The Scaffold and the Confession.
It is night. The air is cold and biting; the stars are bright in the
clear sky; and the moon is slowly sinking behind the Cathedral of St.
Flour. Snow lies on the ground and on the house-tops, and everything
looks pale in the blue moonlight. A gloomy platform hung with black
cloth and surrounded by horse-soldiers, each with a torch in his left
hand and a drawn sword in his right, stands in the midst of the public
square. A vast multitude is assembled outside the barriers that surround
the scaffold. The houses blaze with lights, and all the windows are
crowded with curious spectators. Huge and sombre, the prison rises on
one side of the square, and the church upon the other. A low unquiet
sound comes from the indistinct mass all around, as it heaves and sways
from side to side in ever-restless undulation.
Now the great Cathedral clock strikes the first stroke of ten. Scarcely
has it begun when the iron tongues of all the churches in the town
reply. They clash--they mingle--they are still. Then the gates of the
gaol swing apart, and a procession comes slowly forth. First, soldiers;
then the sheriff and the governor of the gaol; then more soldiers; then
the bishop of the diocese; then the prisoner; then more soldiers to
bring up the rear.
They pass slowly through a double file of horse-soldiery till they reach
the scaffold. They ascend; and the sheriff, with his black wand in one
hand, advances with a parchment roll in the other, and reads aloud the
dreadful formula:--
"He whom we have brought hither is Eugene Fontane, formerly
called Chevalier de Fontane, and ex-Captain of Hussars in the
military service of His Majesty the King of Prussia. The said
Eugene de Fontane is brought hither to suffer death, being
condemned thereto by the criminal court of this town. He will
now be broken on the wheel, being charged and convicted of the
crime of homicide on the person of the very noble, puissant,
and excellent Seigneur George, Baron de Pradines, and, during
life, Captain of the Auvergne Light Dragoons. Pray to God for
the repose of their souls!"
Eugene is pale, but resigned. He has not long since taken leave of
Marguerite, and, despite the agony of that parting, he is comforted, for
she believes him innocent. His step is firm, his head erect, his eye
bright and fearless. His right hand is hidden in the breast of his coat,
closely pressed against his heart. It holds a lock of her hair.
Now the bishop addresses to him the last words which a prisoner hears on
earth.
"Eugene de Fontane," he says, solemnly, "if you will speak the truth and
declare yourself guilty of the crime for which you are condemned, I am
here, in the name of God, to give you absolution; and when you are
stretched upon the wheel the executioner will give you the _coup de
grace_, in order to spare you the sufferings which you would otherwise
endure. Reflect, for the sake of both body and soul. Do you yet persist
in saying that you are innocent?"
The young man cast a glance of horror at the hideous apparatus. His lip
quivered, and for a moment his resolution seemed to fail. Then he fell
upon his knees and prayed silently.
When he rose, he was calm and stedfast as before.
"Let the executioner do his office," he said, firmly. "I will not die
with a lie upon my tongue. I _am_ innocent, and Heaven knows it."
The Chevalier then draws at ring from his finger and gives it to the
executioner, in token of pardon. And now he takes off his coat and
waistcoat and holds out his arms to be bound; and now, suddenly, a cry
is heard on the outskirts of the crowd--a shrill, piercing, despairing
cry.
"Stop! stop! let me pass! I am the murderer!--he is innocent! I am the
murderer of the Baron de Pradines!"
And a mounted man, pale, breathless, disordered, is seen pressing wildly
through the crowd. He gains the foot of the scaffold--he rushes eagerly
up the steps--falls fainting at the feet of the condemned!
It is the priest--it is Andre Bernard.
* * * * *
Once again the Justice Hall is thronged. Once again we see the former
crowd; the same faces; the same peasants; the same lawyers; the same
mass of spectators, noble and plebeian; the same judge; the same jury.
Yet there is one great and material difference; there is not the same
prisoner. Andre Bernard is in the dock, and the Chevalier de Fontane is
nowhere present.
Madame de Peyrelade and servants are also absent. Otherwise the Court
House looks as it did a week since, when an innocent man was there
condemned to die.
"Prisoner," says the Judge, "the Court is prepared to listen to your
confession."
The Abbe rose. A profound silence reigned throughout the hall. In a
voice broken with emotion, he began as follows:--
"About three months since, I was visited by the Baron de Pradines in my
parsonage at St. Saturnin. He had not been on good terms with his
sister, Madame de Peyrelade, for some years, and he now desired a
reconciliation. He was a man of violent temper and dissolute habits; but
he professed repentance for his former courses, and ardently entreated
my intercession with Madame. I believed him, and became the bearer of
his penitent messages. Owing to my representations, the lady believed
him also, and he was received into the Chateau. A fortnight had scarcely
elapsed, when M. de Fontane arrived at the Chateau; and on a due
consideration of--of all the previous events" (here the prisoner's
voice faltered), "I absolved Madame from a rash vow which she had too
hastily contracted. Now M. de Pradines had hoped to inherit the estates
and fortune of his sister; he was therefore much enraged on finding that
the said vow was made null and void. He departed at once to join his
regiment, and in the course of a few days I received from him an abusive
letter. Of this I took no notice, and I may say that it caused me no
anger. I destroyed and forgot it. In about two months' time from the
date of his departure, the marriage of his sister with M. de Fontane was
appointed to take place. The Baron, seeing the uselessness of further
hostilities, then yielded to the entreaties of Madame and accepted her
invitation, appointing the Fete of All-Saints as the day of his arrival,
that he might be present at the ceremony of betrothal. On that day I
said mass in the morning at my chapel, and high mass at seven o'clock in
the afternoon. I was invited to the Chateau that evening, and nine was
the hour appointed. Mass would not be over till half-past eight--I had
therefore half an hour only to reach the Chateau; and, as soon as I had
pronounced the benediction, I hastened from the chapel by the side-door,
and was some distance on the road before my congregation dispersed. The
moon shone out at times, and at times was overcast. I had my gun with
me; for after night-fall at this season, the wolves are savage, and
often come down from the heights, I had not gone far when I heard a
horse coming along at full speed behind me. I drew on one side to let
the rider pass. The moon just then shone out, and I recognised the
Baron de Pradines. He knew me also; and though he had been galloping
before, he now reigned up his horse and stood quite still.
"'Good evening, most reverend Abbe,' said he in a mocking voice. 'Will
you favour me with a piece of godly information; for I am but a poor
sinner, and need enlightening. Pray how much have you been paid by M. le
Chevalier for patching up this marriage?'
"I felt my blood boil and my cheeks burn at this insult, but I affected
to treat it as a jest."
"'You are facetious, Monsieur le Baron,' I replied.
"'Not at all,' he said, with a bitter laugh. 'Gentlemen in your
profession, M. le Cure, have their prices for everything; from the
absolution for a vow to the absolution for a murder.'
"'Monsieur,' I replied, 'your expressions exceed the limits of
pleasantry.'
"'Not at all, Monsieur le Cure,' he repeated again, 'not at all. And,
withal, you are a very noble, and meek, and self-sacrificing gentleman,
M. le Cure. _You love my sister_, most holy sir; and yet you sell the
absolution which enables her to marry another. It is really difficult to
tell, M. le Cure, which of your admirable qualities predominates--your
Avarice, or your Love. Both, at least, are equally respectable in a
priest who is vowed to poverty and celibacy.'
"'_And peace_, M. le Baron,' I added. 'You are aware, Monsieur, that my
profession forbids me to chastise you as you deserve, and therefore you
insult me. Pass on, and interfere with me no more.'
"'Indeed I shall not pass on, M. le Cure,' he continued, 'I must stay
and compliment you as you deserve. It is a pity, is it not, M. le Cure,
that your vows prevent you from marrying my sister yourself?'
"'If you will not pass me, M. le Baron,' I said, for I was trembling
with suppressed rage, 'I must pass you, for I will bear this no longer.'
"The passage was narrow, and he intentionally barred the way. I seized
his horse's reins and turned his head, when--my lord--the Baron raised
his whip and struck me on the face! My fowling-piece was in my hand--I
was mad--I was furious. I know not to this moment how it was done, but I
fired--fired _both_ barrels of my gun, and the next moment--_Oh, mon
Dieu!_--he was lying at my feet dead and bleeding--I was a murderer!"
The priest paused in his narrative, and hid his face in his hands. A
murmur ran through the court. After a few moments, however, he raised
his head and continued:--
"I saw him but for an instant, and then turned and fled. I cannot
remember where I went, or what I did in that terrible interval; but at
last I found myself before the gates of the Chateau de Peyrelade. A
dreadful terror possessed me--I feared the night, and the woods, and the
mountains, and the pale moonlight. I thought to find refuge in the crowd
of human beings--refuge from that terrible thought--refuge from that
hideous sight. But it pursued me! They brought him in, ghastly and
blood-stained, wrapt in the cloak in which he lay upon the grass; and on
his pale forehead was the mark of my--of my.... That night I was mad. I
remember nothing--neither how I got home--nor how I left the
Chateau--nor when I entered my own door. For days I walked and lived in
a dream of horror. Then I heard of the trial and condemnation of an
innocent man. I mounted my horse--I flew--I feared that I should be too
late; but I had resolved to kill myself on the scaffold if he was
already dead! I was in time, thank God! and now I am ready to take his
place. This is my confession, and, before Heaven, I declare it full and
true. I entreat all here present to pray for me."
When the agitation that followed this confession had somewhat subsided,
and the jury had conferred for a moment in their places, the foreman
pronounced the prisoner guilty, but recommended him to mercy. Then the
judge, in a speech interrupted more than once by emotion, passed
sentence of death; but concluded by an intimation that the case should
be reported to the King as one deserving his royal clemency.
The Royal Pardon, thus solicited, followed as a matter of course, and in
less than a week Andre Bernard was free. The Chevalier de Fontane
himself brought the precious parchment from Versailles, and fetched a
carriage to convey the priest from prison.
"Come back to us, dear friend," he said. "Come back to your chapel and
your flock. Forget the past, and resume the useful life in which you
used to find your greatest happiness."
But the priest shook his head.
"I cannot," he said. "The King has pardoned me, but I have yet to earn
the pardon of Heaven. I go hence to la Trappe, there to pass the
remainder of my days in prayer and penance. Hush!--to remonstrate is
useless. I deserve a far heavier punishment. I have more sins than one
upon my soul. God sees my heart, and He knows all my guilt. I must
go--far, far away. I shall pray for your happiness--and hers. Heaven
bless you, and have mercy on me! Farewell."
THE END.
PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.