So doubtful was the Government of the day in what way the people
of Paris would be disposed to regard the trial of the _Chouan_
prisoners,--how far public sympathy might side with misfortune and
heroism, and in what way they would regard Moreau, whose career in arms
so many had witnessed with pride and enthusiasm,--that for several days
they did not dare to strike the decisive blow which was to establish
their guilt, but advanced with slow and cautious steps, gradually
accumulating a mass of small circumstances, on which the “Moniteur” each
day commented, and the other journals of less authority expatiated,
as if to prepare the public mind for further and more important
revelations.
At last, however, the day arrived in which the mine was to be sprung.
The secret police--whose information extended to all that went on in
every class of the capital, and who knew the chitchat of the highest
circles equally as they did the grumblings of the Faubourg St. Antoine--
pronounced the time had come when the fatal stroke might no longer be
withheld, and when the long-destined vengeance should descend on their
devoted heads.
The want of energy on the part of the prosecution--the absence of
important witnesses and of all direct evidence whatever--which marked
the first four days of the trial, had infused a high hope and a strong
sense of security into the prisoners' hearts. The proofs which they
so much dreaded, and of whose existence they well knew, were not
forthcoming against them. The rumored treachery of some of their party
began at length to lose its terror for them; while in the lax and
careless proceedings of the Procureur-Général they saw, or fancied
they saw, a desire on the part of Government to render the public
uninterested spectators of the scene, and thus prepare the way for an
acquittal, while no danger of any excitement existed.
Such was the state of matters at the close of the fourth day. A tiresome
and desultory discussion on some merely legal question had occupied the
court for several hours, and many of the spectators, wearied and tired
out, had gone home disappointed in their expectations, and secretly
resolving not to return the following day.
This was the moment for which the party in power had been waiting,--the
interval of false security, as it would seem, when all danger was
past, and no longer any apprehension existed. The sudden shock of the
newly-discovered proofs would then come with peculiar force; while,
mo matter how rapid any subsequent step might be, all charge of
precipitancy or undue haste had been disproved by the tardy nature of
the first four days' proceedings.
For the change of scene about to take place, an early edition of the
“Moniteur” prepared the public; and by daybreak the walls of Paris
were placarded with great announcements of the discoveries made by the
Government: how, by their untiring efforts, the whole plot, which was
to deluge France with blood and subvert the glorious institutions of
freedom they had acquired by the Revolution, had been laid open; new
and convincing evidence of the guilt of the _Chouans_ had turned up; and
a frightful picture of anarchy and social disorganization was
displayed,--all of which was to originate in an effort to restore the
Bourbons to the throne of France.
While, therefore, the galleries of the court were crowded to suffocation
at an early hour, and every avenue leading to the tribunal crammed with
people anxious to be present at this eventful crisis, the prisoners
took their places on the “bench of the accused,” totally unaware of
the reason of the excitement they witnessed, and strangely puzzled to
conceive what unknown circumstance had reinvested the proceedings with a
new interest.
As I took my place among the rest, I stared with surprise at the scene:
the strange contrast between the thousands there, whose strained eyes
and feverish faces betokened the highest degree of excitement; and that
little group on which every look was turned, calm and even cheerful.
There sat George Cadoudal in the midst of them, his hands clasped in
those at either side of him; his strongly-marked features perfectly
at rest, and his eyes bent with a steady stare on the bench where the
judges were seated. Moreau was not present, nor did I see some of the
_Chouans_ whom I remembered on the former day.
The usual formal proclamation of the court being made, silence was
called by the crier,--a useless precaution, as throughout that vast
assembly not a whisper was to be heard. A conversation of some minutes
took place between the Procureur and the counsel for the prisoners, in
which I recognized the voice of Monsieur Baillot, my own advocate; which
was interrupted by the President, desiring that the proceedings should
commence.
The Procureur-Général bowed and took his seat, while the President,
turning towards George, said:--
“George Cadoudal, you have hitherto persisted in a course of blank
denial regarding every circumstance of the conspiracy with which you
are charged. You have asserted your ignorance of persons and places with
which we are provided with proof to show you are well acquainted. You
have neither accounted for your presence in suspected situations,
nor satisfactorily shown what were the objects of your intimacy with
suspected individuals. The court now desires to ask you whether, at this
stage of the proceedings, you wish to offer more explicit revelations,
or explain any of the dubious events of your career.”
“I will answer any question you put to me,” replied George, sternly;
“but I have lived too long in another country not to have learned some
of its usages, and I feel no desire to become my own accuser. Let him
there” (he pointed to the Procureur-Général) “do his office; he is the
paid and salaried assailant of the innocent.”
“I call upon the court,” said the Procureur, rising, when he was
suddenly interrupted by the President, saying,--
“We will protect you, Monsieur le Procureur. And once again we would
admonish the accused, that insolence to the authorities of this court
is but a sorry plea in vindication of his innocence, and shall be no
recommendation to our mercy.”
“Your mercy!” said George, in a voice of scorn and sarcasm. “Who ever
heard of a tiger's benevolence or a wolf's charity? And even if you
wished it, he whose slaves you are--”
“I call upon you to be silent,” said an advocate, rising from a bench
directly behind him. “Another interruption of this kind, and I shall
abandon the defence.”
“What?” said George, turning quickly round and staring at him with a
look of withering contempt; “and have they bought you over too?”
“Call the first witness,” said the President; and an indistinct murmur
was heard, and a slight confusion seen to agitate the crowd, as the
gendarmes opened a path towards the witness bench. And then I saw two
men carrying something between them, which I soon perceived to be a man.
The legs, which were alone apparent, hung down listlessly like those of
a corpse; and one arm, which fell over the shoulder of the bearer, moved
to and fro, as they went, like the limb of a dead man. Every neck was
stretched from the galleries above, and along the benches beneath,
to catch a glimpse of the mysterious figure, which seemed like an
apparition from the grave come to give evidence. His face, too, was
concealed by a handkerchief; and as he was placed in a chair provided
for the purpose, the assistants stood at either side to support his
drooping figure.
“Let the witness be sworn,” said the President; and, with the aid of an
officer of the court, a thin white hand was held up, on which the
flesh seemed almost transparent from emaciation. A low, muttering sound
followed, and the President spoke again,--“Let the witness be uncovered.
George Cadoudal, advance!”
As the hardy _Chouan_ stepped forward, the handkerchief fell from the
witness's face, while his head slowly turned round towards the prisoner.
A cry, like the yell of a wounded animal, broke from the stout Breton,
as he bounded into the air and held up both his arms to their full
height.
“Toi, toi!” screamed he, in accents that seemed the very last of a heart
wrung to agony, while he leaned forward and fixed his eyes on him, till
the very orbs seemed bursting from their sockets. “Oui,” added he, in
a lower tone, but one which was felt in every corner of that crowded
assemblage--“oui, c'est lui!” Then clasping his trembling hands
together, as his knees bent beneath him, he turned his eyes upwards, and
said, “Le bon Dieu, that makes men's hearts and knows their thoughts,
deals with us as he will; and I must have sinned sorely towards him when
such punishment as this has fallen upon me. Oh, my brother! my child! my
own Bouvet de Lozier!”
[Illustration: The Witness 391]
“Bouvet de Lozier!” cried the other prisoners, with a shout wild as
madness itself, while every man sprang forward to look at him. But
already his head had fallen back over the chair, the limbs stretched out
rigidly, and the arm fell heavily down.
“He is dying!” “He is dead!” were the exclamations of the crowd, and a
general cry for a doctor was heard around. Several physicians were soon
at his side, and by the aid of restoratives he was gradually brought
back to animation; but cold and speechless he lay, unable to understand
anything, and was obliged to be conveyed back again to his bed.
It was some time before the excitement of this harrowing scene was over;
and when order at length was restored in the court, George Cadoudal was
seen seated, as at first, on the bench, while around him his faithful
followers were grouped. Like children round a beloved father, some
leaned on his neck, others clasped his knees; some covered his hands
with kisses, and called him by the most endearing names. But though he
moved his head from, side to side, and tried to smile upon them, a
cold vacancy was in his face; his lips were parted, and his eyes stared
wildly before him; his very hair stood out from his forehead, on which
the big drops of sweat were seen.
“Father; dear father, it is but one who is false; see, look how many of
your children are true to you! Think on us who are with you here, and
will go with you to death without shrinking.”
“He is but a child, too, father; and they have stolen away his reason
from him,” said another.
“Yes, they have brought him to this by suffering,” cried a third, as
with a clenched hand he menaced the bench, where sat the judges.
“Order in the court!” cried the President. But the command was
reiterated again and again before silence could be obtained; and when
again I could observe the proceedings, I saw the Procureur-Général
addressing the tribunal, to demand a postponement in consequence of
the illness of the last witness, whose testimony was pronounced
all-conclusive.
A discussion took place on the subject between the counsel for the
prisoners and the prosecution; and at length it was ruled that this
trial should not be proceeded with till the following morning.
“We are, however, prepared to go on with the other cases,” said the
Procureur, “if the court will permit.”
“Certainly,” said the President.
“In that case,” continued the Procureur, “we shall call on the accused
Thomas Burke, lieutenant of the huitieme hussars, now present.”
For some minutes nothing more could be heard, for the crowded galleries,
thronged with expectant hundreds, began now to empty. Mine was a name
without interest for any; and the thronged masses rose to depart, while
their over-excited minds found vent in words which, drowned all else. It
was in vain silence and order were proclaimed; the proceedings had lost
all interest, and with it all respect, and for full ten minutes the
uproar lasted. Meanwhile, M. Baillot, taking his place by my side,
produced some most voluminous papers, in which he soon became deeply
engaged. I turned one look throughout the now almost deserted seats, but
not one face there was known to me. The few who remained seemed to stay
rather from indolence than any other motive, as they lounged over the
vacant benches and yawned listlessly; and much as I dreaded the gaze of
that appalling multitude, I sickened at the miserable isolation of my
lot, and felt overwhelmed to think that for me there was not one who
should pity or regret my fall.
At last order was established in the court, and the Procureur opened
the proceeding by reciting the act of my accusation, in which all the
circumstances already mentioned by my advocate were dwelt and commented
on with the habitual force and exaggeration of bar oratory. The address
was short, however,--scarcely fifteen minutes long; and by the tone
of the speaker, and the manner of the judges, I guessed that my case
excited little or no interest to the prosecution, either from my own
humble and insignificant position, or the certainty they felt of my
conviction.
My advocate rose to demand a delay, even a short one, pleading most
energetically against the precipitancy of a proceeding in which
the indictment was but made known the day previous. The President
interrupted him roughly, and with an assurance that no circumstance
short of the necessity to produce some important evidence not then
forthcoming, would induce him to grant a postponement.
M. Baillot replied at once, “Such, sir, is our case; a witness, whose
evidence is of the highest moment, is not to be found; a day or two
might enable us to obtain his testimony. It is upon this we ground our
hope, our certainty, of an acquittal. The court will not, I am certain,
refuse its clemency in such an emergency as this.”
“Where is this same witness to be found? Is he in Paris? Is he in
France?”
“We hope in Paris, Monsieur le President.”
“And his name?”
“The Abbé d'Ervan.”
A strange murmur ran along the bench of judges at the words; and I could
see that some of them smiled in spite of their efforts to seem grave,
while the Procureur-Général did not scruple to laugh outright.
“I believe, sir,” said he, addressing the President, “that I can
accommodate my learned brother with this so-much desired testimony
perhaps more speedily, I will not say than he wishes, but than he
expects.”
“How is this?” said my advocate, in a whisper to me. “They have this
Abbé then. Has he turned against his party?”
“I know nothing of him,” said I, recklessly; “falsehood and treachery
seem so rife here, that it can well be as you say.”
“The Abbe d'Ervan!” cried a loud voice; and with the words the
well-known figure moved rapidly from the crowd and mounted the steps of
the platform.
“You are lost!” said Baillot, in a low, solemn voice; “it is Mehée de la
Touche himself!”
Had the words of my sentence rung in my ears I had not felt them more,
that name, by some secret spell, had such terror in it.
“You know the prisoner before you, sir?” said the President, turning
towards the Abbé.
Before he could reply, my advocate broke in:--
“Pardon me, sir; but previous to the examination of this respectable
witness, I would ask under what name he is to figure in this process?
Is he here the Abbé d'Ervan, the agreeable and gifted frequenter of the
Faubourg St. Germain?--is he the Chevalier Maupret, the companion and
associate of the house of Bourbon?--or is he the no less celebrated and
esteemed citizen Mehé e de la Touche, whose active exertions have been
of such value in these eventful times that we should think no recompense
sufficient for them had he not been paid by both parties? Yes, sir,”
continued he, in an altered tone, “I repeat it: we are prepared to show
that this man is unworthy of all credit; that he whose testimony the
court now calls is a hired spy and bribed calumniator,--the instigator
to the treason he prosecutes, the designer of the schemes for which
other men's blood has paid the penalty. Is this abbé without, and
gendarme within, to be at large in the world, ensnaring the unsuspecting
youth of France by subtle and insidious doctrines disguised under the
semblance of after-dinner gayety? Are we to feel that on such evidence
as this, the fame, the honor, the life of every man is to rest?--he,
who earns his livelihood by treason, and whose wealth is gathered in the
bloody sawdust beneath the guillotine!”
“We shall not hear these observations longer,” said the President, with
an accent of severity. “You may comment on the evidence of the witness
hereafter, and, if you are able to do so, disprove it. His character is
under the protection of the court.”
“No, sir!” said the advocate, with energy; “no court, however high,--no
tribunal, beneath that of Heaven itself, whose decrees we dare not
question,--can throw a shield over a man like this. There are crimes
which stain the nation they occur in; which, happening in our age, make
men sorry for their generation, and wish they had lived in other times.”
“Once more, sir, I command you to desist!” interrupted the President.
“If I dare to dictate to the honorable court?” said the so-called Abbé,
in an accent of the most honeyed sweetness, and with a smile of the most
winning expression, “I would ask permission for the learned gentleman to
proceed. These well-arranged paragraphs, this indignation got by heart,
must have vent, since they 're paid for; and it would save the tribunal
the time which must be consumed in listening to them hereafter.”
“If,” said the advocate, “the coolness and indifference to blood which
the headsman exhibits, be a proof of guilt in the victim before him, I
could congratulate the prosecution on their witness. But,” cried he,
in an accent of wild excitement, “great Heavens! are we again fallen
on such times as to need atrocity like this? Is the terrible ordeal
of blood through which we have passed to be renewed once more? Is the
accusation to be hoarded, the calumnious evidence secreted, the charge
held back, till the scaffold is ready,--and then the indictment, the
slander, the sentence, and the death, to follow on one another like the
flash and the thunder? Is the very imputation of having heard from a
Bourbon to bear its prestige of sudden death?”
“Silence, sir!” cried the President, to whom the allusion to the Duc
d'Enghien was peculiarly offensive, and who saw in the looks of the
spectators with what force it told. “You know the prisoner?” said he,
turning towards D'Ervan.
“I have that honor, sir,” said he, with a bland smile.
“State to the court the place and the occasion of your first meeting
him.”
“If I remember correctly, it was in the Palais Royal, at Beauvilliers's.
There was a meeting of some of the _Chouan_ party arranged for that
evening, but from some accident only three or four were present. The
sous-lieutenant, however, was one.”
“Repeat, as far as your memory serves you, the conduct and conversation
of the prisoner during the evening in question.”
In reply, the Abbé, recapitulated every minute particular of the supper;
scarcely an observation the most trivial he did not recall, and apply,
by some infernal ingenuity, to the scheme of the conspiracy. Although
never, even in the slightest instance, falsifying any speech, he
tortured the few words I did say into such a semblance of criminality
that I started, as I heard the interpretation which now appeared so
naturally to attach to them. (During all this time my advocate never
interrupted him once, but occupied himself in writing as rapidly as he
could follow the evidence.) The chance expression which concluded the
evening,--the hope of meeting soon,--was artfully construed into an
arranged and recognized agreement that I had accepted companionship
amongst them, and formally joined their ranks.
From this he passed on to the second charge,--respecting the
conversation I had overheard at the Tuileries, and which I so unhappily
repeated to Beauvais. This the Abbé, dwelt upon with great minuteness,
as evidencing my being an accomplice; showing how I had exhibited great
zeal in the new cause I had embarked in, and affecting to mark how very
highly the service was rated by those in whose power lay the rewards of
such an achievement.
Then followed the account of my appointment at Versailles, in which I
heard, with a sinking heart, how thoroughly even there the toils were
spread around me. It appeared that the reason of the neglect I then
experienced was an order from the minister that I should not be noticed
in any way; that the object of my being placed there was to test my
fidelity, which already was suspected; that it was supposed such neglect
might naturally have the effect of throwing me more willingly into
the views of the conspirators, and, as I was watched in every minute
particular, of establishing my own guilt and leading to the detection of
others.
Then came a narrative of his visits to my quarters, in which the
omission of all mention of his name in my report was clearly shown as an
evidence of my conscious culpability. And, to my horror and confusion,
a new witness was produced,--the sentinel, Pierre Dulong, who mounted
guard at the gate of the château on the morning when I passed the Abbé,
through the park.
With an accuracy beyond my belief, he repeated all out conversations,
making the dubious hints and dark suggestions which he himself threw out
as much mine as his own; and having at length given a full picture of
my treacherous conduct, he introduced my intimacy with Beauvais as the
crowning circumstance of my guilt.
“I shall pause here,” said he, with a cool malignity, but ill concealed
beneath a look of affected sorrow--“I shall pause here, and, with the
permission of the court, allow the accused to make, if he will, a full
confession of his criminality; or, if he refuse this, I shall proceed
to the disclosure of other circumstances, by which it will be seen that
these dark designs met favor and countenance in higher quarters; and
among those, too, whose sex, if nothing else, should have removed them
beyond the contamination of confederacy with assassination.”
“The court,” said the President, sternly, “will enter into no compromise
of this kind. You are here to give such evidence as you possess, fully,
frankly, and without reserve; nor can we permit you to hold out any
promises to the prisoner that his confession of guilt can afford a
screen to the culpability of others.”
“I demand,” cried the Procureur-Général, “a full disclosure from the
witness of everything he knows concerning this conspiracy.”
“In that case I shall speak,” said the Abbé.
At this instant a noise was heard in the hall without; a half murmur ran
through the court; and suddenly the heavy curtain was drawn aside, and a
loud voice called out,--
“In the name of the Republic, one and indivisible, an order of council.”
The messenger, splashed and covered with mud, advanced through the
court, and delivered a packet into the hands of the President, who,
having broken the large seals, proceeded leisurely to read it over.
At the same moment I felt my arm gently touched, and a small pencil note
was slipped into my hand. It ran thus:--
Dear Sir,--Burke is safe. An order for his transmission
before a military tribunal has just been signed by the First
Consul. Stop all the evidence at once, as he is no longer
before the court
The court-martial will be but a formality, and in a few days
he will be at liberty.
Yours, D'AUVERGNE, Lieut,-Général.
Before I could recover from the shock of such glad tidings, the
President rose, and said,--
“In the matter of the accused Burke, this court has no longer
cognizance, as he is summoned before the tribunal of the army. Let him
withdraw, and call on the next case,--Auguste Leconisset.”
D'Ervan stooped down and whispered a few words to the Procureur-Général,
who immediately demanded to peruse the order of council. To this my
advocate at once objected, and a short and animated discussion on the
legal question followed. The President, however, ruled in favor of my
defender; and at the same instant a corporal's guard appeared, into
whose charge I was formally handed over, and marched from the court.
Such was the excited state of my mind, in such a confused whirl were
all my faculties, that I knew nothing of what was passing around me; and
save that I was ordered to mount into a carriage, and driven along at
a rapid pace, I remembered no more. At length we reached the quay
Voltaire, and entered the large square of the barrack. The tears burst
out and ran down my cheeks, as I looked once more on the emblems of the
career I loved. We stopped at the door of a large stone building,
where two sentries were posted; and the moment after I found myself
the occupant of a small barrack-room, in which, though under arrest, no
feature of harsh confinement appeared, and from whose windows I could
survey the movement of the troops in the court, and hear the sounds
which for so many a day had been the most welcome to my existence.