University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVII.

Near the hut of Susanne was a subterranean passage,
in former times connected with the chateau. It
communicated with a rude outhouse, which had been

used for some mysterious purpose, of which the tradition
was lost. This retreat was known only to three
persons in the family of St. Marie—himself, Susanne,
and one of his oldest and most faithful serving-men.
It was in order to procure to Ida the advantage of this
place of security that he had sent her to Susanne,
unwilling to trust the secret to any other of the servants
on an occasion where there might be so many
temptations to betray it.

With hasty and trembling steps the two females
took their place in this passage, of which the opening
could not be discovered without the treachery of some
one possessed of the secret. Leaving Ida here in
comparative safety, Claude determined not to remain
with them, but to reconnoitre from a distant position,
and to defend it from any one who might by chance
approach it.

He therefore selected a spot where he thought he
would be concealed, and remained, with emotions of
mixed agony and happiness, to await the events of this
interesting day. He could see the towers of the chateau,
and, before an hour had elapsed, he beheld their
tops surrounded with masses of smoke—a sad token of
the work of destruction going on beneath. Off his guard,
he gazed at this ominous sign with so much attention,
that he did not observe the approach of four soldiers till
they were so near that they discovered him. He had
one loaded pistol. His enemies were completely
armed. His first impulse was to sell his life dearly;
but he reflected that resistance was certain death, while
submission afforded at least a chance of safety. He
yielded, therefore, with readiness, and was instantly
conducted back to the chateau.

It was with some difficulty that he could repress an
exclamation of horror at the sight which met his view
on arriving there. The large saloon was filled with a
clamorous and half-drunken band of soldiers, seated
at the tables, having finished an ample feast. The servants
were bound and ranged against the wall. Several

of them were females. Colonel St. Marie himself
stood also bound in the midst of them, his face and
dress stained with blood from a wound on his head.
The ruin of the interior of the chateau was nearly accomplished.
The costly furniture was scattered around
in fragments, having been wantonly broken with axes
and pikes. All that was portable and valuable was
stowed away in sacks and wagons. Mirrors had been
dashed to atoms; statues, clocks, candelabras, chandeliers,
shattered; and invaluable paintings and rich old
tapestry cut to pieces with sabres and bayonets. Everything
which could be discovered in the building
had been brought forth to supply the demands of five
hundred voracious soldiers; and whole pipes of choice
wine had been dragged from the cellar, and had been
already so far exhausted by the brutal guests, that a
general excitement, not far from actual intoxication,
had reduced them from the appearance of troops with
at least some claims to discipline, to little better than
a mob of drunken robbers and cutthroats. Money and
plate had been grasped by greedy hands, and were
piled up in baskets preparatory to being packed; and
several attempts had been made to set fire to the chateau,
one of which seemed likely to be successful, for
in an adjoining room the flames were slowly advancing,
and emitted volumes of smoke—what Claude had already
perceived at a distance.

The feast was now done, and the men had risen and
were standing erect as well as they could. The colonel
fixed himself in his seat with a magisterial air, and,
slapping his hand furiously down upon the table till he
made the plates and glasses ring again, commanded
order.

“Citizen-soldiers!” said this man, with a drunken
hiccough, “you have done well. You have done your
duty. We have already the benefit arising from clearing
France of these vile aristocrats. They must be
swept off the face of the earth like so many reptiles.
The population is to be reduced one fourth. Had I

been consulted, it should have been one half. Then
there should be bread and wine, and land and gold for
the remainder. Then there would be no more prisons
—no more starvation—no more oppression—no more
jails. All would be free, happy, and rich. It is these
drones, who eat the fat of the land and do nothing—
these ruthless tyrants, who have trampled on you for
so many years—who have caused all the wretchedness
of poor France. It is decided that her population
must be diminished. Our glorious Danton—our wise
and patriotic Robespierre, have pointed out the way.
We have fired this old den of aristocrats—you may
hear the roaring of the flames. As for the brood of
vipers who have nestled here, their doom is sealed.
They must (hiccough) die. They hate our glorious
revolution, and they must die, I say.”

This discourse was delivered with a drunken energy,
which was often interrupted by the inability of the
speaker to proceed from mere intoxication, but yet
more by the coarse and exulting cheers of the brutal
auditory, and the groans and shrieks of the victims.
These unhappy beings—a few hours before in the full
enjoyment of life and hope—thus suddenly brought
upon the brink of eternity, manifested in various ways
their horror and despair. Some shrieked aloud—some
wept—some clasped their hands in silent horror, and
some in pious prayer. St. Marie himself—his eyes
flashing with horror and rage—addressed the wretch
who sat thus in bloody judgment over him in terms
of dignified remonstrance. But all were alike in
vain.[1]

“Company, attention,” cried Col. Dubois; and for a
moment the rolling of the drums drowned all other
noises. “Bring out the prisoners.”

They were thrust rudely forward in front of the
chair where the ruffian sat with a magisterial air, his
eye glassy with wine and that appalling desire to glut
his sight with human blood, which seemed then an
epidemic in France.

“Here is another prisoner, citizen colonel,” said one
of the soldiers; and Claude was thrust roughly into
the middle of the floor. At the sight of him there
was a comparative silence among even the rude soldiery,
as if they felt a new interest in the drama.

“Who are you?” demanded the colonel.

“I am a teacher of languages,” said Claude, firmly
and boldly. “I fled from Berlin to join the revolutionists.
I am at a loss to know why these men have
confounded me with the enemies of France.”

“Were you known to any one as a friend to the
revolution?”

“Yes, to Danton!”

“He is the spy—the English spy,” said the peasant
who had given the information which led to the
attack.

“You are greatly mistaken,” said Claude, composedly;
“I am so far from being a spy, that I was the
first to enter the Tuileries on the glorious tenth of August.
I was the first to enter the tyrant's palace.”

“Humph!” said the colonel. “That is easily said,
but not so easily proved. The first to enter the tyrant's
palace! Liar! you shall confront him who was
the first, for he is an officer in our company. Here,
come forward,” he cried, beckoning to a person at the
other end of the hall.

A wild-looking young man, with long hair streaming
about his face, and piercing black eyes, stepped forward
at the call. Claude recognised him in a moment
as the young leader on that bloody day who had
been so near him.

“If this man recognise you,” said the colonel, “you
shall go free; if not, you die on the spot for a liar and

an aristocrat. Hey, my brave boys! is not this Solomon's
decision?”

And he laughed triumphantly at the certainty which
he presumed he had now established of convicting his
prisoner in this summary way.

“It is hardly fair,” said Claude; “but, to show you
how sure I am, and how little I fear any harm from
these my comrades in the great cause, citizen colonel,
I accept the offer.”

“Look at him, then,” said the colonel.

Lazarre fixed his bright black eyes upon him, measured
him with his glances from head to foot, and said,

“No—I never saw him. He is an impostor.”

“But I saw you,” said Claude, calmly; “and I will
convince you you also saw me.”

“If you did,” said the stranger, haughtily, “you
would know my name. It was sounded that day by
mouths enough.”

“You were called Lazarre,” said Claude. “You
mounted the great stairs waving a banner, on which
was inscribed, `Down with the Veto!' You shot a
Swiss at the entrance.”

“Flying?”

“No—in his box. Behind you were borne three
heads on a pike; and when we learned the flight of
the tyrant, you exclaimed, `N'importe, mes amis; nous
y reviendrons!' In the kitchen you—that is, we—
threw a fugitive into the flames.”

“By Gracchus! did we not?” said Lazarre, extending
his hand. “Not a hair of your head shall be
touched.”

“And it is hard, after being foremost in tearing down
the tyrant's throne—in ridding the nation of her oppressors—to
find myself counted among them,” said
Claude, in a surly tone, and with a frown of anger at
Colonel Dubois.

“Ha! get back, then, citizen, in God's name,” said
the colonel, as Lazarre again greeted him with a friendly
welcome. “As for you—coquins! nigeauds! co

chons!” cried the colonel, addressing the rest of the
prisoners, “look your last on the light of day. The
enemies of France must fall! Revenge (hiccough)
revenge is the order of the day. You're rebels!
(hiccough) you're aristocrats! (hiccough) and ye
must die! Silence, I say,” cried he, as the voices of
the prisoners burst forth, some in supplication, some in
threats. “There is one chance for you; a woman—
a girl, parbleu! — has escaped us, and is concealed
somewhere, as I am informed, in or about this chateau.
He or she among you who will tell me where
she is hidden, shall receive his life as a reward; for
the rest—Sergeant Gregoire, lead your prisoners into
the court. Choose a file of twenty men, the least
drunk among ye, and make short work of them, for
we must be on our journey. Hark ye, wretches—I
give you one minute—which of you will tell me where
this young breeder of rebels and aristocrats is?”

There were seven among the prisoners. Of them
St. Marie and one servant alone knew Ida's place of
concealment. The latter had heard the order which
St. Marie had given, but he remained pale and motionless.

Claude believed that all this brutal parade was but
a mode of tempting those who knew the secret into a
confession.

“Allons, messieurs!” said Dubois; “you have ten
seconds. By Brutus! I am in earnest.”

“You cannot—you dare not—” cried St. Marie.

“Ah! old coquin, that is your opinion!”

“In the name of humanity—of France—” cried St.
Marie.

“Sergeant Gregoire,” said the colonel, “the time
has expired. Forward, and do your duty.”

The sergeant advanced. He had placed himself at
the head of twenty men, who, with their charged bayonets,
compelled the prisoners to proceed. Claude
caught one agonized glance from St. Marie. At the

door one man stopped and cried aloud for mercy. It
was the old servant who alone possessed the secret.

“Lache!” cried St. Marie.

“Stop,” cried the man, “I will reveal—I will—I
will—” and he fell upon his knees in the last paroxysm
of terror.

“Speak out, then, reptile,” thundered Dubois.

“I will—I will—” gasped the trembling old man,
nearly insensible with terror; “she—she—I cannot—
I am choked!”

“And may God's curse fall on him,” cried St. Marie,
with a voice so deep and stern, that, for a moment,
it awed even the half-drunken wretch himself who presided
over this diabolical scene—“may God's curse
light on him who, to save his miserable life, commits
my sweet child to the grasp of these hellhounds—the
curse of God—a dying man calls it down upon him
and his for ever!”

“I cannot help it,” gasped the man; “give me life,
and I care not. She—she is hidden in—”

All leaned forward with increasing interest to catch
the words from his pale and quivering lips. St. Marie
struggled to spring upon him. He was bound, and
held by two strong men. But the speaker's voice was
stopped by another hand. A bullet from the remaining
pistol of Claude, which he had carefully concealed
in his bosom, lodged in the temples of the unhappy
wretch. He fell back dead without a groan. St. Marie
gave a shout of triumph, and a wild yell of fury
burst from the throng, who threw themselves upon
Claude, with their muskets and sabres in hand, to cut
him to pieces.