THE WEDDING OF EULOGE SCHNEIDER
Saint-Just looked the man over from head to foot, as if to make sure
that he was not dealing with a madman.
"And you come, you say--" he asked.
"From your colleague Lebas."
"To tell me--"
The man lowered his voice again so that Charles could not hear what he
said; as for the secretary, he had long since gone out to carry
Saint-Just's decrees to the printer.
"Impossible," said the pro-consul, passing from hope to doubt; for the
thing appeared incredible to him.
"Nevertheless, it is so," replied the messenger.
"But he would never dare!" said Saint-Just, setting his teeth and
allowing a glance of hatred to escape his eyes.
"It is the Hussars of Death themselves who are guarding the gate and who
will not allow it to be shut."
"The Kehl gate?"
"The Kehl gate."
"The very one that faces the enemy?"
"Yes, that very one."
"In spite of my formal order?"
"In spite of your formal order."
"And what reason have the Hussars of Death given for preventing that
gate from being closed at three o'clock, when there is a formal order
that all the gates of Strasbourg shall be shut at that hour under pain
of death to him who prevents it?"
"They say that the Commissioner of the Republic is to return to the city
by that gate with his betrothed."
"Euloge Schneider's betrothed? The betrothed of the Monk of Cologne?"
Saint-Just looked around him, evidently seeking Charles in the shadows
which were beginning to darken the apartment.
"If you are looking for me, citizen Saint-Just, here I am," said the
youth, approaching him.
"Yes, come here! Have you heard that your Greek professor is about to be
married?"
Mademoiselle de Brumpt's story recurred at once to the boy's mind.
"It would take too long to tell you what I think."
"No, tell me," said Saint-Just, laughing; "we have plenty of time."
Charles related the story of the dinner at Euloge Schneider's, together
with the episode of the young girl and that of the executioner. As he
listened, Saint-Just's head remained motionless, but the rest of his
body quivered unceasingly.
Suddenly a great hubbub was heard in one of the streets leading from the
Kehl gate to the town-hall.
Doubtless Saint-Just divined the cause of this commotion, for, turning
to Charles, he said: "If you would like to go, my child, you are free to
do so; but if you would like to be present at a great act of justice,
remain."
Charles's curiosity forbade him to go, and he remained.
The messenger went to the window and drew aside the curtain. "There,"
said he, "there is the proof that I was not mistaken."
"Open the window," said Saint-Just.
The messenger obeyed. The window opened upon a balcony which hung over
the street. Saint-Just went out, and, at his invitation, Charles and the
messenger followed him.
The clock struck. Saint-Just turned around; it was four o'clock. The
procession was just entering the square.
Four couriers, dressed in the national colors, preceded the carriage,
which was drawn by six white horses and uncovered in spite of the
threatening weather. Euloge was seated in it with his betrothed, who
was richly dressed and dazzling in her youth and beauty. His customary
escort, the black horsemen, the Hussars of Death, caracoled around the
carriage with drawn swords, with which they struck those who were
curious enough to approach too near. Behind them came a low cart, with
large wheels painted red, drawn by two horses decorated with the
tri-color ribbons, and loaded with planks, posts, and steps, painted red
like the rest. The two sinister-looking men in charge of it, with their
black trousers and the fatal "red bonnet" with its large cockade, were
exchanging rather doleful pleasantries with the Hussars of Death. The
rear of the procession was brought up by a small carriage, in which a
small, grave, thin man was sitting, at whom the people pointed
curiously, designating him simply as "Master Nicholas." The procession
was accompanied by a double row of men bearing torches.
Schneider was coming to present his betrothed to Saint-Just, who, as we
have seen, had gone out upon the balcony to meet them.
Saint-Just, calm, stern, and cold as the statue of Justice, was not
popular: he was feared and respected. So that when he appeared on the
balcony dressed as a representative of the people, with his plumed hat,
the tri-color sash round his waist, and the sword at his side which he
knew how to use with such good effect upon occasion, there were neither
cries nor cheers, but a cold whispering and a backward movement, which
left a great lighted circle in the midst of the crowd, into which the
carriage of the betrothed couple drove slowly, followed by the cart
bearing the guillotine and the cab with the executioner.
Saint-Just made a sign with his hand for the procession to stop, and the
crowd, as we have said, not only stopped, but drew back.
Every one thought that Saint-Just was about to speak first; and in fact,
after the imperative gesture which he made with supreme dignity, he had
intended to speak, when, to the astonishment of all, the young girl
opened the door of the carriage with a rapid movement, sprang to the
ground, closed the door, and, falling on her knees on the pavement,
cried suddenly in the midst of the solemn silence: "Justice, citizen! I
appeal to Saint-Just and to the Convention for justice!"
"Against whom?" asked Saint-Just, in his quivering, incisive voice.
"Against this man, against Euloge Schneider, against the special
commissioner of the Republic!"
"Speak; what has he done?" replied Saint-Just; "Justice listens to you."
Then, in a voice full-of emotion, but strong, indignant, and menacing,
the young girl related all the hideous drama--the death of her mother,
her father's arrest, the scaffold reared before her house, the
alternative which had been offered her; and at each terrible climax, to
which Saint-Just listened without seeming able to credit them, she
turned to the executioner, the assistants, the Hussars of Death, for
confirmation; even to Schneider himself. And each one to whom she
appealed replied: "Yes, it is true!" Except Schneider, who, crushed and
crouching like a jaguar ready to spring, assented only by his silence.
Saint-Just, gnawing at his finger-tips, let her finish, and then, when
she had ended, he said: "You ask justice, citizeness Brumpt, and you
shall have it. But what would you have done if I had not been willing to
grant it?"
She drew a dagger from her breast.
"To-night, in bed," she said, "I would have stabbed him. Charlotte
Corday has taught us how to treat a Marat! But now," she added, "now
that I am free to weep for my mother and to console my father, I ask
mercy for that man."
At the word "mercy," Saint-Just started as if he had been bitten by a
serpent.
"Mercy for him!" he cried, striking the railing of the balcony with his
fist. "Mercy for this execrable man! mercy for the Monk of Cologne! You
are jesting, young woman. If I should do that, Justice would spread her
wings and fly away never to return. Mercy for him!" Then, in a terrible
voice which was heard for a great distance around, he cried: "To the
guillotine!"
The pale, thin, serious man got down from his cab, approached the
balcony, and, taking off his hat with a bow, said: "Shall I behead him,
citizen Saint-Just?"
"Unfortunately I have no right to order that; if I had, Humanity would
be avenged within a quarter of an hour. No, as special commissioner he
must appear before the revolutionary tribunal, and not before me. No,
apply to him the torture he himself has invented; tie him to the
guillotine. Shame here and death yonder!"
And with a gesture of supreme power he stretched out his arm toward
Paris.
Then, as if he had finished his part in the drama, he pushed the
messenger, who had informed him of the violation of his orders, and
little Charles, whom by another act of justice he had just set free,
into the room before him, and closed the window. Laying his hand on the
boy's shoulder, he said: "Never forget what you have seen; and if any
one ever says in your presence that Saint-Just is not a lover of the
Revolution, of liberty, and of justice, say aloud that that is not true.
And now go where you like; you are free."
Charles, in a transport of youthful admiration, tried to kiss
Saint-Just's hand; but the latter drew it back hastily, and, leaning
over Charles, kissed him on the forehead.
Forty years later, Charles, now a man, said to me, while relating the
scene and urging me to make a book of it, that he could still in memory
feel the impression that kiss had made upon him.