RASK followed us. The highest rock in the valley was not yet lighted by
the rays of the sun; a glimmer of light touched it for an instant, and
then passed away.
The negro trembled, and grasped my hand firmly.
“Listen,” said he.
A dull sound like the discharge of a piece of artillery was heard, and
was repeated by the echoes of the valleys.
“It is the signal,” said the negro in a gloomy voice. “It was a cannon
shot, was it not?”
I nodded in sign of the affirmative.
In two bounds he sprang to the top of a lofty rock; I followed him. He
crossed his arms and smiled sadly.
“Do you see that?” asked he.
I looked in the direction to which he pointed, and on the lofty peak to
which he had drawn my attention during our last interview with Marie,
and which was now glowing in the rays of the setting sun, I saw a huge
black flag, its folds flapping idly in the breeze.
(At this point of his recital D’Auverney again paused.)
I learned afterwards that Biassou, in a hurry to leave his ground, had
ordered the flag to be hoisted without waiting for the return of the
negroes who had been despatched to assist at my execution. Bug-Jargal
was still in the same position—his arms folded, and his eyes eagerly
fixed upon the fatal signal.
Suddenly he started, and seemed about to descend from his post of
observation.
“Great heavens! my unfortunate comrades!” cried he. “Did you hear the
gun?”
I made no reply.
“It was the signal, my brother. They are leading them now to the place
of execution.”
His head fell upon his breast; after a short pause, he said—
“Go, brother, and rejoice your wife; Rask will guide you to her;” and he
whistled an African air, which Rask appeared to recognize, for he wagged
his tail, and seemed ready to set out.
Bug-Jargal grasped my hand, and strove to smile, but his features were
contracted, and his look was ghastly.
“Farewell for ever!” cried he, and dashed into the thicket by which we
were surrounded.
I remained motionless; the little that I understood of the position made
me fear the worst.
Rask, on seeing his master disappear, advanced to the edge of the rock,
and, raising his head, uttered a plaintive howl. Then he turned to me,
his tail was between his legs and his eyes were moist; he looked at me
with an air of inquietude, and turned to the spot from which his master
had disappeared, and barked several times. I understood him, and shared
his fears. Suddenly he dashed off in pursuit of his master, and I should
soon have lost sight of him, had he not every now and then halted to
give me time to come up to him. In this manner we passed through many a
valley and leafy glade; we climbed hills and crossed streams. At
last——
D’Auverney’s voice failed him, an expression of despair covered his
face, and he could not find words to continue his narrative.
“Continue it, Thaddeus,” said he, “for I can go on no further.”
The old sergeant was not less distressed than his captain, but he made
an effort to obey him.
“With your permission, gentlemen,” said he, “and since it is your wish,
captain, I must tell you, gentlemen, that Bug-Jargal—otherwise called
Pierrot—was a tall negro, very strong, very gentle, and the bravest man
in the world—except you, captain, if you please; but I was terribly
prejudiced against him, for which I will never pardon myself, though
you, captain, have forgiven me; so much so, that, when we heard that
your execution had been fixed for the evening of the second day, I flew
into a furious rage with the poor fellow, and I felt a fiendish pleasure
in informing him that his death would pay for yours, or that, if he
escaped, ten of his men would be shot by way of reprisal. He said
nothing upon hearing this, but an hour afterwards he made his escape
through a great hole which he pierced in the wall of his prison.”
D’Auverney made a movement of impatience, and Thaddeus continued:
“Well, when we saw the great black flag hoisted on the mountain—and as
the negro had not returned, a fact which surprised none of us—our
officers ordered the signal gun to be fired, and I was ordered to
conduct the ten negroes to the place of execution, a spot we call the
Devil’s Mouth, about—but it does not matter how far it was from the
camp. Well, as you can imagine, we did not take them there to set them
at liberty, but I had them bound, as is the custom, and paraded my
firing party, when who should burst upon us but the tall negro. He was
out of breath with the speed that he had made.
“Good evening, Thaddeus,’ said he. ‘I am in time.’
“No, gentlemen, he did not utter another word, but hastened to unbind
his comrades. I stood there in stupefaction. Then—with your permission,
captain—there was a good deal of generous argument between the other
negroes and himself, which might have lasted longer but—well, it is no
good hiding the fact, it was I that stopped it. At any rate, he took
their place. Then the great dog came, poor Rask; he leapt at my throat:
he ought to have held me longer, but Pierrot made a sign to him, and the
poor brute released me, but his master could not prevent his taking his
place at my feet. Then, believing that you were dead, captain—well, I
was in a fine rage; I gave the word, Bug-Jargal fell, and a bullet broke
the dog’s foot.
“Since that time, gentlemen,” continued the sergeant, sadly, “he has
been lame. Then I heard groans in the adjacent wood; I reached it, and
found you—a stray bullet had hit you as you were running forward to
save the tall negro. Yes, captain, you were wounded, but Bug-Jargal was
dead!
“We carried you back to the camp; you were not dangerously wounded, and
the doctors soon cured you, but I believe Madame Marie’s nursing had a
good deal to do with it.”
The sergeant stopped in his story, and D’Auverney, in a solemn voice,
added—
“Bug-Jargal was dead!”
Thaddeus bowed his head.
“Yes,” said he, “he spared my life, and I—I killed him.”
EPILOGUE.
The reader, in general, is seldom satisfied with the conclusion of a
narrative unless it enters into every detail in winding up the story.
For this reason the minutest researches have been made into the facts
having reference to the concluding details of the last scenes of Leopold
d’Auverney’s life, as well as those of his sergeant and the dog Rask.
The reader is already aware that the captain’s feelings of melancholy
arose partly from the death of Bug-Jargal, otherwise called Pierrot; but
they are not acquainted with the fact that those feelings were terribly
increased by the loss of his beloved Marie, who, after having been
preserved from the horrors that attended the taking of Fort Galifet,
perished in the burning of Cap which took place some weeks later.
The fate of Leopold d’Auverney may be briefly recapitulated. A great
victory had been won by the Republican forces against one of those
united European armies which so often struggled vainly against our
soldiers; and the General of Division, who was in command of the entire
force, was seated in his tent drawing up, from the reports of his staff,
the bulletin which was to be sent to the National Convention concerning
the victory of the day before. As he was thus occupied, an aide-de-camp
announced to him the arrival of a Representative of the People, who
demanded an audience. The general loathed these ambassadors of the
guillotine, who were sent by the party of the Mountain to humiliate the
military officers, and too often to demand the heads of the most gallant
of the men who had fought bravely for the Republic; looking upon them as
chartered informers charged with the hateful mission of spying upon
glory. But it would have been dangerous for him to have refused to admit
him, especially after such a victory as had resulted to the arms of the
Republic.
The gory idol which France had then set up almost invariably demanded
victims of the highest lineage, and the executioners of the Place de la
Revolution were delighted if they could at the same time cause a head
and a coronet to fall—were it one of thorns, like that of Louis XVI.;
of flowers, like those of the girls of Verdun; or of laurels like those
of Custine or of André Chénier. The general, therefore, gave immediate
orders that the Representative of the People should be introduced to his
presence.
After a few clumsy congratulations regarding the recent victory, the
Representative of the People came up close to the general, and muttered
in a suppressed voice—
“But this is not all, Citizen General; it is not enough to destroy the
foreign enemy—those nearer home must be also crushed.”
“What do you mean, Citizen Representative?” asked the astonished
general.
“There is in your division,” answered the emissary of the Convention, in
an unpleasant manner, “a captain named Leopold d’Auverney, who is
serving in the 32nd Brigade; do you know him, general?”
“Know him, certainly I do,” replied the general; “only as you came in I
was reading the report of the Adjutant General which refers to him. The
32nd Brigade had in him an excellent officer, and I was about to
recommend him for promotion.”
“What, Citizen General?” interposed the representative, harshly, “were
you thinking of promoting him?”
“Such was most certainly my intention, citizen.”
“Victory has blinded you, general,” cried the representative,
imperiously; “take care what you say or do. If you cherish serpents who
are the enemies of the people, take care that the people do not crush
you and the serpents at the same moment. This Leopold d’Auverney is an
aristocrat, a hater of the revolution, a royalist, a Girondin! Public
justice demands his head, and he must be given up to me on the spot.”
“I cannot do so,” replied the general, coldly.
“_How! you cannot do so?_” shouted the representative, whose rage was
redoubled at this opposition. “Are you ignorant, general, of the extent
of my power? I, in the name of the Republic, command you, and you have
no option but to obey. Listen to me: in consideration of your recent
success, I will read you the report which has been handed in regarding
this D’Auverney, and which I shall send with him to the Public
Prosecutor. ‘Leopold Auverney (formerly known as D’Auverney), captain in
the 32nd Brigade, is convicted of having, at a meeting of conspirators,
narrated an anti-revolutionary tale, conducing to the ridicule of the
true principles of Equality and Liberty, and exalting the worn-out
superstitions known under the names of _royalty_ and _religion_.
Convicted, secondly, of having used expressions deservedly forbidden by
all good republicans, to describe certain recent events, notably those
referring to the negroes of Saint Domingo. Convicted thirdly, of having
made use of the expression _Monsieur_ instead of _Citizen_ during the
whole of his narrative; and, by the said narrative, of having
endeavoured to bring into contempt the Republic one and indivisible, and
also to propagate the infamous doctrines of the Girondins.’ Death is the
punishment for these crimes, and I demand his body. Do you hesitate,
general, to hand this traitor over to me, to meet the well-merited
punishment of his crimes?”
“Citizen,” answered the general, with dignity, “this enemy of his
country has given his life for her. As a contrast to your report, listen
to an extract from mine. ‘Leopold d’Auverney, captain in the 32nd
Brigade, has contributed largely to the success that our arms have
obtained. A formidable earthwork had been erected by the allies; it was
the key to their position, and it was absolutely necessary to carry it
at the point of the bayonet. It was an almost impregnable position, and
the death of the stormers who led the attack was almost inevitable.
Captain d’Auverney volunteered to lead the forlorn hope; he carried the
earthwork, but was shot down at the moment of victory. Sergeant Thaddeus
of the 32nd, and a large dog, were found dead within a few paces of
him.’ It was my intention to propose that the National Convention should
pass a vote that the Captain Leopold d’Auverney had merited the thanks
of his country. You see, Citizen Representative,” continued the general,
calmly, “that our duties differ slightly—we both send a report to the
Convention. The same name appears in each list: you denounce him as a
traitor, I hold him up to posterity as a hero. You devote him to
ignominy, I to glory; you would erect a scaffold for him, whilst I
propose a statue in his honour. He is fortunate in having, by death in
action, escaped the infamy you proposed for him. He whose death you
desired is dead—he has not waited for you.”
Furious at seeing his conspiracy disappear with the conspirator, the
Representative muttered—
“Dead, is he?—more’s the pity.”
The general caught his words, and in indignant tones exclaimed—
“There is still something left for you, Citizen Representative. Go seek
for the body of Captain d’Auverney amongst the ruins of the redoubt. Who
can tell if the bullets of the enemy may not have spared his head for
his country’s guillotine?”
_CLAUDE GUEUX._
CLAUDE GUEUX.
* * * * *
CLAUDE GUEUX was a poor workman, living in Paris about eight years ago,
with his mistress and child. Although his education had been neglected,
and he could not even read, the man was naturally clever and
intelligent, and thought deeply over matters. Winter came with its
attendant miseries—want of work, want of food, want of fuel. The man,
the woman, the child, were frozen and famished. The man turned thief. I
know not what he stole. What signifies, as the result was the same: to
the woman and child it gave three days’ bread and firing; to the man
five years’ imprisonment.
He was taken to Clairvaux, the abbey now converted into a prison, its
cells into dungeons, and the altar itself into a pillory. This is called
progress.
But to continue our story. Claude Gueux the honest workman, turned thief
from force of circumstances, had a countenance which impressed you: a
high forehead somewhat lined with care, dark hair already streaked with
grey, deep-set eyes beaming with kindness; whilst the lower part clearly
indicated firmness mingled with self-respect. He rarely spoke, yet there
was a certain dignity in the man which commanded respect and obedience.
A fine character, and we shall see what society made of it.
Over the prison workshop was an inspector, who rarely forgot that he was
the gaoler also, to his subordinates, handing them the tools with one
hand, and casting chains upon them with the other. A tyrant, never using
even self-reasoning, with ideas against which there was no appeal, hard
rather than firm, at times he could even be jocular; doubtless a good
father, a good husband, really not vicious, but _bad_. He was one of
those men who never can grasp a fresh idea, who apparently fail to be
moved by any emotion; yet with hatred and rage in their hearts they look
like blocks of wood, heated on the one side but frozen on the other.
This man’s chief characteristic was obstinacy; and so proud was he of
this very stubbornness that he compared himself to Napoleon—an optical
delusion, like taking the mere flicker of a candle for a star. When he
had made up his mind to a thing, however absurd, he would carry out that
absurd idea. How often it happens, when a catastrophe occurs, if we
inquire into the cause, we find it originated through the obstinacy of
one with little ability, but having full faith in his own powers.
Such was the inspector of the prison workshop at Clairvaux; a man of
flint placed by society over others, who hoped to strike sparks out of
such material—but a spark from a like source is apt to end in a
conflagration.
The inspector soon singled out Claude Gueux, who had been numbered and
placed in the workshop, and, finding him clever, treated him well.
Seeing Claude looking sad—for he was ever thinking of her he termed his
wife—and being in a good humour, by way of pastime to console the
prisoner, he told him the woman had become one of the unfortunate
sisterhood, and taken to infamy; of the child nothing was known.
After a time Claude had accustomed himself to prison rule, and by his
calmness of manner, and a certain amount of resolution clearly marked in
his face, he had acquired a great ascendency over his companions, who so
much admired him that they consulted, and tried in all ways to imitate
him. The very expression in his eyes clearly indicated the man’s
character; besides, is not the eye the window to the soul, and what
other result could be anticipated than that the intelligent spirit
should lead men with few ideas, who yielded to the attraction as the
metal does to the loadstone. In less than three months Claude was the
virtual head of the workshop, and at times he almost doubted whether he
was king or prisoner, treated something like a captive pope, surrounded
by his cardinals. Such popularity ever has its attendant hatred, and
though beloved by the prisoners, Claude was detested by the gaolers. To
him two men’s rations would have been scarcely sufficient. The inspector
laughed at this, as his own appetite was large; but what would be mirth
to a duke, to a prisoner would be a great misfortune. When a free man
Claude Gueux could earn his daily four-pound loaf and enjoy it, but as a
prisoner he daily worked, and for his labour received one pound and
a-half of bread and four ounces of meat; it naturally followed that he
was always hungry.
He had just finished his meagre fare, and was about to resume his
labours, hoping in work to forget famine, when a weakly-looking young
man came towards him, holding a knife and his untasted rations in his
hand, but seemingly afraid to address him.
“What do you want?” said Claude, roughly.
“A favour at your hands,” timidly replied the young man.
“What is it?” said Claude.
“Help me with my rations, I have more than I can eat.”
For a moment Claude was taken aback, but without further ceremony he
divided the food in two and at once partook of one half.
“Thank you,” said the young man, “and allow me to share my rations with
you every day.”
“What is your name?” said Claude.
“Albin.”
“Why are you here?” added Claude.
“I robbed.”
“So did I,” said Claude.
The same scene took place daily between this man, old before his
time—he was only thirty-six—and the boy of twenty, who looked at the
most seventeen. The feeling was more like that of father and son than
one brother to another; everything created a bond of union between
them—the very toil they endured together, the fact of sleeping in the
same quarters and taking exercise in the same courtyard. They were
happy, for were they not all the world to each other!
The inspector of the workshop was so hated by the prisoners that he
often had recourse to Claude Gueux to enforce his authority; and when a
tumult was on the point of breaking out, a few words from Claude had
more effect than the authority of ten warders. Although the inspector
was glad to avail himself of this influence, he was jealous, and hated
the improved robber with an envious and implacable feeling—an example
of might over right, all the more fearful as it was secretly nourished.
Claude cared so much for Albin that he thought little about the
inspector.
One morning as the warders were going their rounds one of them summoned
Albin, who was working with Claude, to go before the inspector.
“What are you wanted for?” said Claude.
“I do not know,” replied Albin, following the warder.
All day Claude looked in vain for his companion, and at night, finding
him still absent, he broke through his ordinary reserve and addressed
the turnkey.
“Is Albin ill?” said he.
“No,” replied the man.
“How is it that he has never put in an appearance to-day?”
“His quarters have been changed,” was the reply.
For a moment Claude trembled, then calmly continued—
“Who gave the order?”
“Monsieur D——.” This was the inspector’s name.
On the following night the inspector, Monsieur D——, went his rounds as
usual; Claude, who had perceived him from the distance, rose, and
hastened to raise his woollen cap and button his grey woollen vest to
the throat—considered a mark of respect to superiors in prison
discipline.
“Sir,” said Claude, as the inspector was about to pass him, “has Albin
really been quartered elsewhere?”
“Yes,” replied the inspector.
“Sir, I cannot live without him. You know the rations are insufficient
for me, and Albin divided his portion with me. Could you not manage to
let him resume his old place near me?”
“Impossible, the order cannot be revoked.”
“By whom was it given?”
“By me.”
“Monsieur D——,” replied Claude, “on you my life depends.”
“I never cancel an order once given.”
“Sir, what have I ever done to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Why, then,” cried Claude, “separate me from Albin?”
“Because I do,” replied the inspector, and with that he passed on.
Claude’s head sunk down, like the poor caged lion deprived of his dog;
but the grief, though so deeply felt, in no way changed his appetite—he
was famished. Many offered to share their rations with him, but he
steadily refused, and continued his usual routine in silence, breaking
it only to ask the inspector daily, in tones of anguish mingled with
rage, something between a prayer and a threat, these two words:
“And Albin?”
The inspector simply passed on, shrugging his shoulders, but had he only
observed Claude he would have seen the evident change, noticeable to all
present.
“Sir, listen to me; send my companion to me. It would be wise to do so,
I can assure you. Remember my words.”
On Sunday he had sat for hours in the courtyard, with his head bowed in
his hands, and when a prisoner called Faillette came up laughing, he
said—
“I am judging someone.”
On the 25th of October, 1831, as the inspector went his rounds, Claude,
to draw his attention, smashed a watch-glass he had found in the
passage. This had the desired effect.
“It was I,” said Claude. “Sir, restore my comrade to me.”
“Impossible,” was the answer.
Looking the inspector full in the face, Claude firmly added—
“Now reflect; to-day is the 25th of October, I give you till the 4th of
November.”
A warder remarked that Claude was threatening Monsieur D——, and ought
at once to be locked up.
“No, it is not a case of blackhole,” replied the inspector, smiling
disdainfully; “we must be considerate with people of this stamp.”
The following day Claude was again accosted by one of the prisoners
named Pernot, as he was brooding in the courtyard.
“Well, Claude, you are sad indeed; what are you pondering over?”
“I fear some evil threatens that good Monsieur D——,” answered Claude.
Claude daily impressed the fact on the inspector how much Albin’s
absence affected him, but with no result save four-and-twenty hours’
solitary confinement.
On the 4th of November he looked round his cell for the little that
remained to remind him of his former life. A pair of scissors, and an
old volume of the “Emile,” belonging to the woman he had loved so well,
the mother of his child—how useless to a man who could neither work nor
read!
As Claude walked down the old cloisters, so dishonoured by its new
inmates and its fresh white-washed walls, he noticed how earnestly the
convict Ferrari was looking at the heavy iron bars which crossed the
window.
“To-night I will cut through those bars with these scissors,” pointing
to the pair he still held in his hand.
Ferrari laughed incredulously, and Claude joined in the mirth. During
the day he worked with more than ordinary ardour, wishing to finish a
straw hat, which he had been paid for in advance by a tradesman at
Troyes, M. Bressier.
Shortly before noon he made some excuse to go down into the carpenters’
quarters, a story below his own, at the time the warders were absent.
Claude received a hearty welcome, as he was equally popular here as
elsewhere.
“Can any one lend me an axe?”
“What for?”
Without exacting any promises of secrecy he at once replied—
“To kill the inspector with to-night.”
He was at once offered several; choosing the smallest, he hid it beneath
his waistcoat and left. Now there were twenty-seven prisoners present,
and not one of those men betrayed him; they even refrained from talking
upon the subject among themselves, waiting for the terrible event which
must follow.
As Claude passed on he saw a young convict of sixteen yawning idly
there, and he strongly advised him to learn how to read. Just then
Faillette asked what he was hiding. Claude answered unhesitatingly—
“An axe to kill Monsieur D—— to-night; but can you see it?”
“A little,” said Faillette.
At seven o’clock the prisoners were locked in their several workshops.
It was then the custom for the warders to leave them, until the
inspector had been his rounds.
In Claude’s workshop a most extraordinary scene took place, the only one
of the kind on record.
Claude rose and addressed his companions, eighty-four in number, in the
following words:
“You all know Albin and I were like brothers. I liked him at first for
sharing his rations with me, afterwards because he cared for me. Now I
never have sufficient, though I spend the pittance I earn in bread. It
could make no possible difference to the inspector, Monsieur D——, that
we should be together; but he chose to separate us simply from a love of
tormenting, for he is a bad man. I asked again and again for Albin to be
sent back, without success; and when I gave him a stated time, the 4th
of November, I was thrust into a dungeon. During that time I became his
judge, and sentenced him to death on November the 4th. In two hours he
will be here, and I warn you I intend to kill him. But have you anything
to say?”
There was a dead silence. Claude then continued telling his comrades,
the eighty-one thieves, his ideas on the subject.
That he was reduced to a fearful extremity, and compelled by that very
necessity to take the law into his own hands. He knew full well he could
not take the inspector’s life without sacrificing his own; but as the
cause was a just one, he would bear the consequences, having come to
this conclusion after two months’ calm reflection. If they considered
resentment alone hurried him on to such a step, they were at once to say
so, and to state their objections to the sentence being carried out.
One voice alone broke the silence which followed, saying—
“Before killing the inspector, Claude ought to give him a chance of
relenting.”
“That is but just,” said Claude, “and he shall have the benefit of the
doubt.”
Claude then sorted the few things a poor prisoner is allowed, and gave
them to the comrades he mostly cared for after Albin, keeping only the
pair of scissors. He then embraced them all; some could not withhold
their tears at such a moment. Claude continued calmly to converse during
this last hour, and even gave way to a trick he had as a boy, of
extinguishing the candle with a breath from his nose. Seeing him thus,
his companions afterwards owned, they hoped he had abandoned his
sinister idea.
One young convict looked at him fixedly, trembling for the coming event.
“Take courage, young fellow,” said Claude, gently, “it will be but the
work of a minute.”
The workshop was a long room with a door at both ends, and windows each
side overlooking the benches, thus leaving a pathway up the centre for
the inspector to review the work on both sides of him.
Claude had now resumed his work—something like Jacques Clement, who did
not fail to repeat his prayers.
As the clock sounded the last quarter to nine, Claude rose and placed
himself near the entrance, apparently calm.
Amidst the most profound silence the clock struck nine; the door was
thrown open, and the inspector came in as usual alone, looking quite
jovial and self-satisfied, passing rapidly along, tossing his head at
one, grinding words out to another, little heeding the eyes fixed so
fiercely upon him.
Just then he heard Claude’s step, and turning quickly round said—
“What are you doing here? why are you not in your place?” just as he
would have spoken to a dog.
Claude answered respectfully—
“I wish to speak to you, sir.”
“On what subject?”
“Albin.”
“Again!”
“Always the same,” said Claude.
“So then,” replied the inspector, walking along, “you have not had
enough with twenty-four hours in the blackhole.”
Claude, following him closely, replied—
“Sir, return my companion to me.”
“Impossible.”
“Sir,” continued Claude, in a voice which would have moved Satan, “I
implore you to send Albin back to me; you will then see how I will work.
You are free, and it would matter but little to you; you do not know the
feeling of having only one friend. To me it is everything, encircled by
the prison walls. You can come and go at your pleasure; I have but
Albin. Pray let him come back to me! You know well he shared his food
with me. What can it matter to you that a man named Claude Gueux should
be in this hall, having another by his side called Albin? You have but
to say ‘Yes,’ nothing more. Sir, my good sir, I implore you, in the name
of heaven, to grant my prayer!”
Claude, overcome with emotion, waited for the answer.
“Impossible,” replied the inspector, impatiently; “I will not recall my
words. Now go, you annoyance.”
And with that he hurried on towards the outer door, amidst the
breathless silence maintained by the eighty-one thieves.
Claude, touching the inspector, gently asked—
“Let me at least know why I am condemned to death. Why did you separate
us?”
“I have already answered you: because I chose.”
With that he was about to lift the latch, when Claude raised the axe,
and without one cry the inspector fell to the ground, with his skull
completely cloven from three heavy blows dealt with the rapidity of
lightning. A fourth completely disfigured his face, and Claude, in his
mad fury, gave another and a useless blow, for the inspector was dead.
Claude, throwing the axe aside, cried out, “Now for the other.”
The other was himself, and taking the scissors, _his wife’s_, he plunged
them into his breast; but the blade was short, and the chest was deep,
and vainly he strove to give the fatal blow. At last, covered with
blood, he fell fainting across the dead.
Which of the two would be considered the victim?
When Claude recovered consciousness he was in bed, surrounded by every
care and covered with bandages. Near him were sisters of charity, and a
recorder ready to take down his deposition, who with much interest
inquired how he was.
Claude had lost a great deal of blood, but the scissors had done him a
bad turn, inflicting wounds not one the least dangerous: the only mortal
blows he had struck were on the body of Monsieur D——.
Then the interrogatory commenced.
“Did you kill the inspector of the prison workshops at Clairvaux?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Why did you do so?”
“Because I did.”
Claude’s wounds now assumed a more serious aspect, and he was prostrated
with fever which threatened his life. November, December, January,
February passed, in nursing and preparations, and Claude in turn was
visited by doctor and judge—the one to restore him to health, the other
to glean the foundation for his scaffold.
On the 16th of March, 1832, perfectly cured, Claude appeared in court at
Troyes, to answer the charge brought against him.
His appearance impressed the court favourably; he had been shaved and
stood bareheaded, but still clad in prison garb.
The court was well guarded by a strong military guard, to keep the
witnesses within bounds, as they were all convicts. But an unexpected
difficulty occurred: not one of these men would give evidence; neither
questions nor threats availed to make them break their silence, until
Claude requested them to do so. Then they in turn gave a faithful
account of the terrible event, and if one, from forgetfulness or
affection for the accused, failed to relate the whole facts, Claude
supplied the deficiency.
At one time the women’s tears fell fast. The usher now called the
convict Albin. He came in trembling with emotion and sobbing painfully,
and threw himself into Claude’s arms.
Turning to the Public Prosecutor, Claude said—
“Here is a convict who gives his food to the hungry,” and stooping, he
kissed Albin’s hand.
All the witnesses having been examined, the counsel for the prosecution
then rose to address the court.
“Gentlemen of the jury, society would be utterly put to confusion if a
public prosecution did not condemn great culprits like him, who, &c.”
After a long address, Claude’s counsel rose. Then followed the usual
pleading for and against, which ever takes place at the criminal court.
Claude, in his turn, gave evidence, and people were astonished at his
intelligence; and there appeared far more of the orator about this poor
workman than the assassin. In a clear and straightforward way he
detailed the facts as they were—standing proudly there, resolved to
tell the whole truth. At times the crowd was carried away by his
eloquence. This man, who could not read, would grasp the most difficult
points of argument, yet treat the judges with all due deference. Once
Claude lost his temper, when the counsel for the prosecution stated that
he had assassinated the inspector without provocation.
“What!” cried Claude, “I had no provocation! Indeed: so a drunkard
strikes me, I kill him, then you would allow there was provocation—the
penalty of death would be changed for that of the galleys; but a man who
wounds me in every way during four years, humiliates me for four years,
taunts me daily, hourly, for four years, and heaps every insult on my
head—what follows? You consider I have had no provocation. I had a wife
for whom I robbed—he tortured me about her; I had a child for whom I
robbed—he taunted me about this child; I was hungry, a friend shared
his bread with me—he took away my friend. I begged him to return my
friend to me; he cast me into a dungeon. I told him how much I suffered;
he said it wearied him to listen. What then would you have me do? I took
his life, and you look upon me as a monster for killing this man, and
you decapitate me—then do so.”
Provocation such as this the law fails to acknowledge, because the blows
have no marks to show.
The judge then summed up the case in a clear and impartial manner;
dwelling on the life Claude had led, living openly with an improper
character; then he had robbed, and ended by being a murderer. All this
was true.
Before the jury retired, the judge asked Claude if he had any questions
to ask, or anything to say.
“Very little,” said Claude, however. “I am a murderer, I am a thief; but
I ask you, gentlemen of the jury, why did I kill? why did I steal?”
The jury retired for a quarter of an hour, and according to the judgment
of these twelve countrymen—_gentlemen of the jury_, as they are
styled—Claude Gueux was condemned to death.
At the very onset several of them were much impressed with the name of
Gueux (vagabond), and that influenced their decision.
When the verdict was pronounced, Claude simply said—
“Very well; but there are two questions these gentlemen have not
answered. Why did this man steal? What made him a murderer?”
He made a good supper that night, exclaiming, “Thirty-six years have now
passed me.”
He refused to make any appeal until the last minute, but at the instance
of one of the sisters who had nursed him he consented to do so.
She in her fulness of heart gave him a five-franc piece.
His fellow-prisoners, as we have already noticed, were devoted to him,
and placed all the means at their disposal to help him to escape: they
threw into his dungeon, through the air-hole, a nail, some wire, the
handle of a pail—any one of these would have been enough for a man like
Claude to free himself from his chains; he gave them up to the warder.
On the 8th of June, 1832, seven months and four days after the murder,
the recorder of the court came, and Claude was told he had but one hour
more to live, for his appeal had been rejected.
“Indeed,” said Claude, coldly; “I slept well last night, and doubtless I
shall pass my next even better.”
First came the priest, then the executioner. He was humble to the
priest, and listened to him with great attention, regretting much that
he had not had the benefit of religious training; at the same time
blaming himself for much in the past.
He was courteous in his manner to the executioner; in fact he gave up
all—his soul to the priest, his body to the executioner.
Whilst his hair was being cut, some one mentioned how the cholera was
spreading, and Troyes at any moment might become a prey to this fearful
scourge. Claude joined in the conversation, saying, with a smile—“There
is one thing to be said, I have no fear of the cholera.”
He had broken half of the scissors; what remained he asked the gaoler to
give to Albin—the other half lay buried in his chest. He also wished
the day’s rations to be taken to his friend.
The only trifle he retained was the five-franc piece that the sister had
given him, which he kept in his right hand after he was bound.
At a quarter to eight, the dismal procession usual in such cases left
the prison. Pale, but with a firm tread, Claude Gueux slowly mounted the
scaffold, keeping his eyes fixed on the crucifix the priest carried—an
emblem of the Saviour’s suffering. He wished to embrace the priest and
the executioner, thanking the one and pardoning the other. The
executioner simply repulsed him.
Just before he was bound to the infernal machine he gave the five-franc
piece to the priest, saying, “For the poor.”
The hour had scarcely struck its eight chimes, when this man, so noble,
so intelligent, received the fatal blow which severed his head from his
body.
A market-day had been chosen for the time of execution, as there would
be more people about, for there are still in France small towns who
glory in having an execution. The guillotine that day remained,
inflaming the imagination of the mob to that extent that one of the
tax-gatherers was nearly murdered: such is the admirable effect of
public executions.
We have given the history of Claude Gueux’s life, more to solve a
difficult problem than for aught else. In his life there are two
questions to be considered. Before his fall, and after his fall. What
was his training, and what was the penalty? This must interest society
generally, for this man was well gifted, his instincts were good: then
what was wanting? On this revolves the grand problem which would place
society on a firm basis.
_What nature has commenced in the individual, let society carry out._
Look at Claude Gueux. An intelligent and most noble-hearted man, placed
in the midst of evil surroundings, he turned thief. Society placed him
in a prison where the evil was yet greater, and he ended with becoming a
murderer.
Can we really blame him, or ourselves?—questions which require deep
thought, or the result will be that we shall be _compelled_ to shirk
this most important subject. The facts are now before us, and if the
government gives no thought to the matter, what are the rulers about?
The Deputies are yearly much occupied. It is important to sift sinecures
and to unravel the budget; to pass an act which compels me, disguised as
a soldier, to mount guard at the Count de Lobau’s, whom I do not know,
and to whom I wish to remain a stranger; or to go on parade under the
command of my grocer, who has been made an officer. I wish to cast no
reflections on the patrol, who keep order and protect our homes, but on
the absurdity of making such parade and military hubbub about turning
citizens into parodies of soldiers.
Deputies or ministers, it is important we should sound every subject,
even though it end in nothing, to question and cross-question what we
know but little about. Rulers and legislators, you pass your time in
classical comparisons that would make a village schoolmaster smile. You
assert that it is the habits of modern civilization that have engendered
adultery, incest, parricide, infanticide, and poisoning—proving that
you know little of Jocasta Phedra, Œdipus, Medea, or Rodoguna. The great
orators occupy themselves in lengthy discussions on Corneille and
Racine, and get so heated in literary argument as to make the grossest
mistakes in the French language.
Very important indeed all this is, but we consider there are subjects of
far greater consequence.
In the midst of such useless arguments, what answer would the Deputies
give if one rose and gravely addressed them in the following words:—
“Silence, all those who have been speaking—silence I say! You consider
yourself acquainted with the question: you know nothing about it.
“The question is this. In the name of justice, scarcely a year ago, a
man at Panners was cut to pieces; at Dijon a woman’s head was taken off;
in Paris, at Saint Jacques, executions take place without number.
“This is the question! Now take your time to consider it, you who argue
over the buttons of the national guard, whether they should be white or
yellow, and if _security_ is preferable to _certainty_!
“Gentlemen of the Right, gentleman of the Left, the great mass of the
people suffer!
“Whether a republic or a monarchy, the fact remains the same—the people
suffer!
“The people are famished, the people are frozen. Such misery leads them
on to crime: the galleys take the sons, houses of ill-fame the
daughters. You have too many convicts, too many unfortunates.
“What is the meaning of this social gangrene?
“You are near the patient: treat the malady. You are at fault: now study
the matter more deeply.
“When you pass laws, what are they but expedients and palliatives? Half
your codes result from routine.
“Branding but cauterizes the wound, and it mortifies, and what is the
end? You stamp the crime for life on the criminal; you make two friends
of them, two companions—inseparables. The convict prison is a blister
which spreads far worse matter than ever it extracts; and as for the
sentence of death, when carried out it is a barbarous amputation.
“Therefore, branding, penal servitude, and sentence of death are all of
one class; you have done away with the branding, banish the rest. Why
keep the chain and the chopper now you have put aside the hot iron?
Farinace was atrocious, but he was not ridiculous.
“Take down that worn ladder that leads to crime and to suffering. Revise
your laws; revise your codes; rebuild your prisons; replace your judges.
Make laws suited to the present time
“You are bent on economy; do not be so lavish in taking off the heads of
so many during the year. Suppress the executioner; you could defray the
expenses of six hundred schoolmasters with the wages you give your
eighty executioners. Think of the multitude; then there would be schools
for the children, workshops for the men.
“Do you know that in France there are fewer people who know how to read
than in any other country in Europe? Fancy, Switzerland can read,
Belgium can read, Denmark can read, Greece can read, Ireland can
read—and France cannot read! It is a crying evil.
“Go into our convict prisons, examine each one of these condemned men,
and you will observe by the profile, the shape of the head, how many
could find their type in the lower animals. Here are the lynx, the cat,
the monkey, the vulture, the hyena. Nature was first to blame, no doubt;
but the want of training fostered the evil. Then give the people a fair
education, and what there is of good in these ill-conditioned minds, let
that be developed.
“People must be judged by their opportunities. Rome and Greece were
educated: then brighten the people’s intellect.
“When France can read, then give the people encouragement for higher
things. Ignorance is preferable to a little ill-directed knowledge; and
remember, there is a book of far greater importance than the _Compère
Mathieu_, more popular than the _Constitutionel_, and more worthy of
perusal than the charter of 1830—that is the Bible.
“Whatever you may do for the people, the majority will always remain
poor and unhappy. Theirs the work, the heavy burden to carry, to endure:
all the miseries for the poor, all the pleasures for the rich.
“As such is life, ought not the State to lean to the weaker and helpless
side.”
“In the midst of all this wretchedness, if you but throw hope in the
balance, let the poor man learn there is a heaven where joy reigns, a
paradise that he can share, and you raise him; he feels that he has a
part in the rich man’s joys. And this was the teaching Jesus gave, and
He knew more about it than Voltaire.
“Then give to these people who work, and who suffer here, the hope of a
different world to come, and they will go on patiently. For patience but
follows in the footsteps of hope.
“Then spread the Gospel in all our villages, let every cottage have its
Bible; the seed thus sown will soon circulate. Encourage virtue, and
from that will spring so much that now lies fallow.
“The man turned assassin under certain circumstances, if differently
influenced would have served his country well.
“Then give the people all encouragement; improve the masses, enlighten
them, guard their morals, make them useful, and to such heads as those
you will not require to use cold steel.”
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.