Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume II

by M. Y. Halidom

Here I was being led openly through the streets of Paris like a felon—whither? To prison—to the Bastille, to be tried; possibly, nay probably, to be condemned to death. What for? What had I done? "Nothing; I am innocent," I said to myself. "No matter, so have others been that have likewise perished by the guillotine," I thought I heard a voice inwardly say. "Executions are now of daily occurrence, and not individuals, but hundreds of individuals, perish for they know not what. Marat, from out his obscure lodgings, and seated up to the neck in his warm bath, doth complacently issue forth his bloody orders, from which not even innocence itself is free. Oh, the malignity of human nature!" thought I. "Base, base Jacques Millefleurs! for who else could have betrayed me? And Pauline, poor girl! what would become her?"

Then came another thought forcing its way through my brain, despite my efforts to crush it. Pauline for the present, it is true, was disgusted with Millefleurs, especially for this last dastardly act of his, but women are proverbially fickle—the whole French nation is volatile—and after my death, and she had shed a few transient tears belike to my memory, Jacques might work himself into her good graces again, and even marry her—the thought was agony. The mere fear of death itself was perhaps the last thought that occupied me, for I felt I had no parents to regret me; on the contrary, I felt consoled in the thought that I should see them again in the other world. No; it was not mere death that I feared so much; but then, to leave Pauline, to be cut short in my brilliant career, before I had established my fame!

These were thoughts that galled me. Nevertheless, I tried to console myself. Perhaps things might not be so black as my imagination had painted them, and even if they should be—even if I should die by the guillotine for an imagined State offence—it was not like being gibbeted alive in my own country for a highway robbery or murder. No; there was something aristocratic in the idea of being guillotined, for did not the scaffold reek with noble blood?

Amid such reflections as these I was conducted by the guard to the gates of the Bastille, and before I was well aware of it, found myself in a spacious cell, and heard the lock turned upon me. Here a singular and never-to-be-forgotten scene was presented to my view. The prison was crowded with men and women of all ranks and ages, many of whom were to die on the morrow, yet most of them appeared to have no fear of death whatever. Here and there were knots of friends who seemed determined to make the most of their short stay in this world, and to enjoy life to the utmost. Here was dicing and card playing, laughing, joking, and swearing, as if they thought it prime fun to die in company. Surely these men, thought I, must be accustomed to death, as they say eels are to skinning, that they no longer mind it.

There were, however, prisoners of another cast, persons who preferred spending their last moments on earth in prayer and pious meditation. Parents took leave of their children, children of their parents, friends parted from friends, lovers from lovers. Tears flowed on all sides. Profane mirth and ribald jests mingled discordantly with pious oraisons and tearful farewells. Others again were sullenly awaiting their doom with crossed arms and heads drooping on their breasts, keeping apart from the others, being too proud to pray, and yet indifferent to the amusements of the more light-hearted.

Well, days, weeks, passed by, I suppose, for I do not recollect what time elapsed during my incarceration, as I kept no count, being in a kind of mental stupor all the time, nor could I bring myself to believe that the scene before me was real, and not a dream. All the events from the time of my arrest, flitted through my mind like a vast phantasmagoria.

Since my imprisonment, I had been tried, found guilty, and condemned to death. The day had been fixed, and yet it weighed but lightly upon me, being nothing more that what I had expected and prepared myself for. Each day brought new arrests, and each day some of my companions were led forth to execution. It is wonderfully consoling to find that others are about to share a like fate as one's self. This I found by experience, for, engrossed as I was, with my own selfish thoughts, I still found time to be touched with the misfortunes of others, and on several occasions I offered consolation, and received consolation from many of my fellow prisoners. In some instances I had struck up quite a warm friendship with the inmates of my cell, but alas! our intimacy lasted but long enough for us to know, love, and esteem each other. No sooner had I begun to feel for my fellow sufferer as a friend and brother, than the following day he was certain to be torn from me, and led off to execution. One of these friendships formed in prison, especially dwells upon me; perhaps because it was one of the longest.

My friend was a young man of my own years, and of noble family, as he said. He told me also his name, but I have forgotten it. He was imprisoned because it was thought he entertained aristocratic opinions, and was a devout Catholic. He was in love, but the idol of his affections belonged to an atheistical family. It had been the dream of his ambition to eradicate the heretical opinions she had imbibed and convert her to the Catholic faith. He was looked upon with suspicion by her family, who, disapproving of the match, were instrumental in placing him in the Bastille. I ventured to condole with him, though he needed not my consolation, as his comfort was in his religion. Of all my companions in prison, I found him the most resigned.

When I had learnt his tale, I told him mine, saying that I was a poor perruquier-barbier who had left his country for a while to complete his art studies, and who, happening to fall in love with his employer's daughter, had, through the jealousy and malice of a rival, who had falsely accused him, found himself imprisoned in the Bastille, and condemned to death. He was touched with my tale as I had been with his, for our histories had something in common. We were both in love, in prison, and condemned to death. We wept together, we embraced, we kissed (Frenchmen always kiss); and though he was a gentleman of noble family, and I only a lowly barber, yet, on the brink of the grave, all distinctions are levelled, so we embraced, and called ourselves brothers in adversity. How I prayed and longed that our lives might be spared, that we might the longer enjoy each other's friendship, or that we might quit this world in each other's company! But fate willed it otherwise. On the morrow, he whom I had learnt to love as a brother was torn from me and led to the scaffold. My life seemed now a blank. Whilst my friend lived in his troubles, I forgot my own; now that he was no more I began to realise all the horrors of my situation.

At length the eve of my execution arrived. I tried to give myself up wholly to pious meditation, so throwing myself down in the corner of my cell, I endeavoured to recall all my past life, to repent of my sins, and pray for a speedy and peaceful end; but then the guillotine rose up before me in all its terrors, and bodily fear would usurp the place of holier thoughts. The nearer the hour drew, the more vividly everything painted itself to my mind's eye. I must leave Pauline without a word of farewell. The heartless turnkey, inured to scenes of death and misery, would witness me depart to execution without a tear. Then the insolence of the brutal guard, the gaping crowd, the scaffold, and surly executioner, the cold steel close to my neck, one terrible shock and then—then—eternity—a vast blank—an unexpected world—doubt, suspense, perhaps, total annihilation.