Within the limits of the citadel of Montaignac stands an old building
known as the chapel. Originally consecrated to purposes of worship, this
structure had, at the time of which we write, fallen into disuse. It was
so damp that it could not even be utilized for storage purposes, and yet
this was the place selected by the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de
Courtornieu for the assembling of the military commission. When Maurice
and the abbe entered this gloomy building they found that the
proceedings had not yet commenced. The little trouble taken to transform
the old chapel into a hall of justice impressed them sadly, for it
testified beyond power of mistake to the precipitation of the judges,
and revealed their determination to carry out the work of vengeance
without either delay or mercy. Three large tables taken from a soldier’s
mess-room, and covered with horse blankets instead of baize, stood on a
raised platform formerly occupied by the chief altar. Behind these
tables were ranged a few rush-seated chairs, waiting the president’s
assessors, and in their midst glittered a richly-carved and gilt arm
chair which his grace had had sent from his own house for his personal
accommodation. In front of the tables three or four long wooden benches
had been placed in readiness for the prisoners, while several strong
ropes were stretched from one wall to the other, so as to divide the
chapel into two parts and allow considerable room for the public. This
last precaution had proved quite superfluous, for, contrary to
expectation, there were not twenty persons in the building. Prominent
among these were ten or twelve men of martial mien, but clad in civilian
attire. Their scarred and weather beaten features testified to many an
arduous campaign fought in imperial times; and indeed they had all
served Napoleon--this one as a lieutenant, that other as a captain--but
the Restoration had dismissed them with scanty pensions and given their
well-earned commissions to cadets of the old nobility. Their pale faces
and the sullen fire gleaming in their eyes showed plainly enough what
they thought of the Duke de Sairmeuse’s proceedings. In addition to
these retired officers there were three men dressed in professional
black who stood conversing in low tones near the chapel door; while in a
corner one could perceive several peasant women with their aprons thrown
over their faces; they were the mothers, wives, and daughters of some of
the imprisoned rebels. Save for their constant sobs the silence would
have been well-nigh undisturbed.
Nine o’clock had just struck when a rolling of drums shook the window
panes; a loud voice was heard outside exclaiming, “Present arms!” and
then the members of the commission entered, followed by the Marquis de
Courtornieu and various civil functionaries. The Duke de Sairmeuse was
in full uniform, his face rather more flushed, and his air a trifle more
haughty than usual. “The sitting is open!” he announced, and adding in a
rough voice, “Bring in the culprits.”
They came in, one by one, to the number of thirty, and sat themselves
down on the benches at the foot of the platform. Chanlouineau held his
head proudly erect, and looked about him with an air of great composure.
The Baron d’Escorval was calm and grave; but not more so than when, in
days gone by, he had been called upon to express his opinion in the
councils of the empire. Both of them perceived Maurice, who was so
overcome that he had to lean upon the abbe for support. But while the
baron greeted his son with a simple bend of the head, Chanlouineau made
a gesture that clearly signified: “Have confidence in me--fear nothing.”
The attitude of the other prisoners indicated surprise rather than fear.
Perhaps they were unconscious of the peril they had braved, and the
extent of the danger that now threatened them.
When the prisoners had taken their places, a colonel who filled the
office of commissary for the prosecution rose to his feet. His
presentation of the case was violent but brief. He narrated a few
leading facts, exalted the merits of the government of his majesty King
Louis XVIIIth, and concluded by demanding that sentence of death should
be pronounced upon the culprits. When he had ceased speaking, the duke
rudely bade the first prisoner on the nearest bench to stand up and give
his name, age, and profession.
“Eugene Michel Chanlouineau,” was the reply, “aged twenty nine, a farmer
by occupation.”
“An owner of national lands, probably?”
“The owner of lands which, having been paid for with good money and made
fertile by my own labour, are rightfully mine.”
The duke did not wish to waste time in useless discussion. “You took
part in this rebellion?” he asked; and receiving an affirmative reply,
pursued, “You are right in confessing, for witnesses will be introduced
who will prove this fact conclusively.”
Five grenadiers entered--the same that Chanlouineau held at bay while
Maurice, the abbe, and Marie-Anne were getting into the cabriolet near
the cross roads. They all of them declared upon oath that they
recognized the prisoner; and one of them even went so far as to say he
was a solid fellow of remarkable courage. During this evidence
Chanlouineau’s eyes betrayed an agony of anxiety. Would the soldiers
allude to the circumstance of the cabriolet and Marie-Anne’s escape?
Perhaps they might have done so had not the Duke de Sairmeuse abruptly
stated that as the prisoner confessed he had heard quite enough.
“What were your motives in fomenting this outbreak?” asked his grace,
turning to Chanlouineau.
“We hoped to free ourselves from a government brought back by foreign
bayonets; to free ourselves from the insolence of the nobility, and to
retain the lands that are justly ours.”
“Enough! You were one of the leaders of the revolt?”
“One of the leaders--yes.”
“Who were the others?”
A faint smile flitted over the young farmer’s lips as he replied: “The
others were M. Lacheneur, his son Jean, and the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”
The duke bounded from his carved arm-chair. “You wretch! you rascal! you
vile scoundrel!” he exclaimed, catching up a heavy inkstand that stood
on the table before him. Every one supposed that he was about to hurl
it at the prisoner’s head.
But Chanlouineau stood perfectly unmoved in the midst of the assembly,
which had been excited to the highest pitch by his startling
declaration. “You questioned me,” he resumed, “and I replied. You may
gag me if my answers don’t please you. If there were witnesses _for_ me
as there are against me, I could prove the truth of what I say. As it
is, all the prisoners here will tell you that I am speaking the truth.
Is it not so, you others?”
With the exception of the Baron d’Escorval, there was not one of the
other prisoners who was capable of understanding the real bearing of
these audacious allegations; nevertheless, they all nodded assent.
“The Marquis de Sairmeuse was so truly our leader,” exclaimed the daring
peasant, “that he was wounded by a sabre-thrust while fighting by my
side.”
The duke’s face was as purple as if he had been struck with apoplexy;
and his fury almost deprived him of the power of speech. “You lie,
scoundrel! you lie!” he gasped.
“Send for the marquis,” said Chanlouineau, quietly, “and see whether
he’s wounded or not.”
A refusal on the duke’s part was bound to arouse suspicion. But what
could he do? Martial had concealed his wound on the previous day, and it
was now impossible to confess that he had been wounded. Fortunately for
his grace, one of the commissioners relieved him of his embarrassment.
“I hope, sir,” he said, “that you will not give this arrogant rebel the
satisfaction he desires. The commission opposes his demand.”
“Very naturally,” retorted Chanlouineau. “To-morrow my head will be off,
and you think nothing will then remain to prove what I say. But,
fortunately, I have other proof--material and indestructible
proof--which it is beyond your power to destroy, and which will speak
when my body is six feet under ground.”
“What is this proof?” asked another commissioner, on whom the duke
looked askance.
The prisoner shook his head. “You shall have it,” he said, “when you
promise me my life in exchange for it. It is now in the hands of a
trusty person, who knows its value. It will go to the king if necessary.
We should like to understand the part which the Marquis de Sairmeuse
played in this affair--whether he was truly with us, or whether he was
only an instigating agent.”
A tribunal regardful of the simplest rules of justice, or even of its
own honour, would have instantly required the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s
attendance. But the military commission considered such a course quite
beneath its dignity. These men arrayed in glittering uniforms were not
judges charged with the vindication of the law; but simply agents
selected by the conquerors to strike the conquered in virtue of that
savage saying, “Woe to the vanquished!” The president, the noble Duke de
Sairmeuse, would not have consented to summon Martial on any
consideration. Nor did his associate judges wish him to do so. Had
Chanlouineau foreseen this result? Probably he had; and yet, why had he
ventured on so hazardous a course? The tribunal, after a short
deliberation, decided that it would not admit this “unjustifiable”
denunciation which, while exciting the whole audience, had quite
stupefied Maurice and the Abbe Midon.
The examination was continued, therefore, with increased bitterness.
“Instead of designating imaginary leaders,” resumed the duke, “you would
do well to name the real instigator of this revolt--not Lacheneur, but
an individual seated at the other end of the bench, the elder
D’Escorval--”
“Monsieur le Baron d’Escorval was entirely ignorant of the conspiracy, I
swear it by all that I hold most sacred--”
“Hold your tongue!” interrupted the emmissary for the prosecution.
“Instead of trying the patience of the commission with such ridiculous
stories, you should endeavour to merit its indulgence.”
Chanlouineau’s glance and gesture expressed such disdain that his
interrupter was abashed. “I wish for no indulgence,” said the young
farmer. “I have played my game and lost it; here is my head. But if you
are not wild beasts you will take pity on the poor wretches who surround
me. I see at least ten among them who were not our accomplices, and who
certainly did not take up arms. Even the others did not know what they
were doing.”
With these words he resumed his seat, proud, indifferent, and apparently
oblivious of the murmur which ran through the audience, the soldiers of
the guard, and even to the platform, at the sound of his ringing voice.
His appeal for clemency towards his fellow prisoners had reawakened the
grief of the poor peasant women, whose sobs and moans now filled the
hall. The retired officers had grown paler than before, and as they
nervously pulled at their long moustaches they murmured among
themselves, “That’s a man, and no mistake!” Just then, moreover, the
abbe leant towards Maurice and whispered in his ear: “Chanlouineau
evidently has some plan. He intends to save your father, though I don’t
at all understand how.”
The judges were conversing with considerable animation, although in an
undertone. A difficulty had presented itself. The prisoners, ignorant of
the charges which would be brought against them, and not expecting
instant trial, had not thought of procuring defenders. And this
circumstance, bitter mockery! caused great annoyance to this iniquitous
tribunal, despite the complacency with which it was prepared to trample
justice under foot. The commissioners had made up their minds, they had
already determined on their verdict, and yet they wished to hear a voice
raised in defence of those who were already doomed. It chanced that
three lawyers, retained by the friends of a few prisoners, were in the
hall. They were the three men whom Maurice had noticed conversing near
the door when he entered the chapel. The duke was informed of their
presence. He turned to them, and motioned them to approach; then,
pointing to Chanlouineau, asked, “Will you undertake this culprit’s
defence?”
For a moment the lawyers hesitated. They were disgusted with these
monstrous proceedings, and looked inquiringly at one another. “We are
all disposed to undertake the prisoner’s defence,” at last replied the
eldest of the three; “but we see him for the first time; we do not know
what defence he can present. He must ask for a delay; it is
indispensable, in order to confer with him.”
“The court can grant you no delay,” interrupted M. de Sairmeuse; “will
you undertake his defence, yes or no?”
The advocate hesitated, not that he was afraid, for he was a brave man:
but he was endeavouring to find some argument strong enough to turn
these mock judges from the course on which they seemed bent. “I will
speak on his behalf,” said the advocate, at last, “but not without
first protesting with all my strength against these unheard of modes of
trial.”
“Oh! spare us your homilies, and be brief.”
After Chanlouineau’s examination, it was difficult to improvise any plea
for him, and especially so on the spur of the moment. Still, in his
indignation, the courageous advocate managed to present a score of
arguments which would have made any other tribunal reflect. But all the
while he was speaking the Duke de Sairmeuse fidgeted in his arm-chair
with every sign of angry impatience. “Your speech was very long,” he
remarked, when the lawyer had finished, “terribly long. We shall never
get through with this business if each prisoner takes up as much time!”
He turned to his colleagues and proposed that they should unite all the
cases, in fact try all the culprits in a body, with the exception of the
elder d’Escorval. “This will shorten our task,” said he, “and there will
then be but two judgments to be pronounced. This will not, of course,
prevent each individual from defending himself.”
The lawyers protested against such a course; for a general judgment such
as the duke suggested would destroy all hope of saving any one of these
unfortunate men. “How can we defend them,” pleaded one advocate, “when
we know nothing of their precise situations; why, we do not even know
their names. We shall be obliged to designate them by the cut of their
coats or by the colour of their hair.”
They implored the tribunal to grant a week for preparation, four days,
even twenty-four hours; but all their efforts were futile, for the
president’s proposition was adopted by his colleagues. Consequently,
each prisoner was called to the table, according to the place which he
occupied on the different benches. Each man gave his name, age, dwelling
place, and profession, and received an order to return to his seat. Six
or seven of the prisoners were actually granted time to say that they
were absolutely ignorant of the conspiracy, and that they had been
arrested while conversing quietly on the public highway. They begged to
be allowed to furnish proof of the truth of their assertions, and they
invoked the testimony of the soldiers who had arrested them. M.
d’Escorval, whose case had been separated from the others, was not
summoned to the table. He would be examined last of all.
“Now the counsel for the defence will be heard,” said the duke; “but
make haste; lose no time for it is already twelve o’clock.”
Then began a shameful and revolting scene. The duke interrupted the
lawyers every other moment, bidding them be silent, questioning them, or
jeering at their arguments. “It seems incredible,” said he, “that any
one can think of defending such wretches!” Or again: “Silence! You
should blush with shame for having constituted yourself the defender of
such rascals!”
However, the advocates courageously persevered, even although they
realized the utter futility of their efforts. But what could they do
under such circumstances? The defence of these twenty-nine prisoners
lasted only one hour and a half.
Before the last word was fairly uttered, the Duke de Sairmeuse gave a
sigh of relief, and in a tone which betrayed his inward delight,
exclaimed: “Prisoner d’Escorval, stand up.”
Thus called upon, the baron rose to his feet, calm and dignified.
Terrible as his sufferings must have been, there was no trace of them on
his noble face. He had even repressed the smile of disdain which the
duke’s paltry spite in not giving him the title he had a right to almost
brought to his lips. But Chanlouineau sprang up at the same time,
trembling with indignation, and his face all aglow with anger.
“Remain seated,” ordered the duke, “or you shall be removed from the
court-room.”
Despite this order the young farmer declared that he would speak: that
he had some remarks to add to the plea made by the defending counsel. At
a sign from the duke, two gendarmes approached him and placed their
hands on his shoulders. He allowed them to force him back into his seat,
though he could easily have crushed them with one blow of his brawny
arm. An observer might have supposed that he was furious; but in reality
he was delighted. He had attained the end he had in view. Whilst
standing he had been able to glance at the Abbe Midon, and the latter
had plainly read in his eyes: “Whatever happens, watch over Maurice;
restrain him. Do not allow him to defeat my plans by any outburst.”
This caution was not unnecessary, for Maurice was terribly agitated;
his sight failed him, his head swam, he felt that he was suffocating,
that he was losing his reason. “Where is the self-control you promised
me?” murmured the priest.
But no one observed the young man’s condition. The attention of the
audience was elsewhere, and the silence was so perfect that one could
distinctly hear the measured tread of the sentinels pacing to and fro in
the courtyard outside. It was plain to every one that the decisive
moment for which the tribunal had reserved all its attention and efforts
had now arrived. The conviction and condemnation of the poor peasants
were, after all, mere trifles; otherwise, indeed, was the task of
humbling a prominent statesman, who had been the emperor’s faithful
friend and counsellor. Seldom could circumstances offer so splendid an
opportunity to satisfy the cravings of royalist prejudice and ambition;
and the Duke de Sairmeuse and his colleagues had fully determined not to
allow it to slip by. If they had acted informally in the case of the
obscure conspirators, they had carefully prepared their suit against the
baron. Thanks to the activity of the Marquis de Courtornieu, the
prosecution had found no fewer than seven charges against him, the least
notable of which was alone punishable with death. “Which of you,” asked
the president, turning to the lawyers, “will consent to defend this
great culprit?”
“I!” exclaimed the three advocates all in one breath.
“Take care,” said the duke, with a malicious smile; “the task may prove
a difficult one.”
“Difficult, indeed!” It would have been better to have said dangerous,
for the defender risked his career, his peace, his liberty, and very
probably--his life.
“Our profession has its exigencies,” nobly replied the oldest of the
advocates. And then the two courageously took their places beside the
baron, thus avenging the honour of their robe.
“Prisoner,” resumed M. de Sairmeuse, “state your name and profession.”
“Louis Guillaume, Baron d’Escorval, Commander of the order of the Legion
of Honour, formerly Councillor of State under the Empire.”
“So you avow these shameful services? You confess----”
“Excuse me; I am proud of having had the honour of serving my country,
and of being useful to her in proportion to my abilities----”
“Ah ha! very good indeed!” interrupted the duke with a furious gesture.
“These gentlemen, my fellow commissioners, will appreciate those words
of yours. No doubt it was in the hope of regaining your former position
that you entered into this shameful conspiracy against a magnanimous
prince.”
“You know as well as I do myself, sir, that I have had no hand in this
conspiracy.”
“Why, you were arrested in the ranks of the conspirators with weapons in
your hands!”
“I was unarmed, as you are well aware; and if I was among the peasantry,
it was only because I hoped to induce them to relinquish their senseless
enterprise.”
“You lie!”
The baron paled beneath the insult, but he made no response. There was,
however, one man in the assemblage who could no longer endure such
abominable injustice, and this was the Abbe Midon, who, only a moment
before, had advised Maurice to remain calm. Abruptly leaving his place,
he advanced to the foot of the platform.
“The Baron d’Escorval speaks the truth,” he cried, in a ringing voice:
“as each of the three hundred prisoners in the citadel will swear. Those
who are here would say the same, even if they stood upon the guillotine;
and I, who accompanied him, who walked beside him, I, a priest, swear
before the God who one day will judge us all, Monsieur de Sairmeuse, I
swear we did everything that was humanly possible to do to arrest this
movement!”
The duke listened with an ironical smile. “I was not deceived, then,” he
answered, “when I was told that this army of rebels had a chaplain! Ah!
sir, you should sink to the earth with shame. What! You, a priest,
mingle with such scoundrels as these--with these enemies of our good
king and of our holy religion! Do not deny it! Your haggard features,
your swollen eyes, your disordered attire, plainly betray your guilt.
Must I, a soldier, remind you of what is due to your sacred calling?
Hold your peace, sir, and depart!”
But the prisoner’s advocates were on their feet. “We demand,” cried
they, “we demand that this witness be heard. He must be heard! Military
commissions are not above the laws that regulate ordinary tribunals.”
“If I do not speak the truth,” resumed the abbe, “I am a perjured
witness--worse yet, an accomplice. It is your duty, in that case, to
have me arrested.”
The duke’s face assumed a look of hypocritical compassion. “No, Monsieur
le Cure,” said he, “I shall not arrest you. I wish to avert the scandal
which you are trying to cause. We will show your priestly garb the
respect the wearer does not deserve. Again, and for the last time,
retire, or I shall be obliged to employ force.”
What would further resistance avail? Nothing. The abbe, with a face
whiter than the plastered walls, and eyes filled with tears, returned to
his place beside Maurice.
In the meanwhile, the advocates were protesting with increasing energy.
But the duke, hammering on the table with both fists, at last succeeded
in reducing them to silence. “Ah! you want evidence!” he exclaimed.
“Very well then, you shall have it. Soldiers, bring in the first
witness.”
There was some little movement among the guards, and then Father Chupin
made his appearance. He advanced with a deliberate step, but his
restless, shrinking eyes showed plainly enough that he was ill at ease.
And there was a very perceptible tremor in his voice when, with hand
uplifted, he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but
the truth.
“What do you know concerning the prisoner d’Escorval?” asked the duke.
“I know that he took part in the rising the other night.”
“Are you sure of this?”
“I can furnish proofs.”
“Submit them to the consideration of the commission.”
The old scoundrel began to grow more confident. “First of all,” he
replied, “directly Lacheneur had given up your grace’s family estates,
much against his will, he hastened to M. d’Escorval’s house, where he
met Chanlouineau. It was then that they plotted this insurrection
between them.”
“I was Lacheneur’s friend,” observed the baron, “and it was perfectly
natural that he should come to me for consolation after a great
misfortune.”
M. de Sairmeuse turned to his colleagues. “Do you hear that!” said he.
“This D’Escorval calls the restitution of a deposit a great misfortune!
Proceed, witness.”
“In the second place,” resumed Chupin, “M. d’Escorval was always
prowling round about Lacheneur’s house.”
“That’s false,” interrupted the baron. “I never visited the house but
once, and on that occasion I implored him to renounce--” He paused,
understanding only when it was too late the terrible significance of
these few words. However, having begun, he would not retract, but calmly
added: “I implored him to renounce all idea of provoking an
insurrection.”
“Ah! then you knew of his infamous intentions?”
“I suspected them.”
“At all events you must be perfectly well aware that the fact of not
revealing this conspiracy made you an accomplice, which implies the
guillotine.”
The Baron d’Escorval had just signed his death-warrant. How strange is
destiny! He was innocent, and yet he was the only one among all the
prisoners, whom a regular tribunal could have legally condemned. Maurice
and the abbe were overcome with grief; but Chanlouineau, who turned
towards them, had still the same smile of confidence on his lips. How
could he hope when all hope seemed absolutely lost?
The commissioners made no attempt to conceal their satisfaction, and M.
de Sairmeuse, especially, evinced an indecent joy. “Ah, well! gentlemen,
what do you say to that?” he remarked to the lawyers, in a sneering
tone.
The counsel for the defence were unable to conceal their discouragement;
though they still endeavoured to question the validity of their client’s
declaration. He had said that he _suspected_ the conspiracy, not that he
_knew_ of it, which was a very different thing.
“Say at once that you wish for still more overwhelming testimony,”
interrupted the duke. “Very well! You shall have it. Continue your
evidence, witness.”
“The prisoner,” continued Chupin, “was present at all the conferences
held at Lacheneur’s house; and having to cross the Oiselle each time,
and fearing lest the ferryman might speak about his frequent nocturnal
journeys, he had an old boat repaired, which he had not used for years.”
“Ah! that’s a remarkable circumstance, prisoner; do you recollect having
your boat repaired?”
“Yes; but not for the purpose this man mentions.”
“For what purpose, then?”
The baron made no reply. Was it not in compliance with Maurice’s
request, that this boat had been put in order?
“And finally,” continued Chupin, “when Lacheneur set fire to his house
as a signal for the insurrection, the prisoner was with him.”
“That,” exclaimed the duke, “is conclusive evidence.”
“Yes, I was at La Reche,” interrupted the baron; “but as I have already
told you, it was with the firm determination of preventing this
outbreak.”
M. de Sairmeuse laughed disdainfully. “Ah, gentlemen!” he said,
addressing his fellow commissioners, “you see that the prisoner’s
courage does not equal his depravity. But I will confound him. What did
you do, prisoner, when the insurgents left La Reche?”
“I returned home with all possible speed, took a horse and hastened to
the Croix-d’Arcy.”
“Then you knew that this was to be the general meeting place?”
“Lacheneur had just informed me of it.”
“Even if I believed your story,” retorted the duke, “I should have to
remind you, that your duty was to have hastened to Montaignac and
informed the authorities. But what you say is untrue. You did not leave
Lacheneur, you accompanied him.”
“No, sir, no!”
“And what if I could prove that you did so, beyond all question?”
“Impossible, since such was not the case.”
By the malicious satisfaction that sparkled in M. de Sairmeuse’s eyes,
the Abbe Midon divined that he had some terrible weapon in reserve, and
that he was about to overwhelm the Baron d’Escorval with false evidence,
or fatal coincidence, which would place Maurice’s father beyond all
possibility of being saved. At a sign from the commissary for the
prosecution the Marquis de Courtornieu now left his seat and advanced to
the front of the platform. “I must request you, Monsieur le Marquis,”
said the duke, “to be kind enough to read us the statement your daughter
has prepared and signed.”
This scene had evidently been prepared beforehand. M. de Courtornieu
cleared his glasses, produced a paper which he slowly unfolded, and then
amid a death-like silence, emphatically read as follows: “I, Blanche de
Courtornieu, do declare upon oath that, on the evening of the fourth of
March, between ten and eleven o’clock on the public road leading from
Sairmeuse to Montaignac, I was assailed by a band of armed brigands.
While they were deliberating as to whether they should take possession
of my person and pillage my carriage, I overheard one of them say to
another, speaking of me: ‘She must get out, must she not, M.
d’Escorval?’ I believe that the brigand who uttered these words was a
peasant named Chanlouineau, but I can not assert this, on oath.”
At this moment a loud cry of anguish abruptly interrupted the marquis’s
perusal. The trial was too great for Maurice’s reason, and if the Abbe
Midon had not restrained him, he would have sprung forward, and
exclaimed: “It was to me, not to my father that Chanlouineau addressed
those words. I alone am guilty; my father is innocent!” But fortunately
the abbe had sufficient presence of mind to hold the young fellow back,
and place his hand before his mouth. One or two of the retired officers
standing near, also tendered their help, and probably divining the
truth, seized hold of Maurice, and despite all his attempts at
resistance carried him from the room by main force. The whole incident
scarcely occupied ten seconds.
“What is the cause of this disturbance!” asked the duke, looking angrily
at the spectators, none of whom uttered a word. “At the least noise the
hall shall be cleared,” added his grace. “And you, prisoner, what have
you to say in self-justification, after Mademoiselle de Courtornieu’s
crushing evidence?”
“Nothing,” murmured the baron.
But to return to Maurice. Once outside the court-room, the Abbe Midon
confided him to the care of three officers, who promised to go with him,
to carry him by main force, if need be, to the Hotel de France, and keep
him there. Relieved on this score, the priest re-entered the hall just
in time to see the baron re-seat himself without replying to M. de
Sairmeuse’s final sneer, that by bearing Mademoiselle Blanche’s
testimony unchallenged M. d’Escorval had virtually confessed his guilt.
But then in truth, how could he have challenged it? How could he defend
himself without betraying his son? Until this moment every one present
had believed in the baron’s innocence. Could it be that he was guilty?
His silence seemed to imply that such was the case; and this alone was a
sufficient triumph for the Duke de Sairmeuse and his friends. His grace
now turned to the lawyers, and with an air of weariness and disdain,
remarked. “At present you may speak, since it is absolutely necessary;
but no long phrases, mind! we ought to have finished here an hour ago.”
The eldest of the three advocates rose, trembling with indignation, and
prepared to dare anything for the sake of giving free utterance to his
thoughts, but before a word was spoken the baron hastily checked him.
“Do not try to defend me,” he said calmly; “it would be labour wasted. I
have only one word to say to my judges. Let them remember what noble
Marshal Moncey wrote to the king: ‘The scaffold does not make friends.’”
But this reminder was not of a nature to soften the judges’ hearts. For
that very phrase the marshal had been deprived of his office, and
condemned to three months’ imprisonment. As the advocates made no
further attempt to argue the case, the commission retired to deliberate.
This gave M. d’Escorval an opportunity to speak with his defenders. He
shook them warmly by the hand, and thanked them for their courage and
devotion. Then drawing the eldest among them on one side, he quickly
added, in a low voice: “I have a last favour to ask of you. When
sentence of death has been pronounced upon me, go at once to my son. Say
to him that his dying father commands him to live--he will understand
you. Tell him that it is my last wish; that he live--live for his
mother!”
He said no more; the judges were returning. Of the thirty prisoners,
nine were declared not guilty, and released. The remaining twenty-one
including both M. d’Escorval and Chanlouineau were then formally
condemned to death. But Chanlouineau’s lips still retained their
enigmatical smile.