THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH.
That little group moved forward in silence; the guards restless and
preoccupied; the two females, pale with expectation, and faint from the
nauseous atmosphere into which they were descending. Along dark, damp
passages, down slippery stairs, in and out of vaulted corridors, they
made progress toward that dungeon one of the party had visited only the
previous night. The door was heavy, and so sodden with damp, that the
iron-headed spikes rattled in their sockets as it was swung open, and
they could see water-drops glistening thickly on the walls as the light
was held into the dungeon a moment before Christopher entered.
At last he stepped in, and advancing to some mouldy straw that lay in a
corner, spoke to the man outstretched upon it, motionless, and
apparently asleep.
“Wake up, number five!” exclaimed the keeper, swaying his lantern to and
fro over the prostrate man. “Dr. Gosner! Dr. Gosner! Look up, if you
have not outlived the name; here is your wife come to take you home!”
The man did not move, his face was turned to the wall, a mass of gray
hair swept back and mingled itself with the straw, in which there was
the stir and sound of something creeping away from sight.
Madame Gosner pushed the keeper aside, and falling upon her knees, took
the gray head between her trembling hands. The moment she touched it, an
awful whiteness came to her face. Seized with trembling, she turned upon
the guard, her eyes full of horrible questioning, her lips apart, her
teeth gleaming. She spoke no word, uttered no sound, but fell down by
the dead body, lifeless, and still as it was.
Marguerite saw it all, and recognized the calamity that had fallen upon
them; but the disappointment was too mighty for words, far too awful for
tears; the light reeled before her eyes, the dungeon seemed to contract
itself into a grave. She felt herself falling, but Monsieur Jacques
caught her in his arms, and carried her from the dungeon. With the speed
and strength of a wild animal he threaded that labyrinth of horrors,
mounted the broken stairs, and carried her out into an open guard-room,
through which the morning air swept. Here he bathed her face with water,
rubbed her hands—but all was in vain; the dead man he had just left upon
the straw did not seem more lifeless than this young girl.
Jacques had left two living persons in the cell with the dead man, but
they were more like ghosts than human beings. The guard was
terror-stricken; the lantern shook in his strong hand.
“Is she, too, gone?” faltered Jacques, who had left Marguerite when she
returned to life, and stood looking down at the pale form lying by the
dead upon the straw. “God help us! This is fearful!”
“I do not know, she does not seem to breathe,” answered Christopher,
holding the light on a level with the deathly face. “If it were so, a
world of trouble might be spared us,” he whispered to himself. “I almost
wish we had not meddled with this. I fear me his death will bring us
greater evil than if we had turned him free into the street.”
“She is not dead,” exclaimed Jacques. “She moves, her eyes open.
Heavens, how they look!”
The woman arose upon her hands and knees painfully, and with evident
dizziness. Then she stooped over the dead man, and turned his face to
the light. The whole body moved in the straw as she did this; but
wonderful strength seemed given to her, and though it was like turning a
statue of marble, she did it tenderly. She put the scattering locks back
from the worn face, and pored over it with yearning fondness, as if she
had parted from her husband but yesterday, and hoped yet to arouse him.
“Changed! Oh, my love! how changed! and it seems such a little time, now
that we are together. Wake him for me—you can; it is the chill and the
damp of this awful place. No wonder he is cold! I, too, am shivering.
Wake him, I say—you should know how.”
“My poor woman, he is dead! I have no power over him now,” answered the
guard, shrinking from her outstretched arms.
Madame Gosner arose and stood upright, regarding the two scared faces
with a fixed look.
“It was you that killed him,” she said; “but who gave the order? Was it
the king?”
“The king! Madame, this is treason!”
“And this is death!” cried the woman, pointing downward with her finger,
“death! for which there shall be a terrible atonement. Where is my
child? Is she afraid of this poor clay, which was her father—her father?
Oh, my God! and he was alive but yesterday. Only one day too late. Where
is my child, I say? There is something for her to do.”
“She has gone away with your friend; he was here a moment ago, but has
gone back again; doubtless they are in the guard-room. Shall I show you
the way, madame?”
“No. Bring them to me here—my daughter and my friend.”
Christopher went out, glad to leave the woman whose very presence
terrified him. He found Marguerite just coming out of her fainting fit,
and besought her to go down and persuade her mother to leave the
dungeon.
Marguerite arose, shuddering at the thought of going down those horrible
passages again; but she gathered up her strength, and half supported,
half-carried by Monsieur Jacques, moved away into the darkness.
“Come hither! Come hither, my child! it is your father who speaks. It is
he who asks us with those mute lips to avenge his murder. Kneel down, my
child—kneel down, my friend. It is he who commands it. It is the dead
who speaks.”
Awed by her words, and the deep solemnity of her manner, Marguerite sunk
upon her knees and touched the cold hand of her mother that lay upon the
dead man’s forehead. Marguerite felt the chill strike through her
fingers, but she was brave, and did not once attempt to draw back.
Madame Gosner turned her eyes upon Jacques; he, too, knelt and bent over
the dead.
Madame Gosner lifted her right hand,
“Listen, oh, my God! here, in this awful place, and in the presence of
my dead, I swear, that I will neither rest or take thought of any other
thing, until the place in which my husband met his slow murder is razed
to the ground, and those who slew him are brought to justice. This child
in her innocence, this man in his strength, shall bear witness to my
oath.”
The woman arose slowly to her feet as she spoke, her hand still
uplifted, her finger pointed heavenward, the fire of a terrible resolve
burned in her eyes; her lips were set, her form dilated. She turned to
the guard, commanding him like a sibyl.
“Bring men hither who shall carry forth my dead. The people of Paris
must know how innocent men can be tortured out of their lives. Send two
of your guards. I will not leave the dungeon save with him.”
“It cannot be, madame. The king’s order demands the living body of
Doctor Gosner. It is not here. The man who died was a prisoner, and as
such he must be buried. This is the law.”
“But I, his wife, having the king’s order, command you.”
“Hardly, if the king himself commanded, could I obey him, for even he
must bow to the law.”
“Even he and his myrmidons shall bow to that stronger and grander power
than kings—the people!” she exclaimed; and turning to the dead man, she
took off her muslin scarf and laid it reverently over his face.
“Stronger now than in his life,” she said, passing out of the dungeon
with a firm step. “The last stone of this fortress shall be his
monument, and the people of France shall build it for him.”