University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXVIII.

At the tumult which followed this bold act, Claude
believed his last moment had come. He was seized
by a dozen brawny hands, sabres flashed and clashed
before his eyes, and he was borne to the floor, and had
scarcely time to commit himself to the mercy of his
Creator, ere he felt two bullets whiz past his head, and
a sword pass through his body. The next instant
would have terminated his existence had not Colonel
Dubois himself interfered. His deep, coarse voice, in
tones of thunder, demanded order, and his gigantic arm
rescued his victim from immediate destruction, in order
to succeed, if possible, in tearing the secret from
him before his death. It was after much discord and
struggling that the commander succeeded in forming
his men once more in a kind of order, and he instantly
proceeded to question Claude. Accounts of the beauty
of the young girl who had escaped him had excited
his curiosity and inflamed his imagination, and he resolved
to secure her at any rate. The continual return
of the men who had been sent in search of her
without having accomplished their object, yet farther
aroused his passion.

“So, friend, you know the secret hiding-place, then?”
said he, as Claude, whose wound was much slighter
than he thought, stood bleeding, but unshrinking, before
him.

“I do.”

“You will reveal it to me?”

“No.”

“You shall be richly rewarded if you do—you shall
die like a dog if you refuse.”

“I am ready.”

“Is she your mistress?”

“She is a woman, and I cannot betray her.”

“We will see. Sergeant Gregoire, leave this bold
youth with me. Conduct the rest of the prisoners
into the court, and do your duty—instantly.”

Stupified, incredulous, bewildered, the unhappy beings
were marched out. The soldiers' tramping tread
was heard as they drew up on the pavements under
the window, and at each motion their muskets clanked
with an ominous regularity.

Dubois filled a large glass with wine till it overflowed.

“You think, perhaps, I am not in earnest,” said he.

Claude's heart turned to ice. He could not believe
his eyes.

“Will you save your life? I swear you shall be
untouched if you will utter one word to put me on the
clew.”

“I am not a traitor. I cannot purchase my life at
such a price,” replied Claude.

At that instant was heard the discharge of musketry,
and a deep groan, that made Claude thrill with horror
in every fibre of his frame. Even Dubois turned pale.
Claude's face also was bloodless, and a faintness came
over him, such as no pen may describe—such as he
thought would suspend his being without the aid of the
executioner.

“Let them cry `Vive le Roi' now!” said Dubois;
“and as for you—you shall follow them in one minute
if you do not reveal your secret; will you do so?”

“I protest against this brutal barbarity,” said Claude.
“I cannot believe, Monsieur le Colonel, that you will
murder me for refusing the basest act of cowardice
and treachery. I throw myself upon your generosity
—your mercy” (and his voice quivered).

“Do you mean to say,” cried Dubois, turning livid
with rage, “that you still refuse to discover the retreat
of this woman?”

“I do,” said Claude.

Sergeant Gregoire here marched in at the head of
his silent company, who ranged themselves in a line

before the table, and at his command reloaded their
pieces.

“Gregoire,” said Dubois, “lead ten more men into
the court, and send this obstinate fool after his companions.”

“Cold-blooded fiend!” said Claude.

The ruffian made a furious gesture with his arm.
“Forward—march,” said the sergeant, with military
brevity.

Claude advanced. He had done with life. This,
then, was death. They passed from the hall—through
the corridor—into the open air. The sky was above
him. The afternoon sunshine fell calm and yellow in
the court. The breeze touched his face. He heard
the barking of a dog—the careless warble of a bird—
a flock of pigeons swept down into the court, and,
frightened by the soldiery, rose and mounted again into
the balmy air. He beheld the waving branches of the
trees. The silver clouds were lying in the heavens,
and the broad green fields were stretched in the distance.
He cast one look above—around—then the
form of Ida arose to his imagination.

One word could save him, but that word would
consign her to a fate worse than death.

“No,” said Claude; “when the hand of a profligate
dashed a blow upon my forehead, I refused to peril my
life because I thought the occasion unworthy of it.
Here humanity—honour—courage, call upon me to
throw it away. May God protect this now unfriended
girl and receive my soul.”

“Comrades!” said Claude, with a firm, bold voice.

“Hold! he yields,” cried Dubois from the window.

“I ask one favour!”

“It shall be granted!” cried Dubois.

“Let me give the word myself; and, when you fire,
aim at the heart.”

The sound of horses' hoofs was heard. They approached
at a rapid rate. A horseman rode into the
court. He was of gigantic stature. The crowd of

ruffians recognised him, and hailed his approach with
acclamations and cries of “Vive Danton!”

“What is this—who is this?” cried he. “Sacre
diable! I know this face. Ah! where is your colonel,
my good fellows? You have been busy, I see;
so much the better; but this—I have seen that face
before, and I owe it a service. See, he is falling. Is
he already dead?”

In truth, loss of blood and the emotions of these
scenes had been too much for Claude's strength. He
had stood erect to receive the fire of the soldiers, and
he had already bidden farewell to earth; but in the delay
so much beyond the moment, when he expected to
receive the fire of his murderers in his bosom, the excitement
of the moment, which had sustained him till
then, gave way—his brain swam—a coldness, a faintness,
and then a darkness crept over him. He believed
already the ghastly ordeal past. He sank
down upon the stones, and saw and heard no more of
what was going on around him.