 | V. Seven stories, with basement and attic |  |
5. V.
ON the month of March—a very cold month in
that year—I had returned to Paris, and taken
up my old quarters in a hôtel garni of the Rue des
Beaux-Arts.
Any public interest or curiosity which had belonged
to the trial and story of Emile Roque had passed away.
French journalists do not keep alive an interest of that
sort by any reports upon the condition of the prisoner.
They barely announce the execution of his sentence upon
the succeeding day. I had, by accident only, heard of
his occasional occupation in sketching the heads of
some of Watteau's nymphs upon the walls of his cell.
I could scarce believe this of him. It seemed to me
that his fancy would run rather in the direction of the
horrors of Géricault.
I felt an irresistible desire to see him once again.
There was no hope of this, except I should be present
at his execution. I had never witnessed an execution;
had never cared to witness one. But I wished to look
once more on the face of Emile Roque.
The executions in Paris take place without public
announcement, and usually at daybreak, upon the
square fronting the great prison of La Roquette. No
order is issued until a late hour on the preceding evening,
guillotine brought at midnight to the prison square, and
a corps of soldiery is detailed for special service (unmentioned)
in that quarter of the city. My only chance
of witnessing the scene was in arranging with one of
the small wine-merchants, who keep open house in that
neighborhood until after midnight, to dispatch a messenger
to me whenever he should see preparations commenced.
This arrangement I effected; and on the 22d of
March I was roused from sleep at a little before one in
the morning by a bearded man, who had felt his way
up the long flight of stairs to my rooms, and informed
me that the guillotine had arrived before the prison of
Roquette.
My thought flashed on the instant to the figure of
Emile as I had seen him before the shepherdesses of
Watteau—as I had seen him before the picture of the
Shipwreck. I dressed hurriedly, and groped my way
below. The night was dark and excessively cold. A
little sleet had fallen, which crumpled under my feet as
I made my way toward the quay. Arrived there, not
a cab was to be found at the usual stand; so I pushed
on across the river, and under the archway of the palace
of the Louvre,—casting my eye toward that wing of
the great building where I had first seen the face which
I was shortly to look on for the last time on earth.
Finding no cabs in the square before the palace, I
went on through the dark streets of St. Anne and
Grammont, until I reached the Boulevard. A few voitures
de remise were opposite the Café Foy. I appealed
to the drivers of two of them in vain, and only succeeded
by a bribe in inducing a third to drive me to the
Place de la Roquette. It is a long way from the centre
of Paris, under the shadow almost of Père la Chaise. I
tried to keep some reckoning of the streets through
which we passed, but I could not. Sometimes my eye
fell upon what seemed a familiar corner, but in a moment
all was strange again. The lamps appeared to me
to burn dimly; the houses along the way grew
smaller and smaller. From time to time, I saw a wine-shop
still open; but not a soul was moving on the
streets with the exception of, here and there, a brace of
sergents de ville. At length we seemed to have passed
out of the range even of the city patrol, and I was beginning
to entertain very unpleasant suspicions of the
cabman, and of the quarter into which he might be taking
me at that dismal hour of the night, when he drew
up his horse before a little wine-shop, which I soon
recognized as the one where I had left my order for the
dispatch of the night's messenger.
I knew now that the guillotine was near.
As I alighted I could see, away to my right, the dim
outline of the prison looming against the night sky, with
it was sheeted over with sleet, and the leafless trees
that girdled it round stood ghost-like in the snow.
Through the branches, and not far from the prison gates,
I could see, in the gray light (for it was now hard upon
three o'clock), a knot of persons collected around a
frame-work of timber, which I knew must be the guillotine.
I made my way there, the frozen surface crumpling
under my steps. The workmen had just finished their
arrangements. Two of the city police were there, to
preserve order, and to prevent too near an approach of
the loiterers from the wine-shops—who may have been,
perhaps, at this hour, a dozen in number.
I could pass near enough to observe fully the construction
of the machine. There was, first, a broad
platform, perhaps fifteen feet square, supported by movable
tressle-work, and elevated some six or seven feet
from the ground. A flight of plank steps led up to this,
broad enough for three to walk upon abreast. Immediately
before the centre of these steps, upon the platform,
was stretched what seemed a trough of plank; and from
the farther end of this trough rose two strong uprights
of timber, perhaps ten feet in height. These were connected
at the top by a slight frame-work; and immediately
below this, by the light of a solitary street lamp
which flickered near by, I could see the glistening of the
willow basket: its shape explained to me its purpose.
At the end of the trough, and beyond the upright timbers,
was placed a tub: with a shudder, I recognized
its purpose also.
The prison gates were only a few rods distant from
the steps to the scaffold, and directly opposite them.
They were still closed and dark.
The execution, I learned, was to take place at six.
A few loiterers, mostly in blouses, came up from time
to time to join the group about the scaffold.
By four o'clock there was the sound of tramping
feet, one or two quick words of command, and presently
a battalion of the Municipal Guard, without drumbeat,
marched in at the lower extremity of the square,
approached the scaffold, and having stacked their arms,
loitered with the rest.
Lights now began to appear at the windows of the
prison. A new corps of police came up and cleared a
wider space around the guillotine. A cold gray light
stole slowly over the eastern sky.
By five o'clock the battalion of the Guards had formed
a hedge of bayonets from either side of the prison
doors, extending beyond and inclosing the scaffold. A
squadron of mounted men had also come upon the
ground, and was drawn up in line, a short distance on
one side. Two officials appeared now upon the scaffold,
or chain which held it to its place, and the knife fell
with a quick, sharp clang, that I thought must have
reached to ears within the walls of the prison. Twice
more they made their trial, and twice more I heard the
clang.
Meantime people were gathering. Market-women
bound for the city lingered at sight of the unusual spectacle,
and a hundred or more soldiers from a neighboring
barrack had now joined the crowd of lookers-on. A
few women from the near houses had brought their
children; and a half-dozen boys had climbed into the
trees for a better view.
At intervals, from the position which I held, I could
see the prison doors open for a moment, and the light
of a lantern within, as some officer passed in or out.
I remember that I stamped the ground petulantly—
it was so cold. Again and again I looked at my watch.
Fifteen minutes to six!
It was fairly daylight now, though the morning was
dark and cloudy, and a fine, searching mist was in the
air.
A man in blouse placed a bag of saw-dust at the
foot of the gallows. The crowd must have now numbered
a thousand. An old market-woman stood next
me. She saw me look at my watch, and asked the
hour.
“Eight minutes to six.”
“Mon Dieu; huit minutes encore!” She was eager
for the end.
I could have counted time now by the beating of my
heart.
What was Emile Roque doing within those doors?
praying? struggling? was the face of the castaway on
him? I could not separate him now from that fearful
picture; I was straining my vision to catch a glimpse—
not of Emile Roque—but of the living counterpart of
that terrible expression which he had wrought—wild,
aimless despair.
Two minutes of six.
I saw a hasty rush of men to the parapet that topped
the prison wall; they leaned there, looking over.
I saw a stir about the prison gates, and both were
flung wide open.
There was a suppressed murmur around me—“Le
voici! Le voici!” I saw him coming forward between
two officers; he wore no coat or waistcoat, and his shirt
was rolled back from his throat; his arms were pinioned
behind him; his bared neck was exposed to the
frosty March air; his face was pale—deathly pale, yet
it was calm; I recognized not the castaway, but the
man—Emile Roque.
There was a moment between the prison gates and
the foot of the scaffold; he kissed the crucifix, which a
know not how, but in an instant he seemed to fall, his
head toward the knife—under the knife.
My eyes fell. I heard the old woman beside me
say passionately, “Mon Dieu! il ne veut pas!”
I looked toward the scaffold; at that supreme moment
the brute instinct in him had rallied for a last
struggle. Pinioned as he was, he had lifted up his
brawny shoulders and withdrawn his neck from the fatal
opening. Now indeed, his face wore the terrible
expression of the picture. Hate, fear, madness, despair,
were blended in his look.
But the men mastered him; they thrust him down;
I could see him writhe vainly. My eyes fell again.
I heard a clang—a thud!
There was a movement in the throng around me.
When I looked next at the scaffold, a man in blouse
was sprinkling saw-dust here and there. Two others
were lifting the long willow basket into a covered cart.
I could see now that the guillotine was painted of a dull
red color, so that no blood stains would show.
I moved away with the throng, the sleet crumpling
under my feet.
I could eat nothing that day. I could not sleep on
the following night.
The bloodshot eyes and haggard look of the picture
real in the man, haunted me.
I never go now to the gallery of the Louvre but I
shun the painting of the wrecked Medusa as I would
shun a pestilence.
| V. Seven stories, with basement and attic | |