I was beside myself. At last I caught her near an old ruined well. I seized her by the waist, by right of conquest, and made her sit down on a grassy knoll; she did not resist. She was out of breath, and smiling. I was serious, and I watched her black eyes behind her dark lashes.
"Sit here," she said to me. "It is still daylight; let us read something. Have you a book?"
I had with me the second volume of the Voyages of Spallanzani. I opened it at random, and I drew nearer to her; she leaned her shoulder against mine, and we began to read to ourselves. Before turning a page she always had to wait for me. My mind acted less quickly than hers.
"Have you finished?" she would ask when I had scarcely begun.
Our heads touched each other, and our hair; we felt each other's breath little by little, and finally our lips met.
When we turned back to our reading the sky was full of stars.
"O Mamma, Mamma," cried she, as we reached home, "if you only knew how we have run!"
I was silent.
"You say nothing," said my mother. "You look sad." But my heart was a paradise.
That was an evening I shall remember all my life.
All my life!
Chapter XXXIV
Some hour has just struck, but I know not which one; I can scarcely hear the striking of the clock. I feel as though the noise of an organ were in my ears; but these are my last thoughts which make such a hum.
At this supreme moment, when I am lost in these remembrances, I recall my crime with horror; and I want to repent still more. I felt greater remorse before I was condemned; since then it seems as though there was no time for anything but thoughts of death. But I should like to repent.
When I consider for a moment what my life has been, when I think of the axe which is about to end it all, I shiver as though it were a new thing to me. My beautiful childhood! My happy youth! A golden cloth, the end of which is bloody. Between then and now, runs a river of blood; another's blood and mine.
If some day my story should be known, no one, after reading of so many years of innocent happiness, will wish to think of this dreadful year, which began by a crime, and ended in an execution; it will appear odd and out of place.
And yet, oh, wretched laws, and wretched men, I was not wicked!
Oh! to have to die in a few hours, and to think that a year ago, on a day like this, I was free and innocent, taking my autumn stroll, wandering under the trees, and walking among the leaves.
Chapter XXXV
Even at this very moment there are about me, in the homes around the Palais and La Greve, everywhere throughout Paris, men coming and going, talking and laughing; men reading the papers, and thinking of their business; merchants making bargains; young girls planning their ball-gowns for this evening; mothers playing with their children!
Chapter XXXVI
I remember one day when I was a child I went to see the great bell of Notre-Dame.
I was already dizzy from having climbed the dark, winding staircase, and crossed the frail gallery which connects the two towers whence I saw Paris at my feet, when I entered the cage of stone and wood where the bell hangs, with its tongue which weighs an hundredweight.
I advanced tremblingly across the poorly joined planks, looking over at the clock which is so famous among the children and the people of Paris, and realizing, not without some fright, that the slate box about it, with its sloping sides, was on a level with my feet. Every now and then I saw, as the crow flies, so to speak, the Place of Parvis, Notre-Dame, and the people who seemed like ants.
All at once the great bell began to strike; a deep vibration filled the air, making the heavy tower sway. The beams of the floor trembled. The sound almost threw me over. I swayed, and barely escaped falling down the sloping sides of the slate box. In terror I lay down on the beams, grasping them tight with both hands, without speaking, without breathing, with that dreadful noise in my ears, and under my eyes that precipice, that Place far below me, where so many peaceful, enviable people were passing.
Well, it seems as if I were still in that bell-tower. Everything is indistinct and blurred. Something like the noise of a bell shakes the cavities of my brain; and around me I see the calm, tranquil life I have left, which other men are still living; but I see it only from afar, and across the depths of an abyss.
Chapter XXXVII
The Hotel de Ville is an evil-looking building. It is on a footing with La Greve, with its narrow, pointed roof, its strange belfry, its great white dial, its rows of small columns, its thousand windows, its worn staircases, its two arches on the right and left; sombre and sad it stands, its face wasted away with years, and so dirty that even in the sunlight it is black.
On execution days it emits gendarmes from all its doors, and it watches the condemned man with all its windows.
In the evening, its dial, which marked the fatal hour, still shines out upon its dark facade.
Chapter XXXVIII
It is a quarter-past one.
This is how I feel.
I have a violent pain in my head, my back is cold, my forehead burns. Every time I rise or lean over, it seems as though there were a liquid in my brain which makes it knock against the sides of my head.
I tremble convulsively, and now and then the pen falls from my hand as though by a galvanic action.
My eyes smart as though I were in the midst of smoke.
My elbows ache.
But only two hours and forty-five minutes are left before I shall be well again.
Chapter XXXIX
They say that it is nothing, that one does not suffer, that it is an easy, simple death.
But what is this agony for six weeks, and this rattle for twelve whole hours? What is the anguish of this irreparable day which is passing so slowly and yet so quickly? What is this ladder of torture leading to the scaffold? Is all this "nothing"?
Apparently this is not suffering.
Is it not the same sensation when the blood wastes away drop by drop as when the mind exhausts itself thought by thought?
Then, are they sure that we do not suffer? Who has told them so? Has it ever happened that a bloody head has raised up on the edge of the scaffold, and cried out to the people, "That did not hurt!"
Has any one who was killed in this way returned to thank them, and say, "That is a good invention; do not give it up. The machine is fine."
Did Robespierre? Did Louis XVI?
No! But it is nothing! they say. In less than a minute, in less than a second, it is over. But have they ever put themselves, even in thought, in the place of the one who is there, when the heavy axe falls, tearing the flesh, breaking the nerves, cutting the vertebrae--ah! only half a second! The pain is over--oh, horrors!
Chapter XL
It is strange that I am constantly thinking of the king. In vain have I tried not to, in vain have I shaken my head; there is a voice in my ear which says constantly,--
"In this same city, at this very hour, and not far from here, there is, in another palace, a man who also has guards at every door; a man like you, individual among the people, with this difference,--that he is as high as you are low. His whole life, minute by minute, is but glory, grandeur, delight, intoxication. Everything about him is love, respect, veneration. The loudest voices become low when he is addressed, and the proudest brows humble. Beneath his eyes all is silk and gold. At this very moment he is holding a council of ministers where every one is of his opinion; or he is thinking of to-morrow's hunt, of this evening's ball, sure that the fete will come, and leaving to others to plan his pleasures. Well! this man is flesh and blood like you! And in order, at this very instant, for the horrible scaffold to crumble, and all be restored to you,--life, liberty, fortune, family, he need only write with this pen the seven letters of his name, at the bottom of a slip of paper; or it needs but his coach to meet your wagon. And he is good, and would ask for nothing better, perhaps; and yet none of this happens!"
Chapter XLI
Ve
ry well, then! Let us be brave with death; let us take hold of this horrible idea with our two hands, and look at it full in the face. Let us ask it what it is; let us know what it demands of us; let us turn it over on every side, and spell out the enigma; let us look at the tomb in advance.
It seems to me that as soon as my eyes shall have closed, I shall see a great illumination, and abysses of light where my spirit shall roll forever. It seems to me that the sky will be lighted by itself, that the stars will be dark spots there, and that, instead of being as they are now to our living eyes, spangles of gold on black velvet, they will seem black points on a gold cloth.
Or, poor wretch that I am, it will perhaps be a hideous and deep whirlpool, the sides of which are lined with shadows, and into which I shall fall forever, seeing other forms moving about in the darkness.
Or, waking after the blow, I shall perhaps find myself on a flat, damp surface, crawling through the darkness, and turning over and over like a rolling head. It seems to me that there will be a great wind which will drive me on, and that I shall be hurled here and there by other rolling heads. At intervals there will be seas and streams of a dry and unknown liquid; everything will be black. When my eyes in their rotation shall turn upwards, they will see only a sky of blackness, the thickness of which will weigh down upon them, and far away at the end will rise great arches of smoke, blacker than the shadows. They will also see, flying in the night, small crimson sparks, which, on coming near, will become birds of fire. And it will be like this through all eternity.
It may be also that at certain times the dead of La Greve will gather together in the black nights of winter on the Place which belongs to them. It will be a pale and bloody crowd, and I shall not be wanting. There will be no moon, and they will speak in low tones. The Hotel de Ville will be there, with its worm-eaten facade, its fallen roof, and its dial which has been pitiless alike to all. There will be on the Place a guillotine from hell, and the Devil will execute a hangman; this will be at four o'clock in the morning. Then it will be our turn to gather around in crowds.
It is probable that it will be like this. But if these dead return, under what form will they come? What part of their incomplete and mutilated body will they keep? Which will they choose? Will the head or the body be the ghost?
Alas! what does death do with our soul? What nature does it give it? What does it take, and what does it leave with it? Where does it put it? Will it sometimes lend it eyes of flesh with which to look down upon the earth and weep?
Ah! for a priest! A priest who knows all this! I want a priest, and a crucifix to kiss!
My God! it is always the same!
Chapter XLII
I begged them to let me sleep, and I threw myself on the bed.
I had a clot of blood in my head, which made me sleep. It is my last sleep of this kind.
I had a dream.
I dreamed that it was night. It seemed that I was in my office with two or three of my friends, whom I do not remember.
My wife was in the adjoining bedroom, asleep with her child.
We were talking in a low voice, and what we said seemed to frighten us.
Suddenly I heard a noise somewhere in the other rooms of the house. A faint, strange, indistinct noise.
My friends heard it too. We listened; it sounded like a lock opening stealthily, like the noise coming from the sawing of a bolt.
There was something in the air which froze us. We were afraid. We thought perhaps robbers had entered my house at this late hour of the night.
We decided to go and see. I rose and took the candle. My friends followed, one after the other.
We crossed the adjoining bedroom. My wife was sleeping with her child.
We reached the drawing-room. There was nothing there. The portraits hung motionless in their gold frames against the crimson wall. It seemed to me that the door from the drawing-room into the dining-room was not in its usual place.
We entered the dining-room, and walked around it. I went first. The door from the stairway was tightly closed, as well as were the windows. Near the stove I saw that the linen-closet was open, and that the door of this closet was drawn out, as though to hide the wall behind it.
This surprised me. We thought that some one was behind the door.
I raised my hand to close it, but could not. Startled, I pulled harder, when suddenly it yielded, and we saw a little old woman, her hands hanging down and her eyes closed, standing motionless, as though caught in the corner of the wall.
There was something hideous about it all, and my hair stands on end when I think of it.
"What are you doing there?" I asked the old woman.
No answer.
"Who are you?" I asked again.
She neither spoke nor moved, but stood with closed eyes.
My friends said,--
"Probably she is in league with those who have entered with evil intentions; they escaped when they heard us coming. She could not, and hid here."
I questioned her again; but she remained speechless, motionless, sightless.
One of us gave her a push. She fell forward.
She fell like a block of wood, like a dead thing.
We pushed her with our feet, then two of us raised her, and stood her up against the wall again. Still she gave no sign of life. We shouted in her ear, but she was as dumb as though she were deaf.
We were losing patience, and there was anger in our terror. One of the men said to me,--
"Put the candle under her chin." I did so. She half-opened one eye,--an empty socket, dull, frightful-looking, which could not see.
I removed the lighted wick, saying,--
"Ah! at last! Now answer, you old sorcerer! Who are you?"
The eye closed, unresponsive like herself.
"Well, this is too much!" cried the others. "The candle again! The candle! We'll make her speak!"
Again I placed the light under the old woman's chin.
She opened both eyes slowly, looked first at one, then at another of us, and suddenly leaning forward, she blew out the candle with an icy breath. At the same time I felt three sharp teeth clutch my hand in the darkness.
I awoke, trembling, covered with a cold perspiration.
The kind priest was sitting at the foot of my bed, reading prayers.
"Have I slept long?" I asked.
"My son," he said, "you have slept one hour. They have brought your child here. She is waiting for you in the next room. I did not wish them to waken you."
"Oh!" I cried. "My daughter! Tell them to bring her to me, my little girl!"
Chapter XLIII
She is fresh and rosy, and has big eyes; she is beautiful!
They had put on a pretty dress, which was very becoming to her.
I took her, I raised her in my arms; I seated her on my knee; I kissed her hair.
Why had her mother not come with her? "Her mother is ill, and her grandmother too." That is well.
She looked at me in a surprised sort of way. She let herself be petted and fondled, and covered with kisses; but every now and then she threw an anxious look toward her nurse, who was crying in the corner.
At length I spoke.
"Marie!" I cried, "my little Marie!"
I caught her violently to my heart, choking with sobs. She gave a little cry.
"Oh, you hurt me, sir!"
"Sir!" The poor child had not seen me for a year. She had forgotten me,--my face, my words, my voice. Alas! who, indeed, would recognize me with this beard, these clothes, and this pallor? What! already forgotten by the only one whom I wanted to remember me! What! no longer a father, even now! To be condemned never again to hear the word in the language of children, which is so gentle that it cannot belong to that of men,--"Papa!"
To hear those lips speak it once more, just once more, this is all I would have asked for the forty years of life that they are taking from me.
"Listen, Marie," I said, taking her two little hands in mine, "do you not know me
any more?"
She looked at me with her sweet eyes, and answered,--
"No!"
"Look well," I said again. "What! do you not know who I am?"
"Yes," she said; "you are a gentleman."
Alas! to love only one being in all the world, to love her with all one's love, and to have her before you, seeing you and looking at you, speaking to you, and answering you, and not knowing you! To want consolation only from her, the only one who does not know that you need it, and because you are about to die!
"Marie," I asked, "have you a papa?"
"Yes, sir," the child answered.
"Well, where is he?"
She raised her great eyes in astonishment.
"Ah! don't you know? He is dead."
Then she began to cry; I almost let her fall from my knee.
"Dead!" I exclaimed; "Marie, do you know what it is to be dead?"
"Yes, sir," she replied. "He is in the earth and in heaven too."
She went on of her own accord,--
"I pray to the good God for him night and morning, on mamma's knee."
I kissed her forehead.
"Marie, say your prayer for me."
"I cannot say it now, sir. A prayer is not made in the daytime. Come this evening to my house, and I will say it for you."
This was enough. I interrupted her.
"Marie, I am your papa."
"Oh!" she exclaimed.
I added, "Do you want me for your papa?"
The child turned away.
"No; my papa was much more beautiful."
I covered her with tears and kisses. She tried to disengage herself from my arms, crying,--
"Your beard hurts me."
I sat her again on my knees, devouring her with my eyes, and then I questioned her.
"Marie, do you know how to read?"
"Yes," she replied; "I can read very well. Mamma makes me read my letters."
"Well, let us hear you read a little," I said, pointing to a paper, which she was crumpling in one of her baby hands.
She nodded her pretty head.
"Well, I can read only fables."
"Never mind; try. Come, read."
She unfolded the paper, and began to spell out with her finger--