Chapter XIV. A Surprise And An Escape.
It is a very common subject of remark in newspapers, and as invariably repeated with astonishment by the readers, how well and soundly such a criminal slept on the night before his execution. It reads like a wonderful evidence of composure, or some not less surprising proof of apathy or indifference. I really believe it has as little relation to one feeling as to the other, and is simply the natural consequence of faculties over-strained, and a brain surcharged with blood; sleep being induced by causes purely physical in their nature. For myself, I can say that I was by no means indifferent to life, nor had I any contempt for the form of death that awaited me. As localities, which have failed to inspire a strong attachment, become endowed with a certain degree of interest when we are about to part from them forever, I never held life so desirable as now that I was going to leave it; and yet, with all this, I fell into a sleep so heavy and profound, [pg 634] that I never awoke till late in the evening. Twice was I shaken by the shoulder ere I could throw off the heavy weight of slumber; and even when I looked up, and saw the armed figures around me, I could have laid down once more, and composed myself to another sleep.
The first thing which thoroughly aroused me, and at once brightened up my slumbering senses, was missing my jacket, for which I searched every corner of my cell, forgetting that it had been taken away, as the nature of my sentence was declared “infamante.” The next shock was still greater, when two sapeurs came forward to tie my wrists together behind my back; I neither spoke nor resisted, but in silent submission complied with each order given me.
All preliminaries being completed, I was led forward, preceded by a pioneer, and guarded on either side by two sapeurs of “the guard;” a muffled drum, ten paces in advance, keeping up a low monotonous rumble as we went.
Our way led along the ramparts, beside which ran a row of little gardens, in which the children of the officers were at play. They ceased their childish gambols as we drew near, and came closer up to watch us. I could mark the terror and pity in their little faces as they gazed at me; I could see the traits of compassion with which they pointed me out to each other, and my heart swelled with gratitude for even so slight a sympathy. It was with difficulty I could restrain the emotion of that moment, but with a great effort I did subdue it, and marched on, to all seeming, unmoved. A little further on, as we turned the angle of the wall, I looked back to catch one last look at them. Would that I had never done so! They had quitted the railings, and were now standing in a group, in the act of performing a mimic execution. One, without his jacket, was kneeling on the grass. But I could not bear the sight, and in scornful anger I closed my eyes, and saw no more.
A low whispering conversation was kept up by the soldiers around me. They were grumbling at the long distance they had to march, as the “affair” might just as well have taken place on the glacis as two miles away. How different were my feelings—how dear to me was now every minute, every second of existence; how my heart leaped at each turn of the way, as I still saw a space to traverse, and some little interval longer to live.
“And, mayhap, after all,” muttered one dark-faced fellow, “we shall have come all this way for nothing. There can be no ‘fusillade’ without the general's signature, so I heard the adjutant say; and who's to promise that he'll be at his quarters?”
“Very true,” said another; “he may be absent, or at table.”
“At table!” cried two or three together; “and what if he were?”
“If he be,” rejoined the former speaker, “we may go back again for our pains! I ought to know him well; I was his orderly for eight months, when I served in the ‘Legers,’ and can tell you, my lads, I wouldn't be the officer who would bring him a report, or a return to sign, once he had opened out his napkin on his knee; and it's not very far from his dinner-hour now.”
What a sudden thrill of hope ran through me! Perhaps I should be spared for another day.
“No, no, we're all in time,” exclaimed the sergeant; “I can see the general's tent from this; and there he stands, with all his staff around him.”
“Yes; and there go the other escorts—they will be up before us if we don't make haste; quick-time, lads. Come along, mon cher,” said he, addressing me; “thou'rt not tired, I hope.”
“Not tired!” replied I; “but remember, sergeant, what a long journey I have before me.”
“Pardieu! I don't believe all that rhodomontade about another world,” said he gruffly; “the republic settled that question.”
I made no reply. For such words, at such a moment, were the most terrible of tortures to me. And now we moved on at a brisker pace, and crossing a little wooden bridge, entered a kind of esplanade of closely-shaven turf, at one corner of which stood the capacious tent of the commander-in-chief, for such, in Moreau's absence, was General Berthier. Numbers of staff-officers were riding about on duty, and a large traveling-carriage, from which the horses seemed recently detached, stood before the tent.
We halted as we crossed the bridge, while the adjutant advanced to obtain the signature to the sentence. My eyes followed him till they swam with rising tears, and I could not wipe them away, as my hands were fettered. How rapidly did my thoughts travel during those few moments. The good old Père Michel came back to me in memory, and I tried to think of the consolation his presence would have afforded me; but I could do no more than think of them.
“Which is the prisoner Tiernay?” cried a young aid-de-camp, cantering up to where I was standing.
“Here, sir,” replied the sergeant, pushing me forward.
“So,” rejoined the officer, angrily, “this fellow has been writing letters, it would seem, reflecting upon the justice of his sentence, and arraigning the conduct of his judges. Your epistolary tastes are like to cost you dearly, my lad; it had been better for you if writing had been omitted in your education. Reconduct the others, sergeant, they are respited; this fellow alone is to undergo his sentence.”
The other two prisoners gave a short and simultaneous cry of joy as they fell back, and I stood alone in front of the escort.
“Parbleu! he has forgotten the signature,” said the adjutant, casting his eye over the paper: “he was chattering and laughing all [pg 635] the time, with the pen in his hand, and I suppose fancied that he had signed it.”
“Nathalie was there, perhaps,” said the aid-de-camp, significantly.
“She was, and I never saw her looking better. It's something like eight years since I saw her last; and I vow she seems not only handsomer, but fresher and more youthful to-day than then.”
“Where is she going; have you heard?”
“Who can tell? Her passport is like a firman; she may travel where she pleases. The rumor of the day says Italy.”
“I thought she looked provoked at Moreau's absence; it seemed like want of attention on his part, a lack of courtesy she's not used to.”
“Very true; and her reception of Berthier was any thing but gracious, although he certainly displayed all his civilities in her behalf.”
“Strange days we live in!” sighed the other, “when a man's promotion hangs upon the favorable word of a—”
“Hush! take care! be cautious!” whispered the other. “Let us not forget this poor fellow's business. How are you to settle it? Is the signature of any consequence? The whole sentence all is right and regular.”
“I shouldn't like to omit the signature,” said the other, cautiously; “it looks like carelessness, and might involve us in trouble hereafter.”
“Then we must wait some time, for I see they are gone to dinner.”
“So I perceive,” replied the former, as he lighted his cigar, and seated himself on a bank. “You may let the prisoner sit down, sergeant, and leave his hands free; he looks wearied and exhausted.”
I was too weak to speak, but I looked my gratitude; and sitting down upon the grass, covered my face, and wept heartily.
Although quite close to where the officers sat together chatting and jesting, I heard little or nothing of what they said. Already the things of life had ceased to have any hold upon me; and I could have heard of the greatest victory, or listened to a story of the most fatal defeat, without the slightest interest or emotion. An occasional word or a name would strike upon my ear, but leave no impression nor any memory behind it.
The military band was performing various marches and opera airs before the tent where the general dined, and in the melody, softened by distance, I felt a kind of calm and sleepy repose that lulled me into a species of ecstasy.
At last the music ceased to play, and the adjutant, starting hurriedly up, called on the sergeant to move forward.
“By Jove!” cried he, “they seem preparing for a promenade, and we shall get into a scrape if Berthier sees us here. Keep your party yonder, sergeant, out of sight, till I obtain the signature.”
And so saying, away he went toward the tent at a sharp gallop.
A few seconds, and I watched him crossing the esplanade; he dismounted and disappeared. A terrible choking sensation was over me, and I scarcely was conscious that they were again tying my hands. The adjutant came out again, and made a sign with his sword.
“We are to move on!” said the sergeant, half in doubt.
“Not at all,” broke in the aid-de-camp; “he is making a sign for you to bring up the prisoner! There, he is repeating the signal; lead him forward.”
I knew very little of how—less still of why—but we moved on in the direction of the tent, and in a few minutes stood before it. The sounds of revelry and laughter, the crash of voices, and the clink of glasses, together with the hoarse bray of the brass band, which again struck up, all were co-mingled in my brain, as, taking me by the arm, I was led forward within the tent, and found myself at the foot of a table covered with all the gorgeousness of silver plate, and glowing with bouquets of flowers and fruits. In the one hasty glance I gave, before my lids fell over my swimming eyes, I could see the splendid uniforms of the guests as they sat around the board, and the magnificent costume of a lady in the place of honor next the head.
Several of those who sat at the lower end of the table drew back their seats as I came forward, and seemed as if desirous to give the general a better view of me.
Overwhelmed by the misery of my fate, as I stood awaiting my death, I felt as though a mere word, a look, would have crushed me but one moment back; but now, as I stood there, before that group of gazers, whose eyes scanned me with looks of insolent disdain, or still more insulting curiosity, a sense of proud defiance seized me, to confront and dare them with glances haughty and scornful as their own. It seemed to me so base and unworthy a part to summon a poor wretch before them, as if to whet their new appetite for enjoyment by the aspect of his misery, that an indignant anger took possession of me, and I drew myself up to my full height, and stared at them calm and steadily.
“So, then!” cried a deep soldier-like voice from the far-end of the table, which I at once recognized as the general-in-chief's; “so, then, gentlemen, we have now the honor of seeing among us the hero of the Rhine! This is the distinguished individual by whose prowess the passage of the river was effected, and the Swabian infantry cut off in their retreat! Is it not true, sir?” said he, addressing me with a savage scowl.
“I have had my share in the achievement!” said I, with a cool air of defiance.
“Parbleu! you are modest, sir. So had every drummer-boy that beat his tattoo! But yours was the part of a great leader, if I err not?”
I made no answer, but stood firm and unmoved.
“How do you call the island which you have immortalized by your valor?”
“The Fels Insel, sir.”
“Gentlemen, let us drink to the hero of the Fels Insel,” said he, holding up his glass for the servant to fill it. “A bumper—a full, a flowing bumper! And let him also pledge a toast, in which his interest must be so brief. Give him a glass, Contard.”
“His hands are tied, mon general.”
“Then free them at once.”
The order was obeyed in a second; and I, summoning up all my courage to seem as easy and indifferent as they were, lifted the glass to my lips, and drained it off.
“Another glass, now, to the health of this fair lady, through whose intercession we owe the pleasure of your company,” said the general.
“Willingly,” said I; “and may one so beautiful seldom find herself in a society so unworthy of her!”
A perfect roar of laughter succeeded the insolence of this speech; amid which I was half pushed, half dragged, up to the end of the table, where the general sat.
“How so, Coquin, do you dare to insult a French general, at the head of his own staff!”
“If I did, sir, it were quite as brave as to mock a poor criminal on the way to his execution!”
“That is the boy! I know him now! the very same lad!” cried the lady, as, stooping behind Berthier's chair, she stretched out her hand toward me. “Come here; are you not Colonel Mahon's godson?”
I looked her full in the face; and whether her own thoughts gave the impulse, or that something in my stare suggested it, she blushed till her cheek grew crimson.
“Poor Charles was so fond of him!” whispered she in Berthier's ear; and, as she spoke, the expression of her face at once recalled where I had seen her, and I now perceived that she was the same person I had seen at table with Colonel Mahon, and whom I believed to be his wife.
A low whispering conversation now ensued between the general and her, at the close of which, he turned to me and said,
“Madame Merlancourt has deigned to take an interest in you—you are pardoned. Remember, sir, to whom you owe your life, and be grateful to her for it.”
I took the hand she extended toward me, and pressed it to my lips.
“Madame,” said I, “there is but one favor more I would ask in this world, and with it I could think myself happy.”
“But can I grant it, mon cher,” said she, smiling.
“If I am to judge from the influence I have seen you wield, madame, here and elsewhere, this petition will easily be accorded.”
A slight flush colored the lady's cheek, while that of the general became dyed red with anger. I saw that I had committed some terrible blunder, but how, or in what, I knew not.
“Well, sir,” said Madame Merlancourt, addressing me with a stately coldness of manner very different from her former tone, “Let us hear what you ask, for we are already taking up a vast deal of time that our host would prefer devoting to his friends, what is it you wish?”
“My discharge from a service, madame, where zeal and enthusiasm are rewarded with infamy and disgrace; my freedom to be any thing but a French soldier.”
“You are resolved, sir, that I am not to be proud of my protégé,” said she, haughtily; “what words are these to speak in presence of a general and his officers?”
“I am bold, madame, as you say, but I am wronged.”
“How so, sir—in what have you been injured?” cried the general, hastily, “except in the excessive condescension which has stimulated your presumption. But we are really too indulgent in this long parley. Madame, permit me to offer you some coffee under the trees. Contardo, tell the band to follow us. Gentlemen, we expect the pleasure of your society.”
And so saying, Berthier presented his arm to the lady, who swept proudly past without deigning to notice me. In a few minutes the tent was cleared of all, except the servants occupied in removing the remains of the dessert, and I fell back unremarked and unobserved, to take my way homeward to the barracks, more indifferent to life than ever I had been afraid of death.
As I am not likely to recur at any length to the somewhat famous person to whom I owed my life, I may as well state that her name has since occupied no inconsiderable share of attention in France, and her history, under the title of “Mémoires d'une Contemporaine,” excited a degree of interest and anxiety in quarters which one might have fancied far above the reach of her revelations. At the time I speak of, I little knew the character of the age in which such influences were all powerful, nor how destinies very different from mine hung upon the favoritism of “La belle Nathalie.” Had I known these things, and still more, had I known the sad fate to which she brought my poor friend, Colonel Mahon, I might have scrupled to accept my life at such hands, or involved myself in a debt of gratitude to one for whom I was subsequently to feel nothing but hatred and aversion. It was indeed a terrible period, and in nothing more so than the fact, that acts of benevolence and charity were blended up with features of falsehood, treachery, and baseness, which made one despair of humanity, and think the very worst of their species.