‘Agreed, Monsieur. But let’s suppose that you were not a lieutenant on your own authority or a captain on mine, seeing that neither you nor I had the power to sign a commission, at least you were Governor of Braune. And since this time it is the king who signed your papers, you cannot deny the value of the commission.’
‘Madame,’ Cauvignac replied, ‘of the three, that is the one that is most questionable.’
‘Why on earth?’ the princess cried.
‘Because I was appointed, I agree, but I did not take up my position. And what constitutes the rank? Not the ownership of the title, but carrying out the functions attributed to it. I did not fulfil any of the functions of the role to which I had been appointed, or set foot in my jurisdiction, or start to carry out my office, so I was no more Governor of Braune than I was captain before being governor or lieutenant before being captain.’
‘And yet, you were found on the road to Braune, Monsieur.’
‘Certainly, but a hundred yards from the point at which I was arrested, the road forks: one path leads to Braune, while the other goes to Isson. Who says that I might not have been going to Isson rather than Braune?’
‘Very well,’ the princess said. ‘The court will consider your defence. Clerk, write: “Governor of Braune”.’
‘I have done so, Madame,’ he replied.
‘Good. Now, Monsieur,’ the princess told Cauvignac, ‘sign your deposition.’
‘It would give me the greatest pleasure, Madame,’ said Cauvignac. ‘I should have been delighted to do something to please Your Highness, but while I was struggling this morning against the Bordeaux mob – a situation from which Your Highness graciously relieved me through the intervention of her musketeers – I had the misfortune to injure my right wrist, and I have never been able to write with the left hand.’
‘Note the prisoner’s refusal,’ the princess said.
‘Incapacity, clerk, write “incapacity”,’ Cauvignac said. ‘Heaven forbid that I should refuse anything to such a great princess as Your Highness, were it in my power.’
Bowing in the most respectful manner, Cauvignac left, together with his two guards.
‘I think you are right, Monsieur Lenet,’ said the Duke de La Rochefoucauld. ‘We made a mistake in not getting that man on our side.’
Lenet had too much on his mind to reply. His normal perspicacity had let him down on this occasion; he had been hoping that Cauvignac would attract the full anger of the court, but the mercenary, with his endless evasions, had amused his judges, rather than annoying them. His cross-examination had merely erased the effect produced by that of Canolles: the nobility, honesty and loyalty of the first prisoner had, so to speak, vanished beneath the wiles of the second: Cauvignac had wiped out Canolles.
So, when it was put to the vote, the result was unanimously in favour of death.
The princess had the votes counted and, rising to her feet, solemnly pronounced the verdict of the court.
Then each of them in turn signed the record of the proceedings. The first was the Duke d’Enghien, a poor child who did not know what he was doing, and whose first official signature was to cost a man’s life. After him, the princess, then the dukes, the ladies of the council, the officers and the sheriffs – meaning that everyone had a share in the reprisals, and all would have to be punished: nobility and bourgeoisie, army and parliament. And, as we know, when everyone in general has to be punished, no one is.
Then, when everyone had signed, the princess – finally having her revenge, and one that satisfied her pride – went herself to open the window that had already been opened twice and gave way to her overwhelming need for popular acclaim, shouting aloud: ‘People of Bordeaux! Richon will be avenged, and worthily so – count on us!’
A shout of ‘Hurrah’ like a clap of thunder greeted this announcement, and the people scattered through the streets, joyfully anticipating the spectacle promised by the princess’s words.
But Madame de Condé had hardly returned to the room with Lenet, who was following sadly behind, still hoping to make her change her mind, than the door opened, and Madame de Cambes, pale and distraught, threw herself at the princess’s knees.
‘Madame, Madame, in heaven’s name, listen to me! I beg you, do not push me aside!’
‘What is it, child?’ the princess asked. ‘Why are you weeping?’
‘I am weeping, Madame, because I have been told that the sentence was death and that you confirmed it. But, Madame, you cannot kill Monsieur de Canolles.’
‘Why not, dear? After all, they killed Richon.’
‘But this was the same Monsieur de Canolles who saved Your Highness in Chantilly.’
‘Should I be grateful to him for being taken in by our trick?’
‘Ah, Madame, that’s just where you’re wrong. Monsieur de Canolles was not taken in for a moment by the substitution. He recognized me at first glance.’
‘You, Claire!’
‘Yes, Madame. We came part of the way together. Monsieur de Canolles knew me and… in short… Monsieur de Canolles was in love with me. And in those circumstances… well, Madame! He may have been wrong, but you should not reproach him for it. In those circumstances, he sacrificed his duty to his love.’
‘So the man with whom you are in love…’
‘Yes,’ the viscountess replied.
‘The one you came to ask my permission to marry…’
‘Yes.’
‘It was…’
‘It was Monsieur de Canolles himself,’ said the viscountess. ‘Monsieur de Canolles who surrendered to me on Saint-Georges and who, were it not for me, would have blown himself up together with your soldiers… Monsieur de Canolles, in fact, who could have fled, but gave me his sword, so as not to be separated from me. You will see then, that if he dies, I must do so as well, because I shall have killed him!’
‘My dear child,’ the princess said, quite moved. ‘You must see that what you are asking is impossible. Richon is dead and must be avenged. A sentence was passed and must be carried out. Even if my own husband were to ask me what you are asking, I should refuse it.’
‘Oh, wretch that I am!’ Madame de Cambes cried, falling to the ground and bursting into tears. ‘I have killed the one I love.’
At this, Lenet, who had not yet spoken, came over to the princess.
‘Madame,’ he said. ‘Will you not be satisfied with one victim? Do you need two heads to pay for Monsieur Richon’s one?’
‘So, Mr High Principles, what you mean is that you are asking for the life of one man and the death of another, is that it? Tell me, is that quite fair?’
‘Very much so, Madame: it is fair, first of all, that when two men are to die, only one should do so, if possible, assuming that any mouth has the right to blow out the flame that God’s hand has lit. And then it is fair, if a choice has to be made, that the upright man should be saved rather than the schemer. Only a Jew would set free Barabbas and crucify Jesus…’17
‘Monsieur Lenet, oh, Monsieur Lenet,’ Claire exclaimed. ‘Speak for me, I beg you, because you are a man and may be listened to. And you, Madame,’ she continued, turning towards the princess, ‘only remember that my whole life has been devoted to serving your family.’
‘And mine too,’ said Lenet. ‘And yet, I have never asked Your Highness for anything in exchange for thirty years’ loyalty. But on this occasion, if Your Highness shows no pity, I shall ask for just one favour for those thirty years.’
‘What is that?’
‘To give me leave, Madame, so that I might go and throw myself at the feet of the king, to whom I shall devote the rest of the life that I have had the honour to give to your house.’
‘Now, then!’ said the princess, overwhelmed by these united prayers. ‘Don’t threaten me, old friend, don’t cry, my sweet Claire… in short, both of you, rest assured: only one will die, since that is what you want. Just as long as no one comes and begs me to pardon the one who is destined to perish.’
/> Claire clasped the princess’s hand and covered it with kisses.
‘Oh, thank you, Madame, thank you!’ she said. ‘From this moment onwards, my life and his belong to you.’
‘In doing this,’ said Lenet, ‘you are both fair and merciful, something that up to now has been the privilege of God alone.’
‘Now can I see him, Madame?’ Claire begged impatiently. ‘Can I see him? Can I free him?’
‘For the moment, anything like that is impossible,’ said the princess. ‘It would be the end of us. We’ll leave the prisoners in prison and bring them out at the same time, one for freedom, the other for death.’
‘But can I not at least see him, reassure him and console him?’
‘Reassure him! My dear friend,’ the princess replied, ‘I don’t think you have any right to do so: the decision would be revealed, and there would be comments on the favour he was being done. Impossible. Be content with knowing that he is saved. I shall announce my decision to the two dukes.’
‘In that case, I am resigned,’ said Claire. ‘Thank you, Madame, thank you!’
And Madame de Cambes hurried away to weep freely and to thank God from the depths of her heart, which was overflowing with joy and gratitude.
XXI
The two prisoners of war occupied two cells in the same fortress. These cells adjoined one another and were situated on the ground floor (though the ground floor in prisons is really the third floor, since prisons do not start like homes at ground level, but usually have two storeys of dungeons underneath).
Each door in the prison was guarded by a detachment of men picked from the princess’s guards. But the crowd, seeing the preparations that would satisfy its desire for vengeance, had gradually drifted away from the prison area, to which it had come when it was told that Canolles and Cauvignac had been brought there. So the guards, who had been positioned there (more to protect the prisoners from the fury of the mob than from fear that they might escape) had left their posts and were content merely to double the ordinary number of sentries.
Indeed, the people, having nothing more to see where they were, had gravitated towards the place where executions were held, that is to say, the Esplanade.18 The words shouted from the heights of the council chamber into the crowd had spread instantly through the town, each person commenting on them in his or her own way. What they most clearly implied, however, was that there would be some dreadful scene that night, or at the latest on the following day, and this was an added pleasure for the mob, not knowing exactly what to expect from the spectacle, because this gave it the appeal of surprise.
So workers, tradesmen, women and children ran to the ramparts, and, as it was a dark night and the moon was not due to rise until around midnight, many came with torches in their hands. In addition to that, almost all windows were open, and many people had also put burning links or lanterns on the window sills, as on feast days. Yet from the murmurs of the crowd, the fearful glances of onlookers and the succession of patrols on foot or on horseback, you could see that the event that was being so ominously prepared was no ordinary one.
From time to time, furious shouts arose from different groups, which formed or broke up with the kind of rapidity only associated with certain occurrences. The shouts were the same as those which, two or three times, had reached inside the courtroom: ‘Death to the prisoners! Revenge for Richon!’
The shouts, the lights and the sound of horses’ hooves had disturbed Madame de Cambes in her prayers. She went to the window and with horror observed all these men and women, who, with their wild looks and savage cries, resembled some ravenous beasts let loose in a Roman circus, roaring for the human victims that they were to devour. She wondered how it was possible that so many creatures, to whom the prisoners had never done any harm, should be so furious in demanding the death of two of their fellow men: and she could find no answer to her question, being a poor woman, who was acquainted only with those human passions that soften the heart.
From her window, Madame de Cambes saw the tips of the high, dark towers of the fortress rising above the houses and gardens. Canolles was there, and it was there particularly that she looked. However, she could not help glancing down into the street from time to time, and it was then that she saw the threatening faces and heard the cries for vengeance which sent deathly shivers through her veins.
‘They may forbid me to see him,’ she thought, ‘but I must! Those shouts may have reached his ears, he may think that I have forgotten him, he may be accusing me and cursing me. Every moment that goes by in which I do not try to reassure him seems like a betrayal! I cannot stay here and do nothing, when he may be calling to me for help. Oh, I must see him! But how, dear God? Who will take me to the prison? What power will open its doors to me? The princess refused me a pass, and, seeing how much she has already granted me, she has the right to do so. There are guards, there are enemies around the fortress and a whole mob of people bellowing, scenting blood and unwilling to have its prey snatched from it. They will think that I want to carry him off, to save him. Oh! I would save him, if he were not already in safety under the protection of Her Highness’s word… They wouldn’t believe me, if I were to tell them that I just want to see him; they would refuse… And if I did try something like that against the princess’s will, might I not be in danger of losing the favour she has done me? Might I not risk her going back on her word? And yet… leaving him in anguish and torment through the long hours of the night – oh! I feel that is impossible for him, and above all for me! Let me pray to God, who may inspire me.’
So once again Madame de Cambes knelt in front of her crucifix and began to pray with a fervour that would have moved the princess herself, if the princess could have heard her.
‘I shan’t go, I shan’t go,’ she said, ‘because I know that it is impossible for me to go. Perhaps he will be accusing me throughout the night… But tomorrow, tomorrow – isn’t it true, God? Tomorrow will absolve me in his eyes.’
At the same time, the noise, the mounting exaltation of the crowd and the sinister flashes of light that momentarily lit up her otherwise darkened room, caused her such horror that she blocked her ears with her hands and pressed her closed eyes against the cushion of her prayer stool.
The door opened, and, without her hearing him, a man entered, stopped a moment on the threshold and looked at her with affectionate sympathy. Then, seeing her shoulders heaving with such painful sobs, he sighed and went across to touch her arm.
Claire started up.
‘Monsieur Lenet!’ she said. ‘Monsieur Lenet! You have not forsaken me!’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It occurred to me that you might not yet be fully reassured, and I ventured to come and ask if there was anything I could do for you.’
‘Oh, my dear Monsieur Lenet,’ she exclaimed. ‘How good you are! And how grateful I am!’
‘It seems I was right,’ said Lenet. ‘God knows, one is seldom wrong in thinking that someone is in pain,’ he added with a melancholy smile.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Claire. ‘That’s true: I am in pain!’
‘But surely you got all that you wanted, and I must confess more than I hoped myself?’
‘Yes, of course, but…’
‘But I understand: you are frightened at seeing the joy of this mob thirsting for blood, and you mourn the fate of the other wretch who will die in your lover’s stead, is that it?’
Claire got up and stayed motionless for an instant, pale and staring at Lenet; then she brought an icy hand to her forehead, covered in sweat.
‘Oh, forgive me – or, rather, curse me!’ she said. ‘Selfish as I am, I didn’t even think of that. No, Lenet, no: I admit in all the humility of my heart that these fears, these tears and these prayers are for the one who is to live, for I am so taken up in my love that I forgot the one who is to die!’
Lenet smiled sadly.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That must be so, because it is human nature. Perhaps the selfishness of the individ
ual is the salvation of the many. Each of us makes a circle around him with his sword. Come, come, Madame, confess everything,’ he continued. ‘Admit frankly that you cannot wait for the wretch to meet his fate, because his death ensures the life of your fiancé.’
‘Oh, Lenet, I promise you, I hadn’t yet thought of that. Please don’t ask my mind to consider it, because I love him so much that I don’t know what I might be able to wish for in the madness of my love.’
‘Poor child!’ Lenet said, in a voice of profound pity. ‘Why didn’t you say all of this earlier?’
‘Good Lord! You are frightening me. Is it too late then? Is he not yet completely safe?’
‘He is,’ Lenet replied, ‘since the princess has given her word, but…’
‘But what?’
‘But, alas, is one ever sure of anything in this world? And you, even thinking as I do that he is safe, are weeping instead of rejoicing…’
‘I am weeping because I cannot visit him, my friend,’ Claire replied. ‘Just think: he must be hearing those dreadful sounds and thinking that danger is close. Imagine: he might be accusing me of coldness, of forgetting him, or of betraying him. Oh, Lenet, Lenet, what torture it is! If only the princess knew how I am suffering, she would have pity on me.’
‘So you must see him, then, viscountess.’
‘See him? I can’t! You know that I asked Her Highness for permission and that it was refused.’
‘I do, and I entirely approve of the decision. Yet…’
‘Yet you are encouraging me to disobey,’ Claire exclaimed in surprise, staring at Lenet, who lowered his eyes, embarrassed by her look.
‘My dear viscountess, I am old,’ he said, ‘and for that very reason I am mistrustful – not on this occasion, because the princess’s word is sacred: she said that only one of the prisoners will die. But in the course of a long life I have become accustomed to see fate turn against those who feel most favoured by it, so it is my principle always to grasp whatever opportunity offers itself. Go and see your fiancé, Viscountess, see him, I urge you.’