The Whites and the Blues - Alexandre Dumas

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one thought that Saint-Just was about to speak first; and in fact, after the imperative gesture which he made with supreme dignity, he had intended to speak, when, to the astonishment of all, the young girl opened the door of the carriage with a rapid movement, sprang to the ground, closed the door, and, falling on her knees on the pavement, cried suddenly in the midst of the solemn silence: "Justice, citizen! I appeal to Saint-Just and to the Convention for justice!"

      "Against whom?" asked Saint-Just, in his quivering, incisive voice.

      "Against this man, against Euloge Schneider, against the special commissioner of the Republic!"

      "Speak; what has he done?" replied Saint-Just; "Justice listens to you."

      Then, in a voice full-of emotion, but strong, indignant, and menacing, the young girl related all the hideous drama—the death of her mother, her father's arrest, the scaffold reared before her house, the alternative which had been offered her; and at each terrible climax, to which Saint-Just listened without seeming able to credit them, she turned to the executioner, the assistants, the Hussars of Death, for confirmation; even to Schneider himself. And each one to whom she appealed replied: "Yes, it is true!" Except Schneider, who, crushed and crouching like a jaguar ready to spring, assented only by his silence.

      Saint-Just, gnawing at his finger-tips, let her finish, and then, when she had ended, he said: "You ask justice, citizeness Brumpt, and you shall have it. But what would you have done if I had not been willing to grant it?"

      She drew a dagger from her breast.

      "To-night, in bed," she said, "I would have stabbed him. Charlotte Corday has taught us how to treat a Marat! But now," she added, "now that I am free to weep for my mother and to console my father, I ask mercy for that man."

      At the word "mercy," Saint-Just started as if he had been bitten by a serpent.

      "Mercy for him!" he cried, striking the railing of the balcony with his fist. "Mercy for this execrable man! mercy for the Monk of Cologne! You are jesting, young woman. If I should do that, Justice would spread her wings and fly away never to return. Mercy for him!" Then, in a terrible voice which was heard for a great distance around, he cried: "To the guillotine!"

      The pale, thin, serious man got down from his cab, approached the balcony, and, taking off his hat with a bow, said: "Shall I behead him, citizen Saint-Just?"

      "Unfortunately I have no right to order that; if I had, Humanity would be avenged within a quarter of an hour. No, as special commissioner he must appear before the revolutionary tribunal, and not before me. No, apply to him the torture he himself has invented; tie him to the guillotine. Shame here and death yonder!"

      And with a gesture of supreme power he stretched out his arm toward Paris.

      Then, as if he had finished his part in the drama, he pushed the messenger, who had informed him of the violation of his orders, and little Charles, whom by another act of justice he had just set free, into the room before him, and closed the window. Laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, he said: "Never forget what you have seen; and if any one ever says in your presence that Saint-Just is not a lover of the Revolution, of liberty, and of justice, say aloud that that is not true. And now go where you like; you are free."

      Charles, in a transport of youthful admiration, tried to kiss Saint-Just's hand; but the latter drew it back hastily, and, leaning over Charles, kissed him on the forehead.

      Forty years later, Charles, now a man, said to me, while relating the scene and urging me to make a book of it, that he could still in memory feel the impression that kiss had made upon him.

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      When Charles went down he could view the whole scene at a single glance from the doorstep. Mademoiselle de Brumpt, in haste, no doubt, to place herself in safety, and anxious to reassure her father, had disappeared. The two men with the red caps and the black blouses were setting up the scaffold with a promptitude which evinced great familiarity with the task. Master Nicholas held Schneider by the arm; the latter refused to descend from the carriage, and the two Hussars of Death, seeing the situation, went around to the other door, and began to prick him with the points of their sabres. A cold, icy rain was falling, which penetrated the clothing like needles, yet Schneider was wiping the sweat from his dripping brow. Half-way from the carriage to the guillotine they took off his hat because of the national cockade, and then his coat because it was that of a soldier. Cold and terror made the unhappy man shiver as he ascended the steps of the guillotine.

      Then a cry sprang from ten thousand throats which sounded as one—"Under the knife! Under the knife!"

      "My God!" murmured Charles, quivering with terror as he leaned against the wall, and yet rooted to the spot by an unconquerable curiosity, "are they going to kill him? are they going to kill him?"

      "No, don't worry," replied a voice, "he will get off with a fright this time. But it would do no great harm to finish him up at once."

      Charles recognized the voice immediately; he turned his head in the direction whence it came and perceived Sergeant Augereau.

      "Ah!" he exclaimed joyfully, as if he himself had escaped a great danger; "ah, it is you, my worthy friend! And Eugene?"

      "Safe and sound like yourself. We went back to the hotel yesterday, and there we learned of your arrest. I hurried to the prison and found that you were there; when I returned at one o'clock you were still there. At three, I heard that Saint-Just had sent for you, so I made up my mind to wait here in the square till you came out, for I was very sure that he would not eat you. All at once I saw you near him at the window, and, as you seemed to be on the best terms possible with each other, I was reassured. And now you are free?"

      "Free as the air."

      "There is nothing to keep you here any longer?"

      "I only wish I had not come."

      "I don't agree with you. It seems to me a good thing to be friends with Saint-Just, even better than with Schneider, especially now that he is the stronger. As for Schneider, you didn't have time to become very much attached to him; so you will probably not be inconsolable over his loss. What has happened this evening will be a warning to Tétrell, who, by the way, has not budged, but who must not be allowed the time to take his revenge."

      Just then they heard a confusion of cries, cheers and shouts.

      "Oh! what is that?" cried Charles, hiding his head on his friend's breast.

      "Nothing," replied Augereau, raising himself upon the tips of his toes. "Nothing, except that they are fastening him under the knife—doing to him just what he did yesterday to the mayor and the deputy at Eschau; each one in his turn. Fortunate are those, my good friend, who come from that place with their heads on their shoulders."

      "Terrible! terrible!" murmured Charles.

      "Terrible, yes; but we see that or worse every day. Say good-by to your worthy professor; you will probably never see him again, as they are going to send him to Paris as soon as they take him down from that platform, and I don't envy him his promotion. And now let us go and get some supper. You must be starved, my poor boy!"

      "I never thought of that," said Charles; "but now that you remind me of it, I remember that it is a far cry from breakfast."

      "All the more reason to return to the Hôtel de la Lanterne as soon as possible."

      "Come on, then."

      Charles glanced at the square a last time.

      "Farewell!

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