Kitabı oku: «A Night on the Borders of the Black Forest», sayfa 14
CHAPTER VIII
The Scaffold and the Confession
It is night. The air is cold and biting; the stars are bright in the clear sky; and the moon is slowly sinking behind the Cathedral of St. Flour. Snow lies on the ground and on the house-tops, and everything looks pale in the blue moonlight. A gloomy platform hung with black cloth and surrounded by horse-soldiers, each with a torch in his left hand and a drawn sword in his right, stands in the midst of the public square. A vast multitude is assembled outside the barriers that surround the scaffold. The houses blaze with lights, and all the windows are crowded with curious spectators. Huge and sombre, the prison rises on one side of the square, and the church upon the other. A low unquiet sound comes from the indistinct mass all around, as it heaves and sways from side to side in ever-restless undulation.
Now the great Cathedral clock strikes the first stroke of ten. Scarcely has it begun when the iron tongues of all the churches in the town reply. They clash – they mingle – they are still. Then the gates of the gaol swing apart, and a procession comes slowly forth. First, soldiers; then the sheriff and the governor of the gaol; then more soldiers; then the bishop of the diocese; then the prisoner; then more soldiers to bring up the rear.
They pass slowly through a double file of horse-soldiery till they reach the scaffold. They ascend; and the sheriff, with his black wand in one hand, advances with a parchment roll in the other, and reads aloud the dreadful formula: —
"He whom we have brought hither is Eugène Fontane, formerly called Chevalier de Fontane, and ex-Captain of Hussars in the military service of His Majesty the King of Prussia. The said Eugène de Fontane is brought hither to suffer death, being condemned thereto by the criminal court of this town. He will now be broken on the wheel, being charged and convicted of the crime of homicide on the person of the very noble, puissant, and excellent Seigneur George, Baron de Pradines, and, during life, Captain of the Auvergne Light Dragoons. Pray to God for the repose of their souls!"
Eugène is pale, but resigned. He has not long since taken leave of Marguerite, and, despite the agony of that parting, he is comforted, for she believes him innocent. His step is firm, his head erect, his eye bright and fearless. His right hand is hidden in the breast of his coat, closely pressed against his heart. It holds a lock of her hair.
Now the bishop addresses to him the last words which a prisoner hears on earth.
"Eugène de Fontane," he says, solemnly, "if you will speak the truth and declare yourself guilty of the crime for which you are condemned, I am here, in the name of God, to give you absolution; and when you are stretched upon the wheel the executioner will give you the coup de grace, in order to spare you the sufferings which you would otherwise endure. Reflect, for the sake of both body and soul. Do you yet persist in saying that you are innocent?"
The young man cast a glance of horror at the hideous apparatus. His lip quivered, and for a moment his resolution seemed to fail. Then he fell upon his knees and prayed silently.
When he rose, he was calm and stedfast as before.
"Let the executioner do his office," he said, firmly. "I will not die with a lie upon my tongue. I am innocent, and Heaven knows it."
The Chevalier then draws at ring from his finger and gives it to the executioner, in token of pardon. And now he takes off his coat and waistcoat and holds out his arms to be bound; and now, suddenly, a cry is heard on the outskirts of the crowd – a shrill, piercing, despairing cry.
"Stop! stop! let me pass! I am the murderer! – he is innocent! I am the murderer of the Baron de Pradines!"
And a mounted man, pale, breathless, disordered, is seen pressing wildly through the crowd. He gains the foot of the scaffold – he rushes eagerly up the steps – falls fainting at the feet of the condemned!
It is the priest – it is André Bernard.
Once again the Justice Hall is thronged. Once again we see the former crowd; the same faces; the same peasants; the same lawyers; the same mass of spectators, noble and plebeian; the same judge; the same jury.
Yet there is one great and material difference; there is not the same prisoner. André Bernard is in the dock, and the Chevalier de Fontane is nowhere present.
Madame de Peyrelade and servants are also absent. Otherwise the Court House looks as it did a week since, when an innocent man was there condemned to die.
"Prisoner," says the Judge, "the Court is prepared to listen to your confession."
The Abbé rose. A profound silence reigned throughout the hall. In a voice broken with emotion, he began as follows: —
"About three months since, I was visited by the Baron de Pradines in my parsonage at St. Saturnin. He had not been on good terms with his sister, Madame de Peyrelade, for some years, and he now desired a reconciliation. He was a man of violent temper and dissolute habits; but he professed repentance for his former courses, and ardently entreated my intercession with Madame. I believed him, and became the bearer of his penitent messages. Owing to my representations, the lady believed him also, and he was received into the Château. A fortnight had scarcely elapsed, when M. de Fontane arrived at the Château; and on a due consideration of – of all the previous events" (here the prisoner's voice faltered), "I absolved Madame from a rash vow which she had too hastily contracted. Now M. de Pradines had hoped to inherit the estates and fortune of his sister; he was therefore much enraged on finding that the said vow was made null and void. He departed at once to join his regiment, and in the course of a few days I received from him an abusive letter. Of this I took no notice, and I may say that it caused me no anger. I destroyed and forgot it. In about two months' time from the date of his departure, the marriage of his sister with M. de Fontane was appointed to take place. The Baron, seeing the uselessness of further hostilities, then yielded to the entreaties of Madame and accepted her invitation, appointing the Fête of All-Saints as the day of his arrival, that he might be present at the ceremony of betrothal. On that day I said mass in the morning at my chapel, and high mass at seven o'clock in the afternoon. I was invited to the Château that evening, and nine was the hour appointed. Mass would not be over till half-past eight – I had therefore half an hour only to reach the Château; and, as soon as I had pronounced the benediction, I hastened from the chapel by the side-door, and was some distance on the road before my congregation dispersed. The moon shone out at times, and at times was overcast. I had my gun with me; for after night-fall at this season, the wolves are savage, and often come down from the heights, I had not gone far when I heard a horse coming along at full speed behind me. I drew on one side to let the rider pass. The moon just then shone out, and I recognised the Baron de Pradines. He knew me also; and though he had been galloping before, he now reigned up his horse and stood quite still.
"'Good evening, most reverend Abbé,' said he in a mocking voice. 'Will you favour me with a piece of godly information; for I am but a poor sinner, and need enlightening. Pray how much have you been paid by M. le Chevalier for patching up this marriage?'
"I felt my blood boil and my cheeks burn at this insult, but I affected to treat it as a jest."
"'You are facetious, Monsieur le Baron,' I replied.
"'Not at all,' he said, with a bitter laugh. 'Gentlemen in your profession, M. le Curé, have their prices for everything; from the absolution for a vow to the absolution for a murder.'
"'Monsieur,' I replied, 'your expressions exceed the limits of pleasantry.'
"'Not at all, Monsieur le Curé,' he repeated again, 'not at all. And, withal, you are a very noble, and meek, and self-sacrificing gentleman, M. le Curé. You love my sister, most holy sir; and yet you sell the absolution which enables her to marry another. It is really difficult to tell, M. le Curé, which of your admirable qualities predominates – your Avarice, or your Love. Both, at least, are equally respectable in a priest who is vowed to poverty and celibacy.'
"'And peace, M. le Baron,' I added. 'You are aware, Monsieur, that my profession forbids me to chastise you as you deserve, and therefore you insult me. Pass on, and interfere with me no more.'
"'Indeed I shall not pass on, M. le Curé,' he continued, 'I must stay and compliment you as you deserve. It is a pity, is it not, M. le Curé, that your vows prevent you from marrying my sister yourself?'
"'If you will not pass me, M. le Baron,' I said, for I was trembling with suppressed rage, 'I must pass you, for I will bear this no longer.'
"The passage was narrow, and he intentionally barred the way. I seized his horse's reins and turned his head, when – my lord – the Baron raised his whip and struck me on the face! My fowling-piece was in my hand – I was mad – I was furious. I know not to this moment how it was done, but I fired – fired both barrels of my gun, and the next moment —Oh, mon Dieu!– he was lying at my feet dead and bleeding – I was a murderer!"
The priest paused in his narrative, and hid his face in his hands. A murmur ran through the court. After a few moments, however, he raised his head and continued: —
"I saw him but for an instant, and then turned and fled. I cannot remember where I went, or what I did in that terrible interval; but at last I found myself before the gates of the Château de Peyrelade. A dreadful terror possessed me – I feared the night, and the woods, and the mountains, and the pale moonlight. I thought to find refuge in the crowd of human beings – refuge from that terrible thought – refuge from that hideous sight. But it pursued me! They brought him in, ghastly and blood-stained, wrapt in the cloak in which he lay upon the grass; and on his pale forehead was the mark of my – of my… That night I was mad. I remember nothing – neither how I got home – nor how I left the Château – nor when I entered my own door. For days I walked and lived in a dream of horror. Then I heard of the trial and condemnation of an innocent man. I mounted my horse – I flew – I feared that I should be too late; but I had resolved to kill myself on the scaffold if he was already dead! I was in time, thank God! and now I am ready to take his place. This is my confession, and, before Heaven, I declare it full and true. I entreat all here present to pray for me."
When the agitation that followed this confession had somewhat subsided, and the jury had conferred for a moment in their places, the foreman pronounced the prisoner guilty, but recommended him to mercy. Then the judge, in a speech interrupted more than once by emotion, passed sentence of death; but concluded by an intimation that the case should be reported to the King as one deserving his royal clemency.
The Royal Pardon, thus solicited, followed as a matter of course, and in less than a week André Bernard was free. The Chevalier de Fontane himself brought the precious parchment from Versailles, and fetched a carriage to convey the priest from prison.
"Come back to us, dear friend," he said. "Come back to your chapel and your flock. Forget the past, and resume the useful life in which you used to find your greatest happiness."
But the priest shook his head.
"I cannot," he said. "The King has pardoned me, but I have yet to earn the pardon of Heaven. I go hence to la Trappe, there to pass the remainder of my days in prayer and penance. Hush! – to remonstrate is useless. I deserve a far heavier punishment. I have more sins than one upon my soul. God sees my heart, and He knows all my guilt. I must go – far, far away. I shall pray for your happiness – and hers. Heaven bless you, and have mercy on me! Farewell."
