CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE DAY OF EXECUTION
The night of Sunday had passed; already the holiday-makers were seeking their beds after a day spent in the country – by some in the woods of Fontainebleau and St. Germains; by others in the gardens of Versailles, where they had waited all day to see the king come out upon the great balcony and salute his people; by others, again, who had been to Marly to gaze in amazement on distorted Nature; to gaze on the trees stuck in the ground which would not grow here though they had flourished for a century elsewhere, before being uprooted to gratify a king's caprice; on artificial lakes now gay with caïques and gondolas where but a few years ago the frogs and eels had held undisputed possession; on a palace which reared its new walls where starving peasants' hovels had been not long since.
The holiday-makers were going home to their beds as all the clocks of the city clanged out the hour of midnight; all were about to seek their homes ere they commenced the new week – a week that to most of them brought nothing but hard, griping toil, starvation, and a heavy load of taxation imposed upon them by that king whom they stared at and reverenced, and by his nobility.
Yet not quite all, either! For some there were who, as they streamed across the Pont Neuf, or came in from the Charenton gate, or arrived back from Versailles or Marly, broke off in solitary twos and threes from the others and directed their footsteps toward the great place in front of the Hôtel de Ville – toward the Place de Grève! They, these solitary ones, had no intention of seeking their homes and beds that night – they could sleep long and well to-morrow night – instead they meant to enjoy themselves in the place until day broke, with the anticipation of what the daybreak would bring. For at that hour they knew they would see a man done to death upon the wheel; see limb after limb broken until life was extinguished by the final côup de grâce.
As they neared the great open space some cast their eyes up at the lights burning in the Hôtel de Ville and muttered to each other, wondering which room the man was in who would be led forth three hours hence; what he was thinking of; if he was counting each quarter as it sounded from tower and steeple; if – these speculations generally by women in the fast-gathering crowd – there were any who loved him? If he had a wife – a mother – a child? Any to mourn his loss?
"A traitor, they say," some whispered; "one who joined England against France." "A spy," others murmured, "who betrayed Tourville to the brutal islanders. Well, he deserves the dog's death! Let him endure it."
The quarters boomed forth again; at half past twelve the executioner and his assistants arrived in a cart. Ordinarily they came earlier when they had a scaffold to erect and a block to place upon it. Now, however, there was no block on which the man's head would need to be laid to receive the headsman's stroke. Instead, a great cannon wheel was lifted from out the cart, then next a wooden platform was constructed, having in it a socket of raised wood into which the wheel was dropped and firmly fixed by cords, three parts of it towering above that socket. Then a heap of ropes brought forth and flung down beside the wheel – they would secure the body tightly enough – following the heap two huge iron bars and a heavy iron-bound club. That was all, yet enough to do justice on the traitor.
"La toilette de la Roue est faite," said one man, a joker; "soon his will be made also. 'Tis well the early mornings are warm now. He will not miss his clothes so much when they strip him to his singlet," and he laughed and grinned like a wolf and turned his eyes on the Hôtel de Ville. And still, as the moments and the quarters crept by, they chattered and talked about the coming spectacle, and wondered how the man felt in there who was now so shortly to furnish it. If they could have seen him, have been able to read his thoughts, they would have been little gratified – perhaps, indeed, a little dissatisfied – for he knew as well as they that his doom was fast approaching, that the clocks were telling of his fast-ebbing hours on earth; knew, too, that down below the wheel was being prepared, and bore the knowledge calmly and with resignation.
As they discussed down in the place what he might be doing and speculated on what his feelings were in those last hours, he above, at the iron-barred window of a room to which they had brought him after his sentence was pronounced, was gazing down at the crowd gathering to see him die. The feelings on which they speculated so much were scarcely such as would have satisfied them.
"The dawn breaks," he murmured to himself, as, although heavily chained both at the feet and hands, he leaned against the window and gazed far away over the roofs of the houses to, across the Seine, where the mists rose in the fields – "is near at hand. Another hour and daylight will have come – and then it is ended! So best! – so best!"
He shifted his position a little, still gazing out, however; then continued his meditations:
"Yes, so best. My last chance, last hope of life was gone when M. de Mortemart trusted me – let me ride by his side a free man instead of bound. Then I knew I must go on – come on – to this. I could have stabbed him to the heart more than once – have perhaps evaded even his three men – have escaped – been free – but how! By treachery unparalleled, by murder and deceit! And, afterward, a life of reproach and self-contempt. No! better this – better that wheel below than such a freedom!"
Looking down now at the crowd, his attention was called to it by a slight stir in its midst; he saw a troop of dragoons ride in to the place and observed them distributing themselves all round it at equal distance under the orders of an officer. Also he saw that a lane was made to the platform where the wheel stood – a lane among the people that ended at the platform and began he knew at the door of the Hôtel de Ville beneath him, from which he would be led forth.
"Courage," he whispered to himself, "courage. It will not be long; they say the first blow sometimes brings insensibility, and after that there is no more. Only death – death! Death with my little child's name upon my lips – that name the last word I shall ever speak; my last thoughts a prayer for her."
Gradually now he let himself sink to the floor, his manacles almost preventing him from doing so, and when in a kneeling position he buried his head in his iron-bound hands and prayed long and fervently.
"O God," he murmured, "thou who hast in thy wisdom torn her from me, keep and guard her ever, I beseech thee, in this my darkest hour; let her never know her father's sorrow, nor share the adversity thou hast thought fit to visit upon him. And, since I may never gaze on her face again, see her whom I have so dearly loved, so mourned for, never hear the tones of her voice, be thou her earthly as her heavenly Father; sleeping and waking, oh, watch over her still!"
Then, because the thoughts of her were more than he could bear, and because he knew that the child whom he had loved so dearly – the child whose future life he had once sworn solemnly to her dying mother should be dearer to him than his own – would never know his fate nor his regrets, he buried his head once more in those manacled hands and wailed: "My child! my child! My little lost child! Oh, my child! my child!"
"If I could only know," he murmured, later, "that you were well, happy – feel sure, as that woman told me once herself, and Boussac thought – that whoever has you in his keeping was not cruel to you, my little, helpless child, the end might be easier. If I could only know! O Dorine! Dorine!"
Looking up, as he strove with his two hands, so tightly chained together, to wipe the tears from his eyes, he noticed that the room was lighter now; the sky was a clear daffodil. Daybreak was coming; the day was at hand – his last on earth!
And again he whispered: "It is better so. But for her there is naught to hold me to life. Better so. Now" – and as he spoke to himself, across the roofs of the houses the first rays of the summer sun shot up – "now be brave. The end is near; meet it like a man. And remember, her name the last word on your lips – the last ere your soul goes to meet its God!"
A murmur, a noise from the crowd below waiting for its victim, caused him to look forth again from the window, and to observe that some new officials had arrived. A horseman in a rich scarlet coat, over which, however, he wore a riding cloak – for the morning was still chilly – followed by two others in sober blue coats trimmed with silver lace, was making his way down the lane of people and was being greeted by the crowd.
Yet, to the doomed man standing by the window, he did not seem to be altogether popular with them, especially when he suddenly halted his horse, and turning round on the vast concourse behind him, said something to them, accompanied with a comprehensive wave of his disengaged hand – something that vexed and annoyed that concourse terribly, he could see, and hear, too – a vexation increased when, after the other had spoken a further word to the officer in command of the dragoons, they began to close in from the outside of the place round the assembled mob.
Then the horseman disappeared from St. Georges's view, evidently having entered the door beneath his window, and again the people murmured and shrieked.
"Has he given orders to clear them away," he began to speculate, "so that they may not witness my end? – " but his speculation was not concluded.
On the stone steps outside he could hear the tread of many feet, the clang of spurs and of swords as those who wore them mounted the stairs.
"They are coming for me," he thought, and again he whispered: "The time is at hand. Courage! Be brave!"
The keys turned grating in the locks, a great transverse bar outside was moved with a clash, and the door opened, the first person to enter being the newly arrived horseman, followed by the principal official of the Hôtel de Ville, and next by some of his subordinate officers, as well as the jailers, one of whom carried in his hands a large iron hammer and the other a great bunch of keys.
And St. Georges, standing there facing them, looked as brave a gentleman as any who had ever been led to his fate.
"This is the condemned man?" the horseman asked of the chief official; "the man who was sentenced at the cours criminel on Friday last to die this morning?"
"It is the man, Monsieur l'Hérault," the official replied, his questioner being none other than L'Hérault, the head of the police system.
"Remove his irons."
At this order the two jailers stepped forward, the one unlocking the fetters that bound St. Georges's hands, the other knocking away with the hammer the iron pegs that ran through the steel ring which held the chains round his ankles. And in less than three moments chains and fetters lay at his feet.
"Here is the warrant," L'Hérault said, handing it to the governor of the Hôtel de Ville – for such the principal official by his side was – "read it aloud to the prisoner," and it was read accordingly. It ran:
"To M. l'Hérault, superintendent of our police, and to the governor of our Hôtel de Ville at Paris:
"It is our royal will that the prisoner tried at our cours criminel by M. Barthe de la Rennie, one of our judges, and sentenced to die on the morning of Monday, the 26th June of this year 1692, be released and set free unconditionally. And may – "
"What!" exclaimed St. Georges, reeling backward, and speaking in a hoarse whisper – "what! what does this mean? Who has written that?"
"The king," L'Hérault answered. Then he said briefly, "You are free."
"Free! Not to go to – to that?" and he pointed below.
"Not to go to that – though 'tis where escaped galériens usually go sooner or later. Your time is not yet come, it seems. I know no more, except that at midnight I was roused from my bed to ride here with this," pointing to the paper in the governor's hand, "and with this," putting another in St. Georges's. "It will," he continued, "bear you harmless in France so long as you offend no more."
"Sir," St. Georges said, and as he spoke L'Hérault looked at him, wondering if in truth this was an innocent man before him, "for your errand of mercy I thank you. Yet, believe me or not as you will, I had committed no sin when I went to the galleys."
Then he read the paper handed to him. It also was brief:
"The man bearing this is to be held free of arrest on any charge and to be allowed to pass in freedom through all and any of our dominions. His name is Georges St. Georges, and he is branded with the fleur-de-lis and the letter G.
Signé, Louis R."
"What does it mean?" reiterated St. Georges. "Who can have done this?"
"It means," said L'Hérault, "that you have some powerful interest with his Majesty. Whomsoever you may be, even though you were one of the king's own sons, you must be deemed fortunate. However great your friends may be, your escape is remarkable."
"Friends! I have none. I – " but the sentence was never finished. The excitement of the last hour had overmastered him at last and he sank in a swoon before them.
When he came to himself the others were gone with the exception of one turnkey, who was kneeling by his side, supporting his head and moistening his lips with brandy. But in the place of those who had departed there was another now, a man at whom St. Georges stared with uncertain eyes as though doubting whether his senses were not still playing him false; a man also on one knee by his side, clad in the handsome uniform of the Mousquetaires Noirs.
"Boussac!" he exclaimed. "Boussac! Is it in truth you?"
"It is I, my friend."
Then, as St. Georges's senses came fully back to him, he seized the other's hand and murmured: "You! It is you have done this! Through you that I am saved."
"You are saved, my friend. That is enough. What matter by whom?"
CHAPTER XXXIV.
"I WILL NEVER FORGIVE HER."
Once more St. Georges was on the road, heading straight for Troyes, and by his side once more rode a friend, as he had ridden over four years ago – Boussac!
When he had thoroughly recovered from the swoon into which he had fallen on hearing that he was free, he had again and again overwhelmed the mousquetaire with his gratitude – all of which the latter had refused to accept, and had, indeed, gently repudiated. Also it seemed to St. Georges that he avoided the subject, or at least said as little as possible.
"If," he said, when at last they were seated in an inn off the new Rue Richelieu to which he had led St. Georges, "there is anything to which you owe your freedom more than another, it is to the fact that the king must recognise that you are in truth le Duc de Vannes, the son of his earliest friend. Yet – yet" – he continued in an embarrassed manner – "he would not even allow that that should influence him – when – I pleaded for you."
"But it did – it did, Boussac, it did. He must have pondered on it afterward – perhaps reflected on how unjustly I had been treated by his vile minister, Louvois – you say he died in disgrace? – and that may have – nay, must have, turned his heart. O Boussac! how am I ever to repay you? Without your thought and exertions what should I have been now?" and he shuddered as he spoke.
"Oh! la! la!" said Boussac, "never mind about me. The question is now what do you intend to do in the future?"
"Do!" exclaimed St. Georges. "Do! Why, that which I returned to France to do, fought against France for – obtain my child. Boussac, where is that woman now?"
"Woman! – what woman?"
"Ah! Boussac, do not joke. You know very well to what woman I refer. That young tigress – in her way almost as vile as the woman Louvigny! – the woman who stole my child."
"Mademoiselle de Roquemaure?"
"Ay, Mademoiselle de Roquemaure! That is the name. Oh Boussac! you have given me more than my life, far more. The power to wrench my child away from her keeping, to stand before her a freed man, the king's pardon in my hand, and tax her with her treachery."
"You will do that?"
"Do it! What am I going to Troyes for – to-night?"
"Ay, true! True! What are you going to Troyes for? Yet I should have thought, if you recover the child, it is enough. Why – say – bitter words?"
"Boussac, you – but, there, you are not a father; you cannot understand all I have suffered in these four years past. Why! man, the galleys, my exile, the death that yawned for me this morning, were easier than the loss of my little one. And, with her dying brother's own confession ringing in my ears still, as it will ring when I stand before her to-morrow, as I hope, you ask me what need I have to reproach her – to utter bitter words?"
The mousquetaire shrugged his shoulders; then he muttered something about the recovery of the child being everything, and that reproaches brought little satisfaction with them; and after that he again asked St. Georges when he meant to set out for Troyes?
"To-night, I tell you – to-night. Yet" – and he paused bewildered – "I – I have no money. Not enough to get me a horse, at least. They have given me back all they took from me after my condemnation, but there were only a few guineas left."
"Where is the horse you rode to Paris on when De Mortemart brought you?"
"Ah!" exclaimed St. Georges, "a good horse – though, alas! at a moment when my life was in danger and a horse alone could save me, I – I stole it. Oh, if I can but get that again!"
"Why not? It is doubtless in the stables behind the cours criminel, where the guard stable theirs."
It was there; so that difficulty was soon solved, no objection being offered by the authorities to giving up the property of a prisoner who was so distinguished as to be acquitted by the king's order an hour before his execution; and then, when St. Georges had recovered it, he announced his intention of at once setting forth. He was impatient to be gone now he was so near; he calculated that by midday on the morrow he would have forced from Aurélie de Roquemaure a confession of what she had done with Dorine. She was at Troyes he knew; Boussac, who professed himself well acquainted with her movements, having told him that such was the case.
"She is much at court now," he said; "I often see her. And she must be back at Troyes by now – I mean – that – she has been absent from there of late. But – but she would be back by now – she – told me – she was – "
"What?" asked St. Georges, looking at him and wondering why he seemed so incoherent about the woman's movements; wondering also how he came to know so much about them, especially her recent ones – "what did she tell you when last you saw her?"
"That – she has been paying a visit – to – to – assist a friend – but – "
"Her friendship seems as strong as her hate – and greed," muttered St. Georges.
"But that," Boussac continued, still floundering a good deal in his speech, "she would be at the manoir last night – yes, last night."
"So. Then she will doubtless be there to-morrow also; she will require rest after rendering her friend so much assistance. I shall find her there."
"We shall find her there," Boussac answered. "I am going with you."
"You! Why?" Then he laughed – for the first time for many a day. "Do you think I am in danger now, with Louis's protection in my pocket, or," and his brow darkened a little, "do you fear that she is in danger from me?"
"Mon ami," Boussac replied, "I think neither of those things. The king's permission has made you safe – your manhood makes her so. Yet, let me ride with you. Remember" – and again he halted in his speech, as though seeking for a suitable reason for accompanying him – "we rode together when la petite was about to be lost to you; let us do so now when, I hope most fervently, she is about to be restored to you. And, my friend, I have obtained leave – we Mousquetaires are always fortunate in getting that. Do not deny me!"
"Deny you! – you! The man who saved me! I am an ingrate even to question you," and he seized the black gauntleted hand of the other and wrung it hard.
After that there was no more to be said or done ere they set out – or only one thing. Boussac had mentioned that he had a friend, a dragoon officer, who was proceeding to La Hogue to join his regiment which was still there under Bellefond's command, and by him St. Georges sent twenty pistoles to be given to Dubois, the man who owned the horse which saved his life. He borrowed the money of Boussac, described the inn where he had seized the animal, and then mounted it for the first time with a feeling of satisfaction. "'Tis a good beast," he said, "and has done me loyal service; also it has well replaced another good one – that on which I rode from Pontarlier to Paris and never saw again. How long ago that seems, Boussac!"
"Ay," replied the other, "but it was winter then and the clouds were lowering over your life and her you loved – now 'tis summer, and all is well with you."
"I pray God! I have suffered my share."
All through that summer night they rode – resting their horses occasionally at country inns, then going on again, though slowly, and at dawn changing them for others and leaving them to rest until they should return that way. And so at last they neared Troyes, passing through the little town of Nogent, and seeing, ten miles off, the spire of the cathedral glistening in the rays of the bright sun.
"She will not know me," St. Georges had said more than once, as he thought of Dorine. "She was a babe when I lost her, now she is a child possessing speech and intelligence. May God grant it is not too late; that she is not too old yet to learn to love me!"
"Courage! mon ami, courage!" exclaimed Boussac, repeating a formula he had adopted from the first; "all must be well."
But – it was natural – as they approached their destination, the goal from which St. Georges hoped so much, his nervousness increased terribly and he began to speculate as to whether the child might not after all be dead; if, perhaps, she might not have lain in her little grave for long. "And then how will it be with me, Boussac? Oh! if she is dead how shall I reckon with the woman who possessed herself of her?"
"Courage!" again repeated the mousquetaire, "I do not believe she is dead. And if mademoiselle did seize upon her – well, she is a woman! a better nurse than the bishop's servant."
"Ah! the bishop's servant! That too has to be explained. What was he doing with her? I have wondered all these years – De Roquemaure's dying words told nothing. 'He had got her safe,' he gasped at the last. But why he? Why he! Oh! shall I ever know all?"
"Ere long, I hope, my friend," said Boussac, "ere long now."
As he spoke, they mounted the last hill that guarded the capital of Champagne and approached the summit. When there, they would be able to look down upon the old city – nay, more, from there they would scarce be a musket shot from the manoir, surrounded now by its ripening vineyards and its woods. She, the kidnapper of his child, would be in his grasp, must answer his demand!
Upon the summit of that hill still stood the gibbet on which the peasant woman's husband had swung, but the body was gone – long since, doubtless – and the gallows tree was bare. "Perhaps," said St. Georges, "the poor thing obtained him decent burial at last. I hope so." Then, seeing a peasant coming along the road, he spoke to him, and asked him what had become of the corpse that hung there four years ago? The fellow looked up at him sullenly enough and stared hard for some moments; then he said:
"You are not De Roquemaure?"
"Nay."
"What affair is it then of yours?"
St. Georges explained briefly to him how he had met the dead man's wife and pitied her, and asked where she was.
"Mad," the man said. "Quite mad. Her brother keeps her." Then he muttered: "A curse on the De Roquemaures, and on him above all! His father was bad; he is worse."
"You need curse him no more," St. Georges answered; "he is dead!"
"Dead is he? Then he was the last; the woman counts not. Dead! Oh, that she whom he injured so could understand it! Dead, thank God! I would it were so with all aristocrats! France has suffered long."
A hundred years almost were to elapse ere the peasant's hopes were to be partly realized, and others like the De Roquemaures to meet their reward; but none foresaw it in those days. Later the clouds gathered, but even then the fury of the coming storm was not perceived.
"Give her this," said St. Georges, putting some of his few remaining pieces in his hand, he having provided himself with French gold for his English guineas.
"Or give it to the brother who has charge of her. I, too, have suffered at the hands of the De Roquemaures."
"And you forgive?" glancing up from the pistoles in his hand to the dark, stern face above him. "You forgive?"
"Not yet!"
Then he urged on his horse again, Boussac following him.
"But you will, my friend, you will," he said, as they rode down the slope. "In the name of the good God who forgives all, forgive her, I implore you!"
"Forgive her? I will never forgive her! I have forgiven that other who lies in a thousand pieces at the bottom of the sea, but her reckoning is yet to come. She stole my child from me, she lied to me in Paris, sympathized with me on my loss when, at the time, she knew where that child was; drove me to draw on Louvois, and thereby to my ruin. I will never forgive her! And if she now refuses to restore the child, then – But enough! Come," and shaking his horse's reins he rode down the vine-clad roads to the front of the manoir.
It frowned as before on the slope below it, presented on this bright summer morning as grim, impassable a front as on that winter night when first he drew rein outside it; beyond the huge hatchment now nailed on its front in memory of the late marquise nothing was changed. It looked to St. Georges's eyes a fitting place to enshroud the evil doings of the family he had hated so bitterly, and of the one representative now left whom he hated too.
Seizing the horn as he had seized it long ago in the murkiness of that winter night, he blew upon it and then waited to be answered. He had not long to do so; a moment later the old warder who had once before opened the small door under the tourelle stood before him.
"Is Mademoiselle de Roquemaure in her house?" he asked sternly, while Boussac, sitting his horse behind him, uttered no word.
"She is in her house, monsieur."
"You know me. I have been here before. Say I have ridden express from Paris to see her and must do so at once."
"I will say so, monsieur. Be pleased to enter."