The Companions of Jehu

by Alexandre Dumas

We have already shown the political opinions of the worthy jailer. He was a royalist. He therefore felt the deepest sympathy for the four condemned men, and had hoped, like nearly every one in Bourg—like Madame de Montrevel, whose despair at what she had done was known to him—that the First Consul would pardon them. He had therefore mitigated their captivity as much as possible, without failing in his duty, by relieving them of all needless restrictions. On the other hand, it is true that he had refused a gift of sixty thousand francs (a sum which in those days was worth nearly treble what it is now) to allow them to escape.

We have seen how, being taken into confidence by his daughter, he had allowed Amélie, disguised as a Bressan peasant, to be present at the trial. The reader will also remember the kindness the worthy man had shown to Amélie and her mother when they themselves were prisoners. This time, as he was still ignorant of the rejection of the appeal, he allowed his feelings to be worked upon. Charlotte had told him that her young mistress was to start that night for Paris to endeavor to hasten the pardon, and that she desired before leaving to see the Baron de Sainte-Hermine and obtain his last instructions.

There were five doors to break through to reach the street, a squad of guards in the courtyard, and sentinels within and without the prison. Consequently Père Courtois felt no anxiety lest his prisoners escape. He therefore consented that Amélie should see Morgan.

We trust our readers will excuse us if we use the names Morgan, Charles, and the Baron de Sainte-Hermine, interchangeably, since they are aware that by that triple appellation we intend to designate the same man.

Courtois took a light and walked before Amélie. The young girl, as though prepared to start by the mail-coach at once on leaving the prison, carried a travelling bag in her hand. Charlotte followed her mistress.

“You will recognize the cell, Mademoiselle de Montrevel,” said Courtois. “It is the one in which you were confined with your mother. The leader of these unfortunate young men, the Baron Charles de Sainte-Hermine, asked me as a favor to put them in cage No. 1. You know that’s the name we give our cells. I did not think I ought to refuse him that consolation, knowing how the poor fellow loved you. Oh, don’t be uneasy, Mademoiselle Amélie, I will never breathe your secret. Then he questioned me, asking which had been your mother’s bed, and which yours. I told him, and then he wanted his to stand just where yours did. That wasn’t hard, for the bed was not only in the same place, but it was the very one you had used. So, since the poor fellow entered your cell, he has spent nearly all his time lying on your bed.”

Amélie gave a sigh that resembled a groan. She felt—and it was long since she had done so—a tear moisten her eyelids. Yes! she was loved as she loved, and the lips of a disinterested stranger gave her the proof of it. At this moment of eternal separation this conviction shone like a diamond of light in its setting of sorrow.

The doors opened one by one before Père Courtois. When they reached the last one, Amélie laid her hand on the jailer’s shoulder. She thought she heard a chant. Listening attentively, she became aware that it was a voice repeating verses.

But the voice was not Morgan’s; it was unknown to her. Here is what it said:

I have bared all my heart to the God of the just,
He has witnessed my penitent tears;
He has stilled my remorse, He has armed me with trust,
He has pitied and calmed all my fears.
My enemies, scoffing, have said in their rage:
“Let him die, be his mem’ry accursed!”
Saith the merciful Father, my grief to assuage,
“Their hatred hath now done its worst.
“I have heard thy complaints, and I know that the ban
Of remorse hath e’en brought thee so low;
I can pity the soul of the penitent man
That was weak in this valley of woe;
“I will crown thy lost name with the just acclaim
Of the slow-judging righteous years;
Their pity and justice in time shall proclaim
Thine honor; then layoff thy fears!”
I bless thee, O God! who hast deigned to restore
Mine honor that Thou hast made whole
From shame and remorse; as I enter Death’s door
To Thee I commend my poor soul!
To the banquet of life, an unfortunate guest,
I came for a day, and I go—
I die in my vigor; I sought not to rest
In the grave where the weary lie low.
Farewell to thee, earth! farewell, tender verdure
Of woodland! Farewell, sunny shore!
Green fields that I love, azure skies, smiling Nature,
Farewell! I shall see thee no more.
May thy beauty still gladden the friends that I love,
Whom I long for—but stern fate denies;
May they pass full of years, though I wait them above;
May a last loving hand close their eyes.