Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune. Lever Charles James
accoutrements proclaimed a true soldier of the Republic. One of the large hurdles used for carrying the prisoners to the Place stood in one corner, and two or three workmen were busied in repairing it for the coming occasion.
So much I had time to observe, as we passed along; and now we entered a dimly lighted corridor of great extent; passing down which, we emerged into a second cour, traversed by a species of canal or river, over which a bridge led. In the middle of this was a strongly barred iron gate, guarded by two sentries. As we arrived here, our names were called aloud by a species of turnkey; and at the call ‘Tristan,’ I advanced, and, removing the covers from the different dishes, submitted them for inspection to an old, savage-looking fellow, who, with a long steel fork, pricked the pieces of meat, as though anything could have been concealed within them. Meanwhile, another fellow examined my cotton cap and pocket, and passed his hands along my arms and body. The whole did not last more than a few minutes, and the word ‘forward’ was given to pass on. The gloom of the place – the silence, only broken by the heavy bang of an iron-barred door, or the clank of chains, the sad thoughts of the many who trod these corridors on their way to death – depressed me greatly, and equally unprepared me for what was to come; for as we drew near the great hall, the busy hum of voices, the sound of laughter, and the noises of a large assembly in full converse, suddenly burst upon the ear; and as the wide doors were thrown open, I beheld above a hundred people, who, either gathered in single groups, or walking up and down in parties, seemed all in the fullest enjoyment of social intercourse.
A great table, with here and there a large flagon of water, or a huge loaf of the coarse bread used by the peasantry, ran from end to end of the chamber. A few had already taken their places at this, but some were satisfied with laying a cap or a kerchief on the bench opposite their accustomed seat; while others again had retired into windows and corners, as if to escape the general gaze, and partake of their humble meal in solitude.
Whatever restrictions prison discipline might have exercised elsewhere, here the widest liberty seemed to prevail. The talk was loud, and even boisterous; the manner to the turnkeys exhibited nothing of fear: the whole assemblage presented rather the aspect of a gathering of riotous republicans than of a band of prisoners under sentence. And yet such were the greater number, and the terrible slip of paper attached to the back of each, with a date, told the day on which he was to die.
As I lingered to gaze on this strange gathering, I was admonished to move on, and now perceived that my companion had advanced to the end of the hall, by which a small flight of stone steps led out upon a terrace – at the end of which we entered another and not less spacious chamber, equally crowded and noisy. Here the company were of both sexes, and of every grade and condition of rank – from the highest noble of the former Court, to the humblest peasant of La Vendee. If the sounds of mirth and levity were less frequent, the buzz of conversation was, to the full, as loud as in the lower hall, where, from difference of condition in life, the scenes passing presented stranger and more curious contrasts. In one corner a group of peasants were gathered around a white-haired priest, who, in a low but earnest voice, was uttering his last exhortation to them; in another, some young and fashionably dressed men were exhibiting to a party of ladies the very airs and graces by which they would have adorned a saloon; here, was a party at piquet – there, a little group, arranging, for the last time, their household cares, and settling, with a few small coins, the account of mutual expenditure. Of the ladies, several were engaged at needlework – some little preparation for the morrow – the last demand that ever vanity was to make of them!
Although there was matter of curiosity in all around me, my eyes sought for hut one object, the curé of St. Blois. Twice or thrice, from the similarity of dress, I was deceived, and, at last, when I really did behold him, as he sat alone in a window, reading, I could scarcely satisfy myself of the reality, he was lividly pale, his eyes deep sunk, and surrounded with two dark circles, while along his worn cheek the tears had marked two channels of purple colour. What need of the guillotine there – the lamp of life was in its last flicker without it.
Our names were called, and the meats placed upon the table. Just as the head-turnkey was about to give the order to be seated, a loud commotion, and a terrible uproar in the court beneath, drew every one to the window. It was a hurdle which, emerging from an archway, broke down from overcrowding; and now the confusion of prisoners, gaolers, and sentries, with plunging horses and screaming sufferers, made a scene of the wildest uproar. Chained two by two, the prisoners were almost helpless, and in their efforts to escape injury made the most terrific struggle. Such were the instincts of life in those on the very road to death!
Resolving to profit by the moment of confusion, I hastened to the window, where alone, unmoved by the general commotion, sat the Père Michel. He lifted his glassy eyes as I came near, and in a low, mild voice said —
‘Thanks, my good boy, but I have no money to pay thee; nor does it matter much now – it is but another day.
I could have cried as I heard these sad words; but mastering emotions which would have lost time so precious, I drew close, and whispered —
‘Père Michel, it is I, your own Maurice.’
He started, and a deep flush suffused his cheek; and then stretching out his hand, he pushed back my cap, and parted the hair of my forehead, as if doubting the reality of what he saw; when with a weak voice he said —
‘No, no, thou art not my own Maurice. His eyes shone not with that worldly lustre – thine do; his brow was calm, and fair as children’s should be – thine is marked with manhood’s craft and subtlety; and yet, thou art like him.’
A low sob broke from me as I listened to his words, and the tears gushed forth, and rolled in torrents down my cheeks.
‘Yes,’ cried he, clasping me in his arms, ‘thou art my own dear boy. I know thee now; but how art thou here, and thus?’ and he touched my blouse as he spoke.
‘I came to see and to save you, père,’ said I. ‘Nay, do not try to discourage me, but rather give me all your aid. I saw her – I was with her in her last moments at the guillotine; she gave me a message for you, but this you shall never hear till we are without these walls.’
‘It cannot be, it cannot be,’ said he sorrowfully.
‘It can and shall be,’ said I resolutely. ‘I have merely assumed this dress for the occasion; I have friends, powerful and willing to protect me. Let us change robes – give me that “soutane,” and put on the blouse. When you leave this, hasten to the old garden of the chapel, and wait for my coming – I will join you there before night.’
‘It cannot be,’ replied he again.
‘Again I say, it shall, and must be. Nay, if you still refuse, there shall be two victims, for I will tear off the dress here where I stand, and openly declare myself the son of the Royalist Tiernay.’
Already the commotion in the court beneath was beginning to subside, and even now the turnkeys’ voices were heard in the refectory, recalling the prisoners to table – another moment and it would have been too late: it was, then, less by persuasion than by actual force I compelled him to yield, and, pulling off his black serge gown, drew over his shoulders my yellow blouse, and placed upon his head the white cap of the ‘Marmiton.’ The look of shame and sorrow of the poor curé would have betrayed him at once, if any had given themselves the trouble to look at him.
‘And thou, my poor child,’ said he, as he saw me array myself in his priestly dress, ‘what is to be thy fate?’
‘All will depend upon you, Père Michel,’ said I, holding him by the arm, and trying to fix his wandering attention. ‘Once out of the prison, write to Boivin, the restaurateur of the “Scélérat,” and tell him that an escaped convict has scruples for the danger into which he has brought a poor boy, one of his “Marmitons,” and whom by a noxious drug he has lulled into insensibility, while, having exchanged clothes, he has managed his escape. Boivin will comprehend the danger he himself runs by leaving me here. All will go well – and now there’s not a moment to lose. Take up your basket, and follow the others.’
‘But the falsehood of all this,’ cried the père.
‘But your life,