THE SUPREME EXACTITUDE
Whoever passed within the walls of the Conciergerie was counted lost. Of
the prisons of the Revolution, it was that to which the accused were
transferred from the others on the eve of sentence; and underneath it
was the hall of the pretended court infamous to all time as "the
Tribunal of Blood." The _fiacre_ containing Germain and the National
Guards in whose charge Hache placed him, was followed by the mob to the
doors, and at times it appeared as if he would certainly be torn away
and hanged to a lantern rope. In front of the Conciergerie, whose portal
was lit luridly by two torches, a delighted audience of _Sans-culottes_
received his approach with clapping.
"Another!" they shouted.
And, as an arrest was brought in from the opposite direction just
afterwards, they clapped again and repeated their shout of "Another!"
His guards dragged him into the presence of the concierge, who eyed him
from his arm-chair with a drunken glance.
"Dungeon," he muttered.
With a banging of bolts and a creaking of doors, two turnkeys led Lecour
down into a region of darkness. The turnkeys, like their chief, were
surly sots. They took him along a low passage where mastiffs which
patrolled it eyed him, threw back a cell door, thrust him in, and
disappeared with their lanterns.
Shut in by low, dark walls, and a roof and floor of stone, reeking with
damp and filth, the cell, though but twenty feet by ten or twelve, was
already the habitation of at least a score of persons.
Their features could not be easily discerned, since the only light in
the obscurity was that of a single candle.
"Comrade, the floor is soft," exclaimed one of the group nearest him--a
man of one eye lying on a pile of straw. "Let me present you to our
_confrère_, the parricide."
"Shut your gob, thief," shouted a voice, and a heavy scuffle ensued.
Germain leaned against the wall to recover his nerves.
The other inmates had been holding a mock revolutionary trial and
condemning one of their number to execution. Some acted the part of
judges, some of jury-men, two of guards.
The man on trial turned indignantly on the criminals who had first
accosted Lecour.
"I pray you, Monsieur," said he courteously to the latter, "Do not take
that for your reception here. Those men are the disgrace of the cell.
The rest of us have been used to a happier condition. Let us introduce
ourselves. I am the Baron de Grancey; my friend, the judge president, is
the Count de Bellecour."
Germain's surprise would have been great had he been less in misery. As
it was he was surprised at nothing. Here it was but another stab in his
heart. Unable to answer he sat down on a stone bench.
"Friends, we must change the diversion," Grancey said sympathetically.
"Perhaps our comrade might feel better over a hand at picquet."
"Ten straws a point!" exclaimed Bellecour. "Dame, it seems to me I know
his face. Where have I met you, sir?"
"De Lincy, _pardieu_!" Grancey echoed, scrutinising the new-comer's
features. "Friend Germain, this is a sorry place to welcome you, but you
will find it brighter than you think; there are wit, forgetfulness,
society, and some happiness, even in the Conciergerie. Wait until you
get up to the corridor to-morrow; you will meet enough of your friends
to hold a respectable reception."
Still Germain could not answer. They did not realise his sorrow and
embarrassment in the presence of the old friends to whose friendship he
felt he had no right. His head remained bent. Of a sudden the candle
flickered out and relieved him of the need of speaking. They withdrew
wondering to their pile of straw.
He did not move from the bench where he sat. Soon, except for the heavy
breathing of his companions, silence enveloped the place. He became
absorbed in anxious imaginings.
What had happened when Cyrène and Dominique returned to the house? What
accidents overtook them at the Hôtel de Ville? Where was she? What were
her thoughts at that moment? And what her sufferings? Then a picture
flitted across his consciousness of the early days of their meeting, the
life at Fontainebleau, the charm of old Versailles. At the memory of
that taste of a beautiful existence, an unearthly, sorrowful, prophetic
longing came over him, not for himself but for others, for a clime where
falsity, grief, change, and pride should be winnowed completely away
from loveliness. He dreamt a world to come wherein the poor, the
low-born, the deformed, yes, the debased children of crime itself should
become of strong and perfect forms, of sensitive and rich artistic
sense, wealthy as imagination in castles, parks, and solitudes, pure
and keen of honour, spiritually sweet of thought, and so live serene for
ever, for ever, for ever.
As morning grew, a dim light became perceptible from the corridor, and
the prisoners one by one awoke. But Lecour was so weary that he fell
asleep on the bench.
His shoulder was roughly shaken. "Stand up," said a turnkey. Germain
opened his eyes and staggered to his feet.
"Salute the President of the Commune, you----" Before him was a short
man in carmagnole and sabre, whom the other prisoners eyed with
resentment and alarm.
Lecour bowed.
"You have met me before," the stranger said mockingly. "Once in the
Royal hunting grounds of Fontainebleau. It was accidental. Perhaps I
should not presume on the acquaintance."
Lecour perfectly recalled the visitor to the cave. That face once seen
could never be forgotten, and he was overcome by the ominousness of the
meeting. However, he recovered enough to answer sternly--
"Take your revenge; my neck is in your power."
"Judgment must be pronounced on you first. Listen to your judgment,
Sieur de Lincy, or Répentigny. Inasmuch as, years ago, you hunted brave
men who through you were condemned to death, which they suffered on the
wheel; inasmuch as you wickedly murdered the starving peasants of the
parishes of Eaux Tranquilles while in the pursuit of liberty; inasmuch
as you resisted the sovereign people and sided with the cut-throats of
Versailles, when you participated in the crimes of the Bodyguard;
inasmuch as you have been of the party of conspirators against the
Revolution, and have plotted with the tyrant Capet and his widow for the
Counter-revolution; inasmuch as you are a suspect, inasmuch as you are
an _emigré_; inasmuch as you are a rich and an aristocrat; inasmuch as
you, Germain Lecour, son of François Xavier Lecour, peasant of Canada,
and grandson of a butcher of Paris, did thus oppress the people without
the excuse of hereditary illusion, but were a cheat and adventurer
sprung from their own bosom; inasmuch as in order to do so you have
broken many laws of the land and natural rights of mankind, have
outraged the sacred names of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, and have
brought, especially upon yourself, the retribution of that Order of the
Galley-on-Land, part of which was assembled before you in the cave of
Fontainebleau; know now then, for the first time, that through all these
dealings you have been tracked by them in your every movement; that your
misdeeds were collected, not forgotten; that our vengeance was on your
path and waited but the time that suited us; that to hundreds unknown to
you it will be a day of feasting to see you die; that they will drink
wine for your blood and eat bread for your flesh, and when your head
drops into the basket, they will regret the days of tyranny for this
only--that the humanity of these times does not allow of breaking you in
turn on the wheel."
"You are frank," returned Germain bitterly.
The Admiral was taken aback. He had counted on more effect for his
harangue.
"I have one more '_inasmuch_,'" said he, with a sting in his tone and a
gleam in his eye. "Inasmuch as by your imposture you deceived and misled
a heart too pure and lofty for such as you to have dared towards----"
This shaft was aimed to strike deep, and so it did. Germain's defiant
bearing fell, he dropped his head and groaned.
"Strike him!" roared Grancey. "You must die anyway. Strike, in default
of a sword to run him through!"
"He dares not!" the Admiral exclaimed to the group of aristocrats. "You
take him for one of yourselves. You are his dupes like the others."
"You admit this _inasmuch_?" he inquired triumphantly of Lecour.
"It is true, true, true," moaned Germain. "I may not deny it--the
greatest crime of all my crimes."
The Admiral turned with a snort to Lecour's former companions. They were
aghast.
"Had he denied it here are the proofs, absolutely beyond question!" the
Admiral exclaimed, waving the Record, which he held in his hand.
"By the saints! what a conclusion," Bellecour exclaimed, curling his
lip. As for Grancey he slowly turned his back, threw himself down on the
straw on his face, and did not move. The Admiral again faced Germain.
"Shall I tell you something?"
Lecour's heart leaped. His eyes bespoke his suspense. Everything this
man had to say seemed of such import that what went before faded for the
moment.
"She is here."
"Here? Merciful God! alas, alas, poor Cyrène!"
The Admiral allowed him some moments. Ultimately he said, eyeing him
keenly--
"You love her--would you like to save her?"
"Is there a hope?" Lecour said hoarsely, looking up with bloodshot eyes.
"Certainly, if you will do what I demand."
"Anything God will permit."
"The condition is this. That you make her with your own lips, in my
presence, a confession of your imposture, of which, remember, I besides
hold the proofs. Otherwise she dies to-morrow. Are you willing?" And the
Admiral bent eagerly towards him with eyes full of flaming lights.
Lecour's heart stopped. His head flushed to bursting, the shame of years
overcame him. His assent was expressed by more a groan than a word. The
frightful thought was that she would repulse him for ever.
Yes, that too must be faced and done with--bitterness of bitterness. The
old dream so marvellously won by deception must be shattered in every
point. The Eternal Justice said to him: "NO MAN WHO HAS PROFITED BY A
WRONG SHALL KEEP ITS FRUITS." Ah, what fruit of fruits, her love!
"It will finish him with her," the Admiral muttered, watching him. But
Lecour did not hear. The _Sans-culotte_ President rapped on the iron
door with his boot, a turnkey replied, and in a few minutes four of
these men appeared with Cyrène. As soon as she saw Germain she clasped
her hands to her bosom and uttered a strange cry, a cry full of wild
gladness and fierce agony, such as a soul writhing in the flames of
purgatory might give at a sudden opening of the gates of both heaven and
hell, and she sprang forward to press him to her breast.
Not such was the will of the Admiral. As quick as she, he interposed
himself, and standing in front of Germain grasped her arm and said to
her firmly--
"This fellow has something to say to you first."
Then, turning to Lecour, who stood with head down and feelings worse
than those of his condemnation to death--
"Speak, butcher's grandson!"
He withdrew a step to allow Germain to face Cyrène.
The condemned man fell upon his knees and broke into sobs.
"Speak, housekeeper's son!" the Admiral cried exultantly.
"You are a devil!" screamed Cyrène to him, and bent down her arms to
Germain.
To her bitter surprise the latter shrank back, and seizing her hand
covered it with kisses instead.
"No," he sobbed, "no, Madame Baroness; it is all true--I am not your
equal. I am baseborn, an impostor, an adventurer, the son of the peasant
and the servant, the grandson of the butcher. I am no de Lincy nor
Répentigny. My titles were false, my credit stolen, my position came to
me by accident, and my defence was one long falsehood. De Léry was
right. In him I wronged a man of honour, and my retribution is the
judgment of God. Forgive me all the awful wrong I have done you. Forgive
me as a creature whose only excuse has been an irresistible worship of
even your footsteps."
"Stop!" the Admiral cried. "Citizeness, ponder your treatment by this
varlet, who has deceived you, besmirched your life, and contaminated
your hand. Another career is yours; leave him to his punishment."
The words of the two men reached her, but their meaning was not
credible. Her lover--her Germain, her knight--a deceiver, an impostor?
She could not realise it. Then the truth of the scene rushed over her;
its logic became inescapable.
"Oh," she wailed in one long, agonised moan, sobbing and writhing in the
intensity of her torture, "how can I bear this?"
"Come," said the Admiral, but she was oblivious to all except the storm
of her distress.
"Come," repeated the Admiral, but she heard not.
"Come," repeated he once more impatiently; but her tear-filled eyes were
fixed upon Germain. The horror of his falsity was strong within her, but
his chivalry and tenderness throughout their long association could not
be so quickly forgotten, nor the bonds of her affection so instantly
blotted out. The mystery of his long sorrow dawned upon her, and his
utter self-accusation appealed to her pity. Their differences of rank
became as nothing.
"Come away," said the Admiral again, with soft-uttered persuasiveness.
Cyrène's nature, in those moments, had felt, thought, concluded with
lightning swiftness. Her soul swept through a great arc of intuition.
"No, no, there is something I do not understand!" she cried. "My
Germain, God has made you for me. You loved me and were led astray, but
you are honourable and faithful in the sight of heaven, my eternal love.
Let us kiss each other. Let us press each other to our breasts and die;
in a few hours we shall be together for ever."
Before the Admiral could prevent it they were clasped in a passionate,
feverish, last embrace.
"Very well," the Admiral sneered frigidly. "I keep my promises.
Apothecary's apprentice, to-day you die. As for you, citizeness, I give
you your freedom."
"I reject it--I will die with him," she answered.
"Not at all," he returned. "I promised him your liberty. I keep my
promises."
"Wretch! you would separate the betrothed from the dying?"
"Go, beloved," said Germain, releasing her. "It is just that I should
die, but not you. I shall love you in the grave. Remember not my
errors."
"No, I will never leave you, Germain. Oh, Germain, I will die with
you."
"Take the woman off!" growled the Admiral to the turnkeys. They obeyed
him instantly.
Germain rushed after them to the door of the cell, but it was closed
upon him, and he caught only a shadow through the grating and heard her
last cry of grief.