AFTER VICTORY, STRUGGLE BEGINS.
I.
LANTENAC TAKEN.
The Marquis had indeed descended into his tomb.
They led him away.
The oubliette dungeon on the ground-floor of the Tourgue was forthwith
reopened under Cimourdain's severe superintendence; a lamp was placed
there, a jug of water, and a loaf of soldier's bread; a bundle of straw
was flung in; and in less than a quarter of an hour from the instant
when the priest's hand had seized upon him, the dungeon door closed
upon Lantenac.
This done, Cimourdain joined Gauvain; at that moment the clock from the
distant church of Parigné struck eleven: Cimourdain said to Gauvain:--
"I am about to summon a court-martial. You will not join it; you are
a Gauvain as well as Lantenac. You are too nearly related to be a
judge; and I do not approve of Égalité sitting in judgment upon Capet.
The court-martial will consist of three judges,--one officer, Captain
Guéchamp, one non-commissioned officer, Sergeant Radoub, and myself,
who will preside. You need have no further concern in the matter. We
shall be governed by the decree of the Convention; all we have to do
is simply to prove the identity of the ci-devant Marquis de Lantenac.
To-morrow the court-martial, the day after to-morrow the guillotine.
The Vendée is dead."
Gauvain made no reply; and Cimourdain, preoccupied with the important
business that lay before him, departed. He now had to appoint the hour
and select the place. Like Lequinio at Granville, Talien at Bordeaux,
Châlier at Lyons, and Saint-Just at Strasbourg, he had made a practice
of superintending executions in person. It was regarded as an excellent
example, this supervision on the part of the judge of the executioner's
work,--a custom borrowed by the Terror of '93 from the parliaments of
France and the Spanish Inquisition.
Gauvain himself was preoccupied.
A cold wind blew from the forest. He left Guéchamp to give the
necessary orders, went into his tent, which was in the meadow on the
outskirts of the wood at the foot of the Tourgue, and taking his hooded
cloak wrapped himself in it. This cloak was trimmed with that simple
galoon which in accordance with the republican fashion, averse to
decoration, designated the commander-in-chief. He began to pace up and
down this bloody field where the assault was begun. There he was alone.
The fire, though scarcely heeded, had not yet ceased to bum. Radoub was
with the mother and children, almost as motherly as she herself; the
bridge-castle was nearly consumed, the sappers completing the work of
the flames; they dug ditches, buried the dead, cared for the wounded,
demolished the _retirade,_ and removed the dead bodies from the rooms
and the staircases; the men were at work purifying the scene of
carnage, sweeping away the mass of horrible filth, and setting matters
in order after the battle with military rapidity. Gauvain took no note
of all this activity.
Absorbed in his own thoughts, he hardly glanced at the sentries
guarding the breach, doubled by the order of Cimourdain.
He could distinguish this breach amid the darkness, about two hundred
paces from that part of the field in which he had found refuge. He saw
that black opening. There the attack began three hours ago; this was
the breach through which Gauvain had made his way into the tower; there
was the ground-floor, with the _retirade;_ the Marquis's dungeon-door
opened on to that floor. The sentries posted near the breach guarded
the dungeon.
While thus he gazed absently upon it, these words returned confusedly
to his ears, like the tolling of a funeral knell: "The court-martial
to-morrow; the guillotine the day after to-morrow."
The fire, which had been isolated, and upon which the sappers had
dashed all the water that they could obtain, still resisted their
efforts to extinguish it, and continued to shoot forth occasional jets
of flame. Now and then was heard the cracking of the ceilings and the
crashing of the stories as they fell one upon another; then showers of
sparks flew about as from a whirling torch, revealing like a flash of
lightning the extreme limit of the horizon; and the shadow cast by the
Tourgue would grow to colossal size, extending to the very edge of the
forest.
Gauvain walked slowly back and forth in this shadow in front of the
breach. Now and then he clasped both his hands behind his head, covered
by his military hood. He was thinking.
[Illustration 131]
II.
GAUVAIN MEDITATING.
His reverie was fathomless.
An unheard of change had taken place.
The Marquis de Lantenac had been transfigured, and Gauvain had seen it
with his own eyes.
He would never have believed it possible that such a state of things
could have come to pass from any complication of events whatsoever.
Even in a dream he could not have imagined such a condition of affairs.
The Unforeseen, that inexplicable force that makes a man the plaything
of its capricious will, had seized Gauvain and held him fast.
Before his eyes he beheld the realization of the impossible,--visible,
palpable, inevitable, inexorable.
And what did he think of it? This was no time for evasion; he must make
up his mind. A question had been presented to him; he must meet it
fairly.
Who had asked this question?
It had come to him in the course of events, but not through events
alone.
For when events, which are ever changing, ask us a question, immutable
justice summons us to answer.
Behind the cloud that casts the shadow is the star that sheds the light.
We can no more escape the light than the shadow.
Gauvain was undergoing an interrogatory.
He had been arraigned before a judge.
An awe-inspiring presence.
His own conscience.
His entire being was vacillating within him; his firmest resolutions,
his most solemn promises, his most irrevocable determinations, were all
shaken to their foundations. The soul has its earthquakes.
The more he reflected upon what he had just witnessed, the more
confused he grew.
Gauvain, Republican as he was, believed himself to be and was just; but
a superior law had been revealed.
Human law takes a higher stand than the law of revolutions. This
affair now in progress could not be evaded; it was a serious matter,
and Gauvain formed a part of it; he was involved in it, and could not
extricate himself; and however much Cimourdain might say, "This matter
no longer concerns you," he felt all the sensations of a tree torn up
by its roots.
Every man has a basis; a shock to this basis produces a serious
disturbance; and this was what Gauvain now felt. He pressed his head
between his hands, as if to express from it the truth. It was no easy
task to gain a clear idea of a situation like his: nothing could be
more uncomfortable; he saw before him a formidable array of ciphers
to be added up. To add up the columns of human destiny! The bare
thought made him dizzy. And yet he was endeavoring to do this; he was
trying to explain matters to himself, to collect his ideas, to subdue
the resistance that he felt within him, and to review the facts. He
revolved them again and again in his mind.
Is there one among us who has not been called upon to consider some
important subject in all its bearings, or has not asked himself at a
serious crisis which road to follow,--whether to advance or to retreat?
Gauvain had been witness to a miracle.
While the earthly combat was still in progress, a celestial one had
begun.
A contest between good and evil.
A merciless heart had just been conquered.
In the man before him, with all the evil inherent to his nature,
violence, error, blindness, an unwholesome obstinacy, selfishness, and
pride, Gauvain had witnessed a miracle. A victory won by humanity over
the man.
The human victorious over the inhuman.
And by what means? How was it achieved? How had it overthrown a
colossus of anger and hatred? What weapons had it used? What machinery
of warfare? Simply the cradle.
To Gauvain it was positively bewildering. To the very midst of civil
war, at the climax of hostility and vengeance, in the darkest and
fiercest moment of the tumult, when crime lent all its fires, and
hatred all its blackness, at the very crisis of the struggle when
anything may serve for a missile, when the mêlée is so direful that man
is lost to every sense of justice, honesty, and truth, suddenly from
the Unknown, that mysterious monitor of the human soul, overpowering
all the lights and shadows of humanity, came one broad flash of the
everlasting light.
Above that fatal duel between falsehood and comparative truth, the face
of absolute truth had suddenly risen from the depths.
The strength of the weak had suddenly intervened.
The triumph of three poor little beings, but lately born into the
world, unconscious of wrong, orphans, forsaken, and alone, lisping
and smiling, with all the Gorgons of civil war, retaliation, the
terrible logic of reprisals, murder, carnage, fratricide, wrath, and
malice, had just been witnessed, together with the failure and defeat
of an infamous conflagration kindled with criminal intent; cruelty
had been frustrated and baffled; ancient feudal ferocity, inexorable
disdain, the professed experience of the necessities of war, reasons
of State, all the arrogant resolves of savage old age vanished before
the innocent blue eyes of infant life; and what could be more simple?
The infant whose little life has just begun, has done no evil; it is
the embodiment of justice, truth, and innocence; the highest angels of
heaven dwell in little children.
And truly it was an edifying sight; these frenzied combatants in
a merciless war had, in the face of all their evil deeds, their
crimes, fanaticism, and murder, vengeance fanning the funeral piles,
death advancing torch in hand, suddenly seen Innocence rise in its
omnipotence above this countless legion of crimes.
And Innocence had won the day.
One might well say, No; civil war has no existence; there are no
such evils as barbarism, hatred, or crime; there is no darkness; the
divine dawn of infancy has but to rise, and all these spectres will
straightway vanish.
Never in any struggle had the presence of Satan and of Almighty God
been more plainly visible.
A conscience had furnished the arena for this combat. It was the
conscience of Lantenac.
And again it was renewed, more desperate, and possibly more decisively
than ever, in another conscience,--in the conscience of Gauvain.
What a battle-field is the mind of man!
Our thoughts, like gods, monsters, or giants, hold us in their power.
Sometimes those terrible wrestlers trample our very soul beneath their
feet.
Gauvain was thinking.
The Marquis de Lantenac, hemmed in, blockaded, condemned, outlawed,
confined like a wild beast in a circus, held like a nail in a vice,
immured in his own home that had changed into a prison, encompassed
on every side by a wall of iron and fire, had eluded his enemies and
stolen away. He had effected a miraculous escape. He had achieved a
masterpiece,--the most difficult of all accomplishments in a war like
this,--flight. He had regained possession of the forest to intrench
himself therein, of the district where he would renew the combat, and
of the impenetrable shadows among which he might vanish from sight.
Once more he had become formidable, ever on the wing, a knight-errant
whose presence boded evil; the captain of invisible forces, the leader
of men who dwell beneath the ground, the master of the woods. Gauvain
was victorious, but Lantenac was free. Henceforth Lantenac was safe,
his career unfettered, asylums without number from which to choose. He
was intangible, unapproachable, inaccessible. This lion, caught in a
snare, had forced his way out, and now behold he had come back to it.
The Marquis de Lantenac had voluntarily, impelled only by his free
will, left the shades of the forest, where safety and freedom awaited
him, to return to the most frightful danger; first, Gauvain had seen it
himself, rushing with fearless spirit into the flames that threatened
to engulf him, and again descending that ladder that was to deliver him
into the hands of his enemies,--the same ladder that offered escape to
others, but to him absolute ruin.
And why had he done this?
To save three children.
And what were they now about to do with this man?
Guillotine him.
And so, this man, for the sake of three children,--his own? No; of
his kin perhaps? Not at all; belonging to his own rank in life? By no
means; for three little beggars, chance children, foundlings, unknown
to him, ragged and barefooted, this nobleman, this prince, this old
man, who had made his escape, who was both a free man and a victor, for
escape is a triumph in itself,--had risked everything, compromised his
own safety, imperilled the cause, and while restoring the children, he
offered up his own head, this head hitherto terrible, but now august.
And what were they about to do with it?
To accept it.
The Marquis de Lantenac had had the opportunity to choose between the
life of others and his own; and when this splendid option lay before
him, he chose his death.
And it was to be granted him.
They would put him to death.
What a reward for heroism!--To return a generous action by a deed of
barbarity!
To cast this reproach upon the Revolution!
Thus to humiliate the Republic!
While he, a man still in the bondage of prejudices and slavery,
suddenly assumed another form and re-entered the lists of humanity,
they, the champions of deliverance and freedom, would still remain
plunged in civil war, with its routine of blood and fratricide!
And they who fought on the side of error respected the supreme law of
divine forgiveness, of abnegation, of redemption, and of sacrifice,
while for the soldiers of truth it had apparently ceased to exist!
What! Was there to be no rivalry in magnanimity? Were they, who were
now in the ascendant, to resign themselves to defeat, to acknowledge
their weakness, to take advantage of their victory, to commit murder,
and to allow men to say that while the defenders of monarchy save
little children, Republicans kill old men!
This grand soldier, this powerful octogenarian, this disarmed warrior,
betrayed rather than captured, seized in the very act of doing a good
deed, bound by his own consent, with the moisture of a superb devotion
still upon his brow, would be seen mounting the steps of the scaffold
as if borne upward in an apotheosis; and they would offer to the knife
that head round which the three souls of the little angels he had saved
would hover in supplication! And standing face to face with a death so
infamous for the executioners, a smile would be seen on the face of
that man, while a blush of shame would overspread that of the Republic!
And that was to take place in the presence of Gauvain, the chief!
And he, possessing the power to prevent this,--was he to hold his
peace? Was he to content himself with that haughty dismissal, "You have
no further concern in this matter," and not to realize that in a case
like this, abdication of authority was equivalent to complicity? And
could he not see that in a deed so outrageous, the coward who allows
the act is worse than the man who commits it? But had he not promised
that this death should take place? Had not he, Gauvain the merciful,
declared that Lantenac was to be excluded from mercy, and that he would
deliver him to Cimourdain?
This head was a debt which he owed, and he paid it That was all.
But was this indeed the same head?
Hitherto Gauvain had seen in Lantenac nothing but a barbarous warrior,
enslaved by the fanaticisms of royalty and feudality, the murderer
of prisoners, an assassin let loose by war, a man of blood,--and of
that man he felt no fear; this proscriber of others he would himself
proscribe; this relentless man would find him relentless also. Nothing
could be more simple; the road was already mapped out and terribly
plain to follow; all had been anticipated; he who had killed others
was now to suffer the same fate; they were in the direct path of the
horrible. Suddenly this straight line changed; an unlooked for turn
revealed a new horizon, a transformation had been effected. Lantenac
had appeared on the scene in an unexpected character. A hero had
come forth from the monster; yea, one greater than a hero,--a man.
Something higher than a mind,--a heart. He stood before Gauvain no
longer a murderer, but a saviour. Gauvain was overwhelmed by a flood of
celestial light. Lantenac had felled him to the ground by a thunderbolt
of virtue.
And had not this transfigured Lantenac in his turn the power to
transfigure Gauvain? What! Was this flood of light to meet with no
responsive flash? Was the man of the past to lead the van of progress,
and the man of the future to fall back to the rear? Was the man of
barbarism and superstition suddenly to spread his wings and soar
upward, all the while gazing down at the man with the lofty ideal,
groping below him in the mire amid the murky shadows of the night?
Gauvain would lie prostrate in the savage old rut, while Lantenac
soared higher and higher in his new career!
And another thing must be considered,--the family!
This blood that he was about to shed,--for to allow its shedding
amounted to the same as shedding it himself,--was not this his own
blood? His grandfather was dead, it is true, but his great-uncle
still lived in the person of the Marquis de Lantenac. Would not he,
who already rested in the grave, rise to bar the entrance against his
brother? Would he not lay his command upon his grandson henceforth
to pay the same veneration to that crown of white hair as to his own
halo? Would not the indignant glance of a departed spirit rise between
Gauvain and Lantenac?
Was it then the object of Revolution to destroy the natural affections,
to sever all family ties, and to stifle every sense of humanity? Far
from it. The dawn of '89 came to affirm those higher truths, and not to
deny them. The destruction of bastilles signified the deliverance of
humanity; the overthrow of feudalism was the signal for the building
up of the family. Since authority takes rise from and is centred in
its author, there can be no real authority save in fatherhood; thus we
see the legitimacy of the queen-bee who gives birth to her subjects
and combines the mother with the queen; and also the absurdity of the
king-man, who not being the father, has no right to be the master;
hence the suppression of the king, and the rise of the Republic. And
what is the meaning of all this? It is family, humanity, revolution.
Revolution is the accession of the people, and in reality The People is
Man.
It had now become important to ascertain whether, since Lantenac had
returned to humanity, Gauvain would return to the family.
The question was whether the uncle and the nephew would meet again in
the higher light, or whether the decline of the nephew would correspond
to the progress of the uncle.
In this pathetic struggle between Gauvain and his conscience
the question thus presented itself, and the answer seemed
instinctive,--Lantenac must be saved.
Yes--but France?
Here the puzzling problem suddenly assumed a different aspect.
What! France, at the last extremity, betrayed, exposed to attack on
all sides, dismantled! Her moat was gone; Germany could cross the
Rhine: her walls were overthrown; Italy might leap over the Alps,
and Spain over the Pyrenees. All that was left to her was the ocean,
whose infinite abyss was on her side. She could lean against it, and,
giantess as she was, supported by the expanse of the sea, fight the
whole world,--an invincible position one might well call it. But no:
she was on the point of losing this position. The ocean was no longer
her own: England lay in this sea, though she knew not how to cross it.
Well, there stood a man ready to throw a bridge across, to lend her a
helping hand,--a man who was about to say to Pitt, to Cornwallis, to
Dundas, to the pirates, "Come!" a man who would cry out, "England, come
over and seize upon France!" and this man was the Marquis de Lantenac,
whom they now held in their grasp.
After three months of an eager, passionate chase they had finally
seized him. The hand of Revolution had swooped down upon the accursed
one, the clenched fist of '93 grasped the Royalist murderer by the
collar; and by one of those mysterious dispensations of Providence
which enter into human affairs, it was in his own family dungeon that
the parricide now awaited his punishment,--the feudal lord lay in the
feudal oubliette; the stones of his own castle had risen and closed
upon him. Thus he who would have betrayed his country was himself
betrayed by his own castle. God had visibly ordained all this; the hour
of doom had struck, and Revolution had turned the key upon the public
enemy. He could no longer fight, neither could he struggle nor work
further harm. Of that Vendée, where there was no lack of arms, his
alone was the brain: his death would be the signal for the close of
the war,--tragic climax ardently desired. After all the massacre and
carnage he had caused, the murderer was in their power, and doomed in
his turn to die.
And was there a man who could wish to save him?
Cimourdain in the person of '93 held Lantenac, or, as one might call
him, the spirit of monarchy; and could a man be found to snatch that
prey from these brazen talons? Lantenac, around whose name was
bound that sheaf of scourges which men call the past, the Marquis de
Lantenac, was in the tomb; the heavy door of eternity had closed upon
him, and would one appear from without to draw back the bolt? This
social malefactor was dead, and with him had perished revolt, the
fratricidal struggle, the brutal war; and conceive of a man who would
bring him back to life!
Oh, how that death's-head would laugh!
The spectre would exclaim, "Good! I am still alive, you fools."
With what zeal he would begin his hideous work all over again! With
what implacable rejoicing would he plunge again into the abyss of
hatred and war! Not a day would pass before houses would be in flames,
prisoners massacred, the wounded slain, women shot.
And, after all, was it not possible that Gauvain exaggerated the deed
that so fascinated his imagination?
Three children were in danger of death: Lantenac had saved them.
But who had imperilled their lives?
Was it not Lantenac?
Who had put their cradles in the fire?
Was it not the Imânus?
Who was the Imânus?
The lieutenant of the Marquis.
It is the chief who bears the responsibility.
Hence Lantenac was both the incendiary and the assassin.
Why then was his deed so admirable?
He had simply desisted from evil,--nothing more.
Having conceived the crime, he had recoiled before its presence; he
was horrified at himself. The mother's shriek had stirred within him
the dregs of human pity,--the deposit of universal life which exists
in every soul, even in the most cruel. At this cry he had retraced his
steps; from the darkness towards which he was plunging he had turned
back towards the light. Having committed the crime, he made haste to
retrieve it. He had not continued a monster to the very end; herein lay
all his merit.
And in return for so small a thing was all to be restored to him,--his
liberty, the fields and plains, the open air, daylight, the forest,
which he would use for brigandage; his own freedom, that he might use
it to plunge others into slavery; his own life, which he would devote
to the death of his fellow-men?
As for trying to come to an understanding with him, as for attempting
to treat with this arrogant soul, offering to save his life under
conditions, to ask him whether he would agree, provided his life were
spared, to abstain henceforth from hostility and revolt,--what a
mistake would such an offer be, what an advantage it would give him,
with what scorn would he greet the proposal, how he would scourge the
question by the answer! Hear him exclaim: "Keep such indignities for
yourselves! For my part, give me death!"
Nothing could be done with such a man; he must either be set free
or put to death. His was a rugged, inaccessible nature; ready for
flight, ready for sacrifice,--it mattered not which. His strange soul
displayed the characteristics of the eagle as well as of the precipice.
To kill him? Dreadful to contemplate! To set him free? What a
responsibility!
Suppose Lantenac were saved, it would simply be a return to the
beginning of the Vendée, like a struggle with a hydra, whose head
is not yet severed. In the twinkling of an eye, like the flash of a
meteor, all the flames which expired when this man vanished, would
be rekindled. Lantenac would never rest until he had effected his
detestable plan,--to establish Monarchy like the lid of a tomb over
the Republic, and to give England control over France! He who would
save Lantenac must sacrifice France; Lantenac's life would be death
to a multitude of innocent creatures,--men, women, and children,--who
would again become the prey of civil war; it meant the landing of the
English, the Revolution retarded, the cities sacked, the inhabitants
distracted, Brittany tom and bleeding; in short, it would be like
tossing back his prey to the tiger's claws. And Gauvain, amid all this
uncertain glimmering of cross-lights,--Gauvain, in-his reverie, caught
a vague glimpse of the problem as it gradually took form in his mind:
the setting at liberty of a tiger.
And then the question resumed its former aspect; the stone of Sisyphus,
which is nothing less than the conflict of man with his own conscience,
recoiled upon him. Was Lantenac then a tiger?
Once he may have been; but was he a tiger still? Gauvain grew dizzy
with conflicting thoughts,--thoughts which coiled themselves around
one another after the fashion of a snake. Could one, after mature
consideration, really deny the devotion of Lantenac, his stoical
self-abnegation, his sublime disinterestedness? What! after he had
shown his humanity in the very jaws of civil war? What! when in the
conflict between inferior truths he had shown forth the truth that
stands above all others? What! when he had proved that the deep
tenderness of human nature, the protection that strength owes to
weakness, the duty which binds every man who is saved to lend a helping
hand to his perishing brother, the fatherhood which every old man owes
to every little child, are above all principalities and revolutions,
above all earthly questions whatsoever,--when he had proved the truth
of all these grand things, and proved it by the gift of his own head?
What! general as he was, to have renounced strategy, battle, and
revenge? What! he, being a Royalist, had taken the scales, and placing
in one end the King of France, the monarchy fifteen centuries old, the
restoration of ancient laws and the re-establishment of an old society,
and in the other, three little unknown peasants, and had found the
king, the throne, the sceptre, and the fifteen centuries of monarchy
out-weighed by those innocent creatures?
Could it be possible that all this was to count for nothing? Was he
who had done this to remain a tiger and be treated like a wild beast?
No, no, no! He was no monster, the man whose divine action had just
illumined the abyss of civil war! The sword-bearer had been transformed
into a messenger of light. The infernal Satan had become once more
the heavenly Lucifer. Lantenac had expiated all his cruel deeds by
one act of sacrifice; his moral salvation had been attained by way of
his material ruin; he had returned to a state of innocence; he had
signed his own pardon. Does Hot the right of self-forgiveness exist?
Henceforth he was an object for veneration.
Lantenac had just proved himself a remarkable man. It was now Gauvain's
turn to make fitting response.
The struggle between the passions of good and evil was fast converting
the world into chaos; Lantenac, dominating this same chaos, had set
humanity free, and now it was left for Gauvain to assert the rights of
the family.
What was he about to do?
Was he to betray God's trust?
No. And he muttered to himself: Lantenac must be saved.
Well, then, go your way; connive with the English, desert your country,
ally yourself with her enemy! Save Lantenac and betray France!
Here he shuddered.
Dreamer that thou art, this is no solution! and Gauvain fancied he saw
in the shadow the baleful smile of the sphinx.
This combination of circumstances was like a platform whereon
conflicting truths had taken their stand, ready for the encounter, and
where the three loftiest principles of mankind--humanity, family, and
country--stood face to face.
Each of these voices spoke in turn, and each one spoke the truth.
How was a man to choose? Each one by turns seemed to have discovered
the point of union between justice and wisdom, and said, "Act thus."
Must he obey this voice? Yes. No. Reason suggested one thing,
sentiment another; and their counsels were diametrically opposed.
Logic is nothing more than reason; sentiment is often the voice of the
conscience: the one comes from man, the other from above.
Hence the perceptions of sentiment are less clear, but wield a stronger
influence.
But what a power dwells in stern reason!
Gauvain hesitated.
Torturing perplexities!
Two abysses opened before Gauvain,--to destroy the Marquis, or to save
him? Into one or the other he must needs plunge. Towards which of these
two did duty call him?
II
THE COMMANDER'S HOOD.
The question had indeed resolved itself in a matter of duty.
Duty arose stem-visaged and immutable before the spirit of Cimourdain,
and terrible before that of Gauvain.
Simple to the one; complex, many-sided, devious, to the other.
The hour of midnight sounded; then one o'clock.
Without realizing where he was going, Gauvain had unconsciously
approached the entrance of the breach.
The light of the expiring fire cast now but a dim reflection. The
plateau on the other side of the tower caught the light and became
visible for an instant only, to vanish as the clouds of smoke obscured
the flames. This light, with its unexpected flashes and sudden
darkening shadows, exaggerated the surrounding objects and gave to the
sentinels of the camp the effect of phantoms. Gauvain, lost in thought,
unconsciously watched the alternations of smoke and flame. There seemed
to him a strange analogy between these changes of light and shade and
the varied phases of truth in his own mind.
Suddenly, between two clouds of smoke, a flame burst forth from the bed
of dying coals, threw a brilliant light on the summit of the plateau,
and revealed the red outlines of a wagon. Gauvain gazed upon it. It was
surrounded by horsemen wearing the hats of gendarmes. He concluded that
this must be the same one that he had seen through Guéchamp's spy-glass
against the horizon a few hours before, just as the sun was setting.
There were men on the wagon who appeared to be unloading it. The object
which they were removing seemed heavy, and at times the clanking of
iron could be heard; it would have been difficult to say what it was.
It seemed to be wood-work; two of the men lowered from the wagon and
placed on the ground a case, which, judging from its shape, might
contain some triangular object. The flame died out, and everything was
dark again; Gauvain, wrapped in thought, gazed steadily before him upon
that object now hidden by the darkness.
Lanterns were lighted, and men could be seen moving to and fro on the
plateau; but the outlines were indistinct, and moreover, Gauvain,
standing as he did, and on the opposite side of the ravine, could only
discern those objects which were close to the edge.
He could hear the voices, but not the words. Now and then he caught
the echo of hammering upon the wood. He could also hear a grinding,
metallic sound, like the sharpening of a scythe.
It struck two.
Slowly, and like one who would from choice take two steps forward and
three back, Gauvain advanced towards the breach. On his approach, the
sentinel, recognizing in the dusk the commander's cloak and braided
hood, presented arms. Gauvain entered the hall on the lower floor,
which had been transformed into a guard-room. A lantern hung from the
ceiling, and cast just light enough so that one could cross the hall
without treading on the men, most of whom lay upon the straw, sound
asleep.
There they lay, on the spot where but a few hours since they had
been fighting. The grape-shot, from the careless sweeping, still lay
scattered about beneath them, and was not very comfortable to sleep on;
but weary as they were, they could sleep in spite of it This hall had
been the terrible spot: here the assault had been made; yonder men had
roared, howled, gnashed their teeth, given blow for blow, struck down
the enemy, and in their turn expired; many of their men had fallen dead
upon this floor where they were now slumbering; the same straw on which
they slept had been drenched with the blood of their comrades. Now all
was ended; all the blood was stanched and the sabres dried, the dead
were dead, peacefully slumbering. Such is war; and it may be no longer
than to-morrow before every man among them will sleep the same sleep.
On Gauvain's entrance some of the sleepers rose, among them the officer
in command. Pointing to the door of the dungeon, Gauvain said to him,--
"Open it."
The bolts were drawn, and the door opened.
Gauvain entered the dungeon.
The door closed behind him.
[Illustration: Feudality and Revolution. 132]