“You must content yourself with the Comte de la Marque” (the prison name of the executioner) “instead,” growled out the other.
I turned away, no less disgusted at the frivolity that could only see in the dreadful event that took place the temporary interruption to a vain and silly promenade, than at the savage coarseness that could revel in the pain common misfortune gave him the privilege of inflicting.
Such, however, was the prevalent tone of thinking and speaking there. The death of friends,—the ruin of those best loved and cared for; the danger that each day came nearer to themselves,—were all casualties to which habit, recklessness of life, and libertinism had accustomed them; while about former modes of life,—the pleasures of the capital, its delights and dissipation,—they conversed with the most eager interest. It is thus, while in some natures misfortunes will call forth into exercise the best and noblest traits that in happier circumstances had never found the necessity that gave them birth; so, in others, adversity depresses and demoralizes those weaker temperaments that seemed formed to sail safely in the calm waters, but never destined to brave the stormy seas of life.
With such associates I could have neither sympathy nor friendship; and my life passed on in one unbroken and dreary monotony, day succeeding day and night following night, till my thoughts, turned ever inward, had worn as it were a track for themselves in which the world without and its people had no share whatever. Not only was my application to the minister unanswered, but I was never examined before any of the tribunals; and sometimes the dreadful fate of those prisoners who in the Reign of Terror passed their whole life in prison, their crimes, their very existence forgotten, would cross my mind, and strike me with terror unspeakable.
If in the sombre atmosphere of the Temple a sad and cheerless monotony prevailed, events followed fast on each other in that world from which its gloomy walls excluded us. Every hour was some new feature of the dark conspiracy brought to light; the vigilance of Monsieur Réal slept not night or day; and all that bribery, terror, or torture could effect, was put into requisition to obtain full and precise information as to every one concerned in the plot.
It was a bright, fresh morning in April, the sixth of the month,—the day is graven on my memory,—when, on walking forth into the garden, I was surprised to see the prisoners standing in a circle round a tree on which a placard was fastened, with glances eagerly turned towards the paper or bent sadly to the ground. They stood around, sad and silent. To my question of what had occurred, a significant look at the tree was the only reply I received, while in the faces of all I perceived that some dreadful news had reached them. Forcing my way with difficulty through the crowd, I at length approached near enough to read the placard, on which in large letters was written,—
“6 Avril. Le Temple.
“Charles Pichegru, ez-Général Républicain, s'est é tranglé
dans sa prison.”
“And did Pichegru, the great conqueror of Holland, die by his own hand?” said I, as my eye rested on the fatal bulletin.
“Don't you read it, young man?” replied a deep, solemn voice beside me, which I at once knew was that of General George himself, “Can you doubt the accuracy of information supplied by the police?”
The bystanders looked up with a terrified and frightened expression, as if dreading lest the very listening to his words might be construed into an acquiescence in them.