It may easily be understood that this poor man would have some trouble to prove himself innocent in the eyes of the public prosecutor; he had, however, succeeded in so doing, thanks to Geneviève, whose declaration had clearly established his utter ignorance of the plot of her husband. He had succeeded, thanks to Dixmer's flight, and above all from the interest excited in Fouquier Tinville, who wished to preserve his administration free from all stain.
"Citizen," said he, flinging himself upon his knees before Fouquier, "pardon me, for I have been deceived."
"Citizen," replied the public prosecutor, "an employee of the nation who in these days permits himself to be deceived deserves to be guillotined."
[Pg 491]
"I may have been a blockhead, Citizen," replied the registrar, who was longing to call Fouquier Tinville "Monseigneur."
"Blockhead or not," replied the rigid prosecutor, "no one should allow his love for the Republic to sleep. The spies of the Capitol were only geese, yet they were sufficiently awake to save Rome."
The registrar looked upon this argument as totally unanswerable; he groaned, and remained waiting.
"I pardon you," said Fouquier Tinville. "I will go so far as to defend you, since I do not wish one of my employees to be even suspected; but you will bear in mind that at the least word that reaches my ears, the least revival of this affair, you shall go to the scaffold."
It is scarcely necessary to say with what anxiety this man sought the newspapers, always in haste to tell what they know, and sometimes more than they can certify, even should they cause the heads of ten men to fall by the guillotine.
He sought Dixmer everywhere, to recommend him to keep his own counsel; but Dixmer had very naturally changed his apartments, and was nowhere to be found.
Geneviève had been placed on the bench of the accused, and had already, in her testimony, declared that neither herself nor husband had any accomplices; and he thanked the poor woman with his eyes as she passed before him on her way to the Tribunal.
When she had passed, and he was returning to the office to fetch some law papers for Fouquier Tinville, he all at once saw Dixmer approaching him with a calm and quiet step.
This vision petrified him.
"Oh!" said he, as if he had seen a spectre.
"Do you not know me?" said the new-comer.
[Pg 492]
"Of course, I do. You are the Citizen Durand, or rather the Citizen Dixmer."
"Just so."
"But are you a dead man, Citizen?"
"Not yet, as you see."
"I mean to say that they will arrest you."
"Who wants to arrest me?—no one knows me."
"But I know you; and it only needs one word from me to send you to the guillotine."
"And two words from me to send you there with me."
"It is shameful of you to say that."
"No; it is logic."
"But what is your business? Make haste,—speak quickly; for the less time we are together the less danger we incur from each other."
"My wife is about to be condemned, is it not so?"
"I greatly fear for her, poor woman!"
"Well, I wish to see her once more, to bid her adieu."
"Where?"
"In the Salle des Morts."
"Would you dare to enter there?"
"Why not?"
"Oh!" said the registrar, like a man whose hair stood on end at the very thought.
"There must be some way," continued Dixmer.
"To enter the Salle des Morts? Without doubt there is."
"How?"
"To procure a pass."
"And where are these passes to be procured?"
The registrar turned frightfully pale, and stammered, "Where are they to be procured, you ask?"
"I inquire where are they to be procured?" replied Dixmer; "the question is plain enough, I think."
[Pg 493]
"They are procured—here."
"Ah! true; and who usually signs them?"
"The registrar."
"But you are the registrar?"
"Certainly I am."
"Oh, how lucky that is!" said Dixmer, seating himself, "you will sign me a pass."
The registrar made one bound.
"Do you ask for my head, Citizen?" said he.
"No; I ask you for a pass, that is all."
"I shall have you arrested, unhappy man!" said he, summoning all his energy.
"Do," said Dixmer; "and the next moment I will denounce you as an accomplice, and instead of leaving me to go alone to the famous hall, you shall accompany me."
The registrar turned ghastly pale.
"Villain!" said he.
"There is no villany in that," said Dixmer; "I wish to speak to my wife, and all I require of you is a pass to enable me to do so."
"Is it then so imperative that you should speak to her?"
"It seems so, since I risk my head to do so."
This appeared very plausible to the registrar, and Dixmer immediately perceived that he was relenting.
"Rest assured," said he, "no one shall know anything. The devil! why surely sometimes a similar case to mine must present itself to your notice!"
"Very rarely; it is by no means a common occurrence. But, let me see; let us arrange it in another way."
"If it is possible, I should ask nothing better."
"Nothing is more possible. Enter by the door of the condemned; there a card is not required. Then, when[Pg 494] you have spoken to your wife, call me, and I will let you out."
"Not a bad idea," said Dixmer; "but unfortunately there is a story current in the city."
"What story?"
"The history of a poor hunchback who mistook the door, thinking to enter the archives, but instead of so doing found himself in the hall of which we are now speaking. Only since he had entered by the door of the condemned instead of the large door, as he had no pass to prove his identity, once there he was not permitted to go out. They strenuously maintained that since he entered the door with the other condemned, he was condemned likewise. In vain he protested, swore, appealed; no one believed him, no one came to his assistance, no one helped him to get out. So that, notwithstanding his protestations, his oaths, and supplications, the executioner first cut off his hair, and afterward his head. Is this anecdote true, Citizen Registrar! You ought to know better than any one else."
"Alas! yes; it is too true," said the registrar, trembling.
"You must see then that with such a precedent I should be a fool to enter this cut-throat place without a pass."
"But I shall be there, I tell you."
"But if you should happen to be called away; if you should be otherwise engaged; if you should forget!"
Dixmer laid particular stress on these last words, "if you should forget."
"But since I promise you—"
"No; besides it would compromise you. They would see you speaking to me; and, in short, it does not suit me. I therefore prefer a pass."
"Impossible!"
[Pg 495]
"Then, dear sir, I will speak; and we shall both take a ride together to the Place de la Révolution."
The registrar, bewildered, stupefied, half-dead with terror, signed a pass for a "citizen."
Dixmer rose and went out precipitately to take his station in the judgment-hall, where we have already seen him. The rest is known to us.
At the same moment the registrar, to avoid all accusation of connivance, went and seated himself near Fouquier Tinville, leaving the management of the office to his head clerk.
At ten minutes to three, Maurice, furnished with the pass, crossing a hedge of turnkeys and gendarmes, arrived without interruption at the fatal door.
When we say fatal, we exaggerate, for there were two doors,—the principal one by which those possessing passes entered and returned; and the door of the condemned, by which no one departed except to the scaffold.
The place that Maurice entered was divided into two compartments. One of these was set apart for those employed in registering the name of the arrivals; the other, furnished only with wooden benches, was appropriated for the reception of those who were arrested and those who were condemned, which amounted to pretty nearly the same thing.
The hall was very dark, lighted only from the panes of the partition which divided it from the register-office.
A female dressed in white, in a half-fainting attitude, lay in a corner, supported against the wall.
A man was standing in front of her, from time to time shaking his head. His arms were crossed upon his breast, and he hesitated to speak to her, as if fearful of restoring her to the consciousness she appeared to have lost.
[Pg 496]
Around these two individuals several condemned persons were scattered promiscuously,—some giving vent to their feelings in sobs and groans, others joining in patriotic songs, while the remainder walked rapidly up and down, as if to chase away the thoughts which devoured them.
This was indeed the antechamber of death, and the furniture rendered it worthy of the name. Here were seen half-opened coffins filled with straw, seeming as if to invite the living to their beds of repose, the receptacles provided for the ashes of the dead.
There was a large closet opposite the partition. A prisoner, prompted by curiosity, opened it, but recoiled horror-struck. It contained the blood-stained garments of those executed on the preceding evening; long tresses of hair hanging here and there, the executioner's perquisites, who sold them to the relatives when not enjoined by the authorities to burn these precious relics.
Maurice, trembling with emotion, had hardly opened the door, when the whole tableau at once presented itself to his view. He advanced three steps into the hall, and fell at Geneviève's feet. The unfortunate woman uttered a cry, which Maurice stifled on her lips.
Lorin, weeping, pressed his friend in his arms; these were the first tears he had shed.
Strange that all these unhappy individuals, assembled to die together, scarcely looked at the touching tableau presented to their view by their unfortunate fellow-creatures! Every one suffered too much himself to take part in the miseries of others.
The three friends remained for a moment united in a silent embrace, happy, almost joyous. Lorin was the first of the ill-fated group to disengage himself.
"Are you, then, condemned also?" said he to Maurice.
[Pg 497]
"Yes," replied he.
"Oh, happiness!" murmured Geneviève.
But the joy of those who have only one hour to live cannot last even as long as their lives. Maurice, having contemplated Geneviève with looks of ardent and profound affection, and having thanked her for the expression, at once so egotistical and so tender, which had just escaped her, turned toward Lorin.
"Now," said he, taking Geneviève's hands within his own, "let us talk together."
"Yes," said Lorin; "let us converse while the time remains to us. It is only right so to do. What do you wish to say to me, Maurice?"
"You have been arrested for my sake, condemned on account of her. As for Geneviève and me, we are paying our debt; it is not fair, at the same time, that you should be made to pay also."
"I do not understand you."
"Lorin, you are free."
"I free? You are mad!" said Lorin.
"No, I am not mad; I repeat that you are free. See, here is a pass. They will inquire who you are; you are employed at the registrar-office of the Carmelites, and are going to speak to the registrar of the Palace; you have, from motives of curiosity, requested a pass from him to see the condemned; you have seen them, and are now leaving, perfectly satisfied with your visit."
"This is a joke, is it not?"
"No, indeed, my friend; here is the pass, take advantage of it. You are not a lover, like myself; you do not need to die that you may be enabled to pass a few more minutes in the society of the well-beloved of your heart, and not to lose a second of eternity with her."
"But, Maurice," replied Lorin, "if one might be able[Pg 498] to get out from here—a circumstance I swear to you I could not have believed possible—why do you not first save the lady? As to yourself, we will consider afterward about that."
"Impossible!" said Maurice, with a frightful oppression at his heart, "this card is for a man, not for a lady; besides, Geneviève would not depart, and leave me here, to live herself, while knowing that I remained to die."
"If she would not, then why should I? Do you imagine I possess less courage than a woman?"
"No, dear friend; I know and acknowledge your bravery, but nothing can excuse your obstinacy in this case. Then profit by this moment, and allow us the supreme felicity of knowing and feeling that you are free and happy."
"Happy!" exclaimed Lorin; "you are facetious, surely? Happy without you, eh? What the devil am I to do in this world without you; in Paris, without my usual avocations? Never to see you again, never to weary you more with my doggerel rhymes,—ah, good faith, no!"
"Lorin, my friend—"
"Exactly; it is because I am your friend that I persist in my opinion. With the prospect of recovering you both, were I a prisoner as I now am, I would tear down the walls; but to save myself, and go out from here alone into the streets, my head bowed down with a feeling resembling remorse, and a continual cry in my ears: 'Maurice!—Geneviève!' To pass into certain quarters and before certain houses where I have seen your persons, but shall now only recognize your shadows; to come at last to such an extremity of despair as to execrate this dear Paris that I have loved so well; ah, by my faith,[Pg 499] no! And I find there was good reason for proscribing kings, were it only on account of King Dagobert."
"And what relation has King Dagobert with what concerns us?"
"What? Did not this frightful tyrant say to the great Éloi, 'The best company must part?' Ah, well! I am a Republican, and I say that nothing should make us quit good company, not even the guillotine; I feel very comfortable here, and here I will remain."
"My poor friend! my poor friend!" said Maurice.
Geneviève said nothing, but looked at them with eyes bathed in tears.
"You regret to lose your life, then?" said Lorin.
"Yes, on her account."
"I am not in the least sorry at losing mine, not even on account of the Goddess Reason, who, I had forgotten to tell you, has latterly behaved most shamefully to me; who will not take the trouble even to console herself, like the other Arthémise of old. I shall go to my death perfectly cool and rather facetious. I will amuse all the beggarly wretches who follow the car. I will repeat a pretty quatrain to Monsieur Sanson, and wish the company good-night,—that is to say—wait!—" Lorin interrupted himself. "Ah! to be sure," said he, "I will go out. I well knew that I loved no one, but I forgot that I hated some one. The time, Maurice, the time?"
"Half-past three."
"I have time, Heaven! there is time."
"Certainly," cried Maurice; "there are nine more accused persons still to be tried, this will not terminate before five o'clock; we have therefore nearly two hours' respite."
"That is all that I require; give me your pass, and lend me twenty sous."
[Pg 500]
"Mon Dieu! what are you going to do?" murmured Geneviève. Maurice pressed his hand. The all-important thing for him was that Lorin was going out.
"I have my own plan," said Lorin.
Maurice drew his purse from his pocket, and placed it in his friend's hand.
"Now, the pass, for the love of God!—I ought to say for the love of the Supreme Being."
Maurice gave him the pass.
Lorin kissed Geneviève's hand, and availing himself of the moment when a fresh batch of the condemned were ushered in, he leaped the benches, and presented himself before the principal entrance.
"Eh!" said the gendarme, "here is one, it appears to me, trying to escape."
Lorin drew himself up and presented his pass.
"Hold, Citizen Gendarme," said he, "and learn to know people better."
The gendarme recognized the signature of the registrar, but belonging to a class of functionaries rather wanting in confidence, and as at this moment the registrar himself came down from the Tribunal with a nervous shudder, which had not left him since he had so imprudently hazarded his signature,—
"Citizen Registrar," said he, "here is a pass bearing your signature, with which this person wishes to leave the Salle des Morts, is it all right?"
The registrar turned pale with fright, and feeling convinced that if he turned his eyes in that direction it would only be to encounter the terrible look of Dixmer, hastily seized the card and replied,—
"Yes, yes; it is my signature."
"Then," cried Lorin, "if it is your signature, return it to me."
[Pg 501]
"No;" said the registrar, tearing it into a thousand pieces; "these cards can be available only once."
Lorin remained for a moment irresolute.
"So much the worse," said he; "but above all things it is necessary I should kill him;" and he passed through the office.
Maurice had followed Lorin with an emotion easy to comprehend. When he had disappeared, Maurice returned, saying with an exultation nearly amounting to joy, "He is saved! Geneviève; the card is destroyed, therefore he cannot enter. Besides, even if he were able to gain admission, the sitting of the Tribunal will have terminated. At five o'clock, he will return; but we shall have ceased to live."
Geneviève shuddered, and breathed a deep sigh.
"Oh, press me in your arms," said she, "and let us separate no more! Why is it not possible, oh, my God! for one blow to annihilate us both, that together we might breathe our last sigh?"
Then retiring into the depth of the gloomy hall, Geneviève placed herself near Maurice, and twined her arms round his neck. Thus they remained, rendered by the strength of their love insensible to the surrounding scene, almost to the approach of death itself.
Half an hour passed thus.
[Pg 502]