him and demanded to see his papers."
At that
instant, the clocks of Carentan struck half-past nine; the
lanterns were lighted in Madame de Dey's antechamber; the servants
were helping their masters and
mistresses to put on their clogs, their
cloaks, and their mantles; the card-players had paid their debts, and
all the guests were preparing to leave together after the established
customs of
provincial towns.
"The prosecutor, it seems, has stayed behind," said a lady, perceiving
that that important
personage was
missing, when the company parted in
the large square to go to their several houses.
That terrible magistrate was, in fact, alone with the
countess, who
waited, trembling, till it should please him to depart.
"Citoyenne," he said, after a long silence in which there was
something terrifying, "I am here to
enforce the laws of the Republic."
Madame de Dey shuddered.
"Have you nothing to reveal to me?" he demanded.
"Nothing," she replied, astonished.
"Ah! madame," cried the prosecutor, changing his tone and seating
himself beside her, "at this moment, for want of a word between us,
you and I may be risking our heads on the scaffold. I have too long
observed your
character, your soul, your manners, to share the error
into which you have persuaded your friends this evening. You are, I
cannot doubt, expecting your son."
The
countess made a
gesture of
denial; but she had turned pale, the
muscles of her face
contracted from the effort that she made to
exhibit
firmness, and the implacable eye of the public prosecutor lost
none of her
movements.
"Well, receive him," continued the functionary of the Revolution, "but
do not keep him under your roof later than seven o'clock in the
morning. To-morrow, at eight, I shall be at your door with a
denunciation."
She looked at him with a
stupid air that might have made a tiger
pitiful.
"I will prove," he continued in a kindly voice, "the falsity of the
denunciation, by making a careful search of the premises; and the
nature of my report will protect you in future from all suspicions. I
will speak of your
patriotic gifts, your civic virtues, and that will
save you."
Madame de Dey feared a trap, and she stood
motionless; but her face
was on fire, and her tongue stiff in her mouth. A rap sounded on the
door.
"Oh!" cried the mother, falling on her knees, "save him! save him!"
"Yes, we will save him," said the official, giving her a look of
passion; "if it costs us our life, we will save him."
"I am lost!" she murmured, as the prosecutor raised her courteously.
"Madame," he said, with an oratorical
movement, "I will owe you only--
to yourself."
"Madame, he has come," cried Brigitte, rushing in and thinking her
mistress was alone.
At sight of the public prosecutor, the old woman, flushed and joyous
as she was, became
motionless and livid.
"Who has come?" asked the prosecutor.
"A
recruit, whom the mayor has sent to lodge here," replied Brigitte,
showing the billet.
"True," said the prosecutor,
reading the paper. "We expect a
detachment to-night."
And he went away.
The
countess had too much need at this moment to believe in the
sincerity of her former
attorney, to
distrust his promise. She mounted
the stairs rapidly, though her strength seemed failing her; then she
opened the door, saw her son, and fell into his arms half dead,--
"Oh! my child! my child!" she cried, sobbing, and covering him with
kisses in a sort of frenzy.
"Madame!" said an unknown man.
"Ah! it is not he!" she cried, recoiling in
terror, and
standing erect
before the
recruit, at whom she gazed with a
haggard eye.
"Holy Father! what a likeness!" said Brigitte.
There was silence for a moment. The
recruit himself shuddered at the
aspect of Madame de Dey.
"Ah!
monsieur," she said, leaning on Brigitte's husband, who had
entered the room, and feeling to its fullest
extent an agony the fear
of which had already nearly killed her. "Monsieur, I cannot stay with
you longer. Allow my people to attend upon you."
She returned to her own room, half carried by Brigitte and her old
servant.
"Oh! madame," said Brigitte, as she undressed her
mistress, "must that
man sleep in Monsieur Auguste's bed, and put on Monsieur Auguste's
slippers, and eat the pate I made for Monsieur Auguste? They may
guillotine me if I--"
"Brigitte!" cried Madame de Dey.
Brigitte was mute.
"Hush!" said her husband in her ear, "do you want to kill madame?"
At that moment the
recruit made a noise in the room above by sitting
down to his supper.
"I cannot stay here!" cried Madame de Dey. "I will go into the
greenhouse; there I can hear what happens outside during the night."
She still floated between the fear of having lost her son and the hope
of his suddenly appearing.
The night was
horribly silent. There was one
dreadful moment for the
countess, when the
battalion of
recruits passed through the town, and
went to their several billets. Every step, every sound, was a hope,--
and a lost hope. After that the
stillness continued. Towards morning
the
countess was obliged to return to her room. Brigitte, who watched
her
movements, was
uneasy when she did not
reappear, and entering the
room she found her dead.
"She must have heard that
recruit walking about Monsieur Auguste's
room, and singing their
damned Marseillaise, as if he were in a
stable," cried Brigitte. "That was enough to kill her!"
The death of the
countess had a far more
solemn cause; it resulted, no
doubt, from an awful
vision. At the exact hour when Madame de Dey died
at Carentan, her son was shot in the Morbihan. That
tragic fact may be
added to many recorded observations on sympathies that are known to
ignore the laws of space: records which men of
solitude are collecting
with far-seeing
curiosity, and which will some day serve as the basis
of a new science for which, up to the present time, a man of genius
has been lacking.
End