Although the haste with which the trial had been conducted and the
severity of the sentence were iniquitous, and filled those who were
most bitter against me with amazement, I received the blow with supreme
indifference; I no longer felt an interest in anything on earth. I
commended my soul and the vindication of my memory to God. I said to
myself that if Edmee died I should find her again in a better world;
that if she survived me and recovered her reason, she would one day
succeed in discovering the truth, and that then I should live in
her heart as a dear and tender memory. Irritable as I am, and always
inclined to violence in the case of anything that is an obstacle or an
offence to me, I am astonished at the philosophical resignation and the
proud calm I have shown on the momentous occasions of life, and above
all on this one.
It was two o’clock in the morning. The case had lasted for fourteen
hours. A silence as of death reigned over the court, which was as full
and as attentive as at the beginning, so fond are mortals of anything in
the nature of a show. That offered by the criminal court at this moment
was somewhat dismal. Those men in red robes, as pale and stern and
implacable as the Council of Ten at Venice; those ghosts of women decked
with flowers, who, by the dim light of the tapers, looked like mere
reflections of life hovering in the galleries above the priests of
death; the muskets of the guard glittering in the gloom in the back of
the court; the heart-broken attitude of my poor sergeant, who had fallen
at my feet; the silent but vast delight of the Trappist, still standing
unwearied near the bar; the mournful note of some convent bell in the
neighbourhood beginning to ring for matins amid the silence of the
assembly--was not all this enough to touch the nerves of the wives of
the farmers-general and to send a thrill through the brawny breasts of
the tanners in the body of the court?
Suddenly, just as the court was about to disperse, a figure like that of
the traditional peasant of the Danube--squat, rugged, barefooted, with
a long beard, dishevelled hair, a broad, grave brow, and a stern,
commanding glance--rose in the midst of the flickering reflections by
which the hall was half lighted, and standing erect before the bar, said
in a deep, striking voice:
“I, Jean le Houx, known as Patience, oppose this judgment as iniquitous
in substance and illegal in form. I demand that it be revised, so that
I may give my evidence, which is necessary, may be of sovereign
importance, and should have been waited for.”
“If you had anything to say,” cried the King’s advocate, in a passion,
“why did you not present yourself when you were summoned. You are
imposing on the court by pretending that you have important evidence to
give.”
“And you,” answered Patience, more slowly and in an even deeper tone
than before, “you are imposing on the public by pretending that I have
not. You know well enough that I must have.”
“Remember where you are, witness, and to whom you are speaking.”
“I know too well, and I shall not say too much. I hereby declare that I
have some important things to say, and that I should have said them at
the right time, if you had not done violence to the time. I wish to say
them, and I shall; and, believe me, it is better that I should make them
known while it is still possible to revise these proceedings. It is even
better for the judges than the prisoner; for the one comes to life again
in honour, as soon as the others die in infamy.”
“Witness,” said the irritated magistrate, “the virulence and
impertinence of your language will be prejudicial rather than
advantageous to the prisoner.”
“And who says that I am favourable to the prisoner?” said Patience in a
voice of thunder. “What do you know about me? What if it pleases me
to change an illegal and worthless verdict into one which is legal and
irrevocable?”
“But how can you reconcile this desire to see the laws respected,” said
the magistrate, genuinely moved by Patience’s powerful personality,
“with your own breach of them in not appearing when summoned by the
public prosecutor?”
“I did not wish to appear.”
“Severe penalties may be inflicted on those whose wishes are not in
harmony with the laws of the land.”
“Possibly.”
“Have you come here to-day with the intention of submitting to them?”
“I have come to see that you respect them.”
“I warn you that, if you do not change your tone, I shall have you taken
off to prison.”
“And I warn you that, if you love justice and serve God, you will listen
to me and suspend the execution of this sentence. It is not for him who
brings truth to humble himself before those who should be seeking it.
But you who are listening to me now, you men of the people, whom I will
not accuse the great of wishing to dupe, you whose voice is called ‘the
voice of God,’ side with me; embrace the cause of truth, that truth
which is in danger of being stifled under false outward shows, or else
is about to triumph by unfair means. Go down on your knees, you men
of the people, my brothers, my children; pray, implore, require that
justice be done and anger repressed. It is your duty, it is your right,
and to your own interest; for it is you who are insulted and threatened
when laws are violated.”
Patience spoke with so much warmth, and his sincerity was so strikingly
manifest, that a thrill of sympathy ran through the whole audience. At
that time, philosophy was too fashionable with the young men of quality
for these not to be among the first to respond to an appeal, though
addressed to others than themselves. They rose with chivalrous
enthusiasm and turned round to the people, who, carried away by their
noble example, rose likewise. There was a wild uproar, and one and all,
conscious of their dignity and power, cast away personal prejudices in
order to combine for their common rights. Thus, a noble impetuosity and
a true word are sometimes sufficient to bring back the masses who have
long been led astray by sophism.
A respite was granted, and I was led back to my prison amid the applause
of the people. Marcasse followed me. Patience disappeared without giving
me a chance to thank him.
The revision of the sentence could not be made without an order from the
high court. For my own part, before the verdict was given I had resolved
to make no appeal to this court of cassation of the old jurisprudence.
But Patience’s bearing and words had had as much effect on my mind as on
the minds of the spectators. The spirit of resistance and the sense
of human dignity, dulled in me and paralyzed, as it were, by grief,
suddenly awoke again, and in this hour I realized that man is not made
for that selfish concentration of despair which is known as resignation
or stoicism. No man can cease to have a regard for his own honour
without at the same time ceasing to feel the respect due to the
principle of honour. If it is grand to sacrifice personal glory and life
to the mysterious decrees of conscience, it is cowardly to abandon both
to the fury of an unjust persecution. I felt that I had risen in my own
estimation, and I passed the rest of this momentous night in devising
means of vindicating myself, with as much persistence as I had
previously displayed in abandoning myself to fate. With this feeling of
energy I could feel hope springing up anew. Edmee, perhaps, was neither
mad nor mortally wounded. She might acquit me; she might recover.
“Who knows?” I said to myself. “Perhaps she has already done me justice.
Perhaps it was she who sent Patience to my rescue. Undoubtedly I shall
best please her by taking courage again, and not letting myself be
crushed by a set of knaves.”
But how was I to obtain this order from the high court? It needed a
special mandate from the King; who would procure this? Who would cut
short those odious delays which the law can introduce at will into the
very cases that it has previously hurried on with blind precipitation?
Who would prevent my enemies from injuring me and paralyzing all my
efforts? In a word, who would fight for me? The abbe alone could have
taken up my cause; but he was already in prison on my account. His
generous behaviour in the trial had proved that he was still my friend,
but his zeal was now fettered. And what could Marcasse do, hampered
by his humble birth and enigmatical language? Evening came, and I fell
asleep in the hope that help would be sent from on high; for I had
prayed to God with my whole soul. A few hours of sleep refreshed me; I
was aroused by the noise of bolts being drawn at the other side of
my door. O God of goodness! what was my delight on seeing Arthur, my
brother in arms, my other self, the man from whom I had had no secret
for six long years! I wept like a child on receiving this mark of love
from Providence. Arthur did not believe me guilty! Scientific matters
connected with the library at Philadelphia had taken him to Paris, where
he had heard of this sad affair in which I was implicated. He had broken
a lance with all who attacked me, and had not lost a moment in coming to
offer help or consolation.
In a transport of joy I poured out my soul to him, and then explained
how he could assist me. He wanted to take the coach for Paris that very
evening; but I implored him to go to Sainte-Severe first of all to get
news of Edmee. Four mortal days had passed since I had received any;
and, moreover, Marcasse had never given me such exact details as I could
have wished.
“Ease your mind,” said Arthur. “I will undertake to bring you the truth.
I am a pretty good surgeon; and I have a practised eye. I shall be
able to give you some idea of what you have to hope or fear. From
Sainte-Severe I shall go straight to Paris.”
Two days later I received a long letter from him giving full details
about Edmee.
Her condition was extraordinary. She did not speak, nor did she appear
to be in pain as long as nothing happened to excite her nerves; but on
the first word which stirred up recollections of her troubles she would
be seized with convulsions. Her moral isolation formed the greatest
obstacle to recovery. Physically she wanted for nothing; she had two
good doctors and a most devoted nurse. Mademoiselle Leblanc likewise was
very zealous in her attentions, though this dangerous woman often gave
her pain by untimely remarks and indiscreet questions. Furthermore,
Arthur assured me that, if ever Edmee had thought me guilty and had
expressed an opinion on this point, it must have been in some previous
phase of her illness; for, during the last fortnight at least, she
had been in a state of complete torpor. She would frequently doze, but
without quite falling asleep; she could take liquid food and jellies,
nor did she ever complain. When her doctors questioned her about her
sufferings she answered by careless signs and always negatively; and she
would never give any indication that she remembered the affections which
had filled her life. Her love for her father, however, that feeling
which had always been so deep and powerful in her, was not extinct; she
would often shed copious tears; but at such a time she seemed to be deaf
to all sounds; in vain would they try to make her understand that her
father was not dead, as she appeared to believe. With a gesture of
entreaty she would beg them to stop, not the noise (for that did not
seem to strike her ear), but the bustle that was going on around her;
then, hiding her face in her hands, lying back in her arm-chair and
bringing her knees up almost to her breast, she would apparently give
way to inconsolable despair. This silent grief, which could no longer
control itself and no longer wished to be controlled; this powerful
will, which had once been able to quell the most violent storms, and now
going adrift on a dead sea and in an unruffled calm--this, said Arthur,
was the most painful spectacle he had ever beheld. Edmee seemed to wish
to have done with life. Mademoiselle Leblanc, in order to test her and
arouse her, had brutally taken upon herself to announce that her father
was dead; she had replied by a sign that she knew. A few hours later
the doctors had tried to make her understand that he was alive; she had
replied by another sign that she did not believe them. They had wheeled
the chevalier’s arm-chair into her room; they had brought father and
daughter face to face and the two had not recognised each other. Only,
after a few moments, Edmee, taking her father for a ghost, had uttered
piercing cries, and had been seized with convulsions that had opened one
of her wounds again, and made the doctors tremble for her life. Since
then, they had taken care to keep the two apart, and never to breathe a
word about the chevalier in Edmee’s presence. She had taken Arthur for
one of the doctors of the district and had received him with the same
sweetness and the same indifference as the others. He had not dared
to speak to her about me; but he extorted me not to despair. There was
nothing in Edmee’s condition that time and rest could not triumph over;
there was but little fever left; none of her vital organs were really
affected; her wounds were almost healed; and it did not seem as if her
brain were in such an excited condition that it would be permanently
deranged. The weak state of her mind, and the prostration of all the
other organs could not, according to Arthur, long withstand the vitality
of youth and the recuperative power of an admirable constitution.
Finally, he advised me to think of myself; I might help towards her
recovery, and I might again find happiness in her affection and esteem.
In a fortnight Arthur returned from Paris with an order from the King
for the revision of my sentence. Fresh witnesses were heard. Patience
did not appear; but I received a note from him containing these words
in a shapeless hand, “You are not guilty, so don’t despair.” The doctors
declared that Mademoiselle de Mauprat might be examined without danger,
but that her answers would have no meaning. She was now in better
health. She had recognised her father, and at present would never leave
him; but she could understand nothing that was not connected with him.
She seemed to derive great pleasure from tending him like a child, and,
on his side, the chevalier would now and then recognise his beloved
daughter; but his vital powers were visibly decaying. They questioned
him in one of his lucid moments. He replied that his daughter had,
indeed, fallen from her horse while hunting, and that she had torn her
breast on the stump of a tree, but that not a soul had fired at her,
even by mistake, and that only a madman could possibly believe her
cousin capable of such a crime. This was all the information they could
draw from him. When they asked him what he thought of his nephew’s
absence, he answered that his nephew was still in the house, and that
he saw him every day. Was it that, in his devotion to the good name of
a family--alas! so compromised--he thought to defeat the aims of justice
by childish lies? This is a point I was never able to ascertain. As for
Edmee, it was impossible to examine her. At the first question that was
asked her, she shrugged her shoulders and made a sign that she did not
wish to be bothered. As the public prosecutor insisted and became
more explicit, she stared at him and seemed to be making an effort to
understand. He pronounced my name, she gave a loud cry and fainted. He
had to abandon all thoughts of taking her evidence. However, Arthur did
not despair. On the contrary, the account of this scene made him think
that Edmee’s mental faculties might be about to take a favourable turn.
He immediately returned to Sainte-Severe, where he remained several days
without writing to me, which caused me great anxiety.
When the abbe was questioned again, he persisted in his calm, laconic
refusal to give evidence.
My judges, seeing that the information promised by Patience was not
forthcoming, hurried on the revision of the trial, and, by another
exhibition of haste, gave another proof of their animosity. The
appointed day arrived. I was devoured by anxiety. Arthur had written me
to keep up my courage, in as laconic a style as Patience. My counsel
had been unable to obtain any fresh evidence in my favour. I could see
clearly that he was beginning to believe me guilty. All he hoped for was
to obtain a further delay.