The verdict rendered by the jury of the town of Bourg had a terrible
effect, not only in the courtroom, but throughout the entire town. The
four prisoners had shown such chivalric brotherhood, such noble bearing,
such deep conviction in the faith they professed, that their enemies
themselves admired the devotion which had made robbers and highwaymen of
men of rank and family.
Madame de Montrevel, overwhelmed by the part she had been made to play
at the crucial point of this drama, saw but one means of repairing the
evil she had done, and that was to start at once for Paris and fling
herself at the feet of the First Consul, imploring him to pardon the
four condemned men. She did not even take time to go to the Château des
Noires-Fontaines to see Amélie. She knew that Bonaparte’s departure was
fixed for the first week in May, and this was already the 6th. When she
last left Paris everything had been prepared for that departure.
She wrote a line to Amélie explaining by what fatal deception she had
been instrumental in destroying the lives of four men, when she intended
to save the life of one. Then, as if ashamed of having broken the pledge
she had made to Amélie, and above all to herself, she ordered fresh
post-horses and returned to Paris.
She arrived there on the morning of the 8th of May. Bonaparte had
started on the evening of the 6th. He said on leaving that he was only
going to Dijon, possibly as far as Geneva, but in any case he should
not be absent more than three weeks. The prisoners’ appeal, even if
rejected, would not receive final consideration for five or six weeks.
All hope need not therefore be abandoned.
But, alas! it became evident that the review at Dijon was only a
pretext, that the journey to Geneva had never been seriously thought of,
and that Bonaparte, instead of going to Switzerland, was really on his
way to Italy.
Then Madame de Montrevel, unwilling to appeal to her son, for she had
heard his oath when Lord Tanlay had been left for dead, and knew the
part he had played in the capture of the Companions of Jehu--then Madame
de Montrevel appealed to Josephine, and Josephine promised to write to
the First Consul. That same evening she kept her promise.
But the trial had made a great stir. It was not with these prisoners as
with ordinary men. Justice made haste, and thirty-five days after the
verdict had been rendered the appeal was rejected. This decision was
immediately sent to Bourg with an order to execute the prisoners within
twenty-four hours. But notwithstanding the haste of the minister of
police in forwarding this decision, the first intimation of the fatal
news was not received by the judicial authorities at Bourg. While the
prisoners were taking their daily walk in the courtyard a stone was
thrown over the outer wall and fell at their feet. Morgan, who still
retained in relation to his comrades the position of leader, picked
it up, opened the letter which inclosed the stone, and read it. Then,
turning to his friends, he said: “Gentlemen, the appeal has been
rejected, as we might have expected, and the ceremony will take place in
all probability to-morrow.”
Valensolle and Ribier, who were playing a species of quoits with
crown-pieces and louis, left off their game to hear the news. Having
heard it they returned to their game without remark.
Jayat, who was reading “La Nouvelle Héloise,” resumed his book, saying:
“Then, I shall not have time to finish M. Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s
masterpiece, and upon my word I don’t regret it, for it is the most
utterly false and wearisome book I ever read in my life!”
Sainte-Hermine passed his hand over his forehead, murmuring: “Poor
Amélie!” Then observing Charlotte, who was at the window of the jailer’s
room overlooking the courtyard, he went to her. “Tell Amélie that she
must keep the promise she made me, to-night.”
The jailer’s daughter closed the window, kissed her father, and told him
that in all probability he would see her there again that evening. Then
she returned to Noires-Fontaines, a road she had taken twice every day
for the last two months, once at noon on her way to the prison, once in
the evening on returning to the château.
Every night she found Amélie in the same place, sitting at the window
which, in happier days, had given admittance to her beloved Charles.
Since the day she had fainted in the courtroom she had shed no tears,
and, we may almost add, had uttered no word. Unlike the marble of
antiquity awakening into life, she might have been compared to a living
woman petrifying into stone. Every day she grew paler.
Charlotte watched her with astonishment. Common minds, always impressed
by noisy demonstrations, that is to say, by cries and tears, are unable
to understand a mute sorrow. Dumbness to them means indifference. She
was therefore astonished at the calmness with which Amélie received the
message she was charged to deliver. She did not see in the dimness of
the twilight that Amélie’s face from being pale grew livid. She did not
feel the deadly clutch which, like an iron wrench, had seized her heart.
She did not know that as her mistress walked to the door an automatic
stiffness was in her limbs. Nevertheless she followed her anxiously. But
at the door Amélie stretched out her hand.
“Wait for me there,” she said.
Charlotte obeyed. Amélie closed the door behind her, and went up to
Roland’s room.
Roland’s room was veritably that of a soldier and a huntsman, and its
chief adornments were trophies and weapons. Arms of all kinds were here,
French and foreign, from the blue-barrelled pistol of Versailles to the
silver-handled pistol of Cairo, from the tempered blade of Catalonia to
the Turkish cimeter.
Amélie took down from this arsenal four daggers, sharp-edged and
pointed, and eight pistols of different shapes. She put balls in a bag
and powder in a horn. Thus supplied she returned to her own room. There
Charlotte assisted her in putting on the peasant gown. Then she waited
for the night.
Night comes late in June. Amélie stood motionless, mute, leaning against
the chimney-piece, and looking through the open window at the village
of Ceyzeriat, which was slowly disappearing in the gathering shades
of night. When she could no longer distinguish anything but the lights
which were being lighted one by one, she said:
“Come, it is time to go.”
The two young girls went out. Michel paid no attention to Amélie,
supposing her to be some friend of Charlotte’s, who had called to see
her and whom the jailer’s daughter was now escorting home.
Ten o’clock was striking as they passed the church of Brou. It was
quarter past when Charlotte knocked at the prison door. Old Courtois
opened it.
We have already shown the political opinions of the worthy jailer. He
was a royalist. He therefore felt the deepest sympathy for the four
condemned men, and had hoped, like nearly every one in Bourg--like
Madame de Montrevel, whose despair at what she had done was known to
him--that the First Consul would pardon them. He had therefore mitigated
their captivity as much as possible, without failing in his duty, by
relieving them of all needless restrictions. On the other hand, it is
true that he had refused a gift of sixty thousand francs (a sum which
in those days was worth nearly treble what it is now) to allow them to
escape.
We have seen how, being taken into confidence by his daughter, he had
allowed Amélie, disguised as a Bressan peasant, to be present at the
trial. The reader will also remember the kindness the worthy man had
shown to Amélie and her mother when they themselves were prisoners.
This time, as he was still ignorant of the rejection of the appeal, he
allowed his feelings to be worked upon. Charlotte had told him that her
young mistress was to start that night for Paris to endeavor to hasten
the pardon, and that she desired before leaving to see the Baron de
Sainte-Hermine and obtain his last instructions.
There were five doors to break through to reach the street, a squad of
guards in the courtyard, and sentinels within and without the prison.
Consequently Père Courtois felt no anxiety lest his prisoners escape. He
therefore consented that Amélie should see Morgan.
We trust our readers will excuse us if we use the names Morgan, Charles,
and the Baron de Sainte-Hermine, interchangeably, since they are aware
that by that triple appellation we intend to designate the same man.
Courtois took a light and walked before Amélie. The young girl, as
though prepared to start by the mail-coach at once on leaving the
prison, carried a travelling bag in her hand. Charlotte followed her
mistress.
“You will recognize the cell, Mademoiselle de Montrevel,” said Courtois.
“It is the one in which you were confined with your mother. The leader
of these unfortunate young men, the Baron Charles de Sainte-Hermine,
asked me as a favor to put them in cage No. 1. You know that’s the
name we give our cells. I did not think I ought to refuse him that
consolation, knowing how the poor fellow loved you. Oh, don’t be
uneasy, Mademoiselle Amélie, I will never breathe your secret. Then he
questioned me, asking which had been your mother’s bed, and which yours.
I told him, and then he wanted his to stand just where yours did. That
wasn’t hard, for the bed was not only in the same place, but it was the
very one you had used. So, since the poor fellow entered your cell, he
has spent nearly all his time lying on your bed.”
Amélie gave a sigh that resembled a groan. She felt--and it was long
since she had done so--a tear moisten her eyelids. Yes! she was loved as
she loved, and the lips of a disinterested stranger gave her the proof
of it. At this moment of eternal separation this conviction shone like a
diamond of light in its setting of sorrow.
The doors opened one by one before Père Courtois. When they reached the
last one, Amélie laid her hand on the jailer’s shoulder. She thought
she heard a chant. Listening attentively, she became aware that it was a
voice repeating verses.
But the voice was not Morgan’s; it was unknown to her. Here is what it
said:
I have bared all my heart to the God of the just,
He has witnessed my penitent tears;
He has stilled my remorse, He has armed me with trust,
He has pitied and calmed all my fears.
My enemies, scoffing, have said in their rage:
“Let him die, be his mem’ry accursed!”
Saith the merciful Father, my grief to assuage,
“Their hatred hath now done its worst.
“I have heard thy complaints, and I know that the ban
Of remorse hath e’en brought thee so low;
I can pity the soul of the penitent man
That was weak in this valley of woe;
“I will crown thy lost name with the just acclaim
Of the slow-judging righteous years;
Their pity and justice in time shall proclaim
Thine honor; then layoff thy fears!”
I bless thee, O God! who hast deigned to restore
Mine honor that Thou hast made whole
From shame and remorse; as I enter Death’s door
To Thee I commend my poor soul!
To the banquet of life, an unfortunate guest,
I came for a day, and I go--
I die in my vigor; I sought not to rest
In the grave where the weary lie low.
Farewell to thee, earth! farewell, tender verdure
Of woodland! Farewell, sunny shore!
Green fields that I love, azure skies, smiling Nature,
Farewell! I shall see thee no more.
May thy beauty still gladden the friends that I love,
Whom I long for--but stern fate denies;
May they pass full of years, though I wait them above;
May a last loving hand close their eyes.
The voice was silent; no doubt the last verse was finished. Amélie, who
would not interrupt the last meditations of the doomed men, and who had
recognized Gilbert’s beautiful ode written on a hospital bed the night
before his death, now signed to the jailer to open the door. Père
Courtois, jailer as he was, seemed to share the young girl’s emotion,
for he put the key in the lock and turned it as softly as he could. The
door opened.
Amélie saw at a glance the whole interior of the cell, and the persons
in it.
Valensolle was standing, leaning against the wall, and still holding the
book from which he had just read the lines that Amélie had overheard.
Jayat was seated near a table with his head resting on his hands.
Ribier was sitting on the table itself. Near him, but further back,
Sainte-Hermine, his eyes closed as if in sleep, was lying on the bed. At
sight of the young girl, whom they knew to be Amélie, Ribier and Jayat
rose. Morgan did not move; he had heard nothing.
Amélie went directly to him, and, as if the love she felt for him were
sanctified by the nearness of death, she gave no heed to the presence of
his friends, but pressed her lips to his, murmuring: “Awake, my Charles,
it is I, Amélie. I have come to keep my promise.”
Morgan gave a cry of joy and clasped her in his arms.
“Monsieur Courtois,” said Montbar, “you are a worthy man. Leave those
poor young people alone. It would be sacrilege to trouble their last
moments together on earth by our presence.”
Père Courtois, without a word, opened the door of the adjoining cell.
Valensolle, Jayat and Ribier entered it, and the door was closed upon
them. Then, making a sign to Charlotte, Courtois himself went away. The
lovers were alone.
There are scenes that should not be described, words that must not be
repeated. God, who sees and hears them from his immortal throne, alone
knows what sombre joys, what bitter pleasures they contain.
At the end of an hour the two young people heard the key turn once
more in the lock. They were sad but calm. The conviction that their
separation would not be for long gave them a sweet serenity. The worthy
jailer seemed more grieved and distressed at his second appearance than
at his first; but Morgan and Amélie thanked him with a smile.
He went to the cell where the others were locked up and opened it,
murmuring to himself: “Faith! It would have been hard if they couldn’t
have been alone together on their last night.”
Valensolle, Jayat and Ribier returned. Amélie, with her left arm wound
around Morgan, held out her right hand to them. All three, one after the
other, kissed that cold, damp hand. Then Morgan led her to the door.
“Au revoir!” he said.
“Soon!” she answered.
And then this parting at the gates of death was sealed by a long kiss,
followed by a groan so terrible that it seemed to rend their hearts in
twain.
The door closed again, the bolts and bars shot into their places.
“Well?” cried Valensolle, Jayat and Ribier with one accord.
“Here!” replied Morgan, emptying the travelling bag upon the table.
The three young men gave a cry of joy as they saw the shining pistols
and gleaming blades. It was all that they desired next to liberty--the
joy, the dolorous precious joy of knowing themselves masters of their
own lives, and, if need be, that of others.
During this time the jailer led Amélie to the street. When they reached
it he hesitated a moment, then he touched Amélie’s arm, saying as he did
so: “Mademoiselle de Montrevel, forgive me for causing you so much pain,
but it is useless for you to go to Paris.”
“Because the appeal has been rejected and the execution takes place
to-morrow, I suppose you mean,” said Amélie.
The jailer in his astonishment stepped back a pace.
“I knew it, my friend,” said Amélie. Then turning to Charlotte, she
said: “Take me to the nearest church and come for me to-morrow after all
is over.”
The nearest church was not far off. It was that of Sainte-Claire. For
the last three months it had been opened for public worship under the
decree of the First Consul. As it was now nearly midnight, the doors
were closed; but Charlotte knew where the sexton lived and she went to
wake him. Amélie waited, leaning against the walls as motionless as the
marble figures that adorned its frontal.
The sexton arrived at the end of half an hour. During that time the girl
had seen a dreadful sight. Three men had passed her, dragging a cart,
which she saw by the light of the moon was painted red. Within this cart
she perceived shapeless objects, long planks and singular ladders,
all painted the same color. They were dragging it toward the bastion
Montrevel, the place used for the executions. Amélie divined what it
was, and, with a cry, she fell upon her knees.
At that cry the men in black turned round. They fancied for a moment
that one of the sculptured figures of the porch had descended from
its niche and was kneeling there. The one who seemed to be the leader
stepped close to the young girl.
“Don’t come near me!” she cried. “Don’t come near me!”
The man returned humbly to his place and continued on his way. The cart
disappeared round the corner of the Rue des Prisons; but the noise of
its wheels still sounded on the stones and echoed in the girl’s heart.
When the sacristan and Charlotte returned they found the young girl on
her knees. The man raised some objections against opening the church
at that hour of the night; but a piece of gold and Mademoiselle de
Montrevel’s name dispelled his scruples. A second gold piece decided him
to light a little chapel. It was the one in which Amélie had made her
first communion. There, kneeling before the altar, she implored them to
leave her alone.
Toward three in the morning she saw the colored window above the altar
of the Virgin begin to lighten. It looked to the east, so that the first
ray of light came direct to her eyes as a messenger from God.
Little by little the town awoke. To Amélie the noise seemed louder than
ever before. Soon the vaulted ceiling of the church shook with the tramp
of a troop of horsemen. This troop was on its way to the prison.
A little before nine the young girl heard a great noise, and it seemed
to her that the whole town must be rushing in the same direction.
She strove to lose herself in prayer, that she might not hear these
different sounds that spoke to her in an unknown language of which her
anguish told her she understood every word.
In truth, a terrible thing was happening at the prison. It was no wonder
that the whole town had rushed thither.
At nine o’clock Père Courtois entered the jail to tell the prisoners at
one and the same time that their appeal had been rejected and that they
must prepare for immediate death. He found the four prisoners armed to
the teeth.
The jailer, taken unawares, was pulled into the cell and the door locked
behind him. Then the young men, without any defence on his part,
so astonished was he, seized his keys, and passing through the door
opposite to the one by which he had entered they locked it on him.
Leaving him in their cell, they found themselves in the adjoining one,
in which he had placed three of them during Amélie’s interview with
Morgan.
One of the keys on the jailer’s bunch opened the other door of this
cell, and that door led to the inner courtyard of the prison. This
courtyard was closed by three massive doors, all of which led to a sort
of lobby, opening upon the porter’s lodge, which in turn adjoined the
law-courts. From this lodge fifteen steps led down into a vast courtyard
closed by an iron gate and railing. Usually this gate was only locked at
night. If it should happen to be open on this occasion it would offer a
possibility of escape.
Morgan found the key of the prisoners’ court, opened the door, and
rushed with his companions to the porter’s lodge and to the portico,
from which the fifteen steps led down into the courtyard. From there the
three young men could see that all hope was lost.
The iron gate was closed, and eighty men, dragoons and gendarmes, were
drawn up in front of it.
When the four prisoners, free and armed to the teeth, sprang from the
porter’s lodge to the portico, a great cry, a cry of astonishment and
terror, burst from the crowd in the street beyond the railing.
Their aspect was formidable, indeed; for to preserve the freedom of
their movements, perhaps to hide the shedding of blood, which would have
shown so quickly on their white linen, they were naked to the waist. A
handkerchief knotted around their middle bristled with weapons.
A glance sufficed to show them that they were indeed masters of their
own lives, but not of their liberty. Amid the clamoring of the crowd and
the clanking of the sabres, as they were drawn from their scabbards, the
young men paused an instant and conferred together. Then Montbar, after
shaking hands with his companions, walked down the fifteen steps and
advanced to the gate.
When he was within four yards of the gate he turned, with a last glance
at his comrades, bowed graciously to the now silent mob, and said to
the soldiers: “Very well, gentlemen of the gendarmerie! Very well,
dragoons!”
Then, placing the muzzle of his pistol to his mouth, he blew out his
brains.
Confused and frantic cries followed the explosion, but ceased almost
immediately as Valensolle came down the steps, holding in his hand a
dagger with a straight and pointed blade. His pistols, which he did not
seem inclined to use, were still in his belt.
He advanced to a sort of shed supported on three pillars, stopped at the
first pillar, rested the hilt of his dagger upon it, and, with a last
salutation to his friends, clasped the column with one arm till
the blade had disappeared in his breast. For an instant he remained
standing, then a mortal pallor overspread his face, his arm loosened its
hold, and he fell to the ground, stone-dead.
The crowd was mute, paralyzed with horror.
It was now Ribier’s turn. He advanced to the gate, and, once there,
aimed the two pistols he held at the gendarmes. He did not fire, but the
gendarmes did. Three or four shots were heard, and Ribier fell, pierced
by two balls.
Admiration seized upon the spectators at sight of these successive
catastrophes. They saw that the young men were willing to die, but
to die with honor, and as they willed, and also with the grace of the
gladiators of antiquity. Silence therefore reigned when Morgan, now left
alone, came smiling down the steps of the portico and held up his hand
in sign that he wished to speak. Besides, what more could it want--this
eager mob; watching for blood?
A greater sight had been given to it than it came to see. Four dead men
had been promised to it; four heads were to be cut off; but here was
variety in death, unexpected, picturesque. It was natural, therefore,
that the crowd should keep silence when Morgan was seen to advance.
He held neither pistols nor daggers in his hands; they were in his belt.
He passed the body of Valensolle, and placed himself between those of
Jayat and Ribier.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “let us negotiate.”
The hush that followed was so great that those present seemed scarcely
to breathe. Morgan said: “There lies a man who has blown out his brains
[he pointed to Jayat]; here lies one who stabbed himself [he designated
Valensolle]; a third who has been shot [he indicated Ribier]; you want
to see the fourth guillotined. I understand that.”
A dreadful shudder passed through the crowd.
“Well,” continued Morgan, “I am willing to give you that satisfaction. I
am ready, but I desire to go to the scaffold in my own way. No one
shall touch me; if any one does come near me I shall blow out his
brains--except that gentleman,” continued Morgan, pointing to the
executioner. “This is his affair and mine only.”
The crowd apparently thought this request reasonable, for from all sides
came the cry, “Yes, yes, yes.”
The officer saw that the quickest way to end the matter was to yield to
Morgan’s demand.
“Will you promise me,” he asked, “that if your hands and feet are not
bound you will not try to escape?”
“I give my word of honor,” replied Morgan.
“Then,” said the officer; “stand aside, and let us take up the bodies of
your comrades.”
“That is but right,” said Morgan, and he turned aside to a wall about
ten paces distant and leaned against it.
The gate opened. Three men dressed in black entered the courtyard and
picked up the bodies one after the other. Ribier was not quite dead; he
opened his eyes and seemed to look for Morgan.
“Here I am,” said the latter. “Rest easy, dear friend, I follow.”
Ribier closed his eyes without uttering a word.
When the three bodies had been removed, the officer of the gendarmerie
addressed Morgan.
“Are you ready, sir?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Morgan, bowing with exquisite politeness.
“Then come.”
“I come.”
And he took his place between a platoon of gendarmerie and a detachment
of dragoons.
“Will you mount the cart, sir, or go on foot?” asked the captain.
“On foot, on foot, sir. I am anxious that all shall see it is my
pleasure to be guillotined, and that I am not afraid.”
The sinister procession crossed the Place des Lisses and skirted the
walls of the Hôtel Montbazon. The cart bearing the three bodies came
first, then the dragoons, then Morgan walking alone in a clear space of
some ten feet before and behind him, then the gendarmes. At the end of
the wall they turned to the left.
Suddenly, through an opening that existed at that time between the wall
and the market-place, Morgan saw the scaffold raising its two posts to
heaven like two bloody arms.
“Faugh!” he exclaimed, “I have never seen a guillotine, and I had no
idea it was so ugly.”
Then, without further remark, he drew his dagger and plunged it into his
breast up to the hilt.
The captain of the gendarmerie saw the movement without being in time
to prevent it. He spurred his horse toward Morgan, who, to his own
amazement and that of every one else, remained standing. But Morgan,
drawing a pistol from his belt and cocking it, exclaimed: “Stop! It was
agreed that no one should touch me. I shall die alone, or three of us
will die together.”
The captain reined back his horse.
“Forward!” said Morgan.
They reached the foot of the guillotine. Morgan drew out his dagger and
struck again as deeply as before. A cry of rage rather than pain escaped
him.
“My soul must be riveted to my body,” he said.
Then, as the assistants wished to help him mount the scaffold on which
the executioner was awaiting him, he cried out: “No, I say again, let no
one touch me.”
Then he mounted the three steps without staggering.
When he reached the platform, he drew out the dagger again and struck
himself a third time. Then a frightful laugh burst from his lips;
flinging the dagger, which he had wrenched from the third ineffectual
wound, at the feet of the executioner, he exclaimed: “By my faith! I
have done enough. It is your turn; do it if you can.”
A minute later the head of the intrepid young man fell upon the
scaffold, and by a phenomenon of that unconquerable vitality which he
possessed it rebounded and rolled forward beyond the timbers of the
guillotine.
Go to Bourg, as I did, and they will tell you that, as the head rolled
forward, it was heard to utter the name of Amélie.
The dead bodies were guillotined after the living one; so that the
spectators, instead of losing anything by the events we have just
related, enjoyed a double spectacle.