THE PRIEST AND THE EXECUTIONER.
On leaving the court, the queen had been conducted back to the
Conciergerie. On reaching her chamber she had taken a pair of scissors,
and cut off her long and beautiful ringlets, rendered still more so
from the absence of powder, which she had not used for a year; she
enclosed them in a packet, on which was inscribed, "For my son and
daughter." She then seated herself, or rather sank into a chair, and
worn out with fatigue, the trial having lasted eighteen hours, she fell
asleep. At seven o'clock the noise of the opening screen roused her
suddenly, and turning round, she beheld a man perfectly unknown to her.
"What do you want?" demanded she.
He approached and saluted her as respectfully as if she had not been
the queen.
"I am called Sanson," said he.
The name was sufficient. The queen slightly shuddered and rose up.
"You are here early, sir; could you not have made it rather later?"
"No, Madame," replied Sanson; "I received orders to come."
As he uttered these words, he advanced still nearer to the queen. At
this moment everything about this man was expressive and terrible.
"I understand," said the prisoner; "you wish to cut off my hair?"
"It is necessary, Madame," replied the executioner.
"I knew it, sir; and I wished to spare you the trouble. My hair is on
the table."
Sanson followed the direction of the queen's hand.
"Only," said she, "I should like my hair sent to my children to-night."
"Madame," said Sanson, "this does not concern me."
"However, I thought--notwithstanding--"
"Oh, I get nothing," replied the executioner; "the clothes, the
jewels--unless formally made over to me--all go to La Salpêtrière,
and are allotted to the poor of the hospital. The Committee of Public
Safety has so arranged these things."
"But, sir," persisted Marie Antoinette, "may I at least depend upon
this packet being forwarded to my children?"
Sanson remained silent.
"I will endeavor to send it," said Gilbert.
The prisoner cast upon him a look of deep gratitude.
"I came," said Sanson, "to cut off your hair; but since you have done
so, I can, if you wish it, leave you for a moment alone."
"I entreat you to do so, sir. I wish to collect my scattered thoughts,
and offer up a prayer."
Sanson bowed and retired, when the queen once more found herself
in solitude. While the condemned knelt on a low chair which served
her as a _prie-dieu_, a scene no less terrible was passing in the
parsonage of the small church of Saint Landry, in the city. The curé
had just got up; the old housekeeper had prepared the humble morning
meal, when a loud summons at the gate was heard. Even in our day, an
unexpected visit to a clergyman is in general the precursor of some
serious event,-- either a baptism, a marriage "in extremis," or a last
confession; but at this epoch the visit of a stranger announced some
matter of far graver import. Indeed, at this period the priest was no
longer the mandatary of God, but rendered his account to man.
However, the Abbé Girard was of the number of those who had least
cause for fear, as he had sworn to abide by the Constitution,--in him
conscience and probity had spoken louder than either self-love or
religious spirit. No doubt the Abbé Girard admitted the possibility of
improvement in the government, and much regretted the abuses committed
under the name of the Divine will, and had, while retaining his God,
accepted the fraternity of the Republican régime.
"Go and see, Dame Jacinthe," said he, "who disturbs us at this early
hour; and if the business is of no very pressing nature, say that this
morning I have been sent for to the Conciergerie, and must go there
directly."
Dame Jacinthe, formerly called Madeleine, had accepted this flowery
appellation in lieu of her own, as the Abbé Girard had taken the title
of citizen instead of that of curé. At the suggestion of her master,
Jacinthe hastened down the steps of the little garden leading to the
entrance gate. She drew back the bolts, when a thin, pale young man,
much agitated, but with a frank and amiable expression, presented
himself before her.
"Monsieur l'Abbé Girard?" said he.
Jacinthe, not slow to remark the disordered dress, the neglected beard,
and the nervous tremor of the new-comer, augured unfavorably of him.
"Citizen," said she; "there is here neither 'Monsieur' nor 'abbé.'"
"Pardon me, Madame," replied the young man; "I meant to say the Curé of
Saint Landry."
Jacinthe, notwithstanding her patriotism, was struck by the title
"Madame," with which the Republicans would not have honored an empress.
She, however, replied,--
"You cannot see him now; he is repeating his breviary."
"In that case I will wait," replied the young man.
"But," said Jacinthe, in whom this obstinate persistence revived her
first unfavorable impression, "you will wait in vain; for he has been
summoned to the Conciergerie, and must go there immediately."
The young man turned frightfully pale, or rather from pale to livid.
"It is then true!" murmured he; then raising his voice, "This, Madame,
is the business which brings me to the Citizen Girard."
And in spite of the old woman he had, while speaking, effected an
entrance; then coolly but firmly closing the bolts, and notwithstanding
the expostulations and even menaces of Dame Jacinthe, he not only
entered the house, but also the chamber of the curé, who on perceiving
him uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Forgive me, Monsieur le Curé," immediately said the young man; "I wish
to speak to you on a very serious subject; permit us to be alone."
The aged priest had experienced deep sorrow, and knew what it was to
endure. He discerned deep and devouring passion in the confusion of the
young man, and intense emotion in his fevered tones.
"Leave us, Dame Jacinthe!" said he.
The visitor impatiently followed with his eyes the receding steps of
the housekeeper, who, from being accustomed to the confidence of her
master, hesitated to comply; then when at length the door was closed,
"Monsieur le Curé," said the unknown, "you will first wish to know who
I am. I will tell you. I am a proscribed man, doomed to death, who only
at this moment lives from the power of audacity; I am the Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge."
The abbé started in horror from his arm-chair.
"Fear nothing!" said the Chevalier, "no one has seen me enter here; and
even those who might have seen me would never know me. I have altered
much these last two months."
"But what do you wish, Citizen?" asked the curé.
"You are going this morning to the Conciergerie, are you not?"
"Yes; the porter has sent for me."
"Do you know why?"
"To perform the duties of my sacred office to an invalid, or some dying
person, perhaps even to one condemned."
"You are right; it is to one condemned."
The old priest regarded the Chevalier with undisguised astonishment.
"But do you know who this person is?" demanded Maison-Rouge.
"No, I do not know."
"This person is the queen!"
The abbé uttered an exclamation of grief.
"The queen! Oh, my God!"
"Yes, sir; the queen! I made inquiry as to the priest who would attend
her, and learned it was you. I therefore came directly to seek an
interview."
"But what do you require of me?" asked the priest, alarmed at the wild
accents of the Chevalier.
"I wish--I wish nothing, sir. I implore, I entreat, I supplicate you!"
"For what, then?"
"To allow me to enter with you into the presence of her Majesty?"
"You are mad!" exclaimed the curé; "you would not only ruin me, but
would sacrifice yourself."
"Fear nothing."
"The poor woman is condemned, and that is the end of her."
"I know it, and it is not to make any attempt to save her that I wish
to see her; it is--But listen to me, my father; you are not listening."
"I do not listen to you, since what you ask is impossible; I do not
listen to you, since you act like a man bereft of his senses," said the
aged man. "I do not listen to you, because you terrify me."
"Father, reassure yourself," said the young man, endeavoring to calm
himself; "believe me, Father, I am in my senses. The queen, I know, is
lost; but if I could only for an instant prostrate myself at her feet,
it would save my life. If I do not see her I shall kill myself; and as
you will have caused my despair, you will at the same moment destroy
both body and soul."
"My son! my son!" replied the priest, "you ask me to sacrifice my
life for you! Old as I am, my existence is still necessary to the
unfortunate; old as I am, to precipitate my own death is to commit
suicide."
"Do not refuse me, Father," replied the Chevalier; "you must have a
curate, an acolyte; take me, let me go with you."
The priest tried to maintain his firmness, which was beginning to give
way.
"No, no!" said he; "this would be a dereliction of duty; I have sworn
to the Constitution, and I am bound heart, soul, and conscience. The
unhappy woman condemned to death is a guilty queen. I would accept
death, if by so doing I could benefit a fellow-creature; but I will not
depart from the path of duty."
"But," cried the Chevalier, "when I tell you, and again repeat, even
swear to you, I do not want to save the queen; here by the Gospel, by
the crucifix, I swear I do not go to the Conciergerie to prevent her
death!"
"What is your motive, then?" said the old man, affected by such
undisguised accents of despair.
"Hearken!" said the Chevalier, whose soul seemed to speak from his
lips; "she was my benefactress; she is attached to me; to see me in her
last moments will I feel sure prove a consolation to her."
"And this is all that you desire?" demanded the curé, yielding to these
irresistible accents.
"Absolutely all."
"And you have woven no plot to attempt to rescue the condemned?"
"None. I am a Christian, Father; and if there rests in my heart a
shadow of deceit; if I entertain any hope of her life, or try in any
way to save it,--may God visit me with eternal damnation!"
"No, no!" said the curé; "I can promise nothing," as the innumerable
dangers attendant on an act so imprudent returned to his mind.
"Now listen to me, Father!" said the Chevalier, in a voice hoarse with
emotion; "I have spoken like a submissive child; I have not uttered one
bitter word or uncharitable sentiment; no menace has escaped my lips.
Yet now my head whirls; fever burns in my veins; now despair gnaws my
heart; now I am armed. Behold! here is my dagger." And the young man
drew from his bosom a polished blade which threw a livid reflection on
his trembling hand. The curé drew back quickly.
"Fear nothing," said the Chevalier, with a mournful smile; "others,
knowing you to be so strict an observer of your word, would have
terrified you into an oath. But no! I have supplicated, and I still
continue to supplicate, with hands clasped, my forehead in the dust,
that I may see her for a single moment. Look! here is your guarantee!"
And he drew from his pocket a billet which he presented to Girard, who
opened it and read as follows:--
I, René, Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, declare by God and my honor, that
I have by threats of death compelled the worthy curé of Saint Landry
to convey me to the Conciergerie, notwithstanding his refusal and
great repugnance to do so. In proof of which I have signed--
Maison-Rouge.
"It is well," said the priest; "but swear to me once again that you
will be guilty of no imprudence. It is not sufficient that my life is
saved, I am answerable also for yours."
"Think not of that," said the Chevalier. "Then you consent?"
"I must, since you so absolutely insist. You can wait outside, and when
she comes to the wicket you will see her."
The Chevalier seized the hand of the old priest and kissed it with all
the ardor and respect he would have kissed the crucifix.
"Oh!" murmured the Chevalier, "she shall die at least like a queen, and
the hand of the executioner shall never touch her!"