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<div><h1><span class='bold'>UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH;</span><br/> <span style='font-size:x-small'>OR,</span><br/> <span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='it'>A CRIMINAL’S LAST HOURS.</span></span><br/> <span style='font-size:x-small'>TOGETHER WITH</span><br/> TOLD UNDER CANVAS,<br/> <span style='font-size:x-small'>AND</span><br/> CLAUDE GUEUX.</h1></div>

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<p class='line0' style='font-size:.6em;'>BY</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:1.2em;'>VICTOR HUGO,</p>
<p class='line0' style='margin-top:.5em;font-size:.8em;'><span class='it'>Author of “Les Misérables,” “By the King’s Command,”</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='it'>“The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” etc.</span></p>
<p class='line'>&#160;</p>
<p class='line'>&#160;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'>TRANSLATED&nbsp;&nbsp;BY&nbsp;&nbsp;SIR&nbsp;&nbsp;GILBERT&nbsp;&nbsp;CAMPBELL,&nbsp;&nbsp;BART.</p>
<p class='line'>&#160;</p>
<p class='line'>&#160;</p>
<p class='line'>&#160;</p>
<p class='line0' style='margin-bottom:.5em;font-size:.8em;'>LONDON:</p>
<p class='line0'>CROOME&nbsp;&nbsp;&amp;&nbsp;&nbsp;CO.,</p>
<p class='line0' style='margin-top:.5em;font-size:.8em;'>12, ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS, E.C.</p>
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<div class="chapter">
<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>

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<table id='tab1' summary='' class='center'>
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<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><span style='font-size:x-small'>PAGE</span></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH; OR, A CRIMINAL’S LAST HOURS</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#Page_9'>9</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>TOLD UNDER CANVAS:—BUG-JARGAL</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#Page_99'>99</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>CLAUDE GUEUX</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#Page_309'>309</a></td></tr>
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<p class='line0' id="half-title" style='text-align:center;margin-top:2em;font-size:1.2em;'><span class='it'>UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH.</span></p>

<hr class='pbk'/>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='9' id='Page_9'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2>UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH.</h2>

<hr class='tbk101'/>

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Sentenced</span> to death!</p>

<p class='pindent'>For five whole weeks have I lived with this one
thought, always alone with it, always frozen by its
ghastly presence, always crushed beneath its overwhelming
weight.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At first, years ago, as it seemed, not mere weeks
as it really was, I was a man like any other. Every
day, every hour, every minute was ruled by its own
idea. My intellect, young and fresh, lost itself in a
world of fantasy. I amused myself in mapping out
a life without order, and without end, weaving into a
thousand fantastic patterns the coarse and slender
tissue of my existence. There were lovely girls,
cardinals’ copes, victories won, theatres full of life
and light, and then again the young girls, and walks
in the twilight under the spreading boughs of the
chestnut trees. My imagination always pictured
scenes of pleasure. My thoughts were free, and
therefore I was free also.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='10' id='Page_10'></span>
But now I am a prisoner. My body is in irons in
a dungeon, and my soul is fettered by an idea—one
horrible, murderous, and implacable idea. I have
but one thought, one certainty, one deep-rooted
conviction, and that is that I am under sentence of
death!</p>

<p class='pindent'>Do what I may, that one terrible thought is ever
with me, like a spectre by my side, lonely and jealous,
driving away every effort that I may make to liberate
myself from its presence, face to face with me, and
clutching me with its icy hand when I endeavour to
turn aside my head, or to close my eyes upon its
horrifying existence.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It intrudes itself into all the thoughts by which I
vainly strive to forget it; I hear it like a horrible
chorus in every word that is addressed to me; it
places its face against mine as I glance through the
barred windows of my dungeon; it attacks me whilst
waking, it haunts my spasmodic efforts at sleep, and
appears in my dreams under the form of the axe of
the guillotine.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It is still present as I wake up with a start, and
say, “It is but a dream.” Well, even before my
eyes have had time to open, and to see the whole
terrible reality which surrounds me, written on the
damp stone of my prison walls, in the pale rays of
my lamp, in the coarse fabric of my clothes, in the
dark figure of the sentinel whose bayonet gleams
through the loophole of my dungeon, it seems as if a
sonorous voice murmurs in my ears:</p>

<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Sentenced to death!</span>”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='11' id='Page_11'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>It</span> was a lovely morning in August.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Three days had passed since my trial had been
commenced; three days since my crime had collected
every morning a crowd of curious spectators, who
lounged on the benches of the court like carrion
crows around a carcase; three days since that
strange, half visionary procession of judges, of
lawyers, of witnesses, and public prosecutors, had
passed and repassed before me, sometimes ludicrous,
but always murderous, always gloomy and fatal.</p>

<p class='pindent'>During the first two nights restlessness and
nervousness had prevented me from sleeping; on the
third, weariness and lassitude had conduced to
slumber. At midnight I had left the jury still deliberating.
Re-conducted to my cell, I had thrown myself
on my pallet, and had fallen at once into a deep
sleep—the sleep of forgetfulness. It was my first
repose for many days. I was still wrapped in this
profound slumber when they came and woke me.
This time the tramp of the gaoler’s heavy shoes, the
clink of his bunch of keys, and the harsh grating of
the bolts, were not sufficient to arouse me from my
stupor; he had to shake me, and to shout in my ear—“Get
up!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I opened my eyes, and with a bound rose from my
couch. At that instant, through the narrow window
pierced in the higher portion of the walls of my cell,
I saw reflected upon the ceiling of the adjoining
passage (the only means by which I could catch a
glimpse of the sky), the sun. I love the sunlight.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='12' id='Page_12'></span>
“It is a fine day,” remarked I to the gaoler.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He remained silent for an instant, as though considering
whether it were worth while to reply to
me; then, as though making an effort, he answered
sullenly—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, it seems so.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I remained motionless, my intellectual powers
almost dormant, and my eyes fixed upon that soft
golden reflection that gilded the ceiling.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is a lovely day,” repeated I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” answered the man, “but they are waiting
for you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>These few words, like the web of the spider that
intercepts the flight of the fly, threw me roughly
back into every-day life. On a sudden I again saw,
as in a flash of lightning, the court of justice, the
table before the judges, strewn with blood-stained
rags, the three ranks of witnesses with their expressionless
faces, the two gendarmes at each side of
the dock, the black gowns of the bar constantly
moving to and fro, the heads of the crowd thronged
together in the body of the court, and the fixed gaze
of the twelve jurymen, who had watched whilst I
had slept.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I rose up, my teeth chattered, my hands trembled
so that I could hardly gather together my clothes,
my legs bent under me. At the first step that I
attempted to take I staggered like a porter whose
load is too heavy for him. However, I nerved
myself, and followed my gaoler.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The two gendarmes were waiting for me on the
threshold of my cell. They handcuffed me again.
<span class='pageno' title='13' id='Page_13'></span>
It was rather a complicated lock, which they had
some trouble in closing. I submitted passively—it
was a machine put into a machine.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We passed through one of the inner courtyards;
the fresh air of the morning gave me strength. I
raised my head. The sky was of a bright blue, and
the warm sunbeams, broken by the lofty chimneys,
traced great angular lines of light on the tall and
gloomy walls of the prison. In truth it was very
beautiful.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We mounted a spiral staircase, we passed through
one corridor, then another, and again through a
third; then a low door was opened. A warm breath
of air, and the sound of voices met me; it was the
murmuring of the crowd in the court. I entered.</p>

<p class='pindent'>On my appearance there was a clang of arms and
a confused sound of voices, seats were noisily pushed
aside, and as I passed through the long room between
the lines of spectators, kept in position by soldiers,
it seemed as if I were the centre point upon which
every eye was fixed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At that instant I perceived that my irons had been
removed, but when and how I knew not.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then there was a deep silence. I had reached my
appointed place. As the disturbance ceased in the
crowd, so my ideas grew clearer. I understood what
I had before only vaguely surmised—that the decisive
moment had arrived, and that I had been brought
into court to hear my sentence.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Explain it as you may, when this idea entered my
head I felt no fear. The windows of the court were
wide open, the fresh air and the busy hum of the
<span class='pageno' title='14' id='Page_14'></span>
city poured in freely; the court was as neatly
arranged as if it was to be the place in which a
marriage was to be celebrated; the bright rays of the
sun traced here and there the luminous shadows of
the casements, sometimes spread upon the floor,
sometimes portrayed on the tables, now and then
broken by the angles of the walls; whilst the beams
themselves, shining through the panes of glass, looked
like great bars of golden dust. The judges at the
end of the room wore a self-satisfied air—no doubt
pleased that their task was so nearly concluded.
The face of the President, upon which the reflection
of one of the panes of glass shone, was calm and
benevolent, whilst one of his younger colleagues
played with his cap as he conversed gaily with a
young lady in a pink bonnet, for whom he had
procured a seat just behind himself. The jury alone
looked pale and worn out, evidently from having
remained awake during the long watches of the
night; some of them were yawning. The expression
of their faces gave no indication that they felt the
responsibility of the sentence that they were about
to pronounce, the only noticeable point amongst
these worthy shopkeepers being an evident desire
for sleep.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Exactly opposite to me was a tall window wide
open. Through it I could hear the laughter of the
stall-keepers on the quays, and in a crevice in the
window-sill was a pretty little yellow floweret waving
to and fro in the wind.</p>

<p class='pindent'>How, in the midst of all these pleasing objects,
could any unpleasant idea intrude itself? With the
<span class='pageno' title='15' id='Page_15'></span>
balmy air, and the bright sun playing around me, it
was impossible to think of anything else except
liberty. Hope shone round me like the sunbeams;
and in full confidence I awaited my sentence with
the feelings of a man looking forward to life and
freedom. And now my counsel arrived; he had
evidently been breakfasting luxuriously. We were
waiting for him. As he moved into his place, he
bent towards me, and whispered—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I have hope still.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Indeed,” answered I, in the same light tone,
with a smile on my lips.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” returned he; “I do not yet know what line
the prosecution will take, but if they cannot prove
premeditation, you will only get penal servitude for
life.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“How, sir!” exclaimed I, indignantly. “Sooner
death a thousand times.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Yes, death. And besides, an inner voice kept
repeating to me that I risked nothing by saying this.
Who ever heard of sentence of death being pronounced
except at midnight, with burning torches,
in a damp and gloomy hall, and on a cold and rainy
winter’s night! But in the month of August, on so
beautiful a day, at eight o’clock in the morning,
those benevolent-looking jurymen could not have the
heart to find me guilty! And my eyes again fixed
themselves on the little yellow floweret in the sun
light.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At that moment the President, who had been
waiting for my counsel, ordered me to stand up.
The guard carried arms. As if by a shock of
<span class='pageno' title='16' id='Page_16'></span>
electricity, all those assembled in the court became
animated with life. A mean-looking man, seated
at a table beneath the judge’s chair, evidently the
clerk of the court, broke the silence by reading the
verdict of the jury, which they had given in my
absence. A cold sweat bedewed all my limbs, and I
leaned against the wall to save myself from falling.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Counsel, have you anything to urge against the
sentence of death being pronounced?” asked the
President.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I could have said a great deal, but I was unable to
frame a consecutive sentence; my tongue clove to
the roof of my mouth.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My counsel rose to his feet.</p>

<p class='pindent'>As I followed his line of argument I understood
that he was endeavouring to soften the verdict of the
jury, and striving to induce the judge to inflict the
lighter penalty, the penalty which I had been so
wounded at his suggesting. My indignation must
have been very strong to pierce through the
numerous complications of my faculties.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I endeavoured to repeat in a loud voice the words
I had already said, “Sooner death a thousand
times!” but all that I could do was to clutch him
convulsively by the arm, and cry out in convulsive
accents, “No, no!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Public Prosecutor argued against my counsel’s
plea, and I listened to him with an air of stupid
satisfaction. Then the judges left the court to
consult together, and on their return the President
read the sentence.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Condemned to death,” murmured the spectators;
<span class='pageno' title='17' id='Page_17'></span>
and as they hurried me away the crowd pressed
around me with a noise like that of a falling house.
I walked along passively, stupefied and confused.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A sudden transformation had taken place in me.
Until the sentence of death had been actually
passed, I felt that I was living and breathing like
other men; now I felt that a barrier had been erected
between myself and my fellow-creatures. Nothing
now wore the same aspect as it had done previously.
Those tall, luminous windows, the bright sunlight,
the clear sky, the beautiful flowers, all became white
and pallid like the colour of a shroud. Those men
and women and children who pressed around me
had something of the air of spectres.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A carriage painted a dirty black, with bars to the
windows, was waiting for me. As I was about to
enter it, I paused, and looked around me. “A
condemned criminal!” cried the passers-by, as they
hurried towards the vehicle. Through the mist that
seemed to interpose between the world and myself I
could perceive the young girls who followed my
every movement with greedy eyes.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good!” cried the younger one, clapping her
hands. “It will be in six weeks’ time!”</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Condemned</span> to death.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Well, why not? have I not read in some book that
<span class='it'>all men are condemned to death with a respite the date of
which is not fixed</span>?</p>

<p class='pindent'>How, then, is my position changed?</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='18' id='Page_18'></span>
Since the day that my sentence was pronounced,
how many are dead who had arranged for a long and
happy life; how many of those, young, free, and in
good health, who expected to see my head fall in
the Place de Grêve, have gone before me; and how
many more are there, who breathe the free air, and
go where they please, who will also precede me to
the next world? And why should I long for life?
In fact, the prison with its gloomy light, and the
black bread which constitutes the prison fare; the
thin soup drank from a galley-slave’s cup; to be
constantly insulted—I, who am refined by education,
to be abused by gaolers and by the convict guards;
never to see a human being who considers me
worthy of a kind word—these are the sole pleasures
of life which the executioner will take from me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>And yet it is very terrible!</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> black carriage has brought me here to the
hideous prison of the Bicêtre.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Seen from afar, this building has a certain majestic
air about it. It is situated at the foot of a hill, and
covers a large extent of ground. Looked at from a
distance, it retains some of its ancient splendour as
a king’s palace, but as you come nearer to it the
building changes into a mere commonplace edifice.
The broken turrets wound the eye. There is an air
of shame and degradation about it; it seems as if the
walls were struck with the leprosy of crime.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='19' id='Page_19'></span>
No windows, no glass in the frames, but massive
crossed bars of iron, through which can occasionally
be seen the pallid countenance of a convict or of a
madman. Such is the appearance of the prison
when seen closely.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER V.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Scarcely</span> had I arrived when I was seized in its
iron embraces. Every precaution was multiplied;
no knife, no fork was permitted for my meals; the
strait-waistcoat, a kind of coarse canvas sack,
imprisoned my arms. They were responsible for my
life.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was to be with them for six or seven weeks, and
it was their duty to deliver me safe and sound to the
executioner.</p>

<p class='pindent'>For the first few days they treated me with a tenderness
that had something revolting in it. The
kindnesses of a turnkey remind you of the scaffold.
But to my delight, after a few days had passed away,
custom resumed its sway, and they treated me with
the same brutality that they did the other prisoners,
and ceased those unusual demonstrations of courtesy
which reminded me every moment of the executioner.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My youth, my good behaviour, my attention to
the gaol chaplain, and especially a word or two of
Latin which I addressed to the porter, who did not
understand them, by the way, gave me the privilege
of outdoor exercise every week with the other prisoners,
and released me from the terrible strait-waistcoat
<span class='pageno' title='20' id='Page_20'></span>
which paralyzed my every movement.
After a great deal of hesitation I was permitted the
use of pen, ink, and paper, as well as a lamp in the
evenings. Every Sunday, after hearing mass, I was
permitted to go into the courtyard during the hour
devoted to exercise. There I had long conversations
with the prisoners. Why not? They are good
enough fellows, these poor wretches. They told me
what crimes they had committed. At first I was
horrified, but after a time I found out that they were
given to boasting. They taught me to talk slang,
<span class='it'>patter-flash</span>, as they called it. Thieves’ slang is a
perfect language grafted on to our expressions of
every-day life, a species of hideous excrescence like
some loathsome worm. When you first hear this
language spoken you instinctively experience a feeling
of repulsion as when you see a bundle of foul and
dirty rags shaken before you.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But these men pitied me, and they were the only
ones who did so. As for the warders, the turnkeys,
and the gaolers, I scorned their pity, for they would
talk and laugh about me to my very face as though
I were some inanimate object.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER VI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I said</span> to myself, “Since I have been furnished with
the means of writing, why should I not use them?
But what shall I write?” Shut up between four cold
and naked stone walls, with no liberty for my feet,
no vista for my eyes to range, my sole occupation
<span class='pageno' title='21' id='Page_21'></span>
to follow the slow movement of the white square of
light, which, falling through the wicket in my cell
door, seemed chiselled in the dark wall of my prison,
and, as I said before, alone with one remembrance,
the remembrance of a crime and its punishment, of
murder, and of death—what have I to say, I who
have no longer part and parcel in this world? And
how will this shattered brain enable me to write
anything worth reading?</p>

<p class='pindent'>But why not? Even though all around me is
sombre and out of gear, is there not in me a tempest,
a struggle, a tragedy? This fixed idea that holds
me in its power, does it not present itself to me each
hour in a different shape, in a novel form, and each
one more hideous and blood-stained than the one
that preceded it? Why should I not endeavour to
speak to myself of all the terrible and hitherto unknown
sensation that I experience in the desolate
position in which I am. Assuredly there is ample
material, and though my days are numbered, yet
there is enough of anguish, terror, and torture in
these last hours of mine to wear out the pen and to
empty the inkstand.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Besides, the only method in which I can allay my
torments is to observe them closely. The mere fact
of describing them will give me repose.</p>

<p class='pindent'>And then what I write will not be without its use.
This record of my sufferings hour by hour, and
minute by minute, punishment heaped on punishment,
if I have the strength to carry it up to that
point where it will be <span class='it'>physically</span> impossible for me to
continue it further—this history, unfinished as it
<span class='pageno' title='22' id='Page_22'></span>
necessarily must be, but as complete as I can make
it, will it not be well worthy of perusal? Will not
this vivid reproduction of agonizing thoughts in that
ever-increasing torrent of grief, in that intellectual
dissection of the last hours of a man sentenced to
death—will it not, I say, contain a striking lesson
for those who have condemned him? Perhaps it
will make them think twice ere they again consign
the living, breathing head of a man to the hands of
the executioner. Perhaps, unhappy wretches, they
have never considered the slow torture which follows
a condemnation to death.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Has the idea never struck them that in the man
whom they are going to suppress there is a reasoning
intelligence, an intelligence that had counted on a
prolonged life, a soul which was not prepared for
death? No; they only see in all this the vertical
fall of the triangular blade, and doubtless consider
that for the condemned man there is neither past
nor future.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But my pages will undeceive them. Some day,
perhaps, they will be printed, and those who read
them will pause for a few moments in this record
of a soul’s sufferings which they had up to that time
never even suspected. They were proud to be able
to kill the body with the smallest amount of physical
pain. But what good is that? What is physical,
when compared with mental pain? A day will come
when, perhaps, these memoirs, the last impressions
of an unhappy man, may have contributed——Unless,
indeed, after my death the wind may toss
about the courtyard a few pieces of paper stained
<span class='pageno' title='23' id='Page_23'></span>
with mud, or else, pasted in a broken pane of glass
in the porter’s lodge, they may serve to exclude the
rain.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER VII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>And</span> suppose what I have written may be one day of
use to others, and may cause the judge to hesitate to
doom a fellow-creature to death, that it may save
other unfortunates, innocent or guilty, from the
agonies to which I am condemned—what good will
all this do to me? When my head has been cut off,
what does it matter whether they cut off those of
others or not? Can I really have been troubling
myself about such follies? What good will it do me
to abolish the scaffold after I have suffered upon it?
What! am I to lose the sun, the spring, the fields
full of flowers, the birds which wake up and chirp in
the early morning, the clouds, nature, liberty, and
life?</p>

<p class='pindent'>Ah! it is myself that I must save. Is it really
true that this cannot be done? that I may be taken
out and killed to-morrow, to-day, even, for all that
I know? The thought is enough to make me dash
out my brains against the wall of my cell.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Let</span> me count how much time remains to me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Three days of delay after sentence has been given,
to enable me to appeal in.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='24' id='Page_24'></span>
Eight days of forgetfulness in the office of the
court, after which the statement of the case will be
sent to the Minister.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Fifteen days waiting at the Minister’s, who does
not even know that the affair is before him, and yet
he is supposed to send it up to the Court of Appeal
after examining it. Then it has to be classed,
numbered, and registered; for there is plenty of work
for the guillotine, and each one must await his turn.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Fifteen days of watching and waiting.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At last the Court of Appeal assembles—generally
upon a Thursday—and rejects twenty appeals in a
lump, and sends all the papers to the Minister, who
sends them to the Public Prosecutor, who communicates
with the executioner. Three days.</p>

<p class='pindent'>On the morning of the fourth day the assistant to
the Public Prosecutor says to himself, as he ties his
neckcloth, “It is time that this affair was finished.”
Then, if the assistant to the clerk of the court has
not a few friends to breakfast who prevent him from
attending to his duties, the order for the execution is
noted, dated, registered, and sent out, and the next
morning, at the break of day, a scaffold is erected in
the Place de Grêve, and all through the city are
heard the hoarse voices of the newsvendors calling
out a full, true, and particular account of the execution.
And all this in six weeks! That young girl
was right.</p>

<p class='pindent'>So that five weeks, perhaps six, remain; but I
dare not rely upon this, and I am in a cell in the
Bicêtre, and it seems to me that Thursday has
passed three days ago.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='25' id='Page_25'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER IX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I am</span> going to make my will; but no, it is useless.
I am condemned to pay the costs of the trial, and all
that I possess will hardly be sufficient to meet the
expenses.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The guillotine is an expensive luxury.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I have a mother, a wife, and a child.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A little girl three years of age, gentle, rosy, and
delicate, with large black eyes and long chestnut
hair.</p>

<p class='pindent'>She was just two years and a month old when I
last saw her.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Thus, after my death there will be three women
without son, husband, or father; three orphans of
different kinds, three widows made by the hand of
the law.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I allow that I am justly punished; but what have
<span class='it'>these</span> innocent creatures done? No; these are dishonoured
and ruined for no fault of their own: and
this is justice!</p>

<p class='pindent'>It is not the thought of my poor old mother that
disquiets me; she is sixty-four; the blow will kill
her at once, or even if she lingers on for a little
while, as long as she has a little fire to warm her
feet at she will not complain.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Nor am I uneasy regarding my wife; she is an
invalid, and her mind is not very strong; she will
die too.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Unless, indeed, she goes mad. They say that mad
people live a long while; but if her intellect goes she
<span class='pageno' title='26' id='Page_26'></span>
will not suffer: she will sleep, she is as good as
dead.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But my daughter, my child, my poor little Marie,
who laughs and plays, who even now, perhaps, is
singing and thinking of nothing—that is what cuts
me to the heart.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER X.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>This</span> is what my cell is like:</p>

<p class='pindent'>Eight feet square, four walls of hewn stone
standing at right angles upon a flooring of flagstones
raised a few inches above the exterior corridor.</p>

<p class='pindent'>On the right-hand side of the door as you enter is
a kind of recess, a sort of burlesque alcove. A heap
of straw has been thrown into it, on which the
prisoner is expected to repose and sleep, clad in his
canvas trousers and linen frock, winter and summer.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Above my head, instead of the skies of heaven, is
an arched roof, from which hang huge spiders’ webs
like masses of rags.</p>

<p class='pindent'>No window, not even a loophole, and a door the
woodwork of which is hidden by its massive iron
plates. No window? I am in error. Towards the
top of the door is an opening nine inches square,
with a grating over it which the gaoler can close at
night.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Outside is a long passage, lighted and ventilated
by narrow loopholes high up in the wall, and divided
into stone compartments which communicate with
each other by a series of low doors. Each of these
<span class='pageno' title='27' id='Page_27'></span>
compartments serves as a kind of ante-chamber to a
cell similar to mine. It is in these dungeons that
convicts who have infringed the gaol regulations are
confined. The three first cells are reserved for
criminals condemned to death, as they are nearer
to the prison, and therefore more convenient for the
officials.</p>

<p class='pindent'>These dungeons are the remains of the ancient
castle of Bicêtre, built by the Cardinal of Winchester,
the same priest who ordered Jeanne d’Arc to
be burnt alive. I heard the gaoler telling this to
some anxious sightseers who came and stared at me
in my dungeon as if I was a beast in a menagerie.
I should add that a sentinel is always on guard at
the door of the cell, and that whenever my gaze falls
upon the opening in the door it meets two widely
opened eyes fixed intently upon mine. I believe
that it is supposed that there is both air and light in
the stone box in which I am confined.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>As</span> daylight has not yet come, what shall I do with
the hours of the night? An idea has struck me:
I have risen, and moved my lamp along the four
walls of my cell. They are covered with writing,
drawings, designs, and strange figures of all kinds.
It seems as if each condemned prisoner had resolved
here at least to leave some remembrance of himself,
either in chalk or charcoal, in white or black letters,
sometimes deeply graven in the stone, at other times
<span class='pageno' title='28' id='Page_28'></span>
rusty-looking, as though traced in blood. If my
mind was more at ease I should take great interest
in this strange book which opens its leaves before
my eyes on every stone of my dungeon. I should
have liked to have collected together all these fragments
of thought scattered about on the walls, to
have picked out the inscriptions of each man, and to
have given sense and life to all these mutilated sentences,
to these dismembered phrases, to these half-finished
words, heads without bodies, like those who
had carved them on the walls.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A little above my bed were two bleeding hearts
pierced with an arrow, and above it was <span class='it'>Love for
Life</span>: the unhappy man had not had his wish gratified.
By the side of this was a sort of three-cornered
hat, and underneath this a small figure clumsily
executed, with these words, <span class='it'>Long live the Emperor,
1824</span>.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Again, I noticed the burning hearts with this motto:
<span class='it'>I love Mathias Dunvin-Jacques</span>. On the opposite wall
was the word <span class='it'>Papavoine</span>, the P covered with elaborate
arabesques and flourishes; next to it were a few
verses of an obscene song. A cap of Liberty deeply
cut into the stone, with the name, <span class='it'>Bovies—The
Republic</span>. This was the name of one of the non-commissioned
officers of La Rochelle. Poor young fellow!
How hideous are the pretended necessities of political
intrigue, to risk for an idea, for a dream, that terrible
reality, the guillotine, and I, who pity myself, miserable
wretch, I have committed a real crime, and have
spilt blood!</p>

<p class='pindent'>I did not continue my researches, for drawn in
<span class='pageno' title='29' id='Page_29'></span>
white, in a dark corner of the room, I saw an appalling
design; it was a representation of that scaffold
which may even now be in course of erection for me.
My lamp almost fell from my hands.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I turned</span> away and sat down on my bed, my face
buried in my hands, and my elbows resting on my
knees; my childish fright had passed away, and a
strange desire had taken possession of me to continue
my researches.</p>

<p class='pindent'>By the side of the name of Papavoine I tore away
a large spider’s web covered with dust, and stretched
across the angle of the wall; under it were four
names, easy to decipher: Dantun, 1815; Poulain,
1818; Jean Martin, 1821; Castaing, 1823. As I
read these names a flood of horrible recollections
pounced upon me: Dantun had cut up his brother,
and, going about Paris by night, had thrown his head
into a well, and the limbs and trunk into different
portions of the sewers. Poulain had murdered his
wife. Jean Martin had fired a pistol at his father as
the old man was looking out of a window. Castaing
was a doctor, who had poisoned his friend, and
whilst attending to him professionally gave him
fresh doses of poison. Whilst Papavoine was a
horrible maniac, who slew little children with knife-thrusts
in the head. “These,” thought I, as a
feverish shiver shook me—“these have been the denizens
of this cell before me; it is here, on this very
<span class='pageno' title='30' id='Page_30'></span>
floor, that they, men of blood and slaughter, have
thought out their last thoughts; it is in this narrow
space that they have paced up and down like savage
beasts.” They succeeded each other with great
rapidity; this cell does not remain empty long. They
have left the nest warm, and it is to me that they
have left it. I, in my turn, shall join them in the
cemetery of Clamont, where the grass grows so
luxuriantly and well. I am not a visionary, nor am
I superstitious; it is probable that these gloomy
thoughts produced a slight attack of fever, for whilst
I was thus musing it seemed to me as if these fatal
names were written in fire on the black wall; I heard
a buzzing in my ears, which grew quicker and quicker;
a red light shone in my eyes, and then it seemed as if
the cell was filled with men, strange men, who carried
their heads in their left hands, and carried them by
the mouth, because the hair was cut off. All shook
their fists at me except the parricide.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I shut my eyes in horror, and saw it all the more
distinctly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Dream, vision, or reality, I should have gone mad
if something had not aroused me from my paroxysm;
I was in the act of falling backwards, when I felt a
cold body with hairy feet walk over my foot. It was
the spider whose web I had destroyed, and who was
escaping. This brought me to my senses, but oh,
what terrible apparitions!</p>

<p class='pindent'>No, no! it was imagination engendered by the
working of my brain. The dead are dead, these
especially, and fastened down securely in their
tombs. That is a prison from which there is no
<span class='pageno' title='31' id='Page_31'></span>
escape. How could I be so frightened? The gates
of the tomb do not open on this side.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I have</span> witnessed a horrible scene to-day.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was bright daylight, and the prison was full of
unaccustomed noise. I could hear the opening and
shutting of heavy doors, the creaking of bolts and
padlocks, the jingling of the keys that the warders
carried at their waists, the shaking of the stairs under
the tread of heavy feet, and voices calling to and
answering each other, down the long corridors. My
neighbours in the cells, the refractory convicts, were
gayer than usual. All through Bicêtre rang the
sound of mirth, and dance, and song.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I alone in the midst of all this hubbub was dumb.
Not understanding the cause, I listened attentively.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One of the gaolers passed my door.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I ventured to ask him if there was a holiday in the
prison.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You may call it one if you like,” replied he.
“To-day they are putting irons on the convicts, who
will start for Toulon to-morrow. Would you like to
see it done?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>After the hermit’s life that I had led such an offer
was too good to be refused, odious as the spectacle
might be, and I accepted his offer gratefully.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The warder took the usual precautions to ensure
my safety, and then he conducted me to an empty
cell, without an atom of furniture in it, but with a
<span class='pageno' title='32' id='Page_32'></span>
window, a real window, from which, though strongly
barred, a glimpse of the sky could be caught.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Here you are,” said he; “from this you can both
see and hear; you have your private box just like a
king!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then he left me alone, noisily securing the door
with bolts, bars, and padlocks.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The window looked into a large square courtyard,
round the four sides of which was a tall stone building
six storeys in height. Nothing could look more
miserable and naked than these buildings, pierced
with an immense number of windows, all of them
heavily barred. Every window was filled with a
crowd of heads, piled one upon another like the
stones that composed the walls, and framed as it
were by the interlacing of the iron bars. These were
the prisoners, spectators of a ceremony in which one
day they would play the principal part. You could
compare them to nothing but the souls in purgatory
gazing through the windows that looked on to the
infernal regions.</p>

<p class='pindent'>All gazed in silence on to the court, which was
totally unoccupied.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In one of the buildings that surrounded the courtyard
was an opening closed by a gate of iron bars;
this opened into a smaller courtyard, surrounded,
like the other, by a series of gloomy-looking buildings.
All round the larger court were stone benches, built
against the wall, and in the centre was a tall iron
lamp-post.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Twelve o’clock struck; the gate was hurriedly
thrown open. A waggon, escorted by men somewhat
<span class='pageno' title='33' id='Page_33'></span>
resembling soldiers, but dirty and untidy-looking,
lumbered heavily into the yard with a loud clanking
of iron. The men were the guardians of the galleys,
and the waggon contained the chain.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this moment, as if the noise had galvanized the
prison into life, the spectators at the windows, who
had up to this time preserved a strict silence, burst
into cries of joy, into songs, oaths, and insults,
mingled with peals of strident laughter heart-rending
to hear. You would have imagined that it was an
assembly of demons—on each face appeared a
fiendish grin, fists were shaken through the window
bars, every throat gave utterance to a yell, every eye
flashed fire.</p>

<p class='pindent'>However, the escort proceeded to work at once.
Amongst them I noticed several persons whom
curiosity had led to the spot, and who now appeared
to half repent of their temerity. One of the guards
clambered on to the waggon and threw down to his
comrades the chains, the travelling collars, and huge
bundles of canvas trousers. Then each man proceeded
to perform his allotted task; some laid out
the chains against the walls, others arranged the
shirts and trousers in heaps, whilst the more sagacious
amongst them, under the guidance of their
chief, a short, square-built man, carefully tested the
iron collars to see that there were no flaws in them.
All this was done in the midst of a flood of ribaldry
from the prisoners, whose voices were occasionally
drowned by the loud laughter of the convicts for
whom these preparations were being made.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When these preliminaries were completed, a
<span class='pageno' title='34' id='Page_34'></span>
gentleman in a laced uniform, who was termed the
inspector, gave an order to the governor of the prison;
and a moment afterwards, through two or three low
doors, rushed a yelling crowd of hideous and disgusting-looking
men—these were the convicts.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then the excitement of the lookers-on rose to its
highest pitch. Those amongst the convicts who had
earned a high criminal reputation were received with
loud applause, which they acknowledged with a kind
of haughty modesty. Many of the convicts carried
in their hands hats which they had made from the
straw supplied to them for bedding. One young
man, or rather a boy, for he could not have been
more than seventeen years of age, was much
applauded. He had made himself an entire garment
of straw, and came bounding into the yard, turning
a succession of somersaults. He was as lithe and
active as a serpent, and had been condemned to the
galleys for theft. On his appearance there was a
frenzied clapping of hands, and loud shouts of
admiration. It was a frightful thing to witness this
interchange of compliments between the veritable
convicts and the aspirants to that distinction. As
they came into the yard they were pushed and
hustled between a double rank of the guards of the
galleys in anticipation of the medical inspection.
Then were the last efforts made to avoid the dreaded
galleys, some pretending that they were lame, others
that their eyesight was defective, and a hundred
other excuses. But in most cases they were found
to be in quite good enough health for the galleys,
and they resigned themselves at once to their fate
<span class='pageno' title='35' id='Page_35'></span>
with utter carelessness, appearing entirely to forget
the pretended ailments of a lifetime. The iron
barred gate of the little court was now opened, and
one of the guards commenced calling the roll, which
was arranged alphabetically; and each convict, after
answering his name, took up a position by the side
of the comrade whom the chance of the initial letter
had designated as his companion. Thus, if a convict
had a friend, the odds were that he would be separated
from him and linked to an unknown—another
addition to their punishment.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When about thirty had been collected, the gate
was again closed. One of the guards, forming them
into line with blows of his stick, threw before each
one a coarse shirt and a pair of trousers, and at the
word of command they began to undress. And now
a fresh and unexpected torture began. Up to this
time the weather had been very fine; and if the
October breeze was a little cold, still the rays of the
sun were very grateful. But scarcely had the convicts
removed their prison rags, and whilst the
suspicious guards were examining them as they
stood bare and naked before them, than the sky
clouded over, and a heavy shower descended, flooding
the courtyard with torrents of rain.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In the twinkling of an eye every one except the
guards and the galley-slaves had left the courtyard,
and had sought shelter under the gateways.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The rain still continued to fall, and nothing was
to be seen but the naked bodies of the convicts
glistening in the wet. A gloomy silence had succeeded
their boastful fanfaronades. They shivered,
<span class='pageno' title='36' id='Page_36'></span>
and their teeth chattered; their emaciated legs and
knotty knees trembled beneath the weight of their
bodies, and it was pitiable to see them wrap the
sodden shirts around their limbs, which were blue
with the cold. Shirts and trousers were alike dripping
with the rain; nudity would have been preferable
to such a covering. One convict only, an elderly
man, preserved his gaiety, complaining that “this
was not in the programme.” He endeavoured to
dry his soaking shirt, and shook his fist at the clouds.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When they had put on their travelling garb, they
were collected in parties of twenty or thirty into the
corners of the yard where the chains had been
deposited. The chains were long and massive, and
at every two feet were two shorter transverse ones
terminating in a collar, which was rivetted on the
neck of the galley-slave during his journey to his
destination. When these chains were spread along
the ground they resembled the backbone of some
huge fish.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The convicts were now ordered to sit down on the
muddy pavement; the collars were fitted to their
necks; then the blacksmiths, carrying a portable
anvil, fixed the rivets with heavy blows of a sledge-hammer.</p>

<p class='pindent'>This was a terrible moment; even the boldest
amongst the convicts changed colour.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Every blow of the hammer as it fell on the anvil
made the chin of the patient quiver; the slightest
movement either forwards or backwards would have
crushed the skull like a nutshell.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When this operation had been concluded, an
<span class='pageno' title='37' id='Page_37'></span>
appearance of gloom came over them; nothing could
now be heard except the clanking of the chain, and
at intervals a cry, and the sound of a blow, as the
canes of the guards fell heavily upon the refractory
convicts. Some of them wept, some trembled and
bit their lips. I gazed with terror upon all these
sinister faces in their iron frames.</p>

<p class='pindent'>So there were three acts in this lugubrious drama—the
visit of the doctors, the visit of the gaolers,
and the fixing of the chain. Suddenly a ray of
sunlight appeared. From the conduct of the convicts
it would have seemed that this gleam of light
had set every brain on fire. They sprang to their
feet with an unanimous effort. The five chains of
criminals joined hands, and whirled in a mad dance
round the lamp-post in the centre of the court, until
the brain grew dizzy with watching their evolutions.
They shouted out a song of the galleys, a slang
romance set sometimes to a plaintive air, and at
others to a gay and rollicking tune. Loud cries
were heard, the panting of overtasked chests, and
every now and then mysterious words were interchanged.
The clanking of the chains served as the
orchestra for the song, in itself more discordant than
its accompaniment. Should I have desired to see a
representation of the revels of demons, I could not
have selected a better or a worse example.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Large buckets were then brought into the courtyard.
The guards broke up the convicts’ dance with
blows and curses, and forced them to the buckets, in
which I could see a few herbs swimming in some
dirty smoking liquid.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='38' id='Page_38'></span>
Then they sat down and ate.</p>

<p class='pindent'>After having finished their meat they threw what
remained upon the pavement, and recommenced
their songs and dances. It is the custom to relax
discipline a little during the day and the night upon
which the chain is fastened on.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was gazing upon this strange spectacle with so
greedy a curiosity, and was watching its every phase
with such attention, that I absolutely forgot myself.
A deep feeling of pity crept over me, and their
hollow laughter made me feel inclined to weep.</p>

<p class='pindent'>All of a sudden, in the midst of the sad reverie
into which I had fallen, I saw the ring of dancers
stop short, become perfectly silent, and then I
noticed that every eye was fixed upon the window
at which I was standing.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The condemned man! the condemned man!”
exclaimed they. Every finger was pointed at me, and
the shouts of diabolical laughter were redoubled.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was paralyzed. I could not understand how they
could know me, how they could have recognized me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good-day! good-day!” they cried, in piercing
accents.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One of the youngest of the band, condemned to the
galleys for life, gazed upon me with an envious look,
and shouted, “Ah, you are in luck, for you will be
sliced! Farewell, comrade.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I hardly know how I felt. It was a fact, I was
their comrade, for the Place de Grêve is the sister of
the Galleys of Toulon; I even occupied a higher
position than they did, and they paid me homage.
I shuddered at the idea.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='39' id='Page_39'></span>
Their comrade—yes, and a few days later I should
in my turn furnish a spectacle for men of their
stamp.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I had remained spell-bound at the window,
motionless, and unable to collect myself; but when
I saw the five chains rushing towards me with expressions
of fiendish cordiality, when I heard the
clash of their chains and the tramp of their footsteps
close to the wall, it seemed to me as if a crowd of
demons were about to storm my wretched cell. I
uttered a loud cry, and cast myself with violence
against the door; but there was no means of escape,
for it was securely bolted without. I pressed against
it, I cried out in mingled terror and rage. I seemed
to hear the hated voices of the convicts drawing
nearer and nearer; I fancied that I could perceive
their hideous heads appear above the window-sill.
I uttered another cry of terror, and I fainted.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XIV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>When</span> I came to myself it was night; I was lying
on a truckle-bed. By the light of a lamp which
hung from the ceiling I could see other beds placed
in lines. Then I understood that I had been brought
to the hospital.</p>

<p class='pindent'>For a few seconds I remained still; I was awake,
but without consciousness or recollection. At any
other time this hospital bed in the midst of a prison
would have made me recoil with disgust, but I was
no longer the same man. The sheets were coarse
<span class='pageno' title='40' id='Page_40'></span>
to the touch, and of a grey hue; the counterpane was
thin and ragged; you could feel the palliasse through
the mattress. But what did that matter? My
limbs could stretch themselves freely between the
coarse sheets, and the bed-clothes, thin as they were,
drove away that terrible cold which seemed to freeze
my very marrow. After a short interval I went to
sleep again.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A great disturbance awoke me. It was broad
daylight. The noise came from the outside. My bed
was next to a window; I raised myself up to see
what was the cause of the noise.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The window looked upon the main courtyard of
the Bicêtre. It was crowded; a body of pensioners
had great difficulty in keeping open a narrow path
through the centre of the populace. Between a
double rank of soldiers five long waggons, filled with
men, jolted heavily along. The convicts were
starting for their destination.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The vehicles had no covering. Each chain
occupied one; the convicts were seated on a bench
running down the centre, back to back, with the
chains between them, and at the end stood a soldier
with a loaded musket. You could hear their chains
clank with every jolt, and their legs shake as they
dangled over the side of the cart.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A fine searching rain was falling, chilling the air,
and making their thin clothes cling to their limbs;
their long beards and short hair were saturated
with moisture, their faces were violet with the cold;
I could see them shiver, and hear their teeth chatter
with cold, and impotent rage.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='41' id='Page_41'></span>
Once riveted to the chain, a man ceased to
exist as a separate individual. He must relinquish
his intelligence, for the collar of the galleys condemns
him to a living death, and, like a mere animal,
he can only partially satisfy his appetite at given
hours. Motionless, the majority of them half-naked,
with bare heads and dangling feet, they commenced
their journey of twenty-five days’ duration. Crowded
together in the carts, garments of the same texture
serving them as a defence against the scorching sun
of July and the cold rains of November, it almost
seemed as if man were endeavouring to press the
elements into the post of executioner. The five
waggons, escorted by cavalry and infantry, passed in
turn through the main gateway of the Bicêtre; a sixth
followed, in which were heaped together small
boilers, copper vessels, and spare chains. A few of
the guards who had lingered in the canteens hurried
to gain their posts; the crowd melted away, and all
the ghastly sight vanished like a dream of the night.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The sound of the wheels and the tramp of the
horses grew fainter and fainter on the paved road
that leads to Fontainebleau; the cracking of whips,
the clink of chains, and the shouts of the populace
as they wished the galley-slaves a prosperous
journey, all died away. And for them this was only
the beginning.</p>

<p class='pindent'>What was it my counsel said to me?</p>

<p class='pindent'>The galleys!</p>

<p class='pindent'>Ah, yes, death a thousand times sooner than
that. Annihilation rather than hell. Sooner give
my head to the knife of Guillotine, than my neck to
<span class='pageno' title='42' id='Page_42'></span>
the galley-slave’s collar. The galleys, just Heaven,
never!</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Unfortunately</span> I was not ill; the next day I had
to leave the hospital, and once more I was relegated
to my cell. Not ill! In point of fact, I am young,
vigorous, and healthy. The blood flows freely in my
veins, my limbs are under perfect control, I am
strong in body and in intellect, made for a long life,
and yet I am suffering from a mental disease, a
disease the work of men’s hands.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Since I left the hospital, an idea has crept into my
brain—an idea which, when I think of it, almost
drives me mad. It is, that if they had left me there
I might have managed to escape. The doctors and
the Sisters of Mercy seemed to take a great interest
in me; I was so young for such a terrible death.
One would have said that they pitied me, so
eager were they to crowd round my bed. Bah! it
was mere curiosity; and though these people would
cure you of a fever, yet they would not cure a judicial
sentence of death. And yet how easy it would be!—just
an open door; and what harm would it do
them? No more chance for me now; my appeal
will be rejected, for everything has been done according
to rule: the witnesses have testified correctly,
the counsel have pleaded well, and the judges have
done their part as they should. I cannot calculate
on anything, unless——No! it is madness, there is
no more ground for hope. An appeal is a cord by
<span class='pageno' title='43' id='Page_43'></span>
which you are suspended over an abyss; you can
hear it cracking a long time before it breaks and
lets you fall. It is as though the knife of the
guillotine took six weeks in which to fall.</p>

<p class='pindent'>If I could only gain my pardon—gain my pardon;
but how, and for what reason? It is impossible for
them to pardon me. All say that an example must
be made.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I have but three steps to take—Bicêtre, the Conciergerie,
and the Grêve.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XVI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Oh</span>, if I could only escape, how I would fly across
the fields! Ah, but I must not run—that would
draw attention and make people suspicious. On the
contrary, I must walk slowly, with my head up,
humming a tune. I ought to have an old handkerchief
round the lower part of my face, a blue one
with a pattern in red on it. It is a capital disguise,
all the market-gardeners in the suburbs wear them.
I know of a little clump of trees near Arcueil, by
the side of a marsh. Once when I was at school I
came there with my playmates to fish for frogs; I
would hide myself there until night.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When it grew dark I would recommence my
journey. I would go to Vincennes; no, the river is
in the way, I will go to Arpajon. Perhaps it would
be better to go by St. Germain, and get to Hâvre,—from
thence I could embark for England. Well,
<span class='pageno' title='44' id='Page_44'></span>
I come to Longjumeau; a policeman passes me, he
asks for my passport——I am lost!</p>

<p class='pindent'>Ah! hapless dreamer, first break through the three-foot
wall that surrounds you. Death! Death!</p>

<p class='pindent'>I recollect when I was quite a child they brought
me to Bicêtre to see the great wall, and the mad
people.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XVII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Whilst</span> I am writing this my lamp has grown dim;
the day is breaking, and the chapel clock has just
struck six.</p>

<p class='pindent'>What does this mean—the warder has come into
my cell, he has taken off his cap, and, softening his
rough voice as best he can, has asked me what I
should like for my breakfast?</p>

<p class='pindent'>A shiver runs through me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Is it to be done to-day?</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XVIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Yes</span>, it is for to-day. The governor of the prison
has been here, and has expressed his desire to serve
me; has asked if I have any complaints to make
about him or his subordinates; has inquired with
much interest after my health, and how I have
passed the night, and on leaving me called me <span class='it'>Sir</span>!
It <span class='it'>is</span> for to-day.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='45' id='Page_45'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XIX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>This</span> gaoler does not believe that I can have any fault
to find with him or with his subordinates. He is
right; it would be ungracious of me to complain—they
have but done their duty. They have guarded
me well, and they have been courteous on my
arrival, and on my departure. Ought I not to be
satisfied? This good gaoler, with his calm smile and
soothing words, with an eye that flatters whilst it
watches, with his large and powerful hands, he is the
incarnation of a prison—a Bicêtre transformed into
a man. Everything around me reminds me of a
prison; I recognize it in everything, in the human
figure, as in the iron bars and bolts: this wall is a
prison in stone, this door a prison in wood, these
turnkeys are prisoners in flesh and bone. The
prison is a kind of horrible being complete and indivisible,
half building and half man. I am its
victim; it grasps me, it wraps me in its folds, it shuts
me up in its granite walls, it padlocks me with its
iron bolts, and it watches me through the eyes of its
gaolers.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Ah! unhappy wretch that I am, what is to become
of me, <span class='it'>what are they going to do with me</span>?</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I am</span> calm again. All is over, and well for me that
it is so. I am relieved from the terrible weight of
<span class='pageno' title='46' id='Page_46'></span>
suspense by the visit of the governor. For I confess
it freely, I had hoped—now I hope no longer.</p>

<p class='pindent'>This is what has taken place.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Just as half-past six struck—no, it was a quarter to
seven—the door of my cell opened, and an old white-haired
man appeared on the threshold; he threw
open his great-coat, and I saw from his gown that
he was a priest.</p>

<p class='pindent'>This priest was not the chaplain of the prison, and
this looked bad for me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He sat down opposite to me, shook his head, and
raised his eyes to heaven—that is, towards the roof of
my cell. I understood what he meant.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My son,” said he, “are you prepared?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>In a feeble voice I replied, “I am not prepared,
but I am ready.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>But my sight grew dim; a cold sweat burst out
upon me. I felt my temples swell, and there was a
loud murmuring sound in my ears.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Whilst I swayed backwards and forwards in my
chair like a man asleep, the good old man was
talking—at least I suppose that he was, for I could
see his lips move, his hands wave, and his eyes
shine.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The door opened for the second time; the sound
of the withdrawal of the bolts roused me from my
stupor. This time it was the governor accompanied
by a gentleman in a black coat, who bowed to me on
entering; he held a roll of papers in his hands, and
had about him that false air of sorrow which we see
amongst undertakers.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir,” said he, “I am one of the ushers of the
<span class='pageno' title='47' id='Page_47'></span>
Courts of Justice: I have the honour to be the bearer
of a message from the Public Prosecutor.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The first shock was over; all my presence of mind
came back to me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The Public Prosecutor demands my head at once—is
it not so?” asked I. “What an honour for me
that he should write to me! I trust that my death
will give him great pleasure, for he worked with too
much ardour for it to have been a matter of indifference
to him.” Then in a calmer tone I added,
“Read, sir.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then he began a long rigmarole, intoning the last
word in each sentence. This was the rejection of
my appeal.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The sentence will be executed on the Place de
Grêve,” added he, as he finished, without raising his
eyes to mine. “We leave at half-past seven precisely
for the Conciergerie, my good sir; will you have
the extreme kindness to follow me?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>For the last few moments I had not been listening
to him; the governor was talking to the priest, the
usher’s eyes were on his papers, whilst mine were
fixed upon the door which had remained half opened.
Ah! wretch that I am, there were four soldiers in
the passage.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The usher repeated his question, this time looking
full at me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Whenever you wish,” answered I. “Suit your
own convenience.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He bowed, and replied that he would call for me in
half an hour! Then they went out, and left me alone.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Oh for some means of escape! O heavens, is there
<span class='pageno' title='48' id='Page_48'></span>
no hope? I must escape, I must on the spot—by the
doors, by the windows, by the roof, even if I leave
remnants of my flesh on the rafters and the joists.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Oh! horror, devils, curses, with good tools it would
take me a month to pierce these walls, and I have
not even a nail to work with or an hour to spare.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXI.<br/> <span style='font-size:smaller'>FROM THE CONCIERGERIE.</span></h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Here</span> I am <span class='it'>transferred</span>, as the order words it. But
the journey is worth the trouble of relating. Half-past
seven had just struck, as the usher again presented
himself at the door of my cell.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir,” said he, “I am waiting for you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>Me</span>—yes, and thousands of others.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I got up, and made a step towards him; it seemed
as if I could not take a second, so heavy was my
head, and so weak my legs. However, I made an
effort, and advanced tolerably firmly. Before leaving
I gave a farewell glance at the cell. I had grown to
love it; besides, I left it empty, and open, which gave
it a novel aspect. It will not long be so; another
tenant is expected this evening—so the turnkey says,
for the Court is now sitting, and conviction is certain.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At the end of the passage the chaplain came to
take leave of me; he had been to breakfast. At the
exit from the gaol the governor shook me affectionately
by the hand, and reinforced my escort with
four soldiers.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='49' id='Page_49'></span>
From the door of the hospital a dying man called
out “<span class='it'>Au revoir</span>.” We were in the courtyard; I drew
a long breath, it did me good.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We were not in the open air for long: a carriage
was waiting for us—it was the same which had
brought me here; it was oblong in shape, and divided
into two compartments by iron bars standing so closely
together that they appeared to be interlaced. Each
section had a door, one in front, and one behind.
The vehicle was so dirty and dusty, that the hearse
which conveys paupers to their last resting-place is
a state carriage in comparison to this one. Before
burying myself in this tomb, I cast one glance round
the courtyard, one of those despairing looks before
which walls should crumble. There were many
spectators waiting for my departure, more than there
had been to look at the galley-slaves. As on that
day a light rain was falling, and would no doubt fall
all day—the shower would last longer than I should.
The roads were much cut up, and the courtyard full
of dirt and water. It was pleasant to see the crowd
tramping about in the mud.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We got into the carriage—the usher and the
soldiers in front; the priest, a policeman, and myself
in the hindmost compartment.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Four mounted gendarmes surrounded the carriage;
thus, without counting the driver, there were eight
men to guard one poor wretch. As I got in I heard
an old woman say, “Well, for my part I prefer <span class='it'>that</span>
to the galley-slaves’ chain.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I understood her—the sight was simpler, more
easy to be taken in at a glance.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='50' id='Page_50'></span>
The carriage started; I heard the echoing sound as
it rolled under the main portal of the Bicêtre, whose
heavy gates closed behind us. I felt stupefied, like a
man who has fallen into a trance, who can neither
stir nor cry out, though he knows that they are
burying him alive.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I listened dreamily to the jingle of the bells in the
horses’ collars, the rolling of the wheels, and the
cadenced trot of the escort’s horses, and the crack of
the driver’s whip. It seemed as if I was being
carried away in a whirlwind.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Through the bars of a window in front of me my
eyes caught an inscription in large letters over the
Bicêtre—<span class='it'>Hospital for the Aged</span>.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ha!” exclaimed I, “it appears then that <span class='it'>some</span>
people do grow old there.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>All at once the vehicle made a sudden turn, which
changed the scene. Now I saw the towers of Notre
Dame rising through the mist of Paris.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Those who have a place in the tower where the
flagstaff is will have a good view,” thought I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I think that it was about this time that the priest
began talking again. I let him go on without interruption;
my ears were filled with the noise of the
wheels, the horses’ hoofs, and the coachman’s whip—what
mattered a little more noise?</p>

<p class='pindent'>I listened then to this flow of words, which
soothed my feelings, like the murmur of falling
water, when the sharp voice of the usher broke the
silence.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well, Abbé,” exclaimed he, “what news have
you to-day?”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='51' id='Page_51'></span>
The chaplain, who had never ceased talking to me,
made no reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Hé, hé!</span>” resumed the usher, raising his voice to
drown the sound of the wheels, “what an infernal
carriage this is!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Infernal, indeed, for I found it so.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He continued: “It is the jolting and the rumbling,
no doubt, that prevents your hearing me—what was
I saying? Ah! your reverence, have you heard to-day’s
news that is exciting all Paris?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I trembled; was he speaking of me?</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No,” answered the priest, who had at last heard
him, “I have not had time to read the morning
papers; but I suppose I shall see it all in the
evening. When I am much engaged, I tell our
porter to keep them for me, and I read them on my
return.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What!” exclaimed the usher; “is it possible
that you have not heard the news of this morning—the
news that is convulsing Paris?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I interrupted him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I think that I know it.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The usher stared at me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You! well, really, what do you say to it?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You are too curious,” replied I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Why so, sir?” answered the usher. “Every
one has his own opinion regarding politics, and I
respect you too much not to presume that you have
yours. For my part I am entirely in favour of the
reconstruction of the National Guard; I was the
sergeant of my company, and faith, it was most
pleasant——”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='52' id='Page_52'></span>
I interrupted him again.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It was not that I had imagined which caused
the excitement, but something else.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What was it then? You said you knew it.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I was referring to something else that Paris was
thinking of to-day.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The idiot did not yet understand me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Some more news! How on earth did you
manage to pick them up? Can you guess what it
can be, your reverence? Come, pray let me know.
You cannot imagine how fond I am of a piece of
news. I will repeat it to the President, it will
amuse him.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>And he uttered a hundred more platitudes, turning
to the priest and to myself. I shrugged my
shoulders.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well,” continued he, “what are you thinking of?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I was thinking,” answered I, “that I shall think
no more this evening!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ah! that is what is troubling you; you are cast
down. Come, cheer up; Mr. Castaing talked all the
way.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then, after a pause, he continued: “I escorted
Mr. Papavoine; he wore his otter-skin cap, and
smoked all the way. As to those young people from
Rochelle, they talked to each other the whole time.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Madmen, enthusiasts,” he added, “they appeared
to despise all the world; but really, my young
friend, you are too sad.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Young!” answered I, bitterly; “I am older
than you. Each quarter of an hour as it passes
adds a year to my age.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='53' id='Page_53'></span>
He turned round and looked at me for a few
seconds with unfeigned surprise.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You are joking—older than I am; why I might
be your grandfather.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I was not joking,” answered I, gravely.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He opened his snuff-box.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“There, my dear sir, do not be angry, and do not
bear me a grudge.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I shall not bear it long,” was my reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this moment the snuff-box, which he had placed
against the barred division, was shaken from his
hand by a violent jolt of the vehicle, and fell at his
feet.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Confound the bars!” cried he. “Am I not unlucky?
I have lost all my snuff!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I am losing more than you,” answered I, with a
smile.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He endeavoured to pick up the snuff, grumbling to
himself.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Losing more than me! that is easy to say; not
a grain of snuff until I get to Paris; it is awful!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The chaplain condoled with him on his loss; and,
whether it was that I was preoccupied or not, I do
not know, but it seemed to me as if this consolation
fitted very well with the exhortation that he had
commenced to me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Little by little the conversation between the priest
and the usher increased, whilst I buried myself in
my own thoughts.</p>

<p class='pindent'>As we passed the barrier, the noise of the great
city seemed louder than usual.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The vehicle stopped a moment at the office of the
<span class='pageno' title='54' id='Page_54'></span>
Customs whilst the officers examined it. If it had
been an ox or a sheep that was being taken to the
slaughter-house a fee would have to have been paid,
but man goes free.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The boulevard once passed, we plunged into those
old winding streets of the Cité and the Faubourg
St. Marceau, which intersect each other like the
paths of an ant-hill. On the stone-paved roadway
of their streets the noise of the vehicle was so
deafening that it drowned all exterior sounds.
When I glanced through the little window it seemed
to me as if the passers-by stopped to gaze after the
carriage, whilst crowds of children followed at a run.
At the crossings I could see ragged men and women
holding in their hands bundles of newspapers which
were eagerly purchased by the crowd.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Half-past eight sounded from the palace clocks as
we arrived in the courtyard of the <span class='it'>Conciergerie</span>. The
sight of the wide staircase, the gloomy chapel, and
the sinister-looking wickets froze my blood. When
the carriage stopped, I thought that my heart too
would stop beating.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I summoned up my courage. The door was
thrown open like a flash of lightning; I leapt from
my rolling dungeon, and found myself under an archway
between two ranks of soldiers. A curious crowd
had already collected to watch my arrival.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>As</span> long as I walked through the public passages of
the Courts of Justice, I felt almost free and at my
<span class='pageno' title='55' id='Page_55'></span>
ease, but my courage almost failed me when a low
door opened, and I was led through gloomy corridors
and down secret staircases—places where only
the condemned and their judges are permitted to
enter.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The usher was still with me. The priest had left
me promising to return in two hours, as he had
some business to do.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was led to the offices of the governor, to whom
the usher handed me over. After all it was a mere
exchange, for the governor begged him to wait for a
few moments, as he had some <span class='it'>game</span> to give him
which was to be taken back to the Bicêtre at once.
No doubt this was the newly-condemned criminal;
he who was to sleep in my cell upon the truss of
straw which I had hardly used.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good!” answered the usher, “I will wait a
moment, and we can draw up the documents for
both of them at the same time.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Whilst this was being done I was placed in a
small room adjoining the director’s office, the door of
which was securely fastened.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I do not know how long I had been there, or,
indeed, of what I was thinking, when a violent burst
of laughter close to my ear aroused me from my
reverie. I started and looked up; I was not alone,
there was a man with me—a man of about fifty-five
years of age, of middle height, wrinkled, bent, and
grey-haired, strongly built, with a sinister expression
in his eyes, and a mocking smile upon his lips, dirty,
ragged, and disgusting to the sight.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The door had been opened, and he had been thrust
<span class='pageno' title='56' id='Page_56'></span>
in without my having perceived it. Would death
come thus to me?</p>

<p class='pindent'>This man and I gazed earnestly at each other for
some moments, he continuing his sinister chuckle,
which had something convulsive in it, and I half
alarmed and wholly surprised.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Who are you?” exclaimed I, at length.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“A nice question to ask,” answered he. “I am
<span class='it'>booked through</span>.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What is that?” I inquired.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It means,” cried he, with another burst of laughter,
“that in six weeks the knife will chop my nut
into the sack, as it will yours in about six hours.
Ha, ha! you understand me now, it seems.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He was right. I turned pale, and my hair stood
on end, for here was the other condemned man of
to-day, my heir at the Bicêtre.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He continued—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well, this is my history. I am the son of a
good old prig, and it was a pity that Charlot<a id='r1'/><a href='#f1' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[1]</span></sup></a> strung
him up by the neck: that was when the gallows
was an institution. At six years of age I was an
orphan, and used to pick up a few coppers in the
spring by turning head over heels by the sides of
the carriages. In winter I used to run about with
my naked feet in the mud, blowing my fingers, all
red with the cold, and showing my bare skin through
the holes in my trousers. At nine I began to use
my fingers, and from time to time I would empty
a fob, or prig a cloak; and at ten I was a thoroughbred
prig. Then I began to get pals round me. At
<span class='pageno' title='57' id='Page_57'></span>
seventeen I was a cracksman and cracked a crib, but
they caught me, and I was lagged. The galleys did
not suit my complaint: black bread and cold water,
a plank bed, and a cannon-ball to drag after me, not
to mention blows of a stick, and a scorching sun;
besides that they shaved me, and I used to have fine
chestnut hair. But I did my time—fifteen years.
I was thirty-two when they gave me the yellow passport
and sixty-six francs, which I had earned during
my fifteen years, working hard sixteen hours daily,
thirty days in the month, and twelve months in the
year. Well, there it was. I wanted to be an honest
man with my sixty-six francs, and I had finer sentiments
under my rags than you would find under
many a priest’s frock. But may the devil fly away
with the passport, for it was yellow, and in it was
written, ‘Released Convict.’... I had to show that
wherever I went, and to report myself every eighth
day to the mayor of the village where they had
assigned me a residence. An ex-galley-slave, a
nice kind of recommendation! Every one shunned
me; the little kids bolted when they saw me coming,
and every door was shut in my nose. I could not
get a day’s work, and my sixty-six francs were soon
eaten, and I wanted to live. I showed my strong
arms, and offered a day’s work for fifteen sous, for
ten sous, for five sous, and could get nothing. What
was I to do? One day, when I was hungry, I
smashed a baker’s window with my elbow and stole
a loaf of bread. I was not allowed to eat the bread,
but I was sent to the galleys for life, with a brand on
my shoulders which I will show you if you like. And
<span class='pageno' title='58' id='Page_58'></span>
they call that justice. There I was, a returned lag.
They sent me to Toulon, this time with a green cap.<a id='r2'/><a href='#f2' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[2]</span></sup></a>
I made up my mind to escape. I had three walls to
break through, the chains to cut; but I had a nail
to do it with. I escaped. They fired the gun, and
all were on the alert. We are dressed in red like
the cardinals, and they fire a salute when we go out.
The powder went to kill the sparrows as far as
I know. This time there was no yellow passport,
and no money. I made my way back to some old
pals who had done time themselves, and filled their
pockets often enough. Their boss proposed a bit of
high Toby. I was on like a shot, and I began to
murder for a living. Sometimes it was a stage-coach,
at others a post-chaise; sometimes a cattle merchant.
We took their money, and we left the
carriage and horses alone, and buried the man under
a tree, taking care that his toes should not show;
and then we jumped on the grave so that the newly-turned
earth should attract no notice. I grew old
at this game, hiding in the thickets—sleeping under
the stars—tracked from wood to wood, but at least
I was free. Everything comes to an end, however,
and one day the slops put their fingers on my collar;
my pals hooked it, and I remained with the chaps
with the gold-laced hats. Well, they brought me
here. I had climbed every rung of the ladder except
one. I had got from prigging a wipe to cutting a
throat, and there was no medium for me except the
three-cornered knife. Well, well! my father had
his cravat tied in public, and I shall make a first
<span class='pageno' title='59' id='Page_59'></span>
and last appearance in the Place de Grêve. That is
all, my lad!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was horror-struck at his recital. He laughed
louder than ever, and tried to take my hand. I
shrunk away from him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My friend,” said he, “you do not appear to have
much pluck. Try and die game. You have a few
unpleasant moments on the scaffold, but that is soon
over. I wish that I could show you how to make
the last jump properly. I should be glad if they
would shave me as well as you to-day. The same
priest would serve us both, and you might have him
first if you like. You see that I am a good-natured
devil.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He again made a step towards me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir,” said I, pushing him back, “I thank you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was a fresh burst of laughter at my reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir! Sir yourself if you come to that. Why, you
must be a marquis at the least.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I interrupted him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Leave me alone, my friend; I want to collect
myself.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The gravity of my speech made him serious for an
instant. He shook his grey head, which was almost
bald, and thrust his hand into his open shirt-front.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I understand,” muttered he; “you are expecting
the parson.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then after gazing at me for a few seconds—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Look here,” said he, timidly, “you are a marquis,
that is all right; but you have a fine great-coat there,
and it will not be of any use to you soon. Give it to
me, and I will sell it for tobacco.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='60' id='Page_60'></span>
I took off my coat and gave it to him; he clapped
his hands like a pleased child. Then, noticing that
I was shivering in my shirt-sleeves, “You are cold,”
cried he; “it rains, and you will get wet. Put this
on; besides, you ought to look respectable;” and
whilst speaking, he took off his coarse woollen vest
and thrust it into my hands.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I permitted him to do so, and then I leaned against
the wall. I cannot tell you the effect that this man
had on me. He had put on my great-coat, and was
examining it with all attention, uttering every now
and then cries of delight.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The pockets are quite new,” exclaimed he; “the
collar is hardly soiled. I shall get at least fifteen
francs for it. What happiness! tobacco for the next
six weeks!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Again the door opened. They came to take both
of us away; to lead me to the chamber where the
condemned await their last hour, and to remove him
to the Bicêtre. He was placed in the midst of the
escort, and went off laughing and saying—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Now then, no mistakes. The gentleman and
I have changed our skins, but I am not going to
change places with him, now that I have tobacco
for the next six weeks.”</p>

<hr class='footnotemark'/>

<div class='footnote'>
<table summary='footnote_1'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' style='width: 3em;'/>
<col span='1'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'>
<div id='f1'><a href='#r1'>[1]</a></div>
</td><td>

<p class='pindent'>The hangman.</p>

</td></tr>
</table>
</div>

<div class='footnote'>
<table summary='footnote_2'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' style='width: 3em;'/>
<col span='1'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'>
<div id='f2'><a href='#r2'>[2]</a></div>
</td><td>

<p class='pindent'>The green cap was a sign of penal servitude for life.</p>

</td></tr>
</table>
</div>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> old scoundrel, he has taken my great-coat, for
I did not give it to him, and he has left me this rag,
this disgusting garment. What will people think
of me?</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='61' id='Page_61'></span>
Did I let him have my great-coat from carelessness,
or from charity? Not a bit; but because he
was stronger than I was, and had I not given it
he would have beaten me with those sledge-hammer
fists of his.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Not an atom of charity in it. I was filled with
evil thoughts. I could have strangled the old thief;
I could have trampled him under foot. I feel that
my heart is full of rage and bitterness, as if my very
gall-bladder had burst. Approaching death brings up
many evil thoughts and feelings.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXIV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>They</span> have taken me into a bare cell, of course with
any amount of bars in the windows and bolts on the
door. I have asked for a table and a chair, and the
means of writing. They have brought them. Then
I asked for a bed. The gaoler cast a look of surprise
upon me, which seemed to say, “What is the good
of it to you?” However, they have arranged a
trestle-bed in the corner; but at the same time
a policeman has taken up his position in my room.
Are they afraid that I shall strangle myself with the
mattress?</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>It</span> is ten o’clock.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Oh! my poor little daughter, in six hours I shall
be dead. I shall be a foul thing that they will lay
<span class='pageno' title='62' id='Page_62'></span>
upon the table at the College of Surgeons; upon one
side they will take a mould of my head, upon the
other they will dissect my body; then what remains
of me they will put into a coffin, and expedite it to
the cemetery of Clamont. That is what these men
will do to your father. None of them hate me; all
pity me, and all could save me; and yet they are
going to kill me. Do you understand that, Marie?
They will kill me in cold blood, in all due form, for
the good that it will do. Oh, great heaven!</p>

<p class='pindent'>Poor little child! Your father who loves you so
much, who kisses your little white and perfumed
neck, who passes his fingers through the silky curls
of your hair, who takes your sweet little face in his
hand, who dances you on his knee, and at bedtime
joins your little hands together, and teaches you to
pray to God. Who will do this for you now? Who
will love you? All children of your age will have
fathers except you. How you will miss, my dear child,
the New Year’s gifts, the presents, the pretty play-things,
the sugar-plums, and the kisses! You unhappy
orphan, you may have to give up eating and
drinking!</p>

<p class='pindent'>Ah! if the jury could only have seen my little
Marie, they would have thought twice before killing
the father of a child of three years old. And when
she grows up, if she lives long enough, what will
become of her? Her father will be one of the recollections
of Paris. She will blush for me and my
name. She will be despised and repulsed on all sides.
Disgraced on my account who love her with all the
tenderness of which my heart is capable. Oh, my
<span class='pageno' title='63' id='Page_63'></span>
well-beloved little Marie, can it be true that you will
ever hold me in shame and horror?</p>

<p class='pindent'>Wretch! what crime have I committed, and what
crime have I made society commit?</p>

<p class='pindent'>Can it be true that I shall be dead before the end
of to-day? Is this really me? That dull sound that
I hear outside, the crowds of people that are flocking
along the quay, the gendarmes paraded in their
barracks, the priest in his black robe, the man with
the red-stained hands! Is all this for me? Is it
I that am going to die—I, who am sitting here at
this table, who lives, who feels, who breathes? Yes,
it is I. I know it by the sense of touch, and by the
creases I can make on my clothes.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXVI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I know</span> something of it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was driving by the Place de Grêve once, about
eleven o’clock in the morning. All of a sudden the
carriage stopped.</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was a crowd in the square. I put my head
out of the door. Many women and children were
standing in the parapets of the quay. Above their
heads I could see a species of red scaffold which some
workmen were putting together.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A man was to be executed that day, and they were
erecting the machine.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I turned away my head as this caught my eye. I
heard a woman near me saying, “Look! the knife
does not slide well, they are greasing the groove with
a bit of candle!”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='64' id='Page_64'></span>
Probably they are doing that now. Eleven o’clock
is just striking. No doubt they are greasing the
groove.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Ah! miserable wretch, this time I shall not turn
away my head!</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXVII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Oh</span>, my pardon, my pardon! perhaps I shall be reprieved.
The king may interfere. Let them run and
fetch my counsel to me; quick, my counsel! I choose
the galleys; five years should settle it; or twenty
years; or a brand with the red-hot iron: but let me
have my life! A convict lives, moves, goes and
comes, and sees the bright sun in the heavens.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> priest has come back to me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He has white hair, a gentle manner, and a benevolent
face. Indeed, I have heard that he is a really
good and charitable man. This morning I saw him
distribute the contents of his purse amongst the
prisoners. But his exhortations have no effect on
me. I was callous to all that he could say, his words
slided from my mind as cold rain from a frozen
window-pane.</p>

<p class='pindent'>However, his reappearance gave me pleasure.
Amongst all those who surround me, he is the only
one who still looks upon me as a man, and I am
thirsting for kind and cheering words.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='65' id='Page_65'></span>
We sat down, he on my chair, I on the bed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My son,” commenced he. These words went at
once straight to my heart. He continued, “Do you
believe in God?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, father,” I replied.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do you believe in the Holy Roman Catholic
and Apostolic Church?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Certainly,” answered I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My son,” observed he, “I fear that you are a
waverer.” Then he began to speak again. He talked
for a long time; then when he fancied that he had
said enough, he for the first time raised his eyes to
mine as if to question me mutely.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well?” asked he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I declare that I had listened to him first with eagerness,
then with attention, and lastly with reverence.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I got up from my seat.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir,” said I, “leave me alone, I entreat of you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“When shall I return?” asked he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I will let you know.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then he left me without another word, shaking
his head, as though he were saying to himself:</p>

<p class='pindent'>“An infidel!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>No, low as I have fallen, I am not an infidel. My
God is my witness that I believe in Him. But what
has this old man been able to say to me? Nothing
that I have felt, nothing that has touched me,
nothing that has drawn tears from my eyes, nothing
which goes from his soul direct to mine. On the
contrary, what he has said to me he might say to
any one else, emphasizing his words when his argument
had need of depth, full of platitudes when it
<span class='pageno' title='66' id='Page_66'></span>
should have been most simple, a kind of sentimental
sermon and theological elegy. Here and there he
put in a Latin quotation from Saint Gregory, Saint
Austin, or some one else. He had the air of a man
who repeats a lesson that he has said many times
before, and which, though half forgotten and obliterated
from his memory, returns again to him from the
fact of his having known it long years before. There
is no expression in his eye, no emphasis in his
voice; nor do his features add to the power of his
oratory.</p>

<p class='pindent'>And how could it be otherwise? This priest is the
prison chaplain. His duty is to console and to exhort;
he lives by that. He has grown old in preparing
men for the scaffold. For many years he has made
others tremble, whilst his white hairs never bristle at
the horrors that he is a witness of. For him the
scaffold and the galley are matters of every-day life.
They bore him. Probably he keeps a book of sermons—such
and such a page for those sentenced to
death, and another for those in penal servitude. To-day
he was warned that some one would require the
consolations of religion. He asked whether it was
a condemned criminal or a galley-slave, and, upon
receiving the reply, turned to the necessary page,
refreshed his memory, and came here.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Oh! if instead of sending for him they had sought
out some young vicar, some old priest from a remote
parish sitting in his chimney corner reading his book,
and not expecting the summons; and saying to him:
“There is a man about to die, come and console
him. You will have to be with him when they bind
<span class='pageno' title='67' id='Page_67'></span>
his hands and cut his hair; you must ride in the
cart with him, and with the crucifix hide the headsman
from his sight; you will be jolting against him
on the road to La Grêve; you will pass with him
through the terrible crowd thirsting for his blood; you
will take leave of him at the foot of the scaffold, and
will remain in waiting until his head is in one place
and his body in another.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then when they bring me into his presence
trembling from head to foot, when I embrace him
and clasp his knees, he will weep; we shall mingle
our tears together; he will wax eloquent, and I shall
be consoled; my heart will soften to his words, he will
take charge of my soul, and I shall rely on his God.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But this old man, what is he to me? What am
I to him? A man of the lowest class, a shadow
many of which he has seen, a mere unit added to
the figures in the list of executions.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was wrong, perhaps, to send him away as I did;
it was he who behaved well, whilst I acted wrongly.
It is my breath, that destroys and blasts everything
around me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>They have brought me refreshment, fancying that
I must be in need of it; a nice enough luncheon—a
fowl, and something else, but after the first mouthful
I have been unable to eat—everything tasted full of
bitterness and corruption.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXIX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>A man</span> has just come in with his hat on; he produced
a foot-rule from his pocket, and commenced
<span class='pageno' title='68' id='Page_68'></span>
measuring the stonework of the wall, murmuring to
himself, “It is so;” and again, “No, that will not do.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I asked the gendarme who this was. It appears
that he is a sort of assistant architect employed in
the prison.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He seemed to feel some curiosity about me, for he
whispered a few inquiries to the turnkey who accompanied
him; then he fixed his eyes upon me, and,
shaking his head in a careless manner, began to talk
in a loud voice, and continued his measurements.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When his work was over he approached me, and
said in a strident voice—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My good friend, in six months this prison will be
greatly improved.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>But his manner seemed to imply, “It is a pity you
will be unable to enjoy it.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He smiled blandly, and I really thought that he
was going to rally me, as you might a young bride
on her nuptial morning.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The gendarme in charge of me, an old soldier with
several good-conduct stripes, took upon himself to
reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir,” said he, “you must not talk so loud in the
Chamber of Death.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The architect left the room, but I remained there
as dumb as one of the stones that he had been
measuring.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Then</span> a ridiculous incident occurred. The good old
gendarme was relieved, and I, selfish wretch, had not
<span class='pageno' title='69' id='Page_69'></span>
even shaken hands with him. The new sentinel was
a man of vulgar features, bull-eyed, with a foolish
expression in his face.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I paid no attention to him. I had turned my
back to the door, and, seated at the table, was
pressing my hand to my forehead. A light tap upon
my shoulder caused me to turn my head. The fresh
guard and I were alone.</p>

<p class='pindent'>This is something the way in which he began the
conversation, “Criminal, have you a kind heart?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No,” answered I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The sharpness of my reply seemed to disconcert
him, but he began again after a moment’s hesitation—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But one is not wicked for the pleasure of being
so!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Why not?” answered I. “If you have nothing
better to say than that, leave me in peace. What
are you aiming at?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Forgive me, criminal,” replied he. “Suppose
that you could ensure the happiness of a poor fellow
without its costing you anything, would you not do
so?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I shrugged my shoulders.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Have you come from a madhouse? You choose
a strange moment to ask a favour. Why should I
consult any one’s happiness?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He lowered his voice in a mysterious manner,
which accorded ill with his idiotic expression.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, criminal, happiness for me, fortune for me,
and all coming from you. Look here, I am a poor
gendarme. The work is hard, and the pay light.
The keep of my horse ruins me; so I put into the
<span class='pageno' title='70' id='Page_70'></span>
lottery to try and square myself. One must have
an object in life. Up to this time I have failed to
gain a prize because I have never chosen a lucky
number. I seek for them in sure places, but am
always a little wrong. If I stake on 76, 77 is sure to
come up. I do all that I can, but the right one will
never come up. A moment’s patience, please; I am
nearly at the end. Here is a lucky chance for me.
It appears, criminal—forgive me—that it is all up
with you to-day. It is a well-known fact that those
who die as you do, see the lucky number in advance.
Promise me that you will come to me to-morrow
evening—it will be no trouble for you to do so—and
to give me three numbers, three good ones. Will
you, eh? I am not afraid of ghosts, so be easy.
Here is my address: Cassine Popincourt, Staircase
A, No. 26, at the bottom of the passage. You will
remember that, will you not? Come this evening if
that is more convenient.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I should have disdained to answer this fool, if a
mad hope had not sprung up in my heart. In the
desperate position in which I was placed, it seemed
as if I might be able to break my chain with a slender
reed like this.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen,” said I, playing my part as well as I
could, “I can render you richer than a king; I can
give you millions, on one condition.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He opened his dull eyes.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What is it? what is it? anything that you
wish.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Instead of three numbers you shall have four.
Change clothes with me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='71' id='Page_71'></span>
“Is that all?” exclaimed he, hurriedly unbuttoning
his uniform.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I got up from my seat. I watched all his movements—my
heart beat; already I saw all doors
opening before the uniform of a gendarme, and the
Conciergerie left far behind me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Suddenly he stopped, with an air of hesitation.
“Ah! you want to get out of this?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Of course,” I replied; “but your fortune is
made.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He interrupted me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ah, no, that will not do; how could the numbers
be worth anything if you were not dead?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I sat down in silence; all hope had fled, and again
I was plunged in despair.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I closed</span> my eyes, and covered them with my hands,
striving to forget the present in the past. As I pondered,
the recollections of my childhood came back to
me, soft, calm, and smiling like islands of flowers, in
the black gulf of confused thoughts which turned
and twisted in my brain.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I could see myself once again, a laughing schoolboy,
playing, running, and shouting to my brothers,
in the green avenues of the neglected garden of the
home where my earlier years were spent. And then,
four years later, I was there—still a child, but full of
dreams and sentiments. But there was a girl with
me in the lonely garden.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='72' id='Page_72'></span>
A little Spaniard, with large eyes and long hair,
olive-tinted skin, red lips and cheeks, an Andalusian,
fourteen years of age, called Pepa. Our mothers
had told us to run about together in the garden; we
came out and walked about. They had told us to
play, but we preferred to talk, children of the same
age but different sex.</p>

<p class='pindent'>For more than a year we had been in the habit of
playing and quarrelling together. I disputed with
Pepita for the ripest apple on the tree, and I once
struck her for the possession of a bird’s nest. She
wept, and I said, “Serves you right,” and we both
ran to complain to our mothers, who openly blamed
me, but in their inmost heart each thought that her
own child was right.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Now she is leaning on my arm; I feel proud and
happy. We are walking slowly, and conversing in
low tones. She lets her handkerchief drop, I pick it
up for her; our hands tremble as they meet. She is
talking to me of the little birds, of the sun that we
see over there setting in crimson behind the trees, of
her schoolmates, of her dress, of her ribbons. We
talk of the most innocent things, and yet we blush;
the child has become a young girl.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was a summer’s evening; we were under the
chestnut-trees at the bottom of the garden.</p>

<p class='pindent'>After one of those long intervals of silence which
occurred so often in our walks, she suddenly let go of
my arm, and cried, “Let us run.” And she started
off in front of me, her figure slender as a wasp’s, her
little feet raising her dress half-way up the leg. I
pursued her; she fled. As she dashed along the wind
<span class='pageno' title='73' id='Page_73'></span>
raised her tippet, and showed the olive-tinted hue of
her neck.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was beside myself; I caught her just by the
ruined well. As the winner I seized her by the waist,
and drew her down upon a bank of turf. She was
out of breath, and laughing. I was quite serious,
and gazed into her dark eyes, half-veiled by her
black lashes.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sit there,” said she to me; “there is plenty of
daylight, let us read. Have you a book?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I had with me the second volume of the “Travels of
Spalanzani.” I opened it at hazard, and moved close
to her; she rested her shoulder against mine, and we
began to read upon the same page. Before turning
the page she had always to wait for me. Her intellect
ran quicker than mine did.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Have you finished?” she asked, when I had
hardly begun.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Our heads touched, our hair mingled together, and
our respirations crossed each other, and then our lips
met.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When we wished to begin reading again, the sky
was studded with stars.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Oh, mamma, mamma!” she exclaimed as she
entered the house, “how we have been running!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I kept silence.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You say nothing, my boy,” said my mother.
“You look sad.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>My heart was full of bliss.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I shall remember that evening until the last day
of my life.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>The last day of my life!</span></p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='74' id='Page_74'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Some</span> hour has struck—I do not know which. I can
hardly hear the sound; there is a buzzing in my ears,
it is my last thoughts that are working in my brain.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this last moment I fall back upon my recollections.
I look upon my crime with horror, but I wish
for a longer time for repentance. I had more feelings
of remorse before my condemnation; since, it
seems that there is room for nothing except the
thoughts of death. When my thoughts turn for a
moment to my past life, they veer round to the axe
which will shortly terminate all, and I shiver as if
the idea was a new one. My happy childhood, my
glorious youth, the end of which is to be stained
with my blood. Between that and the present there
is a river of blood, another’s and mine. If any one
ever reads my life, they will not believe in this fatal
year, which opens with a crime, and closes with a
shameful punishment. It would be impossible to
credit it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A sanguinary law, O cruel men—and yet I was
not naturally wicked.</p>

<p class='pindent'>To die in a few hours, and to think that there was
a time when I was free and pure, when I wandered
under the trees, when I walked upon the leaf-strewn
paths.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>At</span> this very time there is, in the houses around the
place in which I am, men who come and go, who
<span class='pageno' title='75' id='Page_75'></span>
laugh and talk, who read the paper and talk over
their affairs, tradesmen who sell, young girls who are
working at their ball-dresses, and mothers who are
playing with their children.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I recollect</span> one day, when I was a child, going to
see the peal of bells of Notre Dame. I was already
dizzy with having mounted the dark winding staircase,
and having crossed the narrow gallery which
connects the two towers of the cathedral, and saw
Paris stretching beneath my feet; then I entered the
belfry where hangs the bell, and its clapper which
weighs I know not how many pounds.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I advanced hesitatingly over the uneven flooring,
gazing at the bell so celebrated amongst the children
and the people of Paris, and remarked, not without a
feeling of terror, that the sloping tile roofs were on a
level with my feet; and I took a bird’s-eye view of the
place of Paris—Notre Dame, and the passers-by looking
like a swarm of ants. All of a sudden the heavy
bell rang, a vibration shook the air and made the
lofty tower quiver. The planking trembled on the
beams. Affrighted, I threw myself upon the flooring,
and clasped it with my two hands, speechless and
breathless, with that tremendous pealing in my ears,
whilst under my very eyes was that tremendous
precipice where so many people were passing in
calm and quiet. Well, it seems that I am still in
the belfry tower. Everything seems to be buzzing
<span class='pageno' title='76' id='Page_76'></span>
and humming around me, there is a sound of bells
beating on my brain; and around me, as across an
abyss, I can see that calm and peaceful life that I
have quitted where men walk peacefully to and fro.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> Hotel de Ville is a sinister-looking edifice with
its pointed roof, and its strange-looking clock with a
white face, its staircases worn by the feet of many
passers-by. There are two arches on the left and
right. There it stands facing the Place de Grêve,
sombre and melancholy, its front worn away by age,
and so dark that even in the sunshine it looks black.</p>

<p class='pindent'>On the day of an execution gendarmes issue in
crowds from all the doors, and its hundreds of windows
gaze sternly upon the condemned man. In the
evening the face of the illuminated clock shows
brilliant against its gloomy walls.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>It</span> is a quarter past one.</p>

<p class='pindent'>This is how I feel. A violent headache and cold
in the extremities, and a burning forehead. Each
time that I rise or bend it seems to me as if some
liquid which floats in my skull drives my brain
against the top of my head.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I have nervous tremblings, and every now and
then the pen falls from my hands as though I had
sustained a galvanic shock.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='77' id='Page_77'></span>
My eyes water as if I were in a smoky room.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I have a pain in my elbows.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But in two hours and forty-five minutes I shall be
cured.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>There</span> are those who say that the pain is nothing,
that I shall hardly suffer at all, that science has
made death very easy.</p>

<p class='pindent'>What then is this six weeks’ torment that I have
suffered, and this death agony for a whole day?
What will be said of this day that goes so slowly,
and yet too quickly? What is this ladder of torture
that leads to the scaffold?</p>

<p class='pindent'>Perhaps they do not call this suffering.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Are not there the same convulsions when the blood
oozes out drop by drop, and the intellect weakens as
each thought grows less coherent?</p>

<p class='pindent'>And so there is no suffering. Are they sure?
Who has told them so? Has there ever been an
instance of a severed head which has risen bleeding
to the edge of the basket, and has cried to the populace,
“It has not hurt me a bit!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Have any dead returned to thank the inventor, and
to say, “It is a splendid invention, the mechanism
is good. Stick to it?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>No, nothing of the kind—in a minute, in a second
the thing is done. Have they ever, even in thought,
put themselves in the place of the criminal, when the
heavy knife falls, bites into the flesh, grinds through
the nerves and shivers the vertebræ? But all pain is
over in half a second. Horror!</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='78' id='Page_78'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>It</span> is strange that I can think of nothing but the king.
It is no use trying to drive it away; a voice in my
ears keeps on crying: “At this very moment he is
in this city, not far from here, in another palace—a
man who, too, has guards at all his doors, a man in
a similar position to yourself, except that he is in the
highest whilst you are in the lowest. Every instant
of his life is nothing but glory, grandeur, delight, and
revelry. Around him congregate love, respect, and
veneration. The loudest voice softens as it speaks
to him, and the haughtiest heads incline. Gold and
silk are ever before his eyes. Now he may be holding
a council of his ministers, all of whom are of his
opinion; or he may be going out hunting, and to a
ball this evening, leaving to others the work of preparing
his pleasures.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Well, this man is flesh and blood as I am, and one
stroke of his pen would make this horrible scaffold
disappear, and restore me to life, liberty, family,
and wealth. And he is kind, they say, and would
gladly do so; but yet nothing will be done.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>But</span> let me be courageous with death, let me grasp
the horrible idea and consider it face to face. Let
us ask it what it really is, let it tell us what its
wishes are; let us turn it over in every way and spell
out the puzzle, gazing forwards into the tomb.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='79' id='Page_79'></span>
I imagine that when my eyes are closed, I shall
see a bottomless abyss of light into which my soul
will fall. I believe that the sky itself will be resplendent
with light, and that the stars will be mere
dark spots instead of being, as they are now, sparks
of diamonds upon a canopy of black velvet.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Or perchance, miserable wretch that I am, I shall
fall without cessation into the depths of a hideous
black gulf, seeing hideous forms threatening me on
all sides.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Or, after receiving the blow, shall I awake and
find myself upon a soft flat surface, wandering about
in semi-darkness, and turning over and over like a
head that rolls? I can fancy that there will be a
strong wind, and that my head will be jolted with
other rolling heads. In places there will be brooks
and ponds of an unknown liquid, but all will be
black.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When, in the midst of my revolutions, my eyes
will be turned upwards, they will look upon a sky of
shadows, and far away in the background huge
arches of smoke darker than the darkness itself. I
shall see millions of red sparks flitting about, which
upon coming near to me will turn into birds of fire;—and
this will go on for ever and ever.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It may be that, upon certain gloomy nights of
winter, those who have died upon the Place de Grêve
may meet together, for is it not their domain? It
will be a pale and bleeding crowd, and assuredly I
shall not be absent from it. There will be no moon,
and we shall all speak in a low voice. The Hotel
de Ville will be there, with its mouldering walls, its
<span class='pageno' title='80' id='Page_80'></span>
dilapidated roof, and the clock that had no pity for
us.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A guillotine from Hell will be erected, where a
demon will execute a headsman. The hour will be
four, and we shall form the crowd round the scaffold.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Probably things will be like this. But if the dead
do return, in what shapes will they appear? What
part of their incomplete and mutilated body will they
keep? Which will they choose? Shall the head
or the trunk appear as a spectre?</p>

<p class='pindent'>Alas! what has Death done with the soul? What
feelings does it leave to it? What has it taken
away, and what has it given? Where does he put
it? and does he ever lend it the eyes of the flesh to
look upon this earth and weep?</p>

<div class='blockquoter9'>

<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>O for a priest, a priest who can tell me this;</p>
<p class='line0'>I want a priest, and a crucifix to kiss,</p>
<p class='line0'>Always the same, my God!</p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->

</div>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XL.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I have</span> asked them to let me sleep a little, and have
thrown myself upon the bed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I have a rush of blood to the head, which makes
rest necessary to me. This is my last sleep in this
life. I have had a dream.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I dreamt that it was night, that I was in my study
with two or three of my friends, whose names I do
not recollect.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My wife was asleep in a room hard by, and our
child was with her.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='81' id='Page_81'></span>
My friends and I spoke in a low voice, so that we
might not alarm them.</p>

<p class='pindent'>All of a sudden we heard a strange noise in some
other portion of the house; it was like a key being
turned quietly, like the creaking of a bolt.</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was something in the sound that alarmed
us. We imagined that it might be thieves who had
got into the house.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We resolved to search the premises. I rose, took
a candle in my hand; my friends followed me one by
one. We passed through the bedroom where my
wife was sleeping with our child by her side. Then
we came to the drawing-room. There was no one
there. The family portraits hung upon the wall,
which was covered with red paper, motionless in
their gilded homes. It seemed to me as if the
dining-room door was not in its usual place.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We entered the dining-room, and searched it, I
going first. The door that led into the staircase was
closed, and so were the windows. Near the stove I
noticed that the linen-closet was open, and the door
drawn back forming an angle with the wall, as though
to conceal something.</p>

<p class='pindent'>This surprised us; we imagined that there was
some one hiding behind the door.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I tried to close it, and experienced some resistance.
In astonishment I pulled harder, when it yielded
suddenly, and behind it we saw a little old woman
standing motionless against the wall, her eyes closed,
and her arms hanging down in front of her.</p>

<p class='pindent'>She looked hideous, and my hair bristled.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I said, “What are you doing here?”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='82' id='Page_82'></span>
She made no answer.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I asked, “Who are you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>She did not reply, nor did she move or unclose her
eyes.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My friends said, “No doubt she is in league with
those who have broken into the house with some
evil design. Upon hearing us coming they fled,
but she having been unable to escape hid herself
here.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I again questioned her, but she continued silent,
motionless, and sightless.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One of my friends pushed her. She fell to the
ground like a log, like some inanimate object.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We pushed her with our feet, then we raised her
again, and stood her up against the wall; but she
showed no sign of life, and remained dumb to our
questions, as though she were deaf.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At last we lost patience; anger began to mingle
with our fright.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One of us suggested—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Put the flame of the candle under her chin.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I did so; then she half opened one eye, a vague,
dull eye with no expression in it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I moved away the candle, and said—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Will you answer me now, you old witch?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The open eye closed again.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ah, this is too much,” cried the others. “Give
her the candle again—she shall answer us.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I put the flame again under her chin.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then she opened both eyes slowly, and gazed
upon us all round; then, bending her head abruptly,
she blew out the candle with a breath that froze like
<span class='pageno' title='83' id='Page_83'></span>
ice; and at the same instant I felt, in the darkness,
three sharp teeth pierce my hand.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I woke trembling, and bathed in a cold perspiration.
The good old priest was seated by my side reading
his prayer-book.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Have I slept long?” asked I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My son,” replied he, “you have been sleeping
an hour. They have brought your child to take
leave of you, she is in the adjoining room. She is
waiting for you, but I would not let them wake you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My child, my child!” I exclaimed; “bring me
my child!”</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>She</span> is young and rosy, and has large eyes; she is a
pretty child.</p>

<p class='pindent'>She wears a dear little dress that becomes her
well.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I have taken her up in my arms, and placed her
upon my knees, and kissed her hair.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Why is her mother not with her? She is ill, and
her grandmother is ill too.</p>

<p class='pindent'>She gazed upon me with an air of astonishment;
she permitted me to caress her, embrace her, and
devour her with kisses, but from time to time she
cast an uneasy look at her nurse, who was weeping
in a corner of the room.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At last I was able to speak.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Marie!” said I. “My little Marie!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I pressed her tightly to my bosom; she pushed me
away with a low cry.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='84' id='Page_84'></span>
“Oh, sir,” said she, “you hurt me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>Sir!</span> It was nearly a year since she had seen me.
She had forgotten me. Words, face, speech, all
were faded from her memory; and who would
recognize me in this dress, with my beard and my
livid complexion? Was I lost to the only one that
I should have cared to remember me?</p>

<p class='pindent'>To be no more a father—to be condemned never to
hear that word again from the lips of a child, that
word which is so sweet, but which a man’s tongue
cannot frame, “Papa.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>And yet to hear it once again from those lips, only
once again, I would gladly have given the forty years
of life that they were going to take away from me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen, Marie,” said I, joining her two little
hands in mine. “Do you not know me?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>She looked at me with her beautiful eyes, and
answered—“No.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Look at me well,” urged I. “Now who am I?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You are a gentleman,” replied she.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Alas! to love one creature so fondly in the world—to
love her with all your passionate love, to have
her with you to look into her eyes, and to hear her
answer that she does not know you.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Marie,” continued I, “have you a papa?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, sir,” said the child.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well, where is he?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>She raised her great eyes full of wonder.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do you not know?” said she. “He is dead!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then she began to cry, and I almost let her fall.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Dead,” repeated I. “Marie, do you know what
it is to be dead?”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='85' id='Page_85'></span>
“Yes, sir,” answered she; “it is to be in the
churchyard, and in heaven.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then she continued, “I pray to the good God for
him night and morning at mamma’s knees.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I kissed her forehead.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Marie, say your prayers.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I must not, sir; prayers must not be said in the
middle of the day; come this evening and I will say
them to you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This was too much, and I interrupted her.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Marie, it is I that am your papa.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Oh,” answered she.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I added—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do you not wish that I should be your papa?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I covered her with tears and kisses. She endeavoured
to disengage herself from my embrace, crying—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your beard hurts me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then I put her once more upon my knees, and,
looking into her eyes, asked her—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Marie, do you know how to read?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” answered she, “I can read; mamma taught
me my letters.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Come, read a little,” said I, showing her a paper
that she had crumpled up in her hand.</p>

<p class='pindent'>She shook her little head.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I can only read fables,” said she.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Never mind, try, come, let us see.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>She unfolded the paper, and began to spell it out,
pointing to each letter with her finger.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“S, E, N, sen; T, E, N, C, E——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I snatched it from her hand. It was the sentence
of death that she was reading to me, and her nurse
<span class='pageno' title='86' id='Page_86'></span>
had bought the paper for a penny. It would cost
me more than that.</p>

<p class='pindent'>No words can describe my feelings. My violence
frightened the child. She almost wept. Suddenly
she exclaimed, “Give me back my piece of paper; I
want it for a plaything.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I gave her to the nurse. “Take her away,” I cried.
Then I fell back in my chair, gloomy, worn-out, and
desperate. Let them come now, I care for nothing;
the last link that binds me to life is broken, they can
do what they like with me.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> priest is kind, and the gaoler, too, has his tender
side. I believe that they both shed a tear, as I told
the nurse to take away my child.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It is over; now I have only to strengthen myself,
and to think boldly of the executioner, of the cart,
of the gendarmes, of the crowd on the bridge, of the
crowd on the quay, of the crowd at the windows,
and of that crowd which has assembled expressly for
me on the Place de Grêve, which might be paved with
the heads that have fallen there. I think that I have
a whole hour to accustom myself to these thoughts.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> multitude will laugh, will clap its hands, will
applaud; and amongst all those free and unknown
men, who hasten, full of pleasure, to an execution, in
<span class='pageno' title='87' id='Page_87'></span>
that crowd of heads that will cover the open space,
there will be more than one predestined to follow
mine sooner or later into the blood-stained basket.
More than one who has come for me will one day
come on his own account.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLIV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>My</span> little Marie, they have taken her back to her
play; she will look at the crowd through the windows
of the cab, and will think no more of <span class='it'>that gentleman</span>!</p>

<p class='pindent'>Perhaps I shall yet have time to write a few pages
for her, that one day she will read; and fifteen
years hence she may perhaps weep for to-day.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Yes, she must have from me my true story, and
why my name has a stain of blood upon it.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLV.<br/> <span style='font-size:smaller'>MY HISTORY.</span></h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Note</span> by the Editor.—It has been impossible to find
the manuscript to which this refers. Perhaps, as is
indicated by those that follow, the idea came to him
without his having had time to execute it. The time
was short when he thought of it.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLVI.<br/> <span style='font-size:smaller'>FROM A ROOM IN THE HOTEL DE VILLE.</span></h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>From</span> the Hotel de Ville!... I am there; the
terrible journey has been made. <span class='it'>The place is there</span>,
<span class='pageno' title='88' id='Page_88'></span>
below my window. And the vile populace are there,
hooting and laughing as they wait for me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I had need to endeavour to pluck up courage, to
strengthen my nerves, for my heart failed me when
I saw those two red posts, with the black triangle
at their summit, erect themselves between the two
lamp-posts on the quay. I demanded to be permitted
to make a last declaration, and they brought me
here, and have gone to find the Public Prosecutor. I
am waiting for him; at any rate it is so much time
gained.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Here it comes. They warn me that the time has
arrived. I trembled, as though I had thought of
nothing else for the last six hours, for the last six
weeks, for the last six months. It came upon me as
if it were something totally unexpected.</p>

<p class='pindent'>They have led me through their passages, and
made me ascend and descend their staircases. They
have pushed me through a folding-door into a room
on the ground floor, dark and narrow, with a vaulted
roof; the foggy, rainy day hardly allows any light to
penetrate into it. A chair was standing in the centre;
they told me to sit down, and I did so.</p>

<p class='pindent'>There were several people standing about besides
the priest and the gendarmes; <span class='it'>there were also three men</span>.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The first was tall, old, and fat, with a red face, and
he wore a great-coat and a broken three-cornered
hat. <span class='it'>It was he!</span></p>

<p class='pindent'>It was the headsman, the man of the guillotine;
the others were his assistants.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Scarcely was I seated, than these two approached
me from behind, stealthily as cats; then in a moment
<span class='pageno' title='89' id='Page_89'></span>
I felt cold steel in my hair, and heard the snipping
noise of the scissors close to my ears.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Carelessly severed, my hair fell in masses on my
shoulders, whilst the man in the three-cornered hat
brushed them gently away with his large hand.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Every one round me whispered.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Outside there was a strange murmuring sound;
at first I thought that it was the river, but from the
laughter that arose from intervals, I knew it was the
crowd. A young man seated near the window, who
was writing with a pencil in a note-book, asked the
men what they were doing.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is the last toilet of the condemned,” was the
reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I then understood that all this would be read to-morrow
in the papers.</p>

<p class='pindent'>All at once one of the assistants took off my
waistcoat, whilst the other seized my two hands and
brought them behind my back, whilst I could feel a
cord being knotted round my wrists. At the same
moment the other took off my necktie. My linen
shirt, a last relic of bygone days, seemed to make
him hesitate for a moment; then he cut off the collar.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this horrible moment, when the cold steel
touched my neck, my elbow quivered, and I uttered a
low moan of stilled rage. The executioner’s hand
shook.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir,” said he, “forgive me, have I hurt you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>These executioners have excellent manners.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The crowd outside is yelling louder than ever.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The headsman pressed to my nostrils a handkerchief,
strongly impregnated with aromatic vinegar.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='90' id='Page_90'></span>
“Thank you,” said I, in as firm a voice as I could;
“it is useless. I feel better.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then one of them stooped to bind my feet together.
This was done with a slender simple cord, which
enabled me to take very short steps, and it was
attached to the one that secured my wrists.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then the big man threw the waistcoat on my back,
tying the sleeves together under my chin. There
was nothing more to be done.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The priest now approached with the crucifix.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Come, my son,” said he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The assistants put their hands under my arms, and
I was lifted up. My steps were slow and tottering.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At the instant, the outer door was thrown wide
open, and an irruption of noise, cold air, and blinding
light burst in upon the gloom of the chamber. From
the darkness I could see through the rain the thousands
of heads, all shouting and yelling, piled one
upon the other; on the right a line of mounted
gendarmes; in front a detachment of infantry; on the left
the back of a cart in which was a ladder—a terrible
picture framed by the door of the prison. This was
the dreaded moment for which I had nerved myself.
I made two steps forward, and appeared on the
threshold of the door.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“There he is! there he is!” cried the crowd; “he
is coming at last!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>And those nearest to me clapped their hands. The
king himself is not received with greater honours.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was a mere ordinary cart, with a miserable hack
in it, driven by a man in a blouse. The big man
with the three-cornered hat mounted first.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='91' id='Page_91'></span>
“Good day, Monsieur Sanson,” cried the children.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One of the assistants followed him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good day, Tuesday,” cried they once more.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Both of them took their place on the seat in front.
Now it was my turn, and I mounted with a calm
demeanour.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“He is going to die game,” said a woman near the
gendarmes.</p>

<p class='pindent'>This infamous praise gave me courage. The priest
took his place by me. I was placed in the back seat,
my face turned away from the horse. I shivered at
this last act of attention. There was an air of
humanity in it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A squadron of gendarmes awaited me at the gate
of the palace.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The officer gave the word of command, and the
escort and the cart started with a roar of applause
from the crowd.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Hats off! hats off!” cried a thousand throats. It
was as if the king was passing.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then I laughed a ghastly laugh, and muttered to
the priest, “Their hats, my head!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>We moved at a foot’s pace.</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was a breath of perfume from the Flower
Market; the stall-keepers had left their bouquets to
come and see me. A little farther on there were
many public-houses, the upper floors of which were
full of spectators, rejoicing in the excellent places
which they had secured. The women especially seemed
delighted. They had hired tables, chairs, scaffolds,
and carts to stand upon. Every coign of vantage
bent beneath the weight of the spectators. The
<span class='pageno' title='92' id='Page_92'></span>
men who made their living by these spillings of
human gore, cried at the top of their voices—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Who wants a place?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Hatred for this merciless crowd filled my heart,
and I felt inclined to cry out, “<span class='it'>Who wants mine?</span>”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Still the cart went on; at each step the crowd
disappeared from behind it, and I saw them re-form
again farther on in front.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Upon passing the Pont de Change, I chanced to
cast my eyes backwards on the right-hand side—I saw
a tall black tower standing by itself, covered with
carvings, upon the top of which sat two stone
monsters. I had no reason for putting the question
to the priest, but I asked, “What is that?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The tower of Saint Jacques la Boucherie,” he
replied.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We moved on slowly, the crowd was so great.
I feared to show cowardice. Last remnant of vanity!
Then I pulled myself together, and endeavoured to
be blind and deaf to everything except the priest,
whose words I could scarcely catch.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then I took the crucifix in my hands, and kissed it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Have pity on me,” cried I, “O my God!” and I
endeavoured to busy myself in that thought. But
each jolt of the clumsy vehicle scattered my thoughts.
Suddenly I felt very cold; the rain had soaked
through my clothes, and my head, deprived of the
protecting hair, was quite wet.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You are shivering with the cold, my son,”
remarked the priest.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” replied I. Alas! it was not the cold that
I was shivering with.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='93' id='Page_93'></span>
At the end of the bridge some women pitied me
because I was so young.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We reached the fatal quay. My sight and hearing
grew dim once more; those voices, the heads at the
windows, at the doors, in the shops, on the cross-bar
of the lamp-posts, those eager and cruel spectators,
those crowds who knew me, and amongst whom I
knew no one, those lines of human faces——I
was intoxicated, stupid, mad. So many eyes all
fixed upon me became an unbearable torture.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I shook upon my seat, and paid no more attention
to crucifix or priest.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In the tempest of sound that enfolded me I could
no longer distinguish expressions of sympathy from
jeers and insults; everything roared and resounded
in my ears like the echo from a copper vessel.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Unconsciously I began to read the names over the
shops. Once a feeling of morbid curiosity urged
me to turn my head, and to look at what we were
approaching.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was the last bravado of the intellect—but the
body would not obey it, for my neck remained stiff
and obstinate.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I glanced to my left across the river; I could see
one tower of Notre Dame, the other was hidden by
it. It was the one upon which the flagstaff is.
There was a great crowd upon it; they must have
had a good view.</p>

<p class='pindent'>And the cart went on and on, and shop succeeded
to shop, and the people laughed and stamped about
in the mud; and I gazed calmly upon everything
as people do in their dreams.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='94' id='Page_94'></span>
All of a sudden the row of shops upon which my
eyes were fixed were cut by the corner of a square.
The noise of the crowd became more sonorous,
tumultuous, and merry. Suddenly the cart stopped,
and I almost fell forwards.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The priest caught me by the arm.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Courage,” murmured he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then they brought a ladder to the back of the
cart; an arm was stretched out to aid me in my
descent. I took the first step, and attempted to
take another—but it was useless, for on the quay,
between two lamp-posts, I had caught sight of a terrible
object.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was the realization of all my terrors.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I staggered as though I had received a heavy
blow.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I have a last confession to make,” muttered I,
feebly. They brought me here.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I asked them to let me write. They untied my
hands; but the cord is here, ready for me, and the
other horror is below, waiting for me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A judge, a commissioner, or a magistrate—I
know not which—came to me. I asked for a pardon,
clasping my hands, and kneeling to them. With
a calm smile, they asked me if that was all I had to
say.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My pardon, my pardon,” repeated I: “or five
minutes’ more life, for pity’s sake! You do not
know—it may be on its way, it may arrive at the
last moment—such things have often been heard of
before. And of what use will pardon be, sir, if I am
no longer in a condition to benefit by it?”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='95' id='Page_95'></span>
That accursed executioner is whispering to the
judge that it must be performed by a certain time,
that the hour is at hand, and that he is responsible
for its due performance; besides, it is raining, and
there is a chance of <span class='it'>the thing</span> getting rusty.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“For mercy’s sake! one minute more to wait for
the coming of my pardon! If you will not grant it,
I will defend myself tooth and nail!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The judge and the executioner have left me. I am
alone—alone with two gendarmes.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Oh the horrible crowd, with their hyena-like cries!
How do I know that I shall not escape them—if I
shall not be saved? My pardon may arrive——Ah,
the wretches, they are carrying me on to the
scaffold....</p>

<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*</p>

<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:.8em;'>FOUR O’CLOCK STRIKES.</p>

<hr class='pbk'/>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='97' id='Page_97'></span></p>

<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-top:4em;font-size:1.2em;'><span class='it'>TOLD UNDER CANVAS.</span></p>

<hr class='pbk'/>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='99' id='Page_99'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2><span class='it'>TOLD UNDER CANVAS.</span></h2>

<hr class='tbk102'/>

<h3><span class='it'>BUG-JARGAL.</span><br/> <span style='font-size:smaller'>PROLOGUE.</span></h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>When</span> it came to the turn of Captain Leopold
d’Auverney, he gazed around him with surprise, and
hurriedly assured his comrades that he did not
remember any incident in his life that was worthy of
repetition.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But, Captain d’Auverney,” objected Lieutenant
Henri, “you have—at least report says so—travelled
much, and seen a good deal of the world; have you
not been to the Antilles, to Africa, and to Italy? and
above all, you have been in Spain——But see, here
is your lame dog come back again!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>D’Auverney started, let fall the cigar that he was
smoking, and turned quickly to the tent door, at
which an enormous dog appeared, limping towards
him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In another instant the dog was licking his feet,
wagging his tail, whining, and gamboling as well as
he was able; and by every means testifying his
delight at finding his master. And at last, as if he
<span class='pageno' title='100' id='Page_100'></span>
felt that he had done all that could be required of a
dog, he curled himself up peaceably before his master’s
seat.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Captain d’Auverney was much moved, but he
strove to conceal his feelings, and mechanically
caressed the dog with one hand, whilst with the
other he played with the chin-strap of his shako,
murmuring from time to time, “So here you are once
again, Rask, here you are.” Then, as if suddenly
recollecting himself, he exclaimed aloud, “But who
has brought him back?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“By your leave, captain——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>For the last few seconds Sergeant Thaddeus had
been standing at the door of the tent, the curtain of
which he was holding back with his left hand, whilst
his right was thrust into the bosom of his great-coat.
Tears were in his eyes as he contemplated the
meeting of the dog and his master, and at last, unable
to keep silence any longer, he risked the words—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“By your leave, captain——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>D’Auverney raised his eyes.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Why, it is you, Thaddeus; and how the deuce
have you been able—eh? Poor dog, poor Rask, I
thought that you were in the English camp. Where
did you find him, sergeant?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Thanks be to heaven, captain, you see me as
happy as your little nephew used to be when you let
him off his Latin lesson.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But tell me, where <span class='it'>did</span> you find him?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I did not find him, captain; I went to look for
him.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Captain d’Auverney rose, and offered his hand to
<span class='pageno' title='101' id='Page_101'></span>
the sergeant, but the latter still kept his in the bosom
of his coat.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well, you see, it was—at least, captain, since
poor Rask was lost, I noticed that you were like a
man beside himself; so when I saw that he did not
come to me in the evening, according to his custom,
for his share of my ration bread—which made old
Thaddeus weep like a child, I, who before that had
only wept twice in my life, the first time when—yes,
the day when——” and the sergeant cast a sad look
upon his captain. “Well, the second was when that
scamp Balthazar, the corporal of the 7th half brigade,
persuaded me to peel a bunch of onions.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It seems to me, Thaddeus,” cried Henri, with a
laugh, “that you avoid telling us what was the first
occasion upon which you shed tears.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It was doubtless, old comrade,” said the captain
kindly, as he patted Rask’s head, “when you
answered the roll-call as Tour d’Auvergne, the first
grenadier of France.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No, no, captain; if Sergeant Thaddeus wept, it
was when he gave the order to fire on Bug-Jargal,
otherwise called Pierrot.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A cloud gathered on the countenance of D’Auverney,
then he again endeavoured to clasp the sergeant’s
hand; but in spite of the honour that was attempted
to be conferred on him, the old man still kept his
hand hidden under his coat.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, captain,” continued Thaddeus, drawing
back a step or two, whilst D’Auverney fixed his eyes
upon him with a strange and sorrowful expression.
“Yes, I wept for him that day, and he well deserved
<span class='pageno' title='102' id='Page_102'></span>
it. He was black, it is true, but gunpowder is black
also, and—and——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The good sergeant would fain have followed out
his strange comparison, for there was evidently
something in the idea that pleased him; but he
utterly failed to put his thoughts into words, and after
having attacked his idea on every side, as a general
would a fortified place, and failed, he raised the
siege, and without noticing the smiles of his officers,
he continued:</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Tell me, captain, do you recollect how that poor
negro arrived all out of breath, at the moment that
his ten comrades were waiting on the spot?—we had
had to tie them though. It was I who commanded
the party; and when with his own hands he
untied them, and took their place, although they did
all that they could to dissuade him; but he was
inflexible. Ah, what a man he was; you might as
well have tried to move Gibraltar! And then, captain,
he drew himself up as if he were going to enter a ballroom,
and this dog, who knew well enough what was
coming, flew at my throat——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Generally, Thaddeus, at this point of your story,
you pat Rask,” interrupted the captain; “see how
he looks at you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You are right, sir,” replied Thaddeus, with an
air of embarrassment; “he <span class='it'>does</span> look at me, poor
fellow—but the old woman Malajuda told me it was
unlucky to pat a dog with the left hand, and——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“And why not with your right, pray?” asked
D’Auverney, for the first time noticing the sergeant’s
pallor, and the hand reposing in his bosom.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='103' id='Page_103'></span>
The sergeant’s discomfort appeared to increase.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“By your leave, captain, it is because—well, you
have got a lame dog, and now there is a chance of
your having a one-handed sergeant.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“A one-handed sergeant! What do you mean?
Let me see your arm. One hand! Great heavens!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>D’Auverney trembled, as the sergeant slowly withdrew
his hand from his bosom, and showed it
enveloped in a blood-stained handkerchief.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“This is terrible,” exclaimed D’Auverney, carefully
undoing the bandage. “But tell me, old comrade,
how this happened.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“As for that, the thing is simple enough. I told
you how I had noticed your grief since those confounded
English had taken away your dog, poor
Rask, Bug’s dog. I made up my mind to-day to
bring him back, even if it cost me my life, so that
you might eat a good supper. After having told
Mathelet, your <span class='it'>bât</span> man, to get out and brush your
full-dress uniform, as we are to go into action to-morrow,
I crept quietly out of camp, armed only
with my sabre, and crouched under the hedges until
I neared the English camp. I had not passed the
first trench, when I saw a whole crowd of red soldiers.
I crept on quietly to see what they were doing, and
in the midst of them I perceived Rask tied to a tree;
whilst two of the <span class='it'>milords</span>, stripped to here, were
knocking each other about with their fists, until their
bones sounded like the big drum of the regiment.
They were fighting for your dog. But when Rask
caught sight of me, he gave such a bound, that the
rope broke, and in the twinkling of an eye the rogue
<span class='pageno' title='104' id='Page_104'></span>
was after me. I did not stop to explain, but off I
ran, with all the English at my heels. A regular
hail of balls whistled past my ears. Rask barked, but
they could not hear him for their shouts of ‘French
dog! French dog!’ just as if Rask was not of the
pure St. Domingo breed. In spite of all I crushed
through the thicket, and had almost got clean away,
when two red coats confronted me. My sabre accounted
for one, and would have rid me of the other,
had his pistol not unluckily had a bullet in it. My
right arm suffered; but ‘French dog’ leapt at his
throat, as if he were an old acquaintance. Down fell
the Englishman, for the embrace was so tight that
he was strangled in a moment—and here we both are.
My only regret is that I did not get my wound in
to-morrow’s battle.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Thaddeus, Thaddeus!” exclaimed the captain in
tones of reproach; “were you mad enough to expose
your life thus for a dog?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It was not for a dog, it was for Rask.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>D’Auverney’s face softened as Thaddeus added—“For
Rask, for Bug’s dog.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Enough, enough, old comrade!” cried the
captain, dashing his hand across his eyes; “come,
lean on me, and I will lead you to the hospital.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Thaddeus essayed to decline the honour, but in
vain; and as they left the tent the dog got up and
followed them.</p>

<p class='pindent'>This little drama had excited the curiosity of the
spectators to the highest degree. Captain Leopold
d’Auverney was one of those men who, in whatever
position the chances of nature and society may place
<span class='pageno' title='105' id='Page_105'></span>
them, always inspire a mingled feeling of interest
and respect. At the first glimpse there was nothing
striking in him—his manner was reserved, and his
look cold. The tropical sun, though it had browned
his cheek, had not imparted to him that vivacity of
speech and gesture which amongst the Creoles is
united to an easy carelessness of demeanour, in itself
full of charm.</p>

<p class='pindent'>D’Auverney spoke little, listened less, but showed
himself ready to act at any moment. Always the
first in the saddle, and the last to return to camp, he
seemed to seek a refuge from his thoughts in bodily
fatigue. These thoughts, which had marked his
brow with many a premature wrinkle, were not of
the kind that you can get rid of by confiding them to
a friend; nor could they be discussed in idle conversation.
Leopold d’Auverney, whose body the hardships
of war could not subdue, seemed to experience
a sense of insurmountable fatigue in what is termed
the conflict of the feelings. He avoided argument as
much as he sought warfare. If at any time he
allowed himself to be drawn into a discussion, he
would utter a few words full of common sense and
reason, and then at the moment of triumph over
his antagonist he would stop short, and muttering
“What good is it?” would saunter off to the commanding
officer to glean what information he could
regarding the enemy’s movements.</p>

<p class='pindent'>His comrades forgave his cold, reserved, and silent
habits, because upon every occasion they had found
him kind, gentle, and benevolent. He had saved
many a life at the risk of his own, and they well
<span class='pageno' title='106' id='Page_106'></span>
knew that though his mouth was rarely opened, yet
his purse was never closed when a comrade had need
of his assistance.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He was young; many would have guessed him at
thirty years of age, but they would have been wrong,
for he was some years under it. Although he had
for a long period fought in the ranks of the Republican
army, yet all were in ignorance of his former life.
The only one to whom he seemed ever to open his
heart was Sergeant Thaddeus, who had joined the
regiment with him, and would at times speak vaguely
of sad events in his early life. It was known that
D’Auverney had undergone great misfortunes in
America, that he had been married in St. Domingo,
and that his wife and all his family had perished in
those terrible massacres which had marked the
Republican invasion of that magnificent colony. At
the time of which we write, misfortunes of this kind
were so general, that any one could sympathize with,
and feel pity for, such sufferers.</p>

<p class='pindent'>D’Auverney, therefore, was pitied less for his misfortunes
than for the manner in which they had been
brought about.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Beneath his icy mask of indifference the traces
of the incurably wounded spirit could be at times
perceived.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When he went into action his calmness returned,
and in the fight he behaved as if he sought for the
rank of general; whilst after victory he was as gentle
and unassuming as if the position of a private soldier
would have satisfied his ambition. His comrades,
seeing him thus despise honour and promotion,
<span class='pageno' title='107' id='Page_107'></span>
could not understand what it was that lighted up his
countenance with a ray of hope when the action
commenced, and they did not for a moment divine
that the prize D’Auverney was striving to gain was
simply—<span class='it'>Death</span>.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Representatives of the People, in one of their
missions to the army, had appointed him a Chief of
Brigade on the field of battle; but he had declined
the honour upon learning that it would remove him
from his old comrade Sergeant Thaddeus.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Some days afterwards, having returned from a
dangerous expedition safe and sound, contrary to the
general expectation and his own hopes, he was heard
to regret the rank that he had refused.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“For,” said he, “since the enemy’s guns always
spare me, perhaps the guillotine, which ever strikes
down those it has raised, would in time have claimed
me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Such was the character of the man upon whom
the conversation turned as soon as he had left the
tent.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I would wager,” cried Lieutenant Henri, wiping
a splash of mud off his boot which the dog had left
as he passed him, “I would wager that the captain
would not exchange the broken paw of his dog for
the ten baskets of Madeira that we caught a glimpse
of in the general’s waggon.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Bah!” cried Paschal, the aide-de-camp, “that
would be a bad bargain: the baskets are empty by
now, and thirty empty bottles would be a poor price
for a dog’s paw—why, you might make a good bell-handle
out of it.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='108' id='Page_108'></span>
They all laughed at the grave manner in which
Paschal pronounced these words, with the exception
of a young officer of Hussars named Alfred, who
remarked—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I do not see any subject for chaff in this matter,
gentlemen. This sergeant and dog, who are always
at D’Auverney’s heels ever since I have known him,
seem to me more the objects of sympathy than
raillery, and interest me greatly.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Paschal, annoyed that his wit had missed fire,
interrupted him. “It certainly is a most sentimental
scene—a lost dog found, and a broken arm——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Captain Paschal,” said Henri, throwing an empty
bottle outside the tent, “you are wrong; this Bug,
otherwise called Pierrot, excites my curiosity greatly.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this moment D’Auverney returned, and sat
down without uttering a word. His manner was
still sad, but his face was more calm; he seemed
not to have heard what was said. Rask, who had
followed him, lay down at his feet, but kept a watchful
eye on his master’s comrades.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Pass your glass, Captain d’Auverney, and taste
this.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Oh, thank you,” replied the captain, evidently
imagining that he was answering a question, “the
wound is not dangerous—there is no bone broken.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The respect which all felt for D’Auverney prevented
a burst of laughter at this reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Since your mind is at rest regarding Thaddeus’
wound,” said Henri, “and, as you may remember,
we entered into an agreement to pass away the hours
of bivouac by relating to each other our adventures,
<span class='pageno' title='109' id='Page_109'></span>
will you carry out your promise by telling us the
history of your lame dog, and of Bug—otherwise
called Pierrot, that regular Gibraltar of a man?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>To this request, which was put in a semi-jocular
tone, D’Auverney at last yielded.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I will do what you ask, gentlemen,” said he;
“but you must only expect a very simple tale, in
which I play an extremely second rate part. If the
affection that exists between Thaddeus, Rask, and
myself leads you to expect anything very wonderful,
I fear that you will be greatly disappointed. However,
I will begin.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>For a moment D’Auverney relapsed into thought, as
though he wished to recall past events which had
long since been replaced in his memory by the acts
of his later years; but at last, in a low voice and with
frequent pauses, he began his tale.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>“I was</span> born in France, but at an early age I was sent
to St. Domingo, to the care of an uncle to whose
daughter it had been arranged between our parents
that I was to be married. My uncle was one of the
wealthiest colonists, and possessed a magnificent
house and extensive plantations in the Plains of Acul,
near Fort Galifet.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The position of the estate, which no doubt you
wonder at my describing so minutely, was one of the
causes of all our disasters, and the eventual total
ruin of our whole family.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='110' id='Page_110'></span>
“Eight hundred negro slaves cultivated the enormous
domains of my uncle. Sad as the position of a slave
is, my uncle’s hardness of heart added much to the
unhappiness of those who had the misfortune to be
his property.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My uncle was one of the happily small number
of planters from whom despotic power had taken
away the gentler feelings of humanity. He was
accustomed to see his most trifling command unhesitatingly
obeyed, and the slightest delay on the
part of his slaves in carrying it out was punished
with the harshest severity; whilst the intercession
either of my cousin or of myself too often merely led
to an increase of the punishment, and we were only
too often obliged to rest satisfied by secretly assuaging
the injuries which we were powerless to
prevent.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Amongst the multitude of his slaves, one only had
found favour in my uncle’s sight; this was a half-caste
Spanish dwarf, who had been given him by
Lord Effingham, the Governor of Jamaica.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My uncle, who had for many years resided in
Brazil, and had adopted the luxurious habits of the
Portuguese, loved to surround himself with an establishment
that was in keeping with his wealth. In
order that nothing should be wanting, he had made
the slave presented to him by Lord Effingham his
fool, in imitation of the feudal lords who had jesters
attached to their households. I must say that the
slave amply fulfilled all the required conditions. Habibrah,
for that was the half-caste’s name, was one of
those strangely-formed, or, rather, deformed beings,
<span class='pageno' title='111' id='Page_111'></span>
who would be looked upon as monsters if their very
hideousness did not cause a laugh. This ill-featured
dwarf was short and fat, and moved with wondrous
activity upon a pair of slender limbs, which, when
he sat down, bent under him like the legs of a
spider. His enormous head, covered with a mass
of red curly wool, was stuck between his shoulders,
whilst his ears were so large that Habibrah’s comrades
were in the habit of saying that he used them
to wipe his eyes when he wept. On his face there
was always a grin, which was continually changing
its character, and which caused his ugliness to be
of an ever-varying description. My uncle was fond
of him, because of his extreme hideousness and his
inextinguishable gaiety. Habibrah was his only
favourite, and led a life of ease, whilst the other
slaves were overwhelmed with work. The sole duties
of the jester were to carry a large fan, made of the
feathers of the bird of paradise, to keep away the
sandflies and the mosquitoes from his master. At
meal-times he sat upon a reed mat at his master’s
feet, who fed him with tit-bits from his own plate.
Habibrah appeared to appreciate all these acts of
kindness, and at the slightest sign from my uncle he
would run to him with the agility of a monkey and
the docility of a dog.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I had imbibed a prejudice against my uncle’s
favourite slave. There was something crawling in
his servility, and though outdoor slavery does not
dishonour, domestic service too often debases. I
felt a sentiment of pity for those slaves who toiled in
the scorching sun, with scarcely a vestige of clothing
<span class='pageno' title='112' id='Page_112'></span>
to hide their chains; but I despised this idle serf,
with his garments ornamented with gold lace and
adorned with bells. Besides, the dwarf never made
use of his influence with his master to ameliorate the
condition of his fellow-sufferers; on the contrary, I
heard him once, when he thought that he and his
master were alone, urge him to increase his severity
towards his ill-fated comrades.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The other slaves, however, did not appear to look
upon him with any feelings of anger or rancour, but
treated him with a timid kind of respect; and when,
dressed in all the splendour of laced garments, and a
tall pointed cap ornamented with bells and quaint
symbols traced upon it in red ink, he walked past
their huts, I have heard them murmur in accents of
awe, “He is an <span class='it'>obi</span>” (sorcerer).</p>

<p class='pindent'>“These details, to which I now draw your attention,
occupied my mind but little then. I had given myself
up entirely to the emotion of a pure love in
which nothing else could mingle; a love which was
returned me with passion by the girl to whom I was
betrothed, and I gave little heed to anything that
was not Marie!</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Accustomed from youth to look upon her as the
future companion of my life, there was a curious
mixture of the love of a brother for a sister, mingled
with the passionate adoration of a betrothed lover.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Few men have spent their earlier years more
happily than I have done, or have felt their souls
expand into life in the midst of a delicious climate
and all the luxuries which wealth could procure,
with perfect happiness in the present and the
<span class='pageno' title='113' id='Page_113'></span>
brightest hopes for the future. No man, as I said
before, could have spent their earlier years more
happily——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>D’Auverney paused for a moment, as if these
thoughts of bygone happiness had stilled his voice,
and then added—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“And no one could have passed his later ones in
more profound misery and affliction.”</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>In</span> the midst of these blind illusions and hopes, my
twentieth birthday approached. It was now the
month of August, 1791, and my uncle had decided
that this should be the date of my marriage with
Marie. You can well understand that the thoughts
of happiness, now so near, absorbed all my faculties,
and how little notice I took of the political crisis
which was then felt throughout the colony. I will
not, therefore, speak of the Count de Pernier, or of
M. de Blanchelande, nor of the tragical death of the
unfortunate Colonel de Marchiste; nor will I attempt
to describe the jealousies of the Provincial House of
Assembly of the North, and the Colonial Assembly,
which afterwards called itself the General Assembly,
declaring that the word “Colonial” had a ring of
slavery in it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>For my own part, I sided with neither; and if I
did espouse any cause, it was in favour of Cap, near
which town my home was situate, in opposition to
Port au Prince.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='114' id='Page_114'></span>
Only once did I mix myself up in the question of
the day. It was on the occasion of the disastrous
decree of the 15th of May, 1791, by which the
National Assembly of France admitted free men of
colour to enjoy the same political privileges as the
whites.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At a ball given by the Governor of Cap, many of
the younger colonists spoke in impassioned terms of
this law, which levelled so cruel a blow at the
instincts of supremacy assumed by the whites, with
perhaps too little foundation. I had, as yet, taken
no part in the conversation, when I saw approaching
the group a wealthy planter, whose doubtful descent
caused him to be received merely upon sufferance by
the white society. I stepped in front of him, and in
a haughty voice I exclaimed, “Pass on, sir! pass on!
or you may hear words which would certainly be
disagreeable to those with <span class='it'>mixed blood</span> in their
veins.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He was so enraged at this insinuation, that he
challenged me. We fought, and each was slightly
wounded. I confess that I was in the wrong to
have thus provoked him, and it is probable that I
should not have done so on a mere <span class='it'>question of colour</span>,
but I had for some time past noticed that he had had
the audacity to pay certain attentions to my cousin,
and had danced with her the very night upon which
I had insulted him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>However, as time went on, and the date so
ardently desired approached, I was a perfect stranger
to the state of political ferment in which those
around me lived; and I never perceived the frightful
<span class='pageno' title='115' id='Page_115'></span>
cloud which already almost obscured the horizon,
and which promised a storm that would sweep all
before it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>No one at that time thought seriously of a revolt
amongst the slaves—a class too much despised to
be feared; but between the whites and the free
mulattos there was sufficient hatred to cause an outbreak
at any moment, which might entail the most
disastrous consequences.</p>

<p class='pindent'>During the first days of August a strange incident
occurred, which threw a slight shade of uneasiness
over the sunshine of my happiness.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>On</span> the banks of a little river, which flowed through
my uncle’s estate, was a small rustic pavilion in
the midst of a clump of trees.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Marie was in the habit of coming here every day
to enjoy the sea breeze, which blows regularly in St.
Domingo, even during the hottest months of the
year, from sunrise until evening.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Each morning it was my pleasant task to adorn
this charming retreat with the sweetest flowers that
I could gather.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One morning Marie came running to me in a
great state of alarm: upon entering her leafy retreat
she had perceived, with surprise and terror, all the
flowers which I had arranged in the morning thrown
upon the ground and trampled underfoot, and a
bunch of wild marigolds, freshly gathered, placed
<span class='pageno' title='116' id='Page_116'></span>
upon her accustomed seat. She had hardly recovered
from her terror when, in the adjoining
coppice, she heard the sound of a guitar, and a voice,
which was not mine, commenced singing a Spanish
song; but in her excitement she had been unable to
catch the meaning of the words, though she could
hear her own name frequently repeated. Then she
had taken to flight, and had come to me full of this
strange and surprising event.</p>

<p class='pindent'>This recital filled me with jealousy and indignation.
My first suspicions pointed to the mulatto
with whom I had fought; but, even in the midst of
my perplexity, I resolved to do nothing rashly. I
soothed Marie’s fears as best I could, and promised
to watch over her without ceasing until the marriage
tie would give me the right of never leaving
her.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Believing that the intruder whose insolence had
so alarmed Marie would not content himself with
what he had already done, I concealed myself that
very evening near the portion of the house in which
my betrothed’s chamber was situated.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Hidden amongst the tall stalks of the sugar-cane,
and armed with a dagger, I waited; and I did not
wait in vain. Towards the middle of the night my
attention was suddenly attracted by the notes of a
guitar under the very window of the room in which
Marie reposed. Furious with rage, with my dagger
clutched firmly in my hand, I rushed in the direction
of the sound, crushing beneath my feet the brittle
stalks of the sugar-canes. All of a sudden I felt
myself seized and thrown upon my back with what
<span class='pageno' title='117' id='Page_117'></span>
appeared to be superhuman force, my dagger was
wrenched from my grasp, and I saw its point shining
above me; at the same moment I could perceive a
pair of eyes and a double row of white teeth gleaming
through the darkness, whilst a voice, in accents
of concentrated rage, muttered, “<span class='it'>Te tengo, te tengo</span>”
(I have you, I have you).</p>

<p class='pindent'>More astonished than frightened, I struggled
vainly with my formidable antagonist, and already
the point of the dagger had pierced my clothes, when
Marie, whom the sound of the guitar and the noise
of the struggle had aroused, appeared suddenly at
her window. She recognized my voice, saw the
gleam of the knife, and uttered a cry of terror and
affright. This cry seemed to paralyze the hand of
my opponent. He stopped as if petrified; but still,
as though undecided, he kept the point of the dagger
pressed upon my chest; then he suddenly exclaimed
in French, “No, I cannot; she would weep too
much,” and, casting away the weapon, rose to his
feet, and in an instant disappeared in the canes;
and before I could rise, bruised and shaken from the
struggle, no sound and no sign remained of the presence
or the flight of my adversary.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was some time before I could recover my scattered
faculties. I was more furious than ever with
my unknown rival, and was overcome with a feeling
of shame at being indebted to him for my life.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“After all, however,” I thought, “it is to Marie
that I owe it; for it was the sound of <span class='it'>her</span> voice that
caused him to drop his dagger.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>And yet I could not hide from myself that there
<span class='pageno' title='118' id='Page_118'></span>
was something noble in the sentiment which had
caused my unknown rival to spare me. But who
could he be? One supposition after another rose in
my mind, all to be discarded in turn. It could not
be the mulatto planter to whom my suspicions had
first been directed. He was not endowed with such
muscular power; nor was it his voice. The man
with whom I had struggled was naked to the waist.
Slaves alone went about half-clothed in this manner.
But this could not be a slave. The feeling which
had caused him to throw away the dagger would not
have been found in the bosom of a slave; and besides,
my whole soul revolted at the idea of having a slave
for a rival. What was to be done? I determined
to wait and watch.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Marie</span> had awakened her old nurse, whom she looked
upon almost in the light of the mother who had died
in giving her birth, and with them I remained for
the rest of the night, and in the morning I informed
my uncle of the mysterious occurrence. His surprise
was extreme, but, like me, his pride would not
permit him to believe that a slave would venture to
raise his eyes to his daughter. The nurse received the
strictest orders from my uncle never to leave Marie
alone for a moment, but as the sittings of the Provincial
Assembly, the threatening aspect of the affairs
of the colony, and the superintendence of the plantation
allowed him but little leisure, he authorized me
<span class='pageno' title='119' id='Page_119'></span>
to accompany his daughter whenever she left the
house, until the celebration of our nuptials, and at
the same time, presuming that the daring lover must
be lurking in the neighbourhood, he ordered the
boundaries of the plantation to be more strictly
guarded than ever.</p>

<p class='pindent'>After all these precautions had been taken, I
determined to put the matter to further proof. I
returned to the summer-house by the river, and
repairing the destruction of the evening before, I
placed a quantity of fresh flowers in their accustomed
place. When the time arrived at which
Marie usually sought the sweet shades of this sequestered
spot, I loaded my rifle and proposed to
escort her thither. The old nurse followed a few
steps behind.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Marie, to whom I had said nothing about my
having set the place to rights, entered the summer-house
the first. “See, Leopold,” said she, “my
nest is in the same condition in which I left it
yesterday; here are your flowers thrown about in
disorder and trampled to pieces, and there is that
odious bouquet which does not appear at all faded
since yesterday; indeed, it looks as if it had been
freshly gathered.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was speechless with rage and surprise. There
was my morning’s work utterly ruined, and the wild
flowers, at whose freshness Marie was so much
astonished, had insolently usurped the place of the
roses that I had strewn all over the place.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Calm yourself,” said Marie, who noticed my
agitation; “this insolent intruder will come here no
<span class='pageno' title='120' id='Page_120'></span>
more; let us put all thoughts of him on one side,
as I do this nasty bunch of flowers.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I did not care to undeceive her, and to tell her that he
<span class='it'>had</span> returned, yet I was pleased to see the air of innocent
indignation with which she crushed the flowers under
her foot, but hoping that the day would again come
when I should meet my mysterious rival face to face,
I made her sit down between her nurse and myself.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Scarcely had we done so than Marie put her finger
on my lips; a sound, deadened by the breeze and the
rippling of the stream, had struck upon her ear. I
listened; it was the notes of a guitar, the same
melody that had filled me with fury on the preceding
evening. I made a movement to start from
my seat, but a gesture of Marie’s detained me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Leopold,” whispered she, “restrain yourself, he is
going to sing, and we shall learn who he is.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>As she spoke, a few more notes were struck on
the guitar, and then from the depths of the wood
came the plaintive melody of a Spanish song, every
word of which has remained deeply engraved on my
memory.</p>

<div class='blockquote'>

<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>Why dost thou fear me and fly me?</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Say, has my music no charms?</p>
<p class='line0'>Do you not know that I love you?</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Why, then, these causeless alarms?</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;Maria!</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->

</div>

<div class='blockquote'>

<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>When I perceive your slight figure</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Glide through the cocoa-nut grove</p>
<p class='line0'>Sometimes I think ’tis a spirit</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Come to reply to my love.</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;Maria!</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->

</div>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='121' id='Page_121'></span></p>

<div class='blockquote'>

<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>Sweeter your voice to mine ears</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Than the bird’s song in the sky,</p>
<p class='line0'>That from the kingdom I’ve lost,</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Over the wide ocean fly.</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;Maria!</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->

</div>

<div class='blockquote'>

<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>Far away, once I was king,</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Noble, and powerful, and free;</p>
<p class='line0'>All I would gladly give up</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;For a word, for a gesture from thee,</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;Maria!</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->

</div>

<div class='blockquote'>

<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>Tall and upright as a palm,</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Sweet in your young lover’s eyes</p>
<p class='line0'>As the soft shade of the tree</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Mirrored in cool water lies.</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;Maria!</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->

</div>

<div class='blockquote'>

<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>But know you not that the storm</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Comes and uproots the fair tree?</p>
<p class='line0'>Jealousy comes like that storm,</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Bringing destruction to thee,</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;Maria!</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->

</div>

<div class='blockquote'>

<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>Tremble, Hispaniola’s daughter,</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Lest all should fade and decay;</p>
<p class='line0'>And vainly you look for the arm</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;To bear you in safety away.</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;Maria!</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->

</div>

<div class='blockquote'>

<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>Why, then, repulse my fond love?</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Black I am, whilst you are white;</p>
<p class='line0'>Night and the day, when united,</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;Bring forth the beautiful light.</p>
<p class='line0'>&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;&ensp;Maria!</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->

</div>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='122' id='Page_122'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER V.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>A prolonged</span> quavering note upon the guitar, like
a sob, concluded the song. I was beside myself
with rage. King—black—slave! A thousand
incoherent ideas were awakened by this extraordinary
and mysterious song. A maddening desire
to finish for once and all with this unknown being,
who dared to mingle the name of Marie with
songs of love and menace, took possession of me.
I grasped my rifle convulsively and rushed from the
summer-house. Marie stretched out her arms to
detain me, but I was already in the thicket from
which the voice appeared to have come. I searched
the little wood thoroughly, I beat the bushes with
the barrel of my rifle, I crept behind the trunks of
the large trees, and walked through the high grass.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Nothing—nothing—always nothing! This fruitless
search added fuel to the fire of my anger. Was
this insolent rival always to escape from me like a
supernatural being? Was I never to be able to find
out who he was, or to meet him? At this moment
the tinkling of bells roused me from my reverie. I
turned sharply round, the dwarf Habibrah was at my
side.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good day, master,” said he, with a sidelong
glance full of triumphant malice at the anxiety
which was imprinted on my face.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Tell me,” exclaimed I, roughly, “have you seen
any one about here?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No one except yourself, señor mio,” answered he,
calmly.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='123' id='Page_123'></span>
“Did you hear no voice?” continued I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The slave remained silent, as though seeking for
an evasive reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My passion burst forth. “Quick, quick!” I exclaimed.
“Answer me quickly, wretch! did you hear
a voice?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He fixed his eyes boldly upon mine; they were
small and round, and gleamed like those of a wild cat.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What do you mean by a voice, master? There
are voices everywhere—the voice of the birds, the
voice of the stream, the voice of the wind in the
trees——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I shook him roughly. “Miserable buffoon,” I
cried, “cease your quibbling, or you shall hear
another voice from the barrel of my rifle. Answer at
once; did you hear a man singing a Spanish song?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, señor,” answered he, calmly. “Listen, and
I will tell you all about it. I was walking on the
outskirts of the wood listening to what the silver
bells of my <span class='it'>gorra</span> (cap) were telling me, when the
wind brought to my ears some Spanish words, the first
language that I heard when my age could have been
counted by months, and my mother carried me slung
at her back in a hammock of red and yellow wool.
I love the language, it recalls to me the time when I
was little without being a dwarf, a little child, and
not a buffoon; and so I listened to the song.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Is that all that you have to say?” cried I, impatiently.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, handsome master; but if you like I can tell
you what the man was who sang.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I felt inclined to clasp him in my arms.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='124' id='Page_124'></span>
“Oh, speak!” I exclaimed; “speak! here is my
purse, and ten others fuller than that shall be yours
if you will tell me his name.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He took the purse, opened it, and smiled.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ten purses fuller than this,” murmured he;
“that will make a fine heap of good gold coins; but
do not be impatient, young master, I am going to
tell you all. Do you remember the last verse of his
song, something about ‘I am black, and you are
white, and the union of the two produces the
beautiful light’? Well, if this song is true, Habibrah,
your humble slave, was born of a negress and a
white, and must be more beautiful than you, master;
I am the offspring of day and night, therefore I am
more beautiful than a white man, and——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He accompanied this rhapsody with bursts of
laughter.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Enough of buffoonery,” cried I; “tell me who
was singing in the wood.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Certainly, master, the man who sang such
buffooneries, as you rightly term them, could only
have been—a fool like me! Have I not gained my
ten purses?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I raised my hand to chastise his insolence, when
a wild shriek rang through the wood from the direction
of the summer-house.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was Marie’s voice.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Like an arrow I darted to the spot, wondering
what fresh misfortune could be in store for us, and
in a few moments arrived, out of breath, at the door
of the pavilion. A terrible spectacle presented itself
to my eyes.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='125' id='Page_125'></span>
An enormous alligator, whose body was half
concealed by the reeds and water plants, had thrust
his monstrous head through one of the leafy sides of
the summer-house; his hideous widely opened mouth
threatened a young negro of colossal height, who
with one arm sustained Marie’s fainting form, whilst
with the other he had plunged the iron portion of a
hoe between the sharp and pointed teeth of the
monster. The reptile struggled fiercely against the
bold and courageous hand that held him at bay.</p>

<p class='pindent'>As I appeared at the door, Marie uttered a cry of
joy, and extricating herself from the support of the
negro, threw herself into my arms with “I am
saved, I am saved!” cried she.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At the movement and exclamation of Marie the
negro turned abruptly round, crossed his arms on his
breast, and casting a look of infinite sorrow upon my
betrothed, remained immovable, taking no heed of
the alligator, which, having freed itself from the
hoe, was advancing on him in a threatening manner.</p>

<p class='pindent'>There would have been a speedy end of the
courageous negro, had I not rapidly placed Marie on
the knees of her nurse, who, more dead than alive,
was gazing upon the scene, and, coming close to the
monster, discharged my carbine into its yawning
mouth. The huge reptile staggered back, its
bleeding jaws opened and shut convulsively, its eyes
closed, and after one or two unavailing efforts it
rolled over upon its back, with its scaly feet stiffening
in the air. It was dead. The negro whose life I
had so happily preserved turned his head and saw
the last convulsive struggles of the monster, then he
<span class='pageno' title='126' id='Page_126'></span>
fixed his eyes upon Marie, who had again cast
herself into my arms, and in accents of the deepest
despair, he exclaimed in Spanish, “Why did you
kill him?” and, without waiting for a reply, leaped
into the thicket and disappeared.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER VI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> terrible scene, its singular conclusion, the
extraordinary mental emotions of every kind which
had accompanied and followed my vain researches
in the wood, had made my brain whirl. Marie was
still stupefied with the danger that she had so
narrowly escaped, and some time elapsed before we
could frame coherent words, or express ourselves
otherwise than by looks and clasping of the hands.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At last I broke the silence.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Come, Marie, let us leave this, some fatality
seems attached to the place.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>She rose eagerly, as if she had only been waiting
for my permission to do so, and, leaning upon
my arm, we quitted the pavilion. I asked her how
it had happened that succour had so opportunely
arrived when the danger was so imminent, and if
she knew who the slave was who had come to her
assistance; for that it <span class='it'>was</span> a slave, was shown by his
coarse linen trousers—a dress only worn by that
unhappy class.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The man,” replied Marie, “is no doubt one of
my father’s negroes who was at work in the
vicinity when the appearance of the alligator made
<span class='pageno' title='127' id='Page_127'></span>
me scream, and my cry must have warned him of
my danger. All I know is, that he rushed out of
the wood and came to my help.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“From which side did he come?” asked I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“From the opposite side from which the song
came, and into which you had just gone.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This statement upset the conclusion that I had
been drawing from the Spanish words that the negro
had addressed to me, and from the song in the same
language by my unknown rival. But yet there was
a crowd of other similarities. This negro of great
height, and powerful muscular development, might
well have been the adversary with whom I had
struggled on the preceding night. In that case his
half-clothed person would furnish a striking proof.
The singer in the wood had said, “I am black”—a
further proof.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He had declared himself to be a king, and this one
was only a slave, but I recollected that in my brief
examination I had been surprised at the noble
appearance of his features, though of course accompanied
by the characteristic signs of the African
race.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The more that I thought of his appearance, the
nobleness of his deportment, and his magnificent
proportions, I felt that there might be some truth in
his statement that he had been a king. But then
came the crushing blow to my pride: if he had dared
to gaze with an eye of affection upon Marie, if he
had made her the object of his serenades, <span class='it'>he</span>, a <span class='it'>negro</span>
and a <span class='it'>slave</span>, what punishment could be sufficiently
severe for his presumption? With these thoughts
<span class='pageno' title='128' id='Page_128'></span>
all my indecision returned again, and again my anger
increased against the mysterious unknown. But
at the moment that these ideas filled my brain,
Marie dissipated them entirely by exclaiming, in her
gentle voice—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My Leopold, we must seek out this brave negro,
and pay him the debt of gratitude that we owe him,
for without him I should have been lost, for you
would have arrived too late.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>These few words had a decisive effect; it did not
alter my determination to seek out the slave, but it
entirely altered the design with which I sought him,
for it was to recompense and not to punish him that
I was now eager.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My uncle learned from me that he owed his
daughter’s life to the courage of one of his slaves, and
he promised me his liberty as soon as I could find
him out.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER VII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Up</span> to that time my feelings had restrained me from
going into those portions of the plantation where the
slaves were at work. It had been too painful for me
to see so much suffering which I was powerless to
alleviate. But on the day after the events had taken
place which I have just narrated, upon my uncle
asking me to accompany him on his tour of inspection,
I accepted his proposal with eagerness, hoping
to meet amongst the labourers the preserver of my
much beloved Marie.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I had the opportunity in this visit of seeing how
<span class='pageno' title='129' id='Page_129'></span>
great a power the master exercises over his slaves,
but at the same time I could perceive at what a cost
this power was bought, for though at the presence
of my uncle all redoubled their efforts, I could perceive
that there was as much hatred as terror in the
looks that they furtively cast upon him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Irascible by temperament, my uncle seemed vexed
at being unable to discover any object upon which to
vent his wrath, until Habibrah the buffoon, who
was ever at his heels, pointed out to him a young
negro, who, overcome by heat and fatigue, had fallen
asleep under a clump of date-trees.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My uncle stepped quickly up to him, shook him
violently, and in angry tones ordered him to resume
his work.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The terrified slave rose to his feet, and in so doing
disclosed a Bengal rose-tree upon which he had
accidentally laid, and which my uncle prized highly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The shrub was entirely destroyed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this the master, already irritated at what he
called the idleness of his slave, became furious.
Foaming with rage, he unhooked from his belt the
whip with wire plaited thongs, which he always
carried with him on his rounds, and raised his arm
to strike the negro who had fallen at his feet.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The whip did not fall.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I shall, as long as I live, never forget that moment.
A powerful grasp arrested the hand of the angry
planter, and a negro (it was the very one that I was
in search of) exclaimed, “Punish me, for I <span class='it'>have</span>
offended you, but do not hurt my brother who has
but broken your rose-tree.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='130' id='Page_130'></span>
This unexpected interposition from the man to
whom I owed Marie’s safety, his manner, his look,
and the haughty tone of his voice, struck me with
surprise. But his generous intervention, far from
causing my uncle to blush for his causeless anger,
only increased the rage of the incensed master, and
turned his anger upon the new-comer.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Exasperated to the highest pitch, my uncle disengaged
his arm from the grasp of the tall negro, and
pouring out a volley of threats, again raised the whip
to strike him. This time, however, it was torn from
his hand, and the negro, breaking the handle studded
with iron nails as you would break a straw, cast it
upon the ground and trampled upon the instrument
of degrading punishment.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was motionless with surprise, my uncle with rage,
for it was an unheard-of thing for him to find his
authority thus contemned. His eyes appeared ready
to start from their sockets, and his lips quivered
with passion.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The negro gazed upon him calmly, and then, with
a dignified air, he offered him an axe that he held in
his hand.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“White man,” said he, “if you wish to strike me,
at least take this axe.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>My uncle, beside himself with rage, would certainly
have complied with his request, for he stretched out
his hand to grasp the dangerous weapon; but I in
my turn interfered, and seizing the axe, threw it
into the well of a sugar-mill which was close at hand.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What have you done?” asked my uncle, angrily.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I have saved you,” answered I, “from the unhappiness
<span class='pageno' title='131' id='Page_131'></span>
of striking the preserver of your daughter;
it is to this slave that you owe Marie; it is the negro
to whom you have promised liberty.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was an unfortunate moment in which to remind
him of his promise. My words could not soothe the
wounded dignity of the planter.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“His liberty!” replied he, savagely. “Yes, he
has deserved that an end should be put to his slavery;
his liberty indeed! we shall see what sort of liberty
the members of a court-martial will accord him.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>These menacing words chilled my blood. In vain
did Marie join her entreaties to mine.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The negro whose negligence had been the cause
of this scene was punished with a severe flogging,
whilst his defender was thrown into the dungeons of
Fort Galifet, under the terrible accusation of having
assaulted a white man; for a slave who did this, the
punishment was invariably death.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>You</span> may judge, gentlemen, how much all these circumstances
excited my curiosity and interest. I
made every inquiry regarding the prisoner, and some
strange particulars came to my knowledge. I
learned that all his comrades displayed the greatest
respect for the young negro. Slave as he was, he
had but to make a sign to be implicitly obeyed. He
was not born upon the estate, nor did any one know
his father or mother: all that was known of him was
that some years ago, a slave ship had brought him
to St. Domingo. This circumstance rendered the
<span class='pageno' title='132' id='Page_132'></span>
influence which he exercised over the slaves the more
extraordinary, for, as a rule, the negroes born upon
the island profess the greatest contempt for the
<span class='it'>Congos</span>, a term which they apply to all slaves brought
direct from Africa.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Although he seemed a prey to deep dejection, his
enormous strength, combined with his great skill, rendered
him very valuable in the plantation. He could
turn more quickly, and for a longer period than a
horse, the wheels of the sugar-mills, and often in a
single day performed the work of ten of his companions
to save them from the punishment which
their negligence or incapacity had rendered them
liable. For this reason he was adored by the slaves,
but the respect that they paid him was of an entirely
different character from the superstitious dread with
which they looked upon Habibrah the Jester.</p>

<p class='pindent'>What was more strange was the modesty and
gentleness with which he treated his equals, in contrast
to the pride and haughtiness which he displayed
to the negroes who acted as overseers. These
privileged slaves, the intermediary links in the chain
of servitude, too often exceed the little brief authority
that is delegated to them, and find a cruel pleasure
in overwhelming those beneath them with work.
Not one of them, however, had ever dared to inflict
any species of punishment on him, for had they done
so, twenty negroes would have stepped forward to
take his place, whilst he would have looked gravely
on, as thought he considered that they were merely
performing a duty. The strange being was known
throughout the negro quarter as <span class='it'>Pierrot</span>.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='133' id='Page_133'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER IX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> whole of these circumstances took a firm hold
upon my youthful imagination. Marie, inspired by
compassion and gratitude, applauded my enthusiasm,
and Pierrot excited our interest so much, that I determined
to visit him and offer him my services in
extricating him from his perilous position. As the
nephew of one of the richest colonists in the Cap,
I was, in spite of my youth, a captain in the Acul
Militia. This regiment, and a detachment of the
Yellow Dragoons, had charge of Fort Galifet; the
detachment was commanded by a non-commissioned
officer, to whose brother I had once had the good
fortune to render an important service, and who
therefore was entirely devoted to me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>(Here the listeners at once pronounced the name of
Thaddeus.)</p>

<p class='pindent'>You are right, gentlemen (replied the captain),
and as you may well believe, I had not much trouble
in penetrating to the cell in which the negro was
confined. As a captain in the militia, I had of course
the right to visit the fort; but to evade the suspicions
of my uncle, whose rage was still unabated, I took
care to go there at the time of his noonday <span class='it'>siesta</span>.
All the soldiers too, except those on guard, were
asleep, and guided by Thaddeus I came to the door
of the cell. He opened it for me, and then discreetly
retired.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The negro was seated on the ground, for, on
account of his height, he could not stand upright.
<span class='pageno' title='134' id='Page_134'></span>
He was not alone, an enormous dog was crouched at
his feet, which rose with a growl, and moved toward
me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Rask,” cried the negro.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The dog ceased growling, and again laid down at
his master’s feet, and began eating some coarse food.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was in uniform, and the daylight that came
through the loophole in the wall of the cell was so
feeble that Pierrot could not recognize my features.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I am ready,” said he, in a clear voice.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I thought,” remarked I, surprised at the ease
with which he moved, “that you were in irons.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He kicked something that jingled.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Irons; oh, I broke them.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was something in the tone in which he
uttered these words, that seemed to say, “I was not
born to wear fetters.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I continued: “I did not know that they had permitted
you to have a dog with you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“They did not allow it; I brought him in.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was more and more astonished. Three bolts
closed the door on the outside, the loophole was
scarcely six inches in width, and had two iron bars
across it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He seemed to divine my thoughts, and raising as
nearly erect as the low roof would permit, he pulled
out with ease a large stone placed under the loophole,
removed the iron bars, and displayed an opening
sufficiently large to permit two men to pass through.
This opening looked upon a grove of bananas and
cocoa-nut trees which covered the hill upon which
the fort was built.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='135' id='Page_135'></span>
Surprise rendered me dumb; at that moment a
ray of light fell on my face. The prisoner started as
if he had accidentally trodden upon a snake, and his
head struck against the ceiling of the cell. A strange
mixture of opposing feelings passed over his face—hatred,
kindness, and astonishment were all mingled
together; but recovering himself with an effort, his
face once more became cold and calm, and he gazed
upon me as if I was entirely unknown to him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I can live two days more without eating,” said he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I saw how thin he had become, and made a movement
of horror.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He continued, “My dog will only eat from my
hand, and had I not enlarged the loophole, poor
Rask would have died of hunger. It is better that
he should live, for I know that I am condemned to
death.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No,” I said; “no, you shall not die of hunger.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He misunderstood me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Very well,” answered he, with a bitter smile, “I
could have lived two days yet without food, but I am
ready: to-day is as good as to-morrow. Do not hurt
Rask.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then I understood what he meant when he said
“I am ready.” Accused of a crime the punishment
of which was death, he believed that I had come to
announce his immediate execution; and yet this
man endowed with herculean strength, with all the
avenues of escape open to him, had in a calm and
childlike manner repeated “I am ready!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do not hurt Rask,” said he, once more.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I could restrain myself no longer.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='136' id='Page_136'></span>
“What!” I exclaimed, “not only do you take me
for your executioner, but you think so meanly of my
humanity, that you believe I would injure this poor
dog, who has never done me any harm!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>His manner softened, and there was a slight
tremor in his voice as he offered me his hand, saying,</p>

<p class='pindent'>“White man, pardon me, but I love my dog, and
your race have cruelly injured me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I embraced him, I clasped his hand, I did my
best to undeceive him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do you not know me?” asked I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I know that you are white, and that a negro is
nothing in the eyes of men of your colour; besides
you have injured me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“In what manner?” exclaimed I, in surprise.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Have you not twice saved my life?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This strange accusation made me smile; he perceived
it, and smiled bitterly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I know it too well: once you saved my life
from an alligator, and once from a planter, and what
is worse I am denied the right to hate you, I am
very unhappy.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The strangeness of his language and of his ideas
surprised me no longer; it was in harmony with
himself.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I owe more to you than you can owe to me. I
owe you the life of Marie, of my betrothed.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He started as though he had received some terrible
shock. “Marie!” repeated he in stilled tones, and
his face fell in his hands which trembled violently,
whilst his bosom rose and fell with heavy sighs.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I must confess that once again my suspicions were
<span class='pageno' title='137' id='Page_137'></span>
aroused, but this time there were no feelings of anger
or jealousy. I was too near my happiness, and he
was trembling upon the brink of death, so that I
could not for a moment look upon him as a rival, and
even had I done so, his forlorn condition would have
excited my compassion and sympathy.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At last he raised his head.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Go,” said he; “do not thank me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>After a pause he added, “And yet my rank is as
lofty as your own.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>These last words roused my curiosity, I urged him
to tell me of his position, and his sufferings, but he
maintained an obstinate silence.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My proceedings, however, had touched his heart,
and my entreaties appeared to have vanquished his
distaste for life. He left his cell, and in a short time
returned with some bananas and a large cocoa-nut.
Then he reclosed the opening and began to eat. As
we conversed, I remarked that he spoke French and
Spanish with equal facility, and that his education
had not been entirely neglected. He knew many
Spanish songs, which he sang with great feeling.
Altogether he was a mystery that I endeavoured in
vain to solve, for he would give me no key to the
riddle. At last, with regret, I was compelled to leave
him, after having urged on my faithful Thaddeus to
permit him every possible indulgence.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER X.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Every</span> day at the same hour I visited him. His
position rendered me very uneasy, for in spite of all
<span class='pageno' title='138' id='Page_138'></span>
our prayers, my uncle obstinately refused to withdraw
his complaint. I did not conceal my fears from
Pierrot, who however listened to them with indifference.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Often Rask would come in with a large palm-leaf
tied round his neck. His master would take it off,
read some lines traced upon it in an unknown
language, and then tear it up. I had ceased to
question him in any matters connected with himself.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One day as I entered he took no notice of me, he
was seated with his back to the door of the cell, and
was whistling in melancholy mood the Spanish air,
“Yo que soy contrabandista” (“A smuggler am I”).
When he had completed it, he turned sharply round
to me, and exclaimed—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brother, if you ever doubt me, promise that you
will cast aside all suspicion on hearing me sing this
air.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>His look was earnest, and I promised what he
asked, without noticing the words upon which he laid
so much stress, “<span class='it'>If ever you doubt me</span>.” He took
the empty half of a cocoa-nut which he had brought
in on the day of my first visit, and had preserved
ever since, filled it which palm wine, begged me to
put my lips to it, and then drank it off at a draught.
From that day he always called me <span class='it'>brother</span>.</p>

<p class='pindent'>And now I began to cherish a hope of saving
Pierrot’s life. My uncle’s anger had cooled down a
little. The preparations for the festivities, connected
with his daughter’s wedding had caused his feelings
to flow in gentle channels. Marie joined her entreaties
to mine. Each day I pointed out to him
<span class='pageno' title='139' id='Page_139'></span>
that Pierrot had had no desire to insult him, but had
merely interposed to prevent him from committing
an act of perhaps too great severity; that the negro
had at the risk of his life saved Marie from the
alligator; and besides, Pierrot was the strongest of all
his slaves (for now I sought to save his life not to
obtain his liberty), that he was able to do the work of
ten men, and that his single arm was sufficient to
put the rollers of a sugar-mill in motion. My uncle
listened to me calmly, and once or twice hinted that
he might not follow up his complaint.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I did not say a word to the negro of the change
that had taken place, hoping that I should soon be
the messenger to announce to him his restoration to
liberty.</p>

<p class='pindent'>What astonished me greatly was, that though he
believed that he was under sentence of death, yet he
made no effort to avail himself of the means of
escape that lay in his power. I spoke to him of this.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I am forced to remain,” said he simply, “or they
would think that I was afraid.”</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>One</span> morning Marie came to me, she was radiant
with happiness, and upon her gentle face was a
sweeter expression than even the joys of pure love
could produce, for written upon it was the knowledge
of a good deed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen,” said she. “In three days we shall be
married. We shall soon——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I interrupted her.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='140' id='Page_140'></span>
“Do not say <span class='it'>soon</span>, Marie, when there is yet an
interval of three days.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>She blushed and smiled.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do not be foolish, Leopold,” replied she. “An
idea has struck me which has made me very happy.
You know that yesterday I went to town with my
father to buy all sort’s of things for our wedding. I
only care for jewels because you say that they become
me. I would give all my pearls for a single
flower from the bouquet which that odious man with
the marigolds destroyed. But that is not what I
meant to say. My father wished to buy me everything
that I admired, and amongst other things there
was a <span class='it'>basquina</span> of Chinese satin embroidered with
flowers, which I admired. It was very expensive.
My father noticed that the dress had attracted my
attention. As we were returning home, I begged
him to promise me a boon after the manner of the
knights of old—you know how he delights to be
compared to them. He vowed on his honour that
he would grant me whatever I asked, thinking of
course that it was the <span class='it'>basquina</span> of Chinese satin; but
no, it is Pierrot’s pardon that I will ask for as my
nuptial present.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I could not refrain from embracing her tenderly.
My uncle’s word was sacred, and whilst Marie ran
to him to claim its fulfilment, I hastened to Fort
Galifet to convey the glad news to Pierrot.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brother,” exclaimed I, as I entered, “Rejoice,
your life is safe; Marie has obtained it as a wedding
present from her father.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The slave shuddered.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='141' id='Page_141'></span>
“Marie—wedding—my life! What reference have
these things to each other?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is very simple,” answered I. “Marie, whose
life you saved, is to be married——.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“To whom?” exclaimed the negro, a terrible
change coming over his face.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Did you not know that she was to be married to
me?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>His features relaxed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ah, yes,” he replied; “and when is the marriage
to take place?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“On August the 22nd.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“On August the 22nd! Are you mad?” cried he,
with terror painted in his countenance.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He stopped abruptly; I looked at him with astonishment.
After a short pause he clasped my hand—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brother,” said he, “I owe you so much that I
must give you a warning. Trust to me, take up your
residence in Cap, and get married before the 22nd.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>In vain I entreated him to explain his mysterious
wards.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Farewell,” said he, in solemn tones; “I have
perhaps said too much, but I hate ingratitude even
more than perjury.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I left the prison a prey to feelings of great uneasiness;
but all these were soon effaced by the thoughts
of my approaching happiness.</p>

<p class='pindent'>That very day my uncle withdrew his charge,
and I returned to the Fort to release Pierrot. Thaddeus,
on hearing the noise, accompanied me to the
prisoner’s cell, but he was gone! Rask alone remained,
and came up to me wagging his tail. To
<span class='pageno' title='142' id='Page_142'></span>
his neck was fastened a palm-leaf, upon which were
written these words: “Thanks; for the third time
you have saved my life. Do not forget your promise,
friend;” whilst underneath, in lieu of signature,
were the words: “Yo que soy contrabandista.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Thaddeus was even more astonished than I was,
for he was ignorant of the enlargement of the loophole,
and firmly believed that the negro had changed
himself into a dog. I allowed him to remain in this
belief, contenting myself with making him promise
to say nothing of what he had seen. I wished to
take Rask home with me, but on leaving the Fort
he plunged into a thicket and disappeared.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>My</span> uncle was furiously enraged at the escape of the
negro. He ordered a diligent search to be made for
him, and wrote to the Governor placing Pierrot entirely
at his disposal should he be re-taken.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The 22nd of August arrived. My union with
Maria was celebrated with every species of rejoicing
at the parish church of Acul. How happily did that
day commence from which all our misfortunes were
to date!</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was intoxicated with my happiness, and Pierrot
and his mysterious warning were entirely banished
from my thoughts. At last the day came to a close,
and my wife had retired to her apartments; but for
a time duty forbade me joining her there. My position
as a captain of militia required me that evening
<span class='pageno' title='143' id='Page_143'></span>
to make the round of the guards posted about Acul.
This nightly precaution was absolutely necessary
owing to the disturbed state of the colony, caused by
occasional outbreaks amongst the negroes, which,
however, had been promptly repressed. My uncle was
the first to recall me to the recollection of my duty.
I had no option but to yield, and, putting on my
uniform, I went out. I visited the first few guards
without discovering any cause of alarm; but towards
midnight, as half buried in my own thoughts I was
patrolling the shores of the bay, I perceived upon the
horizon a ruddy light in the direction of Limonade
and Saint Louis du Morin. At first my escort attributed
it to some accidental conflagration; but in a
few moments the flames became so vivid, and the
smoke rising before the wind grew so thick, that I
ordered an immediate return to the Fort to give the
alarm, and to request that help might be sent in the
direction of the fire.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In passing through the quarters of the negroes
who belonged to our estate, I was surprised at the
extreme disorder that reigned there. The majority
of the slaves were afoot, and were talking together
with great earnestness. One strange word was
pronounced with the greatest respect—it was <span class='it'>Bug-Jargal</span>—and
occurred continually in the almost unintelligible
dialect that they used.</p>

<p class='pindent'>From a word or two which I gathered here and
there, I learned that the negroes of the northern districts
were in open revolt, and had set fire to the
dwelling-houses and the plantations on the other
side of Cap.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='144' id='Page_144'></span>
Passing through a marshy spot, I discovered a
quantity of axes and other tools, which would serve
as weapons, hidden amongst the reeds. My suspicions
were now thoroughly aroused, and I ordered
the whole of the Acul militia to get under arms, and
gave the command to my lieutenant, and, whilst my
poor Marie was expecting me, I, obeying my uncle’s
orders, who, as I have mentioned, was a member of
the Provincial Assembly, took the road to Cap, with
such soldiers as I had been able to muster. I shall
never forget the appearance of the town as we approached.
The flames from the plantations which
were burning all around it, threw a lurid light upon
the scene, which was only partially obscured by the
clouds of smoke which the wind drove into the
narrow streets. Immense masses of sparks rose
from the burning heaps of sugar-cane, and fell like
fiery snow on the roofs of the houses, and on the
rigging of the vessels at anchor in the roadsteads, at
every moment threatening the town of Cap with as
serious a conflagration as was already raging in its
immediate neighbourhood. It was a terrible sight
to witness the terror-stricken inhabitants exposing
their lives to preserve from so destructive a visitant
their habitations, which perhaps was the last portion
of property left to them; whilst, on the other hand,
the vessels, taking advantage of a fair wind, and
fearing the same fate, had already set sail, and were
gliding over an ocean reddened by the flames of the
conflagration.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='145' id='Page_145'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Stunned</span> by the noise of the minute-guns from the
Fort, by the cries of the fugitives, and the distant
crash of falling buildings, I did not know in what
direction to lead my men; but, meeting in the main
square the captain of the Yellow Dragoons, he advised
me to proceed direct to the Governor.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Other hands have painted the disasters of Cap, and
I must pass quickly over my recollections of them,
written as they are in fire and blood. I will content
myself with saying that the insurgent slaves were
already masters of Dondon, of Terrier-Rouge, of
the town of Ouanaminte, and of the plantation of
Limbé. This last news filled me with uneasiness,
owing to the proximity of Limbé to Acul. I made
all speed to the Government House. All was in
confusion there. I asked for orders, and begged that
instant measures might be taken for the security of
Acul, which I feared the insurgents were already
threatening. With the Governor, Monsieur de
Blanchelande, were M. de Rouvray, the Brigadier,
and one of the largest landholders in Cap; M. de
Touzard, the Lieutenant-Colonel of the Regiment of
Cap; a great many members of the Colonial and
the Provincial Assemblies, and numbers of the leading
colonists. As I entered, all were engaged in a
confused argument.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your Excellency,” said a member of the Provincial
Assembly, “it is only too true, it is the
negroes, and not the free mulattoes; it has often
<span class='pageno' title='146' id='Page_146'></span>
been pointed out that there was danger in that
direction.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You make that statement without believing in
its truth,” answered a member of the Colonial Assembly,
bitterly, “and you only say it to gain credit
at our expense. So far from expecting a rising of
the slaves, you got up a sham one in 1789. A
ridiculous farce in which with a supposed insurgent
force of three thousand slaves, <span class='it'>one</span> national volunteer
only was killed, and that most likely by his own
comrades.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I repeat,” replied the <span class='it'>Provincial</span>, “that we can
see farther than you. It is only natural. We
remain upon the spot and study the minutest details
of the colony, whilst you and your Assembly hurry
off to France to make some absurd proposals; which
are often met with a national reprimand <span class='it'>Ridiculus
mus</span>.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The member of the Colonial Assembly answered
with a sneer—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Our fellow citizens re-elected us all without hesitation.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It was your Assembly,” retorted the other,
“that caused the execution of that poor devil who
neglected to wear a tricolored cockade in a <span class='it'>café</span>, and
who commenced a petition for capital punishment
to be inflicted on the mulatto Lacombe with that
worn-out phrase, ‘In the name of the Father, of the
Son, and the Holy Ghost.’ ”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is false,” exclaimed the other; “there has
always been a struggle of principles against privileges
between our assemblies.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='147' id='Page_147'></span>
“Ha, Monsieur, I see now you are an <span class='it'>Independent</span>.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“That is tantamount to allowing that you are in
favour of the <span class='it'>White Cockade</span>: I leave you to get out
of that confession as best you may.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>More might have passed, but the Governor interposed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Gentlemen, gentlemen, what has this to do with
the present state of affairs, and the pressing danger
that threatens us? Listen to the reports that I
have received. The revolt began this night at ten
o’clock amongst the slaves in the Turpin Plantation.
The negroes, headed by an English slave named
Bouckmann, were joined by the blacks from Clement,
Trémés, Flaville, and Nöe. They set fire to all
the plantations, and massacred the colonists with
the most unheard-of barbarities. By one single detail
I can make you comprehend all the horrors accompanying
this insurrection. The standard of the
insurgents is the body of a white child on the point
of a pike.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A general cry of horror interrupted the Governor’s
statement.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“So much,” continued he, “for what has passed
outside the town. Within its limits all is confusion.
Fear has rendered many of the inhabitants forgetful
of the duties of humanity, and they have murdered
their slaves. Nearly every one have confined their
negroes behind bolts and bars. The white artisans
accuse the free mulattoes of being participators in
the revolt, and many have had great difficulty in
escaping from the fury of the populace. I have had
<span class='pageno' title='148' id='Page_148'></span>
to grant them a place of refuge in a church, guarded
by a regiment of soldiers; and now, to prove that
they have nothing in common with the insurgents,
they asked that they may be armed and led against
the rebels.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do nothing of the kind, your Excellency,” cried
a voice which I recognized as that of the planter
with whom I had had a duel. “Do nothing of the
kind; give no arms to the mulattoes.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What, do you not want to fight?” asked a
planter, with a sneer.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The other did not appear to hear him, and continued:
“These men of mixed blood are our worst
enemies, and we must take every precaution against
them. It is from that quarter that the insurgents
are recruited; the negroes have but little to do with
the rising.” The poor wretch hoped by his abuse
of the mulattoes to prove that he had nothing in
common with them, and to clear himself from the
imputation of having black blood in his veins; but
the attempt was too barefaced, and a murmur of
disgust rose up on all sides.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said M. de Rouvray, “the slaves <span class='it'>have</span>
something to do with it, for they are forty to one;
and we should be in a serious plight if we could only
oppose the negroes and the mulattoes with whites
like you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The planter bit his lips.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“General,” said the Governor, “what answer shall
be given to the petition: shall the mulattoes have the
arms?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Give them weapons, your Excellency; let us
<span class='pageno' title='149' id='Page_149'></span>
make use of every willing hand. And you, sir,” he
added, turning to the colonist of doubtful colour.
“Go arm yourself, and join your comrades.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The humiliated planter slunk away, filled with
concentrated rage.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But the cries of distress which rang through the
town reached even to the chamber in which the
council was being held. M. de Blanchelande hastily
pencilled a few words upon a slip of paper, and
handed it to one of his aides-de-camp, who at once
left the room.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Gentlemen, the mulattoes will receive arms; but
there are many more questions to be settled.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The Provincial Assembly should at once be
convoked,” said the planter who had been speaking
when first I entered.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The Provincial Assembly?” retorted his antagonist;
“what is the Provincial Assembly?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You do not know because you are a member of
the Colonial Assembly,” replied the favourer of the
<span class='it'>White Cockade</span>.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The <span class='it'>Independent</span> interrupted him. “I know no
more of the Colonial than the Provincial—I only
recognize the General Assembly.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Gentlemen,” exclaimed a planter, “whilst we
are losing time with this nonsense, tell me what is
to become of my cotton and my cochineal?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“And my indigo at Lumbé?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“And my negroes, for whom I paid twenty dollars
a-head all round?” said the captain of a slave ship.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Each minute that you waste,” continued another
colonist, “costs me ten quintals of sugar, which at
<span class='pageno' title='150' id='Page_150'></span>
seventeen piastres the quintal makes one hundred
and thirty livres, ten sous, in French money, by
the——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Here the rival upholders of the two Assemblies
again sought to renew their argument.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Morbleu,” said M. de Rouvray in a voice of
thunder, striking the table violently, “what eternal
talkers you are! What do we care about your two
assemblies. Summon both of them, your Excellency,
and I will form them into two regiments, and when
they march against the negroes we shall see whether
their tongues or their muskets make the most noise.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then turning towards me he whispered—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Between the two Assemblies and the Governor
nothing can be done. These fine talkers spoil all, as
they do in Paris. If I was seated in his Excellency’s
chair, I would throw all these fellows out of the
window, and with my soldiers and a dozen crosses of
St. Louis to promise, I would sweep away all the
rebels in the island. These fictitious ideas of liberty,
which they have all run mad after in France, do not
do out here. Negroes should be treated so as not to
upset them entirely by sudden liberation; all the
terrible events of to-day are merely the result of this
utterly mistaken policy, and this rising of the slaves
is the natural result of the taking of the Bastille.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Whilst the old soldier thus explained to me his
views—a little narrow-minded perhaps, but full of
the frankness of conviction—the stormy argument
was at its height. A certain planter, one amongst
the few who were bitten with the rabid mania of the
revolution, and who called himself Citizen General
<span class='pageno' title='151' id='Page_151'></span>
C——, because he had assisted at a few sanguinary
executions, exclaimed—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“We must have punishments rather than battles.
Every nation must exist by terrible examples; let us
terrify the negroes. It was I who quieted the slaves
during the risings of June and July by lining the
approach to my house with a double row of negro
heads. Let each one join me in this, and let us
defend the entrances to Cap with the slaves who are
still in our hands.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“How?” “What do you mean?” “Folly,”
“The height of imprudence,” was heard on all sides.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You do not understand me, gentlemen. Let us
make a ring of negro heads, from Fort Picolet to
Point Caracole. The rebels, their comrades, will
not then dare to approach us. I have five hundred
slaves who have remained faithful—I offer them at
once.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This abominable proposal was received with a cry
of horror.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is infamous! It is too disgusting!” was repeated
by at least a dozen voices.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Extreme steps of this sort have brought us to
the verge of destruction,” said a planter. “If the
execution of the insurgents of June and July had not
been so hurried on, we should have held in our hands
the clue to the conspiracy, which the axe of the
executioner divided for ever.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Citizen C—— was silenced for a moment by this
outburst; then in an injured tone he muttered—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I did not think that <span class='it'>I</span>, above all others, should
have been suspected of cruelty. Why, all my life
<span class='pageno' title='152' id='Page_152'></span>
I have been mixed up with the lovers of the negro
race. I am in correspondence with Briscot and
Pruneau de Pomme-Gouge, in France; with Hans
Sloane, in England; with Magaw, in America; with
Pezll, in Germany; with Olivarius, in Denmark;
with Wadstiörn, in Sweden; with Peter Paulus, in
Holland; with Avendaño, in Spain; and with the
Abbé Pierre Tamburini, in Italy!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>His voice rose as he ran through the names of his
correspondents amongst the lovers of the African
race, and he terminated his speech with the contemptuous
remark—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But, after all, there are no true philosophers
here.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>For the third time M. de Blanchelande asked if
any one had anything further to propose.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your Excellency,” cried one, “let us embark on
board the <span class='it'>Leopard</span>, which lies at anchor off the quay.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Let us put a price on the head of Bouckmann,”
exclaimed another.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Send a report of what has taken place to the
Governor of Jamaica,” suggested a third.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“A good idea, so that he may again send us the
ironical help of five hundred muskets!” sneered a
member of the Provincial Assembly. “Your Excellency,
let us send the news to France, and wait
for a reply.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Wait—a likely thing indeed,” exclaimed M. de
Rouvray; “and do you think that the blacks will
wait, eh? And the flames that encircle our town,
do you think that they will wait? Your Excellency,
let the tocsin be sounded, and send dragoons and
<span class='pageno' title='153' id='Page_153'></span>
grenadiers in search of the main body of the rebels.
Form a camp in the eastern division of the island;
plant military posts at Trou and at Vallieres. I will
take charge of the plain of Dauphin; but let us lose
no more time, for the moment for action has arrived.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The bold and energetic speech of the veteran
soldier hushed all differences of opinion. The
general had acted wisely. That secret knowledge
which every one possesses most conducive to his
own interests, caused all to support the proposal of
General de Rouvray; and whilst the Governor with
a warm clasp of the hand showed his old friend that
his counsels had been appreciated, though they had
been given in rather a dictatorial manner, the
colonists urged for the immediate carrying out of the
proposals.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I seized the opportunity to obtain from M. de
Blanchelande the permission that I so ardently
desired, and, leaving the room, mustered my company
in order to return to Acul—though, with the exception
of myself, all were worn out with the fatigue of their
late march.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XIV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Day</span> began to break as I entered the market-place
of the town, and began to rouse up the soldiers, who
were lying about in all directions wrapped in their
cloaks, and mingled pell-mell with the Red and Yellow
Dragoons, fugitives from the country, cattle bellowing,
and property of every description sent in for security
by the planters. In the midst of all this confusion
<span class='pageno' title='154' id='Page_154'></span>
I began to pick out my men, when I saw a private
in the Yellow Dragoons, covered with dust and perspiration,
ride up at full speed. I hastened to meet
him, and in a few broken words he informed me that
my fears were realized—that the insurrection had
spread to Acul, and that the negroes were besieging
Fort Galifet, in which the planters and the militia
had taken refuge. I must tell you that this fort was
by no means a strong one, for in St. Domingo they
dignify the slightest earthwork with the name of
fort.</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was not a moment to be lost. I mounted as
many of my soldiers as I could procure horses for,
and taking the dragoon as a guide, I reached my
uncle’s plantation about ten o’clock. I scarcely cast
a glance at the enormous estate, which was nothing
but a sea of flame, over which hovered huge clouds
of smoke, through which every now and then the
wind bore trunks of trees covered with sparks. A
terrible rustling and crackling sound seemed to
reply to the distant yells of the negroes which we
now began to hear, though we could not as yet see
them. The destruction of all this wealth, which
would eventually have become mine, did not cause
me a moment’s regret. All I thought of was the
safety of Marie—what mattered anything else in the
world to me? I knew that she had taken refuge in
the fort, and I prayed to God that I might arrive in
time to rescue her. This hope sustained me through
all the anxiety I felt, and gave me the strength and
courage of a lion. At length a turn in the road
permitted us to see the fort. The tricolour yet
<span class='pageno' title='155' id='Page_155'></span>
floated on its walls, and a well-sustained fire was
kept up by the garrison. I uttered a shout of joy.
“Gallop, spur on!” said I to my men, and redoubling
our pace we dashed across the fields in the direction
of the scene of action.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Near the fort I could see my uncle’s house; the
doors and windows were dashed in, but the walls
still stood, and shone red with the reflected glare of
the flames, which, owing to the wind being in a contrary
direction, had not yet reached the building.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A crowd of the insurgents had taken possession of
the house, and showed themselves at the windows
and on the roof. I could see the glare of torches and
the gleam of pikes and axes, whilst a brisk fire of
musketry was kept up on the fort.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Another strong body of negroes had placed ladders
against the walls of the fort and strove to take it by
assault, though many fell under the well-directed
fire of the defenders.</p>

<p class='pindent'>These black men always returning to the charge
after each repulse, looked like a swarm of ants endeavouring
to scale the shell of a tortoise, and shaken
off by each movement of the sluggish reptile.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We reached the outworks of the fort, our eyes
fixed upon the banner which still floated above it. I
called upon my men to remember that their wives
and children were shut up within those walls, and I
urged them to fly to their rescue. A general cheer
was the reply, and, forming column, I was on the
point of giving the order to charge, when a loud
yell was heard, a cloud of smoke enveloped the fort,
and for a time concealed it from our sight; a roar
<span class='pageno' title='156' id='Page_156'></span>
was heard like that of a furnace in full blast, and as
it cleared away we saw a red flag floating proudly
above the dismantled walls. All was over. Fort
Galifet was in the hands of the insurgents.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I cannot</span> tell you what my feelings were at this
terrible spectacle. The fort was taken, its defenders
slain, and twenty families massacred; but I confess,
to my shame, that I thought not of this. Marie was
lost to me—lost, after having been made mine but a
few brief hours before. Lost, perhaps, through my
fault, for had I not obeyed the orders of my uncle in
going to Cap I should have been by her side to defend
her, or at least to die with her. These thoughts
raised my grief to madness, for my despair was born
of remorse.</p>

<p class='pindent'>However, my men were maddened at the sight.
With a shout of “Revenge,” with sabres between their
teeth and pistols in either hand, they burst into the
ranks of the victorious insurgents. Although far
superior in numbers the negroes fled at their approach;
but we could see them on our right and left, before
and behind us, slaughtering the colonists, and casting
fuel on the flames. Our rage was increased by
their cowardly conduct.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Thaddeus, covered with wounds, made his escape
through a postern gate. “Captain,” said he, “your
Pierrot is a sorcerer, an <span class='it'>obi</span> as these infernal negroes
call him—a devil, I say. We were holding our position,
<span class='pageno' title='157' id='Page_157'></span>
you were coming up fast; all seemed saved—when
by some means, which I do not know, he penetrated
into the fort, and there was an end of us. As
for your uncle and Madam——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Marie,” interrupted I, “where is Marie?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this instant a tall black burst through a blazing
fence, carrying in his arms a young woman who
shrieked and struggled: it was Marie, and the negro
was Pierrot!</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Traitor,” cried I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I fired my pistol at him; one of the rebels threw
himself in the way, and fell dead. Pierrot turned, and
addressed a few words to me which I did not catch;
and then grasping his prey tighter, dashed into a
mass of burning sugar-canes. A moment afterwards
a huge dog passed me, carrying in his mouth a cradle
in which lay my uncle’s youngest child. Transported
with rage, I fired my second pistol at him; but it
missed fire. Like a madman I followed on their
tracks; but my night march, the hours that I had
spent without taking rest or food, my fears for Marie,
and the sudden fall from the height of happiness to
the depth of misery, had worn me out. After a few
steps I staggered, a cloud seemed to come over me,
and I fell senseless.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XVI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>When</span> I recovered my senses I found myself in my
uncle’s ruined house, supported in the arms of my
faithful Thaddeus, who gazed upon me with an expression
<span class='pageno' title='158' id='Page_158'></span>
of the deepest anxiety. “Victory!” exclaimed
he, as he felt my pulse begin to beat.
“Victory! the negroes are in full retreat and my
captain has come to life again.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I interrupted his exclamations of joy by putting
the only question in which I had any interest.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Where is Marie?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I had not yet collected my scattered ideas: I felt my
misfortune, without the recollection of it. At my
question Thaddeus hung his head.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then my memory returned to me, and, like a
hideous dream, I recalled once more the terrible
nuptial day, and the tall negro bearing away Marie
through the flames.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The flame of rebellion which had broken out in the
colony caused the whites to look on the blacks as
their mortal enemies, and made me see in Pierrot,
the good, the generous, and the devoted, who owed
his life three times to me, a monster of ingratitude
and a rival.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The carrying off of my wife on the very night of
our nuptials proved too plainly to me, what I had
at first only suspected, and I now knew that the
singer of the wood was the wretch who had torn my
wife from me. In a few hours how great a change
had taken place.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Thaddeus told me that he had vainly pursued
Pierrot and his dog when the negroes, in spite of their
numbers, retired, and that the destruction of my
uncle’s property still continued, without the possibility
of its being arrested.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I asked what had become of my uncle. He took my
<span class='pageno' title='159' id='Page_159'></span>
hand in silence and led me to a bed, the curtains of
which he drew.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My unhappy uncle was there, stretched upon his
blood-stained couch, with a dagger driven deeply into
his heart. By the tranquil expression of his face it
was easy to see that the blow had been struck during
his sleep.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The bed of the dwarf Habibrah, who always slept at
the foot of his master’s couch, was also profusely
stained with gore, and the same crimson traces could
be seen upon the laced coat of the poor fool, cast
upon the floor a few paces from the bed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I did not hesitate for a moment in believing that
the dwarf had died a victim to his affection for my
uncle, and that he had been murdered by his comrades,
perhaps in the effort to defend his master. I
reproached myself bitterly for the prejudice which
had caused me to form so erroneous an estimate of
the characters of Pierrot and Habibrah; and of the
tears I shed at the tragic fate of my uncle, some were
dedicated to the end of the faithful fool.</p>

<p class='pindent'>By my orders his body was carefully searched for,
but all in vain, and I imagined that the negroes had
cast the body into the flames; and I gave instructions
that, in the funeral service over my uncle’s remains,
prayers should be said for the repose of the soul of
the devoted Habibrah.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XVII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Fort</span> Galifet had been destroyed, our house was
in ruins; it was useless to linger there any longer, so
<span class='pageno' title='160' id='Page_160'></span>
that evening I returned to Cap. On my arrival there
I was seized with a severe fever. The effort that I
had made to overcome my despair had been too
violent; the spring had been bent too far and had
snapped. Delirium came on. My broken hopes,
my profound love, my lost future, and, above all, the
torments of jealousy, made my brain reel.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It seemed as if fire flowed in my veins; my head
seemed ready to burst, and my bosom was filled with
rage. I pictured to myself Marie in the arms of
another lover, subject to the power of a master, of a
slave, of Pierrot! They told me afterwards that I
sprang from my bed, and that it took six men to
prevent me from dashing out my brains against the
wall. Why did I not die then?</p>

<p class='pindent'>The crisis, however, passed. The doctors, the
care and attention of Thaddeus, and the latent
powers of youth, conquered the malady; would that
it had not done so. At the end of ten days I was
sufficiently recovered to lay aside grief, and to live
for vengeance.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Hardly arrived at a state of convalescence, I went
to M. de Blanchelande, and asked for employment.
At first he wished to give me the command of some
fortified post, but I begged him to attach me to one
of the flying columns, which from time to time were
sent out to sweep those districts in which the insurgents
had congregated. Cap had been hastily
put in a position of defence, for the revolt had made
terrible progress, and the negroes of Port au Prince
had begun to show symptoms of disaffection. Biassou
was in command of the insurgents at Lumbé, Dondon,
<span class='pageno' title='161' id='Page_161'></span>
and Acul; Jean François had proclaimed himself
generalissimo of the rebels of Maribarou, and
Bouckmann, whose tragic fate afterwards gave him
a certain celebrity, with his brigands ravaged the
plains of Limonade; and lastly, the bands of Morne-Rouge
had elected for their chief a negro called
Bug-Jargal.</p>

<p class='pindent'>If report was to be believed, the disposition of this
man contrasted very favourably with the ferocity of
the other chiefs. Whilst Bouckmann and Biassou
invented a thousand different methods of death for
such prisoners as fell into their hands, Bug-Jargal
was always ready to supply them with the means of
quitting the island. M. Colas de Marjue, and eight
other distinguished colonists, were by his orders
released from the terrible death of the wheel to
which Bouckmann had condemned them, and many
other instances of his humanity were cited, which I
have not time to repeat.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My hoped for vengeance, however, still appeared
to be far removed. I could hear nothing of Pierrot.
The insurgents commanded by Biassou continued to
give us trouble at Cap; they had once even endeavoured
to take position on a hill that commanded
the town, and had only been dislodged by the battery
from the citadel being directed upon them.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Governor had therefore determined to drive
them into the interior of the island. The militia of
Acul, of Lumbé, of Ouanaminte, and of Maribarou,
joined with the regiment of Cap, and the Red and
Yellow Dragoons, formed one army of attack; whilst
the corps of volunteers under the command of the
<span class='pageno' title='162' id='Page_162'></span>
merchant Poncignon, with the militia of Dondon
and Quartier-Dauphin, composed the garrison of the
town.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Governor desired first to free himself from
Bug-Jargal, whose incursions kept the garrison constantly
on the alert, and he sent against him the
militia of Ouanaminte, and a battalion of the regiment
of Cap. Two days afterwards the expedition returned,
having sustained a severe defeat at the hands of
Bug-Jargal. The Governor, however, determined to
persevere, and a fresh column was sent out with
fifty of the Yellow Dragoons and four hundred of
the militia of Maribarou. This second expedition
met with even less success than the first. Thaddeus,
who had taken part in it, was in a violent fury, and
upon his return vowed vengeance against the rebel
chief Bug-Jargal.</p>

<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*</p>

<p class='pindent'>A tear glistened in the eyes of D’Auverney; he
crossed his arms on his breast, and appeared to be
for a few moments plunged in a melancholy reverie.
At length he continued.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XVIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> news had reached us that Bug-Jargal had left
Morne-Rouge, and was moving through the mountains
to effect a junction with the troops of Biassou. The
Governor could not conceal his delight. “We have
them,” cried he, rubbing his hands. “They are in
our power.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='163' id='Page_163'></span>
By the next morning the colonial forces had
marched some four miles to the front of Cap. At
our approach the insurgents hastily retired from the
positions which they had occupied at Port-Mayat
and Fort Galifet, and in which they had planted
siege guns which they had captured in one of the
batteries on the coast. The Governor was triumphant,
and by his orders we continued our advance. As we
passed through the arid plains and the ruined plantations,
many a one cast an eager glance in search
of the spot which was once his home, but in too
many cases the foot of the destroyer had left no traces
behind. Sometimes our march was interrupted by
the conflagration having spread from the lands under
cultivation, to the virgin forests.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In these regions, where the land is untilled and
the vegetation abundant, the burning of a forest is
accompanied with many strange phenomena. Far
off, long before the eye can catch the cause, a sound
is heard like the rush of a cataract over opposing
rocks, the trunks of the trees flame out with a sudden
crash, the branches crackle, and the roots beneath
the soil all contribute to the extraordinary uproar.
The lakes and the marshes in the interior of the
forests boil with the heat. The hoarse roar of the
coming flame stills the air, causing a dull sound,
sometimes increasing and sometimes diminishing in
intensity as the conflagration sweeps on or recedes.
Occasionally a glimpse can be caught of a clump of
trees surrounded by a belt of fire, but as yet untouched
by the flames; then a narrow streak of fire curls
round the stems, and in another instant the whole
<span class='pageno' title='164' id='Page_164'></span>
becomes one mass of gold-coloured fire; then up rises
the column of smoke driven here and there by the
breeze. It takes a thousand fantastic forms, spreads
itself out, diminishes in an instant; at one moment
it is gone, in another it returns with greater density;
then all becomes a thick black cloud, with a fringe of
sparks, a terrible sound is heard, the sparks disappear,
and the smoke ascends, disappearing at last
in a mass of red ashes, which sink down slowly upon
the blackened ground.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XIX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>On</span> the evening of the third day of our march, we
entered the ravines of Grande-Riviere; we calculated
that the negro army was some twenty leagues off in
the mountains.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We pitched our camp on a low hill, which appeared
to have been used for the same purpose before, as the
grass had been trodden down and the brushwood cut
away. It was not a judicious position in a strategical
point of view, but we deemed ourselves perfectly
secure from attack. The hill was commanded on all
sides by steep mountains clothed with thick forests—the
precipitous sides of these hills had given the
mountains the name of the <span class='it'>Dompté-Mulâtre</span>. The
Grande-Riviere flowed behind our camp; confined
within steep banks, it was just about here very deep
and rapid. The sides were hidden with thickets,
through which nothing could be seen. The waters
of the stream itself were frequently concealed by
<span class='pageno' title='165' id='Page_165'></span>
masses of creeping plants, hanging from the branches
of the flowering maples, which had sprung up at intervals
in the jungle, crossing and recrossing the
stream, and forming a tangled net-work of living
verdure. From the heights of the adjacent hills they
appeared like meadows still fresh with dew, whilst
every now and then a dull splash could be heard as
a teal plunged through the flower-decked curtain,
and showed in which direction the river lay. By
degrees the sun ceased to gild the crested peaks of
the distant mountains of Dondon; little by little
darkness spread its mantle over the camp, and the
silence was only broken by the cry of the night-bird,
or by the measured tread of the sentinels.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Suddenly the dreaded war-songs of “<span class='it'>Oua-Nassé</span>”
and of “The Camp of the Great Meadow” were heard
above our heads; the palms, the acomas, and the
cedars, which crowned the summits of the rocks,
burst into flames, and the lurid light of the conflagration
showed us numerous bands of negroes and
mulattoes, whose copper-hued skins glowed red in
the firelight upon the neighbouring hills. It was the
army of Biassou.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The danger was imminent. The officers, aroused
from their sleep, endeavoured to rally their men.
The drum beat the “Assembly,” whilst the bugles
sounded the “Alarm.” Our men fell in hurriedly
and in confusion; but the insurgents, instead of
taking advantage of our disorder, remained motionless,
gazing upon us, and continuing their song of
“<span class='it'>Oua-Nassé</span>.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A gigantic negro appeared alone on one of the
<span class='pageno' title='166' id='Page_166'></span>
peaks that overhung the Grande-Riviere, a flame-coloured
plume floated on his head; he held an axe
in his right hand and a blood-red banner in his left.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I recognized Pierrot.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Had a carbine been within my reach I should have
fired at him, cowardly although the act might have
been.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The negro repeated the chorus of “<span class='it'>Oua-Nassé</span>,”
planted his standard on the highest portion of the
rock, hurled his axe into the midst of our ranks, and
plunged into the stream. A feeling of regret seized
me; I had hoped to have slain him with my own hand.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then the negroes began to hurl huge masses of
rocks upon us, whilst showers of bullets and flights
of arrows were poured upon our camp. Our soldiers,
maddened at being unable to reach their adversaries,
fell on all sides, crushed by the rocks, riddled with
bullets, and transfixed by arrows.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The army was rapidly falling into disorder.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Suddenly a terrible noise came from the centre of
the stream.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Yellow Dragoons, who had suffered most from
the shower of rocks, had conceived the idea of taking
refuge under the thick roof of creepers which grew
over the river. It was Thaddeus who had at first
discovered this——</p>

<p class='pindent'>Here the narrative was suddenly interrupted.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>More</span> than a quarter of a hour had elapsed since
Thaddeus, his arm in a sling, had glided into the
<span class='pageno' title='167' id='Page_167'></span>
tent without any of the listeners noticing his arrival,
and, taking up his position in a remote corner, he
had by occasional gestures expressed the interest
that he took in his captain’s narrative; but at last,
considering that this direct allusion to himself ought
not to be permitted to pass without some acknowledgement
on his part, he stammered out—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You are too good, captain.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A general burst of laughter followed this speech,
and D’Auverney, turning towards him, exclaimed
severely—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What, Thaddeus, you here?—and your arm?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>On being addressed in so unaccustomed a tone, the
features of the old soldier grew dark; he quivered,
and threw back his head, as though to restrain the
tears which seemed to struggle to his eyes.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I never thought,” said he, in a low voice, “that
you, captain, could have omitted to say <span class='it'>thou</span> when
speaking to your old sergeant.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Pardon me, old friend,” answered the captain,
quickly; “I hardly knew what I said. Thou wilt
pardon me, wilt thou not?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The tears sprang to the sergeant’s eyes in spite of
his efforts to repress them.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is the third time,” remarked he—“but these
are tears of joy.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Peace was made, and a short silence ensued.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But tell me, Thaddeus, why hast thou quitted the
hospital to come here?” asked D’Auverney, gently.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It was—with your permission, captain—to ask if
I should put the laced saddle-cloth on the charger
for to-morrow.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='168' id='Page_168'></span>
Henri laughed. “You would have been wiser, Thaddeus,
to have asked the surgeon-major if you should
put two more pieces of lint on your arm,” said he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Or to ask,” continued Paschal, “if you might
take a glass of wine to refresh yourself. At any
rate, here is some brandy; taste it—it will do you
good, my brave sergeant.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Thaddeus advanced, saluted, and, apologizing for
taking the glass with his left hand, emptied it to the
health of the assembled company.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You had got, captain, to the moment when—yes,
I remember, it was I who proposed to take
shelter under the creepers, to prevent our men being
smashed by the rocks. Our officer, who did not
know how to swim, was afraid of being drowned,
and, as was natural, was dead against it until he
saw—with your permission, gentlemen—a great rock
fall on the creepers without being able to get through
them. ‘It is better to die like Pharaoh than like
St. Stephen,’ said he: ‘for we are not saints, and
Pharaoh was a soldier like ourselves.’ The officer
was a learned man, you see. And so he agreed to my
proposal, on the condition that I should first try the
experiment myself. Off I went; I slid down the
bank and caught hold of the roof of creepers, when
all of a sudden some one took a pull at my legs. I
struggled, I shouted for help, and in a minute I
received half a dozen sabre cuts. Down came the
dragoons to help me, and there was a nice little
skirmish under the creepers. The blacks of Morne-Rouge
had hidden themselves there, never for a
moment thinking that we should fall right on the
<span class='pageno' title='169' id='Page_169'></span>
top of them. This was not the right time for
fishing, I can tell you. We fought, we swore, we
shouted. They had nothing particular on, and were
able to move about in the water more easily than we
were; but, on the other hand, our sabres had less to
cut through. We swam with one hand and fought
with the other. Those who could not swim, like my
captain, hung on to the creepers, whilst the negroes
pulled them by the legs. In the midst of the hullabaloo
I saw a big negro fighting like Beelzebub
against five or six of ours. I swam up to him, and
I recognized Pierrot, otherwise called Bug——But I
musn’t tell that yet, must I, captain? Since the
capture of the fort I owed him a grudge, so I took
him hard and fast by the throat; he was going to
rid himself of me by a thrust of his dagger, when he
recognized me, and gave himself up at once. That
was very unfortunate, was it not, captain? for if he
had not surrendered, he would not——But you will
know that later on, eh? When the blacks saw that
he was taken they made a rush at me to get him off;
when Pierrot, seeing no doubt that they would all
lose their lives, said some gibberish or other, and in
the twinkling of an eye they plunged into the water,
and were out of sight in a moment. This fight in
the water would have been pleasant enough if I had
not lost a finger, and wetted ten cartridges, and if
the poor man——but it was to be, was it not, captain?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>And the sergeant respectfully placed the back of
his hand to his forage cap, and then raised it to
heaven with the air of an inspired prophet.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='170' id='Page_170'></span>
D’Auverney was violently agitated.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” cried he, “thou art right, my old Thaddeus;
that night was a fatal night for me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He would have fallen into one of his usual reveries
had they not urgently pressed him to conclude his
story.</p>

<p class='pindent'>After a while he continued.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Whilst</span> the scene which Thaddeus has just described
was passing behind the camp, I had succeeded with
some of my men in climbing the opposite hills, by
aid of the brushwood, until we had reached a point
called Peacock Peak, from the brilliant tints of the
mica which coated the surface of the rock.</p>

<p class='pindent'>From this position, which was opposite a rock
covered with negroes, we opened a withering fire. The
insurgents, who were not so well armed as we were,
could not reply warmly to our volleys, and in a short
time began to grow discouraged. We redoubled our
efforts, and our enemies soon evacuated the neighbouring
rocks, first hurling the dead bodies of their
comrades upon our army, the greater proportion of
which was still drawn up on the hill. Then we cut
down several trees, and binding the trunks together
with fibres of the palm, we improvised a bridge, and
by it crossed over to the deserted positions of the
enemy, and thus managed to secure a good post of
vantage. This operation completely quenched the
courage of the rebels. Our fire continued. Shouts
<span class='pageno' title='171' id='Page_171'></span>
of grief arose from them, in which the name of Bug-Jargal
was frequently repeated. Many negroes of the
army of Morne-Rouge appeared on the rock upon
which the blood-red banner still floated; they prostrated
themselves before it, tore it from its resting-place,
and then precipitated it and themselves into
the depths of the Grande-Riviere. This seemed
to signify that their chief was either killed or a
prisoner.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Our confidence had now risen to such a pitch that
I resolved to drive them from their last position at
the point of the bayonet, and at the head of my men
I dashed into the midst of the negroes. The soldiers
were about to follow me across the temporary bridge
that I had caused to be thrown from peak to peak,
when one of the rebels with a blow of his axe broke
the bridge to atoms, and the ruins fell into the abyss
with a terrible noise.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I turned my head—in a moment I was surrounded,
and seized by six or seven negroes, who disarmed me
in a moment. I struggled like a lion, but they bound
me with cords made of bark, heedless of the hail of
bullets that my soldiers poured upon them.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My despair was somewhat soothed by the cries of
victory which I heard from our men, and I soon saw
the negroes and mulattoes ascending the steep sides
of the rocks with all the precipitation of fear, uttering
cries of terror.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My captors followed their example. The strongest
amongst them placed me on their shoulders, and
carried me in the direction of the forest, leaping from
rock to rock with the agility of wild goats. The flames
<span class='pageno' title='172' id='Page_172'></span>
soon ceased to light the scene, and it was by the pale
rays of the moon that we pursued our course.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>After</span> passing through jungle, and crossing many a
torrent, we arrived in a valley situated in the higher
part of the hills, of a singular wild and savage appearance.
The spot was absolutely unknown to me. The
valley was situated in the heart of the hills, in what
is called the <span class='it'>double mountains</span>. It was a large green
plain, imprisoned by walls of bare rock, and dotted
with clumps of pines and palm-trees. The cold,
which at this height is very severe, was increased by
the morning air, the day having just commenced to
break, but the valley was still plunged in darkness,
and was only lighted by flashes from the negroes’
fires; evidently this spot was their headquarters.
The shattered remains of their army had begun to
reassemble, and every now and then bands of negroes
and mulattoes arrived, uttering groans of distress and
cries of rage. New fires were speedily lighted, and
the camp began to increase in size. The negro whose
prisoner I was had placed me at the foot of an oak,
whence I surveyed this strange spectacle with entire
carelessness. The black had bound me with his belt
to the trunk of the tree, against which I was leaning,
and carefully tightening the knots in the cords which
impeded my movements, he placed on my head his
own red woollen cap, as if to indicate that I was his
property, and after making sure that I could not
escape or be carried off by others, was preparing to
<span class='pageno' title='173' id='Page_173'></span>
leave me, when I determined to address him, and
speaking in the Creole dialect I asked him if he
belonged to the band of Dondon, or of Morne-Rouge.
He stopped at once, and in a tone of pride replied
“<span class='it'>Morne-Rouge</span>.” Then an idea entered my head. I
had often heard of the generosity of the chief Bug-Jargal,
and though I had made up my mind that death
would soon end all my troubles, yet the thought of
the tortures that would inevitably precede it should I
fall into the hands of Biassou, filled me with horror.
All I wanted was to be put to death without torment.
It was perhaps a weakness, but I believe that the
mind of man ever revolts at such a death. I thought
then, that if I could be taken from Biassou, Bug-Jargal
might give me what I desired—a soldier’s death.
I therefore asked the negro of Morne-Rouge to lead
me to Bug-Jargal. He started. “Bug-Jargal,” he
repeated, striking on his forehead in anguish; then, as
if rage had suddenly overtaken him, he shook his fist,
and shouting “Biassou, Biassou,” he left me hastily.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The mingled rage and grief of the negro recalled
to my mind the events of the day, and the certainty
we had acquired of either the death or capture of the
chief of the band of Morne-Rouge. I felt that all
hope was over, and resigned myself to the threatened
vengeance of Biassou.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>A group</span> of negresses came near the tree to which
I was fastened, and lit a fire. By the numerous
bracelets of blue, red, and violet glass which
<span class='pageno' title='174' id='Page_174'></span>
ornamented their arms and ankles, by the rings which
weighed down their ears and adorned their toes and
fingers, by the amulets on their bosoms and the
collar of charms suspended round their necks, and by
the aprons of variegated feathers which were their
sole coverings, I at once recognized them as <span class='it'>griotes</span>.
You are perhaps ignorant that amongst the African
blacks there exists a certain class with a rude talent
for poetry and improvisation, which approaches
closely to madness. These unhappy creatures, wandering
from one African kingdom to another, are in
these barbarian countries looked upon in the same
light as the <span class='it'>minstrels</span> of England, the <span class='it'>minnesingers</span> of
Germany, and the <span class='it'>troubadours</span> of France. They are
called <span class='it'>griots</span>, and their wives <span class='it'>griotes</span>. The <span class='it'>griotes</span>
accompany the barbaric songs of their husbands with
lascivious dances, and form a grotesque parody on the
<span class='it'>nautch girls</span> of India and the <span class='it'>almes</span> of Egypt. It was
a group of these women who came and sat down
near me, with their legs crossed under them according
to their custom, and their hideous faces lighted up by
the red light of a fire of withered branches. When
they had formed a complete circle they all took hands,
and the eldest, who had a heron’s plume stuck in her
hair, began to exclaim “<span class='it'>Ouanga</span>.” I at once understood
that they were going through one of their performances
of pretended witchcraft. Then the leader of
the band, after a moment’s silence, plucked a lock of
hair from her head and threw it into the fire, crying
out these words, “Malé o guiab,” which in the
jargon of the Creoles means, “I shall go to the
devil.” All the <span class='it'>griotes</span> imitated their leader, and
<span class='pageno' title='175' id='Page_175'></span>
throwing locks of their hair in the fire, repeated
gravely, “Malé o guiab.” This strange invocation,
and the extraordinary grimaces that accompanied it,
caused me to burst into one of those hysterical fits
of laughter which so often seize on one even at the
most serious moments. It was in vain that I endeavoured
to restrain it—it would have vent; and this
laugh which escaped from so sad a heart brought
about a gloomy and terrifying scene.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Disturbed in their incantations, the negresses
sprang to their feet. Until then they had not noticed
me, but now they rushed close up to me, screaming
“Blanco, Blanco.” I have never seen so hideous a
collection of faces, contorted as they were with
passion, their white teeth gleaming, and their eyes
almost starting from their heads. They were, I
believe, about to tear me to pieces, when the old
woman with the beaver’s plume on her head stopped
them with a sign of her hand, and exclaimed seven
times, “Zoté cordé!” (“Do you agree?”) The wretched
creatures stopped at once, and, to my surprise, tore
off their feather aprons, which they flung upon the
ground, and commenced the lascivious dance which
the negroes call “<span class='it'>La chica</span>.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This dance, which should only consist of attitudes
and movements expressive of gaiety and pleasure,
assumed a very different complexion when performed
by these naked sorceresses. In turn, each of them
would place her face close to mine, and, with a
frightful expression of countenance, would detail the
horrible punishment that awaited the white man
who had profaned the mysteries of their <span class='it'>Ouanga</span>.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='176' id='Page_176'></span>
I recollected that savage nations had a custom of
dancing round the victims that they were about to
sacrifice, and I patiently awaited the conclusion of
the performance which I knew would be sealed with
my blood; and yet I could not repress a shudder as
I perceived each <span class='it'>griote</span>, in strict unison with the
time, thrust into the fire the point of a sabre, the
blade of an axe, a long sail-maker’s needle, a pair of
pincers, and the teeth of a saw.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The dance was approaching its conclusion, and the
instruments of torture were glowing red with heat.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At a signal from the old woman, each negress in
turn withdrew an implement from the fire, whilst
those who had none furnished themselves with a
blazing stick. Then I understood clearly what my
punishment was to be, and that in each of the dancers
I should find an executioner. Again the word of
command was given, and the last figure of the dance
was commenced. I closed my eyes that I might not
see the frantic evolutions of these female demons,
who, in measured cadence, clashed the red-hot
weapons over their heads. A dull, clinking sound
followed, whilst the sparks flew out in myriads. I
waited, nerving myself for the moment when I should
feel my flesh quiver in agony, my bones calcine, and
my muscles writhe under the burning tortures of
the nippers and the saws. It was an awful moment.
Fortunately it did not last long.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In the distance I heard the voice of the negro
whose prisoner I was, shouting, “<span class='it'>Que haceis, mujeres,
ne demonio, que haceis alli, devais mi prisonero?</span>”
I opened my eyes again; it was already broad daylight.
<span class='pageno' title='177' id='Page_177'></span>
The negro hurried towards me, gesticulating
angrily. The <span class='it'>griotes</span> paused, but they seemed less
influenced by the threats of my captor than by the
presence of a strange-looking person by whom the
negro was accompanied.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was a very stout and very short man—a species
of dwarf—whose face was entirely concealed by a
white veil, pierced with three holes for the eyes and
mouth. The veil hung down to his shoulders, and
displayed a hairy, copper-hued breast, upon which
was hung by a golden chain the mutilated sun of a
monstrance.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The cross-hilt of a heavy dagger peeped from a
scarlet belt, which also supported a kind of petticoat
striped with green, yellow, and black, the
hem of which hung down to his large and ill-shaped
feet.</p>

<p class='pindent'>His arms, like his breast, were bare; he carried a
white staff, and a rosary of amber beads was suspended
from his belt, in close proximity to the handle
of his dagger. His head was surmounted by a
pointed cap adorned with bells, and when he came
close I was not surprised in recognizing in it the
<span class='it'>gorra</span> of Habibrah; and amongst the hieroglyphics
with which it was covered, I could see many spots
of gore: without doubt, it was the blood of the
faithful fool. These bloodstains gave me fresh proofs
of his death, and awakened in me once again a fresh
feeling of regret for his loss.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Directly the <span class='it'>griotes</span> recognized the wearer of
Habibrah’s cap, they cried out all at once, “The Obi,”
and prostrated themselves before him. I guessed at
<span class='pageno' title='178' id='Page_178'></span>
once that this was a sorcerer attached to Biassou’s
force.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Basta, basta” (“enough”), said he, in a grave and
solemn voice, as he came close up to them. “Devais
el prisonero de Biassou” (“Let the prisoner be taken
to Biassou”).</p>

<p class='pindent'>All the negresses leapt to their feet and cast their
implements of torture on one side, put on their
aprons, and, at a gesture of the Obi, fled like a cloud
of grasshoppers.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this instant the glance of the Obi fell upon me.
He started back a pace, and half waved his white
staff in the direction of the retiring <span class='it'>griotes</span>, as if he
wished to recall them; then, muttering between his
teeth the word “<span class='it'>Maldicho</span>” (“accursed”), he whispered
a few words in the ear of the negro, and, crossing
his arms, retired slowly, apparently buried in deep
thought.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXIV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>My</span> captor informed me that Biassou had asked to
see me, and that in an hour I should be brought
before him. This, I calculated, gave me another
hour in which to live. Until that time had elapsed,
I allowed my glances to wander over the rebel camp,
the singular appearance of which the daylight permitted
me to observe. Had I been in any other
position, I should have laughed heartily at the ostentatious
vanity of the negroes, who were nearly all
decked out in fragments of clerical and military
dress, the spoils of their victims. The greater portion
<span class='pageno' title='179' id='Page_179'></span>
of these ornaments were not new, consisting of
torn and blood-stained rags. A gorget could often be
seen shining over a stole, whilst an epaulet looked
strange when contrasted with a chasuble.</p>

<p class='pindent'>To make amends for former years of toil, the
negroes remained in a state of utter inaction: some
of them slept exposed to the rays of the sun, their
heads close to a burning fire; others, with eyes that
were sometimes full of listlessness, and at others
blazed with fury, sat chanting a monotonous air at
the doors of their <span class='it'>ajoupas</span>—a species of hut with
conical roofs somewhat resembling our artillery tents,
but thatched with palm or banana leaves.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Their black or copper-coloured wives, aided by the
negro-children, prepared the food for the fighting-men.
I could see them stirring up with long forks,
ignames, bananas, yams, peas, cocus and maize, and
other vegetables indigenous to the country, which
boiled with joints of pork, turtle, and dog in the
great boilers stolen from the dwellings of the planters.
In the distance, on the outskirts of the camp, the
<span class='it'>griots</span> and <span class='it'>griotes</span> formed large circles round the
fires, and the wind every now and then brought to
my ears strange fragments of their barbaric songs,
mingled with notes from their tambourines and
guitars. A few videttes posted on the high ground
watched over the headquarters of the General
Biassou: the only defence of which in case of attack
was a circle of waggons filled with plunder and
ammunition. These black sentries posted on the
summits of the granite pyramids, with which the
valley bristled, turned about like the weathercocks
<span class='pageno' title='180' id='Page_180'></span>
in Gothic spires, and with all the strength of their
lungs shouted one to the other the cry of “<span class='it'>Nada,
nada</span>” (“Nothing, nothing”), which showed that the
camp was in full security. Every now and then
groups of negroes, inspired by curiosity, collected
round me, but all looked upon me with a threatening
expression of countenance.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>At</span> length an escort of negro soldiers very fairly
equipped arrived. The negro whose property I appeared
to be, unfastened me from the oak to which
I was bound, and handed me over to the escort,
receiving in exchange a bag full of piastres. As he lay
upon the grass counting them with every appearance
of delight, I was led away by the soldiers. My escort
wore a uniform of coarse cloth, of a reddish-brown
colour, with yellow facings; their head-dress was a
Spanish cap called a <span class='it'>montera</span>, ornamented with a
large red cockade. Instead of a cartouche case, they
had a species of game-bag slung at their sides. Their
arms were a heavy musket, a sabre, and a dagger.
I afterwards learned that these men formed the
body-guard of Biassou.</p>

<p class='pindent'>After a circuitous route through the rows of
<span class='it'>ajoupas</span>, which were scattered all over the place, I
came to a cave which nature had hollowed out in
one of those masses of rock with which the meadow
was full. A large curtain of some material from the
looms of Thibet, which the negroes called <span class='it'>Katchmir</span>,
<span class='pageno' title='181' id='Page_181'></span>
and which is remarkable less for the brilliancy of its
colouring than for the softness of its material, concealed
the interior of the cavern from the vulgar
gaze. The entrance was guarded by a double line
of negroes, dressed like those who had escorted me
thither.</p>

<p class='pindent'>After the countersign had been exchanged with the
sentries who marched backwards and forwards before
the cave, the commander of the escort raised the
curtain sufficiently for me to enter, and then let it
drop behind me. A copper lamp with six lights
hung by a chain from the roof of the grotto, casting
a flickering light upon the damp walls. Between
the ranks of mulatto soldiers I perceived a coloured
man sitting upon a large block of mahogany, which
was partially covered with a carpet made of parrots’
feathers. His dress was of the most absurd kind.
A splendid silk girdle, from which hung a cross of
Saint Louis, held up a pair of common blue trousers,
whilst a waistcoat of white linen which did not meet
the waistband of the trousers completed the strange
costume. He wore high boots, and a round hat with
a red cockade, and epaulets, one of gold with silver
stars like those worn by brigadiers, whilst the other
was of red worsted with two copper stars, which
seemed to have been taken from a pair of spurs,
fixed upon it, evidently to render it more worthy of
its resplendent neighbour. A sabre and a pair of
richly chased pistols lay by his side.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Behind the throne were two white children dressed
in the costume of slaves, bearing large fans of peacock
feathers.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='182' id='Page_182'></span>
Two squares of crimson velvet, which seemed to
have been stolen from some church, were placed on
either side of the mahogany block. One of these was
occupied by the Obi who had rescued me from the
frenzy of the <span class='it'>griotes</span>. He was seated with his legs crossed
under him, holding in his hand his white wand; and
not moving a muscle, he looked like a porcelain idol
in a Chinese pagoda, but through the holes in his
veil I could see his flashing eyes fixed steadfastly
upon mine.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Upon each side of the general were trophies of
flags, banners, and pennons of all kinds; among them
I noticed the white flag with the lilies, the tricolour,
and the banner of Spain. The others were covered
with fancy devices. I also perceived a large standard
entirely black.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At the end of the grotto, I saw a portrait of the
mulatto Ogé who, together with his lieutenant Jean
Charanne, had been broken on the wheel the year
previous, for the crime of rebellion. Twenty of his
accomplices, blacks and mulattoes, suffered with him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In this painting Ogé, the son of a butcher at Cap,
was represented in the uniform of a lieutenant-colonel,
and decorated with the star of St. Louis,
and the Order of Merit of the Lion, which last he
had purchased from the Prince of Limburg.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The negro general into whose presence I had been
introduced was short and of vulgar aspect, whilst
his face showed a strange mixture of cunning and
cruelty. After looking at me for some time in silence,
with a bitter omen on his face, he said—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I am Biassou.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='183' id='Page_183'></span>
I expected this, but I could not hear it from his
mouth, distorted as it was by a cruel smile, without
an inward trembling; but my face remained unchanged,
and I made no reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well,” continued he, in his bad French, “have
they already impaled you, that you are unable to
bend before Biassou, generalissimo of this conquered
land, and brigadier of His Most Catholic Majesty?”
(The rebel chiefs sometimes affected to be acting for
the King of France, sometimes for the Republic, and
at others for the King of Spain.)</p>

<p class='pindent'>I crossed my arms upon my chest, and looked him
firmly in the face.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He again sneered. “Ho, ho,” said he, “<span class='it'>me pareces
hombre de buen corazon</span> (“You seem a courageous
man”); well, listen to my questions. Were you born
in the island?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No, I am a Frenchman.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>My calmness irritated him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“All the better; I see by your uniform that you
are an officer. How old are you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Twenty.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“When were you twenty?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>To this question, which aroused in me all the
recollection of my misery, I could not at first find
words to reply. He repeated it imperiously.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The day upon which Leogri was hung,” answered
I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>An expression of rage passed over his face as he
answered,</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is twenty-three days since Leogri was executed.
Frenchman, when you meet him this
<span class='pageno' title='184' id='Page_184'></span>
evening you may tell him from me that you lived
twenty-four days longer than he did. I will spare
you for to-day, I wish you to tell him of the liberty
that his brethren have gained, and what you have
seen at the headquarters of General Jean Biassou.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then he ordered me to sit down in one corner
between two of his guards, and with a motion of his
hand to some of his men, who wore the uniform of
aide-de-camps, he said,</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Let the assembly be sounded, that we may inspect
the whole of our troops; and you, your Reverence,”
he added, turning to the Obi, “put on your
priestly vestments, and perform for our army the holy
sacrament of the Mass.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Obi rose, bowed profoundly, and whispered a
word or two in the general’s ear.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What,” cried the latter, “no altar! but never
mind, the good Giu has no need of a magnificent
temple for His worship. Gideon and Joshua adored
Him before masses of rock, let us do as they did; all
that is required is that the hearts should be true.
No altar, you say—why not make one of that great
chest of sugar which we took yesterday from Dubussion’s
house?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This suggestion of Biassou was promptly carried
into execution. In an instant the interior of the
cave was arranged for a burlesque of the divine
ceremony. A pyx and a monstrance stolen from the
parish church of Acul were promptly produced (the
very church in which my nuptials with Marie had
been celebrated, and where we had received heaven’s
blessing which had so soon changed to a curse).</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='185' id='Page_185'></span>
The stolen chest of sugar was speedily made into
an altar and covered with a white cloth, through
which, however, the words Dubussion and Company
for Nantes could be plainly perceived.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When the sacred vessels had been placed on the
altar, the Obi perceived that the crucifix was wanting.
He drew his dagger which had a cross handle, and
stuck it into the wood of the case in front of the pyx.
Then without removing his cap or veil, he threw the
cope which had been stolen from the priest of Acul
over his shoulders and bare chest, opened the missal
with its silver clasps from which the prayers had
been read on my ill-fated marriage day; and turning
towards Biassou, whose seat was a few paces from
the altar, announced to him that all was ready.</p>

<p class='pindent'>On a sign from the general the Katchmir curtains
were drawn aside, and the insurgent army was seen
drawn up in close column before the entrance to
the grotto.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou removed his hat and knelt before the
altar.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“On your knees,” he cried, in a loud voice.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“On your knees!” repeated the commander of
the battalions.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The drums were beaten, and all the insurgents fell
upon their knees.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I alone refused to move, disgusted at this vile profanation
about to be enacted under my very eyes;
but the two powerful mulattoes who guarded me
pulled my seat from under me, and pressed heavily
upon my shoulders so that I fell on my knees, compelled
to pay a semblance of respect to this parody
<span class='pageno' title='186' id='Page_186'></span>
of a religious ceremony. The Obi performed his
duties with affected solemnity, whilst the two white
pages of Biassou officiated as deacon and sub-deacon.
The insurgents, prostrated before the altar, assisted
at the ceremony with the greatest enthusiasm, the
general setting the example.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At the moment of the exaltation of the host, the
Obi, raising in his hands the consecrated vessel, exclaimed
in his Creole jargon,</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Zoté coné bon Giu; ce li mo fé zoté voer. Blan
touyé li, touyé blan yo toute!” (“You see your
good God; I am showing Him to you. The white
men killed Him; kill all the whites!”)</p>

<p class='pindent'>At these words, pronounced in a loud voice, the
tones of which had something in them familiar to
my ear, all the rebels uttered a loud shout, and
clashed their weapons together. Had it not been for
Biassou’s influence that hour would have been my
last. To such atrocities may men be driven who
use the dagger for a cross, and upon whose mind the
most trivial event makes a deep and profound impression.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXVI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>At</span> the termination of the ceremony the Obi bowed
respectfully to Biassou; then the general rose and,
addressing me in French, said—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“We are accused of having no religion. You see
it is a falsehood, and that we are good Catholics.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I do not know whether he spoke ironically or in
good faith. A few moments he called for a glass
<span class='pageno' title='187' id='Page_187'></span>
bowl filled with grains of black maize; on the top
he threw some white maize, then he raised it high
in his hand so that all the army might see it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brothers,” cried he, “you are the black maize;
your enemies are the white maize.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>With these words he shook the bowl, and in an
instant the white grains had disappeared beneath the
black; and, as though inspired, he cried out, “Where
are the white now?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The mountains re-echoed with the shouts with
which the illustration of the general was received;
and Biassou continued his harangue, mixing up
French, Creole dialect, and Spanish alternately.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The season for temporising has passed; for a long
time we have been as patient as the sheep to whose
wool the whites compare our hair; let us now be
as implacable as the panthers or the tigers of the
countries from which they have torn us. Force alone
can obtain for us our rights, and everything can be
obtained by those who use their force without pity.
Saint Loup (Wolf) has two days in the year consecrated
to him in the Gregorian calendar whilst the
Paschal Lamb has but one. Am not I correct, your
reverence?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Obi bowed in sign of corroboration.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“They have come,” continued Biassou, “these
enemies of ours have come as enemies of the regeneration
of humanity; these whites, these planters,
these men of business, veritable devils vomited from
the mouth of hell. They came in the insolence of
their pride, in their fine dresses, their uniforms, their
feathers, their magnificent arms; they despised us
<span class='pageno' title='188' id='Page_188'></span>
because we were black and naked in their overbearing
haughtiness; they thought that they could drive us
before them as easily as these peacock’s feathers
disperse the swarms of sandflies and mosquitoes.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>As he uttered these concluding words, he snatched
from the hands of his white slaves one of the large
fans, and waved it over his head with a thousand
eccentric gesticulations. Then he continued—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But, my brethren, we burst upon them like flies
upon a carcase; they have fallen in their fine uniforms
beneath the strokes of our naked arms, which they
believed to be without power, ignorant that good
wood is the stronger when the bark is stripped off;
and now these accursed tyrants tremble, and are
filled with fear.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A triumphant yell rose in answer to the general’s
speech, and all the army repeated, “They are filled
with fear.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Blacks, Creoles, and Congos,” added Biassou,
“vengeance and liberty! Mulattoes, do not be led
away by the temptations of the white men. Your
fathers serve in their ranks, but your mothers are
with us; besides, ‘O bermanos de mi alma’ (‘O brethren
of my soul’), have they ever acted as fathers to you?
Have they not rather been cruel masters, and
treated you as slaves, because you had the blood of
your mothers in your veins? Whilst a miserable
cotton garment covered your bodies scorched by the
sun, your cruel fathers went about in straw hats and
nankeen clothes on work days, and in cloth and
velvet on holidays and feasts. Curses be on their
unnatural hearts. But as the holy commandments
<span class='pageno' title='189' id='Page_189'></span>
forbid you to strike your father, abstain from doing
so; but in the day of battle what hinders you from
turning to your comrade and saying, ‘Touyé papa
moé, ma touyé quena toué?’ (‘Kill my father, and I
will kill yours?’) Vengeance then, my brethren, and
liberty for all men. This cry has found an echo in
every part of the island; it has roused Tobago and
Cuba. It was Bouckmann, a negro from Jamaica,
the leader of the twenty-five fugitive slaves of the
Blue Mountain, who raised the standard of revolt
amongst us. A glorious victory was the first proof
that he gave of his brotherhood with the negroes of
Saint Domingo. Let us follow his noble example,
with an axe in one hand and a torch in the other.
No mercy for the whites, no mercy for the planters;
let us massacre their families, and destroy their
plantations! Do not allow a tree to remain standing
on their estates; let us upturn the very earth itself
that it may swallow up our white oppressors!
Courage then, friends and brethren; we shall fight
them and sweep them from the face of the earth.
We will conquer or die. As victors, we shall enjoy
all the pleasures of life; and if we fall, the saints are
ready to receive us in heaven, where each warrior
will receive a double ration of brandy, and a silver
piastre each day!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This warlike discourse, which to you appears perfectly
ridiculous, had a tremendous effect on the insurgents.
It is true that Biassou’s wild gesticulations,
the manner in which his voice rose and fell, and the
strange sneer which every now and then appeared on
his lips, imparted to his speech a strange amount of
<span class='pageno' title='190' id='Page_190'></span>
power and fascination. The skill with which he
alluded to those points which would have the
greatest weight with the negroes, added a degree of
force which told well with his audience.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I will not attempt to describe to you the outburst
of determined enthusiasm which the harangue of
Biassou roused amongst the rebels.</p>

<p class='pindent'>There arose at once a discordant chorus of howls,
yells, and shouts. Some beat their naked breasts,
others dashed their clubs and sabres together.
Many threw themselves on their knees, and remained
in that position as though in rapt ecstasy.
The negresses tore their breasts and arms with their
fish-bone combs. The sounds of drums, tom-toms,
guitars, and tambourines were mingled with the discharge
of firearms. It was a veritable witches’
Sabbath.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou raised his hand, and, as if by enchantment,
the tumult was stilled, and each negro returned
to his place in the ranks in silence. The
discipline which Biassou had imposed upon his
equals by the exercise of his power of will struck
me, I may say, with admiration. All the soldiers
of the force seemed to exist only to obey the wishes
of their chief, as the notes of the harpsichord under
the fingers of the musician.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXVII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> spectacle of another example of the powers of
fascination and deception now attracted my attention,
<span class='pageno' title='191' id='Page_191'></span>
this was the healing of the wounded. The Obi,
who in the army performed the double functions of
healer of souls and bodies, began his inspection of
his patients.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He had taken off his sacerdotal robes, and was
seated before a large box in which he kept his drugs
and instruments. He used the latter very rarely,
but occasionally drew blood skilfully enough with a
lancet made of fish-bone, but he appeared to me
to use the knife which in his hands replaced the
scalpel rather clumsily. In most cases he contented
himself with prescribing orange flower water, or sarsaparilla,
and a mouthful of old rum. His favourite
remedy, however, and one which he said was an
infallible panacea for all ills, was composed of three
glasses of red wine in which was some grated nutmeg
and the yolk of an egg boiled hard. He employed
this specific for almost every malady. You
will understand that his knowledge of medicine was
as great a farce as his pretended religion, and it is
probable that the small number of cures that he
effected would not have secured the confidence of
the negroes had he not had recourse to all sorts of
mummeries and incantations, and acted as much
upon their imaginations as upon their bodies. Thus,
he never examined their wounds without performing
some mysterious signs, whilst at other times he skilfully
mingled together religion and negro superstition,
and would put into their wounds a little <span class='it'>fetish</span> stone
wrapped in a morsel of lint, and the patient would
credit the stone with the healing effects of the lint.
If any one came to announce to him the death of a
<span class='pageno' title='192' id='Page_192'></span>
patient he would answer solemnly, “I foresaw it;
he was a traitor; in the burning of such and such a
house he spared a white man’s life; his death was
a judgment.” And the wondering crowd of rebels
applauded him as he thus increased their deadly
hatred for their adversaries. This impostor, amongst
other methods, employed one which amused me by
its singularity. One of the negro chiefs had been
badly wounded in the last action. The Obi examined
the wound attentively, dressed it as well as he was
able, then, mounting the altar, exclaimed, “All this
is nothing.” He then tore two or three leaves from
the missal, burnt them to ashes, and mingling them
with some wine in the sacramental cup, cried to the
wounded man, “Drink; this is the true remedy.”
The patient, stupidly fixing his eyes on the impostor,
drank, whilst the Obi with raised hands seemed to
call down blessings on his head, and it may be the
conviction that he was healed brought about his cure.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Another</span> scene in which the Obi also played the
principal part succeeded to this. The physician had
taken the place of the priest, and the sorcerer now
replaced the physician.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen, men!” cried the Obi, leaping with incredible
agility upon the improvised altar, and sinking
down with his legs crossed under his striped petticoat.
“Listen; who will dive into the book of fate?
I can foretell the future. ‘<span class='it'>He estudiado la cienca de los
<span class='pageno' title='193' id='Page_193'></span>
Gitanos</span>’ (‘I have studied the sciences of the gipsies’).”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A crowd of mulattoes and negroes hurriedly
crowded up to him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“One by one,” said the Obi, in that voice which
called to my mind some remembrances that I could
not quite collect. “If you come all together, altogether
you will enter the tomb.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>They stopped. Just then a coloured man dressed
in a white jacket and trousers, with a bandana handkerchief
tied round his head, entered the cave.
Consternation was depicted on his countenance.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well, Rigaud,” said the general, “what is it?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Rigaud, sometimes called General Rigaud, was
the head of the mulatto insurgents at Lagu. A man
who concealed much cunning under an appearance
of candour, and cruelty beneath the mask of
humanity. I looked upon him with much attention.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“General,” whispered Rigaud, but as I was close
to them I could catch every word, “on the outskirts
of the camp there is a messenger from Jean François
who has brought the news that Bouckmann has been
killed in a battle with the whites under M. de
Touzard, and that his head has been set upon the
gates of the town as a trophy.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Is that all?” asked Biassou, his eyes sparkling
with delight at learning the diminution of the number
of chiefs and the consequent increase of his own
importance.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The emissary of Jean François has in addition
a message for you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“That is all right,” replied the general; “but get
rid of this air of alarm, my good Rigaud.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='194' id='Page_194'></span>
“But,” said Rigaud, “do you not fear the effect
that the death of Bouckmann will have on the
army?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You wish to appear more simple than you are,
but you shall see what Biassou will do. Keep the
messenger back for a quarter of an hour and all will
go well.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then he approached the Obi, who during this conversation
had been exercising his functions as
fortune-teller, questioning the wondering negroes,
examining the lines on their hands and foreheads,
and distributing more or less good luck according
to the size and colour of the piece of money thrown
by each negro into a silver-gilt basin which stood on
one side. Biassou whispered a few words in his ear,
and without making any reply the Obi continued his
prophetic observations.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“He,” cried the Obi, “who has in the middle
of his forehead a little square or triangular figure
will make a large fortune without work or toil. The
figure of three interlaced S’s on the forehead is a
fatal sign; he who has it will certainly be drowned
if he does not carefully avoid water. Four lines
from the top of the nose, and turning round two
by two towards the eyes, announces that you will
be taken prisoner, and for a long time languish in
a foreign prison.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Here the Obi paused.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Friends,” continued he, “I have observed this
sign in the forehead of Bug-Jargal, the brave chief of
Morne-Rouge.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>These words, which convinced me that Bug-Jargal
<span class='pageno' title='195' id='Page_195'></span>
had been made prisoner, were followed by a cry of
grief from a band of negroes who wore short scarlet
breeches. They belonged to the band of Morne-Rouge.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then the Obi began again—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“If you have on the right side of the forehead in
the line of the moon a mark resembling a fork, do
not remain idle, and avoid dissipation of all kinds.
A small mark like the Arabic cypher 3 in the line of
the sun betokens blows with a stick.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>An old negro here interrupted the magician, and
dragging himself to his feet begged him to dress his
wound. He had been wounded in the face, and one
of his eyes almost torn from the socket hung upon
his cheek. The Obi had forgotten him when going
through his patients. Directly, however, he saw him
he cried out—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Round marks on the right side of the forehead
in the line of the moon foretell misfortunes to the
sight. My man, let me see your hand.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Alas, excellent sir,” answered the other, “it is
my eye that I want you to look at.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Old man,” replied the Obi, crossly, “it is not
necessary to see your eye, give me your hand, I say.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The miserable wretch obeyed, moaning, “My eye,
my eye.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good,” cried the Obi; “if you see on the line of
life a spot surrounded by a circle you will lose an
eye. There is the mark. You will become blind of
an eye.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I am so already,” answered the negro, piteously.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But the Obi had merged the physician in the sorcerer,
<span class='pageno' title='196' id='Page_196'></span>
and thrusting him roughly on one side continued—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen, my men. If the seven lines on the
forehead are slight, twisted, and lightly marked, they
announce a short life. He who has between his
eyebrows on the line of the moon the figure of two
crossed arrows will be killed in battle. If the line
of life which intersects the hand has a cross at its
junction it foretells death on the scaffold, and here
I must tell you, my brethren,” said the Obi, interrupting
himself, “that one of the bravest defenders of
our liberties, Bouckmann, has all these fatal marks.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>At these words all the negroes held their breath,
and gazed on the impostor with glances of stupid
admiration.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Only,” continued the Obi, “I cannot reconcile
the two opposing signs, death on the battle-field and
also on the scaffold, and yet my science is infallible.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He stopped and cast a meaning glance at Biassou,
who whispered something to an officer, who at once
quitted the cavern.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“A gaping mouth,” continued the Obi, turning on
his audience a malicious glance, “a slouching
carriage, and arms hanging down by the side, announces
natural stupidity, emptiness, and want of
reasoning powers.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou gave a sneer of delight; at that moment
the aide-de-camp returned, bringing with him a
negro covered with mud and dust, whose feet,
wounded by the roots and flints, showed that he had
just come off a long journey.</p>

<p class='pindent'>This was the messenger whose arrival Rigaud had
<span class='pageno' title='197' id='Page_197'></span>
announced. He held in one hand a letter, and in the
other a document sealed with the design of a flaming
heart. Round it was a monogram, composed of the
letters M and N interlaced, no doubt intended as an
emblem of the union of the free mulattos and the
negro slaves. Underneath I could read this motto,
“Prejudice conquered, the rod of iron broken, long
live the king!” This document was a safe conduct
given by Jean François.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The messenger handed his letter to Biassou, who
hastily tore it open and perused the contents, then
with an appearance of deep grief he exclaimed, “My
brothers!” All bowed respectfully.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My brothers, this is a despatch to Jean Biassou,
generalissimo of the conquered states, Brigadier-General
of His Catholic Majesty, from Jean
François, Grand Admiral of France, Lieutenant-General
of the army of the King of Spain and the
Indies.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Bouckmann, chief of the hundred and twenty
negroes of the Blue Mountain, whose liberty was
recognized by the Governor-General of Belle Combe,
has fallen in the glorious struggle of liberty and
humanity against tyranny and barbarism. This
gallant chief has been slain in an action with the
white brigands of the infamous Touzard. The
monsters have cut off his head, and have announced
their intention of exposing it on a scaffold in the
main square of the town of Cap. Vengeance!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A gloomy silence succeeded the reading of this
despatch; but the Obi leapt on his altar, and waving
his white wand, exclaimed in accents of triumph—</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='198' id='Page_198'></span>
“Solomon, Zerobabel, Eleazar Thaleb, Cardau,
Judas Bowtharicht, Avenoes, Albert the Great,
Bohabdil, Jean de Hagul, Anna Baratio, Daniel
Ogromof, Rachel Flintz, Allornino, I give you
thanks. The science of the spirits has not deceived
me; sons, friends, brothers, boys, children,
mothers, all of you listen to me. What was it that
I predicted? the marks on the forehead of Bouckmann
announced that his life would be a short one,
that he would die in battle, and that he would appear
on the scaffold. The revelations of my art have
turned out true to the letter, and those points which
seemed the most obscure are now the most plain.
Brethren, wonder and admire!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The panic of the negroes changed during this
discourse to a sort of admiring terror. They listened
to the Obi with a species of confidence mingled with
fear, whilst the latter, carried away by his own
enthusiasm, walked up and down the sugar case,
which presented plenty of space for his short steps.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A sneer passed over Biassou’s face as he addressed
the Obi.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your reverence, since you know what is to
come, will you be good enough to tell me the future
of Jean Biassou, Brigadier-General?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Obi halted on the top of his strange altar,
which the credulity of the negroes looked upon as
something divine, and answered, “<span class='it'>Venga vuestra
merced</span>” (“Come, your Excellency”). At this moment
the Obi was the most important man in the army;
the military power bowed to the spiritual.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your hand, general?” said the Obi, stooping to
<span class='pageno' title='199' id='Page_199'></span>
grasp it. “<span class='it'>Empezo</span> (“I begin”). The line of junction
equally marked in its full length promises you riches
and happiness; the line of life strongly developed
announces a life exempt from ills, and a happy old
age. Its narrowness shows your wisdom and your
superior talents, as well as the generosity of your
heart; and, lastly, I see what chiromancers call the
luckiest of all signs, a number of little wrinkles in
the shape of a tree with its branches extending
upwards, this promises health and wealth, it also
prognosticates courage. General, it curves in the
direction of the little finger, this is the sign of wholesome
severity.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>As he said this the eyes of the Obi glanced at me
through the apertures of his veil, and I fancied that
I could catch a well-known voice under the habitual
gravity of his intonation, as he continued—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The line of health, marked with a number of
small circles, announces that you will have, for the
sake of the cause, to order a number of executions;
divided here by a half-moon, shows that you will be
exposed to great danger from ferocious beasts, that
is to say, from the whites, if you do not exterminate
them. The line of fortune surrounded, like the line
of life, by little branches rising towards the upper
part of the hand, confirms the position of power and
supremacy to which you have been called; turning
to the right, it is a symbol of your administrative
capacity. The fifth line, that of the triangle prolonged
to the root of the middle finger, promises you
success in all your undertakings. Let me see your
fingers: the thumb marked with little lines from
<span class='pageno' title='200' id='Page_200'></span>
the point to the nail shows that you will receive a
noble heritage, that of the glory of the unfortunate
Bouckmann, no doubt,” added the Obi, in a loud
voice. “The slight swelling at the root of the forefinger,
lightly marked with lines, promises honours
and dignities. The middle finger shows nothing.
Your little finger is covered with lines crossing each
other, you will vanquish all your enemies, and rise
high above your rivals. These lines form the cross
of Saint Andrew, a mark of genius and foresight. I
also notice the figure of a circle, another token of
your arrival at the highest power and dignity.
‘Happy the man,’ says Eleazar Thaleb, ‘who possesses
all these signs. Destiny has its choicest gifts
in store for him, and his fortunate star announces
the talent which will bring him glory.’ And now,
general, let me look at your forehead? ‘He,’ says
Rachel Flintz, of Bohemia, ‘who bears on his
forehead, on the line of the sun, a square or a triangular
mark, will make a great fortune.’ Here is
another prediction, ‘If the mark is on the right, it
refers to an important succession;’ that of Bouckmann
is, of course, again referred to. The mark in
the shape of a horseshoe between the eyebrows, on
the line of the moon, means that prompt vengeance
will be taken for insult and tyranny. I have this
mark as well as you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The curious manner in which the Obi uttered
these words, “I have this mark,” attracted my
attention.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The mark of a lion’s claw which you have on
your left eyelid is only noticeable amongst men of
<span class='pageno' title='201' id='Page_201'></span>
undoubted courage; but to close this, General Jean
Biassou, your forehead shows every sign of the most
unexampled success, and on it is a combination of
lines which form the letter M, the commencement of
the name of the Blessed Virgin. In whatever part
of the forehead, and in whatever line of the face,
such a sign appears, the signification is the same—genius,
glory, and power. He who bears it will
always bring success to whatever cause he embraces,
and those under his command will never have to
regret any loss. He alone is worth all the soldiers
of his army. You, general, are the elect of Fate.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Thanks, your reverence,” said Biassou, preparing
to return to his mahogany throne.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Stay a moment, general,” said the Obi, “I
forgot one last sign: the line of the sun, which is so
strongly marked on your forehead, proves that you
understand the way of the world, that you possess
the wish to make others happy, that you have much
liberality, and like to do things in a magnificent
manner.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou at once recognized his forgetfulness, and
drawing from his pocket a heavy purse, he threw it
into the plate, so as to prove that the line of the sun
never lies.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But this miraculous horoscope of the general’s had
produced its effect upon the army. All the insurgents
who, since the news of the death of Bouckmann
attached greater weight than ever to the words of
the Obi, lost their feelings of uneasiness and became
violently enthusiastic, and trusting blindly in
their infallible sorcerer and their predestined chief,
<span class='pageno' title='202' id='Page_202'></span>
began to shout, “Long live our Obi! long live our
general!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Obi and Biassou glanced at each other, and I
almost thought I could hear the stifled laugh of the
one replied to by the sardonic chuckle of the other.
I do not know how it was, but this Obi tormented me
dreadfully; I had a feeling that I had seen or heard
him before, and I made up my mind to speak to him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ho, Obi, your reverence, doctor, here!” cried I
to him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He turned sharply round.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“There is some one here whose lot you have not
yet cast—it is mine.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He crossed his arms over the silver sun that
covered his hairy breast, but he made no reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I continued, “I would gladly know what you
prophesy with regard to my future, but your worthy
comrades have taken my watch and my purse, and I
suppose you will not give me a specimen of your
skill for nothing?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He advanced quickly to me, and muttered hoarsely
in my ear—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You deceive yourself, let me see your hand.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I gave it, looking fixedly at him; his eyes sparkled
as he bent over my hand.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“If the line of life,” said he, “is cut by two
transverse lines, it is the sign of immediate death,
your life will be a short one. If the line of health is
not in the centre of the hand, and if there is only
the line of life, and the line of fortune united so as to
form an angle, a natural death cannot be looked
for. Do not, therefore, look for a natural death!
<span class='pageno' title='203' id='Page_203'></span>
If the bottom of the forefinger has a long line cutting
it, a violent death will be the result. Prepare
yourself for a violent death!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was a ring of pleasure in his sepulchral
voice as he thus announced my death, but I listened
to him with contempt and indifference.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sorcerer,” said I, with a disdainful smile, “you
are skilful, for you are speaking of a certainty.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Once more he came closer to me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You doubt my science,” cried he; “listen, then,
once more. The severance of the line of the sun on
your forehead shows me that you take an enemy for
a friend, and a friend for an enemy.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>These words seemed to refer to the treacherous
Pierrot, whom I loved, but who had betrayed me,
and to the faithful Habibrah, who I had hated, and
whose blood-stained garments attested his fidelity
and his devotion.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What do you say?” exclaimed I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen until the end,” continued the Obi. “I
spoke of the future, listen to the past. The line of
the moon on your forehead is slightly curved—that
signifies that your wife has been carried off.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I trembled, and endeavoured to spring from my
seat, but my guards held me back.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You have but little patience,” continued the
sorcerer; “listen to the end. The little cross that
cuts the extremity of that curve shows me all; your
wife was carried off on the very night of your
nuptials.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Wretch,” cried I, “you know where she is!
Who are you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='204' id='Page_204'></span>
I strove again to free myself, and to tear away his
veil, but I had to yield to numbers and to force, and
I had the mortification of seeing the mysterious Obi
move away repeating, “Do you believe me now?
Prepare for immediate death.”</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXIX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>As</span> if to draw my attention from the perplexity into
which I had been thrown by the strange scene that
had just passed, a new and more terrible drama
succeeded to the farce that had been played between
Biassou and the Obi. Biassou had again taken his
place upon his mahogany throne, whilst Rigaud and
the Obi were seated on his right and left; the latter,
with his arms crossed on his breast, seemed to have
given himself up to deep thought. Biassou and
Rigaud were chewing tobacco, and an aide-de-camp
had just asked if he should order a general march
past of the forces, when a tumultuous crowd of
negroes, with hideous shouts, arrived at the entrance
of the grotto. They had brought with them three
white prisoners to be judged by Biassou, but what
they desired was easily shown by the cries of
“Muerte! Muerte!” “Death, death!” the latter,
no doubt, emanating from the English negroes of
Bouckmann’s band, many of whom had by this time
arrived to join the French and Spanish negroes of
Biassou.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The general with a gesture of his hand commanded
silence, and ordered the three captives to be brought
<span class='pageno' title='205' id='Page_205'></span>
to the entrance of the grotto. I recognized two of
them with considerable surprise; one was the Citizen
General C——, that philanthropist who was in
correspondence with all the lovers of the negro race
in different parts of the globe, and who had proposed
so cruel a mode of suppressing the insurrection to
the governor. The other was the planter of doubtful
origin, who manifested so great a dislike to the
mulattoes, amongst whom the whites insisted on
classing him. The third appeared to belong to a
section called “poor whites”—that is to say, white men
who had to work for their living: he wore a leathern
apron, and his sleeves were turned up to his elbows.
All the prisoners had been taken at different times,
endeavouring to hide themselves in the mountains.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The “poor white” was the first one that was
questioned.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Who are you?” asked Biassou.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I am Jacques Belin, carpenter to the Hospital
of the Fathers, at Cap.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Surprise and shame struggled for the mastery in
the features of the general.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Jacques Belin!” repeated he, biting his lips.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” replied the carpenter; “do you not recognize
me?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Begin,” retorted the general, furiously, “by
recognizing <span class='it'>me</span> and saluting me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I do not salute <span class='it'>my slave</span>,” replied the carpenter,
sturdily.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your slave, wretch!” cried the general.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” replied the carpenter; “yes, I was your
first master, you pretend not to recognize me, but
<span class='pageno' title='206' id='Page_206'></span>
remember, Jean Biassou, that I sold you for thirty
piastres in the Saint Domingo slave market.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>An expression of concentrated rage passed over
Biassou’s face.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well,” continued the carpenter, “you appear
ashamed of having worked for me; ought not Jean
Biassou to feel proud of having belonged to Jacques
Belin? Your mother, the old idiot, has often swept
out my shop, but at last I sold her to the major-domo
of the Hospital of the Fathers, and she was so
old and decrepit, that he would only give me thirty-two
livres and six sous for her. There is my history
and yours, but it seems as if the negroes and the
mulattoes are growing proud, and that you have
forgotten the time when you served Master Jacques
Belin, the carpenter of Cap, on your knees.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou listened to him with that sardonic smile
that gave him the appearance of a tiger.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good,” said he; then turning to the negroes who
had captured Belin, “get two trestles, two planks,
and a saw, and take this man away. Jacques Belin,
carpenter of Cap, thank me, for you shall have a true
carpenter’s death.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>His sardonic laugh too fully explained the horrible
punishment that he destined for the pride of his
former master, but Jacques Belin did not blench, and
turning proudly to Biassou, cried—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I ought to thank you, for I bought you for
thirty piastres, and I got work out of you to a
much greater amount.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>They dragged him away.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='207' id='Page_207'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>More</span> dead than alive, the other two prisoners had
witnessed this frightful prologue to their own chance.
Their timid and terrified appearance contrasted
with the courageous audacity of the carpenter; every
limb quivered with affright.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou looked at them one after the other with
his fox-like glance, and, as if he took a pleasure in
prolonging their agony, began a discussion with
Rigaud upon the different kinds of tobacco, asserting
that that of Havana was only good for
manufacturing cigars, whilst for snuff he knew
nothing better than the Spanish tobacco, two barrels
of which Bouchmaun had sent him, being a portion
of the plunder of M. Lebattre’s stores in the island
of Tortue. Then, turning sharply upon the Citizen
General C——, he asked him—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What do you think?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This sudden address utterly confounded the timid
citizen, and he stammered out.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“General, I am entirely of your Excellency’s
opinion.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You flatter me,” replied Biassou; “I want <span class='it'>your</span>
opinion, not mine. Do you know any tobacco that
makes better snuff than that of M. Lebattres?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No, my lord,” answered C——, whose evident
terror greatly amused Biassou.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>General, Your Excellency, My Lord!</span> you are an
aristocrat.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Oh no, certainly not,” exclaimed the citizen
<span class='pageno' title='208' id='Page_208'></span>
general. “I am a good patriot of ’91, and an ardent
<span class='it'>negrophile</span>.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Negrophile!” interrupted the general. “Pray
what is a negrophile?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is a friend of the blacks,” stammered the
citizen.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is not enough to be a friend of the blacks;
you must also be a friend of the men of colour.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Men of colour is what I should have said,”
replied the lover of the blacks, humbly. “I am
mixed up with all the most famous partisans of the
negroes and the mulattoes——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Delighted at the opportunity of humiliating a
white man, Biassou again interrupted him:</p>

<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Negroes and mulattoes!</span> What do you mean,
pray? Do you wish to insult me by making use of
those terms of contempt invented by the whites?
There are only men of colour and blacks here—do
you understand that, Mr. Planter?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It was a slip, a bad habit that I picked up in
childhood,” answered C——. “Pardon me, my
lord, I had no wish to offend you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Leave off this <span class='it'>my lording</span> business; I have already
told you that I don’t like these aristocratic ways.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>C—— again endeavoured to excuse himself, and
began to stammer out a fresh explanation.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“If you knew, citizen——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Citizen indeed!” cried Biassou, in affected anger,
“I detest all this Jacobin jargon. Are you by chance
a Jacobin? Remember that you are speaking to the
generalissimo of the king’s troops.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The unhappy partisan of the negro race was
<span class='pageno' title='209' id='Page_209'></span>
dumbfounded, and did not know in what terms to
address this man who equally disdained the titles
of “my lord” or “citizen,” and the aristocratic or
republican modes of salutation. Biassou, whose
anger was only assumed, cruelly enjoyed the predicament
in which he had placed him. “Alas,” at
last said the citizen general, “you do not do me
justice, noble defender of the unwritten rights of the
larger portion of the human race.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>In his perplexity to hit upon an acceptable mode
of address to a man who appeared to disdain all
titles, he had recourse to one of those sonorous
periphrases which the republicans occasionally substituted
for the name and title of the persons with
whom they were in conversation.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou looked at him steadily and said, “You
love the blacks and the men of colour?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do I love them?” exclaimed the citizen C——.
“Why, I correspond with Brissot and——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou interrupted him with a sardonic laugh.
“Ha, ha, I am glad to find in you so trusty a friend
to our cause; you must, of course, thoroughly detest
those wretched colonists who punished our insurrection
by a series of the most cruel executions, and
you, of course, think with us, that it is not the
blacks, but the whites, who are the true rebels, since
they are in arms against the laws of nature and
humanity? You must execrate such monsters!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I do execrate them,” answered C——.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well,” continued Biassou, “what do you think
of a man who, in his endeavours to crush the last
efforts of the slaves to regain their liberty, placed
<span class='pageno' title='210' id='Page_210'></span>
the heads of fifty black men on each side of the
avenue that led to his house?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>C—— grew fearfully pale.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What do you think of a white man who would
propose to surround the town of Cap with a circle
of negro heads?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Mercy, mercy!” cried the terrified citizen general.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Am I threatening you?” replied Biassou, coldly.
“Let me finish; a circle of heads that would reach
from Fort Picolet to Cape Caracol. What do you
think of that? Answer me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The words of Biassou, “Do I threaten you,” had
given a faint ray of hope to C——, for he fancied that
the general might have heard of this terrible proposition
without knowing the author of it; he therefore
replied with all the firmness that he could muster,
in order to remove any impression that the idea was
his own: “I consider such a suggestion an atrocious
crime.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou chuckled.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good, and what punishment should be inflicted
on the man who proposed it?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The unfortunate C—— hesitated.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What!” cried Biassou, “you hesitate! Are you,
or are you not, the friend of the blacks?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Of the two alternatives the wretched man chose the
least threatening one, and seeing no hostile light in
Biassou’s eyes, he answered in a low voice—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The guilty person deserves death.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well answered,” replied Biassou, calmly, throwing
aside the tobacco that he had been chewing.</p>

<p class='pindent'>His assumed air of indifference had completely
<span class='pageno' title='211' id='Page_211'></span>
deceived the unfortunate lover of the negro race, and
he made another effort to dissipate any suspicions
which might have been engendered against him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No one,” cried he, “has a more ardent desire
for your success than I. I correspond with Brissot
and Pruneau de Pomme-Gouge in France, with
Magaw in America, with Peter Paulus in Holland,
with the Abbé Tamburini in Italy.” And he was
continuing to unfold the same string of names which
he had formerly repeated, but with a different motive,
at the council held at M. de Blanchelande’s, when
Biassou interrupted him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What do I care with whom you correspond!
Tell me rather where are your granaries and store-houses,
for my army has need of supplies; your plantation
is doubtless a rich one, and your business
must be lucrative since you correspond with so many
merchants.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>C—— ventured timidly to remark—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Hero of humanity, they are not merchants, but
philosophers, philanthropists, lovers of the race of
blacks.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Then,” said Biassou, with a shake of his head,
“if you have nothing that can be plundered, what
good are you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This question afforded a chance of safety of which
C—— eagerly availed himself.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Illustrious warrior,” exclaimed he, “have you
an economist in your army?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What is that?” asked the general.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is,” replied the prisoner, with as much calmness
as his fears would permit him to assume, “a
<span class='pageno' title='212' id='Page_212'></span>
most necessary man, one whom all appreciate, one
who follows out and classes in their proper order the
respective material resources of an empire, and gives
to each its real value, increasing and improving them
by combining their sources and results, and pouring
them like fertilizing streams into the main river of
general utility, which in its turn swells the great sea
of public prosperity.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Caramba</span>,” observed Biassou, leaning over towards
the Obi. “What the deuce does he mean by
all these words strung together like the beads on
your rosary?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Obi shrugged his shoulders in sign of ignorance
and disdain as citizen C—— continued—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“If you will permit me to observe, valiant chief of
the regenerators of Saint Domingo, I have carefully
studied the works of the greatest economists of the
world—Turgot, Raynal, and Mirabeau the friend of
man. I have put their theories into practice, I
thoroughly understand the science indispensable for
the government of kingdoms and states——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The economist is not economical of his words,”
observed Rigaud, with his bland and cunning smile.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But you, eternal talker,” cried Biassou, “tell me,
have I any kingdoms or states to govern?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Not yet perhaps, great man, but they will come;
and besides, my knowledge descends to all the useful
details which are comprised in the interior economy
of an army.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The general again interrupted him: “I have
nothing to do with the interior economy of the army,
I command it.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='213' id='Page_213'></span>
“Good,” replied the citizen; “you shall be the
commander, I will be the commissary; I have much
special knowledge as to the increase of cattle——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do you think we are going to breed cattle?” cried
Biassou, with his sardonic laugh. “No, my good
fellow, we are content with eating them; when cattle
become scarce in the French colony I shall cross the
line of mountains on the frontier and take the Spanish
sheep and oxen from the plains of Cotury, of La Vega,
of St. Jago, and from the banks of the Yuna; if necessary
I will go as far as the Island of Jamaica, and to
the back of the mountain of Cibos, and from the
mouths of the Neybe to those of Santo Domingo;
besides, I should be glad to punish those infernal
Spanish planters for giving up Ogé to the French.
You see I am not uneasy as regards provisions, and
so have no need of <span class='it'>your knowledge</span>.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This open declaration rather disconcerted the poor
economist; he made, however, one more effort for
safety. “My studies,” said he, “have not been limited
to the reproduction of cattle, I am acquainted with
other special branches of knowledge that may be very
useful to you; I can show you the method of manufacturing
pitch and working coal mines.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What do I care for that!” exclaimed Biassou.
“When I want charcoal I burn a few leagues of
forest.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I can tell you the proper kinds of wood to use
for shipbuilding—the <span class='it'>chicarm</span> and the <span class='it'>sabicca</span> for the
keels, the <span class='it'>yabas</span> for the knees, the medlars for the
framework, the <span class='it'>hacotnas</span>, the <span class='it'>gaïacs</span>, the cedars, the
acomas——”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='214' id='Page_214'></span>
“<span class='it'>Que te lleven todos los demonios de los diez-y-siete
infernos!</span>” (“May the devils of the thirty-seven hells
fly away with you!”), cried Biassou, boiling over with
impatience.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I beg your pardon, my gracious patron,” said the
trembling economist, who did not understand Spanish.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen,” said Biassou, “I don’t want to build
vessels; there is only one vacancy that I can offer you,
and that is not a very important one; I want a man
to wait upon me; and now, Mr. Philosopher, tell me
if that will suit you; you will have to serve me on
your bended knees, you will prepare my pipe, cook
my <span class='it'>calalou</span> and turtle soup, and you will stand behind
me with a fan of peacock or parrot feathers like those
two pages; now will the situation suit you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Citizen C——, whose only desire was to save his
life, bent to the earth with a thousand expressions of
joy and gratitude.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You accept my offer, then?” asked Biassou.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Can you ask such a question, generous master?
do you think that I should hesitate for a moment in
accepting so distinguished a post as that of being in
constant attendance on you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this reply the diabolical sneer of Biassou became
more pronounced. He rose up with an air of triumph,
crossed his arms on his chest, and thrusting aside
with his foot the white man’s head who was prostrate
on the ground before him, he cried in a loud voice—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I am delighted at being able to fathom how far
the cowardice of the white man could go, I have
already measured the extent of his cruelty. Citizen
C——, it is to you that I owe this double experience.
<span class='pageno' title='215' id='Page_215'></span>
I knew all; how could you have been sufficiently
besotted to think that I did not? It was you who
presided at the executions of June, July, and August;
it was you who placed fifty negro heads on each side
of your avenue; it was you who proposed to slaughter
the five hundred negroes who were confined in irons
after the revolt, and to encircle the town of Cap with
their heads from Fort Picolet to Cape Caracol. If
you could have done it you would have placed my
head amongst them, and now you think yourself
lucky if I will take you as my body-servant. No,
no! I have more regard for your honour than you
yourself have, and I will not inflict this affront on
you; prepare to die!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>At a gesture of his hand the negroes removed the
unhappy lover of the blacks to a position near me,
where overwhelmed by the honour of his position, he
fell to the ground without being able to articulate a
word.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>“It</span> is your turn now,” said the general, turning to
the last of the prisoners, the planter who was accused
by the white men of having black blood in his veins,
and who had on that account sent me a challenge.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A general clamour drowned the reply of the planter.
“Muerte! Death! Mort! Touyé!” cried the negroes,
grinding their teeth, and shaking their fists at the
unhappy captive.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“General,” said a mulatto, making himself heard
<span class='pageno' title='216' id='Page_216'></span>
above the uproar, “he is a white man, and he must
die.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The miserable planter, by cries and gesticulations,
managed to edge in some words. “No, general, no,
my brothers, it is an infamous calumny, I am a
mulatto like yourselves, of mixed blood; my mother
was a negress, like your mothers and sisters.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“He lies,” cried the infuriated negroes, “he is a
white man, he has always detested the coloured
people.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Never,” retorted the prisoner; “it is the whites
that I detest; I have always said with you, ‘<span class='it'>Negre cé
blan, blan cé negre</span>’ (‘The negroes are the masters, the
whites are the slaves’).”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Not at all,” cried the crowd, “not at all; kill the
white man, kill him!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Still the unhappy wretch kept repeating in heart-rending
accents, “I am a mulatto, I am one of yourselves.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Give me a proof,” was Biassou’s sole reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“A proof,” answered the prisoner, wildly, “the
proof is that the whites have always despised me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“That may be true,” returned Biassou, “but you are
an insolent hound to tell us so.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A young mulatto stepped to the front and addressed
the planter in an excited manner.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“That the whites despised you is a fact; but, on
the other hand, you affected to look down upon the
mulattoes amongst whom they classed you. It has
even been reported that you once challenged a white
man who called you a half caste.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A howl of execration arose from the crowd, and
<span class='pageno' title='217' id='Page_217'></span>
the cry of “death” was repeated more loudly than
ever, whilst the planter, casting an appealing glance
at me, continued, with tears in his eyes—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is a calumny, my greatest glory and happiness
is in belonging to the blacks, I am a mulatto.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“If you really were a mulatto,” observed Rigaud,
quietly, “you would not make use of such an expression.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“How do I know what I am saying?” asked the
panic-stricken wretch. “General, the proof that I am
of mixed blood is in the black circle that you see
round the bottom of my nails.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou thrust aside the suppliant hand.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I do not possess the knowledge of our chaplain,
who can tell what a man is by looking at his hand.
But listen to me: my soldiers accuse you—some, of
being a white man; others, of being a false brother.
If this is the case you ought to die. You, on the
other hand, assert that you belong to our race, and
that you have never denied it. There is one method
by which you can prove your assertions. Take this
dagger and stab these two white prisoners!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>As he spoke, with a wave of his hand, he designated
the citizen C—— and myself.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The planter drew back from the dagger which,
with a devilish smile on his face, Biassou presented
to him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What,” said the general, “do you hesitate? It
is your only chance of proving your assertion to the
army that you are not a white, and are one of ourselves.
Come, decide at once, for we have no time to
lose.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='218' id='Page_218'></span>
The prisoner’s eyes glared wildly; he stretched out
his hand towards the dagger, then let his arm fall
again, turning away his head, whilst every limb
quivered with emotion.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Come, come,” cried Biassou, in tones of impatience
and anger, “I am in a hurry. Choose—either kill
them, or die with them!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The planter remained motionless, as if he had been
turned to stone.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good!” said Biassou, turning towards the negroes,
“he does not wish to be the executioner, let him be
the victim. I can see that he is nothing but a white
man—away with him!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The negroes advanced to seize him. This movement
impelled him to immediate choice between
giving or receiving death.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Extreme cowardice produces a bastard species of
courage.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Stepping forward, he snatched the dagger that
Biassou still held out to him, and without giving
himself time to reflect upon what he was about to
do, he precipitated himself like a tiger upon citizen
C——, who was lying on the ground near me.
Then a terrible struggle commenced. The lover of
the negro race, who had, at the conclusion of his
interview with Biassou, remained plunged in a state
of despair and stupor, had hardly noticed the scene
between the general and the planter, so absorbed was
he in the thought of his approaching death; but
when he saw the man rush upon him, and the steel
gleam above his head, the imminence of his danger
aroused him at once. He started to his feet, grasped
<span class='pageno' title='219' id='Page_219'></span>
the arm of his would-be murderer, and exclaimed in
a voice of terror—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Pardon, pardon! What are you doing? What
have I done?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You must die, sir,” said the half-caste, fixing his
frenzied eyes upon his victim, and endeavouring to
disengage his arm. “Let me do it; I will not hurt
you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Die by your hand,” cried the economist; “but
why? Spare me; you wish perhaps to kill me because
I used to say that you were a mulatto. But spare
my life, and I vow that I will always declare that
you are a white man. Yes, you are white, I will say
so everywhere, but spare me!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The unfortunate man had taken the wrong method
of sueing for mercy.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Silence, silence!” cried the half-caste, furious at
the idea of the danger he was incurring, and fearing
that the negroes would hear the assertion.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But the other cried louder than ever, that he knew
that he was a white man, and of good family.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The half-caste made a last effort to impose silence
on him; then finding his efforts vain, he thrust aside
his arms, and pressed the dagger upon C——’s
breast.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The unhappy man felt the point of the weapon,
and in his despair bit the arm that was driving the
dagger home.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Monster! wretch!” exclaimed he, “you are murdering
me.” Then casting a glance of supplication
towards Biassou, he cried, “Defend me, avenger of
humanity.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='220' id='Page_220'></span>
Then the murderer pressed more heavily on the
dagger; a gush of blood bubbled over his fingers, and
spattered his face. The knees of the unhappy lover
of the negro race bent beneath him, his arms fell by
his side, his eyes closed, he uttered a stifled groan,
and fell dead.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I was</span> paralyzed with horror at this scene, in which
I every moment expected to play an important part.
The <span class='it'>Avenger of Humanity</span> had gazed on the struggle
without a lineament of his features changing. When
all was over, he turned to his terrified pages. “More
tobacco,” said he, and began to chew calmly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Obi and Rigaud were equally impassible, but
the negroes appeared terrified at the horrible drama
that their general had caused to be enacted before
them.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One white man, however, yet remained to be
slaughtered—my turn had come. I cast a glance
upon the murderer who was about to become my
executioner, and a feeling of pity came over me.
His lips were violet, his teeth chattered, a convulsive
tremor caused every limb to quiver. By a mechanical
movement his hand was continually passed over his
forehead, as if to obliterate the traces of the blood
which had so liberally sprinkled it; he looked with
an air of terrified wonder at the bleeding body which
lay at his feet, as though he were unable to detach
his strained eyeballs from the spectacle of his victim.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='221' id='Page_221'></span>
I waited for the moment when he would resume
his task of blood. The position was a strange one:
he had already tried to kill me and failed, to prove
that he was white, and now he was going to murder
me to show that he was black.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Come,” said Biassou, addressing him, “this is
good; I am pleased with you, my friend.” Then
glancing at me, he added. “You need not finish the
other one; and now I declare you one of us, and
name you executioner to the army.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>At these words a negro stepped out of the ranks,
and bowing three times to the general, cried out in
his jargon—which I will spare you—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“And I, general?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well, what do you want?” asked Biassou.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Are you going to do nothing for me, general?”
asked the negro. “Here you give an important post
to this dog of a white, who murders to save his own
skin, and to prove that he is one of ourselves. Have
you no post to give to me, who am a true black?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This unexpected request seemed to embarrass
Biassou, and Rigaud whispered to him in French—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You can’t satisfy him; try to elude his request.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You wish for promotion, then?” asked Biassou
of the <span class='it'>true black</span>. “Well, I am willing enough to
grant it to you. What grade do you wish for?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I wish to be an officer.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“An officer, eh?—and what are your claims to the
epaulet founded on?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It was I,” answered the negro, emphatically,
“who set fire to the house of Lagoscelte in the first
days of August last. It was I who murdered M.
<span class='pageno' title='222' id='Page_222'></span>
Clement the planter, and carried the head of his
sugar refiner on my pike. I killed ten white women
and seven small children, one of whom on the point
of a spear served as a standard for Bouckmann’s
brave blacks. Later on I burnt alive the families of
four colonists, whom I had locked up in the strong
room of Fort Galifet. My father was broken on the
wheel at Cap, my brother was hung at Rocrow, and
I narrowly escaped being shot. I have burnt three
coffee plantations, six indigo estates, and two hundred
acres of sugar-cane; I murdered my master, M. Noé,
and his mother——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Spare us the recital of your services,” said
Rigaud, whose feigned benevolence was the mask
for real cruelty, but who was ferocious with decency,
and could not listen to this cynical confession of
deeds of violence.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I could quote many others,” continued the negro,
proudly, “but you will no doubt consider that these
are sufficient to insure my promotion, and to entitle
me to wear a gold epaulet like my comrades there,”
pointing to the staff of Biassou.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The general affected to reflect for a few minutes,
and then gravely addressed the negro.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I am satisfied with your services, and should be
pleased to promote you, but you must satisfy me on
one point. Do you understand Latin?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The astonished negro opened his eyes widely.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Eh, general?” said he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” repeated Biassou, quickly; “do you understand
Latin?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“La—Latin?” stammered the astonished negro.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='223' id='Page_223'></span>
“Yes, yes, yes, Latin; do you understand Latin?”
said the cunning chief, and unfolding a banner upon
which was embroidered the verse from the Psalms,
“<span class='it'>In exitu Israël de Egypto</span>,” he added, “Explain the
meaning of these words.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The negro, in complete ignorance of what was
meant, remained silent and motionless, fumbling
with the waistband of his trousers, whilst his astonished
eyes wandered from the banner to the general,
and from the general back again to the banner.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Come, go on,” exclaimed Biassou, impatiently.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The negro opened and shut his mouth several
times, scratched his head, and at last said slowly—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I don’t understand it, general.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“How, scoundrel!” cried Biassou; “you wish
to become an officer, and you do not understand
Latin!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But, general,” stammered the puzzled negro.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Silence,” roared Biassou, whose anger appeared
to increase; “I do not know what prevents me from
having you shot at once. Did you ever hear such a
thing, Rigaud? he wants to be an officer, and does
not understand Latin. Well then, idiot, as you do
not understand, I will explain what is written on this
banner: <span class='it'>In exitu</span>—every soldier, <span class='it'>Israël</span>—who does not
understand Latin, <span class='it'>de Egypto</span>—cannot be made an
officer. Is not that the translation, reverend sir?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Obi bowed his head in the affirmative, and
Biassou continued—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“This brother of whom you are jealous, and whom
I have appointed executioner, understands Latin!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He turned to the new executioner—</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='224' id='Page_224'></span>
“You know Latin, do you not? prove it to this
blockhead. What is the meaning of <span class='it'>Dominus vobiscum</span>?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The unhappy half-caste, roused from his gloomy
reverie by the dreaded voice, raised his head, and
though his brain was still troubled by the cowardly
murder that he had just committed, terror compelled
him to be obedient.</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was something pitiable in his manner, as
his mind went back to his schooldays, and in the
midst of his terrible feelings and remorse he repeated,
in the tone of a child saying its lesson, “<span class='it'>Dominus
vobiscum</span>—that means, ‘May the Lord be with you.’ ”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Et cum spirito tuo</span>,” added the mysterious Obi,
solemnly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Amen,” repeated Biassou; then resuming his
angry manner, and mingling with his reproaches
some Latin phrases to impress the negroes with the
superior attainments of their chief, he cried, “Go to
the rear rank, <span class='it'>sursum corda</span>; never attempt to enter
the places of those who know Latin, <span class='it'>orate fratres</span>, or
I will have you hung. <span class='it'>Bonus, bona, bonum!</span>”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The astonished and terrified negro slunk away,
greeted by the hoots and hisses of his comrades,
who were indignant at his presumption, and impressed
with the deep learning of their general.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Burlesque though this scene was, it inspired me
with a very high idea of Biassou’s administrative
capabilities. He had made ridicule the means of
repressing ambitious aspirations, which are always
so dangerous to authority in undisciplined bodies;
and his cunning gave me a fuller idea of his mental
<span class='pageno' title='225' id='Page_225'></span>
powers, and the crass ignorance of the negroes under
his command.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> breakfast hour had now arrived; the shell of a
turtle was placed before Biassou, in which smoked a
species of <span class='it'>olla-podrida</span> seasoned with bacon, in which
turtle flesh took the place of lamb; an enormous
carib cabbage floated on the surface of the stew, and
in addition, on strips of bark, were dried raisins and
water-melons, a loaf of maize bread; and a bottle of
wine, bound round with tarred string, completed the
feast. Biassou took from his pocket a few heads of
garlic and rubbed his bread with them; then, without
even ordering the bleeding form to be carried away,
he began to eat, inviting Rigaud to do the same.</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was something terrible in Biassou’s appetite.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Obi did not join their repast; like others in
his profession, I could easily understand that he
never took anything in public, to induce a belief
amongst the negroes that he lived entirely without
food.</p>

<p class='pindent'>During breakfast, Biassou ordered one of his aides-de-camp
to order the march past to commence, and
the different corps began to defile past in fairly good
order. The negroes of Morne-Rouge were the first;
there were about four thousand of them, divided into
companies commanded by chiefs, who were distinguished
by their scarlet breeches and sashes.
This force was composed of tall and powerful negroes;
<span class='pageno' title='226' id='Page_226'></span>
some of them carried guns, axes, and sabres, but
many had no other arms than bows and arrows, and
javelins rudely fashioned by themselves. They
carried no standard, and moved past in mournful
silence. As they marched on, Biassou whispered
to Rigaud—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“When will Blanchelande’s and Rouvray’s shot
and shell free me from these bandits of Morne-Rouge?
I hate them, they are nearly all of them
<span class='it'>Congos</span>, and they only believe in killing in open battle—following
the example of their chief Bug-Jargal, a
young fool, who plays at being generous and magnanimous.
You do not know him, Rigaud, and I
hope you never will, for the whites have taken him
prisoner, and they may perhaps rid me of him, as
they did of Bouckmann.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Speaking of Bouckmann,” answered Rigaud,
“there are the negroes of Macaya just passing, and
I see in their ranks the negro whom Jean François
sent to you with the news of Bouckmann’s death.
Do you know that that man might upset all the
prophecies of the Obi, if he were to say that he had
been kept for more than half an hour at the outposts,
and that he had told me the news before you sent
for him?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Diabolo!” answered Biassou, “you are in the
right, my friend; this man’s mouth must be shut.
Wait a bit.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then raising his voice he called out “Macaya.”
The leader of the division left the ranks, and approached
the general with the stock of his firelock
reversed, in token of respect.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='227' id='Page_227'></span>
“Make that man who does not belong to your
division leave his rank and come forward.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Macaya speedily brought the messenger of Jean
François before the general, who at once assumed
that appearance of anger which he knew so well how
to simulate.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Who are you?” cried he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“General, I am a black.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Carramba, I can see that well enough; but
what is your name?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My name is Vavelan, my patron saint is Sabas,
deacon and martyr, whose feast is on the twentieth
day before the Nativity of our Lord.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou interrupted him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“How dare you present yourself on parade, amidst
shining muskets and white cross-belts, with your
sword without a sheath, your breeches torn, and
your feet muddy?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“General,” answered the negro, “it is not my
fault. I was despatched by the Grand Admiral,
Jean François, to bring you the news of the death of
the chief of the English negroes; and if my clothes
are torn and my feet bemired, it is because I have
run, without stopping to take breath, to bring you the
news as soon as possible, but they detained me at——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou frowned.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I did not ask you about that, but how you
dared to enter the ranks in so unbecoming a dress.
Commend your soul to Saint Sabas, your patron,
the deacon and martyr, and go and get yourself
shot.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>And here I had another proof of the ascendency
<span class='pageno' title='228' id='Page_228'></span>
that Biassou exercised over the insurgents. The
unfortunate man who was ordered to go and get
himself executed did not utter a protest; he bowed
his head, crossed his arms on his breast, saluted his
pitiless judge three times, and after having knelt to
the Obi, who gave him plenary absolution, he left
the cavern.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A few minutes afterwards a volley of musketry told
us that Biassou’s commands had been obeyed, and
that the negro was no more.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Freed from all sources of uneasiness, the general
turned to Rigaud, a gleam of pleasure in his eye, and
gave a triumphant chuckle which seemed to say—“Admire
me!”</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>But</span> the march past still continued. This army,
which had presented so curious a spectacle in camp,
had a no less extraordinary appearance under arms.
Sometimes a horde of almost naked negroes would
come along armed with clubs and tomahawks,
marching to the notes of a goat’s horn like mere
savages; then would come regiments of mulattoes,
dressed in the English or Spanish manner, well
armed and equipped, regulating the pace by the roll
of the drum; then a band of negresses and their
children carrying forks and spits, then some tag-rag
bent under the weight of an old musket without lock
or barrel; <span class='it'>griotes</span> with their feathered aprons, <span class='it'>griots</span>
dancing with hideous contortions, and singing incoherent
<span class='pageno' title='229' id='Page_229'></span>
airs to the accompaniment of guitars, tom-toms,
and balafos. Then would be a procession of
priests, or Obi men, half-castes, quarter-castes, free
mulattoes, or wandering hordes of escaped slaves with
a proud look of liberty on their faces and shining
muskets on their shoulders, dragging in their ranks
well-filled waggons, or some artillery taken from the
whites, which were looked on more as trophies than
as military engines, and yelling out at the top of
their voices the songs of Grand-Pré and Oua-Nassé.
Above their heads floated flags, banners, and
standards of every form, colour, and device—white,
red, tricolour, with the lilies, with the cap of liberty,
bearing inscriptions—<span class='it'>Death to Priests and Nobles</span>;
<span class='it'>Long live Religion</span>; <span class='it'>Liberty and Equality</span>; <span class='it'>Long live
the King</span>; <span class='it'>Viva España</span>; <span class='it'>No more Tyrants</span>, &amp;c.;—a
confusion of sentiments which showed that the insurgents
were a mere crowd collected together, with
ideas as different as were the men who composed it.
On passing in their turn before the cave the companies
drooped their banners, and Biassou returned
the salute. He addressed every band either in praise
or censure, and each word that dropped from his
mouth was received by his men with fanatical respect
or superstitious dread.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The wave of savage soldiery passed away at last.
I confess that the sight that had at first afforded
some distraction to my feelings, finished by wearying
me. The sun went down as the last ranks filed
away, and his last rays cast a copper-coloured hue
upon the granite portals of the cave.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='230' id='Page_230'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Biassou</span> seemed to be dreaming. When the review
was concluded, his last orders had been given, and
the insurgents had retired to the huts, he condescended
to address me again.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Young man,” said he, “you have now had the
means of judging of my power and genius; the
time has now arrived for you to bear the report to
Leogri.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is not my fault that he has not had it earlier,”
answered I, coldly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You are right,” replied Biassou. He then
paused, as if to note what the effect would be upon
me of what he was going to say, and then added,
“But it will depend upon yourself whether you ever
carry the message or not.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What do you mean?” exclaimed I, in astonishment.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Why,” replied he, “that your life depends upon
yourself, and that you can save it if you will.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This sudden paroxysm of pity—the first, and no
doubt the last, which had ever possessed Biassou—surprised
me much, and astonished the Obi so greatly
that he leapt from the position which he had so long
maintained, and, placing himself face to face with
the general, addressed him in angry tones.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What are you saying? Have you forgotten your
promise? Neither God nor you can dispose of this
life, for it belongs to me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>At that instant I thought that I recognized the
<span class='pageno' title='231' id='Page_231'></span>
voice; but it was but a fleeting recollection, and in a
moment had passed away.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou got up from his seat without betraying
any anger, spoke for a few moments in whispers to
the Obi, and pointed to the black flag which I had
already remarked, and after a little more conversation
the Obi nodded in sign of assent. Both of them
then reverted to their former positions.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen to me,” said the general, drawing from
his pocket the dispatch which Jean François had
sent to him. “Things are going ill. Bouckmann has
been killed. The whites have slaughtered more than
two thousand of our men in the district of Cul-de-Sac.
The colonists are continuing to establish and to
fortify military posts. By our own folly we have lost
the chance of taking Cap, and it will be long before
another occasion will present itself. On the eastern
side our line of march has been cut by a river, and
the whites have defended the passage by a pontoon
battery and a fortified camp. On the south side
they have planted artillery on the mountainous road
called the Haut-du-Cap. The position is, in addition,
defended by a strong stockade, at which all the inhabitants
have laboured, and in front of it there is a
strong <span class='it'>chevaux de frise</span>. Cap, therefore, is beyond
our reach. Our ambush in the ravines of Dompté-Mulâtre
was a failure; and, to add to all these misfortunes,
the Siamese fever has devastated our camps.
In consequence, the Grand Admiral (and I agree
with him) has decided to treat with the Governor
Blanchelande and the Colonial Assembly. Here is
the letter that we have addressed to the assembly on
this matter. Listen!</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='232' id='Page_232'></span></p>

<div class='blockquote'>

<p class='pindent'>“ ‘<span class='sc'>Gentlemen of the House of Deputies</span>,—</p>

<p class='indent4'>“ ‘In the great misfortunes which have afflicted
this great and important colony we have also been
enveloped, and there remains nothing for us to say
in justification of our conduct. One day you will
render us the justice that our conduct merits.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“ ‘According to us, the King of Spain is a good
king who treats us well, and has <span class='it'>testified it to us by
rewards</span>; so we shall continue to serve him with zeal
and devotion.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“ ‘We see by the law of September 28, 1791,
that the National Assembly and the King have
agreed to settle definitely the status of slaves, and
the political situation of people of colour. We will
defend the decrees of the National Assembly with
the last drop of our blood.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“ ‘It would be most interesting to us if you would
declare, by an order sanctioned by your general, as to
your intentions regarding the position of the slaves.
Knowing that they are the objects of your solicitude
through their chiefs, who send you this, they will be
satisfied if the relations now broken are once again
resumed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Do not count, gentlemen Deputies, upon our
consenting to take up arms for the revolutionary
Assemblies. We are the subjects of three kings—the
King of Congo, the born master of all the blacks;
the King of France, who represents our fathers; and
the King of Spain, who is the representative of our
mothers. These three kings are the descendants of
those who, conducted by a star, worshipped the Man
God. If we were to consent to serve the Assemblies,
<span class='pageno' title='233' id='Page_233'></span>
we might be forced to take up arms and to make war
against our brothers, the subjects of those three
kings to whom we have sworn fidelity. And, besides,
we do not know what is meant by the will of the
Nation, seeing that since the world has been in existence
we have always executed that of the King. The
Prince of France loves us; the King of Spain never
ceases to help us. We aid them—they aid us; it is
the cause of humanity; and, besides, if these kings
should fail us we could soon <span class='it'>enthrone a king of our
own</span>.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Such are our intentions, although we now consent
to make peace.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“ ‘<span class='it'>Signed</span>, <span class='sc'>Jean François</span>, General; <span class='sc'>Biassou</span>,
Brigadier; <span class='sc'>Desprez</span>, <span class='sc'>Manzeau</span>, <span class='sc'>Toussaint</span>, <span class='sc'>Aubert</span>,
Commissaires; <span class='it'>ad hoc</span>.’ ”<a id='r3'/><a href='#f3' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[3]</span></sup></a></p>

</div>

<p class='pindent'>“You see,” said Biassou, after he had read this
piece of negro diplomacy, every word of which has
remained imprinted on my memory, “that our intentions
are peaceable; but this is what we want
you to do: neither Jean François nor I have been
brought up in the schools of the whites, or learned
the niceties of their language. We know how to
fight, but not how to write. Now we do not wish
that there should be anything in our letter at which
our former masters could laugh. You seem to have
learned those frivolous accomplishments in which
we are lacking. Correct any faults you may find in
<span class='pageno' title='234' id='Page_234'></span>
this dispatch, so that it may excite no derision
amongst the whites, and—I will give you your life!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This proposition of becoming the corrector of
Biassou’s faults of spelling and composition was
too repugnant to my pride for me to hesitate for a
moment; and besides, what did I care for life. I
declined his offer. He appeared surprised.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What!” exclaimed he, “you prefer death to
scrawling a few marks with a pen on a piece of
paper?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” replied I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My determination seemed to embarrass him. After
a few moments of thought he again addressed me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen, young fool. I am less obstinate than you
are; I give you until to-morrow evening, up to the
setting of the sun, when you shall again be brought
before me. Think well then, before you refuse to
obey my wishes. Adieu. Let night bring reflection
to you, and remember that with us death is not
simply death—much comes before you reach it.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The frightful sardonic grin with which he concluded
his last speech too plainly brought to my recollection
the awful tortures which it was Biassou’s greatest
pleasure to inflict upon his prisoners.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Candi,” continued Biassou, “remove the prisoner,
and give him in charge to the men of Morne-Rouge.
I wish him to live for another day, and perhaps my
other soldiers would not have the patience to let him
do so.” The mulatto Candi, who commanded the
guard, caused my arms to be bound behind my back,
a soldier took hold of the end of the cord, and we left
the grotto.</p>

<hr class='footnotemark'/>

<div class='footnote'>
<table summary='footnote_3'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' style='width: 3em;'/>
<col span='1'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'>
<div id='f3'><a href='#r3'>[3]</a></div>
</td><td>

<p class='pindent'>It is a fact that this ridiculously characteristic letter was
sent to the Assembly.</p>

</td></tr>
</table>
</div>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='235' id='Page_235'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>When</span> any extraordinary events, unexpected anxieties
or catastrophes, intrude themselves suddenly into a
life up to that period peaceful and happy, these
unexpected emotions interrupt the repose of the soul
which lay dreaming in the monotony of prosperity.
Misfortune which comes on you in this manner does
not seem like an awakening from bliss, but rather
like a dream of evil. With the man who has been
invariably happy, despair begins with stupor. Unexpected
misery is like cramp—it clasps, and deadens
everything. Men, acts, and things, at that time pass
before us like a fantastic apparition, and move along
as if in a dream. Everything in the horizon of our
life is changed, both the atmosphere and the perspective,
but it still goes on for a long time before
our eyes have lost that sort of luminous image of past
happiness which follows in its train, and interposes
without cessation between it and the sombre present.
Then everything that is, appears to be unreal and
ridiculous, and we can scarcely believe in our own
existence, because we find nothing around us that
formerly used to compose our life, and we cannot
understand how all can have gone away without
taking us with it, and why nothing of our life remains
to us.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Were this strained position of the soul to continue
long, it would disturb the equilibrium of the brain and
become madness—a state happier perhaps than that
which remains, for life then is nothing but a vision of
past misfortune, acting like a ghost.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='236' id='Page_236'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Gentlemen</span>, I hardly know why I lay before you my
ideas upon such a subject; they are not those which
you understand, or can be made to understand. To
thoroughly comprehend them, you must have gone
through what I have. But such was the state of my
mind when the guards of Biassou handed me over to
the negroes of Morne-Rouge. I was still in a dream:
it appeared as if one body of phantoms passed me
over to another, and without opposing any resistance
I permitted them to bind me by the middle to a tree.
They then gave me some boiled potatoes, which I ate
with the mechanical instinct that God grants to man
even in the midst of overwhelming thought.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The darkness had now come on, and my guards
took refuge in their huts, with the exception of half
a dozen who remained with me, lying before a large
fire that they had lighted to preserve themselves from
the cold night-air. In a few moments they were all
buried in profound sleep.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The state of physical weakness into which I had
fallen caused my thoughts to wander in a strange
manner. I thought of those calm and peaceful days
which, but a few weeks ago, I had passed with Marie,
without being able to foresee any future but one of
continued happiness. I compared them with the day
that had just expired, a day in which so many strange
events had occurred as almost to make me wonder
whether I was not labouring under some delusion.
I had been three times condemned to death, and still
<span class='pageno' title='237' id='Page_237'></span>
remained under sentence. I thought of my future,
bounded only by the morrow, and which offered
nothing but misfortune, and a death happily near at
hand. I seemed to be the victim of some terrible
nightmare. Again and again I asked myself if all
that had happened was real: was I really in the
power of the sanguinary Biassou, and was my Marie
lost to me for ever? Could this prisoner, guarded by
six savages, bound to a tree, and condemned to
certain death, really be me? In spite of all my
efforts to repel them, the thoughts of Marie would
force themselves upon me. In anguish I thought of
her fate, I strained my bonds in my efforts to break
them, and to fly to her succour, ever hoping that the
terrible dream would pass away; and that Heaven
would not permit all the horrors that I dreaded to
fall upon the head of her, who had been united to me
in a sacred bond. In my sad preoccupation the
thought of Pierrot returned to me, and rage nearly
took away my senses; the pulses of my temples
throbbed nearly to bursting. I hated him, I cursed
him; I despised myself for having ever had friendship
for Pierrot at the same time I had felt love for Marie;
and without caring to seek for the motive which had
urged him to cast himself into the waters of Grande-Riviere,
I wept because he had escaped me. He was
dead, and I was about to die, and all that I regretted
was that I had been unable to wreak my vengeance
upon him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>During the state of semi-somnolency into which
my weakness had plunged me, these thoughts passed
through my brain. I do not know how long it lasted,
<span class='pageno' title='238' id='Page_238'></span>
but I was aroused by a man’s voice singing distinctly,
but at some distance, the old Spanish song, “<span class='it'>Yo que
soy contrabandista</span>.” Quivering with emotion I opened
my eyes; all was dark around me, the negroes slept,
the fire was dying down. I could hear nothing more.
I fancied that the voice must have been a dream, and
my sleep-laden eyelids closed again. In a second I
opened them; again I heard the voice singing sadly
but much nearer, the same song—</p>

<div class='blockquoter9'>

<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'>’Twas on the field of Ocanen</p>
<p class='line'>&ensp;&ensp;That I fell in their power,</p>
<p class='line'>To Cotadilla taken,</p>
<p class='line'>&ensp;&ensp;Unhappy from that hour.</p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->

</div>

<p class='pindent'>This time it was not a charm—it <span class='it'>was</span> Pierrot’s
voice. A few moments elapsed, then it rose again
through the silence and the gloom, and once more I
heard the well-known air of “<span class='it'>Yo soy que contrabandista</span>.”
A dog ran eagerly to greet me, and rolled at my feet
in token of welcome; it was Rask! A tall negro
stood facing me, and the glimmer of the fire threw
his shadow, swelled to colossal proportions, upon the
sward; it was Pierrot!</p>

<p class='pindent'>The thirst for vengeance fired my brain; surprise
rendered me motionless and dumb. I was not asleep.
Could the dead return? If not a dream, it must be
an apparition. I turned from him with horror.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When he saw me do this, his head sank upon his
breast.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brother,” murmured he, “you promised that you
would never doubt me when you heard me sing that
<span class='pageno' title='239' id='Page_239'></span>
song. My brother, have you forgotten your promise?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Rage restored the power of speech to me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Monster,” exclaimed I, “do I see you at last!
Butcher, murderer of my uncle, ravisher of Marie,
dare you call me your brother? Do not venture to
approach me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I forgot that I was too securely tied to make the
slightest movement, and glanced to my left side as
though to seek my sword.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My intention did not escape him, and he continued
in a sorrowful tone of voice—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No, I will not come near you—you are unhappy
and I pity you; whilst you have no pity for me, though
I am much more wretched than you are.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I shrugged my shoulders; he understood my feelings,
and in a half dreamy manner continued—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, you have lost much; but, believe me, I have
lost more than you have.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>But the sound of our conversation had aroused
the negro guard. Perceiving a stranger they leapt to
their feet, and seized their weapons; but as soon as
they recognized the intruder they uttered a cry of
surprise and joy, and cast themselves at his feet,
striking the ground with their foreheads.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But the homage that the negroes rendered to
Pierrot, and the fondlings of Rask, made no impression
upon me at the moment. I was boiling over
with passion, and maddened at the bonds that
restrained me, and at length my fury found words.
“Oh, how unhappy I am!” I exclaimed, shedding
tears of rage. “I was grieving because I thought
that this wretch had committed suicide, and robbed
<span class='pageno' title='240' id='Page_240'></span>
me of my just revenge; and now he is here to mock
me, living and breathing under my very eyes, and
I am powerless to stab him to the heart. Is there
no one to free me from these accursed cords?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Pierrot turned to the negroes, who where still
prostrate before him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Comrades,” said he, “release the prisoner.”</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>He</span> was promptly obeyed. With the greatest
eagerness my guards cut asunder the ropes that
confined me. I rose up free, but I remained motionless,
for surprise rooted me to the spot.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“That is not all,” said Pierrot, and snatching a
dagger from one of the negroes, he handed it to me.
“You can now have your wish; Heaven would not
be pleased should I dispute your right to dispose of
my life. Three times you have preserved it. Strike,
it is yours, I say, and if you wish, strike!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was no sign of anger or of bitterness in his
face; he appeared resigned and mournful.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The very vengeance offered to me by the man with
whom I had so much longed to stand face to face,
prevented my seizing the opportunity. I felt that
all my hatred for Pierrot, all my love for Marie,
could not induce me to commit a cowardly murder;
besides, however damning appearances might be,
yet a voice from the depths of my heart warned me
that no criminal, no guilty man, would thus dare to
stand before me and brave my vengeance. Shall
<span class='pageno' title='241' id='Page_241'></span>
I confess it to you, there was a certain imperious
fascination about this extraordinary being which
conquered me in spite of myself; I pushed aside the
dagger he offered to me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Wretch,” cried I, “I wish to kill you in fair
fight, but I am no assassin. Defend yourself.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Defend myself,” replied he, in tones of astonishment,
“and against whom?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Against me!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He started back. “Against you! that is the only
thing in which I cannot obey you. Look at Rask
there—I could easily kill him, for he would let me
do it; but as for making him fight me, the thing
would be impossible, he would not understand me
if I told him to do so. I do not understand you; in
your case I am Rask.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>After a short silence, he added, “I see the gleam
of hate in your eyes, as you once saw it in mine. I
know that you have suffered much, that your uncle
has been murdered, your plantations burned, your
friends slaughtered—yes, they have plundered your
house, and devastated your inheritance; but it was
not I that did these things, it was my people.
Listen to me. I one day told you that your people had
done me much injury, you said that you must not be
blamed for the acts of others. What was my reply?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>His face grew brighter as he awaited my reply,
evidently expecting that I should embrace him; but
fixing an angry gaze upon him, I answered—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You disdain all responsibility as to the acts of
your people, but you say nothing about what you
have yourself done.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='242' id='Page_242'></span>
“What have I done?” asked he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I stepped up close to him, and in a voice of
thunder I demanded, “Where is Marie? what
have you done with Marie?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this question a cloud passed over his face; he
seemed momentarily embarrassed. At last he spoke.
“Maria!” said he, “yes; you are right—but too
many ears listen to us here.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>His embarrassment, the words “You are right,”
raised the hell of jealousy in my heart, yet still he
gazed upon me with a perfectly open countenance,
and in a voice trembling with emotion said, “Do
not suspect me, I implore you. Besides, I will tell
you everything; love me, as I love you, with perfect
trust.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He paused to mark the effect of his words, and
then added tenderly, “May I not again call you
brother?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>But I was a prey to my jealous feelings, and his
friendly words seemed to me but the deep machinations
of a hypocrite, and only served to exasperate
me more. “Dare you recall the time when you
did so, you monster of ingratitude?” I exclaimed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He interrupted me, a tear shining in his eye:
“It is not I who am ungrateful.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well then,” I continued, “tell me what you have
done with Marie?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Not here, not here,” answered he, “other ears
than ours listen to our words; besides, you would not
believe me, and time presses. The day has come,
and you must be removed from this. All is at an
end. Since you doubt me, far better would it have
<span class='pageno' title='243' id='Page_243'></span>
been for you to take the dagger and finish all; but
wait a little before you take what you call your
vengeance—I must first free you. Come with me to
Biassou.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>His manner, both in speaking and acting, concealed
a mystery which I could not understand. In
spite of all my prejudices against the man, his voice
always made my heart vibrate. In listening to him
a certain hidden power that he possessed subjugated
me. I found myself hesitating between vengeance
and pity, between the bitterest distrust and the
blindest confidence. I followed him.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>We</span> left the camp of the negroes of Morne-Rouge.
I could not help thinking it strange to find myself
at perfect liberty amongst a horde of savages, in a
spot where the evening before each man had seemed
only too ready to shed my blood. Far from seeking
to bar our progress, both the negroes and the
mulattoes prostrated themselves on all sides, with
exclamations of surprise, joy, and respect. I was
ignorant what rank Pierrot held in the army of the
insurgents, but I remembered the influence that he
used to exercise over his companions in slavery, and
this appeared to me to account for the respect with
which he was now treated.</p>

<p class='pindent'>On our arrival at the guard before the grotto, the
mulatto Candi advanced before us with threatening
gestures, demanding how we dared approach so
<span class='pageno' title='244' id='Page_244'></span>
near the general’s quarters; but when he came near
enough to recognize my conductor, he hurriedly
removed his gold-laced cap, as though terrified at his
own audacity, bowed to the ground, and at once
introduced us into Biassou’s presence, with a thousand
apologies of which Pierrot took no heed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The respect with which the simple negro soldiers
had treated Pierrot excited my surprise very little,
but seeing Candi, one of the principal officers of the
army, humiliate himself thus before my uncle’s slave,
made me ask myself who this man could be whose
power was illimitable. How much more astonished
was I, then, upon being introduced into the presence
of Biassou, who was alone when we entered, and was
quietly enjoying his <span class='it'>calalou</span>. He started to his feet,
concealing disappointment and surprise under the
appearance of profound respect, bowed humbly to my
companion, and offered him his mahogany throne.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Pierrot declined it. “No, Jean Biassou,” said he,
“I have not come to take your place, but simply to
ask a favour at your hands.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your Highness,” answered Biassou, redoubling
his obeisances, “you know well that all Jean Biassou
has is yours, and that you can dispose as freely of
all as you can of Jean Biassou himself.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I do not ask for so much,” replied Pierrot,
quickly; “all I ask is the life and liberty of this
prisoner,” and he pointed to me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>For a moment Biassou appeared embarrassed,
but he speedily recovered himself.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your servant is in despair, your Highness, for
you ask of him, to his great regret, more than he can
<span class='pageno' title='245' id='Page_245'></span>
grant; he is not Jean Biassou’s prisoner, does not
belong to Jean Biassou, and has nothing to do with
Jean Biassou.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What do you mean?” asked Pierrot, in severe
tones, “by saying that he does not belong to you?
Does any one else hold authority here except you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Alas, yes, your Highness.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Who is it?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My army.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The sly and obsequious manner in which Biassou
eluded the frank and haughty questions of Pierrot,
showed, had it depended solely upon himself, he
would gladly have treated his visitor with far less
respect than he felt himself now compelled to do.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What!” exclaimed Pierrot, “your army; and do
not you command it?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou, with every appearance of sincerity,
replied—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Does your Highness really think that we can
command men who are in insurrection because they
will not obey?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I cared too little for my life to break the silence
that I had imposed upon myself, else, having seen
the day before the despotic authority that Biassou
exercised over his men, I could have contradicted
his assertions, and laid bare his duplicity to Pierrot.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well, if you have no authority over your men,
and if they are your masters, what reason can they
have for hating your prisoner?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Bouckmann has been killed by the white troops,”
answered Biassou, endeavouring to conceal his
sardonic smile under a mask of sorrow, “and my
<span class='pageno' title='246' id='Page_246'></span>
men are determined to avenge upon this white the
death of the chief of the Jamaica negroes. They
wish to show trophy against trophy, and desire that
the head of this young officer should serve as a
counterpoise to the head of Bouckmann in the scales
in which the good <span class='it'>Giu</span> weighs both parties.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do you still continue to carry on this horrible
system of reprisals. Listen to me, Jean Biassou: it
is these cruelties that are the ruin of our just cause.
Prisoner as I was in the camp of the whites (from
which I have managed to escape), I had not heard of
the death of Bouckmann until you told me. It is
the just punishment of heaven for his crimes. I will
tell you another piece of news: Jeannot, the negro
chief who served as a guide to draw the white troops
into the ambush of Dompté-Mulâtre, Jeannot also is
dead. You know—do not interrupt me, Biassou—that
he rivalled you and Bouckmann in his atrocities; and
pay attention to this, it was not the thunderbolt of
heaven, nor the bullets of the whites, that struck
him—it was Jean François himself who ordered this
act of justice to be performed.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou, who had listened with an air of gloomy
respect, uttered an exclamation of surprise. At this
moment Rigaud entered, bowed respectfully to
Pierrot, and whispered in Biassou’s ear.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The murmur of many voices was heard in the
camp.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” continued Pierrot, “Jean François, who
has no fault except a preposterous love of luxury and
show, whose carriage with its six horses takes him
every day to hear mass at the Grande-Riviere, Jean
<span class='pageno' title='247' id='Page_247'></span>
François himself has put a stop to the crimes of
Jeannot. In spite of the cowardly entreaties of the
brigand, who clung in despair to the knees of the
Priest of Marmalade, who attended him in his last
moments, he was shot beneath the very tree upon
which he used to hang his living victims upon iron
hooks. Think upon this, Biassou. Why these
massacres which provoke the whites to reprisals?
Why all these juggleries which only tend to excite
the passions of our unhappy comrades, already too
much exasperated? There is at Trou-Coffi a
mulatto impostor, called Romaine the Prophet, who
is in command of a fanatical band of negroes; he
profanes the holy sacrament of the mass, he pretends
that he is in direct communication with the Virgin,
and he urges on his men to murder and pillage in
the name of Marie.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was a more tender inflection in the voice of
Pierrot as he uttered this name than even religious
respect would have warranted, and I felt annoyed
and irritated at it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“And you,” continued he, “you have in your camp
some Obi, I hear—some impostor like this Romaine
the Prophet. I well know that having to lead an
army composed of so many heterogeneous materials,
a common bond is necessary; but can it be found
nowhere save in ferocious fanaticism and ridiculous
superstition? Believe me, Biassou, the white men
are not so cruel as we are. I have seen many planters
protect the lives of their slaves. I am not ignorant
that in some cases it was not the life of a man, but a
sum of money that they desired to save, but at any
<span class='pageno' title='248' id='Page_248'></span>
rate their interest gave them the appearance of a
virtue. Do not let us be less merciful than they are,
for it is our interest to be so. Will our cause be
more holy and more just because we exterminate the
women, slaughter the children, and burn the colonists
in their own houses? These, however, are every-day
occurrences. Answer me, Biassou: must the
traces of our progress be always marked by a line of
blood and fire?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He ceased; the fire of his glance, the accent of his
voice, gave to his words a force of conviction and
authority which it is impossible for me to imitate.
Like a fox in the clutches of a lion, Biassou seemed
to seek for some means of escape from the power
that constrained him. Whilst he vainly sought for
a pretext, the chief of the negroes of Cayer, Rigaud,
who the evening before had calmly watched the
horrors that had been perpetrated in his presence,
seemed to be shocked at the picture that Pierrot
had drawn, and exclaimed with a hypocritical affectation
of grief—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Great heavens! how terrible is a nation when
roused to fury.”</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XL.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> confusion in the camp appeared to increase, to
the great uneasiness of Biassou. I heard afterwards
that it was caused by the negroes of Morne-Rouge,
who hurried from one end of the camp to the other,
announcing the return of my liberator, and declaring
<span class='pageno' title='249' id='Page_249'></span>
their intention of supporting him in whatever object
he had come to Biassou’s camp for. Rigaud had
informed the generalissimo of this, and it was the
fear of a fatal division in the camp that prompted
Biassou to make some sort of concession to the
wishes of Pierrot.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your Highness,” remarked he, with an air of
injured innocence, “if we are hard on the whites,
you are equally severe upon us. You are wrong in
accusing us of being the cause of the torrent, for it
is the torrent that drags us away with it; but <span class='it'>que
podria hacer a hora</span> (“but what can I do at present”)
that will please you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I have already told you, Señor Biassou,” answered
Pierrot; “let me take this prisoner away with me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou remained for a few moments silent, as
though in deep thought; then putting on an expression
of as great frankness as he was able, he
answered—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your Highness, I wish to prove to you that I
have every wish to please you. Permit me to have
two words in private with the prisoner, and he shall
be free to follow you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“If that is all you ask, I agree,” replied Pierrot.</p>

<p class='pindent'>His eyes, which up to that moment had wandered
about in a distrustful manner, glistened with delight,
and he moved away a few paces to leave us to our
conversation.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou drew me on one side into a retired part of
the cavern, and said in a low voice—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I can only spare your life upon the condition that
I proposed; are you ready to fulfil it?”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='250' id='Page_250'></span>
He showed me the dispatch of Jean François; to
consent appeared to me too humiliating.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Never,” answered I, firmly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Aha,” repeated he, with his sardonic chuckle,
“are you always as firm? You have great confidence,
then, in your protector. Do you know who he is?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I do,” answered I, quickly, “he is a monster, as
you are, only he is a greater hypocrite.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He started back in astonishment, seeking to read
in my glance if I spoke seriously.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What!” exclaimed he, “do you not know him
then?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>With a disdainful look, I replied—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I only know him as my uncle’s slave, and his
name is Pierrot.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Again Biassou smiled bitterly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Aha, that indeed is strange; he asks for your life
and liberty, and you say that you only know him for
a monster like myself.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What matters that?” I answered; “if I do gain
a little liberty, it is not to save my own life, but to
take his.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What is that you are saying?” asked Biassou.
“And yet you seem to speak as you believe; I cannot
think that you would trifle with your life. There
is something beneath all this that I do not understand.
You are protected by a man that you hate;
he insists upon your life being spared, and you, are
longing to take his. But it matters little to me;
you desire a short spell of freedom—it is all that I
can give you. I will leave you free to follow him,
but swear to me by your honour, that you will return
<span class='pageno' title='251' id='Page_251'></span>
to me and reconstitute yourself my prisoner two
hours before the sun sets. You are a Frenchman,
and I will trust you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>What shall I say, gentlemen. Life was a burden to
me, and I hated the idea of owing it to Pierrot, for
every circumstance pointed him out as a just object
of my hatred. I do not think for a moment that
Biassou (who did not easily permit his prey to escape
him) would allow me to go free except upon his own
conditions. All I desired was a few hours’ liberty
which I could devote to discovering the fate of my
beloved before my death. Biassou, relying upon my
honour as a Frenchman, would grant me these, and
without hesitation I pledged it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your Highness,” said Biassou, in obsequious
tones, “the white prisoner is at your disposal; you
can take him with you, for he is free to accompany
you wherever you wish.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Thanks, Biassou,” cried Pierrot, extending his
hand. “You have rendered me a service which
places me entirely at your disposal. Remain in
command of our brethren of Morne-Rouge until my
return.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then he turned towards me—I never saw so much
happiness in his eyes before.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Since you are free,” cried he, “come with me.”
And with a strange earnestness he drew me away
with him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou looked after us with blank astonishment,
which was even perceptible through the respectful
leave that he took of my companion.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='252' id='Page_252'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I was</span> longing to be alone with Pierrot. His embarrassment
when I had questioned him as to the
fate of Marie, the ill-concealed tenderness with which
he had dared to pronounce her name, had made those
feelings of hatred and jealousy which had sprung
up in my heart take far deeper root than at the
time I saw him bearing away through the flames
of Fort Galifet, her whom I could scarcely call my
wife.</p>

<p class='pindent'>What did I care for the generous indignation with
which he had reproved the cruelties of Biassou, the
trouble which he had taken to preserve my life, and
the curious manner which marked all his words and
actions. What cared I for the mystery that appeared
to envelop him, which brought him living before my
eyes, when I thought to have witnessed his death.
He proved to be a prisoner of the white troops when
I believed that he lay buried in the depths of Grande-Riviere—the
slave become a king, the prisoner a
liberator. Of all these incomprehensible things
one was clear—Marie had been carried off by him;
and I had this crime to punish, this outrage to
avenge.</p>

<p class='pindent'>However strange were the events that had passed
under my eyes, they were not sufficient to shake my
determination, and I had waited with impatience for
the moment when I could compel my rival to explain
all. That moment had at last arrived.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We had passed through crowds of negroes, who
<span class='pageno' title='253' id='Page_253'></span>
cast themselves on the ground as we pursued our
way, exclaiming in tones of surprise, “<span class='it'>Miraculo! ya
no esta prisonero!</span>” (“A miracle! he is no longer a
prisoner!”), but whether they referred to Pierrot or to
myself I neither knew nor cared. We had gained
the outskirts of the camp, and rocks and trees concealed
from our view the outposts of Biassou; Rask
in high good humour was running in front of us, and
Pierrot was following him with rapid strides, when I
stopped him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen to me,” cried I; “it is useless to go any
farther—the ears that you dreaded can no longer
listen to us. What have you done with Marie? tell
me!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Concentrated emotion made my voice tremble. He
gazed upon me kindly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Always the same question!” said he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, always,” returned I, furiously; “always. I
will put that question to you as you draw your last
breath, or as I utter my last sigh. Where is Marie?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Can nothing, then, drive away your doubts of my
loyalty? But you shall know all soon.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Soon, monster!” repeated I, “soon; it is now,
at this instant, that I want to know all. Where is
Marie? where is Marie? Answer, or stake your life
against mine. Defend yourself.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I have already told you,” answered he, sadly,
“that that is impossible; the stream will not struggle
against its source, and my life, which you have three
times saved, cannot contend against yours. Besides,
even if I wished it the thing is impossible; we have
but one dagger between us.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='254' id='Page_254'></span>
As he spoke, he drew the weapon from his girdle
and offered it to me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Take it,” said he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was beside myself with passion, I seized the
dagger and placed the point on his breast, he never
attempted to move.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Wretch,” cried I, “do not force me to murder
you; I will plunge this blade into your heart if you
do not at once tell me where my wife is.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He replied, in his calm way, “You are the master
to do as you like, but with clasped hands I implore
you to grant me one hour of life, and to follow me.
Can you doubt him who thrice has owed his life to
you, and whom you once called <span class='it'>brother</span>? Listen: if
in one hour from this time you still doubt me, you
shall be at perfect liberty to kill me. That will be
time enough; you see that I do not attempt to resist
you. I conjure you in the name of Maria—of
your wife,” he added slowly, as though the victim of
some painful recollection, “give me but another
hour, I beg of you, not for my sake, but for yours.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was so much pathos in his entreaties that
an inner feeling warned me to grant his request, and
I yielded to that secret ascendency which he exercised
over me, but which at that time I should have
blushed to have confessed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well,” said I, slowly, “I will grant you one
hour, and I am ready to follow you;” and as I spoke
I handed him his dagger.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No,” answered he, “keep it; you still distrust
me, but let us lose no time.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='255' id='Page_255'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Again</span> we started. Rask, who, during our conversation,
had shown frequent signs of impatience to
renew his journey, bounded joyously before us. We
plunged into a virgin forest, and after half an hour’s
walking we came out on a grassy opening in the
wood. On one side was a waterfall dashing over
rugged rocks, whilst the primeval trees of the forest
surrounded it on all sides. Amongst the rocks was
a cave, the grey face of which was shrouded by a
mass of climbing plants. Rask ran towards it barking,
but at a sign from Pierrot he became silent, and
the latter taking me by the hand led me without a
word to the entrance of the cave.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A woman with her back towards the light was
seated on a mat: at the sound of our steps she turned——my
friends——it was Marie! She wore the
same white dress that she had done on the day of
our marriage, and the wreath of orange blossoms
was still on her head. She recognized me in a
moment, and with a cry of joy threw herself into my
arms. I was speechless with surprise and emotion.
At her cry an old woman carrying a child in her
arms hurried from an inner chamber formed in the
depth of the cave, she was Marie’s nurse, and she
carried my uncle’s youngest child.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Pierrot hastened to bring some water from the
neighbouring spring, and threw a few drops in
Marie’s face, who was overcome by emotion; she
speedily recovered, and opening her eyes, exclaimed—</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='256' id='Page_256'></span>
“Leopold, my Leopold!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Marie,” cried I, and my words were stifled in a
kiss.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Not before me, for pity’s sake,” cried a voice, in
accents of agony.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We looked round; it came from Pierrot. The
sight of our endearments appeared to inflict terrible
torture on him, his bosom heaved, a cold perspiration
bedewed his forehead, and every limb quivered.
Suddenly he hid his face in his hands, and fled from
the grotto repeating in tones of anguish—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Not before me! not before me!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Marie half raised herself in my arms, and following
his retreating form with her eyes, exclaimed—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Leopold, our happiness seems to trouble him;
can it be that he loves me?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The exclamation of the slave had showed that he
was my rival, but Marie’s speech proved that he was
my trusty friend.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Marie,” answered I, as the wildest happiness
mingled with the deepest regret filled my heart,
“Marie, were you ignorant of it?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Until this moment I was,” answered she, a blush
overspreading her beautiful features. “Does he
really love me, for he never let me know it.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I clasped her to my bosom, in all the madness of
happiness.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I have recovered both wife and friend; how happy
am I, but how guilty, for I doubted him!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What!” cried Marie, in surprise, “had you
doubts of Pierrot? oh, you have indeed been in fault.
Twice has he saved my life, and perhaps more than
<span class='pageno' title='257' id='Page_257'></span>
life,” she added, casting down her eyes; “without
him the alligator would have devoured me, without
him the negroes: it was Pierrot who rescued me
from their hands, when they were about to send me
to rejoin my unhappy father.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>She broke off her speech with a flood of tears.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“And why,” asked I, “did not Pierrot send you to
Cap, to your husband?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“He tried to do so,” replied she, “but it was
impossible, compelled as he was to conceal me both
from the whites and the blacks, his position was a
most difficult one; and then, too, he was ignorant
where you were. Some said that they had seen you
killed, but Pierrot assured me that this was not the
case, and a something convinced me that he spoke
the truth, for I felt that had you been dead, I should
have died at the same time.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Then, Pierrot brought you here?” asked I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, my Leopold, this solitary cave is known
only to him. At the same time that he rescued me,
he saved all that remained alive of our family, my
little brother and my old nurse, and hid us here.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The place is very nice, and now that the war
has destroyed our house, and ruined us, I should
like to live here with you. Pierrot supplied all our
wants. He used to come very often; he wore a plume
of red feathers on his head. He used to console me
by talking of you, and always assured me that we
should meet again, but for the past three days I have
not seen him, and I was beginning to be uneasy,
when to-day he came back with you. He had been
seeking for you, had he not?”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='258' id='Page_258'></span>
“Yes,” replied I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But if so, how can he be in love with me? Are
you sure of it?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Quite,” answered I, “it was he who was about
to stab me beneath your window, and spared me lest
it should afflict you; it was he who sang the love
songs at the pavilion by the river.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Then he is your rival,” exclaimed Marie, with
naïve surprise, “and the wicked man with the wild
marigolds is Pierrot; I can hardly believe that. He
was so respectful and humble to me, much more so
than when he was our slave. It is true that sometimes
he looked at me in a strange manner, but I
attributed his sadness to our misfortunes. If you
could only know with what tenderness he spoke of
you, my Leopold. His friendship made him speak
of you as much as my love did.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>These explanations of Marie enchanted and yet
grieved me. I felt how cruelly I had treated the
noble-hearted Pierrot, and I felt all the force of his
gentle reproach, “<span class='it'>It is not I who am ungrateful</span>.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this instant Pierrot returned. His face was
dark and gloomy, and he looked like a martyr returning
from the place of torture, but yet retaining an
air of triumph.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He came towards me, and pointing to the dagger
in my belt, said—“The hour has passed!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Hour, what hour?” asked I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The one you granted me; it was necessary for
me to have so much time allowed me in which to
bring you here. Then I conjured you to spare my
life, now I supplicate you to take it away.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='259' id='Page_259'></span>
The most tender feelings of the heart, love, gratitude,
and friendship, united themselves together to
torture me. Unable to say a word, but sobbing
bitterly, I cast myself at the feet of the slave. He
raised me up in haste.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What are you doing?” cried he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I pay you the homage that is your due, but I am
no longer worthy of friendship such as yours; can
your friendship be pushed so far as to forgive me my
ingratitude?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>For a time his expression remained stern, he
appeared to be undergoing a violent mental contest.
He took a step towards me; then drew back, and
seemed on the point of speaking, but no words passed
his lips. The struggle was a short one, he opened
his arms to embrace me, saying—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“May I <span class='it'>now</span> call you brother?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>My only reply was to cast myself on his breast.
After a short pause, he added—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You were always kind, but misfortune had
rendered you unjust.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I have found my brother once again,” said I.
“I am unfortunate no longer, but I have been very
guilty.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Guilty, brother, I also have been guilty, and
more so than you; you are no longer unhappy, but I
shall be so for ever!”</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> expression of pleasure which the renewal of our
friendship had traced on his features, faded away
<span class='pageno' title='260' id='Page_260'></span>
and an appearance of deep grief once more pervaded
them.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen,” said he, coldly; “my father was the
King of Kakongo. Each day he sat at the door of
his hut and dispensed justice amongst his subjects.
After every judgment, according to the custom of the
kings his ancestors, he drank a full goblet of palm
wine. We were happy and powerful. But the
Europeans came to our country; it was from them
that I learnt the accomplishments which you appeared
to be surprised at my possessing. Our
principal acquaintance amongst the Europeans was
a Spanish captain; he promised my father territories
far greater than those he now ruled over, treasure,
and white women; my father believed him, and
gathering his family together, followed him....
Brother, he sold us as slaves!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The breast of the negro rose and fell, as he strove
to restrain himself; his eyes shot forth sparks of fire;
and without seeming to know what he did, he broke
in his powerful grasp a fancy medlar tree that stood
beside him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The master of Kakongo in his turn had a master,
and his son toiled as a slave in the furrows of Saint
Domingo. They tore the young lion from his father,
that they might the more easily tame him; they
separated the wife from the husband, and the little
children from the mother who nursed them, and the
father who used to bathe them in the torrents of their
native land. In their place they found cruel masters
and a sleeping place shared with the dogs!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He was silent, though his lips moved as though he
<span class='pageno' title='261' id='Page_261'></span>
were still continuing his narrative; after a moment’s
pause he seized me roughly by the arm, and continued—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brother, do you understand, I have been sold to
different masters like a beast of burden? Do you
remember the punishment of Ogé? it was on that
day that I saw my father after a long separation—<span class='it'>he
was on the wheel</span>!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I shuddered; he went on—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My wife was outraged by white men, and she
died calling for revenge. Must I tell you I was guilty
towards her, for I loved another; but let that pass by.
All my people urged me to deliver and avenge them;
Rask brought me their messages, I could do nothing
for them, I was fast in your uncle’s prison. The day
upon which you obtained my release, I hurried off to
save my children from the power of a cruel master.
Upon the very day that I arrived, the last of the
grandchildren of the King of Kakongo had expired
under the blows of the white man; he had followed
the others!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He interrupted his recital, and coldly asked me:</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brother, what would you have done?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This frightful tale froze me with horror. I replied
by a threatening gesture. He understood me, and
with a bitter smile he continued—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The slaves rose against their master, and punished
the murder of my children. They chose me for
their chief. You know the frightful excesses that
were perpetrated by the insurgents. I heard that
your uncle’s slaves were on the point of rising. I
arrived at Acul on the night upon which the insurrection
<span class='pageno' title='262' id='Page_262'></span>
broke out. You were away. Your uncle
had been murdered in his bed, and the negroes had
already set fire to the plantation. Not being able to
restrain them—for in destroying your uncle’s property
they thought that they were avenging my injuries—I
determined to save the survivors of his family. I
entered the fort by the breach that I had made. I
entrusted your wife’s nurse to a faithful negro. I had
more trouble in saving your Marie; she had hurried
to the burning portion of the fort to save the youngest
of her brothers, the sole survivor of the massacre.
The insurgents surrounded her, and were about to
kill her.... I burst upon them, and ordered them
to leave her to my vengeance; they obeyed me, and
retired. I took your wife in my arms, I entrusted
the child to Rask, and I bore them both away to
this cavern, of which I alone knew the existence and
the access. Brother, such was my crime.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>More than ever overwhelmed with gratitude and
remorse, I would again have thrown myself at his
feet, but he stopped me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Come,” said he, “take your wife, and let us
leave this, all of us.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>In wonder I asked him whither he wished to
conduct us.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“To the camp of the whites,” answered he. “This
retreat is no longer safe. To-morrow at break of
day the camp of Biassou will be attacked, and the
forest will assuredly be set on fire. Besides, I have
no time to lose. Ten lives are in jeopardy until my
return. We <span class='it'>can</span> hasten because you are free; we
<span class='it'>must</span> hasten because I am not.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='263' id='Page_263'></span>
These words increased my surprise, and I pressed
him for an explanation.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Have you not heard that Bug-Jargal is a
prisoner?” replied he, impatiently.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes; but what has Bug-Jargal to do with you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>In his turn he seemed astonished, and then in a
grave voice he answered—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>I am Bug-Jargal.</span>”</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLIV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I had</span> thought that nothing that related to this extraordinary
man could have surprised me. I had
experienced some feelings of astonishment in finding
the slave Pierrot transformed into an African King,
but my admiration reached its height, when from his
own confession I learned that he was the courageous,
and magnanimous Bug-Jargal, the chief of the insurgents
of Morne-Rouge; and I understood the
respectful demeanour shown by all the rebels, even
by Biassou, to Bug-Jargal, the King of Kakongo. He
did not notice the impression that his last words had
made upon me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“They told me,” continued he, “that you were a
prisoner in Biassou’s camp, and I hastened to
deliver you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But you told me just now that you too were a
prisoner.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He glanced inquisitively at me, as though seeking
my reason for putting this natural question.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen,” answered he. “This morning I was a
<span class='pageno' title='264' id='Page_264'></span>
prisoner in the hands of your friends, but I heard a
report that Biassou had announced his intention of
executing, before sunset to-day, a young prisoner
named Leopold d’Auverney. They doubled my
guards, and I was informed that my execution would
immediately follow yours, and that in the event of
escape, ten of my comrades would suffer in my stead.
So you see that I have no time to lose.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I still detained him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You made your escape then?” asked I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“How else could I have been here? it was
necessary to save you. Did I not owe you my life?
Come, let us set out, we are an hour’s march from
the camp of the whites, and about the same distance
from that of Biassou. See the shadow of the cocoa-nut
trees are lengthening, and their round tops look
on the pass like the egg of the giant condor. In
three hours the sun will have set. Come, brother,
time waits for no man.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>In three hours the sun will have set!</span> These words
froze my blood, like an apparition from the tomb.
They recalled to my mind the fatal promise which
bound me to Biassou. Alas! in the rapture of
seeing Marie again, I had not thought of our approaching
eternal separation. I had been overwhelmed
with my happiness, a flood of joyful
emotions had swept away my memory, and in the
midst of my delight I had forgotten that the inexorable
finger of death was beckoning to me. But
the words of my friend recalled everything to my
mind. <span class='it'>In three hours the sun will have set!</span> It would
take an hour to reach Biassou’s camp. There could
<span class='pageno' title='265' id='Page_265'></span>
be no faltering with my duty. The villain had my
word, and it would never do to give him the chance
of despising what he seemed still to put trust in—the
word of a Frenchman; better far to die. The
alternative was a terrible one, and I confess that I
hesitated for a moment before I chose the right
course. Can you blame me, gentlemen?</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>With</span> a deep sigh, I placed one hand in that of Bug-Jargal,
and the other in that of Marie, who gazed
with anxiety on the sadness that had overspread my
features.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Bug-Jargal,” said I, struggling with emotion, “I
entrust to you the only being in the world that I love
more than you—my Marie. Return to the camp
without me, for I may not follow you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Great heavens!” exclaimed Marie, hardly able
to breathe from her terror and anxiety, “what new
misfortune is this?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Bug-Jargal trembled, and a look of mingled sorrow
and surprise passed over his face.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brother, what is this that you say?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The terror that had seized upon Marie at the
thought of the coming misfortune which her love for
me had almost caused her to divine, made me determined
to spare her the dreadful truth for the moment.
I placed my mouth to Bug-Jargal’s ear, and whispered
in hurried accents: “I am a prisoner. I swore to
Biassou that two hours before sunset I would once
<span class='pageno' title='266' id='Page_266'></span>
more place myself in his hands; in fact, I have
sworn to return to my death!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Filled with rage, in a loud voice he exclaimed:</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The monster! This then was his motive for a
secret interview with you—it was to bind you with
this fatal promise. I ought to have distrusted the
wretch. Why did I not foresee that there must be
some treachery lurking in the request, for he is a
mulatto, not a black.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What is this—what treachery? what promise?”
said Marie, in an agony of terror. “And who is
Biassou?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Silence, silence,” repeated I, in a low voice to
Bug-Jargal; “do not let us alarm Marie.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good,” answered he; “but why did you give
such a pledge, how could you consent?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I thought that you had deceived me, and that
Marie was lost to me for ever. What was life to me
then?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But a simple promise cannot bind you to a brigand
like that.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I gave my word of honour.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He did not seem to understand me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Your word of honour,” repeated he; “but what
is that? You did not drink out of the same cup;
you have not broken a ring together, or a branch of
the red-blossomed maple?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No, we have done none of these things.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well, then, what binds you to him?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“My honour!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I cannot understand you; nothing pledges you
to Biassou; come with us?”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='267' id='Page_267'></span>
“I cannot, my brother, for I am bound by my
promise.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No, you are not bound,” cried he, angrily.
“Sister, add your prayers to mine, and entreat your
husband not to leave you. He wishes to return to
the negro camp from which I rescued him, on the
plea that he has promised to place his life in Biassou’s
hands.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What have you done?” cried I.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was too late to stay the effects of the generous
impulse that had prompted him to endeavour to save
the life of his rival by the help of her he loved.
Marie cast herself into my arms with a cry of anguish,
her hands clasped my neck, and she hung upon my
breast, speechless and breathless.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Oh, my Leopold, what does he say?” murmured
she, at last. “Is he not deceiving me? It is not
immediately after our reunion that you must quit me
again. Answer me quickly or I shall die. You have
no right to throw away your life, for you have given
it to me. You would not leave me, never to see me
again.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Marie,” answered I, “we shall meet again, but it
will be in another place.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“In another place! Where?” she asked, in faltering
accents.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“In heaven,” I answered; for to this angel I could
not lie.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Again she fainted, but this time it was from grief.
I raised her up, and placed her in the arms of Bug-Jargal,
whose eyes were full of tears.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Nothing can keep you back, then,” said he; “I
<span class='pageno' title='268' id='Page_268'></span>
will add nothing to my entreaties, this sight ought
to be enough. How can you resist Marie? For one
word like she has spoken I would have sacrificed
the world, and you cannot even give up death for
her.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Honour binds me,” answered I, sadly. “Farewell,
Bug-Jargal, farewell, brother; I leave her to
you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He grasped my hand, overwhelmed with grief, and
appeared hardly to understand me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brother,” said he, “in the camp of the whites
there are some of your relations, I will give her over
to them; for my part I cannot accept your legacy.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He pointed to a rocky crag which towered high
above the adjacent country.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do you see that rock?” asked he, “when the
signal of your death shall float from it, it will
promptly be answered by the volley that announces
mine.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Hardly understanding his last words, I embraced
him, pressed a last kiss upon the pale lips of Marie,
who was slowly recovering under the attentions of
her nurse, and fled precipitately, fearing that another
look or word would shake my resolution.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLVI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I fled</span> away, and plunged into the depths of the
forest, following the tracks that we had left but a
short time before, and not daring to cast a last glance
behind me.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='269' id='Page_269'></span>
To stifle the grief which oppressed my heart, I
dashed, without a moment’s pause, through the
thickets, past hill and plain, until I reached the
crest of a rock from which I could see the camp
of Biassou, with its lines of waggons and huts
swarming with life, and looking in the distance like
a vast ant-hill.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then I halted, for I felt that I had reached the
end of my journey, and my life at the same time.
Fatigue and emotion had weakened my physical
powers, and I leaned against a tree to save myself
from falling, and allowed my eyes to wander over
the plain, which was to be my place of execution.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Up to this moment I had imagined that I had
drained the cup of bitterness and gall to the dregs,
but I had not until then tasted the most cruel of all
misfortunes, that of being constrained by powerful
moral force to voluntarily renounce life when it appeared
most sweet. Some hours before I cared not
for the world; extreme despair is a simulation of
death which makes the reality more earnestly
desired.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Marie had been restored to me, my dead happiness
had been resuscitated, my past had become my future,
and all my overshadowed hopes had beamed forth
more gloriously than ever, and again had a new life,
a life of youth, and love, and enchantment, showed
gloriously upon the horizon. I was ready to enter
upon this life, everything invited me to it; no material
obstacle, no hindrance, was apparent; I was free, I
was happy, and yet—I was about to die. I had made
but one step into paradise and a hidden duty compelled
<span class='pageno' title='270' id='Page_270'></span>
me to retrace it, and to enter upon a path the
goal of which was Death!</p>

<p class='pindent'>Death has but few terrors for the crushed and
broken spirit, but how heavy and icy is his hand
when it grasps the heart which has just begun to
live and revel in the joys of life. I felt that I had
emerged from the tomb, and had for a moment
enjoyed the greatest delights of life, love, friendship,
and liberty, and now the door of the sepulchre was
again opened, and an unseen force compelled me
once more to enter it for ever.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLVII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>When</span> the first bitter pang of grief had passed, a
kind of fury took possession of me, and I entered
the valley with a rapid step, for I felt the necessity
of shortening the period of suspense. When I presented
myself at the negro outpost the sergeant in
command at first refused to permit me to pass. It
seemed strange that I should have had to have recourse
to entreaties to enable me to effect my object.
At last two of them seized me by the arms and led
me into Biassou’s presence.</p>

<p class='pindent'>As I entered the grotto he was engaged in examining
the springs of various instruments of torture
with which he was surrounded. At the noise my
guard made in introducing me he turned his head,
but my presence did not seem to surprise him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do you see these?” asked he, displaying the
horrible engines which lay before him.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='271' id='Page_271'></span>
I remained calm and impassive, for I knew the
cruel nature of the <span class='it'>hero of humanity</span>, and I was
determined to endure to the end without blenching.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Leogri was lucky in being only hung, was he
not?” asked he, with his sardonic sneer.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I gazed upon him with cold disdain, but I made
no reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Tell his reverence the chaplain that the prisoner
has returned,” said he to an aide-de-camp.</p>

<p class='pindent'>During the absence of the negro, we both remained
silent, but I could see that he watched me narrowly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Just then Rigaud entered, he seemed agitated, and
whispered a few words to the general.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Summon the chiefs of the different bands,” said
Biassou, calmly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A quarter of an hour afterwards, the different
chiefs in their strange equipments, were assembled
in the grotto. Biassou rose.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen to me, friends and comrades, the whites
will attack us here at daybreak, our position is a bad
one, and we must quit it. At sunset we will march
to the Spanish frontier; Macaya, you and your
negroes will form the advanced guards; Padrejan,
see that the guns taken at Pralato are spiked, we
cannot take them into the mountains; the brave men
of Croix-des-Bouquets will follow Macaya; Toussaint
will come next with the blacks from Léogane and
Trose. If the <span class='it'>griots</span> or the <span class='it'>griotes</span> make any disturbance,
I will hand them over to the executioner of
the army. Lieutenant-Colonel Cloud will distribute
the English muskets that were disembarked at Cape
Cabron, and will lead the half-breeds through the
<span class='pageno' title='272' id='Page_272'></span>
byways of the Vista. Slaughter any prisoners that
may remain, notch the bullets, and poison the
arrows. Let three tons of arsenic be thrown into
the wells; the colonists will take it for sugar, and
drink without distrust. Block up the roads to the
plain with rocks, line the hedges with marksmen,
and set fire to the forest. Rigaud, you will remain
with me; Candi, summon my body-guard. The
negroes of Morne-Rouge will form the rear-guard,
and will not evacuate the camp until sunrise.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He leaned over to Rigaud, and whispered
hoarsely—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“They are Bug-Jargal’s men; if they are killed, all
the better. ‘Muerta la tropa, muerte el gefe!’ (‘If the
men die, the chief will die.’) Go, my brethren,” he
added, rising, “you will receive instructions from
Candi.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The chiefs left the grotto.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“General,” remarked Rigaud, “we ought to send
that dispatch of Jean François; affairs are going
badly, and it would stop the advance of the whites.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Biassou drew it hastily from his pocket.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I agree with you, but there are so many faults,
both in grammar and spelling, that they will laugh
at it.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He presented the paper to me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“For the last time, will you save your life? My
kindness gives you a last chance. Help me to
correct this letter, and to re-write it in proper official
style.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I shook my head.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do you mean no?” asked he.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='273' id='Page_273'></span>
“I do,” I replied.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Reflect,” he answered, with a sinister glance at
the instruments of torture.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is because I have reflected that I refuse,”
replied I. “You are alarmed for the safety of
yourself and your men, and you count upon this
letter to delay the just vengeance of the whites. I
do not desire to retain a life which may perhaps
have saved yours. Let my execution commence.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ha, boy,” exclaimed Biassou, touching the
instruments of torture with his foot, “you are
growing familiar with these, are you? I am sorry,
but I have not the time to try them on you. Our
position is a dangerous one, and we must get out of
it as soon as we can. And so you refuse to act as
my secretary? Well, you are right, for it would not
after all have saved your miserable life, which, by the
way, I have promised to his reverence my chaplain.
Do you think that I would permit any one to live
who holds the secrets of Biassou?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He turned to the Obi, who just then entered.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good father, is your guard ready?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The latter made a sign in the affirmative.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Have you taken it from amongst the negroes of
Morne-Rouge? for they are the only ones who are not
occupied in preparations for departure.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Again the Obi bowed his head.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then Biassou pointed out to me the black flag
which I had before remarked in a corner of the
grotto.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“That will show your friends when the time
comes to give your place to your lieutenant. But I
<span class='pageno' title='274' id='Page_274'></span>
have no more time to lose, I must be off. By the
way, you have been for a little excursion; how did you
like the neighbourhood?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I noticed that there were enough trees upon
which to hang you and all your band.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ah,” retorted he, with his hideous laugh, “there
is one place that you have not seen, but with which
the good father will make you acquainted. Adieu,
my young captain, and give my compliments to
Leogri.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He bade me farewell with a chuckle that reminded
me of the hiss of the rattlesnake, and turned his back
as the negroes dragged me away.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The veiled Obi followed us, his rosary in his hand.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I walked</span> between my guards without offering any
resistance, which would indeed have been hopeless;
we ascended the shoulder of a hill on the western
side of the plain, and then my escort sat down for a
brief period of repose. As we did so I cast a last
lingering look at the setting sun which would never
rise again for me on this earth.</p>

<p class='pindent'>My guards rose to their feet, and I followed their
example, and we descended into a little dell, the
beauty of which under any other circumstances
would have filled me with admiration. A mountain
stream ran through the bottom of the dell, which by
its refreshing coolness produced a thick and luxuriant
growth of vegetation, and fell into one of those dark
<span class='pageno' title='275' id='Page_275'></span>
blue lakes with which the hills of St. Domingo
abound. How often in happier days have I sat and
dreamed on the borders of these beautiful lakes in
the twilight hour, when beneath the influence of the
moon their deep azure changed into a sheet of silver,
or when the reflections of the stars sowed the surface
with a thousand golden spangles! How lovely this
valley appeared to me! There were magnificent
plane-trees of gigantic growth, closely grown thickets
of <span class='it'>mauritias</span>, a kind of palm, which allows no other
vegetation to flourish beneath its shade, date-trees,
and magnolias with the goblet-shaped flowers, the
tall catalpa, with its polished and exquisitely chiselled
blossoms, standing out in relief against the golden
buds of the ebony-trees. The Canadian maple
mingled its yellow flowers with the blue aureolas of
that species of the wild honeysuckle which the
negroes call <span class='it'>coali</span>. Thick curtains of luxurious
creepers concealed the bare sides of the rocks, whilst
from the virgin soil rose a soft perfume, such as the
first man may have inhaled amidst Eden’s groves.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We continued our way along a footpath traced on
the brink of the torrent. I was surprised to notice
that this path closed abruptly at the foot of a tall peak,
in which was a natural archway, from which flowed a
rapid torrent.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A dull roar of falling waters, and an impetuous
wind issued from this natural tunnel. The negroes
who escorted me took a path to the left which led into
a cavern and seemed to be the bed of a torrent that
had long been dried up. Overhead I could see the
rugged roof, half hidden by masses of vegetation, and
<span class='pageno' title='276' id='Page_276'></span>
the same sound of falling waters filled the whole of
the vault. As I took the first step into the cavern,
the Obi came to my side, and whispered in a hoarse
voice, “Listen to what I have to predict: one of us
two only shall leave by this path and issue again from
the entrance of the cave.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I disdained to make any reply, and we advanced
further into the gloom.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The noise became louder, and drowned the sound
of our footfalls. I fancied that there must be a
waterfall near, and I was not deceived.</p>

<p class='pindent'>After moving through the darkness for nearly ten
minutes, we found ourselves on a kind of internal
platform caused by the central formation of the
mountain. The larger portion of this platform, which
was of a semicircular shape, was inundated by a
torrent which burst from the interior of the mountain
with a terrible din. Above this subterranean hall the
roof rose into the shape of a dome, covered with moss
of a yellowish hue. A large opening was formed in
the dome through which the daylight penetrated, and
the sides of the crevice were fringed with green trees,
gilded just now by the last rays of the setting sun.
At the northern extremity of the platform the torrent
fell with a frightful noise into a deep abyss, over which
appeared to float, without being able to illuminate its
depths, a feeble portion of the light which came
through the aperture in the roof. Over this terrible
precipice hung the trunk of an old tree whose top-most
branches were filled with the foam of the
waterfall, and whose knotty roots pierced through the
rock two or three feet below the brink.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='277' id='Page_277'></span>
This tree, whose top and roots were both swept by
the torrent, hung over the abyss like a skeleton arm,
and was so destitute of foliage that I could not
distinguish its species. It had a strange and weird
appearance; the humidity which saturated its roots
prevented it from dying, whilst the force of the
cataract tore off its new shoots, and only left it with
the branches that had strength to resist the force of
the water.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER XLIX.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>In</span> this terrible spot the negroes came to a halt, and
I knew that my hour had come.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was in this abyss, then, that was to be sunk all
my hopes in this world. The image of the happiness
which but a few hours before I had voluntarily
renounced, brought to my heart a feeling of regret,
almost one of remorse.</p>

<p class='pindent'>To pray for mercy was unworthy of me, but I
could not refrain from giving utterance to my regrets.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Friends,” said I to the negroes who surrounded
me, “it is a sad thing to die at twenty years of age,
full of life and strength, when one is loved by one
whom in your turn you adore, and you leave behind
you eyes that will even weep for your untimely end.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A mocking burst of laughter hailed my expression
of regret. It came from the little Obi. This species
of evil spirit, this living mystery, approaches me
roughly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ha, ha, ha! you regret life then, <span class='it'>Labadosca Dios</span>.
<span class='pageno' title='278' id='Page_278'></span>
My only fear was that death would have no terrors for
you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was the same voice, the same laugh that had so
often before baffled my conjectures.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Wretch!” exclaimed I, “who <span class='it'>are</span> you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You are going to learn,” replied he, in a voice of
concentrated passion; and thrusting aside the silver
sun that half concealed his brown chest, he exclaimed,
“Look!” I bent forward.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Two names were written in white letters on the
hairy chest of the Obi, showing but too clearly the
hideous and ineffaceable brand of the heated iron.
One of these names was <span class='it'>Effingham</span>, the other was that
of my uncle and myself, <span class='it'>D’Auverney</span>!</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was struck dumb with surprise.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well, Leopold d’Auverney,” asked the Obi, “does
not your name tell you mine?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No,” answered I, astonished to hear the man
name me, and seeking to recall to my mind my
thoughts. “These two names were only to be found
thus united upon the chest of my uncle’s fool. But
the poor dwarf is dead, and besides that, he was
devotedly attached to us. You cannot be Habibrah.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No other,” shrieked he, and casting aside the
blood-stained cap, he raised his veil and showed me
the hideous features of the household fool; but a threatening
and sinister expression had usurped the half-imbecile
smile which was formerly eternally imprinted
on his features.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Great God!” exclaimed I, overwhelmed with
surprise, “do all the dead, then, come back to life!
It is Habibrah, my uncle’s fool.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='279' id='Page_279'></span>
“His fool—and also his murderer.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I recoiled from him in horror.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“His murderer, wretch—was it thus that you
repaid his kindness?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He interrupted me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“His kindness! rather say his insults.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What!” I again cried, “was it you, villain, who
struck the fatal blow?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It was,” he replied, with a terrible expression
upon his face. “I plunged my knife so deeply into
his heart that he had hardly time to cast aside sleep
before death claimed him. He cried out feebly,
‘Habibrah, come to me,’ <span class='it'>but I was with him</span> already.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The cold-blooded manner in which he narrated the
murder disgusted me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Wretch! cowardly assassin! You forgot, then,
all his kindness, that you ate at his table, and slept
at the foot of his bed——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Like a dog,” interrupted Habibrah, roughly,
“<span class='it'>como un perro</span>. I thought too much of what you
call his kindness, but which I looked upon as insults.
I took vengeance upon him, and I will do the same
to you. Listen: do you think that because I am a
mulatto and a deformed dwarf that I am not a man?
Ah, I have a soul stronger, deeper, and bolder than
the one that I am about to set free from your girlish
frame. I was given to your uncle as if I had been a
pet monkey. I was his butt, I amused him, whilst he
despised me. He loved me, do you say—yes, forsooth,
I had a place in his heart between his dog and his
parrot, but I found a better place there with my
dagger.” I shuddered.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='280' id='Page_280'></span>
“Yes,” continued the dwarf, “it was I, I that did
it all. Look me well in the face, Leopold d’Auverney;
you have often laughed at me, now you shall tremble
before me. And you dare to speak of your uncle’s
liking for me, a liking that carried degradation with
it. If I entered the room a shout of contemptuous
laughter was my greeting; my appearance, my deformities,
my features, my costume—all furnished
food for laughter to your accursed uncle and his
accursed friends, whilst I was not allowed to remain
silent, it was necessary for me to join in the laughter
that was levelled at me; I foam with rage whilst I
think of it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Answer me: do you think that after such humiliations
I could feel anything but the deadliest hatred
for the creature that inflicted them upon me? Do
you not think that they were a thousand times harder
to endure than the toil in the burning sun, the fetters,
and the whip of the driver, which were the lot of the
other slaves? Do you not think that they would
cause ardent, implacable, and eternal hatred to
spring up in the heart of man as lasting as the
accursed brand which degrades my chest? Has not
the vengeance that I have taken for my sufferings
been short and insufficient. Why could I not make
my tyrant suffer but a small portion of what I endured
for so many years? Why could he not before
his death know the bitterness of wounded pride, and
feel what burning traces tears of shame leave upon
a face condemned to wear a perpetual smile? Alas!
it is too hard to have waited so long for the hour of
vengeance, and then only to find it in a dagger thrust!
<span class='pageno' title='281' id='Page_281'></span>
Had he but only known the hand that struck him it
would have been something; but I was too eager to
hear his dying groan, and I drove the knife too
quickly home; he died without having recognized
me, and my eagerness baulked my vengeance. This
time at least, however, it shall be more complete.
You see me, do you not? though in point of fact you
may be unable to recognize me in my new character.
You have always been in the habit of seeing me
laughing and joyous, but now nothing prevents me
from letting my true nature appear on my face, and I
do not greatly resemble my former self. You only
knew my mask; look upon my real face!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>At that moment his appearance was truly terrible.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Monster,” exclaimed I, “you deceive yourself;
there is more of buffoonery than heroism in your face
even now, and nothing in your heart but cruelty.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do not speak of cruelty,” retorted he, “think of
your uncle——”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Wretch,” returned I, “if he were cruel it was at
your instigation. You, to pretend to pity the position
of the poor slaves—why, then, did you exert all your
influence to make their master treat them less
harshly? Why did you never intercede in their
favour?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I would not have done so for the world. Would I
ever attempt to hinder a white man from blackening
his soul by an act of cruelty? No, no, I urged him
to inflict more and more punishment upon them, so
as to hurry on the revolt, and so draw down a surer
vengeance upon the heads of our oppressors. In
seeming to injure my brethren I was serving them.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='282' id='Page_282'></span>
I was thunderstruck at such a cunning act of
diplomacy carried out by such a man.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well,” continued the dwarf, “do you believe
now that I had the brain to conceive and the hand
to execute? What do you think of Habibrah the
buffoon? what do you think of your uncle’s fool?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Finish what you have begun so well,” replied I.
“Let me die, but let there be no more delay.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“And suppose I wish for delay? Suppose that it
does my heart good to watch you in the agonies of
suspense? You see Biassou owed me my share in
the last plunder. When I saw you in our camp I
asked for your life as my share, and he granted it
willingly, and now you are mine; I am amusing myself
with you. Soon you will follow the stream of
the cataract into the abyss beneath; but before doing
so let me tell you that I have discovered the spot
where your wife is concealed, and it was I that
advised Biassou to set the forest on fire; and the
work, I imagine, is already begun. Thus your
family will be swept from the face of the earth.
Your uncle fell by steel, you will perish by water,
and your Marie by fire!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Villain! villain!” I exclaimed, and I made an
effort to seize him by the throat, but a wave of his
hand summoned my guards.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Bind him!” cried he; “he precipitates his hour
of doom!” In dead silence the negroes commenced
to bind me with the cords that they had carried with
them. Suddenly I fancied that I heard the distant
barking of a dog, but this sound might be only an
illusion caused by the noise of the cascade.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='283' id='Page_283'></span>
The negroes had finished binding me, and placed
me on the brink of the abyss into which I was so
soon to be hurled.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The dwarf with folded arms gazed upon the scene
with a sinister expression of joy.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I lifted my eyes to the opening in the roof so as to
avoid the triumphant expression of malice painted on
his countenance, and to take one last look at the
blue sky. At that instant the barking was more
distinctly heard, and the enormous head of Rask
appeared at the opening.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I trembled; the dwarf exclaimed, “Finish with
him!” and the negroes, who had not noticed the dog,
raised me in their arms to hurl me into the hell of
waters which roared and foamed beneath me.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER L.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>“Comrades!”</span> cried a voice of thunder.</p>

<p class='pindent'>All looked at the spot from whence the sound proceeded:
Bug-Jargal was standing on the edge of the
opening, a crimson plume floating on his head.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Comrades,” repeated he, “stay your hands!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The negroes prostrated themselves upon the earth
in token of submission.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I am Bug-Jargal,” continued he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The negroes struck the earth with their heads,
uttering cries the meaning of which I could not
comprehend.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Unbind the prisoner,” commanded the chief.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But now the dwarf appeared to recover from the
<span class='pageno' title='284' id='Page_284'></span>
stupor into which the sudden appearance of Bug-Jargal
had thrown him, and seized by the arm the
negro who was preparing to cut the cords that bound
me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What is the meaning of this? What are you
doing?” cried he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then, raising his voice, he addressed Bug-Jargal:
“Chief of Morne-Rouge,” cried he, “what are you
doing here?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I have come to command my own men,” was
the reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” answered the dwarf, in tones of concentrated
passion, “these negroes do certainly belong to
your band; but,” added he, raising his voice again,
“by what right do you interfere with my prisoner?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The chief answered, “I am Bug-Jargal;” and
again the negroes struck the ground with their
foreheads.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Bug-Jargal,” continued Habibrah, “cannot contravene
the orders of Biassou; this white man was
given to me by Biassou; I desire his death, and die
he shall. Obey me,” he added, turning to the
negroes, “and hurl him into the abyss.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>At the well-known voice of the Obi the negroes
rose to their feet and took a step towards me.
I thought all was lost.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Unbind the prisoner!” cried Bug-Jargal again.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In an instant I was free. My surprise was equalled
by the fury of the Obi. He attempted to throw
himself upon me. The negroes interfered; then he
burst out into imprecations and threats.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Demonios! rabia! inferno de mi alma!’ How,
<span class='pageno' title='285' id='Page_285'></span>
wretches, you refuse to obey me! Do you not recognize
my voice! Why did I lose time in talking
to this accursed one? I ought to have had him hurled
without delay to the fishes of the gulf. By wishing
to make my vengeance more complete I have lost
it all together. <span class='it'>Orabia de Satan.</span> Listen to me:
if you do not obey me, and hurl him into the abyss,
I will curse you; your hair shall grow white, the
mosquitoes and sandflies shall eat you up alive,
your legs and your arms shall bend like reeds, your
breath shall burn your throat like red hot-sand, you
shall die young, and after your death your spirits
shall be compelled to turn a millstone as big as a
mountain, in the moon where it is always cold.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The scene was a strange one. The only one of
my colour, in a damp and gloomy cavern surrounded
by negroes with the aspect of demons, balanced as
it were upon the edge of a bottomless gulf, and
every now and then threatened by a deformed dwarf,
by a hideous sorcerer upon whose striped garments
and pointed cap the fading light shone faintly, yet
protected by a tall negro who was standing at the
only point from which daylight could be seen, it
appeared to me that I was at the gates of hell,
awaiting the conflict between my good and evil angels,
to result in the salvation or the destruction of my
soul. The negroes appeared to be terrified at the
threats of the Obi, and he endeavoured to profit by
their indecision.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I desire the death of the white man, and he <span class='it'>shall</span>
die; obey me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Bug-Jargal replied solemnly, “He shall live; I
<span class='pageno' title='286' id='Page_286'></span>
am Bug-Jargal, my father was the King of Kakongo,
who dispensed justice at the gate of his palace.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Again the negroes cast themselves upon the
ground.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The chief continued.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brethren, go and tell Biassou not to unfurl the
black banner upon the mountain-top which should
announce to the whites the signal of this man’s
death, for he was the saviour of Bug-Jargal’s life,
and Bug-Jargal wills that he should live.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>They rose up. Bug-Jargal threw his red plume
on the ground before them. The chief of the guard
picked it up with every show of respect, and they
left the cavern without a word; whilst the Obi, with
a glance of rage, followed them down the subterranean
avenue.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I will not attempt to describe my feelings at that
moment. I fixed my eyes, wet with tears, upon
Pierrot, who gazed upon me with a singular expression
of love and tenderness. “God be praised,”
said he, “you are saved. Brother, go back by the
road by which you entered, you will meet me again
in the valley.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He waved his hand to me and disappeared from
my sight.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER LI.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Eager</span> to arrive at the appointed meeting-place, and
to learn by what fortunate means my saviour had
been enabled to make his appearance at so opportune
a moment, I prepared to leave the cavern in which
<span class='pageno' title='287' id='Page_287'></span>
my nerves had been so severely tried; but as I
prepared to enter the subterranean passage an
unexpected obstacle presented itself in my path.</p>

<p class='pindent'>It was Habibrah!</p>

<p class='pindent'>The revengeful Obi had not in reality followed
the negroes as I had believed, but had concealed
himself behind a rocky projection of the cave, waiting
for a propitious moment for his vengeance; and this
moment had come. He laughed bitterly as he
showed himself. A dagger, the same that he was
in the habit of using for a crucifix, shone in his right
hand: at the sight of it I recoiled a step.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ha, accursed one, did you think to escape me?
But the fool is not such a fool after all! I have you,
and this time there shall be no delay. Your friend
Bug-Jargal shall not wait for you long, you shall soon
be at the meeting-place, but it will be the wave of
the cataract that shall bear you there.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>As he spoke he dashed at me with uplifted weapon.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Monster,” cried I, retreating to the platform,
“just now you were only an executioner, now you
are a murderer.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I am an avenger,” returned he, grinding his
teeth.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I was on the edge of the precipice; he endeavoured
to hurl me over with a blow of his dagger. I avoided
it. His foot slipped on the treacherous moss which
covered the rocks, he rolled into the slope polished
and rounded by the constant flow of water.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“A thousand devils!” roared he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He had fallen into the abyss.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I have already mentioned that the roots of the
<span class='pageno' title='288' id='Page_288'></span>
old tree projected through the crevices of the rocks,
a little below the edge of the precipice. In his fall
the dwarf struck against these, his striped petticoat
caught in them, he grasped at them as a last hope
of safety, and clung to them with all the energy of
despair.</p>

<p class='pindent'>His pointed bonnet fell from his head; to maintain
his position he had to let go his dagger, and the
two together disappeared in the depths of the abyss.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Habibrah, suspended over the terrible gulf, strove
vainly to regain the platform, but his short arms
could not reach the rocky edge, and he broke his
nails in useless efforts to obtain a hold on the muddy
surface of the rocks which sloped down into the
terrible abyss.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He howled with rage.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The slightest push on my part would have been
sufficient to hurl him to destruction, but it would
have been an act of cowardice, and I made no
movement. This moderation on my part seemed to
surprise him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Thanking heaven for its mercies, I determined to
abandon him to his fate, and was about to leave the
cave when, in a voice broken with fear, and which
appeared to come from the depths of the abyss, he
addressed me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Master,” cried he, “master, do not go, for pity’s
sake! do not, in the name of heaven, leave a guilty
creature to perish, that it is in your power to save.
Alas, my strength is failing me; the roots bend, and
slip through my fingers, the weight of my body drags
me down—I must let go, or my arms will break!
<span class='pageno' title='289' id='Page_289'></span>
Alas, master, the fearful gulfs boils and seethes
beneath me! <span class='it'>Nombre santo de Dios!</span> Have you no
pity for the poor fool? He has been very guilty,
but prove that the white men are better than the
mulattoes, the masters than the slaves, by saving
him.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I approached the brink of the precipice, and the
feeble light that broke through the aperture in the
roof showed me, on the repulsive features of the
dwarf, an expression which I had never noticed before,
that of prayer and supplication.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Señor Leopold,” continued he, encouraged by
the movement of pity that I showed, “can you see
a fellow-creature in so terrible a position of peril,
without stretching out a hand to save him? Give
me your hand, master; with very slight assistance
from you I can save myself—I only ask for a little
help. Help me then, and my gratitude shall be as
great as my crimes.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I interrupted him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Unhappy wretch, do not recall them to my
memory.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is because I repent of them that I do so. Oh,
be generous to me! O heavens, my hand relaxes its
grasp, and I fall! <span class='it'>Ay desdichado!</span> The hand, your
hand; in the name of the mother who bore you, give
me your hand!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I cannot describe the tone of agony in which he
pleaded for help. In this moment of peril I forgot
all; it was no longer an enemy, a traitor, and an
assassin, but an unhappy fellow-creature, whom a
slight exertion upon my part could rescue from a
<span class='pageno' title='290' id='Page_290'></span>
frightful death. He implored me in heart-rending
accents. Reproaches would have been fruitless, and
out of place. The necessity for help was urgent and
immediate. I stooped, knelt down on the brink of
the precipice, and grasping the trunk of the tree with
one hand, I extended the other to Habibrah.</p>

<p class='pindent'>As soon as it was within his reach, he grasped it
with both his hands, and hung on to it with all his
strength. Far from attempting to aid me in my efforts
to draw him up, I felt that he was exerting all his
powers to draw me down with him into the abyss.
If it had not been for the assistance afforded to me
by the trunk of the tree, I must infallibly have been
dragged over by the violent and unexpected jerk that
the wretched man gave me.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Villain!” cried I; “what are you doing?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Avenging myself,” answered he, with a peal of
devilish laughter. “Aha! madman, have I got you
in my clutches once more? You have of your own
free-will placed yourself again in my power, and I
hold you tight. You were saved and I was lost, and
yet you of your own accord place your head between
the jaws of the alligator, because it wept after having
roared. I can bear death, since it will give me
revenge. You are caught in the trap, <span class='it'>amigo</span>, and
I shall take a companion with me to feed the fishes
of the lake.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ah, traitor!” cried I, struggling with all my
strength. “Is it thus that you serve me when I was
trying to save you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” hissed he. “I know that we could have
saved ourselves together, but I would rather that we
<span class='pageno' title='291' id='Page_291'></span>
should die at the same moment. I had rather compass
your death, than save my life. Come down!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>As he spoke, his brown muscular hands grasped
mine with unexpected strength, his eyes blazed, his
mouth foamed; the strength, the departure of which
he had before so piteously bewailed, had returned
to him increased a thousandfold by the hope of
revenge. His feet were planted like two perpendicular
levers on a ledge of rock, and he struggled like a
tiger against the root which, entangled in his clothes,
supported him in spite of himself, for he was endeavouring
with all his might to shake himself free, so as
to bring all his weight to bear on me, and to drag
me more quickly into the yawning gulf below.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In his rage he endeavoured to bite me, whilst his
hideous features were rendered more terrible by their
expression of satanic frenzy.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He looked like the demon of the cave seeking to
drag down his victim to his abode of gloom and
darkness.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One of my knees, by good fortune, was planted in
a groove of the rock, and my arm was wrapped round
the trunk of the tree, and I strove against the efforts
of the dwarf with all the strength that the feeling of
self-preservation could give me at such a moment.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Every now and then I drew a long breath, and
shouted “Bug-Jargal” with all the force of my lungs.
But the roar of the cascade, and the distance that he
must be off, gave me but faint hopes of my voice
reaching him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But the dwarf, who had not anticipated so vigorous
a resistance on my part, redoubled his efforts. I
<span class='pageno' title='292' id='Page_292'></span>
began to grow weak, though in reality the struggle
had not taken so long as the narration of it. A
violent pain paralyzed my arm, my sight grew dim,
bright sparks flashed before my eyes, and a buzzing
sound filled my ears. I heard the creaking of the root
as it bent, mingled with the laugh of the monster,
and the abyss seemed to rise up towards me as though
eager to engulf its prey. But before I gave up all
hope I made a last effort, and collecting together my
exhausted forces, I once again shouted “Bug-Jargal.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A loud bark replied to me; it was Rask who thus
answered my appeal for help. I glanced upwards—Bug-Jargal
and his dog were gazing at me from the
orifice in the roof.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He saw my danger at once.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Hold on!” cried he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Habibrah, fearing that I might yet be saved, foamed
with rage, and crying, “Come down there, come
down!” renewed the attack with almost supernatural
vigour.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At this moment, weakened by the long struggle,
my arm lost its hold of the tree. All seemed over
with me, when I felt myself seized from behind. It
was Rask!</p>

<p class='pindent'>At a sign from his master he had leapt down on
the platform, and seized me by the skirts of my
uniform with his powerful teeth.</p>

<p class='pindent'>This unlooked-for aid saved me. Habibrah had
exhausted all his strength in a last convulsive effort,
whilst I put forth all mine and succeeded in withdrawing
my hand from his cramped and swollen
fingers. The root, which had been for some time yielding,
<span class='pageno' title='293' id='Page_293'></span>
now parted suddenly, Rask gave me a violent
pull backwards, and the wretched dwarf disappeared
in the foam of the cascade, hurling a curse at me
which was swallowed up with him in the whirl of
waters.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Such was the terrible end of my uncle’s fool.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER LII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> excitement of the last few hours, the terrible
struggle and its awful conclusion, had utterly exhausted
me, and I lay where I had fallen, almost
deprived of sense or power of motion. The voice of
Bug-Jargal restored me to myself.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brother,” cried he, “hasten to leave this place.
In half an hour the sun will have set; I will meet you
in the valley. Follow Rask.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The words of my friend restored hope, strength,
and courage to me. I rose to my feet. The great
dog ran rapidly down the subterranean passage; I
followed him, his bark guiding me through the darkness.
After a time I saw a streak of light, and in
a few minutes I gained the entrance, and breathed
more freely as I passed through the archway. As I
left the damp and gloomy vault behind me, I recalled
to my mind the prediction of the dwarf, and its fatal
fulfilment, “<span class='it'>One only of us shall return by this road</span>.”
His attempt had failed, but the prophecy had been
carried out.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='294' id='Page_294'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER LIII.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Bug-Jargal</span> was waiting for me in the valley. I
threw myself into his arms, but I had so many
questions to put to him that I could not find words
in which to express them.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen to me,” said he. “Your wife, my sister,
is in safety in the camp of the white men; I handed
her over to a relation of yours who was in command
of the outposts, and I wished to again constitute
myself a prisoner, lest they should execute the ten
prisoners whose lives were security for my reappearance.
But your relative told me to return,
and, if possible, to prevent your execution; and that
the ten negroes should not be executed until Biassou
should announce the fact by displaying a black flag on
one of the highest peaks of the mountains. Then I
returned to do my best. Rask led me to where you
were—thanks be to heaven, I arrived in time. You
will live, and so shall I.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He extended his hand to me, adding—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brother, are you satisfied?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I again clasped him to my breast; I entreated
him not to leave me again, but to remain with the
white troops, and I promised him to exert all my
influence to procure him a commission in the colonial
army. But he interrupted me with an angry air.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Brother,” asked he, “do I propose to you to
join my army?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I kept silence, for I felt that I had been guilty of
a folly; then he added in a tone of affected gaiety—</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='295' id='Page_295'></span>
“Come, let us hurry to the camp to reassure
your wife.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>This proposal was what I most ardently desired;
we started at once. The negro knew the way, and
took the lead; Rask followed us.</p>

<hr class='tbk'/>

<p class='pindent'>Here D’Auverney stopped suddenly, and cast a
gloomy look around him; perspiration in large beads
covered his forehead; he concealed his face with his
hands. Rask looked at him with an air of uneasiness.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes, you may well look at me like that,” murmured
he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>An instant afterwards he rose from his seat in a
state of violent agitation, and, followed by the sergeant
and the dog, rushed hurriedly from the tent.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER LIV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>“I will</span> lay a bet,” said Henri, “that we are nearing
the end of the drama; and I should really feel sorry
if anything happened to Bug-Jargal, for he was really
a famous fellow.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Paschal removed from his lips the mouth of his
wicker-covered flask, and said—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I would give twelve dozen of port to have seen
the cocoa-nut cup that he emptied at a draught.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Alfred, who was gently humming the air of a love-song,
interrupted himself by asking Henri to tie his
aguilettes; then he added—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The negro interests me very much, but I have
not dared to ask D’Auverney if he knew the air of
‘Beautiful Padilla.’ ”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='296' id='Page_296'></span>
“What a villain that Biassou was,” continued
Paschal; “but for all that he knew the value of a
Frenchman’s word; but there are people more pitiless
than Biassou—my creditors, for instance.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But what do you think of D’Auverney’s story?”
asked Henri.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Ma foi,” answered Alfred, “I have not paid
much attention to it; but I certainly had expected
something more interesting from D’Auverney’s lips,
and then I want to know the air to which Bug-Jargal
sang his songs. In fact, I must admit that the story
has bored me a little.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You are right,” returned Paschal, the aide-de-camp.
“Had I not had my pipe and my bottle, I
should have passed but a dreary evening. Besides,
there were a lot of absurdities in it; how can we
believe, for instance, that that little thief of a sorcerer—I
forget his name—would have drowned himself
for the sake of destroying his enemy?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Henri interrupted him with a smile.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You cannot understand any one taking to water,
can you, Captain Paschal? But what struck me
more than anything was, that every time D’Auverney
mentioned the name of Bug-Jargal his lame dog
lifted up his head.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The sound of the sentry carrying arms warned
them of D’Auverney’s return. All remained silent.
He walked up and down the tent for a few moments
with folded arms, without a word.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Old Sergeant Thaddeus, who had returned with
him, bent over Rask, and furtively caressed him,
hoping by that means to conceal his countenance,
<span class='pageno' title='297' id='Page_297'></span>
which was full of anxiety, from the eyes of his captain.
At length, after making a strong effort, D’Auverney
continued his narrative.</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>CHAPTER LV.</h3>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Rask</span> followed us. The highest rock in the valley
was not yet lighted by the rays of the sun; a glimmer
of light touched it for an instant, and then passed
away.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The negro trembled, and grasped my hand firmly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Listen,” said he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A dull sound like the discharge of a piece of artillery
was heard, and was repeated by the echoes of the
valleys.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It is the signal,” said the negro in a gloomy
voice. “It was a cannon shot, was it not?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I nodded in sign of the affirmative.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In two bounds he sprang to the top of a lofty
rock; I followed him. He crossed his arms and
smiled sadly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do you see that?” asked he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I looked in the direction to which he pointed, and
on the lofty peak to which he had drawn my attention
during our last interview with Marie, and which was
now glowing in the rays of the setting sun, I saw a
huge black flag, its folds flapping idly in the breeze.</p>

<p class='pindent'>(At this point of his recital D’Auverney again
paused.)</p>

<p class='pindent'>I learned afterwards that Biassou, in a hurry to
leave his ground, had ordered the flag to be hoisted
<span class='pageno' title='298' id='Page_298'></span>
without waiting for the return of the negroes who
had been despatched to assist at my execution.
Bug-Jargal was still in the same position—his arms
folded, and his eyes eagerly fixed upon the fatal
signal.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Suddenly he started, and seemed about to descend
from his post of observation.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Great heavens! my unfortunate comrades!”
cried he. “Did you hear the gun?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>I made no reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It was the signal, my brother. They are leading
them now to the place of execution.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>His head fell upon his breast; after a short pause,
he said—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Go, brother, and rejoice your wife; Rask will
guide you to her;” and he whistled an African air,
which Rask appeared to recognize, for he wagged his
tail, and seemed ready to set out.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Bug-Jargal grasped my hand, and strove to smile,
but his features were contracted, and his look was
ghastly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Farewell for ever!” cried he, and dashed into
the thicket by which we were surrounded.</p>

<p class='pindent'>I remained motionless; the little that I understood
of the position made me fear the worst.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Rask, on seeing his master disappear, advanced to
the edge of the rock, and, raising his head, uttered a
plaintive howl. Then he turned to me, his tail was
between his legs and his eyes were moist; he looked
at me with an air of inquietude, and turned to the
spot from which his master had disappeared, and
barked several times. I understood him, and shared
<span class='pageno' title='299' id='Page_299'></span>
his fears. Suddenly he dashed off in pursuit of his
master, and I should soon have lost sight of him,
had he not every now and then halted to give me
time to come up to him. In this manner we passed
through many a valley and leafy glade; we climbed
hills and crossed streams. At last——</p>

<p class='pindent'>D’Auverney’s voice failed him, an expression of
despair covered his face, and he could not find words
to continue his narrative.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Continue it, Thaddeus,” said he, “for I can go
on no further.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The old sergeant was not less distressed than his
captain, but he made an effort to obey him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“With your permission, gentlemen,” said he, “and
since it is your wish, captain, I must tell you, gentlemen,
that Bug-Jargal—otherwise called Pierrot—was
a tall negro, very strong, very gentle, and the
bravest man in the world—except you, captain, if
you please; but I was terribly prejudiced against
him, for which I will never pardon myself, though
you, captain, have forgiven me; so much so, that,
when we heard that your execution had been fixed
for the evening of the second day, I flew into a
furious rage with the poor fellow, and I felt a fiendish
pleasure in informing him that his death would pay
for yours, or that, if he escaped, ten of his men
would be shot by way of reprisal. He said nothing
upon hearing this, but an hour afterwards he made
his escape through a great hole which he pierced in
the wall of his prison.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>D’Auverney made a movement of impatience, and
Thaddeus continued:</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='300' id='Page_300'></span>
“Well, when we saw the great black flag hoisted
on the mountain—and as the negro had not returned,
a fact which surprised none of us—our officers ordered
the signal gun to be fired, and I was ordered to conduct
the ten negroes to the place of execution, a spot
we call the Devil’s Mouth, about—but it does not
matter how far it was from the camp. Well, as you
can imagine, we did not take them there to set them
at liberty, but I had them bound, as is the custom,
and paraded my firing party, when who should burst
upon us but the tall negro. He was out of breath
with the speed that he had made.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Good evening, Thaddeus,’ said he. ‘I am in
time.’</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No, gentlemen, he did not utter another word,
but hastened to unbind his comrades. I stood there
in stupefaction. Then—with your permission, captain—there
was a good deal of generous argument
between the other negroes and himself, which might
have lasted longer but—well, it is no good hiding
the fact, it was I that stopped it. At any rate, he
took their place. Then the great dog came, poor
Rask; he leapt at my throat: he ought to have held
me longer, but Pierrot made a sign to him, and the
poor brute released me, but his master could not
prevent his taking his place at my feet. Then,
believing that you were dead, captain—well, I was
in a fine rage; I gave the word, Bug-Jargal fell, and
a bullet broke the dog’s foot.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Since that time, gentlemen,” continued the sergeant,
sadly, “he has been lame. Then I heard
groans in the adjacent wood; I reached it, and found
<span class='pageno' title='301' id='Page_301'></span>
you—a stray bullet had hit you as you were running
forward to save the tall negro. Yes, captain, you
were wounded, but Bug-Jargal was dead!</p>

<p class='pindent'>“We carried you back to the camp; you were not
dangerously wounded, and the doctors soon cured
you, but I believe Madame Marie’s nursing had a
good deal to do with it.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The sergeant stopped in his story, and D’Auverney,
in a solemn voice, added—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Bug-Jargal was dead!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Thaddeus bowed his head.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said he, “he spared my life, and I—I killed
him.”</p>

<div class="chapter">
<h3>EPILOGUE.</h3>
</div>

<p class='pindent'>The reader, in general, is seldom satisfied with the
conclusion of a narrative unless it enters into every
detail in winding up the story. For this reason the
minutest researches have been made into the facts
having reference to the concluding details of the
last scenes of Leopold d’Auverney’s life, as well as
those of his sergeant and the dog Rask.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The reader is already aware that the captain’s
feelings of melancholy arose partly from the death of
Bug-Jargal, otherwise called Pierrot; but they are
not acquainted with the fact that those feelings
were terribly increased by the loss of his beloved
Marie, who, after having been preserved from the
horrors that attended the taking of Fort Galifet,
perished in the burning of Cap which took place some
weeks later.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='302' id='Page_302'></span>
The fate of Leopold d’Auverney may be briefly
recapitulated. A great victory had been won by the
Republican forces against one of those united European
armies which so often struggled vainly against
our soldiers; and the General of Division, who was
in command of the entire force, was seated in his
tent drawing up, from the reports of his staff, the
bulletin which was to be sent to the National Convention
concerning the victory of the day before.
As he was thus occupied, an aide-de-camp announced
to him the arrival of a Representative of the People,
who demanded an audience. The general loathed
these ambassadors of the guillotine, who were sent
by the party of the Mountain to humiliate the
military officers, and too often to demand the heads
of the most gallant of the men who had fought
bravely for the Republic; looking upon them as
chartered informers charged with the hateful mission
of spying upon glory. But it would have been
dangerous for him to have refused to admit him,
especially after such a victory as had resulted to the
arms of the Republic.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The gory idol which France had then set up
almost invariably demanded victims of the highest
lineage, and the executioners of the Place de la
Revolution were delighted if they could at the same
time cause a head and a coronet to fall—were it one
of thorns, like that of Louis XVI.; of flowers, like
those of the girls of Verdun; or of laurels like those
of Custine or of André Chénier. The general, therefore,
gave immediate orders that the Representative
of the People should be introduced to his presence.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='303' id='Page_303'></span>
After a few clumsy congratulations regarding the
recent victory, the Representative of the People
came up close to the general, and muttered in a suppressed
voice—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“But this is not all, Citizen General; it is not
enough to destroy the foreign enemy—those nearer
home must be also crushed.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What do you mean, Citizen Representative?”
asked the astonished general.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“There is in your division,” answered the emissary
of the Convention, in an unpleasant manner, “a
captain named Leopold d’Auverney, who is serving
in the 32nd Brigade; do you know him, general?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Know him, certainly I do,” replied the general;
“only as you came in I was reading the report of
the Adjutant General which refers to him. The
32nd Brigade had in him an excellent officer, and
I was about to recommend him for promotion.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What, Citizen General?” interposed the representative,
harshly, “were you thinking of promoting
him?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Such was most certainly my intention, citizen.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Victory has blinded you, general,” cried the
representative, imperiously; “take care what you
say or do. If you cherish serpents who are the
enemies of the people, take care that the people do
not crush you and the serpents at the same moment.
This Leopold d’Auverney is an aristocrat, a hater
of the revolution, a royalist, a Girondin! Public
justice demands his head, and he must be given up
to me on the spot.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I cannot do so,” replied the general, coldly.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='304' id='Page_304'></span>
“<span class='it'>How! you cannot do so?</span>” shouted the representative,
whose rage was redoubled at this opposition.
“Are you ignorant, general, of the extent of my
power? I, in the name of the Republic, command
you, and you have no option but to obey. Listen to
me: in consideration of your recent success, I will
read you the report which has been handed in
regarding this D’Auverney, and which I shall send
with him to the Public Prosecutor. ‘Leopold
Auverney (formerly known as D’Auverney), captain
in the 32nd Brigade, is convicted of having, at a
meeting of conspirators, narrated an anti-revolutionary
tale, conducing to the ridicule of the true
principles of Equality and Liberty, and exalting
the worn-out superstitions known under the names
of <span class='it'>royalty</span> and <span class='it'>religion</span>. Convicted, secondly, of
having used expressions deservedly forbidden by
all good republicans, to describe certain recent
events, notably those referring to the negroes
of Saint Domingo. Convicted thirdly, of having
made use of the expression <span class='it'>Monsieur</span> instead of
<span class='it'>Citizen</span> during the whole of his narrative; and, by the
said narrative, of having endeavoured to bring into
contempt the Republic one and indivisible, and also
to propagate the infamous doctrines of the Girondins.’
Death is the punishment for these crimes, and I
demand his body. Do you hesitate, general, to hand
this traitor over to me, to meet the well-merited
punishment of his crimes?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Citizen,” answered the general, with dignity,
“this enemy of his country has given his life for her.
As a contrast to your report, listen to an extract from
<span class='pageno' title='305' id='Page_305'></span>
mine. ‘Leopold d’Auverney, captain in the 32nd
Brigade, has contributed largely to the success that
our arms have obtained. A formidable earthwork
had been erected by the allies; it was the key to their
position, and it was absolutely necessary to carry it
at the point of the bayonet. It was an almost
impregnable position, and the death of the stormers
who led the attack was almost inevitable. Captain
d’Auverney volunteered to lead the forlorn hope; he
carried the earthwork, but was shot down at the
moment of victory. Sergeant Thaddeus of the 32nd,
and a large dog, were found dead within a few paces
of him.’ It was my intention to propose that the
National Convention should pass a vote that the Captain
Leopold d’Auverney had merited the thanks of his
country. You see, Citizen Representative,” continued
the general, calmly, “that our duties differ slightly—we
both send a report to the Convention. The same
name appears in each list: you denounce him as a
traitor, I hold him up to posterity as a hero. You
devote him to ignominy, I to glory; you would erect
a scaffold for him, whilst I propose a statue in his
honour. He is fortunate in having, by death in
action, escaped the infamy you proposed for him.
He whose death you desired is dead—he has not
waited for you.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Furious at seeing his conspiracy disappear with
the conspirator, the Representative muttered—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Dead, is he?—more’s the pity.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The general caught his words, and in indignant
tones exclaimed—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“There is still something left for you, Citizen
<span class='pageno' title='306' id='Page_306'></span>
Representative. Go seek for the body of Captain
d’Auverney amongst the ruins of the redoubt. Who
can tell if the bullets of the enemy may not have
spared his head for his country’s guillotine?”</p>

<hr class='pbk'/>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='307' id='Page_307'></span></p>

<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:4em;font-size:1.2em;'><span class='it'>CLAUDE GUEUX.</span></p>

<hr class='pbk'/>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='309' id='Page_309'></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2>CLAUDE GUEUX.</h2>

<hr class='tbk103'/>
</div>

<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Claude Gueux</span> was a poor workman, living in Paris
about eight years ago, with his mistress and child.
Although his education had been neglected, and he
could not even read, the man was naturally clever
and intelligent, and thought deeply over matters.
Winter came with its attendant miseries—want of
work, want of food, want of fuel. The man, the
woman, the child, were frozen and famished. The
man turned thief. I know not what he stole. What
signifies, as the result was the same: to the woman
and child it gave three days’ bread and firing; to the
man five years’ imprisonment.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He was taken to Clairvaux, the abbey now converted
into a prison, its cells into dungeons, and the
altar itself into a pillory. This is called progress.</p>

<p class='pindent'>But to continue our story. Claude Gueux the honest
workman, turned thief from force of circumstances,
had a countenance which impressed you: a high
forehead somewhat lined with care, dark hair already
streaked with grey, deep-set eyes beaming with
kindness; whilst the lower part clearly indicated
<span class='pageno' title='310' id='Page_310'></span>
firmness mingled with self-respect. He rarely spoke,
yet there was a certain dignity in the man which
commanded respect and obedience. A fine character,
and we shall see what society made of it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Over the prison workshop was an inspector, who
rarely forgot that he was the gaoler also, to his
subordinates, handing them the tools with one hand,
and casting chains upon them with the other. A
tyrant, never using even self-reasoning, with ideas
against which there was no appeal, hard rather than
firm, at times he could even be jocular; doubtless a
good father, a good husband, really not vicious, but
<span class='it'>bad</span>. He was one of those men who never can grasp
a fresh idea, who apparently fail to be moved by any
emotion; yet with hatred and rage in their hearts
they look like blocks of wood, heated on the one
side but frozen on the other. This man’s chief
characteristic was obstinacy; and so proud was he
of this very stubbornness that he compared himself
to Napoleon—an optical delusion, like taking the
mere flicker of a candle for a star. When he had
made up his mind to a thing, however absurd, he
would carry out that absurd idea. How often it
happens, when a catastrophe occurs, if we inquire
into the cause, we find it originated through the
obstinacy of one with little ability, but having full
faith in his own powers.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Such was the inspector of the prison workshop at
Clairvaux; a man of flint placed by society over
others, who hoped to strike sparks out of such
material—but a spark from a like source is apt to
end in a conflagration.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='311' id='Page_311'></span>
The inspector soon singled out Claude Gueux, who
had been numbered and placed in the workshop, and,
finding him clever, treated him well. Seeing Claude
looking sad—for he was ever thinking of her he
termed his wife—and being in a good humour, by way
of pastime to console the prisoner, he told him the
woman had become one of the unfortunate sisterhood,
and taken to infamy; of the child nothing was
known.</p>

<p class='pindent'>After a time Claude had accustomed himself to
prison rule, and by his calmness of manner, and a
certain amount of resolution clearly marked in his
face, he had acquired a great ascendency over his
companions, who so much admired him that they
consulted, and tried in all ways to imitate him. The
very expression in his eyes clearly indicated the man’s
character; besides, is not the eye the window to the
soul, and what other result could be anticipated than
that the intelligent spirit should lead men with few
ideas, who yielded to the attraction as the metal
does to the loadstone. In less than three months
Claude was the virtual head of the workshop, and at
times he almost doubted whether he was king or
prisoner, treated something like a captive pope,
surrounded by his cardinals. Such popularity ever
has its attendant hatred, and though beloved by the
prisoners, Claude was detested by the gaolers. To
him two men’s rations would have been scarcely
sufficient. The inspector laughed at this, as his own
appetite was large; but what would be mirth to a
duke, to a prisoner would be a great misfortune.
When a free man Claude Gueux could earn his daily
<span class='pageno' title='312' id='Page_312'></span>
four-pound loaf and enjoy it, but as a prisoner he
daily worked, and for his labour received one pound
and a-half of bread and four ounces of meat; it
naturally followed that he was always hungry.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He had just finished his meagre fare, and was
about to resume his labours, hoping in work to
forget famine, when a weakly-looking young man
came towards him, holding a knife and his untasted
rations in his hand, but seemingly afraid to address
him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What do you want?” said Claude, roughly.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“A favour at your hands,” timidly replied the
young man.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What is it?” said Claude.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Help me with my rations, I have more than I
can eat.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>For a moment Claude was taken aback, but without
further ceremony he divided the food in two and
at once partook of one half.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Thank you,” said the young man, “and allow
me to share my rations with you every day.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What is your name?” said Claude.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Albin.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Why are you here?” added Claude.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I robbed.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“So did I,” said Claude.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The same scene took place daily between this man,
old before his time—he was only thirty-six—and the
boy of twenty, who looked at the most seventeen.
The feeling was more like that of father and son
than one brother to another; everything created a
bond of union between them—the very toil they
<span class='pageno' title='313' id='Page_313'></span>
endured together, the fact of sleeping in the same
quarters and taking exercise in the same courtyard.
They were happy, for were they not all the world to
each other!</p>

<p class='pindent'>The inspector of the workshop was so hated by the
prisoners that he often had recourse to Claude Gueux
to enforce his authority; and when a tumult was on
the point of breaking out, a few words from Claude
had more effect than the authority of ten warders.
Although the inspector was glad to avail himself of
this influence, he was jealous, and hated the improved
robber with an envious and implacable feeling—an
example of might over right, all the more fearful as
it was secretly nourished. Claude cared so much
for Albin that he thought little about the inspector.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One morning as the warders were going their rounds
one of them summoned Albin, who was working with
Claude, to go before the inspector.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What are you wanted for?” said Claude.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I do not know,” replied Albin, following the
warder.</p>

<p class='pindent'>All day Claude looked in vain for his companion,
and at night, finding him still absent, he broke
through his ordinary reserve and addressed the turnkey.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Is Albin ill?” said he.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No,” replied the man.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“How is it that he has never put in an appearance
to-day?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“His quarters have been changed,” was the reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>For a moment Claude trembled, then calmly
continued—</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='314' id='Page_314'></span>
“Who gave the order?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Monsieur D——.” This was the inspector’s name.</p>

<p class='pindent'>On the following night the inspector, Monsieur
D——, went his rounds as usual; Claude, who had
perceived him from the distance, rose, and hastened
to raise his woollen cap and button his grey woollen
vest to the throat—considered a mark of respect to
superiors in prison discipline.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir,” said Claude, as the inspector was about to
pass him, “has Albin really been quartered elsewhere?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” replied the inspector.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir, I cannot live without him. You know the
rations are insufficient for me, and Albin divided his
portion with me. Could you not manage to let him
resume his old place near me?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Impossible, the order cannot be revoked.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“By whom was it given?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“By me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Monsieur D——,” replied Claude, “on you my
life depends.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I never cancel an order once given.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir, what have I ever done to you?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Nothing.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Why, then,” cried Claude, “separate me from
Albin?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Because I do,” replied the inspector, and with
that he passed on.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude’s head sunk down, like the poor caged
lion deprived of his dog; but the grief, though so
deeply felt, in no way changed his appetite—he
was famished. Many offered to share their rations
<span class='pageno' title='315' id='Page_315'></span>
with him, but he steadily refused, and continued his
usual routine in silence, breaking it only to ask the
inspector daily, in tones of anguish mingled with
rage, something between a prayer and a threat, these
two words:</p>

<p class='pindent'>“And Albin?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The inspector simply passed on, shrugging his
shoulders, but had he only observed Claude he would
have seen the evident change, noticeable to all present.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir, listen to me; send my companion to me. It
would be wise to do so, I can assure you. Remember
my words.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>On Sunday he had sat for hours in the courtyard,
with his head bowed in his hands, and when a prisoner
called Faillette came up laughing, he said—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I am judging someone.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>On the 25th of October, 1831, as the inspector went
his rounds, Claude, to draw his attention, smashed a
watch-glass he had found in the passage. This had
the desired effect.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“It was I,” said Claude. “Sir, restore my comrade
to me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Impossible,” was the answer.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Looking the inspector full in the face, Claude
firmly added—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Now reflect; to-day is the 25th of October, I
give you till the 4th of November.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>A warder remarked that Claude was threatening
Monsieur D——, and ought at once to be locked up.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“No, it is not a case of blackhole,” replied the
inspector, smiling disdainfully; “we must be considerate
with people of this stamp.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='316' id='Page_316'></span>
The following day Claude was again accosted by
one of the prisoners named Pernot, as he was brooding
in the courtyard.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Well, Claude, you are sad indeed; what are you
pondering over?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I fear some evil threatens that good Monsieur
D——,” answered Claude.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude daily impressed the fact on the inspector
how much Albin’s absence affected him, but with
no result save four-and-twenty hours’ solitary confinement.</p>

<p class='pindent'>On the 4th of November he looked round his cell
for the little that remained to remind him of his
former life. A pair of scissors, and an old volume
of the “Emile,” belonging to the woman he had
loved so well, the mother of his child—how useless
to a man who could neither work nor read!</p>

<p class='pindent'>As Claude walked down the old cloisters, so dishonoured
by its new inmates and its fresh white-washed
walls, he noticed how earnestly the convict
Ferrari was looking at the heavy iron bars which
crossed the window.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“To-night I will cut through those bars with these
scissors,” pointing to the pair he still held in his hand.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Ferrari laughed incredulously, and Claude joined
in the mirth. During the day he worked with more
than ordinary ardour, wishing to finish a straw hat,
which he had been paid for in advance by a tradesman
at Troyes, M. Bressier.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Shortly before noon he made some excuse to go
down into the carpenters’ quarters, a story below
his own, at the time the warders were absent.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='317' id='Page_317'></span>
Claude received a hearty welcome, as he was
equally popular here as elsewhere.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Can any one lend me an axe?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What for?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Without exacting any promises of secrecy he at
once replied—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“To kill the inspector with to-night.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He was at once offered several; choosing the
smallest, he hid it beneath his waistcoat and left.
Now there were twenty-seven prisoners present,
and not one of those men betrayed him; they even
refrained from talking upon the subject among themselves,
waiting for the terrible event which must
follow.</p>

<p class='pindent'>As Claude passed on he saw a young convict of
sixteen yawning idly there, and he strongly advised
him to learn how to read. Just then Faillette asked
what he was hiding. Claude answered unhesitatingly—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“An axe to kill Monsieur D—— to-night; but can
you see it?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“A little,” said Faillette.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At seven o’clock the prisoners were locked in their
several workshops. It was then the custom for the
warders to leave them, until the inspector had been
his rounds.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In Claude’s workshop a most extraordinary scene
took place, the only one of the kind on record.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude rose and addressed his companions, eighty-four
in number, in the following words:</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You all know Albin and I were like brothers. I
liked him at first for sharing his rations with me,
<span class='pageno' title='318' id='Page_318'></span>
afterwards because he cared for me. Now I never
have sufficient, though I spend the pittance I earn
in bread. It could make no possible difference to
the inspector, Monsieur D——, that we should be
together; but he chose to separate us simply from a
love of tormenting, for he is a bad man. I asked
again and again for Albin to be sent back, without
success; and when I gave him a stated time, the 4th
of November, I was thrust into a dungeon. During
that time I became his judge, and sentenced him to
death on November the 4th. In two hours he will
be here, and I warn you I intend to kill him. But
have you anything to say?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>There was a dead silence. Claude then continued
telling his comrades, the eighty-one thieves, his ideas
on the subject.</p>

<p class='pindent'>That he was reduced to a fearful extremity, and
compelled by that very necessity to take the law into
his own hands. He knew full well he could not take
the inspector’s life without sacrificing his own; but
as the cause was a just one, he would bear the consequences,
having come to this conclusion after two
months’ calm reflection. If they considered resentment
alone hurried him on to such a step, they were
at once to say so, and to state their objections to
the sentence being carried out.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One voice alone broke the silence which followed,
saying—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Before killing the inspector, Claude ought to
give him a chance of relenting.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“That is but just,” said Claude, “and he shall
have the benefit of the doubt.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='319' id='Page_319'></span>
Claude then sorted the few things a poor prisoner
is allowed, and gave them to the comrades he mostly
cared for after Albin, keeping only the pair of scissors.
He then embraced them all; some could not withhold
their tears at such a moment. Claude continued
calmly to converse during this last hour, and even
gave way to a trick he had as a boy, of extinguishing
the candle with a breath from his nose. Seeing him
thus, his companions afterwards owned, they hoped
he had abandoned his sinister idea.</p>

<p class='pindent'>One young convict looked at him fixedly, trembling
for the coming event.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Take courage, young fellow,” said Claude, gently,
“it will be but the work of a minute.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The workshop was a long room with a door at both
ends, and windows each side overlooking the benches,
thus leaving a pathway up the centre for the inspector
to review the work on both sides of him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude had now resumed his work—something like
Jacques Clement, who did not fail to repeat his
prayers.</p>

<p class='pindent'>As the clock sounded the last quarter to nine,
Claude rose and placed himself near the entrance,
apparently calm.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Amidst the most profound silence the clock struck
nine; the door was thrown open, and the inspector
came in as usual alone, looking quite jovial and self-satisfied,
passing rapidly along, tossing his head at
one, grinding words out to another, little heeding the
eyes fixed so fiercely upon him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Just then he heard Claude’s step, and turning
quickly round said—</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='320' id='Page_320'></span>
“What are you doing here? why are you not in
your place?” just as he would have spoken to a dog.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude answered respectfully—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I wish to speak to you, sir.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“On what subject?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Albin.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Again!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Always the same,” said Claude.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“So then,” replied the inspector, walking along,
“you have not had enough with twenty-four hours in
the blackhole.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude, following him closely, replied—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir, return my companion to me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Impossible.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Sir,” continued Claude, in a voice which would
have moved Satan, “I implore you to send Albin
back to me; you will then see how I will work. You
are free, and it would matter but little to you; you do
not know the feeling of having only one friend. To
me it is everything, encircled by the prison walls.
You can come and go at your pleasure; I have but
Albin. Pray let him come back to me! You know
well he shared his food with me. What can it matter
to you that a man named Claude Gueux should be in
this hall, having another by his side called Albin?
You have but to say ‘Yes,’ nothing more. Sir, my
good sir, I implore you, in the name of heaven, to
grant my prayer!”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude, overcome with emotion, waited for the
answer.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Impossible,” replied the inspector, impatiently;
“I will not recall my words. Now go, you annoyance.”</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='321' id='Page_321'></span>
And with that he hurried on towards the outer door,
amidst the breathless silence maintained by the
eighty-one thieves.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude, touching the inspector, gently asked—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Let me at least know why I am condemned to
death. Why did you separate us?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“I have already answered you: because I chose.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>With that he was about to lift the latch, when
Claude raised the axe, and without one cry the
inspector fell to the ground, with his skull completely
cloven from three heavy blows dealt with the rapidity
of lightning. A fourth completely disfigured his face,
and Claude, in his mad fury, gave another and a useless
blow, for the inspector was dead.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude, throwing the axe aside, cried out, “Now for
the other.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The other was himself, and taking the scissors, <span class='it'>his
wife’s</span>, he plunged them into his breast; but the blade
was short, and the chest was deep, and vainly he
strove to give the fatal blow. At last, covered with
blood, he fell fainting across the dead.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Which of the two would be considered the victim?</p>

<p class='pindent'>When Claude recovered consciousness he was in
bed, surrounded by every care and covered with
bandages. Near him were sisters of charity, and a
recorder ready to take down his deposition, who
with much interest inquired how he was.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude had lost a great deal of blood, but the
scissors had done him a bad turn, inflicting wounds
not one the least dangerous: the only mortal blows
he had struck were on the body of Monsieur D——.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Then the interrogatory commenced.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='322' id='Page_322'></span>
“Did you kill the inspector of the prison workshops
at Clairvaux?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” was the reply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Why did you do so?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Because I did.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude’s wounds now assumed a more serious
aspect, and he was prostrated with fever which
threatened his life. November, December, January,
February passed, in nursing and preparations, and
Claude in turn was visited by doctor and judge—the
one to restore him to health, the other to glean the
foundation for his scaffold.</p>

<p class='pindent'>On the 16th of March, 1832, perfectly cured, Claude
appeared in court at Troyes, to answer the charge
brought against him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>His appearance impressed the court favourably;
he had been shaved and stood bareheaded, but still
clad in prison garb.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The court was well guarded by a strong military
guard, to keep the witnesses within bounds, as they
were all convicts. But an unexpected difficulty
occurred: not one of these men would give evidence;
neither questions nor threats availed to make them
break their silence, until Claude requested them to
do so. Then they in turn gave a faithful account of
the terrible event, and if one, from forgetfulness or
affection for the accused, failed to relate the whole
facts, Claude supplied the deficiency.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At one time the women’s tears fell fast. The
usher now called the convict Albin. He came in
trembling with emotion and sobbing painfully, and
threw himself into Claude’s arms.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='323' id='Page_323'></span>
Turning to the Public Prosecutor, Claude said—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Here is a convict who gives his food to the
hungry,” and stooping, he kissed Albin’s hand.</p>

<p class='pindent'>All the witnesses having been examined, the
counsel for the prosecution then rose to address the
court.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Gentlemen of the jury, society would be utterly
put to confusion if a public prosecution did not
condemn great culprits like him, who, &amp;c.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>After a long address, Claude’s counsel rose.
Then followed the usual pleading for and against,
which ever takes place at the criminal court.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Claude, in his turn, gave evidence, and people were
astonished at his intelligence; and there appeared far
more of the orator about this poor workman than the
assassin. In a clear and straightforward way he
detailed the facts as they were—standing proudly
there, resolved to tell the whole truth. At times
the crowd was carried away by his eloquence. This
man, who could not read, would grasp the most
difficult points of argument, yet treat the judges
with all due deference. Once Claude lost his temper,
when the counsel for the prosecution stated that he
had assassinated the inspector without provocation.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What!” cried Claude, “I had no provocation!
Indeed: so a drunkard strikes me, I kill him, then
you would allow there was provocation—the penalty
of death would be changed for that of the galleys;
but a man who wounds me in every way during four
years, humiliates me for four years, taunts me daily,
hourly, for four years, and heaps every insult on
my head—what follows? You consider I have
<span class='pageno' title='324' id='Page_324'></span>
had no provocation. I had a wife for whom I robbed—he
tortured me about her; I had a child for whom
I robbed—he taunted me about this child; I was
hungry, a friend shared his bread with me—he took
away my friend. I begged him to return my friend
to me; he cast me into a dungeon. I told him how
much I suffered; he said it wearied him to listen.
What then would you have me do? I took his life,
and you look upon me as a monster for killing this
man, and you decapitate me—then do so.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>Provocation such as this the law fails to acknowledge,
because the blows have no marks to show.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The judge then summed up the case in a clear and
impartial manner; dwelling on the life Claude had
led, living openly with an improper character; then
he had robbed, and ended by being a murderer. All
this was true.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Before the jury retired, the judge asked Claude if
he had any questions to ask, or anything to say.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Very little,” said Claude, however. “I am a
murderer, I am a thief; but I ask you, gentlemen of
the jury, why did I kill? why did I steal?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The jury retired for a quarter of an hour, and
according to the judgment of these twelve countrymen—<span class='it'>gentlemen
of the jury</span>, as they are styled—Claude
Gueux was condemned to death.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At the very onset several of them were much impressed
with the name of Gueux (vagabond), and
that influenced their decision.</p>

<p class='pindent'>When the verdict was pronounced, Claude simply
said—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Very well; but there are two questions these
<span class='pageno' title='325' id='Page_325'></span>
gentlemen have not answered. Why did this man
steal? What made him a murderer?”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He made a good supper that night, exclaiming,
“Thirty-six years have now passed me.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He refused to make any appeal until the last
minute, but at the instance of one of the sisters who
had nursed him he consented to do so.</p>

<p class='pindent'>She in her fulness of heart gave him a five-franc
piece.</p>

<p class='pindent'>His fellow-prisoners, as we have already noticed,
were devoted to him, and placed all the means at
their disposal to help him to escape: they threw
into his dungeon, through the air-hole, a nail, some
wire, the handle of a pail—any one of these would
have been enough for a man like Claude to free himself
from his chains; he gave them up to the warder.</p>

<p class='pindent'>On the 8th of June, 1832, seven months and four
days after the murder, the recorder of the court
came, and Claude was told he had but one hour
more to live, for his appeal had been rejected.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Indeed,” said Claude, coldly; “I slept well last
night, and doubtless I shall pass my next even
better.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>First came the priest, then the executioner. He
was humble to the priest, and listened to him with
great attention, regretting much that he had not had
the benefit of religious training; at the same time
blaming himself for much in the past.</p>

<p class='pindent'>He was courteous in his manner to the executioner;
in fact he gave up all—his soul to the priest,
his body to the executioner.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Whilst his hair was being cut, some one mentioned
<span class='pageno' title='326' id='Page_326'></span>
how the cholera was spreading, and Troyes
at any moment might become a prey to this fearful
scourge. Claude joined in the conversation, saying,
with a smile—“There is one thing to be said, I have
no fear of the cholera.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>He had broken half of the scissors; what remained
he asked the gaoler to give to Albin—the other half
lay buried in his chest. He also wished the day’s
rations to be taken to his friend.</p>

<p class='pindent'>The only trifle he retained was the five-franc
piece that the sister had given him, which he kept
in his right hand after he was bound.</p>

<p class='pindent'>At a quarter to eight, the dismal procession usual
in such cases left the prison. Pale, but with a firm
tread, Claude Gueux slowly mounted the scaffold,
keeping his eyes fixed on the crucifix the priest
carried—an emblem of the Saviour’s suffering. He
wished to embrace the priest and the executioner,
thanking the one and pardoning the other. The
executioner simply repulsed him.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Just before he was bound to the infernal machine
he gave the five-franc piece to the priest, saying,
“For the poor.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>The hour had scarcely struck its eight chimes,
when this man, so noble, so intelligent, received the
fatal blow which severed his head from his body.</p>

<p class='pindent'>A market-day had been chosen for the time of
execution, as there would be more people about, for
there are still in France small towns who glory in
having an execution. The guillotine that day remained,
inflaming the imagination of the mob to
that extent that one of the tax-gatherers was nearly
<span class='pageno' title='327' id='Page_327'></span>
murdered: such is the admirable effect of public
executions.</p>

<p class='pindent'>We have given the history of Claude Gueux’s life,
more to solve a difficult problem than for aught
else. In his life there are two questions to be considered.
Before his fall, and after his fall. What was
his training, and what was the penalty? This must
interest society generally, for this man was well gifted,
his instincts were good: then what was wanting?
On this revolves the grand problem which would
place society on a firm basis.</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>What nature has commenced in the individual, let
society carry out.</span> Look at Claude Gueux. An intelligent
and most noble-hearted man, placed in the
midst of evil surroundings, he turned thief. Society
placed him in a prison where the evil was yet greater,
and he ended with becoming a murderer.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Can we really blame him, or ourselves?—questions
which require deep thought, or the result will be
that we shall be <span class='it'>compelled</span> to shirk this most important
subject. The facts are now before us, and
if the government gives no thought to the matter,
what are the rulers about?</p>

<p class='pindent'>The Deputies are yearly much occupied. It is
important to sift sinecures and to unravel the
budget; to pass an act which compels me, disguised
as a soldier, to mount guard at the Count de Lobau’s,
whom I do not know, and to whom I wish to remain
a stranger; or to go on parade under the command
of my grocer, who has been made an officer. I wish
to cast no reflections on the patrol, who keep order
and protect our homes, but on the absurdity of
<span class='pageno' title='328' id='Page_328'></span>
making such parade and military hubbub about turning
citizens into parodies of soldiers.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Deputies or ministers, it is important we should
sound every subject, even though it end in nothing,
to question and cross-question what we know but
little about. Rulers and legislators, you pass your
time in classical comparisons that would make a
village schoolmaster smile. You assert that it is the
habits of modern civilization that have engendered
adultery, incest, parricide, infanticide, and poisoning—proving
that you know little of Jocasta Phedra,
Œdipus, Medea, or Rodoguna. The great orators
occupy themselves in lengthy discussions on
Corneille and Racine, and get so heated in literary
argument as to make the grossest mistakes in the
French language.</p>

<p class='pindent'>Very important indeed all this is, but we consider
there are subjects of far greater consequence.</p>

<p class='pindent'>In the midst of such useless arguments, what
answer would the Deputies give if one rose and
gravely addressed them in the following words:—</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Silence, all those who have been speaking—silence
I say! You consider yourself acquainted
with the question: you know nothing about it.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The question is this. In the name of justice,
scarcely a year ago, a man at Panners was cut to
pieces; at Dijon a woman’s head was taken off;
in Paris, at Saint Jacques, executions take place
without number.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“This is the question! Now take your time to
consider it, you who argue over the buttons of the
national guard, whether they should be white or
yellow, and if <span class='it'>security</span> is preferable to <span class='it'>certainty</span>!</p>

<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='329' id='Page_329'></span>
“Gentlemen of the Right, gentleman of the Left,
the great mass of the people suffer!</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Whether a republic or a monarchy, the fact
remains the same—the people suffer!</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The people are famished, the people are frozen.
Such misery leads them on to crime: the galleys take
the sons, houses of ill-fame the daughters. You
have too many convicts, too many unfortunates.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“What is the meaning of this social gangrene?</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You are near the patient: treat the malady.
You are at fault: now study the matter more deeply.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“When you pass laws, what are they but expedients
and palliatives? Half your codes result
from routine.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Branding but cauterizes the wound, and it mortifies,
and what is the end? You stamp the crime for
life on the criminal; you make two friends of them,
two companions—inseparables. The convict prison
is a blister which spreads far worse matter than ever
it extracts; and as for the sentence of death, when
carried out it is a barbarous amputation.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Therefore, branding, penal servitude, and sentence
of death are all of one class; you have done
away with the branding, banish the rest. Why keep
the chain and the chopper now you have put aside
the hot iron? Farinace was atrocious, but he was
not ridiculous.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Take down that worn ladder that leads to crime
and to suffering. Revise your laws; revise your codes;
rebuild your prisons; replace your judges. Make
laws suited to the present time</p>

<p class='pindent'>“You are bent on economy; do not be so lavish in
<span class='pageno' title='330' id='Page_330'></span>
taking off the heads of so many during the year.
Suppress the executioner; you could defray the expenses
of six hundred schoolmasters with the wages
you give your eighty executioners. Think of the
multitude; then there would be schools for the
children, workshops for the men.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Do you know that in France there are fewer
people who know how to read than in any other
country in Europe? Fancy, Switzerland can read,
Belgium can read, Denmark can read, Greece can
read, Ireland can read—and France cannot read! It
is a crying evil.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Go into our convict prisons, examine each one of
these condemned men, and you will observe by the
profile, the shape of the head, how many could find
their type in the lower animals. Here are the lynx,
the cat, the monkey, the vulture, the hyena. Nature
was first to blame, no doubt; but the want of training
fostered the evil. Then give the people a fair
education, and what there is of good in these ill-conditioned
minds, let that be developed.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“People must be judged by their opportunities.
Rome and Greece were educated: then brighten
the people’s intellect.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“When France can read, then give the people
encouragement for higher things. Ignorance is
preferable to a little ill-directed knowledge; and
remember, there is a book of far greater importance
than the <span class='it'>Compère Mathieu</span>, more popular than the
<span class='it'>Constitutionel</span>, and more worthy of perusal than the
charter of 1830—that is the Bible.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Whatever you may do for the people, the majority
<span class='pageno' title='331' id='Page_331'></span>
will always remain poor and unhappy. Theirs the
work, the heavy burden to carry, to endure: all the
miseries for the poor, all the pleasures for the rich.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“As such is life, ought not the State to lean to the
weaker and helpless side.”</p>

<p class='pindent'>“In the midst of all this wretchedness, if you
but throw hope in the balance, let the poor man
learn there is a heaven where joy reigns, a paradise
that he can share, and you raise him; he feels that
he has a part in the rich man’s joys. And this was
the teaching Jesus gave, and He knew more about it
than Voltaire.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Then give to these people who work, and who
suffer here, the hope of a different world to come, and
they will go on patiently. For patience but follows
in the footsteps of hope.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Then spread the Gospel in all our villages, let
every cottage have its Bible; the seed thus sown
will soon circulate. Encourage virtue, and from
that will spring so much that now lies fallow.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“The man turned assassin under certain circumstances,
if differently influenced would have served
his country well.</p>

<p class='pindent'>“Then give the people all encouragement; improve
the masses, enlighten them, guard their
morals, make them useful, and to such heads as those
you will not require to use cold steel.”</p>

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