing to the still
fainting youth, “and proclaim silence in the court.”
The officers of the tribunal carried the deathlike figure of the boy
down the steps, and bore him to some of the chambers near.
This little incident, slight and passing as it was, seemed much to
affect the auditory, and it was some time before perfect silence could
be again restored.
“So much for the régime of the Temple!” said George, aloud, as he looked
after the insensible form of his friend.
“Silence, sir!” cried one of the judges, M. Thuriot, a harsh and
severe-looking man, whose hatred to the prisoners was the subject of
much conversation in the prison.
“Ah, it is you, Tue-Roi!” cried George, punning upon his name, for he
had been one of the regicides. “You there! I thought they had found you
out long ere this.”
A burst of laughter that nothing could repress broke through the crowded
court, and it was not until some five or six persons were forcibly
removed by the gendarmes that order was again restored.
“Read the act of accusation,” said the President, in a deep solemn
voice.
“In the name of the Republic, one and indivisible--”
“Monsieur le President,” interrupted the Procureur-Général, “I would
submit to the court, that as in the first accusation there are several
of the prisoners not included, they should not remain during the recital
of the indictment.”
A conversation of some minutes now took place between the judges, during
which again the silence was unbroken in the court. I turned gladly
from the gaze of the thousand spectators to the bench where my
fellow-prisoners were seated; and however varied by age, rank, and
occupation, there seemed but one feeling amongst them,--a hardy and
resolute spirit to brave every danger without flinching.
“Which of the prisoners are not accused under the first act?” said
Thuriot.
“Charles Auguste Bebarde, dit le Noir; Guillaume Lebarte; and Thomas
Burke, Sous-Lieutenant in the Eighth Regiment of Hussars.”
“Let them withdraw,” said the President.
A slight bustle ensued in the body of the court as the gendarmes
advanced to make a passage for our exit; and for a moment I could
perceive that the attention of the assembly was drawn towards us. One
by one we descended to the platform, and with a gendarme on either side,
proceeded to pass out, when suddenly the deep, mellow voice of Cadoudal
called out aloud,--
“Adieu, my friends, adieu! If we are not to be better treated than our
prince, we shall never see you again.”
“Silence, sir!” cried the President, severely; and then, turning towards
the bar of advocates, he continued, “If that man have an advocate
in this court, it would well become him to warn his client that such
continued insult to the tribunal can only prejudice his cause.”
“I have none, and I wish for none,” replied George, in a tone of
defiance. “This mockery is but the first step of the guillotine, and I
can walk it without assistance.”
A renewed call of “Silence!” and a deep murmur through the assembly, was
all I heard, as the door of the court opened and closed behind us. As
we marched along a low vaulted corridor, the sounds of the court grew
fainter and fainter; and at last the echoes of our own steps were the
only noises.
The room to which we were conducted was a small whitewashed chamber,
around which ran a bench of unpainted wood. A deal table stood in the
centre, on which was a common-looking earthenware jar of water and some
tin goblets. The window was several feet from the ground, and strongly
barred with iron.
“La salle d'attente is gloomy enough,” said one of my companions, “and
yet some of us may be very sorry to leave it.”
“Not I, at least,” cried the other, resolutely. “The basket beneath
the guillotine will be an easier couch than I have slept on these three
months.”