THE DEATH OF THE COUNTESS.
In the night, while Gilbert was vainly trying to save Andrea, the
Commune, unable to secure Danton's help, formed a committee of
vigilance, including Marat, though he was not a member of the Commune.
But his name enthroned murder, and showed the frightful development of
his power.
The first order of this committee was to have twenty-four prisoners
removed from the abbey, and brought before them at the mayor's
offices--now the police prefecture building.
It was expected that they would be set upon in the streets, and the
butchery there begun would be introduced into the prisons.
Marat's "barkers," as they were called, in vain, however, shouted as
the hacks went along:
"Look at the traitors--the accomplices of the Prussians! There they go
who are surrendering our towns, slaying our wives and babes, and will
do it here if you leave them in the rear when you march to the border."
But, as Danton said, massacres are a scarce bird, and the incitement
only brought out more uproar.
Fortune came to the ruffians' assistance.
At a crossing was a stage run up for the voluntary enlistments. The
cabs had to stop. A man pushed through the escort and plunged his sword
several times inside a carriage, drawing it out dripping with blood. A
prisoner had a cane, and trying to parry the steel, he struck one of
the guards.
"Why, you brigands," said the struck man, "we are protecting you and
you strike us! Lay on, friends!"
Twenty scoundrels, who only waited for the call, sprung out of the
throng, armed with knives tied to poles in the way of spears, and
stabbed through the carriage windows. The screams arose from inside
the conveyances, and the blood trickled out and left a track on the
road-way.
Blood calls for blood, and the massacre commenced which was to last
four days.
It was regularized by Maillard, who wanted to have every act done in
legal style. His registry exists, where his clear, steady handwriting
is perfectly calm and legible in the two notes and the signature.
"Executed by the judgment of the people," or "Acquitted by the people,"
and "Maillard."
The latter note appears forty-three times, so that he saved that number.
After the fourth of September he disappeared, swallowed up in the sea
of blood.
Meanwhile, he presided over the court. He had set up a table and called
for a blank book; he chose a jury, or rather assistant judges, to the
number of twelve, who sat six on either side of him.
He called out the prisoner's name from a register; while the turnkeys
went for the person, he stated the case, and looked for a decision
from his associates as soon as the accused appeared. If condemned, he
said: "To Laforce!" which seemed to mean the prison of that name; but
the grim pun, understood, was that he was to be handed over to "brute
force."
Beyond the outer door the wretch fell under the blows of the butchers.
If the prisoner was absolved, the black phantom rose, laid his hand on
the person's head, and said, "Put him out!" and the prisoner was freed.
When Maillard arrived at the Abbey Prison, a man, also in black, who
was waiting by the wall, stepped forward to meet him. On the first
words exchanged between them, Maillard recognized this man, and bowed
his tall figure to him in condescension, if not submission. He brought
him into the prison, and when the tribunal was arranged, he said:
"Stand you there, and when the person comes out in whom you are
interested, make me a sign."
The man rested his elbow against the wall and stood mute, attentive,
and motionless as when outside.
It was Honore Gilbert, who had sworn that he would not let Andrea die,
and was still trying to fulfill his oath.
Between four and six in the morning, the judges and butchers took a
rest, and at six had breakfast.
At half past the horrid work was resumed.
In that interval such of the prisoners as could see the slaughter out
of a window reported by which mode death came swiftest and with the
least suffering; they concluded it was by a stab to the heart.
Thereupon, some took turn after turn with a pocket-knife to cheat the
slaughterers.
In the midst of this dreadful ante-chamber of death, one woman in deep
mourning was kneeling in prayer and smiling.
It was the Countess of Charny.
Two hours yet passed before she was called as "Citizeness Andrea of
Taverney, previously known as the Countess of Charny."
At the name, Gilbert felt his legs yield under him and his heart weaken.
A life, more important than his own, was to be debated, tried, and
doomed or spared.
"Citizens," said Maillard, "the person about to appear before you is
a poor woman who was devoted formerly to the Austrian, but with truly
royal ingratitude, she paid her with sorrow; to that friendship she
gave all--her property and her husband. You will see her come in,
dressed in mourning, which she owes to the prisoner in the temple.
Citizens, I ask you for the life of this woman."
The bench of judges nodded; but one said the prisoner ought to appear
before them.
"Then, look," said the chief.
The door opening, they saw in the corridor depths a woman clad wholly
in black, with her head crowned with a black veil, who walked forward
alone without support, with a steady step. She seemed an apparition
from another world, at the sight of which even those justices
shuddered.
Arriving at the table, she lifted her veil. Never had beauty less
disputable but none more pale met the eyes of man; it was a goddess in
marble.
All eyes were fixed upon her, while Gilbert panted.
"Citizen"--she addressed Maillard in a voice as sweet as firm--"you are
the president?"
"Yes, citizeness," replied the judge, startled at his being questioned.
"I am the Countess of Charny, wife of the count of that house, killed
on the infamous tenth of August; an aristocrat and the bosom friend of
the queen, I have deserved death, and I come to seek it."
The judges uttered a cry of surprise, and Gilbert turned pale and
shrunk as far as he could back into the angle by the door to escape
Andrea's gaze.
"Citizens," said Maillard, who saw the doctor's plight, "this creature
has gone mad through the death of her husband; let us pity her, and let
her senses have a chance to come back. The justice of the people does
not fall on the insane."
He rose and was going to lay his hands on Andrea's head as he did when
he pronounced those innocent; but she pushed aside his hand.
"I have my full reason," she said; "and if you want to pardon any one,
let it be one who craves it and merits it, but not I, who deserve it
not and reject it."
Maillard turned to Gilbert and saw that he was wringing his clasped
hands.
"This woman is plainly mad," he said; "put her out."
He waved his hand to a member of the court, who shoved the countess
toward the door of safety.
"Innocent," he called out; "let her go out."
They who had the weapons ready parted before Andrea, lowered them unto
this image of mourning. But, after having gone ten paces, and while
Gilbert, clinging to the window bars, saw her going forth, she stopped.
"God save the king!" she cried. "Long live the queen, and shame on the
tenth of August!"
Gilbert uttered a shriek and darted out into the yard. For he had seen
a sword glitter, and swift as a lightning flash, the blade disappeared
in Andrea's bosom. He arrived in time to catch her in his arms, and as
she turned on him her dying gaze she recognized him.
"I told you that I would die in spite of you," she muttered. "Love
Sebastian for both of us," she added, in a barely intelligible voice,
and still more faintly continued: "You will have me laid to rest by
him--next my George, my husband, for time everlasting?"
And she expired.
Gilbert raised her up in his arms, while fifty blood-smeared hands
menaced him all at once.
But Maillard appeared behind him and said, as he spread his hands over
his head:
"Make way for the true citizen Gilbert, carrying out the body of a poor
crazed woman slain by mistake."
They stepped aside, and carrying the corpse of Andrea, the man who
had first loved her, even to committing crime to triumph over her,
passed amid the murderers without one thinking of barring the way, so
sovereign was Maillard's words over the multitude.