SEQUEL TO THE PRECEDING.
All this scene had passed before Maurice like a fantastic vision.
Leaning upon the handle of his sword, which he had never quitted, he
saw his friends precipitated one after another into that gulf which
never yields back its victims; and this fatal sight so affected him
that he asked himself why he, the companion of these unfortunates,
should still cling to the brink of the precipice, and not surrender
himself to the giddiness which was dragging him with them.
In leaping the balustrade Lorin saw the dark and sneering features of
Dixmer.
When, as we have said, he had placed himself near Geneviève, she
whispered in his ear.
"_Mon Dieu!_" said she, "do you know that Maurice is here?"
"Where?"
"Do not look round directly; one look might prove his ruin."
"Calm yourself."
"Behind us, near the door. What a trial for him if we are condemned!"
Lorin regarded the young woman with tender sympathy.
"We shall be," said he. "I conjure you not to doubt it. The deception
would be too cruel if you were to permit yourself to hope."
"Oh, my God!" said Geneviève, "pity our poor friend, who will remain
alone in the world!"
Lorin then turned round toward Maurice, and Geneviève also could not
refrain from glancing at him.
His eyes were fixed upon them both, and one hand was placed upon his
heart.
"There is one way to save you," said Lorin.
"Are you sure?" said Geneviève, her eyes sparkling with joy.
"Oh, of that one I am sure," replied Lorin.
"Oh, if you can save me how I will bless you!"
"But this way--" replied the young man.
Geneviève read his hesitation in his eyes.
"You have also seen _him_?" said she.
"Yes; I have seen him. Will you be saved? Let him, in his turn,
take his seat in the iron arm-chair, and you will be safe." Dixmer,
doubtless from Lorin's look and the expression of his countenance,
divined what he uttered. He at first turned pale, but soon recovered
his gloomy composure and satanic smile.
"Impossible!" said Geneviève; "I can no longer hate him."
"Say that he knows your generous nature, and defies you."
"No doubt; for he is sure of him, of me, of us all."
"Geneviève! Geneviève! I am less perfect than you. Let me bring him
here! Let him perish!"
"No, Lorin, I conjure you. Nothing in common with that man, not even
death. It seems to me I should be unfaithful to Maurice were I to die
with Dixmer."
"But you will not die."
"How can I live when Maurice is to die?"
"Ah!" said Lorin, "Maurice has reason to love you; you are an angel,
and heaven is the angels' home. Poor dear Maurice!"
In the mean time Simon, who could not overhear the conversation
between the accused, devoured their looks instead of their words.
"Citizen Gendarme," said he, "prevent those conspirators from
continuing their plots against the Republic, even in the Revolutionary
Tribunal."
"You know, Citizen Simon," replied the gendarme, "that here they
conspire no more, and if they do so it will not be for long. These
citizens are only conversing together; and since the law does not
forbid them to do so in the car, why should it be forbidden at the
Tribunal?"
This gendarme was Gilbert, who, having recognized the prisoner taken
in the queen's chamber, avowed with his ordinary honesty the interest
which he could not help according to her courage and devotion.
The president having consulted the court, at the request of Fouquier
Tinville commenced his questions.
"Accused Lorin," demanded he, "of what nature was your acquaintance
with the citizen Madame Dixmer?"
"Of what nature, Citizen President?"
"The pure flame of friendship bound us one to another;
As a sister she loved me, and I her as a brother."
"Citizen Lorin," said Fouquier Tinville, "your poetry is out of season
here, and the rhythm is bad."
"Why so?"
"You have one syllable too many."
"Cut it off! cut it off! Citizen Prosecutor! that is your trade, you
know."
The imperturbable countenance of Fouquier Tinville assumed a pallid hue
at this horrible pleasantry.
"And in what light," demanded the president, "did the Citizen Dixmer
view this liaison of a professed Republican with his wife?"
"As to that I can tell you nothing, declaring that I was never
acquainted with the Citizen Dixmer, and never had any desire to be so."
"But," resumed Fouquier Tinville, "you did not tell us that your friend
Maurice Lindey formed the link of this pure friendship between yourself
and the accused?"
"If I did not say so," replied Lorin, "it was because it seemed to
me wrong to speak of it; and I think that you might even follow my
example."
"The citizen jurors," said Fouquier Tinville, "will appreciate this
singular alliance between an aristocrat and two Republicans, and at the
very moment when this aristocrat is convicted of the blackest plot that
could be concocted against the nation."
"How should I know anything concerning this plot you speak of?"
demanded Lorin, disgusted by the brutal stupidity of the argument.
"You were acquainted with this woman; you were her friend; you term
yourself her brother; you speak of her as your sister,--and you were
not cognizant of her proceedings? Is it then probable, as you have
yourself remarked," continued the president, "that she would have
committed alone this act imputed to her?"
"She did not commit it alone," replied Lorin, repeating the technical
words used by the president; "since, as she has told you, and I have
told you, and now repeat, her husband compelled her."
"Then how is it that you are not acquainted with the husband," said
Fouquier Tinville, "since the husband was united with the wife?"
It remained only for Lorin to recount the first disappearance of
Dixmer; to mention the amours of Geneviève and his friend; and, in
short, to relate the manner in which Dixmer had carried off and
concealed his wife in some impenetrable retreat,--it needed only this
to exculpate himself from all connivance, and to elucidate the whole
mystery. But for this he must betray the secrets of his two friends; to
do this would be to put Geneviève to shame before five hundred people.
Lorin shook his head, as if saying "no" to himself.
"Well?" demanded the president, "what do you reply to the public
prosecutor?"
"That his logic is crushing," said Lorin; "and I am now convinced of
one thing which I never even suspected before."
"What is that?"
"That I am, as it appears, one of the most frightful conspirators that
has ever been seen."
This declaration elicited a roar of laughter; even the jury could not
refrain, so ludicrous was the young man's manner in enunciating these
words.
Fouquier felt the ridicule; and since with his usual indefatigable
perseverance he had managed to know all the secrets of the accused as
well as they did themselves, he could not help feeling toward Lorin a
sentiment of pity mingled with admiration.
"Come, Citizen Lorin," said he, "speak in your own defence. The
Tribunal will lend a willing ear. We are acquainted with your previous
conduct, and it has always been that of a stanch Republican."
Simon essayed to speak; but the president made him a signal to remain
silent.
"Speak, Citizen Lorin!" said he; "we are all attention;" but Lorin only
shook his head.
"This silence is confession," said the president.
"Not so," said Lorin; "silence is silence, that is all."
"Once more," said Fouquier Tinville; "will you speak?"
Lorin turned toward the audience to encounter the eyes of Maurice, and
to learn from them what course he would wish him to pursue; but Maurice
made no sign to him to speak, and Lorin maintained his former silence.
This was self-condemnation.
All that followed was quickly executed. Fouquier summed up his
accusation; the president reviewed the evidence; the jury retired, and
unanimously returned a verdict of "guilty" against Lorin and Geneviève.
The president condemned them both to suffer the penalty of death.
Two o'clock sounded from the great clock of the Palace.
The president had just time sufficient to pronounce the condemnation as
the clock struck.
Maurice heard the two with a sense of confusion and utter bewilderment.
When the vibration had ceased, his strength was utterly exhausted. The
gendarmes led away Geneviève and Lorin, who had offered her his arm.
Both saluted Maurice, but in different ways. Lorin smiled; but
Geneviève, pale and fainting, wafted him a last kiss upon her fingers,
bathed in tears.
She had till the last moment clung to the hope of life, and now wept,
not the loss of her life, but of her love, which must perish with her.
Maurice, half mad, had not replied to his friends' farewell. He rose,
pale and bewildered, from the bench on which he had fallen. His friends
had disappeared.
He felt only one sentiment alive within him. It was the hatred which
was gnawing at his heart.
He threw a last look around him and recognized Dixmer, who was leaving
with the rest of the spectators, and at that moment stooped to pass
under the arched door of the passage.
With the rapidity of a steel spring when it unbends, Maurice sprang
from bench to bench, and reached the door.
Dixmer had already passed through, and descended into the darkened
corridor. Maurice followed behind him. At the moment Dixmer planted
his foot on the pavement of the grand hall, Maurice tapped him on the
shoulder.