THE STAR
The night in its pale glory passed, and the morning dawned as fair as
if the world were freshly made. The duke waited until seven o’clock for
Trimousette to wake; she had slept like an infant since midnight. Then
he went and roused her. She arose and dressed quickly, and began those
preparations which even the poorest prisoner makes before leaving the
world. There were some books to be disposed of and a few clothes, and
the pot with the geranium, now bearing three splendid scarlet flowers.
“It is well you have no shoes to leave, except what you are wearing,
for there is no woman’s foot in France small enough for your shoes,”
said the duke, with an air of compliment, and Trimousette nodded almost
gayly.
At nine o’clock Duval came to them. The duke was calmly writing at his
table, and Trimousette was smoothing out her white gown upon the bed.
“Ah, Monsieur Duval,” she cried cheerfully, “we have decided to make
you our executor. The duke means to leave you his pen and these books.
You can sell the books for ten francs perhaps. My clothes are few
and very shabby, but you may have a daughter or perhaps a niece whom
they will fit, so pray take them. Also, I give you my geranium, but I
shall pluck the blossoms--one for the duke to wear to the Place de la
Révolution, one for myself, and one for the little Vicomte d’Aronda.”
“Thank you, madame,” replied Duval gruffly. “I--I--have not yet told
the boy. I don’t know how he will take it.”
“Have no fear. His name is d’Aronda,” said the duke, looking up from
his writing.
At noon the great doors clanged open, and the prisoners, marching out,
saw the list of the condemned posted up in the vast, gloomy archway.
The list, which was long, was headed with the name of the King’s
sister, the gentle and pious Elizabeth. Next came the names of Citizen
and Citizeness Belgarde, and the twenty-fourth and last name was that
of Louis Frédéric d’Aronda.
At this noontime, as on any other, Trimousette and the duke walked in
the garden. They wished to say good-by to their friends among their
fellow prisoners, a brave custom, rarely omitted. As the duke and
Trimousette passed out into the gloomy corridor, they saw, standing
before the posted list in the archway, the little vicomte, quite
smiling and composed.
“It is a great honor,” he said, bowing low with boyish bravado, “to
go with the King’s sister, and also an honor to go with the Duke and
Duchess of Belgarde.”
“Death is nothing,” cried the duke debonairly, laying his hand on the
lad’s shoulder. “I have faced him a hundred times in fight, and if
you look him straight in the eye and advance upon him, he grows quite
amiable to look at.”
“So my father always said,” replied the boy, “and none of my family,
monsieur, knew fear. Even my sister, only twenty, was as cool as any
soldier, and surely a gentleman cannot let his sister surpass him in
valor. Oh, if I die bravely, my father will praise me, and my mother
will smile upon me, and so will my sister when we meet; and if I show
the white feather, I should be afraid to face them.”
“You shall go in the cart with us,” said Trimousette, “and we will tell
Madame Elizabeth that you are a brave boy, a real d’Aronda.”
That day, too, was bright and cloudless, and one of the most peaceful
Trimousette ever spent.
At six o’clock there resounded through the great stone corridors of
the prison a loud, echoing voice, calling the condemned to appear,
and at the same moment the tumbrils rattled into the courtyard. Duval
unlocked the doors of the cells, and the Duke and Duchess of Belgarde
came forth, and at the same moment the little vicomte appeared. He had
made as much of a toilet as he could, and carried carefully in his hand
a new, though coarse, white handkerchief.
Trimousette wore upon the breast of her white gown a vivid red geranium
blossom, and another blazed upon the lapel of the duke’s threadbare
brocade coat. The third blossom Trimousette pinned upon the little
vicomte’s breast, and he kissed her hand for it.
Once in the courtyard, the guards objected to the boy going in the same
cart with Trimousette and her husband--the cart would be too heavy.
“But he is so small--he takes up so little room,” urged Trimousette,
with soft pleading in her eyes. And then, the lad, without waiting for
permission, jumped into the cart and folded his arms defiantly, as much
as to say:
“Turn me out if you dare.”
They allowed him to remain.
There were twelve tumbrils in all for the twenty-four condemned
persons. The very last to appear was a gentle, middle-aged lady, the
dead King’s sister, Madame Elizabeth. Each of the condemned persons
made her a low bow, the little vicomte scrambling out of the cart to
make his reverence. The eyes of Madame Elizabeth grew troubled as
she looked at the lad; the women and men could die, but the little
lads--ah, it was too hard! The Duke of Belgarde, as the man of highest
rank present, had the honor of assisting Madame Elizabeth into the
cart, for which she thanked him sweetly. Her hands were the first tied,
the guards knowing well she would make no resistance, and that the rest
would do as the King’s sister did. When it came to the duke’s turn, he
said:
“Will you kindly permit me to assist madame, my wife, into the cart
first? Then I shall submit willingly.”
The ruffian in attendance assented with a grin, and the duke gallantly
helped Trimousette into the tumbril, and then putting his hands behind
his back, they were tied, after which he jumped lightly in himself and
cried:
“Drive on, coachman! Straight ahead, first turning to the right!”
The procession of the twelve carts moved. In one sat a solitary person,
in another sat three, the Duke and Duchess de Belgarde and the young
Vicomte d’Aronda. The evening was as clear as crystal and the river,
like a string of pearls, slipped softly from the green valley of the
Seine, under the bridges, the statues looking down upon the silvery
stream, past the palaces, in whose windows the sunset blazed blood
red. The great city was still and breathless, as it always was when
these strange processions started for the great open space where Madame
Guillotine held her court. Toward the west, the sky turned from a flame
of crimson to an ocean of golden light, and then to a splendor of pale
purple and green and rose. Presently, a single palpitating star came
out softly in the heavens, now dark blue, and shone with a veiled but
steady brilliance, growing larger and brighter as the daylight waned.
Trimousette, jolting along upon the rude plank laid crosswise the
tumbril, leaned a little toward the duke, who, although pinioned, yet
supported her as the cart rattled along the stony street. The boy sat
at her feet, his look fixed upon her face. He saw neither fear nor
grief, but perfect peace. From Trimousette the lad turned his glance
upon the duke, who had a cool and victorious eye even in that hour.
“I said a great many prayers last night,” said the boy, after a pause,
“and so that business is finished. I leave all with God, as a gentleman
should who treats God as if He were a gentleman and meant to keep His
word to us.”
“He will keep His word to us,” answered Trimousette. The boy’s courage
charmed her, and she thought, if long life had been given to her she
would have wished for such a son as this Louis Frédéric d’Aronda.
“When first I was in prison I rehearsed this scene to myself and
concluded there was nothing about it to keep a man awake at night,”
said the duke. “I think with you, my young vicomte, if there is a God,
He is a gentleman, and will treat us poor devils of mortals fairly. Is
not that true, Trimousette?”
“Quite true,” replied Trimousette.
So, with calm and peaceful talk, they made the journey, amid crowds of
staring and agitated people, who packed the streets and made black the
tops of the houses. A murmur of pity for the little vicomte, sitting
in the bottom of the cart, and talking so cheerfully, swept over the
multitude. The women in the throbbing crowds asked each other his name
and sometimes broke into sobbing as he passed. This agitated compassion
troubled the boy, and he said, with his lips trembling a little:
“I wish they would not say ‘Poor lad! Poor little boy!’ I am afraid it
will make me weep, and that is what I should hate to do.”
“If you are a man, you will not weep,” answered the duke, who knew what
chord to touch. “You should say to them: ‘Ladies, I would take off my
hat to you if my hands were not tied.’”
The boy’s eyes sparkled; he loved to play the man and the gallant; so
he spoke to the crowd as the duke had told him, and was innocently vain
of his own coolness.
At last, the carts, jolting steadily onward, reached the vast clear
space of the Place de la Révolution, crammed with people, and in the
open place in the middle a great Thing, black and gaunt, reared itself
high in the air. At the top a blade of blue steel blazed in the sunset
glow.
The first to dismount from the carts was gentle Madame Elizabeth. She
seated herself placidly on one of the twenty-four chairs ranged around
in the circle. For the first time it was noted of this simple and
kindly creature, once known as a Child of France, something majestic
in her demeanor. She looked about her calmly, as much as to say: “It
matters little to me, Elizabeth, a Daughter of France, what you may do.”
Another woman, who had also been meek all her life, showed a
stateliness of bearing which might well become a duchess. This was
Trimousette, Duchess of Belgarde. She was the next to alight, after
Madame Elizabeth, and took her place of rank, next the royal princess,
first making her a low curtsey, which the princess rose and returned.
Each lady present made two curtseys to this royal lady and each man two
bows, one on dismounting from the cart, and another before ascending
the rude stairs to the platform where the glittering ax worked in its
groove. The most graceful bow of all was made by the Duke of Belgarde;
the most debonair by the Vicomte d’Aronda.
The condemned persons passed in the order of their rank; those of the
lowest rank going first. The little vicomte being last of all, except
the Duke and Duchess of Belgarde, passed before the royal lady, sitting
still and stately in her rough wooden chair. Twenty persons mounted the
stairs to the platform, and twenty times the ax flashed up and down
in its groove. From the surging multitudes around came occasionally
gaspings and sobbings, and even sometimes a wild shriek cut the
twilight air. But not one sob or shriek came from those who went to
their death, each passing bravely and silently.
The twenty-first name to be called was that of Citizen d’Aronda, and
the little vicomte, standing up, cried:
“I am here--Louis Frédéric, Vicomte d’Aronda!”
He went first to Trimousette and kneeled to kiss her hand.
“Au revoir, madame,” he cried; “we meet again shortly, but meanwhile I
shall have seen madame, my mother.”
“Yes, we shall meet soon, and in the greatest happiness,” answered
Trimousette. Her voice trembled a little--she had been less brave
about the boy than about anything else. And the duke called out in a
pleasant voice, just as if the lad were a full-grown man:
“Au revoir, my comrade!”
The vicomte made his reverence to Madame Elizabeth, who rose and
returned it as if the lad were a Marshal of France. In another minute
he was springing up the wooden steps, and some women in the crowd began
weeping loudly, but were soon quieted by the rude words and blows
of the guards. Trimousette did not see what happened next. Her eyes
were fixed upon the west, in which the single star was growing more
beautifully brilliant every moment.
Then it became the turn of Citizen Belgarde, once known as the Duke of
Belgarde. He knelt and kissed Trimousette’s hand and rose and kissed
her cheek, saying with a smile:
“I believe with the little lad that God is a gentleman, and has not
brought us together only to tear us apart.”
Trimousette answered with the sweet, bright smile which had only been
hers since her honeymoon began:
“It is a good belief. Wait for me there,” and pointed toward the star,
now shining large and bright in the purple heavens.
Nevertheless, she turned away her head, and two warm tears ran down
her cheeks. Most men die as they have lived, and so did Fernand, Duke
of Belgarde. After making his reverence to Madame Elizabeth, the duke
walked up the rude stairs coolly, his steady tread resounding loudly.
Then he shouted out:
“Long live the King!”
There was a sudden crash, some movement and commotion on the scaffold.
Then all was over in this world for the Duke of Belgarde, and but
little remained for the wife who had ever loved him better than her
life.
Trimousette rose quickly, made her reverence to Madame Elizabeth, and
when her name was called she was already standing at the foot of the
wooden steps.
Every man who looked at Trimousette wished to help her; even one of the
guards, seeing how small and slight she was, would have assisted her,
but she said to him with a kind of gentle haughtiness:
“I thank you, monsieur, but I do not need your help.”
The executioner tore the white fichu from her neck, leaving its
unsunned beauty exposed to the gaze of thousands of eyes. Trimousette’s
black eyes flashed, and a deep red blush flooded her face and
milk-white neck. She turned for one moment toward the star trembling in
the western sky, and then, with a glorified face, laid her dark head
upon the wooden block, and passed smiling into the Great Silence.
[Illustration]
A ROMANCE OF THE CIVIL WAR.
The Victory.
By MOLLY ELLIOTT SEAWELL, author of “The Chateau of Montplaisir,” “The
Sprightly Romance of Marsac,” etc. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50.
“With so delicate a touch and appreciation of the detail of domestic
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and national, and the overwhelming questions of honor which weighed
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“It is one of the romances that make, by spirit as well as letter,
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D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE FIGHTING CHANCE.”
The Younger Set.
A Novel by ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. Illustrated by G. C. Wilmshurst. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50.
This is a famous novel of New York society; a brilliant picture of
American wealth in its romance, its sins, its splendors, its divorces
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success, “The Fighting Chance.” Richly illustrated by G. C. Wilmshurst.
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“The most popular writer in the country has improved upon his own
very popular ‘Fighting Chance.’”--_New York World._
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.