 | CHAPTER XII. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
Was ever tale
With such a gallant modesty rehearsed?
Home.
Purposes of convenience, as well as others that
were naturally connected with the religious opinions,
not to say the superstitions, of most of the
prisoners, had induced the monks to select the
chapel of the convent for the judgment-hall. This
consecrated part of the edifice was of sufficient
size to contain all who were accustomed to assemble
within its walls. It was decorated in the manner
that is usual to churches of the Romish persuasion,
having its master-altar, and two of smaller
size that were dedicated to esteemed saints. A
large lamp illuminated the place, though the great
altar lay in doubtful light, leaving play for the
imagination to people and adorn that part of the
chapel. Within the railing of the choir there stood
a table: it held some object that was concealed
from view by a sweeping pall. Immediately beneath
the lamp was placed another, which served
the purposes of the clavier, who acted as a clerk
on this occasion. They who were to fill the offices
of judges took their stations near. A knot of females
were clustered within the shadows of one of the
that their sensitive sex is known to interpose between
the exhibition of its peculiar weaknesses
and the rude observations of the world. Stifled
sobs and convulsive movements occasionally escaped
this little group of acutely feeling and warmhearted
beings, betraying the strength of the emotions
they would fain conceal. The canons and
novices were ranged on one side, the guides and
muleteers formed a back-ground to the whole,
while the fine form of Sigismund stood, stern and
motionless as a statue, on the steps of the altar
which was opposite to the females. He watched
the minutest proceeding of the investigation with a
steadiness that was the result of severe practice in
self-command, and a jealous determination to suffer
no new wrong to be accumulated on the head of
his father.
When the little confusion produced by the entrance
of the party from the refectory had subsided,
the Prior made a signal to one of the officers of
justice. The man disappeared, and shortly returned
with one of the prisoners, the investigation
being intended to embrace the cases of all who
had been detained by the prudence of the monks.
Balthazar (for it was he) approached the table in
his usual meek manner. His limbs were unbound,
and his exterior calm, though the quick unquiet
movements of his eye, and the workings of his
pale features, whenever a suppressed sob from
among the females reached his ear, betrayed the
inward struggle he had to maintain, in order to
preserve appearances. When he was confronted
with his examiners, Father Michael bowed to the
châtelain; for, though the others were admitted by
courtesy to participate in the investigations, the
legal right to proceed in an affair of this nature,
functionary alone.
“Thou art called Balthazar?” abruptly commenced
the judge, glancing at his notes.
The answer was a simple inclination of the
body.
“And thou art the headsman of the canton of
Berne?”
A similar silent reply was given.
“The office is hereditary in thy family; it has
been so for ages?”
Balthazar erected his frame, breathing heavily,
like one oppressed at the heart, but who would
bear down his feelings before he answered.
“Herr Châtelain,” he said with energy, “by the
judgment of God it has been so.”
“Honest Balthazar, thou throwest too much
emphasis into thy words,” interposed the bailiff.
“All that belongs to authority is honorable, and is
not to be treated as an evil. Hereditary claims,
when venerable by time and use, have a double
estimation with the world, since it brings the
merit of the ancestor to sustain that of the descendant.
We have our rights of the burgerschaft,
and thou thy rights of execution. The time
has been when thy fathers were well content with
their privilege.”
Balthazar bowed in submission; but he seemed
to think any other reply unnecessary. The fingers
of Sigismund writhed on the hilt of his sword, and
a groan, which the young man well knew had been
wrested from the bosom of his mother, came from
the women.
“The remark of the worthy and honorable bai
liff is just,” resumed the Valaisan; “all that is of
the state is for the good of the state, and all that
is for the comfort and security of man is honorable.
Be not ashamed, therefore, of thy office, Balthazar,
condemned; but answer faithfully and with truth
to the questions I am about to put.—Thou hast a
daughter?”
“In that much, at least, have I been blessed!”
The energy with which he spoke caused a sudden
movement in the judges. They looked at each
other in surprise, for it was apparent they did
not expect these touches of human feeling in a man
who lived, as it were, in constant warfare with his
fellow-creatures.
“Thou hast reason,” returned the châtelain,
recovering his gravity; “for she is said to be both
dutiful and comely. Thou wert about to marry
this daughter?”
Balthazar acknowledged the truth of this by another
inclination.
“Didst thou ever know a Vévaisan of the name
of Jacques Colis?”
“Mein Herr, I did. He was to have become
my son.”
The châtelain was again surprised; for the
steadiness of the reply denoted innocence, and he
studied the countenance of the prisoner intently.
He found apparent frankness where he had expected
to meet with subterfuge, and, like all who have
great acquaintance with crime, his distrust increased.
The simplicity of one who really had nothing
to conceal, unlike that appearance of firmness,
which is assumed to affect innocence, set his
shrewdness at fault, though familiar with most of
the expedients of the guilty.
“This Jacques Colis was to have wived thy
daughter?” continued the châtelain, growing more
wary as he thought he detected greater evidence
of art in the accused.
“It was so understood between us.”
“Did he love thy child?”
The muscles of Balthazar's mouth played convulsively,
the twitchings of the lip seeming to
threaten a loss of self-command.
“Mein Herr, I believed it.”
“Yet he refused to fulfil the engagement?”
“He did.”
Even Marguerite was alarmed at the deep emphasis
with which this answer was given, and, for
the first time in her life, she trembled lest the accumulating
load of obloquy had indeed been too
strong for her husband's principles.
“Thou felt anger at his conduct, and at the
public manner in which he disgraced thee and
thine?”
“Herr Châtelain, I am human. When Jacques
Colis repudiated my daughter, he bruised a tender
plant in the girl, and he caused bitterness in a
father's heart.”
“Thou hast received instruction superior to thy
condition, Balthazar!”
“We are a race of executioners, but we are not
the unnurtured herd that people fancy. 'T is the
will of Berne that made me what I am, and no desire
nor wants of my own.”
“The charge is honorable, as are all that come
of the state,” repeated the other, with the formal
readiness in which set phrases are uttered; “the
charge is honorable for one of thy birth. God
assigns to each his station on earth, and he has
fixed thy duties. When Jacques Colis refused thy
daughter he left his country to escape thy revenge?”
“Were Jacques Colis living, he would not utter
so foul a lie!”
“I knew his honest and upright nature!” exclaimed
Marguerite with energy! God pardon me
that I ever doubted it!”
The judges turned inquisitive glances towards
did not the less proceed.
“Thou knowest, then, that Jacques Colis is
dead?”
“How can I doubt it, mein Herr, when I saw
his bleeding body?”
“Balthazar, thou seemest disposed to aid the
examination, though with what views is better
known to Him who sees the inmost heart, than to
me. I will come at once, therefore, to the most
essential facts. Thou art a native and a resident
of Berne; the headsman of the canton—a creditable
office in itself, though the ignorance and prejudices
of man are not apt so to consider it. Thou
wouldst have married thy daughter with a substantial
peasant of Vaud. The intended bridegroom
repudiated thy child, in face of the thousands
who came to Vévey to witness the festivities
of the Abbaye; he departed on a journey to
avoid thee, or his own feelings, or rumor, or what
thou wilt; he met his death by murder on this
mountain; his body was discovered with the knife
in the recent wound, and thou, who shouldst have
been on thy path homeward, wert found passing
the night near the murdered man. Thine own
reason will show thee the connexion which we
are led to form between these several events, and
thou art now required to explain that which to us
seems so suspicious, but which to thyself may be
clear. Speak freely, but speak truth, as thou reverest
God, and in thine own interest.”
Balthazar hesitated and appeared to collect his
thoughts. His head was lowered in a thoughtful
attitude, and then, looking his examiner steadily
in the face, he replied. His manner was calm,
and the tone in which he spoke, if not that of one
innocent in fact, was that of one who well knew
how to assume the exterior of that character.
“Herr Châtelain,” he said, “I have foreseen
the suspicions that would be apt to fasten on me
in these unhappy circumstances, but, used to trust
in Providence, I shall speak the truth without fear.
Of the intention of Jacques Colis to depart I knew
nothing. He went his way privately, and if you
will do me the justice to reflect a little, it will be
seen that I was the last man to whom he would
have been likely to let his intention be known. I
came up the St. Bernard, drawn by a chain that
your own heart will own is difficult to break if you
are a father. My daughter was on the road to
Italy with kind and true friends, who were not
ashamed to feel for a headsman's child, and who
took her in order to heal the wound that had been
so unfeelingly inflicted.”
“This is true!” exclaimed the Baron de Willading;
“Balthazar surely says naught but truth
here!”
“This is known and allowed; crime is not always
the result of cool determination, but it comes
of terror, of sudden thought, the angry mood, the
dire temptation, and a fair occasion. Though
thou left'st Vévey ignorant of Jacques Colis' departure,
didst thou hear nothing of his movements
by the way?”
“Balthazar changed color. There was evidently
a struggle in his bosom, as if he shrunk
from making an acknowledgment that might militate
against his interests; but, glancing an eye at
the guides, he recovered his proper tone of mind,
and answered firmly:
“I did. Pierre Dumont had heard the tale of
my child's disgrace, and, ignorant that I was the
injured parent, he told me of the manner in which
the unhappy man had retreated from the mockery
of his companions. I knew, therefore, that we
were on the same path.”
“And yet thou perseveredst?”
“In what, Herr Châtelain? Was I to desert my
daughter, because one who had already proved
false to her stood in my way?”
“Thou hast well answered, Balthazar,” interrupted
Marguerite. “Thou hast answered as
became thee! We are few, and we are all to each
other. Thou wert not to forget our child because
it pleased others to despise her.”
The Signor Grimaldi bent towards the Valaisan,
and whispered near his ear.
“This hath the air of nature,” he observed;
“and does it not account for the appearance of
the father on the road taken by the murdered
man?”
“We do not question the probability or justness
of such a motive, Signore; but revenge may have
suddenly mounted to the height of ferocity in some
wrangle: one accustomed to blood yields easily to
his passions and his habits.”
The truth of these suggestions was plausible,
and the noble Genoese drew back in cold disappointment.
The châtelain consulted with those
about him, and then desired the wife to come forth
in order to be confronted with her husband. Marguerite
obeyed. Her movement was slow, and her
whole manner that of one who yielded to a stern
necessity.
“Thou art the headsman's wife?”
“And a headsman's daughter.”
“Marguerite is a well-disposed and a sensible
woman,” put in Peterchen; “she understands that
an office under the state can never bring disgrace
in the eyes of reason, and wishes no part of her
history or origin to be concealed.”
The glance that flashed from the eye of Balthazar's
wife was withering; but the dogmatic bailiff
to be conscious of its effects.
“And a headsman's daughter,” continued the
examining judge; “why art thou here?”
“Because I am a wife and a mother. As the
latter I came upon the mountain, and as a wife I
have mounted to the convent to be present at this
examination. They will have it that there is blood
upon the hands of Balthazar, and I am here to
repel the lie.”
“And yet thou hast not been slow to confess thy
connexion with a race of executioners!—They
who are accustomed to see their fellows die might
have less warmth in meeting a plain inquiry of
justice!”
“Herr Châtelain, thy meaning is understood.
We have been weighed upon heavily by Providence,
but, until now, they whom we have been
made to serve have had the policy to treat us with
fair words! Thou hast spoken of blood; that which
has been shed by Balthazar, by his, and by mine,
lies on the consciences of those who commanded
it to be spilt. The unwilling instruments of thy
justice are innocent before God.”
“This is strange language for people of thy employment!
Dost thou, too, Balthazar, speak and
think with thy consort in this matter?”
“Nature has given us men sterner feelings, mein
Herr. I was born to the office I hold, taught to
believe it right, if not honorable, and I have struggled
hard to do its duties without murmuring. The
case is different with poor Marguerite. She is a
mother, and lives in her children; she has seen one
that is near her heart publicly scorned, and she
feels like a mother.”
“And thou, who art a father, what has been thy
manner of thinking under this insult?”
Balthazar was meek by nature, and, as he had
his functions; but he was capable of profound affections.
The question touched him in a sensitive
spot, and he writhed under his feelings; but, accustomed
to command himself before the public
eye, and alive to the pride of manhood, his mighty
effort to suppress the agony that loaded his heart
was rewarded with success.
“Sorrow for my unoffending child; sorrow for
him who had forgotten his faith; and sorrow for
them who have been at the root of this bitter
wrong,” was the answer.
“This man has been accustomed to hear forgiveness
preached to the criminal, and he turns
his schooling to good account,” whispered the wary
judge to those near him. “We must try his guilt
by other means. He may be readier in reply than
steady in his nerves.”
Signing to the assistants, the Valaisan now quietly
awaited the effect of a new experiment. The
pall was removed, and the body of Jacques Colis
exposed. He was seated as in life, on the table in
front of the grand altar.
“The innocent have no dread of those whose
spirits have deserted the flesh,” continued the
châtelain, “but God often sorely pricks the consciences
of the guilty, when they are made to see
the works of their own cruel hands. Approach,
and look upon the dead, Balthazar; thou and thy
wife, that we may judge of the manner in which
ye face the murdered and wronged man.”
A more fruitless experiment could not well have
been attempted with one of the headsman's office;
for long familiarity with such sights had taken off
that edge of horror which the less accustomed
would be apt to feel. Whether it were owing to
this circumstance, or to his innocence, Balthazar
walked to the side of the body unshaken, and stood
tranquillity. His habits were quiet and meek, and
little given to display. The feelings which crowded
his mind, therefore, did not escape him in words,
though a gleam of something like regret crossed
his face. Not so with his companion. Marguerite
took the hand of the dead man, and hot tears
began to follow each other down her cheeks, as
she gazed at his shrunken and altered lineaments.
“Poor Jacques Colis!” she said in a manner to
be heard by all present; “thou hadst thy faults,
like all born of woman; but thou didst not merit
this! Little did the mother that bore thee, and who
lived in thy infant smile—she who fondled thee on
her knee, and cherished thee in her bosom, foresee
thy fearful and sudden end! It was happy for
her that she never knew the fruit of all her love,
and pains, and care, else bitterly would she have
mourned over what was then her joy, and in sorrow
would she have witnessed thy pleasantest
smile. We live in a fearful world, Balthazar; a
world in which the wicked triumph! Thy hand,
that would not willingly harm the meanest creature
which has been fashioned by the will of God,
is made to take life, and thy heart—thy excellent
heart—is slowly hardening in the execution of this
accursed office! The judgment-seat hath fallen to
the lot of the corrupt and designing; mercy hath
become the laughing-stock of the ruthless, and
death is inflicted by the hand of him who would
live in peace with his kind. This cometh of thwarting
God's intentions with the selfishness and designs
of men! We would be wiser than he who
made the universe, and we betray the weakness
of fools! Go to—go to, ye proud and great of the
earth—if we have taken life, it hath been at your
bidding; but we have naught of this on our consciences.
rapacious and violent—it is no deed of revenge.”
“In what manner are we to know that what
thou sayest is true?” asked the châtelain, who had
advanced near the altar, in order to watch the
effects of the trial to which he had put Balthazar
and his wife.
“I am not surprised at thy question, Herr Chatelain,
for nothing comes quicker to the minds of
the honored and happy than the thought of resenting
an evil turn. It is not so with the despised.
Revenge would be an idle remedy for us. Would
it raise us in men's esteem? should we forget our
own degraded condition? should we be a whit
nearer respect after the deed was done than we
were before?”
“This may be true, but the angered do not
reason. Thou art not suspected, Marguerite, except
as having heard the truth from thy husband
since the deed has been committed, but thine own
discernment will show that naught is more probable
than that a hot contention about the past may have
led Balthazar, who is accustomed to see blood, into
the commission of this act?”
“Here is thy boasted justice! Thine own laws
are brought in support of thine own oppression.
Didst thou know how much pains his father had
in teaching Balthazar to strike, how many long
and anxious visits were paid between his parent
and mine in order to bring up the youth in the way
of his dreadful calling, thou wouldst not think him
so apt! God unfitted him for his office, as he has
unfitted many of higher and different pretensions
for duties that have been cast upon them in virtue
of their birthrights. Had it been I, châtelain, thy
suspicions would have a better show of reason. I
am formed with strong and quick feelings, and
reason has often proved too weak for passion,
throughout a life hath long since tamed all of pride
that ever dwelt in me.”
“Thou hast a daughter present?”
Marguerite pointed to the group which held her
child.
“The trial is severe,” said the judge, who began
to feel compunctions that were rare to one of his
habits, “but it is as necessary to your own future
peace, as it is to justice itself, that the truth should
be known. I am compelled to order thy daughter
to advance to the body.”
Marguerite received this unexpected command
with cold womanly reserve. Too much wounded
to complain, but trembling for the conduct of her
child, she went to the cluster of females, pressed
Christine to her heart, and led her silently forward.
She presented her to the châtelain, with a dignity
so calm and quiet, that the latter found it oppressive!
“This is Balthazar's child,” she said. Then
folding her arms, she retired herself a step, an attentive
observer of what passed.
The judge regarded the sweet pallid face of the
trembling girl with an interest he had seldom felt
for any who had come before him in the discharge
of his unbending duties. He spoke to her kindly,
and even encouragingly, placing himself intentionally
between her and the dead, momentarily hiding
the appalling spectacle from her view, that she
might have time to summon her courage. Marguerite
blessed him in her heart for this small grace,
and was better satisfied.
“Thou wert betrothed to Jacques Colis?” demanded
the châtelain, using a gentleness of voice
that was singularly in contrast with his former
stern interrogatories.
The utmost that Christine could reply was to
bow her head.
“Thy nuptials were to take place at the late
meeting of the Abbaye des Vignerons—it is our
unpleasant duty to wound where we could wish
to heal—but thy betrothed refused to redeem his
pledge?”
“The heart is weak, and sometimes shrinks from
its own good purposes,” murmured Christine. “He
was but human, and he could not withstand the
sneers of all about him.”
The châtelain was so entranced by her gentle
and sweet manner that he leaned forward to listen,
lest a syllable of what she whispered might escape
his ears.
“Thou acquittest, then, Jacques Colis of any
false intention?”
“He was less strong than he believed himself,
mein Herr; he was not equal to sharing our disgrace,
which was put rudely and too strongly before
him.”
“Thou hadst consented freely to the marriage
thyself, and wert well disposed to become his
wife?”
The imploring look and heaving respiration of
Christine were lost on the blunted sensibilities of a
criminal judge.
“Was the youth dear to thee?” he repeated,
without perceiving the wound he was inflicting on
female reserve.
Christine shuddered. She was not accustomed
to have affections which she considered the most
sacred of her short and innocent existence so rudely
probed; but, believing that the safety of her
father depended on her frankness and sincerity, by
an effort that was nearly superhuman, she was
enabled to reply. The bright glow that suffused
her face, however, proclaimed the power of that
arraying her features in the lustre of maiden shame.
“I was little used to hear words of praise, Herr
Châtelain,—and they are so soothing to the ears
of the despised! I felt as a girl acknowledges the
preference of a youth who is not disagreeable to
her. I thought he loved me—and—what would
you more, mein Herr?”
“None could hate thee, innocent and abused
child!” murmured the Signor Grimaldi.
“You forget that I am Balthazar's daughter,
mein Herr; none of our race are viewed with
favor.”
“Thou, at least, must be an exception!”
“Leaving this aside,” continued the châtelain,
“I would know if thy parents showed resentment
at the misconduct of thy betrothed; whether aught
was said in thy presence, that can throw light on
this unhappy affair?”
The officer of the Valais turned his head aside,
for he met the surprised and displeased glance of
the Genoese, whose eye expressed a gentleman's
opinion at hearing a child thus questioned in a matter
that so nearly touched her father's life. But the
look and the improper character of the examination
escaped the notice of Christine. She relied with
filial confidence on the innocence of the author of
her being, and, so far from being shocked, she rejoiced
with the simplicity and confidence of the
undesigning at being permitted to say anything that
might vindicate him in the eyes of his judges.
“Herr Châtelain,” she answered eagerly, the
blood that had mounted to her cheeks from female
weakness, deepening to, and warming, her very
temples with a holier sentiment: “Herr Châtelain,
we wept together when alone; we prayed for our
enemies as for ourselves, but naught was said to
the prejudice of poor Jacques—no, not a whisper.”
“Wept and prayed!” repeated the judge, looking
from the child to the father, in the manner of a
man that fancied he did not hear aright.
“I said both, mein Herr; if the former was a
weakness, the latter was a duty.”
“This is strange language in the mouth of a
headsman's child!”
Christine appeared at a loss, for a moment, to
comprehend his meaning; but, passing a hand
across her fair brow, she continued.
“I think I understand what you would say, mein
Herr,” she said; “the world believes us to be
without feeling and without hope. We are what
we seem in the eyes of others because the law
makes it so, but we are in our hearts like all around
us, Herr Châtelain—with this difference, that, feeling
our abasement among men, we lean more
closely and more affectionately on God. You may
condemn us to do your offices and to bear your
dislike, but you cannot rob us of our trust in the
justice of heaven. In that, at least, we are the
equals of the proudest baron in the cantons!”
“The examination had better rest here,” said
the prior, advancing with glistening eyes to interpose
between the maiden and her interrogator.
“Thou knowest, Herr Bourrit, that we have other
prisoners.”
The châtelain, who felt his own practised obduracy
of feeling strangely giving way before the
innocent and guileless faith of Christine, was not
unwilling himself to change the direction of the inquiries.
The family of Balthazar was directed to
retire, and the attendants were commanded to bring
forward Pippo and Conrad.
| CHAPTER XII. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons | |