“What is he? Is he not a teacher of Greek, an abbé, a monk, until
monasteries were abolished, the learned editor of the songs of
‘Anacreon?’”
“He WAS all this,” replied my grim friend; “he is now a Member of the
Committee of Public Safety, and would think no more of ordering your
head off than of drinking this tumbler of beer.”
He swallowed, himself, the frothy liquid, and then proceeded to give me
the history of the man to whom my uncle had sent me for instruction.
Schneider was born in 1756: was a student at Würzburg, and afterwards
entered a convent, where he remained nine years. He here became
distinguished for his learning and his talents as a preacher, and
became chaplain to Duke Charles of Würtemberg. The doctrines of the
Illuminati began about this time to spread in Germany, and Schneider
speedily joined the sect. He had been a professor of Greek at Cologne;
and being compelled, on account of his irregularity, to give up his
chair, he came to Strasburg at the commencement of the French
Revolution, and acted for some time a principal part as a revolutionary
agent at Strasburg.
[“Heaven knows what would have happened to me had I continued long
under his tuition!” said the Captain. “I owe the preservation of my
morals entirely to my entering the army. A man, sir, who is a soldier,
has very little time to be wicked; except in the case of a siege and
the sack of a town, when a little license can offend nobody.”]
By the time that my friend had concluded Schneider’s biography, we had
grown tolerably intimate, and I imparted to him (with that experience
so remarkable in youth) my whole history—my course of studies, my
pleasant country life, the names and qualities of my dear relations,
and my occupations in the vestry before religion was abolished by order
of the Republic. In the course of my speech I recurred so often to the
name of my cousin Mary, that the gentleman could not fail to perceive
what a tender place she had in my heart.
Then we reverted to “The Sorrows of Werter,” and discussed the merits
of that sublime performance. Although I had before felt some misgivings
about my new acquaintance, my heart now quite yearned towards him. He
talked about love and sentiment in a manner which made me recollect
that I was in love myself; and you know that when a man is in that
condition, his taste is not very refined, any maudlin trash of prose or
verse appearing sublime to him, provided it correspond, in some degree,
with his own situation.
“Candid youth!” cried my unknown, “I love to hear thy innocent story
and look on thy guileless face. There is, alas! so much of the contrary
in this world, so much terror and crime and blood, that we who mingle
with it are only too glad to forget it. Would that we could shake off
our cares as men, and be boys, as thou art, again!”
Here my friend began to weep once more, and fondly shook my hand. I
blessed my stars that I had, at the very outset of my career, met with
one who was so likely to aid me. What a slanderous world it is, thought
I; the people in our village call these Republicans wicked and
bloody-minded; a lamb could not be more tender than this sentimental
bottle-nosed gentleman! The worthy man then gave me to understand that
he held a place under Government. I was busy in endeavoring to discover
what his situation might be, when the door of the next apartment
opened, and Schneider made his appearance.
At first he did not notice me, but he advanced to my new acquaintance,
and gave him, to my astonishment, something very like a blow.
“You drunken, talking fool,” he said, “you are always after your time.
Fourteen people are cooling their heels yonder, waiting until you have
finished your beer and your sentiment!”
My friend slunk muttering out of the room.
“That fellow,” said Schneider, turning to me, “is our public
executioner: a capital hand too if he would but keep decent time; but
the brute is always drunk, and blubbering over ‘The Sorrows of
Werter!’”
I know not whether it was his old friendship for my uncle, or my proper
merits, which won the heart of this the sternest ruffian of
Robespierre’s crew; but certain it is, that he became strangely
attached to me, and kept me constantly about his person. As for the
priesthood and the Greek, they were of course very soon out of the
question. The Austrians were on our frontier; every day brought us
accounts of battles won; and the youth of Strasburg, and of all France,
indeed, were bursting with military ardor. As for me, I shared the
general mania, and speedily mounted a cockade as large as that of my
friend, the executioner.
The occupations of this worthy were unremitting. Saint Just, who had
come down from Paris to preside over our town, executed the laws and
the aristocrats with terrible punctuality; and Schneider used to make
country excursions in search of offenders with this fellow, as a
provost-marshal, at his back. In the meantime, having entered my
sixteenth year, and being a proper lad of my age, I had joined a
regiment of cavalry, and was scampering now after the Austrians who
menaced us, and now threatening the Emigrés, who were banded at
Coblentz. My love for my dear cousin increased as my whiskers grew; and
when I was scarcely seventeen, I thought myself man enough to marry
her, and to cut the throat of any one who should venture to say me nay.
I need not tell you that during my absence at Strasburg, great changes
had occurred in our little village, and somewhat of the revolutionary
rage had penetrated even to that quiet and distant place. The hideous
“Fête of the Supreme Being” had been celebrated at Paris; the practice
of our ancient religion was forbidden; its professors were most of them
in concealment, or in exile, or had expiated on the scaffold their
crime of Christianity. In our poor village my uncle’s church was
closed, and he, himself, an inmate in my brother’s house, only owing
his safety to his great popularity among his former flock, and the
influence of Edward Ancel.
The latter had taken in the Revolution a somewhat prominent part; that
is, he had engaged in many contracts for the army, attended the clubs
regularly, corresponded with the authorities of his department, and was
loud in his denunciations of the aristocrats in the neighborhood. But
owing, perhaps, to the German origin of the peasantry, and their quiet
and rustic lives, the revolutionary fury which prevailed in the cities
had hardly reached the country people. The occasional visit of a
commissary from Paris or Strasburg served to keep the flame alive, and
to remind the rural swains of the existence of a Republic in France.
Now and then, when I could gain a week’s leave of absence, I returned
to the village, and was received with tolerable politeness by my uncle,
and with a warmer feeling by his daughter.
I won’t describe to you the progress of our love, or the wrath of my
uncle Edward, when he discovered that it still continued. He swore and
he stormed; he locked Mary into her chamber, and vowed that he would
withdraw the allowance he made me, if ever I ventured near her. His
daughter, he said, should never marry a hopeless, penniless subaltern;
and Mary declared she would not marry without his consent. What had I
to do?—to despair and to leave her. As for my poor uncle Jacob, he had
no counsel to give me, and, indeed, no spirit left: his little church
was turned into a stable, his surplice torn off his shoulders, and he
was only too lucky in keeping HIS HEAD on them. A bright thought struck
him: suppose you were to ask the advice of my old friend Schneider
regarding this marriage? he has ever been your friend, and may help you
now as before.
(Here the Captain paused a little.) You may fancy (continued he) that
it was droll advice of a reverend gentleman like uncle Jacob to counsel
me in this manner, and to bid me make friends with such a murderous
cut-throat as Schneider; but we thought nothing of it in those days;
guillotining was as common as dancing, and a man was only thought the
better patriot the more severe he might be. I departed forthwith to
Strasburg, and requested the vote and interest of the Citizen President
of the Committee of Public Safety.
He heard me with a great deal of attention. I described to him most
minutely the circumstance, expatiated upon the charms of my dear Mary,
and painted her to him from head to foot. Her golden hair and her
bright blushing cheeks, her slim waist and her tripping tiny feet; and
furthermore, I added that she possessed a fortune which ought, by
rights, to be mine, but for the miserly old father. “Curse him for an
aristocrat!” concluded I, in my wrath.
As I had been discoursing about Mary’s charms Schneider listened with
much complacency and attention: when I spoke about her fortune, his
interest redoubled; and when I called her father an aristocrat, the
worthy ex-Jesuit gave a grin of satisfaction, which was really quite
terrible. O fool that I was to trust him so far!
The very same evening an officer waited upon me with the following note
from Saint Just:—
“STRASBURG, Fifth year of the Republic, one and indivisible, 11
Ventose.
“The citizen Pierre Ancel is to leave Strasburg within two hours, and
to carry the enclosed despatches to the President of the Committee of
Public Safety at Paris. The necessary leave of absence from his
military duties has been provided. Instant punishment will follow the
slightest delay on the road.
“Salut et Fraternité.”
There was no choice but obedience, and off I sped on my weary way to
the capital.
As I was riding out of the Paris gate I met an equipage which I knew to
be that of Schneider. The ruffian smiled at me as I passed, and wished
me a bon voyage. Behind his chariot came a curious machine, or cart; a
great basket, three stout poles, and several planks, all painted red,
were lying in this vehicle, on the top of which was seated my friend
with the big cockade. It was the PORTABLE GUILLOTINE which Schneider
always carried with him on his travels. The bourreau was reading “The
Sorrows of Werter,” and looked as sentimental as usual.
I will not speak of my voyage in order to relate to you Schneider’s. My
story had awakened the wretch’s curiosity and avarice, and he was
determined that such a prize as I had shown my cousin to be should fall
into no hands but his own. No sooner, in fact, had I quitted his room
than he procured the order for my absence, and was on the way to
Steinbach as I met him.
The journey is not a very long one; and on the next day my uncle Jacob
was surprised by receiving a message that the citizen Schneider was in
the village, and was coming to greet his old friend. Old Jacob was in
an ecstasy, for he longed to see his college acquaintance, and he hoped
also that Schneider had come into that part of the country upon the
marriage-business of your humble servant. Of course Mary was summoned
to give her best dinner, and wear her best frock; and her father made
ready to receive the new State dignitary.
Schneider’s carriage speedily rolled into the court-yard, and
Schneider’s CART followed, as a matter of course. The ex-priest only
entered the house; his companion remaining with the horses to dine in
private. Here was a most touching meeting between him and Jacob. They
talked over their old college pranks and successes; they capped Greek
verses, and quoted ancient epigrams upon their tutors, who had been
dead since the Seven Years’ War. Mary declared it was quite touching to
listen to the merry friendly talk of these two old gentlemen.
After the conversation had continued for a time in this strain,
Schneider drew up all of a sudden, and said quietly, that he had come
on particular and unpleasant business—hinting about troublesome times,
spies, evil reports, and so forth. Then he called uncle Edward aside,
and had with him a long and earnest conversation: so Jacob went out and
talked with Schneider’s FRIEND; they speedily became very intimate, for
the ruffian detailed all the circumstances of his interview with me.
When he returned into the house, some time after this pleasing
colloquy, he found the tone of the society strangely altered. Edward
Ancel, pale as a sheet, trembling, and crying for mercy; poor Mary
weeping; and Schneider pacing energetically about the apartment, raging
about the rights of man, the punishment of traitors, and the one and
indivisible republic.
“Jacob,” he said, as my uncle entered the room, “I was willing, for the
sake of our old friendship, to forget the crimes of your brother. He is
a known and dangerous aristocrat; he holds communications with the
enemy on the frontier; he is a possessor of great and ill-gotten
wealth, of which he has plundered the Republic. Do you know,” said he,
turning to Edward Ancel, “where the least of these crimes, or the mere
suspicion of them, would lead you?”
Poor Edward sat trembling in his chair, and answered not a word. He
knew full well how quickly, in this dreadful time, punishment followed
suspicion; and, though guiltless of all treason with the enemy, perhaps
he was aware that, in certain contracts with the Government, he had
taken to himself a more than patriotic share of profit.
“Do you know,” resumed Schneider, in a voice of thunder, “for what
purpose I came hither, and by whom I am accompanied? I am the
administrator of the justice of the Republic. The life of yourself and
your family is in my hands: yonder man, who follows me, is the executor
of the law; he has rid the nation of hundreds of wretches like
yourself. A single word from me, and your doom is sealed without hope,
and your last hour is come. Ho! Gregoire!” shouted he; “is all ready?”
Gregoire replied from the court, “I can put up the machine in half an
hour. Shall I go down to the village and call the troops and the law
people?”
“Do you hear him?” said Schneider. “The guillotine is in the
court-yard; your name is on my list, and I have witnesses to prove your
crime. Have you a word in your defence?”
Not a word came; the old gentleman was dumb; but his daughter, who did
not give way to his terror, spoke for him.
“You cannot, sir,” said she, “although you say it, FEEL that my father
is guilty; you would not have entered our house thus alone if you had
thought it. You threaten him in this manner because you have something
to ask and to gain from us: what is it, citizen?—tell us how much you
value our lives, and what sum we are to pay for our ransom?”
“Sum!” said uncle Jacob; “he does not want money of us: my old friend,
my college chum, does not come hither to drive bargains with anybody
belonging to Jacob Ancel?”
“Oh, no, sir, no, you can’t want money of us,” shrieked Edward; “we are
the poorest people of the village: ruined, Monsieur Schneider, ruined
in the cause of the Republic.”
“Silence, father,” said my brave Mary; “this man wants a PRICE: he
comes, with his worthy friend yonder, to frighten us, not to kill us.
If we die, he cannot touch a sou of our money; it is confiscated to the
State. Tell us, sir, what is the price of our safety?”
Schneider smiled, and bowed with perfect politeness.
“Mademoiselle Marie,” he said, “is perfectly correct in her surmise. I
do not want the life of this poor drivelling old man: my intentions are
much more peaceable, be assured. It rests entirely with this
accomplished young lady (whose spirit I like, and whose ready wit I
admire), whether the business between us shall be a matter of love or
death. I humbly offer myself, citizen Ancel, as a candidate for the
hand of your charming daughter. Her goodness, her beauty, and the large
fortune which I know you intend to give her, would render her a
desirable match for the proudest man in the republic, and, I am sure,
would make me the happiest.”
“This must be a jest, Monsieur Schneider,” said Mary, trembling, and
turning deadly pale: “you cannot mean this; you do not know me: you
never heard of me until to-day.”
“Pardon me, belle dame,” replied he; “your cousin Pierre has often
talked to me of your virtues; indeed, it was by his special suggestion
that I made the visit.”
“It is false!—it is a base and cowardly lie!” exclaimed she (for the
young lady’s courage was up),—“Pierre never could have forgotten
himself and me so as to offer me to one like you. You come here with a
lie on your lips—a lie against my father, to swear his life away,
against my dear cousin’s honor and love. It is useless now to deny it:
father, I love Pierre Ancel; I will marry no other but him—no, though
our last penny were paid to this man as the price of our freedom.”
Schneider’s only reply to this was a call to his friend Gregoire.
“Send down to the village for the maire and some gendarmes; and tell
your people to make ready.”
“Shall I put THE MACHINE up?” shouted he of the sentimental turn.
“You hear him,” said Schneider; “Marie Ancel, you may decide the fate
of your father. I shall return in a few hours,” concluded he, “and will
then beg to know your decision.”
The advocate of the rights of man then left the apartment, and left the
family, as you may imagine, in no very pleasant mood.
Old uncle Jacob, during the few minutes which had elapsed in the
enactment of this strange scene, sat staring wildly at Schneider, and
holding Mary on his knees: the poor little thing had fled to him for
protection, and not to her father, who was kneeling almost senseless at
the window, gazing at the executioner and his hideous preparations. The
instinct of the poor girl had not failed her; she knew that Jacob was
her only protector, if not of her life—heaven bless him!—of her honor.
“Indeed,” the old man said, in a stout voice, “this must never be, my
dearest child—you must not marry this man. If it be the will of
Providence that we fall, we shall have at least the thought to console
us that we die innocent. Any man in France at a time like this, would
be a coward and traitor if he feared to meet the fate of the thousand
brave and good who have preceded us.”
“Who speaks of dying?” said Edward. “You, Brother Jacob?—you would not
lay that poor girl’s head on the scaffold, or mine, your dear
brother’s. You will not let us die, Mary; you will not, for a small
sacrifice, bring your poor old father into danger?”
Mary made no answer. “Perhaps,” she said, “there is time for escape: he
is to be here but in two hours; in two hours we may be safe, in
concealment, or on the frontier.” And she rushed to the door of the
chamber, as if she would have instantly made the attempt: two gendarmes
were at the door. “We have orders, Mademoiselle,” they said, “to allow
no one to leave this apartment until the return of the citizen
Schneider.”
Alas! all hope of escape was impossible. Mary became quite silent for a
while; she would not speak to uncle Jacob; and, in reply to her
father’s eager questions, she only replied, coldly, that she would
answer Schneider when he arrived.
The two dreadful hours passed away only too quickly; and, punctual to
his appointment, the ex-monk appeared. Directly he entered, Mary
advanced to him, and said, calmly,—
“Sir, I could not deceive you if I said that I freely accepted the
offer which you have made me. I will be your wife; but I tell you that
I love another; and that it is only to save the lives of those two old
men that I yield my person up to you.”