THE SALLE DES MORTS.
It will be remembered that the registrar of the Palace had opened his
jailer's book to Dixmer, and had also entered into an arrangement with
him which the presence of Geneviève rendered peculiarly agreeable.
This man, it may be imagined, was terribly alarmed when the news of
Dixmer's plot was communicated to him. He would doubtless be considered
as nothing less than an accomplice of Dixmer, his false colleague,
and would therefore be condemned to die with the wretched Geneviève.
Fouquier Tinville had summoned him to appear before him.
It may easily be understood that this poor man would have some trouble
to prove himself innocent in the eyes of the public prosecutor; he had,
however, succeeded in so doing, thanks to Geneviève, whose declaration
had clearly established his utter ignorance of the plot of her husband.
He had succeeded, thanks to Dixmer's flight, and above all from the
interest excited in Fouquier Tinville, who wished to preserve his
administration free from all stain.
"Citizen," said he, flinging himself upon his knees before Fouquier,
"pardon me, for I have been deceived."
"Citizen," replied the public prosecutor, "an employee of the nation
who in these days permits himself to be deceived deserves to be
guillotined."
"I may have been a blockhead, Citizen," replied the registrar, who was
longing to call Fouquier Tinville "Monseigneur."
"Blockhead or not," replied the rigid prosecutor, "no one should allow
his love for the Republic to sleep. The spies of the Capitol were only
geese, yet they were sufficiently awake to save Rome."
The registrar looked upon this argument as totally unanswerable; he
groaned, and remained waiting.
"I pardon you," said Fouquier Tinville. "I will go so far as to defend
you, since I do not wish one of my employees to be even suspected; but
you will bear in mind that at the least word that reaches my ears, the
least revival of this affair, you shall go to the scaffold."
It is scarcely necessary to say with what anxiety this man sought the
newspapers, always in haste to tell what they know, and sometimes more
than they can certify, even should they cause the heads of ten men to
fall by the guillotine.
He sought Dixmer everywhere, to recommend him to keep his own counsel;
but Dixmer had very naturally changed his apartments, and was nowhere
to be found.
Geneviève had been placed on the bench of the accused, and had already,
in her testimony, declared that neither herself nor husband had any
accomplices; and he thanked the poor woman with his eyes as she passed
before him on her way to the Tribunal.
When she had passed, and he was returning to the office to fetch some
law papers for Fouquier Tinville, he all at once saw Dixmer approaching
him with a calm and quiet step.
This vision petrified him.
"Oh!" said he, as if he had seen a spectre.
"Do you not know me?" said the new-comer.
"Of course, I do. You are the Citizen Durand, or rather the Citizen
Dixmer."
"Just so."
"But are you a dead man, Citizen?"
"Not yet, as you see."
"I mean to say that they will arrest you."
"Who wants to arrest me?--no one knows me."
"But I know you; and it only needs one word from me to send you to the
guillotine."
"And two words from me to send you there with me."
"It is shameful of you to say that."
"No; it is logic."
"But what is your business? Make haste,--speak quickly; for the less
time we are together the less danger we incur from each other."
"My wife is about to be condemned, is it not so?"
"I greatly fear for her, poor woman!"
"Well, I wish to see her once more, to bid her adieu."
"Where?"
"In the Salle des Morts."
"Would you dare to enter there?"
"Why not?"
"Oh!" said the registrar, like a man whose hair stood on end at the
very thought.
"There must be some way," continued Dixmer.
"To enter the Salle des Morts? Without doubt there is."
"How?"
"To procure a pass."
"And where are these passes to be procured?"
The registrar turned frightfully pale, and stammered, "Where are they
to be procured, you ask?"
"I inquire where are they to be procured?" replied Dixmer; "the
question is plain enough, I think."
"They are procured--here."
"Ah! true; and who usually signs them?"
"The registrar."
"But you are the registrar?"
"Certainly I am."
"Oh, how lucky that is!" said Dixmer, seating himself, "you will sign
me a pass."
The registrar made one bound.
"Do you ask for my head, Citizen?" said he.
"No; I ask you for a pass, that is all."
"I shall have you arrested, unhappy man!" said he, summoning all his
energy.
"Do," said Dixmer; "and the next moment I will denounce you as an
accomplice, and instead of leaving me to go alone to the famous hall,
you shall accompany me."
The registrar turned ghastly pale.
"Villain!" said he.
"There is no villany in that," said Dixmer; "I wish to speak to my
wife, and all I require of you is a pass to enable me to do so."
"Is it then so imperative that you should speak to her?"
"It seems so, since I risk my head to do so."
This appeared very plausible to the registrar, and Dixmer immediately
perceived that he was relenting.
"Rest assured," said he, "no one shall know anything. The devil! why
surely sometimes a similar case to mine must present itself to your
notice!"
"Very rarely; it is by no means a common occurrence. But, let me see;
let us arrange it in another way."
"If it is possible, I should ask nothing better."
"Nothing is more possible. Enter by the door of the condemned; there a
card is not required. Then, when you have spoken to your wife, call
me, and I will let you out."
"Not a bad idea," said Dixmer; "but unfortunately there is a story
current in the city."
"What story?"
"The history of a poor hunchback who mistook the door, thinking to
enter the archives, but instead of so doing found himself in the hall
of which we are now speaking. Only since he had entered by the door of
the condemned instead of the large door, as he had no pass to prove his
identity, once there he was not permitted to go out. They strenuously
maintained that since he entered the door with the other condemned,
he was condemned likewise. In vain he protested, swore, appealed; no
one believed him, no one came to his assistance, no one helped him to
get out. So that, notwithstanding his protestations, his oaths, and
supplications, the executioner first cut off his hair, and afterward
his head. Is this anecdote true, Citizen Registrar! You ought to know
better than any one else."
"Alas! yes; it is too true," said the registrar, trembling.
"You must see then that with such a precedent I should be a fool to
enter this cut-throat place without a pass."
"But I shall be there, I tell you."
"But if you should happen to be called away; if you should be otherwise
engaged; if you should forget!"
Dixmer laid particular stress on these last words, "if you should
forget."
"But since I promise you--"
"No; besides it would compromise you. They would see you speaking to
me; and, in short, it does not suit me. I therefore prefer a pass."
"Impossible!"
"Then, dear sir, I will speak; and we shall both take a ride together
to the Place de la Révolution."
The registrar, bewildered, stupefied, half-dead with terror, signed a
pass for a "citizen."
Dixmer rose and went out precipitately to take his station in the
judgment-hall, where we have already seen him. The rest is known to us.
At the same moment the registrar, to avoid all accusation of
connivance, went and seated himself near Fouquier Tinville, leaving the
management of the office to his head clerk.
* * * * *
At ten minutes to three, Maurice, furnished with the pass, crossing a
hedge of turnkeys and gendarmes, arrived without interruption at the
fatal door.
When we say fatal, we exaggerate, for there were two doors,--the
principal one by which those possessing passes entered and returned;
and the door of the condemned, by which no one departed except to the
scaffold.
The place that Maurice entered was divided into two compartments. One
of these was set apart for those employed in registering the name
of the arrivals; the other, furnished only with wooden benches, was
appropriated for the reception of those who were arrested and those who
were condemned, which amounted to pretty nearly the same thing.
The hall was very dark, lighted only from the panes of the partition
which divided it from the register-office.
A female dressed in white, in a half-fainting attitude, lay in a
corner, supported against the wall.
A man was standing in front of her, from time to time shaking his head.
His arms were crossed upon his breast, and he hesitated to speak to
her, as if fearful of restoring her to the consciousness she appeared
to have lost.
Around these two individuals several condemned persons were scattered
promiscuously,--some giving vent to their feelings in sobs and groans,
others joining in patriotic songs, while the remainder walked rapidly
up and down, as if to chase away the thoughts which devoured them.
This was indeed the antechamber of death, and the furniture rendered
it worthy of the name. Here were seen half-opened coffins filled with
straw, seeming as if to invite the living to their beds of repose, the
receptacles provided for the ashes of the dead.
There was a large closet opposite the partition. A prisoner, prompted
by curiosity, opened it, but recoiled horror-struck. It contained the
blood-stained garments of those executed on the preceding evening; long
tresses of hair hanging here and there, the executioner's perquisites,
who sold them to the relatives when not enjoined by the authorities to
burn these precious relics.
Maurice, trembling with emotion, had hardly opened the door, when the
whole tableau at once presented itself to his view. He advanced three
steps into the hall, and fell at Geneviève's feet. The unfortunate
woman uttered a cry, which Maurice stifled on her lips.
Lorin, weeping, pressed his friend in his arms; these were the first
tears he had shed.
Strange that all these unhappy individuals, assembled to die together,
scarcely looked at the touching tableau presented to their view by
their unfortunate fellow-creatures! Every one suffered too much himself
to take part in the miseries of others.
The three friends remained for a moment united in a silent embrace,
happy, almost joyous. Lorin was the first of the ill-fated group to
disengage himself.
"Are you, then, condemned also?" said he to Maurice.
"Yes," replied he.
"Oh, happiness!" murmured Geneviève.
But the joy of those who have only one hour to live cannot last even
as long as their lives. Maurice, having contemplated Geneviève with
looks of ardent and profound affection, and having thanked her for
the expression, at once so egotistical and so tender, which had just
escaped her, turned toward Lorin.
"Now," said he, taking Geneviève's hands within his own, "let us talk
together."
"Yes," said Lorin; "let us converse while the time remains to us. It is
only right so to do. What do you wish to say to me, Maurice?"
"You have been arrested for my sake, condemned on account of her. As
for Geneviève and me, we are paying our debt; it is not fair, at the
same time, that you should be made to pay also."
"I do not understand you."
"Lorin, you are free."
"I free? You are mad!" said Lorin.
"No, I am not mad; I repeat that you are free. See, here is a pass.
They will inquire who you are; you are employed at the registrar-office
of the Carmelites, and are going to speak to the registrar of the
Palace; you have, from motives of curiosity, requested a pass from
him to see the condemned; you have seen them, and are now leaving,
perfectly satisfied with your visit."
"This is a joke, is it not?"
"No, indeed, my friend; here is the pass, take advantage of it. You
are not a lover, like myself; you do not need to die that you may be
enabled to pass a few more minutes in the society of the well-beloved
of your heart, and not to lose a second of eternity with her."
"But, Maurice," replied Lorin, "if one might be able to get out
from here--a circumstance I swear to you I could not have believed
possible--why do you not first save the lady? As to yourself, we will
consider afterward about that."
"Impossible!" said Maurice, with a frightful oppression at his heart,
"this card is for a man, not for a lady; besides, Geneviève would
not depart, and leave me here, to live herself, while knowing that I
remained to die."
"If she would not, then why should I? Do you imagine I possess less
courage than a woman?"
"No, dear friend; I know and acknowledge your bravery, but nothing can
excuse your obstinacy in this case. Then profit by this moment, and
allow us the supreme felicity of knowing and feeling that you are free
and happy."
"Happy!" exclaimed Lorin; "you are facetious, surely? Happy without
you, eh? What the devil am I to do in this world without you; in Paris,
without my usual avocations? Never to see you again, never to weary you
more with my doggerel rhymes,--ah, good faith, no!"
"Lorin, my friend--"
"Exactly; it is because I am your friend that I persist in my
opinion. With the prospect of recovering you both, were I a prisoner
as I now am, I would tear down the walls; but to save myself, and
go out from here alone into the streets, my head bowed down with
a feeling resembling remorse, and a continual cry in my ears:
'Maurice!--Geneviève!' To pass into certain quarters and before certain
houses where I have seen your persons, but shall now only recognize
your shadows; to come at last to such an extremity of despair as to
execrate this dear Paris that I have loved so well; ah, by my faith,
no! And I find there was good reason for proscribing kings, were it
only on account of King Dagobert."
"And what relation has King Dagobert with what concerns us?"
"What? Did not this frightful tyrant say to the great Éloi, 'The best
company must part?' Ah, well! I am a Republican, and I say that nothing
should make us quit good company, not even the guillotine; I feel very
comfortable here, and here I will remain."
"My poor friend! my poor friend!" said Maurice.
Geneviève said nothing, but looked at them with eyes bathed in tears.
"You regret to lose your life, then?" said Lorin.
"Yes, on her account."
"I am not in the least sorry at losing mine, not even on account of
the Goddess Reason, who, I had forgotten to tell you, has latterly
behaved most shamefully to me; who will not take the trouble even
to console herself, like the other Arthémise of old. I shall go to
my death perfectly cool and rather facetious. I will amuse all the
beggarly wretches who follow the car. I will repeat a pretty quatrain
to Monsieur Sanson, and wish the company good-night,--that is to
say--wait!--" Lorin interrupted himself. "Ah! to be sure," said he, "I
will go out. I well knew that I loved no one, but I forgot that I hated
some one. The time, Maurice, the time?"
"Half-past three."
"I have time, Heaven! there is time."
"Certainly," cried Maurice; "there are nine more accused persons still
to be tried, this will not terminate before five o'clock; we have
therefore nearly two hours' respite."
"That is all that I require; give me your pass, and lend me twenty
sous."
"_Mon Dieu!_ what are you going to do?" murmured Geneviève. Maurice
pressed his hand. The all-important thing for him was that Lorin was
going out.
"I have my own plan," said Lorin.
Maurice drew his purse from his pocket, and placed it in his friend's
hand.
"Now, the pass, for the love of God!--I ought to say for the love of
the Supreme Being."
Maurice gave him the pass.
Lorin kissed Geneviève's hand, and availing himself of the moment when
a fresh batch of the condemned were ushered in, he leaped the benches,
and presented himself before the principal entrance.
"Eh!" said the gendarme, "here is one, it appears to me, trying to
escape."
Lorin drew himself up and presented his pass.
"Hold, Citizen Gendarme," said he, "and learn to know people better."
The gendarme recognized the signature of the registrar, but belonging
to a class of functionaries rather wanting in confidence, and as at
this moment the registrar himself came down from the Tribunal with a
nervous shudder, which had not left him since he had so imprudently
hazarded his signature,--
"Citizen Registrar," said he, "here is a pass bearing your signature,
with which this person wishes to leave the Salle des Morts, is it all
right?"
The registrar turned pale with fright, and feeling convinced that if
he turned his eyes in that direction it would only be to encounter the
terrible look of Dixmer, hastily seized the card and replied,--
"Yes, yes; it is my signature."
"Then," cried Lorin, "if it is your signature, return it to me."
"No;" said the registrar, tearing it into a thousand pieces; "these
cards can be available only once."
Lorin remained for a moment irresolute.
"So much the worse," said he; "but above all things it is necessary I
should kill him;" and he passed through the office.
Maurice had followed Lorin with an emotion easy to comprehend. When he
had disappeared, Maurice returned, saying with an exultation nearly
amounting to joy, "He is saved! Geneviève; the card is destroyed,
therefore he cannot enter. Besides, even if he were able to gain
admission, the sitting of the Tribunal will have terminated. At five
o'clock, he will return; but we shall have ceased to live."
Geneviève shuddered, and breathed a deep sigh.
"Oh, press me in your arms," said she, "and let us separate no more!
Why is it not possible, oh, my God! for one blow to annihilate us both,
that together we might breathe our last sigh?"
Then retiring into the depth of the gloomy hall, Geneviève placed
herself near Maurice, and twined her arms round his neck. Thus they
remained, rendered by the strength of their love insensible to the
surrounding scene, almost to the approach of death itself.
Half an hour passed thus.