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CHAPTER VIII

A long stretch of road wound its way along, until it was lost in the distance in a thin white thread. At intervals at both sides were wooden pillars painted in the national colors of Baden. Not far away, a broad river swept along, following the same course as the road.

Moving along the road in silence, was a squadron of dragoons, at their head a stern-faced officer; but between him and it, two closely-guarded carriages.

In the first was seated St. Just, and by his side an older man, whom the former had just addressed as General Dumouriez, opposite to them sat two soldiers, their guards. In the second carriage was a young man of refined appearance, whose countenance, at this moment, was racked with anguish.

"My wife, my poor wife!" he murmured.

The sun was rising on the 15th of March, 1804.

*      *      *      *      *

Within the narrow walls of a square-chamber, which was bare of furniture, save for a common wooden table, a man was seated on a rudely constructed stool. His face could not be seen, for it was hidden in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His whole attitude bespoke despair—despair that was well-founded, for he was waiting, waiting hopelessly, for the death he felt was close at hand.

It was St. Just, and he was immured in the fortress of Vincennes.

Presently he started to his feet, and then could be seen the havoc wrought upon his countenance by grief and disappointment. The bloom of health was gone, and his cheeks were pale and sunken, the bones above them bulging over the cavities below; the flesh hung down in leathery folds; deep lines scored his forehead, and his eyes, dim and lusterless, were seated far back in their sockets. Nothing in his appearance recalled the gay lieutenant of the Directory.

He began to pace his narrow cell with rapid steps, as though he hoped thereby to thrust away from him the thought of his impending fate. Backwards and forwards, like a caged animal, he tramped the straitened chamber; but, though he speeded his footsteps till they approached a run, he could put no space between his thoughts and him; he knew that hope had flown; their plot had failed, and he was lost.

With a sigh, so deep and loud that it sounded like a groan, he checked his restless pacing, and sank once more wearily on to the wooden stool.

Then, like the fugitive figures in a kaleidoscope, the late occurrences, that had followed each other in a rush, arranged themselves in changing pictures before his mental eye, and thought moved with them.

The picture of his wife came first, standing in the pavilion in the garden of Hartford House, her lovely face glowing with excitement at Cadoudal's news and the prospect of the speedy success of their conspiracy. He had taken leave of her and the Comte d'Artois and Cadoudal there and then, and started forthwith on his mission to the heads of the conspiracy. What was she doing now? By her obstinacy and vindictiveness she had wrought his ruin. Not intentionally, but it had been the necessary sequence of her conduct. Despite his passion for her, the anger raged so fiercely in him, that, for the moment, he felt he almost hated her; that, if she then had stood before him, he could have struck her down. He cursed the mad infatuation that had merged his life in hers.

Then he followed in imagination his movements in that fateful journey, from the moment of his leaving her; his drive that night by poste chaise to the little town of Alfriston in Sussex, and the breakfast that followed at the Star Inn there. Then his embarkation, at the mouth of the Cuckmere River, upon Captain Wright's sloop, and the midnight landing below the cliff at Bévile. He could almost feel himself now being hauled up that cliff with a swinging him round and round and bruising him against protruding lumps of chalk; he could almost hear the screaming of the gulls disturbed by him in his ascent.

He recalled the days of terror that had followed, when each conspirator (traveling for the most part without papers) sometimes as a beggar, sometimes as a pedlar, secretly and swiftly as he could, tramped his way along the country that lay between the sea and Paris. He thought of the many perils of discovery he had undergone from barking dogs at country houses on his way, and the espionage, and suspicions of some of the Government officials; of his manner of getting into Paris, hidden, as he had been, under the tarpaulin of a hay-wagon, whose driver he had hoodwinked into the belief that he was a deserter.

Then onward marched his thoughts and he found himself at Ettenheim with the Duc d'Enghien. He remembered that that visit had been rendered futile by the Duc's mistress, who had besought her lover not to risk his life in France, but to abide where he then was; and that her arguments had prevailed.

At this, he had gone on to Paris to report the failure of his mission to the Duc; and there had been a period of awful waiting, of terrible suspense. Then, when everything had seemed ripe for action, still no active steps had been taken; everyone had seemed afraid to make the plunge into the whirlpool of revolt. And, while they had hesitated, whispers of treachery had been heard, at first vague and contradictory; gradually they had gathered strength, and, at last, the news had thundered on them that Moreau and Pichegru had been arrested, and that the Comte d'Artois had fled precipitately to the coast.

Their leaders gone, the others had feared to rise; and he himself had hurried again to Ettenheim to warn the Duc d'Enghien of his danger.

How vividly he recalled the interview in the library, the hurried burning of the compromising papers, and the scattering of their ashes in the moat; the tearful entreaties of the Duchesse (so called) that they should remain there just one more night; and then, last scene of all, the startling summons at the chateau, the tramp of the soldiers through the corridors, when they had gained admission, the rude awakening, the peremptory orders to rise and dress immediately, the journey, in the still, silent night, that had ended at Vincennes.

This was the final picture that was presented to his mind, and it brought him to the present. He was a prisoner in the gloomy fortress, from which death only would release him! Truly his heart was full of anguish and regret; he had sacrificed all for love of Halima, and, notwithstanding, had failed in gaining that for which he had made the sacrifice; for he could not doubt that he had seen her for the last time. The First Consul would not again forgive him; he had warned him on the last occasion.

He moved wearily to the window of his cell and gazed out on the inner moat, pressing his head against the iron bars; it was burning and racked with pain, and the cold was grateful to him.

It was close on dawn, and in the dim gray light, there came in view a party of soldiers with an officer. Some carried torches and lighted lanterns, and others spades and mattocks.

The officer looked around and, presently, pointed to a spot; then the men began to dig there, the watcher at the narrow window speculating, with half-listless curiosity, what could be their object; were they seeking a buried treasure?

Gradually the light of day crept up, and, at its approach, the torches' flare and the feeble glimmer from the lanterns began to wane, until, when the golden sheen, fast spreading over the Eastern sky, announced the birth of another day, they could no longer be discerned.

Then the meaning of what these men were doing flashed all at once upon St. Just, and he became sick with horror. The shape and size of the opening they were making proclaimed with fearful certainty its purpose. It was a grave.

For whom? For him? A great fear fell upon him; a deadly faintness overcame him for the moment, but, with a strong effort, he forced it back. He could not take his eyes away; a sort of fascination seemed to glue them to the scene.

At last the grave was finished and the diggers stood at ease, and began to wipe the sweat from off their foreheads, for the work had been both arduous and rapidly performed. Suddenly their officer gave the word of command, and caps were replaced and the men ranged themselves in a line and stood at attention.

The reason was soon apparent; a file of soldiers wheeled round the corner and were halted at some thirty paces from the grave. Then more soldiers came in sight, and in the midst of them—some before and some behind him—walked a man, wearing only his shirt and pantaloons. The prisoner was marched up to the newly opened grave and halted; his guards fell back and he stood there alone, awaiting death.

Then the full horror of the situation burst forth upon St. Just; the man who faced him was the Duc d'Enghien. Doubtless his own fate would be the same!

And now an officer approached the man whose course was all but run; and St. Just could see that the Duc was addressing him with vehemence; nay, in the clear still air, he could hear his very words.

"Sir, I protest against this outrage, in the face of God and man. Your ruler must be mad to do that which will raise all Europe against him."

But the officer shook his head and refused to allow him to proceed. Meanwhile, the firing party had been drawn up in line, their muskets in position. The officer in command stepped back, then raised his sword.

There was a sharp cry and, at the same moment, the crack of musketry. The murdered Royalist reeled, spun half round, clutching convulsively at his throat with both hands, in his death agony, and fell backward into the grave.

Sick at heart at the bloody spectacle he had just witnessed, St. Just strove to avert his gaze, but a compelling fascination seemed to chain him to the window. The officer gave some directions to the men. Those with spades advanced and began to throw in the soil. The foul deed that horrified all Europe was accomplished.

The filling of the grave was soon completed, and the footsteps of the last actors in the grisly drama died away, and all that remained to mark the tragedy that had been enacted was a slight mound upon the ground, watched by a little dog—his master's favorite—that, ever and anon, sent up a piteous howl to note its sense of its bereavement.

Then St. Just, no longer supported by excitement, felt his knees begin to totter, and a deadly sickness overtake him; he clutched at the iron bars to hold him up, but his grasp was feeble, and gradually it relaxed.

He swayed to and fro; then fell fainting to the floor.

EPOCH III
THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON

CHAPTER I

Eighteen months elapsed before there was any change in St. Just's condition. All that time he remained a prisoner in the fortress of Vincennes.

When, at the sight of the execution of the Duc d'Enghien, he had fallen fainting to the ground, he had struck his head violently against the stone floor, with the result that when, later, his jailer entered his cell, he was still insensible. All attempts to rouse him proving fruitless, the garrison surgeon was called in. He pronounced St. Just's condition to be very serious, and warned the Government that, unless the patient received the utmost care, he would slip through their fingers. So he was at once removed to a more comfortable apartment; but it was several months before he regained his strength. Brain fever, the result of the privations he had undergone, culminating in the awful shock of the Duc d'Enghien's murder, set in, and, for weeks, he lay unconscious, sometimes delirious, with occasional lucid intervals. More than once they thought that life had left him, but he rallied just in time. At last, the fever was subdued, and, from that moment, though he was at first so weak as to be unable to raise his hand, he began rapidly to regain his strength.

In all probability his illness saved his life, for to try him for treason was impossible. The Governor informed Buonaparte of his condition, and received orders that he was to be detained in the fortress until further notice, but to be treated with no unnecessary harshness, and to be allowed such liberty as was consistent with his safe keeping. This had been due to Josephine's intercession; she had not forgotten St. Just's services to her husband on the night when she first met the young lieutenant; also she had been struck with his handsome face and manly bearing, and had a somewhat tender feeling towards him.

When he had recovered, he was allowed a fair amount of liberty within the fortress, with as much outdoor exercise as he desired, but this was on parole. At first he was naturally very anxious, for he had not forgotten the tragedy he had witnessed, and for some months he lived in perpetual apprehension of hearing that the moment for his execution had arrived: or, at any rate, that he was to be tried for treason—and this would have amounted in the end to the same thing; for that he would be found guilty there could not be a doubt.

But, when month succeeded month, and he received no untoward news, his hope revived and gradually strengthened into confidence that his life was to be spared.

The fact was that stirring events in France had succeeded each other with such rapidity, and Buonaparte's mind was so occupied with weightier matters, that he forgot all about St. Just, who might have spent the remainder of his days a prisoner, but for an accident to be presently described.

One evening, when he was sitting by his window musing over all that had occurred to him since he had regained his memory at Marsala and returned to France, he was surprised to receive a visit from the governor. He was surprised because it was usual, when that functionary desired an interview with a prisoner, for such prisoner to be brought before him at his own quarters; not for him to go to the prisoner.

So, when his door was opened and St. Just recognized his visitor, he feared that it portended mischief to himself, and a vague dread came over him. He sprang in some confusion from his seat, and had just begun to greet the governor respectfully when his eye fell on another person who was following him. The sight almost took away his breath; if his apprehension of evil had been vague before, it was now distinct enough, for the man was Buonaparte!

"The—the First Consul!" he gasped in terror, when the short figure and pale face of the "Man of Destiny" confronted him.

A grim smile flitted about the great man's features, and, with his hands crossed behind his back, he turned to the governor, who, hat in hand, had stood aside respectfully; then he said in his harsh, rapid tones:—

"Evidently, Mons. le Gouverneur, your lodgers hear nothing of what goes on in the outside world."

"Not a word, Sire; it is forbidden within these walls."

At that word, "Sire," St. Just gave a start. What did it portend? He noted, too, that the governor's manner was rather that of a subject to a monarch than of an official to the head of a republic. Had Buonaparte indeed, become King of France?

While he was still wondering, Buonaparte, who, in the dim twilight had not recognized him, turned to him and inquired sharply, "Your name, sir."

"St. Just, Sire," was the reply, he deeming it wise to use the same form of address that the governor had employed; but he was trembling visibly.

Buonaparte started, and again a cruel smile hovered about his mouth; then the words fell from him in a torrent:—

"So it is you, Sir. I had forgotten you. By my faith, it was a fitting return you made for my clemency in allowing you to live. You plotted against me once and I forgave you; I have spared your life a second time, regardful of my promise; can you suppose that, but for that, you would have lived an hour after you had been brought here? And it is to my wife that you are principally indebted; it was she who reminded me of my pledge. You have a good friend in the Empress. But for her, you would have been shot, as you deserved, and buried in yonder ditch." And he pointed towards the window, and beyond to the very spot on which the young Duc d'Enghien had been done to death.

St. Just's first fear had somehow passed away, and an irresistible impulse took possession of him to speak out all that was in his mind. Smarting at the Emperor's contemptuous lashings, boiling over with indignation at his wife's seduction and all that had followed as a consequence, he felt that even the certainty of instant death could not restrain him. He must speak and he would.

He drew himself upright and looked unflinchingly in the conqueror's face.

"It is true that you have spared my life," he said; "but of what value is it, since you have poisoned it? It would have been no misfortune to have died like him, whose grave you can see out yonder, innocent of all, except the attempt to rid France of a despot. I could even have welcomed death, had I succeeded."

The governor was astonished at St. Just's temerity. He stepped forward and drew his sword, and, but for the Emperor's interference, would have cut down the audacious speaker.

But Napoleon waved him back.

"Nay, do not seek to check him," he said calmly. "I would hear him out. When the tongue wags freely, we learn who are our friends and who our enemies. Proceed, Sir," to St. Just.

At the Emperor's words and tone St. Just was greatly discomposed, but, having started, he could not now draw back. For all that, his confidence and rage were waning fast, and he proceeded stumblingly:—

"Was it honorable to seduce the woman to whom I was affianced, and, with that object, to do your best to send me to my death? In such circumstances, would not you strive to be revenged; would not you strike down the man who should dishonor her you love?"

"Tut, tut, man," struck in Napoleon, "I like not generalities. Let us inform ourselves of whom we talk about. Is it Madame de Moncourt of whom you speak?"

"It is."

"And pray, Sir, what right had one of my officers when on duty in the field to enter into a marriage contract without my permission? But let that pass. In the first instance I did not know how matters stood between you. Possibly, had you taken me into your confidence, events might have taken a different course. But do you mean to tell me seriously that this is the reason of your treachery? That, with a grand career before you, you sacrificed your whole future for a woman; that, instead of remaining brave and honorable, as I know you were, you could become a traitor to your country, a deserter from your colors, a creature forced to crawl about disguised, a plotter of assassination; and all this because a woman has smiled upon another? What is woman? a toy, a plaything for an hour; a bagatelle not worth consideration in comparison to a man's career. I did not think you had been so great a fool. And it was for this, you madman, that you raised your feeble hand at me!"

And the Emperor laughed boisterously. St. Just became more and more confused. Napoleon's mockery hit him hard. All his angry vehemence had left him, and with it all his hope. He no longer stood erect, but hung his head. He felt as though his speech had left him; but, with a mighty effort he managed to force out the words:—

"Yes, that was my sole reason. Now do with me what you will. I do not flinch from death, and will meet it like a soldier." And, with these words, he once more stood upright, expecting, the next moment, to hear his doom. He was resolved to receive it like a man.

For a short space no one spoke. As for the governor, he was amazed. It astounded him how any one could dare to beard Napoleon.

The Emperor took a step or two to the window and gazed out, his eye reposing on the low mound, below which lay buried the body of the murdered Bourbon. He was debating how to deal with the man who had had the rashness to speak his mind to him. He was not magnanimous, but he was whimsical; many of his actions that were attributed to generosity were actually the outcome of caprice, and, sometimes, of a belief in fate.

Twice he resorted to his snuff-box, as though hoping to gain inspiration from it. Then he wheeled round sharply and fixed his piercing eyes upon St. Just, who stood trembling at his own audacity, and at the expectation that the first words that would reach his ear would sound his death knell. He was astonished, therefore, at what they really were.

"You have made a great mistake, my friend. Doubtless the best way to prevent its repetition, would be to have you shot. But I will spare your life, once more; you might think, otherwise, that I went in fear of you. Pshaw! a lion does not dread a snapping cur. For all that I would send you to the traitor's fate, but that the memory of one man's death restrains me." He pointed to the ominous mound that varied the level of the moat. "You may thank your star for that."

He paused and began to pace the room, the eyes of the other two men watching every moment; they scarce durst breathe. Their suspense was becoming almost unbearable, when he spoke again.

"You shall have your liberty once more, Sir; but—before I leave, I will sign the necessary papers for your release—not in France. On leaving here, you will proceed to Ministry of Marine with a letter I shall give you, authorizing and instructing the Minister to give you a packet of papers. With these you will proceed to England, where you will hand them to Mr. Perry, the hosier in London. You know the man, having made his acquaintance on a previous occasion, when he helped you to intercept a despatch from the English Government to their Minister at the Hague. I have no more to add, except that you will not return to France, without permission. If you do, your death be on your head."

He turned to go; then wheeled round suddenly and shook his hand threateningly at St. Just. "And beware, Sir; think not to escape my vengeance, if you again betray my trust. Even in England you will find my arm long enough to reach you. Spies will dog your steps; so have a care, Sir, have a care."

He walked rapidly to the door, the governor, at his heels, the latter throwing the words to St. Just on his way out, "I will have everything put in order for your journey at once."

Left to himself, St. Just tottered to a seat and panted audibly, for such were the strength and conflict of his emotions and the violent beating of his heart, which seemed struggling to burst from its fleshy prison, that his breath could only come in short, quick sobs. He seemed to have withered up under the fire of Napoleon's scorching words. Shame, remorse, hatred, thirst for vengeance, and a sense of utter impotence, all fought together within him, and were tearing him to pieces in the contest. Oh! that he could relive the past, blot out the present, cast in a nobler mould his future! But alas! he knew the hopelessness of his aspirations! He had the rectitude to wish aright, but not the will to do. He knew that, in Halima's hands, he would be as wax. Honor, for him, involved a life apart from her; for the Emperor, in sending him to England, was, without meaning it, sending him to dishonor.

For one mad moment, he thought of refusing to obey the Emperor's command, and submitting to the consequences. It was certain death; but what of that? It would save his honor. And the pain; that would be only momentary; he had suffered far more anguish in the battlefield; and to be shot was a fitting end to a soldier's life.

But death meant never again to set eyes on Halima. No, he could not face it. Not yet.

An hour later he had left Vincennes, and, three days afterwards, he was in London.

At once he made his way to Hartford House, his mind disturbed with mingled hopes and fears. For aught he knew, his wife no longer lived, and, if she did, it did not follow that she was even in England.

But his mind was quickly set at rest on both these points. Of the servants who came in answer to his summons he inquired whether Halima still lived there, asking for her in her mother's name, for he did not know whether she had thought fit to adopt his own.

The man replied that Madame de Moncourt still lived there and was at home. Oh! the relief at this intelligence! By his emotions at that moment, St. Just knew what would have been his feelings, had the reply been different. Yes, Halima was still all in all to him. His spirits sprang up with a bound; he had made his inquiry in a tone of mingled eagerness and dread; but now his whole mien and manner changed; a gleam of pleasure lighted up his face, and his tone was bright and cheerful.

"Will you tell Madame," he said, "that a messenger has arrived from France on business of importance, and begs the favor of an interview?"

Since the servant did not know him, he would not give his name.

The man invited him to enter, and showed him into an anteroom off the hall.

Presently he heard a step upon the staircase, that sent a thrill right through him and made the heart within him dance with joy. For the moment, all the past was blotted out; all his shame, his rage, his desire to be revenged upon Napoleon, were as though they had never been; he lived only in the present.

He had been warming his hands before the fire, but, at the opening of the door, he swung round and faced her.

She advanced into the room with a quick, gliding motion, a look of eager expectation on her face. Then, bending courteously, she said, "I bid you welcome, Sir. I understand you are direct from France, and are the bearer of important news. Does it by any chance concern—Vincennes? I am deeply interested in one—"

All the while she had fixed her eyes piercingly, inquiringly upon St. Just, scrutinizing him from head to foot. Suddenly they glowed with a brighter light, and a flash of joyous recognition was darted from their depths.

"Henri!" she cried, nay, almost shrieked; and she rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck. She drew his head down to her own and covered him with kisses. "Oh! my darling, to think that you are given back to me once more. And I had mourned you so, and had tried, oh my very hardest, for your release; and the terror I have been in lest—but there, I cannot put it into words. But it is over, and you have come back to me, my dearest. Oh! my happiness is too great."

She burst out laughing; then she began to sob hysterically, and the tears fell from her eyes in scalding drops.

St. Just laid his hand gently on her gold brown locks and stroked them fondly. "Don't weep, my own," he said; "this is no time for tears; tears are for sorrow, not for joy; and we are happy now. Ah, chérie, you don't know what it is for me to be with you again, after all that I have suffered, it is like heaven, but I will spare you the recital of what I have undergone. Our hours shall not be so misspent, and we have lost too many since first we met. So, dry your tears, my sweet, and let me see you smile."

She looked up at him, smiling lovingly through the drops that glistened, like liquid diamonds, on her cheeks. "It is joy, my Henri," she murmured sobbingly. "It has been too much for me to see you so unexpectedly; but I shall be myself again directly." Then she stroked his face again.

It was two hours later and the reunited couple were still seated together in Halima's boudoir, whither she had taken him. Of course she had coaxed out of him a full account of all that he had seen and done and suffered since their last meeting. At his relation of the Duc d'Enghien's murder, the tears rushed to her eyes; but her grief was only momentary, for it was overwhelmed in the swirl of indignation that swept over her. She sprang to her feet and began to pace rapidly about the room; the blood rushed in a torrent to her face, and there was a dangerous glitter in her eyes.

"Coward! inhuman monster!" she exclaimed. "Oh! that women can be the mothers of such men—more bloody and ruthless than any tiger. One would almost believe that, at his conception, Allah must have slept, and the enemy of mankind been thus left free to wreak his malice on humanity unchecked. Oh! cruel, cruel! But it shall be the worse for him. Of late my lust for vengeance has seemed to languish somewhat; but this cold-blooded, this perfidious murder of an innocent man has put new life in it, and it will now increase in strength so long as the breath is in me, or it finds satisfaction in the hurling of the bloody upstart into infamy. I am glad you have given me this full account for it has put the seal on my resolve."

She seated herself again upon the couch, with a sudden movement threw one leg over the other, and swung her foot restlessly to and fro. Her bosom was heaving with agitation, and her nostrils quivered with violence of her passion. All her husband's efforts to compose her were unavailing; for the time, her passion for him seemed to have spent itself. He now sat mutely watching her. Presently she spoke again.

"And the French people have made this fiend their Emperor! Poor deluded fools! And he boasts that he will bring all Europe to his feet. And I think he will. So be it; the higher the eagle soars, the more crushing will be his fall when wounded. Ha! ha! So far my incantations have revealed the truth; I doubt not now they will be fulfilled in their entirety. I shall live to see his downfall and disgrace; then I will mock at him in his despair."

She turned her face towards the fire and gazed absently at the glowing embers; for the moment so lost in her reflection that she forgot that she was not alone.

With a start, she roused herself and faced St. Just, then laid her hand lightly on his arm.

"So he has entrusted you with papers for his agent." She spoke in her natural tone, without excitement; but, though the outward expression of her hatred was for the present satisfied, her longing for revenge was as intense as ever, and her determination.

St. Just assented. "That is so."

"And where are these papers?"

"In the lining of my cloak."

"And what do you intend to do with them?"

"Deliver them to the man, Perry, of course."

"Do you know their contents?"

"No."

"Do you mean to examine them?"

"I should not dream of it. I should not dare. I should be a traitor."