I.
Thus M. Galpin triumphed, and M. Gransiere had reason to be proud of hiseloquence. Jacques de Boiscoran had been found guilty.
But he looked calm, and even haughty, as the president, M. Domini,pronounced the terrible sentence, a thousand times braver at thatmoment than the man who, facing the squad of soldiers from whom he is toreceive death, refuses to have his eyes bandaged, and himself gives theword of command with a firm voice.
That very morning, a few moments before the beginning of the trial, hehad said to Dionysia,--
"I know what is in store for me; but I am innocent. They shall not seeme turn pale, nor hear me ask for mercy."
And, gathering up all the energy of which the human heart is capable, hehad made a supreme effort at the decisive moment, and kept his word.
Turning quietly to his counsel at the moment when the last words of thepresident were lost among the din of the crowd, he said,--
"Did I not tell you that the day would come when you yourself would bethe first to put a weapon into my hands?"
M. Folgat rose promptly.
He showed neither the anger nor the disappointment of an advocate whohas just had a cause which he knew to be just.
"That day has not come yet," he replied. "Remember your promise. As longas there remains a ray of hope, we shall fight. Now we have much morethan mere hope at this moment. In less than a month, in a week, perhapsto-morrow, we shall have our revenge."
The unfortunate man shook his head.
"I shall nevertheless have undergone the disgrace of a condemnation," hemurmured.
The taking the ribbon of the Legion of Honor from his buttonhole, hehanded it to M. Folgat, saying--
"Keep this in memory of me, and if I never regain the right to wearit"--
In the meantime, however, the gendarmes, whose duty it was to guard theprisoner, had risen; and the sergeant said to Jacques,--
"We must go, sir. Come, come! You need not despair. You need not losecourage. All is not over yet. There is still the appeal for you, andthen the petition for pardon, not to speak of what may happen, andcannot be foreseen."
M. Folgat was allowed to accompany the prisoner, and was getting readyto do so; but the latter said, with a pained voice,--
"No, my friend, please leave me alone. Others have more need of yourpresence than I have. Dionysia, my poor father, my mother. Go to them.Tell them that the horror of my condemnation lies in the thought ofthem. May they forgive me for the affliction which I cause them, and forthe disgrace of having me for their son, for her betrothed!"
Then, pressing the hands of his counsel, he added,--
"And you, my friends, how shall I ever express to you my gratitude? Ah!if incomparable talents, and matchless zeal and ability, had sufficed,I know I should be free. But instead of that"--he pointed at the littledoor through which he was to pass, and said in a heartrending tone,--
"Instead of that, there is the door to the galleys. Henceforth"--
A sob cut short his words. His strength was exhausted; for if there are,so to say, no limits to the power of endurance of the spirit, the energyof the body has its bounds. Refusing the arm which the sergeant offeredhim, he rushed out of the room.
M. Magloire was well-nigh beside himself with grief.
"Ah! why could we not save him?" he said to his young colleague. "Letthem come and speak to me again of the power of conviction. But we mustnot stay here: let us go!"
They threw themselves into the crowd, which was slowly dispersing, allpalpitating yet with the excitement of the day.
A strange reaction was already beginning to set in,--a reactionperfectly illogic, and yet intelligible, and by no means rare undersimilar circumstances.
Jacques de Boiscoran, an object of general execration as long as hewas only suspected, regained the sympathy of all the moment he wascondemned. It was as if the fatal sentence had wiped out the horror ofthe crime. He was pitied; his fate was deplored; and as they thoughtof his family, his mother, and his betrothed, they almost cursed theseverity of the judges.
Besides, even the least observant among those present had been struck bythe singular course which the proceedings had taken. There was notone, probably, in that vast assembly who did not feel that there wasa mysterious and unexplored side of the case, which neither theprosecution nor the defence had chosen to approach. Why had Cocoleu beenmentioned only once, and then quite incidentally? He was an idiot, to besure; but it was nevertheless through his evidence alone that suspicionshad been aroused against M. de Boiscoran. Why had he not been summonedeither by the prosecution or by the defence?
The evidence given by Count Claudieuse, also, although apparently soconclusive at the moment, was now severely criticised.
The most indulgent said,--
"That was not well done. That was a trick. Why did he not speak outbefore? People do not wait for a man to be down before they strike him."
Others added,--
"And did you notice how M. de Boiscoran and Count Claudieuse looked ateach other? Did you hear what they said to each other? One might havesworn that there was something else, something very different from amere lawsuit, between them."
And on all sides people repeated,--
"At all events, M. Folgat is right. The whole matter is far frombeing cleared up. The jury was long before they agreed. Perhaps M.de Boiscoran would have been acquitted, if, at the last moment, M.Gransiere had not announced the impending death of Count Claudieuse inthe adjoining room."
M. Magloire and M. Folgat listened to all these remarks, as they heardthem in the crowd here and there, with great satisfaction; for in spiteof all the assertions of magistrates and judges, in spite of all thethundering condemnations against the practice, public opinion will findan echo in the court-room; and, more frequently than we think, publicopinion does dictate the verdict of the jury.
"And now," said M. Magloire to his young colleague, "now we can becontent. I know Sauveterre by heart. I tell you public opinion ishenceforth on our side."
By dint of perseverance they made their way, at last, out through thenarrow door of the court-room, when one of the ushers stopped them.
"They wish to see you," said the man.
"Who?"
"The family of the prisoner. Poor people! They are all in there, inM. Mechinet's office. M. Daubigeon told me to keep it for them. TheMarchioness de Boiscoran also was carried there when she was taken illin the court-room."
He accompanied the two gentlemen, while telling them this, to the end ofthe hall; then he opened a door, and said,--
"They are in there," and withdrew discreetly.
There, in an easy-chair, with closed eyes, and half-open lips, layJacques's mother. Her livid pallor and her stiff limbs made her looklike a dead person; but, from time to time, spasms shook her whole body,from head to foot. M. de Chandore stood on one side, and the marquis,her husband, on the other, watching her with mournful eyes and inperfect silence. They had been thunderstruck; and, from the moment whenthe fatal sentence fell upon their ears, neither of them had uttered aword.
Dionysia alone seemed to have preserved the faculty of reasoning andmoving. But her face was deep purple; her dry eyes shone with a painfullight; and her body shook as with fever. As soon as the two advocatesappeared, she cried,--
"And you call this human justice?"
And, as they were silent, she added,---
"Here is Jacques condemned to penal labor; that is to say, he isjudicially dishonored, lost, disgraced, forever cut off from humansociety. He is innocent; but that does not matter. His best friendswill know him no longer: no hand will touch his hand hereafter; andeven those who were most proud of his affection will pretend to haveforgotten his name."
"I understand your grief but too well, madam," said M. Magloire.
"My grief is not as great as my indignation," she broke in. "Jacquesmust be avenged, and he shall be avenged! I am only twenty, and he isnot thirty yet: there is a whole life before us which we can devote t
othe work of his rehabilitation; for I do not mean to abandon him. I!His undeserved misfortunes make him a thousand times dearer to me, andalmost sacred. I was his betrothed this morning: this evening I am hiswife. His condemnation was our nuptial benediction. And if it is true,as grandpapa says, that the law prohibits a prisoner to marry the womanhe loves, well, I will be his without marriage."
Dionysia spoke all this aloud, so loud that it seemed she wanted all theearth to hear what she was saying.
"Ah! let me reassure you by a single word, madam," said M. Folgat. "Wehave not yet come to that. The sentence is not final."
The Marquis de Boiscoran and M. de Chandore started.
"What do you mean?"
"An oversight which M. Galpin has committed makes the whole proceedingnull and void. You will ask how a man of his character, so painstakingand so formal, should have made such a blunder. Probably because he wasblinded by passion. Why had nobody noticed this oversight? Because fateowed us this compensation. There can be no question about the matter.The defect is a defect of form; and the law provides expressly for thecase. The sentence must be declared void, and we shall have anothertrial."
"And you never told us anything of that?" asked Dionysia.
"We hardly dared to think of it," replied M. Magloire. "It was one ofthose secrets which we dare not confide to our own pillow. Remember,that, in the course of the proceedings, the error might have beencorrected at any time. Now it is too late. We have time before us;and the conduct of Count Claudieuse relieves us from all restraint ofdelicacy. The veil shall be torn now."
The door opened violently, interrupting his words. Dr. Seignebosentered, red with anger, and darting fiery glances from under his goldspectacles.
"Count Claudieuse?" M. Folgat asked eagerly.
"Is next door," replied the doctor. "They have had him down on amattress, and his wife is by his side. What a profession ours is! Hereis a man, a wretch, whom I should be most happy to strangle with my ownhands; and I am compelled to do all I can to recall him to life: Imust lavish my attentions upon him, and seek every means to relieve hissufferings."
"Is he any better?"
"Not at all! Unless a special miracle should be performed in his behalf,he will leave the court-house only feet forward, and that in twenty-fourhours. I have not concealed it from the countess; and I have told her,that, if she wishes her husband to die in peace with Heaven, she has butjust time to send for a priest."
"And has she sent for one?"
"Not at all! She told me her husband would be terrified by theappearance of a priest, and that would hasten his end. Even whenthe good priest from Brechy came of his own accord, she sent him offunceremoniously."
"Ah the miserable woman!" cried Dionysia.
And, after a moment's reflection, she added,--
"And yet that may be our salvation. Yes, certainly. Why should Ihesitate? Wait for me here: I am coming back."
She hurried out. Her grandpapa was about to follow her; but M. Folgatstopped him.
"Let her do it," he said,--"let her do it!"
It had just struck ten o'clock. The court-house, just now as full and asnoisy as a bee-hive, was silent and deserted. In the immense hall, badlylighted by a smoking lamp, there were only two men to be seen. One wasthe priest from Brechy, who was praying on his knees close to a door;and the other was the watchman, who was slowly walking up and down, andwhose steps resounded there as in a church.
Dionysia went straight up to the latter.
"Where is Count Claudieuse?" she asked.
"There, madam," replied the man, pointing at the door before which thepriest was praying,--"there, in the private office of the commonwealthattorney."
"Who is with him?"
"His wife, madam, and a servant."
"Well, go in and tell the Countess Claudieuse,--but so that herhusband does not hear you,--that Miss Chandore desires to see her a fewmoments."
The watchman made no objection, and went in. But, when he came back, hesaid to the young girl,--
"Madam, the countess sends word that she cannot leave her husband, whois very low."
She stopped him by an impatient gesture, and said,--
"Never mind! Go back and tell the countess, that, if she does not comeout, I shall go in this moment; that, if it must be, I shall force myway in; that I shall call for help; that nothing will keep me. I mustabsolutely see her."
"But, madam"--
"Go! Don't you see that it is a question of life and death?"
There was such authority in her voice, that the watchman no longerhesitated. He went in once more, and reappeared a moment after.
"Go in," he said to the young girl.
She went in, and found herself in a little anteroom which preceded theoffice of the commonwealth attorney. A large lamp illuminated the room.The door leading to the room in which the count was lying was closed.
In the centre of the room stood the Countess Claudieuse. All thesesuccessive blows had not broken her indomitable energy. She looked pale,but calm.
"Since you insist upon it, madam," she began, "I come to tell youmyself that I cannot listen to you. Are you not aware that I am standingbetween two open graves,--that of my poor girl, who is dying at myhouse, and that of my husband, who is breathing his last in there?"
She made a motion as if she were about to retire; but Dionysia stoppedher by a threatening look, and said with a trembling voice,--
"If you go back into that room where your husband is, I shall go backwith you, and I shall speak before him. I shall ask you right beforehim, how you dare order a priest away from his bedside at the momentof death, and whether, after having robbed him of all his happiness inlife, you mean to make him unhappy in all eternity."
Instinctively the countess drew back.
"I do not understand you," she said.
"Yes, you do understand me, madam. Why will you deny it? Do you not seethat I know every thing, and that I have guessed what you have not toldme? Jacques was your lover; and your husband has had his revenge."
"Ah!" cried the countess, "that is too much; that is too much!"
"And you have permitted it," Dionysia went on with breathless haste;"and you did not come, and cry out in open court that your husband wasa false witness! What a woman you must be! You do not mind it, that yourlove carries a poor unfortunate man to the galleys. You mean to live onwith this thought in your heart, that the man whom you love is innocent,and nevertheless, disgraced forever, and cut off from human society. Apriest might induce the count to retract his statement, you know verywell; and hence you refuse to let the priest from Brechy come to hisbedside. And what is the end and aim of all your crimes? To save yourfalse reputation as an honest woman. Ah! that is miserable; that ismean; that is infamous!"
The countess was roused at last. What all M. Folgat's skill and abilityhad not been able to accomplish, Dionysia obtained in an instant by theforce of her passion. Throwing aside her mask, the countess exclaimedwith a perfect burst of rage,--
"Well, then, no, no! I have not acted so, and permitted all this tohappen, because I care for my reputation. My reputation!--what does itmatter? It was only a week ago, when Jacques had succeeded in escapingfrom prison, I offered to flee with him. He had only to say a word, andI should have given up my family, my children, my country, every thing,for him. He answered, 'Rather the galleys!'"
In the midst of all her fearful sufferings, Dionysia's heart filled withunspeakable happiness as she heard these words. Ah! now she could nolonger doubt Jacques.
"He has condemned himself, you see," continued the countess. "I wasquite willing to ruin myself for him, but certainly not for anotherwoman."
"And that other woman--no doubt you mean me!"
"Yes!--you for whose sake he abandoned me,--you whom he was goingto marry,--you with whom he hoped to enjoy long happy years, and ahappiness not furtive and sinful like ours, but a legitimate, honesthappiness."
Tears were trembling in Dionysia's eyes. She was beloved:
she thought ofwhat she must suffer who was not beloved.
"And yet I should have been generous," she murmured. The countess brokeout into a fierce, savage laugh.
"And the proof of it is," said the young girl, "that I came to offer youa bargain."
"A bargain?"
"Yes. Save Jacques, and, by all that is sacred to me in the world, Ipromise I will enter a convent: I will disappear, and you shall neverhear my name any more."
Intense astonishment seized the countess, and she looked at Dionysiawith a glance full of doubt and mistrust. Such devotion seemed to hertoo sublime not to conceal some snare.
"You would really do that?" she asked.
"Unhesitatingly."
"You would make a great sacrifice for my benefit?"
"For yours? No, madam, for Jacques's."
"You love him very dearly, do you?"
"I love him dearly enough to prefer his happiness to my own a thousandtimes over. Even if I were buried in the depths of a convent, I shouldstill have the consolation of knowing that he owed his rehabilitation tome; and I should suffer less in knowing that he belonged to another thanthat he was innocent, and yet condemned."
But, in proportion as the young girl thus confirmed her sincerity,the brow of the countess grew darker and sterner, and passing blushesmantled her cheek. At last she said with haughty irony,--
"Admirable!"
"Madam!"
"You condescend to give up M. de Boiscoran. Will that make him loveme? You know very well he will not. You know that he loves you alone.Heroism with such conditions is easy enough. What have you to fear?Buried in a convent, he will love you only all the more ardently, and hewill execrate me all the more fervently."
"He shall never know any thing of our bargain!"
"Ah! What does that matter? He will guess it, if you do not tell him.No: I know what awaits me. I have felt it now for two years,--this agonyof seeing him becoming daily more detached from me. What have I not doneto keep him near me! How I have stooped to meanness, to falsehood,to keep him a single day longer, perhaps a single hour! But all wasuseless. I was a burden to him. He loved me no longer; and my lovebecame to him a heavier load than the cannon-ball which they will fastento his chains at the galleys."
Dionysia shuddered.
"That is horrible!" she murmured.
"Horrible! Yes, but true. You look amazed. That is because you have asyet only seen the morning dawn of your love: wait for the dark evening,and you will understand me. Is not the story of all of us women thesame! I have seen Jacques at my feet as you see him at yours: the vowshe swears to you, he once swore to me; and he swore them to me with thesame voice, tremulous with passion, and with the same burning glances.But you think you will be his wife, and I never was. What does thatmatter? What does he tell you? That he will love you forever, becausehis love is under the protection of God and of men. He told me,precisely because our love was not thus protected, that we should beunited by indissoluble bonds,--bonds stronger than all others. You havehis promise: so had I. And the proof of it is that I gave him everything,--my honor and the honor of my family, and that I would havegiven him still more, if there had been any more to give. And now to bebetrayed, forsaken, despised, to sink lower and lower, until at lastI must become the object of your pity! To have fallen so low, that youshould dare come and offer me to give up Jacques for my benefit! Ah,that is maddening! And I should let the vengeance I hold in my handsslip from me at your bidding! I should be stupid enough, blind enough,to allow myself to be touched by your hypocritical tears! I shouldsecure your happiness by the sacrifice of my reputation! No, madam,cherish no such hope!"
Her voice expired in her throat in a kind of toneless rattle. She walkedup and down a few times in the room. Then she placed herself straightbefore Dionysia, and, looking fixedly into her eyes, she asked,--
"Who suggested to you this plan of coming here, this supreme insultwhich you tried to inflict upon me?"
Dionysia was seized with unspeakable horror, and hardly found heart toreply.
"No one," she murmured.
"M. Folgat?"
"Knows nothing of it."
"And Jacques?"
"I have not seen him. The thought occurred to me quite suddenly, like aninspiration on high. When Dr. Seignebos told me that you had refusedto admit the priest from Brechy, I said to myself, 'This is the lastmisfortune, and the greatest of them all! If Count Claudieuse dieswithout retracting, Jacques can never be fully restored, whatever mayhappen hereafter, not even if his innocence should be established.' ThenI made up my mind to come to you. Ah! it was a hard task. But I wasin hopes I might touch your heart, or that you might be moved by thegreatness of my sacrifice."
The countess was really moved. There is no heart absolutely bad, asthere is none altogether good. As she listened to Dionysia's passionateentreaty, her resolution began to grow weaker.
"Would it be such a great sacrifice?" she asked.
Tears sprang to the eyes of the poor young girl.
"Alas!" she said, "I offer you my life. I know very well you will not belong jealous of me."
She was interrupted by groans, which seemed to come from the room inwhich the count was lying.
The countess half-opened the door; and immediately a feeble, and yetimperious voice was heard calling out,--
"Genevieve, I say, Genevieve!"
"I am coming, my dear, in a moment," replied the countess.
"What security can you give me," she said, in a hard and stern voice,after having closed the door again,--"what security do you give me, thatif Jacques's innocence were established, and he reinstated, you wouldnot forget your promises?"
"Ah, madam! How or upon what do you want me to swear that I am readyto disappear. Choose your own securities, and I will do whatever yourequire."
Then, sinking down on her knees, before the countess, she went on,--
"Here I am at your feet, madam, humble and suppliant,--I whom you accuseof a desire to insult you. Have pity on Jacques! Ah! if you loved him asmuch as I do, you would not hesitate."
The countess raised her suddenly and quickly, and holding her hands inher own, looked at her for more than a minute without saying a word,but with heaving bosom and trembling lips. At last she asked in a voicewhich was so deeply affected, that it was hardly intelligible.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Induce Count Claudieuse to retract."
The countess shook her head.
"It would be useless to try. You do not know the count. He is a man ofiron. You might tear his flesh inch by inch with hot iron pincers, andhe would not take back one of his words. You cannot conceive what hehas suffered, nor the depth of the hatred, the rage, and the thirst ofvengeance, which have accumulated in his heart. It was to torture methat he brought me here to his bedside. Only five minutes ago he told methat he died content, since Jacques was declared guilty, and condemnedthrough his evidence."
She was conquered: her energy was exhausted, and tears came to her eyes.
"He has been so cruelly tried!" she went on. "He loved me todistraction; he loved nothing in the world but me. And I--Ah, if wecould know, if we could foresee! No, I shall never be able to induce himto retract."
Dionysia almost forgot her own great grief.
"Nor do I expect you to obtain that favor," she said very gently.
"Who, then?"
"The priest from Brechy. He will surely find words to shake even thefirmest resolution. He can speak in the name of that God, who, even onthe cross, forgave those who crucified Him."
One moment longer the countess hesitated; and then, overcoming finallythe last rebellious impulses of her pride, she said,--
"Well, I will call the priest."
"And I, madam, I swear I will keep my promise."
But the countess stopped her, and said, making a supreme effort overherself,--
"No: I shall try to save Jacques without making conditions. Let him beyours. He loves you, and you were ready to sacrifice
your life for hissake. He forsakes me; but I sacrifice my honor to him. Farewell!"
And hastening to the door, while Dionysia returned to her friends, shesummoned the priest from Brechy.