CHAPTER XXXI.
ST. GEORGES'S DOOM
The cours criminel on the banks of the Seine had been crowded all day, and the judges seated on the bench began to exhibit signs of fatigue at their labours. They had sat from ten o'clock in the morning far into the afternoon, and, now that four o'clock was at hand, it appeared as if their sitting would be still further prolonged; and this in spite of the number of cases they had disposed of.
A variety of malefactors, or so-called malefactors, had on that day received their sentences: some for professing the "reformed religion," as they blasphemously – in the judges' eyes – termed it; some for being bullies and cutthroats; a student aged sixteen had been sentenced to imprisonment in the Bastille for writing on the walls a distich on Louis, stating that he had displaced God in the minds of the French;9 and a marchioness had been condemned to a fine of twenty pistoles and to remain out of Paris for a year for having poisoned her husband; also a spy, a Dutchman, supposed to be in the service of the accursed Stadtholder and English king, had been condemned to death by burning, his entrails to be first cut out and flung in his face; and several petty malefactors – a drunken priest who had read a portion of Rabelais to his flock instead of a sermon; a lampoonist who had written a joke on the De Maintenon; an actor who had struck a gentleman in defence of his own daughter; and a courtesan who had induced a young nobleman to spend too much money on her – were all sentenced to the Bastille, to Vincennes, and Bicêtre for various periods.
"La croix fait place au lis, et Jésus Christ au Roi
Louis, oh! race impie, est le seul Dieu chez toi."
For writing it the student remained in prison thirty-one years.
"Now," said Monsieur de Rennie, who presided to-day, when the last of these wretches had been finished off – "now, is the list cleared? We have sat six hours." And the other judges, one on either side of him, repeated his words and murmured, "Six hours!"
"Your lordships have still some other cases," the procureur du roi said, addressing them, "which you will probably be willing to dispose of to-day. There is one of a man who is thought to have abandoned his ship in the recent disaster at La Hogue, and to have escaped to Paris, where he was captured in hiding; and another of three Jansenists who have blasphemed the faith; also there is a man, an escaped galérien, brought hither from Rambouillet by an officer of the Régiment de Grancé for trial."
"Are the facts clear," asked the presiding judge, "against this man? If so, the case will not occupy us long, and we will take it to-night."
"Quite clear," the procureur replied, "so far as I gather."
"Bring him in."
A moment later St. Georges stood in the dock set apart for the criminals, his hands tied in front of him. And in the court many eyes were cast toward him as he took his stand. All knew that, for those who successfully escaped the galleys, there was but one ending if ever caught again.
"Who gives evidence against this prisoner?" De Rennie asked, looking at St. Georges under his bushy white eyebrows. "And what is his name? – Prisoner, what is your name? Answer truly to the court."
"I have no name," St. Georges replied; "I refuse to answer to any."
The judge's eyebrows were lifted into his forehead and down again; then he observed to his brother judge on his right, with a shrug of his shoulders, "Contumacious!" and then, because he was a man who disliked to be thwarted, he exclaimed: "So much the worse for you. Well, M. le procureur, who prosecutes – who is there as witness?"
"The officer who arrested him and afterward brought him to Paris. He can give your lordships the facts."
"Very well. Why does he not do so? Let him stand forward."
The officer stood forward, in so far that he stood up in the well of the crowd – his gold-laced, cockaded hat still upon his head, since as an officer of the king he was entitled to wear it in all other places but church – and briefly he answered the presiding judge's questions. Yes, he was a lieutenant of the Régiment de Grancé, quartered at Rambouillet – in his opinion, a miserable hole. His opinion on Rambouillet, the judge said, frowning, was not required; he would be good enough to give his name. His name was De Mortemart. De Mortemart! Perhaps, said the judge, he might be a relative of the Duc de Mortemart? Yes, the officer replied, he might be; in effect he was a son of that personage. The judge was pleased to hear it; the duke was universally known and respected, and – the acoustic qualities of the court were bad – would M. de Mortemart take a seat on the bench, where he and his brother judges could better hear him? The officer did not mind, though he was not inconvenienced where he was, but, of course, if their lordships desired. And so forth.
"Now," the judge said with great sweetness, when he had reached the exalted elevation, "would M. de Mortemart give himself the trouble to state how the fellow before them had fallen into his hands?" M. de Mortemart did give himself the trouble – telling, however, exactly what he thought fit, and also omitting many facts which he did not feel disposed to mention – to wit, he contented himself by saying that the "gentleman" in the dock had been betrayed by a woman into their hands – a "treacherous reptile" he termed her – but he said nothing about St. Georges having acknowledged that he had been a soldier of France once, and had afterward fought on the English side against France. To his young and chivalrous mind it was, indeed, a terrible thing that any Frenchman should join with England against his own country, but – he did not say so to the judge trying that man. The case was bad enough against him without that.
In answer to further questions put with great politeness and an evident desire on the judge's part not to bore the son of the Duc de Mortemart too much, he stated that according to orders, he had escorted the gentleman in trouble to Paris, and that he had ridden by that gentleman's side all the way, treating him as well as possible. Yes, he was bound to say he sympathized with the prisoner (he did not say that he wished to Heaven the prisoner had availed himself of many opportunities he had given him of escaping); he thought he had been hardly treated – especially by the woman who was, in truth, a viper. Did he mean to say, the judge asked almost apologetically, that he had allowed the prisoner to ride unbound by his side? Yes, he did mean to say so; the prisoner had made no attempt, either, to take advantage of the license. Did Monsieur de Mortemart think that was wise on his part as an officer? Yes, on his part as an officer he did think so. He was an officer; not" – and here he cast his eye on the turnkeys and jailers in the court" – "the canaille." And, in effect, the prisoner was before the court; that justified him.
After this the judges ceased to ask the Duc de Mortemart's son any further questions, but went on with other matters. One of the canaille, a jailer, was put on the witness stand and questioned briefly. "Speak, fellow," said the president in a totally different tone from that which he had hitherto used to the duke's son, "have you examined the prisoner – is he branded?"
"He is, my lord, on his shoulder; an undoubted galérien."
"Enough! Stand down."
"Prisoner," addressing St. Georges, "what have you to say?"
"Nothing. Do your worst."
"No justification of your quitting the galleys?"
"Nothing that you would accept as such. Yet this I will say: I did not escape of my own attempt; the galley I was in was sunk by an English admiral off their coast; almost all were lost. I was saved and taken back to England."
"So! That may make a difference. What was the galley's name?"
"L'Idole."
Here the judge on the president's right hand leaned over to him and said: "This may be the truth. I had a nephew, an officer, on board L'Idole – she was sunk."
"Allowing such to be the case, prisoner, how comes it you are back in France?"
"I desired to return, and took the first opportunity."
"Ay, he did," suddenly roared out a voice in the court. "And ask him how he returned, my lord; ask him that!"
In an instant all eyes were turned to the place whence the sound came, and the presiding judge became scarlet in the face at any one having the presumption to so bawl at him in the court. "Exempts," he cried, "find out the ruffian who dares to outrage the king's justice by bellowing before us thus. Find him out, I say, and bring him before us!"
It required, however, very little "finding out," since he who had so cried was the man whom the procureur du Roi had spoken of as having abandoned his ship at La Hogue and fled to Paris, and was now present as a prisoner in the court to be tried for his offence. Nor was there much need to hustle and drag him forward, since he came willingly enough – he thought he saw here an immunity from punishment – if punishment be deserved – a chance of escape by the evidence he could give.
"Who is the fellow?" asked De Rennie, when, partly by the man's own willing efforts and partly by pushings and jostlings, he had been got on to the witness stand with two jailers on either side of him. "Who is he?"
"He is, my lord," the procureur du roi said, "the man who is charged with deserting his ship at La Hogue and fleeing to Paris. He says, however, he can give evidence against the galérien here which will also go far to absolve him of his desertion – if your lordships will hear him."
"Ay," said De Rennie, "we will hear him very willingly. But," he said, addressing the sailor, "tell no lies, fellow, in hope of escaping your own punishment. Understand that! And understand, also, that you must justify your own desertion."
"I need tell no lies," the man replied, a rough, bull faced and throated man, with every mark of a seaman about him, "to justify myself. And there was no desertion. Mon Dieu! was Tourville a deserter when he went ashore from L'Ambitieux? If so, then I am one, for I went with him."
"Tell your tale," De Rennie exclaimed angrily, the man's utter want of respect irritating him, "and speak no slander against the king's officers."
"Slander!" the sailor repeated – "slander! How slander? I am Tourville's own coxswain; acted under his orders – "
"Go on!" roared the judge. "Your evidence against the prisoner. Your evidence!"
Briefly the man's evidence was this – and as he told it all in the court knew that the fate of the prisoner was sealed. After that nothing could save him.
The man was Tourville's coxswain – he produced a filthy, water-soaked paper from his breast to prove it – had been with him in Le Soleil Royal, had gone with the admiral when he transferred his flag to L'Ambitieux, had taken that flag from the lieutenant's hands and, with his own, hauled it up on the latter vessel.
"But," continued the man, "it was not for long. The English had got us in shoal water, their fireships and attenders came at us and burned us; their boarding parties came in two hundred boats – we could do nothing after the first resistance! And among those boarding parties" – and he lifted his finger and pointed at the prisoner in the dock – "was one in command of that man – that, standing there in the dock."
"Fellow!" exclaimed the judge, "this is a Frenchman. Beware! – no lies."
"I tell no lies. It is the truth. Ask him. He was on the deck of L'Ambitieux with a dozen other boat crews; we could not resist; their whole fleet came over our sides; the admiral and I left in the same boat, he bade us all save ourselves, gave us our freedom, disbanded us. Send for him, ask him if I am a deserter. Ask, too, that man, if he fought not against us on the English side."
"You hear," De Rennie said, looking toward St. Georges, "the charge against you – that you, a Frenchman, fought on the English side against your country. Answer the court, is it true?"
With all eyes turned on him – the pitying eyes of De Mortemart, the scowling eyes of the judges, and the vindictive eyes of most people in the court, who, having been hitherto inclined to sympathize with the prisoner, now only thirsted for his death – St. Georges drew himself up and faced his inquirer. Then, a moment later, he said: "It is true."
Those words were the signal for an indescribable hubbub in the court. Men muttered fiercely, "Burn him, burn him!" women shrieked to one another that no wonder the English devils had beaten France when Frenchmen fought on their side, forgetting the mothers that bore them; and De Mortemart, muttering between white lips: "My God! nothing can save him," left the court. The coxswain, too, who but a quarter of an hour before had heard hissed in his ears the words "lâche," "déserteur," "misérable," and other epithets, was now the centre of a group of turnkeys and exempts, all asking him why he had not told them before that he was a hero?
Meanwhile the procureur du roi, arrayed in his scarlet gown, sat at his table arranging his papers – there would be no further trials that day, he knew, the Jansenists and others would have to wait – and glancing up now and again at the other three scarlet-robed figures on the bench, conferring with their heads close together. Presently, however, a nod from De Rennie to the greffier caused that official to bawl out orders for silence in the court, and forced the muttering men and shrieking women to hold their tongues. They did so, willingly enough, too; they knew what was coming.
"Are your lordships prepared to deliver judgment?" asked the procureur du roi, carrying out the usual formula and pushing his papers away and rising as he addressed them.
"We are prepared," the president replied.
"I pray your lordships do so."
"The sentence of the court is that the prisoner be taken to the Hôtel de Ville, and from there to the Place de Grève, and there broken on the wheel till he is dead."
More murmurings, more exclamations from the nervous, excited crowd, and then a hush, while again the procureur's voice was heard:
"I pray your lordships to appoint a day and hour on which your righteous sentence shall be carried out."
"The decree of the court is that the sentence be carried out at the daybreak following the time when forty-eight hours shall have elapsed from now."
"In the name of justice I thank your lordships. – Prisoner," and the procureur turned to him, "you hear and understand your sentence?"
"Yes, I hear and understand it."
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE LAST CHANCE
Outside the court all was sunshine and brightness on that June evening, and all the people streaming out in the warm air – that yet seemed fresh and cool after the stuffiness within – chattered and laughed and chuckled at the exciting day they had had.
"For, figurez vous," said one, a hideous creature, "when we went to see the marchioness tried we could only hope she would be condemned, though all the while we know well that for the noblesse there is no serious punishment. Ma foi! what a punishment! Twenty pistoles – a sum she pays weekly, I'll be sworn, for absolution – and a retraite from Paris for a year. Tiens! she was not ill favoured, that marchioness; she will doubtless have a score of lovers follow her into the country. Say, Babette," and she turned to a pale-faced girl by her side, "shall we go to the Place de Grève to see that villain broken? Daybreak, after forty-eight hours; that will be daybreak on Monday. To-day is Friday!"
"Not I," the pale-faced girl replied. "For my part I could pity him – only that he fought against France. Il etait beau, cet homme la bas. His mustache was enough to set a girl dreaming. And his eyes! Ciel! what eyes, when he faced the old hérisson, De Rennie!"
"Ah, bah! His eyes! Curse them, and him, too! He is a traitor."
"All the same, he is handsome. I wonder how many women love him?"
But now they stood apart from the courtyard to look at a troop of the Mousquetaires Noirs riding away from the precincts of the court itself – where they had been on guard all day – and to admire their trappings and bravery. And the pale-faced girl, who seemed – like many other pale-faced, cadaverous girls! – to have a great appreciation of manly beauty, tugged at her companion's arm, and bade her observe the two handsome officers in conversation under the gateway.
"See, Manon, see!" she exclaimed. "There is the one who said he was son to the Duc de – "
"I hate all dukes," interrupted the other, "and all the noblesse. They grind the poor."
"Yet he seemed kind. He would have saved that one, I do believe, if he could. And how he spoke to the judge – as he himself speaks to others – like to a dog! And his companion, the officer of Mousquetaires who does not follow the troop. Mon Dieu! il est beau aussi. How many handsome men we see to-day!"
"Ah! voyons," exclaimed the other, grimacing irritably, "les beaux! les beaux! Nothing but les beaux! Some day, Babette, you will regret your admiration of the men."
"He looks pale and troubled, does that mousquetaire," the girl replied, taking no heed of the elder woman's reproofs; and then they passed on to the foul quarter of Paris where they dwelt, and where dukes' sons and handsome mousquetaires did not often obtrude themselves.
Had she been able to overhear the commencement of the conversation between De Mortemart and that officer of Mousquetaires she would probably not have wondered at the pallor which overspread the latter's face, nor at his look of trouble.
When the young fellow had fled out of the court, unable to remain and hear that doom pronounced on St. Georges, which he knew must come, he had gone straight to the guardroom with the intention of removing the three men of his troop whom he had brought with him to Paris in charge of their prisoner. Their work was done in Paris, he knew; it was best they should take the road hack to Rambouillet at once. It was but eight leagues, and the summer nights were long; they could ride that easily and regain their quarters almost without halting.
But as he entered the room set apart for officers preparatory to summoning his men, he saw that which prevented him from doing so for some little time longer. He saw, seated in a deep wooden chair, his wig off, and fast asleep in that chair – with a flask of wine by his side – an officer of the guard for the day, whose face he knew very well indeed. The Régiment de Grancé was not always quartered at such dead-and-alive places as Rambouillet; it was sometimes accorded the privilege of being in attendance on the court itself – since it was officered from the aristocrats as a rule, the colonel generally being an exception, and selected because of his services – and at Versailles it had, not long ago, been thrown in with the Mousquetaires Noirs.
"Tiens, Boussac!" the young fellow cried, slapping the sleeping officer on the shoulder, and disturbing his slumbers; "rouse yourself, man; the court will be up directly – already your brother officer is chuckling that his guard hour will not last half a one."
"De Mortemart!" cried Boussac, springing from his seat and grasping the newcomer's hand with his own, while with the other he clapped his wig on. "De Mortemart – what brings you here? Have you got the route, is the regiment returned to Paris?"
"No such chance, mon ami, our luck is out. Neither Paris, nor, ma foi! a campaign for us – we are stewed up in Rambouillet for another year. And, peste! the only woman there worth a pistole has turned out the vilest of creatures. We cannot even sup with her now, or take a glass of ratafia or a cup of chocolate from her hands."
"That is not well. But what – what – brings you here? Come, tell me," and drawing the wine flask toward him he poured out a drink for his comrade. "And you look sad, De Mortemart; is it because of the 'vilest of creatures'?"
Then, without more ado, his friend told what had brought him to Paris and in the vicinity of the cours criminel.
As he proceeded with his story – telling it all from the beginning, when la belle Louvigny had sent to the commandant, apprising him of an escaped galérien in her house – he marvelled at the excitement which took possession of his auditor. At the statement that the betrayed man was branded, was in truth an escaped galley slave, Boussac had sprung to his feet and commenced to pace the guardroom; when he described the scene he had witnessed between him and Madame de Louvigny, he could contain himself no longer.
"The man, De Mortemart, the man!" he broke out, "describe him to me." And without giving his friend time to do so, he went on:
"Tall, slight, long brown hair, curling at the ends, gray eyes – deep and clear. Gentleman to the tips of his fingers; a soldier above all."
"Ay, he has been a soldier."
"And his name – his name, my friend. It must be St. Georges. Come from England, you say, with the English fleet. It is St. Georges!"
"Nay, his name he will not tell. But this I know: he was once of the Chevaux-Légers of Nivernois."
"My God! it is he!" and overcome with excitement Boussac sank back into his seat again.
Rapidly De Mortemart told the rest – the coxswain's evidence; the certain doom that must be St. Georges's must be pronounced by now, since, outside, the clatter of the Mousquetaires could be heard, proclaiming already clearly enough that the court was up, the sentence awarded.
"I must know all!" Boussac cried, and followed by the other he rushed out. And then he learned the galérien's doom – wheel on the third morning from now.
No wonder the pale-faced girl thought he looked sad as he stood in the gateway bidding De Mortemart a hasty farewell.
"If I can," he said, "I must save him; must if necessary see the king. I am mousquetaire – I have the right of audience."
"Nothing can save him," the other replied. "He has served Louis, and he has fought against him – on the conquering side. That is enough!"
"Yet," said Boussac, "I will try. I can tell Louis something of his history that may – though the chance is poor, God knows! – induce him to hold his hand. Or, at least, to let the doom be something less awful than the wheel."
So they parted, the one to take his men back to Rambouillet, the other to try and save St. Georges, vain as he feared the attempt would be.
First, he sought a messenger, a trusty honest man he knew of, himself an old disbanded soldier, and told him he must ride that night on a message of life and death. Would he promise to let nothing stand in his way? – he should be well rewarded.
"Never fear, monsieur. To where must I ride?"
"To Troyes. You can obtain a good horse?"
"Ay! or get a renfort on the road. 'Tis thirty leagues, but I will manage it. What have I to do when there?"
"This. Make for the Manoir de Roquemaure, then see at once la châtelaine, Mademoiselle de Roquemaure – she rules it since her mother's death. Next, give her this. Put it into her own hand and no other. In the name of God fail not! Again I say, it is life or death!"
"Fear not. I will not fail. In half an hour I am on the road. Hark! the clock strikes from the Tour St. Jacques; 'tis seven o'clock – ere it strikes the same hour in the morning I shall be there and to spare – or dead."
"Brave man! Good soldier! I believe you. Go."
What the old soldier was to give into the hand of Aurélie de Roquemaure was a letter containing the following hastily scribbled words:
"Mademoiselle: You spoke to me once of an unhappy gentleman, a chevau-léger; asked me if he was dead, and said you had some news would make him happy if he knew it. Mademoiselle, he is not dead, but dies on Monday, on the wheel – Monday morning next at dawn! He has returned to France, fought against Tourville on the high seas, is taken, and, as I say, condemned. If you have any power with the king, if you know aught that may weigh with him, I beseech you lose no effort. It is Monday morning, I repeat, at dawn that he dies. Your respectful servitor,
"Boussac."
The messenger departed – and about his fidelity he had no doubt, so well did he know him – Boussac mounted his horse and rode to where the three troops of the Mousquetaires now in Paris on guard duty were quartered. Then he made his way to the senior officer in command, begged leave of him on urgent matters of the last importance – so urgent, indeed, did he represent them to be that he stated he was about to seek an after-supper audience of the king – obtained the leave, and, procuring a fresh horse, set out for Versailles.
"I will tell him," he said, "who St. Georges is, whom he believes himself to be. The late duke was Louis's friend in the days when the king's heart was young and fresh – surely he will, at least, grant a reprieve. More especially if I tell him all of De Roquemaure's villainy. As for the sister – if she is what St. Georges told me in his last letter he felt convinced she was – she will do nothing. Yet, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! who can look in those eyes as I have done and deem her so vile? Surely, surely, though he stands in her way so much, she will not let him go to his doom. Even though she knows for certain he is De Vannes, she will strive to save him. She must!"
It was no easy thing to approach Louis at the after-supper audience, free as the monarch generally made himself for an hour at that period, and in spite of an officer of the Mousquetaires being a more or less favoured person. For there were many who had greater claims than a mousquetaire to the royal ear, the royal salutation – a finger to the hat for a man, the hat lowered to the right ear for a lady – to the royal smile.
There were, to wit, the bishops, the ladies of the court, the marshals and the bastards, the ministers and many others. And to-night the king was, and had been for some days, so depressed, so for him almost angry, that few took this period for presenting petitions or requests. His great fleet was shattered by the hereditary enemies of France – since the Spanish Armada no fleet had ever been so shattered! – his power and might were broken, even if for a time only; and though he had told Tourville – with that royal graciousness which scarcely ever deserted him – that he was satisfied "he had done his best," he was in no humour for granting boons.
What hope was there that a mousquetaire should obtain aught from him that night; should even be able to approach him? Above all, what hope that such a request as Boussac's – that one of his own subjects who had helped in the shattering of his great fleet should be pardoned – was likely to be granted?
Yet, at last, the soldier who had waited so patiently for hours drew nearer and nearer to the circle in which the arbiter of the destiny of all in France sat, a crowd of courtiers and nervous petitioners behind and round him; at last, after having seen countless others bowed and smiled to, he was face to face with Louis, stammering and scarce knowing how to begin his request.
But the finger went to the hat, the king's smile – perhaps a little artificial now – shone on him, the king's soft, courtly voice said:
"Monsieur le lieutenant, have you a petition to make also? I am afraid it cannot be granted. Is it for promotion?"
"No, sire. It is for a man's life," and before he thoroughly understood, himself, what he was saying, he poured out his story before the king and the astonished listeners. And, at last, in a halting, laboured way it was told. Then the king spoke, while the shoulder-shrugging, grinning courtiers held their breath to hear his reply.
"Mon brave mousquetaire," he said, "you have been imposed on. De Vannes never married. I know it well – know, too, the woman whom he loved, who married De Roquemaure. And even if he had married and had this son, do you think I would pardon him for doing that for which he lies under sentence of death? Nay, were he my own I would not do so. Ah!" – turning to a beautiful blue-eyed woman who stood by the side of Boussac, "Madame de Verneuil" – and the hand went up to the hat and lowered it till the fringe touched his right ear – "I rejoice to see you here to-night." Boussac's audience was over.