Kitabı oku: «The Regent's Daughter», sayfa 19
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE TRAGEDY OF NANTES
Meanwhile Gaston posted along the road to Nantes, leaving behind him all postilions, whose place, then as now, was to hold the horses instead of urging them on.
He had already passed Sevres and Versailles, and on arriving at Rambouillet just at daybreak, he saw the innkeeper and some postilions gathered round a horse which had just been bled. The horse was lying stretched on its side, in the middle of the street, breathing with difficulty.
Gaston at first paid no attention to all this; but as he was mounting himself, he heard one of the by-standers say:
"If he goes on at that pace he will kill more than one between this and Nantes."
Gaston was on the point of starting, but struck by a sudden and terrible idea, he stopped and signed to the innkeeper to come to him.
The innkeeper approached.
"Who has passed by here?" asked Gaston, "going at such a pace as to have put that poor animal in such a state?"
"A courier of the minister's," answered the innkeeper.
"A courier of the minister's!" exclaimed Gaston, "and coming from Paris?"
"From Paris."
"How long has he passed, more or less?"
"About two hours."
Gaston uttered a low cry which was like a groan. He knew Dubois – Dubois, who had tricked him under the disguise of La Jonquiere. The good will of the minister recurred to his mind and frightened him. Why this courier dispatched post haste just two hours before himself?
"Oh! I was too happy," thought the young man, "and Helene was right when she told me she had a presentiment of some great misfortune. Oh, I will overtake this courier, and learn the message that he bears, or perish in the attempt."
And he shot off like an arrow.
But with all these doubts and interrogations he had lost ten minutes more, so that on arriving at the first post station he was still two hours behind. This time the courier's horse had held out, and it was Gaston's which was ready to drop. The inn-keeper tried to make some remarks, but Gaston dropped two or three louis and set off again at a gallop.
At the next posting-house he had gained a few minutes, and that was all. The courier who was before him had not slackened his pace. Gaston increased his own; but this frightful rapidity redoubled the young man's fever and mistrust.
"Oh!" said he, "I will arrive at the same time that he does, if I am unable to precede him." And he doubled his speed, and spurred on his horse, which, at every station, stopped dripping with blood and sweat, or tumbled down exhausted. At every station he learned that the courier had passed almost as swiftly as himself, but he always gained some few minutes, and that sustained his strength.
Those whom he passed upon the way, leaving them far behind, pitied, in spite of themselves, the beautiful young man, pale faced and haggard, who flew on thus, and took neither rest, nor food, dripping with sweat, despite the bitter cold, and whose parched lips could only frame the words: "A horse! a horse! quick, there, a horse!"
And, in fact, exhausted, with no strength but that supplied him by his heart, and maddened more and more by the rapidity of his course and the feeling of danger, Gaston felt his head turn, his temples throb, and the perspiration of his limbs was tinged with blood.
Choked by the thirst and dryness of his throat, at Ancenis he drank a glass of water: it was the first moment he had lost during sixteen hours, and yet the accursed courier was still an hour and a half in advance. In eighty leagues Gaston had only gained some forty or fifty minutes.
The night was drawing in rapidly, and Gaston, ever expecting to see some object appear on the horizon, tried to pierce the obscurity with his bloodshot glances; on he went, as in a dream, thinking he heard the ringing of bells, the roar of cannon, and the roll of drums. His brain was full of mournful strains and inauspicious sounds; he lived no longer as a man, but his fever kept him up, he flew as it were in the air.
On, and still on. About eight o'clock at night he perceived Nantes at length upon the horizon, like a dark mass from out the midst of which some scattered lights were shining starlike in the gloom.
He tried to breathe, and thinking his cravat was choking him, he tore it off and threw it on the road.
Thus, mounted on his black horse, wrapped in his black cloak, and long ago bareheaded (his hat had fallen off), Gaston was like some fiendish cavalier bound to the witches' Sabbath.
On reaching the gates of Nantes his horse stumbled, but Gaston did not lose his stirrups, pulled him up sharply, and driving the spurs into his sides, he made him recover himself.
The night was dark, no one appeared upon the ramparts, the very sentinels were hidden in the gloom, it seemed like a deserted city.
But as he passed the gate a sentinel said something which Gaston did not even hear.
He held on his way.
At the Rue du Chateau his horse stumbled and fell, this time to rise no more.
What mattered it to Gaston now? – he had arrived. On he went on foot – his limbs were strained and deadened, yet he felt no fatigue, he held the paper crumpled in his hand.
One thing, however, astonished him, and that was meeting no one in so populous a quarter.
As he advanced, however, he heard a sullen murmur coming from the Place de Bouffay, as he passed before a long street which led into that Place.
There was a sea of heads, lit up by flaring lights; but Gaston passed on – his business was at the castle – and the sight disappeared.
At last he saw the castle – he saw the door gaping wide before him. The sentinel on guard upon the drawbridge tried to stop him; but Gaston, his order in his hand, pushed him roughly aside and entered the inner door.
Men were talking, and one of them wiping his tears off as he talked.
Gaston understood it all.
"A reprieve!" he cried, "a re – "
The word died upon his lips; but the men had done better than hear, they had seen his despairing gesture.
"Go, go!" they cried, showing him the way, "go! and, perhaps you may yet arrive in time."
And they themselves dispersed in all directions. Gaston pursued his way; he traversed a corridor, then some empty rooms, then the great chamber, and then another corridor.
Far off, through the bars, by the torchlight, he perceived the great crowd of which he had caught a glimpse before.
He had passed right through the castle, and issued on a terrace; thence he perceived the esplanade, a scaffold, men, and all around the crowd.
Gaston tried to cry, but no one heard him, he waved his handkerchief, but no one saw him; another man mounts on the scaffold, and Gaston uttered a cry and threw himself down below.
He had leaped from the top of the rampart to the bottom. A sentinel tried to stop him, but he threw him down, and descended a sort of staircase which led down to the square, and at the bottom was a sort of barricade of wagons. Gaston bent down and glided between the wheels.
Beyond the barricade were all St. Simon's grenadiers – a living hedge; Gaston, with a desperate effort, broke through the line, and found himself inside the ring.
The soldiers, seeing a man, pale and breathless, with a paper in his hand, allowed him to pass.
All of a sudden he stopped, as if struck by lightning. Talhouet! – he saw him! – Talhouet kneeling on the scaffold!
"Stop! stop!" cried Gaston, with all the energy of despair.
But even as he spoke the sword of the executioner flashed like lightning – a dull and heavy blow followed – and a terrible shudder ran through all the crowd.
The young man's shriek was lost in the general cry arising from twenty thousand palpitating breasts at once.
He had arrived a moment too late – Talhouet was dead: and, as he lifted his eyes, he saw in the hand of the headsman the bleeding head of his friend – and then, in the nobility of his heart, he felt that, one being dead, they all should die. That not one of them would accept a pardon which arrived a head too late. He looked around him; Du Couëdic mounted in his turn, clothed with his black mantle, bareheaded and bare-necked.
Gaston remembered that he also had a black mantle, and that his head and neck were bare, and he laughed convulsively.
He saw what remained for him to do, as one sees some wild landscape by the lightning's livid gleam – 'tis awful, but grand.
Du Couëdic bends down; but, as he bends, he cries – "See how they recompense the services of faithful soldiers! – see how you keep your promises, oh ye cowards of Bretagne!"
Two assistants force him on his knees; the sword of the executioner whirls round and gleams again, and Du Couëdic lies beside Talhouet.
The executioner takes up the head; shows it to the people; and then places it at one corner of the scaffold, opposite that of Talhouet.
"Who next?" asks Waters.
"It matters little," answers a voice, "provided that Monsieur de Pontcalec be the last, according to his sentence."
"I, then," said Montlouis, "I." And he springs upon the scaffold. But there he stops, his hair bristling; at a window before him he has seen his wife and his children.
"Montlouis! Montlouis!" cries his wife, with the despairing accent of a breaking heart, "Montlouis! look at us!"
At the same moment all eyes were turned toward that window. Soldiers, citizens, priests, and executioners look the same way. Gaston profits by the deathlike silence which reigns around him – springs to the scaffold, and grasps the staircase – and mounts the first steps.
"My wife! my children!" cries Montlouis, wringing his hands in despair; "oh! go, have pity upon me!"
"Montlouis!" cries his wife, holding up afar the youngest of his sons, "Montlouis, bless your children, and one day, perhaps, one of them will avenge you."
"Adieu! my children, my blessing on you!" cries Montlouis, stretching his hands toward the window.
These mournful adieux pierce the night, and reverberate like a terrible echo in the hearts of the spectators.
"Enough," says Waters, "enough." Then turning to his assistants:
"Be quick!" says he, "or the people will not allow us to finish."
"Be easy," says Montlouis; "if the people should rescue me, I would not survive them."
And he pointed with his finger to the heads of his companions.
"Ah, I had estimated them rightly, then," cried Gaston, who heard these words, "Montlouis, martyr, pray for me."
Montlouis turned round, he seemed to have heard a well-known voice; but at the very moment the executioner seized him, and almost instantly a loud cry told Gaston that Montlouis was like the others, and that his turn was come.
He leaped up; in a moment he was on the top of the ladder, and he in his turn looked down from the abominable platform upon all that crowd. At three corners of the scaffold were the heads of Talhouet, Du Couëdic, and Montlouis.
But there arose then a strange emotion in the people. The execution of Montlouis, attended by the circumstances we have narrated, had upset the crowd. All the square, heaving and uttering murmurs and imprecations, seemed to Gaston some vast sea with life in every wave. At this moment the idea flashed across him that he might be recognized, and that his name uttered by a single mouth might prevent his carrying out his intention. He fell on his knees, and laid his head himself upon the block.
"Adieu!" he murmured, "adieu, my friends, my tender, dear Helene; thy nuptial kiss has cost me my life, indeed, but not mine honor. Alas! those fifteen minutes wasted in thine arms will have struck down five heads. Adieu! Helene, adieu!"
The sword of the executioner gleamed.
" – And you, my friends, pardon me," added the young man.
The steel fell; the head rolled one way, and the body fell the other.
Then Waters raised the head and showed it to the people.
But then a mighty murmur rose from the crowd; no one had recognized Pontcalec.
The executioner mistook the meaning of this murmur; he placed Gaston's head at the empty corner, and with his foot pushing the body into the tumbril where those of his three companions awaited it, he leaned upon his sword, and cried aloud:
"Justice is done."
"And I, then," cried a voice of thunder, "am I to be forgotten?"
And Pontcalec, in his turn, leaped upon the scaffold.
"You!" cried Waters, recoiling as if he had seen a ghost. "You! who are you?"
"I," said Pontcalec; "come, I am ready."
"But," said the executioner trembling, and looking one after the other at the four corners of the scaffold – "but there are four heads already."
"I am the Baron de Pontcalec, do you hear; I am to die the last – and here I am."
"Count," said Waters, as pale as the baron, pointing with his sword to the four corners.
"Four heads!" exclaimed Pontcalec; "impossible." At this moment he recognized in one of the heads the pale and noble face of Gaston, which seemed to smile upon him even in death.
And he in his turn started back in terror.
"Oh, kill me then quickly!" he cried, groaning with impatience; "would you make me die a thousand times?"
During this interval, one of the commissioners had mounted the ladder, called by the chief executioner. He cast a glance upon Pontcalec.
"It is indeed the Baron de Pontcalec," said the commissioner; "perform your office."
"But," cried the executioner, "there are four heads there already."
"Well, then, his will make five; better too many than too few."
And the commissioner descended the steps, signing to the drums to beat.
Waters reeled upon the boards of his scaffold. The tumult increased. The horror was more than the crowd could bear. A long murmur ran along the square; the lights were put out; the soldiers, driven back, cried "To arms!" there was a moment of noise and confusion, and several voices exclaimed:
"Death to the commissioners! death to the executioners!" Then the guns of the fort, loaded with grape, were pointed toward the people.
"What shall I do?" asked Waters.
"Strike," answered the same voice which had always spoken.
Pontcalec threw himself on his knees; the assistants placed his head upon the block. Then the priests fled in horror, the soldiers trembled in the gloom, and Waters, as he struck, turned away his head lest he should see his victim. Ten minutes afterward the square was empty – the windows closed and dark. The artillery and the fusiliers, encamped around the demolished scaffold, looked in silence on the spots of blood that incarnadined the pavement.
The priests to whom the bodies were delivered recognized that there were indeed, as Waters had said, five bodies instead of four. One of the corpses still held a crumpled paper in his hand.
This paper was the pardon of the other four. Then only was all explained – and the devotion of Gaston, which he had confided to no one, was divined.
The priests wished to perform a mass, but the president, Chateauneuf, fearing some disturbance at Nantes, ordered it to be performed without pomp or ceremony.
The bodies were buried on the Wednesday before Easter. The people were not permitted to enter the chapel where the mutilated bodies reposed, the greater part of which, report says, the quick lime refused to destroy.
And this finished the tragedy of Nantes.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE END
A fortnight after the events we have just related, a queer carriage, the same which we saw arrive at Paris at the commencement of this history, went out at the same barrier by which it had entered, and proceeded along the road from Paris to Nantes. A young woman, pale and almost dying, was seated in it by the side of an Augustine nun, who uttered a sigh and wiped away a tear every time she looked at her companion.
A man on horseback was watching for the carriage a little beyond Rambouillet. He was wrapped in a large cloak which left nothing visible but his eyes.
Near him was another man also enveloped in a cloak.
When the carriage passed, he heaved a deep sigh, and two silent tears fell from his eyes.
"Adieu!" he murmured, "adieu all my joy, adieu my happiness; adieu Helene, my child, adieu!"
"Monseigneur," said the man beside him, "you must pay for being a great prince; and he who would govern others must first conquer himself. Be strong to the end, monseigneur, and posterity will say that you were great."
"Oh, I shall never forgive you," said the regent, with a sigh so deep it sounded like a groan; "for you have killed my happiness."
"Ah! yes – work for kings," said the companion of this sorrowful man, shrugging his shoulders. "'Noli fidere principibus terræ nec filiis eorum.'"
The two men remained there till the carriage had disappeared, and then returned to Paris.
Eight days afterward the carriage entered the porch of the Augustines at Clisson. On its arrival, all the convent pressed round the suffering traveler – poor floweret! broken by the rough winds of the world.
"Come, my child; come and live with us again," said the superior.
"Not live, my mother," said the young girl, "but die."
"Think only of the Lord, my child," said the good abbess.
"Yes, my mother! Our Lord, who died for the sins of men."
Helene returned to her little cell, from which she had been absent scarcely a month. Everything was still in its place, and exactly as she had left it. She went to the window – the lake was sleeping tranquil and sad, but the ice which had covered it had disappeared beneath the rain, and with it the snow, where, before departing, the young girl had seen the impression of Gaston's footsteps.
Spring came, and everything but Helene began to live once more. The trees around the little lake grew green, the large leaves of the water-lilies floated once more upon the surface, the reeds raised up their heads, and all the families of warbling birds came back to people them again.
Even the barred gate opened to let the sturdy gardener in.
Helene survived the summer, but in September she faded with the waning of the year, and died.
The very morning of her death, the superior received a letter from Paris by a courier. She carried it to the dying girl. It contained only these words:
"My mother – obtain from your daughter her pardon for the regent."
Helene, implored by the superior, grew paler than ever at that name, but she answered:
"Yes, my mother, I forgive him. But it is because I go to rejoin him whom he killed."
At four o'clock in the afternoon she breathed her last.
She asked to be buried at the spot where Gaston used to untie the boat with which he came to visit her; and her last wishes were complied with.
And there she sleeps beneath the sod, pure as the flowers that blossom over her grave: and like them, broken by the cruel gusts that sweep the delicate blossoms so mercilessly down, and wither them with a breath.
