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“Next, Jahiat left his companions and walked over to the gate, where he cocked his own two pistols and pointed them toward the gendarmes. He did not shoot, but five or six gendarmes, thinking they were in danger, lowered their rifles and fired. Two bullets pierced Jahiat’s body. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you I can die like a soldier.’ And he collapsed onto Valensolles’s body.
“In the meantime, Ribier had seemed to be trying to determine how he in his turn would die. Finally, he appeared to have come to a decision.
“He eyed a column in the courtyard. Ribier walked straight over to it, pulled the dagger from his belt, placed the point against the left side of his chest and set the handle against the column. Then he took the column in his arms, and after he’d saluted the spectators and his friends one last time, with his arms he squeezed the column until the dagger’s blade had completely disappeared into his breast. For a moment he remained standing. Soon, though, his face turned ghastly pale, and his arms loosened their hold on the pillar. His knees buckled. He fell, dead.
“The crowd stood mute, frozen in terror at the same time it was rapt in admiration. Everyone understood that these heroic men were willing to die, but that like ancient Roman gladiators, they wanted to die honorably.
“My brother was the last of them. As he surveyed the crowd he caught sight of me. He put his finger to his mouth, and I realized that he was asking me to stay strong and keep quiet. I nodded, but in spite of myself tears coursed down my cheeks. He motioned that he wished to speak. Everyone grew silent.
“When you witness a spectacle of that kind, you are as eager to hear words as to see action, for words help to explain actions. Still, what more could the crowd ask for? They had been promised four heads, all four falling uniformly and monotonously in the same manner. Instead, they were now being given four different deaths, each one more inventive, dramatic, and unexpected than the one before. The crowd knew that this last hero planned to die in a way at least as original as the other three.
“Charles held neither pistol nor dagger in his hands, though his belt held both. He walked around Valensolles’s body, then stood between the bodies of the other two, Jahiat and Ribier. Like an actor in a theater, he bowed grandly and smiled at the spectators.
“The crowd erupted in applause. Eager as everyone was to see what was coming, not a single person among them, I dare say, would not have given a portion of his own life to save the life of the last Companion of Jehu.
“‘Gentlemen,’ said Charles, and God only knows the anguish I felt as I listened to him, ‘you have come to see us die, and you have already seen three of us fall. Now it is my turn. I ask nothing better than to satisfy your curiosity, but I’ve come to propose a deal.’
“‘Speak! Speak!’ people shouted from all sides. ‘Whatever you ask will be granted.’
“‘All but your life!’ cried a woman’s voice—the same voice that had expressed triumph and joy at the sentencing.
“‘All but my life, of course,’ my brother repeated. ‘You saw my friend Valensolles blow out his brains, you saw my friend Jahiat get shot, you saw my friend Ribier stab himself, and you would like to see me die on the guillotine. I can understand that.’ His calm demeanor and sardonic words, spoken with no emotion, sent a shiver through the crowd.
“‘Well,’ Charles went on, ‘like a good sport I would like to die at your pleasure as much as at my own. I am prepared to have my head fall, but I wish to walk to the scaffold on my own, as if I were going to a meal or a ball, and, as an absolute condition, without anyone touching me. If anyone comes near’—he pointed to the two pistols in his belt—’I shall kill him. Except for this man,’ Charles continued, looking over to the executioner. ‘This business is between him and me, and proper procedures need to be followed.’
“The crowd seemed to accept the condition, for on all sides people shouted: ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
“‘Do you hear?’ Charles addressed the officer of the gendarmerie. ‘Indulge me, Captain, and things will be fine.’
“The officer wanted nothing better than to make some concessions. ‘If I leave your hands and feet free,’ he said, ‘do you promise to attempt no escape?’
“‘I give you my word of honor,’ said Charles.
“‘Well, then,’ said the officer. ‘Move aside and let us carry off the bodies of your companions.’
“‘Yes, that’s only right,’ said Charles. Then, turning toward the crowd, he noted: “You see, it’s not my fault. I am not the cause of the delay; rather, these gentlemen are.’ He gestured toward the executioner and his two helpers loading the bodies on a cart.
“Ribier was not yet dead. He opened his eyes, as if he were looking for someone. Charles took his hand. ‘Here I am, good friend,’ he said. ‘Rest assured, I am joining you!’ Ribier’s eyes closed again; and his lips moved, but no sound came from them, only a reddish foam.
“‘Monsieur de Sainte-Hermine,’ said the brigadier when the three bodies had been removed. ‘Are you ready?’
“‘I await you, monsieur,’ Charles answered, bowing with exquisite politeness.
“‘In that case, please step forward.’ Charles moved to the middle of the gendarmes.
“‘Would you prefer to go by carriage?’ said the officer.
“‘By foot, monsieur. By foot. I want these people to know that I myself am allowing this extravaganza at the guillotine. Were I in a vehicle, people might think that fear kept me from walking.’
“The guillotine had been set up on the Place du Bastion. They crossed the Place des Lices, which takes its name from the carousel that stood there in older times, and then walked along the walls beside the gardens of the Hôtel Monbazon. The cart came first, then a detachment of ten dragoons. Then the condemned man, who now and then glanced over at me. Then, about ten paces behind, the gendarmes, led by their captain.
“At the end of the garden wall, the cortege turned to the left. And suddenly, through the opening between the garden and the grand hall, my brother caught a glimpse of the scaffold—and I could feel my own knees buckle. ‘Bah!’ he said. ‘I had never seen a guillotine. I did not realize they were so ugly.’
“Then, as quickly as a passing thought, he pulled the dagger from his belt and plunged it to the hilt into his chest.
“The captain spurred his horse and reached out to stop him, while the Comte pulled one of the double-barreled pistols from his belt and cocked it, saying: ‘Stop! We agreed that nobody would touch me. I will die alone, or three of us will die together. The choice is yours.’
“The captain stopped his horse and pulled it back.
“‘Let’s keep walking,’ said my brother.
“With my eyes fixed on my beloved brother and my ears straining to hear his every word as my mind recorded every gesture, I remembered again what Charles had written to Cadoudal: how he had refused to allow me to learn my military career at Cadoudal’s side; hoe he’d said that he was keeping me in reserve so that I could avenge his death and continue his work. I kept swearing under my breath that I would do what he expected of me, and from time to time a glance from him strengthened my resolve.
“In the meantime, he kept walking, blood dripping from his wound.
“When he reached the foot of the scaffold, Charles pulled the dagger from the wound and stabbed himself a second time. Still he remained standing. ‘Truly,’ he raged, ‘my soul must be firmly set in my body.’
“The helpers waiting on the scaffold removed the bodies of Valensolles, Jahiat, and Ribier from the cart. At the guillotine the heads of the first two, already corpses, fell without a single drop of blood. Ribier, though, let out a groan, and when his head was cut off, blood gushed out. The crowd shivered.
“Then it was my brother’s turn. As he waited he had kept his eyes on me almost constantly, even when the executioner’s assistants tried to pull him up onto the scaffold, and he said: ‘Don’t touch me. That was our agreement.’
“He climbed the six steps without stumbling. When he reached the platform, he pulled the dagger from his chest and stabbed himself a third time. He let out a horrible laugh that came accompanied by spurts of blood from all three wounds. ‘Well, that’s it,’ he said to the executioner. ‘That should be enough. Manage as best you can.’
“Then, turning to me, he cried, ‘Do you remember, Hector?’
“‘Yes, my brother,’ I answered.
“With no help, he lay down on the deadly plank. ‘There,’ he said to the executioner. ‘Is this acceptable?’
“The falling blade was the answer. But, filled with that implacable vitality that had kept my brother from dying at his own hand, his head, instead of falling into the basket with the others, bounced over its rim, rolled along the platform, and dropped to the ground.
“I burst through the row of soldiers restraining the crowd from the open space between them and the scaffold. As quickly as I could, before anyone could stop me, I picked up that dearly beloved head in my two hands and kissed it.
“His eyes opened and his lips moved beneath my own—Oh! I swear to God, his head recognized me. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ I said. ‘You can be sure that I will obey you.’
“The soldiers had made a movement to stop me, but several voices had shouted out: ‘It’s his brother!’ And all the soldiers stayed where they were.”
XIX The End of Hector’s Story (#ulink_f48dd217-4094-5b5c-9e2e-a32f0961c04d)
HECTOR HAD NOW BEEN speaking for two hours. Claire was weeping so profusely that he wasn’t sure he should continue. He paused. The tears pearling in his eyes showed what he was thinking.
“Oh, please go on! Go on!” she said.
“It would be according me a great favor,” he said, “for I have not yet said anything about myself.”
Claire reached out her hand to him. “How you have suffered,” she murmured.
“Wait,” he said, “and you will see that you are just the person to make me forget it all.”
“I didn’t know Valensolles, Jahiat, and Ribier very well, only by sight. But through their association with my brother, who had joined them in death, they were my friends. I gave them all a proper burial. Then I returned to Besançon. I put our family affairs in order and began to wait. What was I waiting for? I didn’t know what, only that it was something on which my fate would depend. I didn’t think it necessary that I go looking for it, but I felt compelled to be ready whenever it should come.
“One morning, the Chevalier de Mahalin was announced. I did not recognize the name, and yet in my heart a painful chord began to vibrate as if it bore for me a strange familiarity. The man behind the name was young, twenty-five or twenty-six, perfectly attired, and irreproachably polite.
“‘Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, ‘you know that the Company of Jehu, so painfully smitten by the loss of its four leaders, and especially your brother, is beginning to reform. Its leader is the famous Laurent, though beneath that ordinary name hides one of the most aristocratic family names of the South. Our captain is reserving an important place in his army for you, and he has sent me to ask if you would like, by joining us, to keep the promise given by your brother.’
“‘Monsieur le Chevalier,’ I answered, ‘I would be lying if I told you that I have much enthusiasm for the life of a wandering cavalier, but as I did promise my brother, and as my brother promised me to your cause, I am ready.’
“‘Shall I tell you, then, where we are meeting?’ asked the Chevalier de Mahalin. ‘Or are you coming now with me?’
“‘I am coming now with you, monsieur.’
“I had a trusty servant named Saint-Bris. He had served my brother too, and I installed him in our house and left him master of it all, making him really more my steward than my servant. That done, I gathered up my weapons, climbed on my horse, and rode off.
“We were to meet Laurent somewhere between Vizille and Grenoble. In two days’ time, we were there.
“Laurent, our chief, was truly worthy of his reputation. He was like one of those men to whose baptism fairies are invited, and each one blesses him with a virtuous quality, but there’s always one fairy who’s been overlooked and he arrives to burthen the infant with the one defect that counterbalances all of his virtues. Laurent had been endowed with that beauty typical of the South and typically masculine: brilliant eyes, lustrous dark hair, and a thick dark beard, his fiercely handsome face tempered by a charming blend of kindness, strength, and affability. Left on his own when he was scarcely beyond his tumultuous youth, he lacked a solid formal education, but he was worldly-wise, and he possessed a nobleman’s grace and politesse, as well as a charismatic quality that naturally attracted people to his fold. But he was also unusually violent and quick-tempered. As much as his gentleman’s education normally kept him within acceptable boundaries, he would still frequently, suddenly, explode; and an angry Laurent, the imperfect Laurent, appeared to be no longer of humankind. And the rumor would spread, wherever he happened to be: ‘Laurent is angry; men will die.’
“Justice was as concerned about Laurent’s band as it had been about Saint-Hermine’s group. Large forces were deployed. Laurent and seventy-one of his men were captured and sent to Yssingeaux in the Haute-Loire to answer for their actions before a special court convened expressly for their trial.
“But Bonaparte was still in Egypt then. Power resided in weak hands, and the little town of Yssingeaux treated Laurent and his band more like a garrison than like prisoners. The prosecution was timid, the witnesses were ineffectual, the defense was bold. It was led by Laurent himself, who took responsibility for everything. His seventy-one companions were acquitted; he was sentenced to death.
“Laurent returned to the prison as nonchalantly as he had left. By then, the supreme beauty with which Nature had endowed him, the corporal recommendation, as Montaigne has called it, had already produced its effect. Every woman in Yssingeaux felt sorry for him, and for more than a few of them, pity had transferred itself into a much more tender feeling. Such was the case of the jailer’s daughter, although Laurent was not aware of it.
“Two hours after midnight, Laurent’s cell door opened as it had for Pierre de Médicis, and the girl from Yssingeaux, like the girl in Ferrare, spoke these sweet words: ‘Non temo nulla, bentivoglio!’ (‘Have no fear, I love you!’) His angel savior had seen him only through the prison bars, but his magnetic seductive powers had touched her heart and ruled her senses. A few words were exchanged; so were rings. And Laurent walked free.
“A horse was waiting in a neighboring village, she’d told him, and there she would meet him. Dawn broke. As he fled through the shadows, Laurent caught a glimpse of the executioner and his helpers setting up the deadly machine. For he was supposed to be executed at ten that morning, the execution having been rushed to take place only one day after the sentencing so as to coincide with market day, when everyone from the neighboring villages would be in Yssingeaux. Of course, when the sun’s first rays struck the guillotine in the square, and when the identity of the illustrious prisoner who’d climb the steps to the platform became known, no one was giving any more thought to the market.
“Waiting in the nearby village, Laurent worried not for himself but for the woman who had saved him. Laurent became impatient. Several times he rode out toward Yssingeaux, each time riding closer to the town, to try to get information, but without success. Finally, caught up in the heat of the moment, he lost his head: He assumed that his savior had herself been captured and that she, as his accomplice, would in his place be climbing the scaffold to the guillotine. So he rides into town, his horse spurred to a gallop, and as he passes by, people shout in astonishment when they realize that the man they were expecting to see guillotined is riding free on horseback. He rides past the gendarmes who’d been posted to escort him from his cell; he reaches the square where the scaffold awaits him, and espying the woman he’s looking for, he pushes his way to her, reaches down, pulls her up behind him, and gallops off to the cheers of the whole town. All those who had come to applaud his head as it fell were now applauding his flight, his escape, his salvation.
“That is what our leader was like, the leader who followed my brother. Such was the man under whose tutelage I learned to fight.
“For three months I lived daily under the strain of our battles and at night I slept wrapped up in my coat, my hand on my gun, pistols in my belt. Then the rumor of a truce began to spread. I came to Paris, promising to return to my companions at the first call. I came because I had seen you once—please excuse my frankness—and I needed, I yearned, to see you again.
“I did of course see you again, but if by chance your eyes happened to fall on me, you surely remember my face betrayed my deep sadness, my unconcern, and I might even say my apparent distaste for all of life’s pleasures. For how indeed, given the precarious position in which I found myself—obeying not my own conscience but another fatal, absolute, imperious power that exposed me to the possibility of being wounded if not killed in a stagecoach attack, or, even worse, being captured—how could I dare say to a lovely, sweet girl, the flower of the world in which she blossoms and the laws of which she accepts, how could I dare say to her: ‘I love you. Are you willing to accept a husband who has placed himself outside the law, for whom the greatest happiness possible is to be shot dead in cold blood?’
“No, I could not declare my love. I had to be content just to be able to see you, to be intoxicated by the sight of you, to be where you were likely to be, and all the while pray that God would accomplish a miracle, that the rumored truce would become real peace, though I hardly dared to hope.
“Finally, about four or five days ago, the newspapers announced that Cadoudal had come to Paris, that he had met with the First Consul. The same evening the same newspapers reported that the Breton general had given his word to no longer attempt any action against France, if the First Consul, for his part, would take no further action against Brittany or against him.
“The next day”—Hector pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket—“the next day I received this circular letter written in Cadoudal’s own hand:
“‘Because a protracted war seems to be a misfortune for France and ruin for my region, I free you from your oath of loyalty to me. I shall never call you back unless the French government should fail to keep the promise it gave to me and that I accepted in your name.
“‘If there should happen to be some treason hidden beneath a hypocritical peace, I would not hesitate to call once more on your fidelity, and your fidelity, I am sure, would respond.’
“You can imagine my joy when I received this leave. Once again I would be in control of my own person; no longer was I promised by the word of my father and my two brothers to a monarchy that I knew only through my family’s devotion and through the misfortunes that devotion had brought down upon our house. I was twenty-three years old; I had an annual income of one hundred thousand francs. I was in love, and supposing that I was also loved, the gates of paradise that had long been guarded by the angel of death were now opening up before me. Oh, Claire! Claire! That is why I was so happy when you saw me at Madame de Permon’s ball. I could finally ask you to meet me like this. Finally I could tell you that I loved you.”
Claire lowered her eyes and made no answer, which in itself was almost an answer.
“Now,” Hector went on, “everything I have just told you, all these histories hidden away out in the provinces, is completely unknown in Paris. I could have kept it hidden from you, but I chose not to. I wanted to tell you my whole life’s story, to explain by what destiny I was led finally to make my confession to you—knowing that you might suppose my actions to be a mistake or even a crime—so that I might receive absolution from your own lips.”
“Oh, Hector dear!” cried Claire, carried away by the quiet passion that had been governing her for nearly a year. “Oh, yes, I forgive you! I absolve you,” and forgetting that she was under her mother’s watchful eyes, she added, “I love you!” And threw her arms around his neck.
“Claire!” cried Madame de Sourdis, her voice showing more surprise than anger.
“Mother!” answered Claire, blushing and about to faint.
“Claire!” said Hector, taking her hand. “Don’t forget that everything I have told you is for you alone. It must be a secret between us, and since I love only you, I have no need for forgiveness from anyone but you. Do not forget. And especially, remember that I shall be truly alive only when I receive your mother’s answer to the request I have made. Claire, you have told me that you love me. I am placing our happiness in your love’s hands.”
Without another word Hector left. But his heart, athrill with the freedom and joy of a prisoner whose death sentence has just been commuted, was not silent.
Madame de Sourdis was waiting impatiently for her daughter. Claire’s spontaneity, when she threw herself into the arms of the young Comte de Sainte-Hermine, had seemed out of character. She wanted an explanation.
The explanation was clear and rapid. When the girl reached her mother, she simply dropped to her knees and pronounced these three words: “I love him!”
Our characters are molded by nature to prepare us for the times we need them to survive. It was thanks to such natural strength that Charlotte Corday and Madame Roland were able to say, one to Marat and the other to Robespierre: “I hate you.” Likewise, Claire could say to Hector: “I love you.”
Madame de Sourdis helped Claire up from her knees, had her sit down next to her, and then questioned her, but these are the only words the mother got out of her daughter: “My dear mother, Hector told me a family secret that he believes he must hide from everyone except the girl he wants to make his wife. I am that girl. He solicits the favor of coming to ask your permission for a marriage we desire more than anything. He is free, he has an annual income of one hundred thousand francs, and we love each other. Think about it, Mother dear. But a refusal on your part would be a calamity for both of us!”
Having spoken firmly but respectfully, Claire then bowed to her mother and started to walk away.
“And if I say yes?” said Madame de Sourdis.
“Oh, Mother,” cried Claire, throwing herself into her arms, “how good you are and how I love you!”
“And now that I have reassured your heart,” Madame de Soudis said, “sit down and let us speak reasonably.”
Madame de Sourdis seated herself on a sofa. Claire sat in front of her, on a cushion, and took her mother’s hands. “I’m all ears, Mother,” said Claire with a smile.
“In times like ours,” said Madame de Sourdis, “it is absolutely necessary to belong to some party. I believe that Hector de Sainte-Hermine numbers himself among the Royalists. Yesterday, when I was chatting with your godfather Dr. Cabanis, a great man of science who also has good sense, he congratulated me on the friendship Madame Bonaparte has for me. He believes strongly that you should likewise become as close as possible to her daughter Hortense. In his opinion, that is where your future lies.
“As you know, Cabanis is the First Consul’s personal doctor, and he is convinced the First Consul, in his genius, will not be content to stay where he is situated now. A man does not risk something like the 18th Brumaire just to sit in a consul’s armchair; he does it rather to rule from a throne. So those who attach themselves to Bonaparte’s star before the veil of the future is rent will be carried along with him in the whirlwind of his destiny; along with him they will rise.
“The First Consul, we know, loves to bring great families, rich families, over to his side. In that regard, Sainte-Hermine leaves nothing to be desired. He has an income of one hundred thousand francs; his family goes back to the Crusades. His entire family, too, has died for the Royalist cause, so truly, he owes nothing more to their campaign. He is of an age that has allowed him to remain thus far outside of political events. Whereas his father and two brothers all gave their lives for old France, he has not yet pledged anything to any party. It is up to him, then, by accepting a position with the First Consul, to live for new France.
“Please note that I am not making this step on his part a condition for your marriage. I would be more than pleased to see Hector join the side of the First Consul. If he refuses, however, it is because his conscience tells him that he must, and only God can judge the human conscience. Whichever path he chooses, he will be my daughter’s husband nonetheless, and no less will he be my beloved son-in-law.”
“When might I write to him, Mother?” Claire asked.
“Whenever you like, my child,” answered her mother.
That very evening, Claire sent him a message, and the next day before noon, as soon as he could appropriately appear, Hector was knocking again at the front door.
This time he was taken directly to see Madame de Sourdis, who welcomed him with open arms, like a mother. They were still holding each other tightly when Claire opened the door, and seeing them, she cried, “Oh, Mother. How happy I am!” Madame de Sourdis again opened her arms, so that she could embrace both of her children.
The marriage was agreed upon. All that was left to discuss with the young Comte was the matter of his joining the First Consul’s administration.
Hector, with Madame de Sourdis on his left and Claire on his right, was seated on the sofa with his future mother-in-law’s hand in his on one side and his fiancée’s on the other. Claire took it upon herself to explain to Hector the high opinion that Dr. Cabanis held of Bonaparte and to present Madame de Sourdis’s hope regarding Hector’s future. Hector kept his eyes fixed attentively on Claire as she tried to repeat word for word her mother’s reasoning on the matter.
