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_ "Pierre went on pretending to read, but in reality listening with
acute tension of ear to every little sound. His perceptions became
so sensitive in this respect that he was incapable of measuring time,
every moment had seemed so full of noises, from the beating of his
heart up to the roll of the heavy carts in the distance. He wondered
whether Virginie would have reached the place of rendezvous, and yet
he was unable to compute the passage of minutes. His mother slept
soundly: that was well. By this time Virginie must have met the
'faithful cousin:' if, indeed, Morin had not made his appearance.
"At length, he felt as if he could no longer sit still, awaiting the
issue, but must run out and see what course events had taken. In
vain his mother, half-rousing herself, called after him to ask
whither he was going: he was already out of hearing before she had
ended her sentence, and he ran on until, stopped by the sight of
Mademoiselle Cannes walking along at so swift a pace that it was
almost a run; while at her side, resolutely keeping by her, Morin was
striding abreast. Pierre had just turned the corner of the street,
when he came upon them. Virginie would have passed him without
recognizing him, she was in such passionate agitation, but for
Morin's gesture, by which he would fain have kept Pierre from
interrupting them. Then, when Virginie saw the lad, she caught at
his arm, and thanked God, as if in that boy of twelve or fourteen she
held a protector. Pierre felt her tremble from head to foot, and was
afraid lest she would fall, there where she stood, in the hard rough
street.
"'Begone, Pierre!' said Morin.
"'I cannot,' replied Pierre, who indeed was held firmly by Virginie.
'Besides, I won't,' he added. 'Who has been frightening mademoiselle
in this way?' asked he, very much inclined to brave his cousin at all
hazards.
"'Mademoiselle is not accustomed to walk in the streets alone,' said
Morin, sulkily. 'She came upon a crowd attracted by the arrest of an
aristocrat, and their cries alarmed her. I offered to take charge of
her home. Mademoiselle should not walk in these streets alone. We
are not like the cold-blooded people of the Faubourg Saint Germain.'
"Virginie did not speak. Pierre doubted if she heard a word of what
they were saying. She leant upon him more and more heavily.
"'Will mademoiselle condescend to take my arm?' said Morin, with
sulky, and yet humble, uncouthness. I dare say he would have given
worlds if he might have had that little hand within his arm; but,
though she still kept silence, she shuddered up away from him, as you
shrink from touching a toad. He had said something to her during
that walk, you may be sure, which had made her loathe him. He marked
and understood the gesture. He held himself aloof while Pierre gave
her all the assistance he could in their slow progress homewards.
But Morin accompanied her all the same. He had played too desperate
a game to be baulked now. He had given information against the ci-
devant Marquis de Crequy, as a returned emigre, to be met with at
such a time, in such a place. Morin had hoped that all sign of the
arrest would have been cleared away before Virginie reached the spot-
-so swiftly were terrible deeds done in those days. But Clement
defended himself desperately: Virginie was punctual to a second;
and, though the wounded man was borne off to the Abbaye, amid a crowd
of the unsympathising jeerers who mingled with the armed officials of
the Directory, Morin feared lest Virginie had recognized him; and he
would have preferred that she should have thought that the 'faithful
cousin' was faithless, than that she should have seen him in bloody
danger on her account. I suppose he fancied that, if Virginie never
saw or heard more of him, her imagination would not dwell on his
simple disappearance, as it would do if she knew what he was
suffering for her sake.
"At any rate, Pierre saw that his cousin was deeply mortified by the
whole tenor of his behaviour during their walk home. When they
arrived at Madame Babette's, Virginie fell fainting on the floor; her
strength had but just sufficed for this exertion of reaching the
shelter of the house. Her first sign of restoring consciousness
consisted in avoidance of Morin. He had been most assiduous in his
efforts to bring her round; quite tender in his way, Pierre said; and
this marked, instinctive repugnance to him evidently gave him extreme
pain. I suppose Frenchmen are more demonstrative than we are; for
Pierre declared that he saw his cousin's eyes fill with tears, as she
shrank away from his touch, if he tried to arrange the shawl they had
laid under her head like a pillow, or as she shut her eyes when he
passed before her. Madame Babette was urgent with her to go and lie
down on the bed in the inner room; but it was some time before she
was strong enough to rise and do this.
"When Madame Babette returned from arranging the girl comfortably,
the three relations sat down in silence; a silence which Pierre
thought would never be broken. He wanted his mother to ask his
cousin what had happened. But Madame Babette was afraid of her
nephew, and thought it more discreet to wait for such crumbs of
intelligence as he might think fit to throw to her. But, after she
had twice reported Virginie to be asleep, without a word being
uttered in reply to her whispers by either of her companions, Morin's
powers of self-containment gave way.
"'It is hard!' he said.
"'What is hard?' asked Madame Babette, after she had paused for a
time, to enable him to add to, or to finish, his sentence, if he
pleased.
"'It is hard for a man to love a woman as I do,' he went on--'I did
not seek to love her, it came upon me before I was aware--before I
had ever thought about it at all, I loved her better than all the
world beside. All my life, before I knew her, seems a dull blank. I
neither know nor care for what I did before then. And now there are
just two lives before me. Either I have her, or I have not. That is
all: but that is everything. And what can I do to make her have me?
Tell me, aunt,' and he caught at Madame Babette's arm, and gave it so
sharp a shake, that she half screamed out, Pierre said, and evidently
grew alarmed at her nephew's excitement.
"'Hush, Victor!' said she. 'There are other women in the world, if
this one will not have you.'
"'None other for me,' he said, sinking back as if hopeless. 'I am
plain and coarse, not one of the scented darlings of the aristocrats.
Say that I am ugly, brutish; I did not make myself so, any more than
I made myself love her. It is my fate. But am I to submit to the
consequences of my fate without a struggle? Not I. As strong as my
love is, so strong is my will. It can be no stronger,' continued he,
gloomily. 'Aunt Babette, you must help me--you must make her love
me.' He was so fierce here, that Pierre said he did not wonder that
his mother was frightened.
"'I, Victor!' she exclaimed. 'I make her love you? How can I? Ask
me to speak for you to Mademoiselle Didot, or to Mademoiselle
Cauchois even, or to such as they, and I'll do it, and welcome. But
to Mademoiselle de Crequy, why you don't know the difference! Those
people--the old nobility I mean--why they don't know a man from a
dog, out of their own rank! And no wonder, for the young gentlemen
of quality are treated differently to us from their very birth. If
she had you to-morrow, you would be miserable. Let me alone for
knowing the aristocracy. I have not been a concierge to a duke and
three counts for nothing. I tell you, all your ways are different to
her ways.'
"'I would change my "ways," as you call them.'
"'Be reasonable, Victor.'
"'No, I will not be reasonable, if by that you mean giving her up. I
tell you two lives are before me; one with her, one without her. But
the latter will be but a short career for both of us. You said,
aunt, that the talk went in the conciergerie of her father's hotel,
that she would have nothing to do with this cousin whom I put out of
the way to-day?'
"'So the servants said. How could I know? All I know is, that he
left off coming to our hotel, and that at one time before then he had
never been two days absent.'
"'So much the better for him. He suffers now for having come between
me and my object--in trying to snatch her away out of my sight. Take
you warning, Pierre! I did not like your meddling to-night.' And so
he went off, leaving Madam Babette rocking herself backwards and
forwards, in all the depression of spirits consequent upon the
reaction after the brandy, and upon her knowledge of her nephew's
threatened purpose combined.
"In telling you most of this, I have simply repeated Pierre's
account, which I wrote down at the time. But here what he had to say
came to a sudden break; for, the next morning, when Madame Babette
rose, Virginie was missing, and it was some time before either she,
or Pierre, or Morin, could get the slightest clue to the missing
girl.
"And now I must take up the story as it was told to the Intendant
Flechier by the old gardener Jacques, with whom Clement had been
lodging on his first arrival in Paris. The old man could not, I dare
say, remember half as much of what had happened as Pierre did; the
former had the dulled memory of age, while Pierre had evidently
thought over the whole series of events as a story--as a play, if one
may call it so--during the solitary hours in his after-life, wherever
they were passed, whether in lonely camp watches, or in the foreign
prison, where he had to drag out many years. Clement had, as I said,
returned to the gardener's garret after he had been dismissed from
the Hotel Duguesclin. There were several reasons for his thus
doubling back. One was, that he put nearly the whole breadth of
Paris between him and an enemy; though why Morin was an enemy, and to
what extent he carried his dislike or hatred, Clement could not tell,
of course. The next reason for returning to Jacques was, no doubt,
the conviction that, in multiplying his residences, he multiplied the
chances against his being suspected and recognized. And then, again,
the old man was in his secret, and his ally, although perhaps but a
feeble kind of one. It was through Jacques that the plan of
communication, by means of a nosegay of pinks, had been devised; and
it was Jacques who procured him the last disguise that Clement was to
use in Paris--as he hoped and trusted. It was that of a respectable
shopkeeper of no particular class; a dress that would have seemed
perfectly suitable to the young man who would naturally have worn it;
and yet, as Clement put it on, and adjusted it--giving it a sort of
finish and elegance which I always noticed about his appearance and
which I believed was innate in the wearer--I have no doubt it seemed
like the usual apparel of a gentleman. No coarseness of texture, nor
clumsiness of cut could disguise the nobleman of thirty descents, it
appeared; for immediately on arriving at the place of rendezvous, he
was recognized by the men placed there on Morin's information to
seize him. Jacques, following at a little distance, with a bundle
under his arm containing articles of feminine disguise for Virginie,
saw four men attempt Clement's arrest--saw him, quick as lightning,
draw a sword hitherto concealed in a clumsy stick--saw his agile
figure spring to his guard,--and saw him defend himself with the
rapidity and art of a man skilled in arms. But what good did it do?
as Jacques piteously used to ask, Monsieur Flechier told me. A great
blow from a heavy club on the sword-arm of Monsieur de Crequy laid it
helpless and immovable by his side. Jacques always thought that that
blow came from one of the spectators, who by this time had collected
round the scene of the affray. The next instant, his master--his
little marquis--was down among the feet of the crowd, and though he
was up again before he had received much damage--so active and light
was my poor Clement--it was not before the old gardener had hobbled
forwards, and, with many an old-fashioned oath and curse, proclaimed
himself a partisan of the losing side--a follower of a ci-devant
aristocrat. It was quite enough. He received one or two good blows,
which were, in fact, aimed at his master; and then, almost before he
was aware, he found his arms pinioned behind him with a woman's
garter, which one of the viragos in the crowd had made no scruple of
pulling off in public, as soon as she heard for what purpose it was
wanted. Poor Jacques was stunned and unhappy,--his master was out of
sight, on before; and the old gardener scarce knew whither they were
taking him. His head ached from the blows which had fallen upon it;
it was growing dark--June day though it was,--and when first he seems
to have become exactly aware of what had happened to him, it was when
he was turned into one of the larger rooms of the Abbaye, in which
all were put who had no other allotted place wherein to sleep. One
or two iron lamps hung from the ceiling by chains, giving a dim light
for a little circle. Jacques stumbled forwards over a sleeping body
lying on the ground. The sleeper wakened up enough to complain; and
the apology of the old man in reply caught the ear of his master,
who, until this time, could hardly have been aware of the straits and
difficulties of his faithful Jacques. And there they sat,--against a
pillar, the live-long night, holding one another's hands, and each
restraining expressions of pain, for fear of adding to the other's
distress. That night made them intimate friends, in spite of the
difference of age and rank. The disappointed hopes, the acute
suffering of the present, the apprehensions of the future, made them
seek solace in talking of the past. Monsieur de Crequy and the
gardener found themselves disputing with interest in which chimney of
the stack the starling used to build,--the starling whose nest
Clement sent to Urian, you remember, and discussing the merits of
different espalier-pears which grew, and may grow still, in the old
garden of the Hotel de Crequy. Towards morning both fell asleep.
The old man wakened first. His frame was deadened to suffering, I
suppose, for he felt relieved of his pain; but Clement moaned and
cried in feverish slumber. His broken arm was beginning to inflame
his blood. He was, besides, much injured by some kicks from the
crowd as he fell. As the old man looked sadly on the white, baked
lips, and the flushed cheeks, contorted with suffering even in his
sleep, Clement gave a sharp cry which disturbed his miserable
neighbours, all slumbering around in uneasy attitudes. They bade him
with curses be silent; and then turning round, tried again to forget
their own misery in sleep. For you see, the bloodthirsty canaille
had not been sated with guillotining and hanging all the nobility
they could find, but were now informing, right and left, even against
each other; and when Clement and Jacques were in the prison, there
were few of gentle blood in the place, and fewer still of gentle
manners. At the sound of the angry words and threats, Jacques
thought it best to awaken his master from his feverish uncomfortable
sleep, lest he should provoke more enmity; and, tenderly lifting him
up, he tried to adjust his own body, so that it should serve as a
rest and a pillow for the younger man. The motion aroused Clement,
and he began to talk in a strange, feverish way, of Virginie, too,--
whose name he would not have breathed in such a place had he been
quite himself. But Jacques had as much delicacy of feeling as any
lady in the land, although, mind you, he knew neither how to read nor
write,--and bent his head low down, so that his master might tell him
in a whisper what messages he was to take to Mademoiselle de Crequy,
in case--Poor Clement, he knew it must come to that! No escape for
him now, in Norman disguise or otherwise! Either by gathering fever
or guillotine, death was sure of his prey. Well! when that happened,
Jacques was to go and find Mademoiselle de Crequy, and tell her that
her cousin loved her at the last as he had loved her at the first;
but that she should never have heard another word of his attachment
from his living lips; that he knew he was not good enough for her,
his queen; and that no thought of earning her love by his devotion
had prompted his return to France, only that, if possible, he might
have the great privilege of serving her whom he loved. And then he
went off into rambling talk about petit-maitres, and such kind of
expressions, said Jacques to Flechier, the intendant, little knowing
what a clue that one word gave to much of the poor lad's suffering.
"The summer morning came slowly on in that dark prison, and when
Jacques could look round--his master was now sleeping on his
shoulder, still the uneasy, starting sleep of fever--he saw that
there were many women among the prisoners. (I have heard some of
those who have escaped from the prisons say, that the look of despair
and agony that came into the faces of the prisoners on first
wakening, as the sense of their situation grew upon them, was what
lasted the longest in the memory of the survivors. This look, they
said, passed away from the women's faces sooner than it did from
those of the men.)
"Poor old Jacques kept falling asleep, and plucking himself up again
for fear lest, if he did not attend to his master, some harm might
come to the swollen, helpless arm. Yet his weariness grew upon him
in spite of all his efforts, and at last he felt as if he must give
way to the irresistible desire, if only for five minutes. But just
then there was a bustle at the door. Jacques opened his eyes wide to
look.
"'The gaoler is early with breakfast,' said some one, lazily.
"'It is the darkness of this accursed place that makes us think it
early,' said another.
"All this time a parley was going on at the door. Some one came in;
not the gaoler--a woman. The door was shut to and locked behind her.
She only advanced a step or two, for it was too sudden a change, out
of the light into that dark shadow, for any one to see clearly for
the first few minutes. Jacques had his eyes fairly open now, and was
wide awake. It was Mademoiselle de Crequy, looking bright, clear,
and resolute. The faithful heart of the old man read that look like
an open page. Her cousin should not die there on her behalf, without
at least the comfort of her sweet presence.
"'Here he is,' he whispered as her gown would have touched him in
passing, without her perceiving him, in the heavy obscurity of the
place.
"'The good God bless you, my friend!' she murmured, as she saw the
attitude of the old man, propped against a pillar, and holding
Clement in his arms, as if the young man had been a helpless baby,
while one of the poor gardener's hands supported the broken limb in
the easiest position. Virginie sat down by the old man, and held out
her arms. Softly she moved Clement's head to her own shoulder;
softly she transferred the task of holding the arm to herself.
Clement lay on the floor, but she supported him, and Jacques was at
liberty to arise and stretch and shake his stiff, weary old body. He
then sat down at a little distance, and watched the pair until he
fell asleep. Clement had muttered 'Virginie,' as they half-roused
him by their movements out of his stupor; but Jacques thought he was
only dreaming; nor did he seem fully awake when once his eyes opened,
and he looked full at Virginie's face bending over him, and growing
crimson under his gaze, though she never stirred, for fear of hurting
him if she moved. Clement looked in silence, until his heavy eyelids
came slowly down, and he fell into his oppressive slumber again.
Either he did not recognize her, or she came in too completely as a
part of his sleeping visions for him to be disturbed by her
appearance there.
"When Jacques awoke it was full daylight--at least as full as it
would ever be in that place. His breakfast--the gaol-allowance of
bread and vin ordinaire--was by his side. He must have slept
soundly. He looked for his master. He and Virginie had recognized
each other now,--hearts, as well as appearance. They were smiling
into each other's faces, as if that dull, vaulted room in the grim
Abbaye were the sunny gardens of Versailles, with music and festivity
all abroad. Apparently they had much to say to each other; for
whispered questions and answers never ceased.
"Virginie had made a sling for the poor broken arm; nay, she had
obtained two splinters of wood in some way, and one of their fellow-
prisoners--having, it appeared, some knowledge of surgery--had set
it. Jacques felt more desponding by far than they did, for he was
suffering from the night he had passed, which told upon his aged
frame; while they must have heard some good news, as it seemed to
him, so bright and happy did they look. Yet Clement was still in
bodily pain and suffering, and Virginie, by her own act and deed, was
a prisoner in that dreadful Abbaye, whence the only issue was the
guillotine. But they were together: they loved: they understood
each other at length.
"When Virginie saw that Jacques was awake, and languidly munching his
breakfast, she rose from the wooden stool on which she was sitting,
and went to him, holding out both hands, and refusing to allow him to
rise, while she thanked him with pretty eagerness for all his
kindness to Monsieur. Monsieur himself came towards him, following
Virginie, but with tottering steps, as if his head was weak and
dizzy, to thank the poor old man, who now on his feet, stood between
them, ready to cry while they gave him credit for faithful actions
which he felt to have been almost involuntary on his part,--for
loyalty was like an instinct in the good old days, before your
educational cant had come up. And so two days went on. The only
event was the morning call for the victims, a certain number of whom
were summoned to trial every day. And to be tried was to be
condemned. Every one of the prisoners became grave, as the hour for
their summons approached. Most of the victims went to their doom
with uncomplaining resignation, and for a while after their departure
there was comparative silence in the prison. But, by-and-by--so said
Jacques--the conversation or amusements began again. Human nature
cannot stand the perpetual pressure of such keen anxiety, without an
effort to relieve itself by thinking of something else. Jacques said
that Monsieur and Mademoiselle were for ever talking together of the
past days,--it was 'Do you remember this?' or, 'Do you remember
that?' perpetually. He sometimes thought they forgot where they
were, and what was before them. But Jacques did not, and every day
he trembled more and more as the list was called over.
"The third morning of their incarceration, the gaoler brought in a
man whom Jacques did not recognize, and therefore did not at once
observe; for he was waiting, as in duty bound, upon his master and
his sweet young lady (as he always called her in repeating the
story). He thought that the new introduction was some friend of the
gaoler, as the two seemed well acquainted, and the latter stayed a
few minutes talking with his visitor before leaving him in prison.
So Jacques was surprised when, after a short time had elapsed, he
looked round, and saw the fierce stare with which the stranger was
regarding Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Crequy, as the pair sat at
breakfast,--the said breakfast being laid as well as Jacques knew
how, on a bench fastened into the prison wall,--Virginie sitting on
her low stool, and Clement half lying on the ground by her side, and
submitting gladly to be fed by her pretty white fingers; for it was
one of her fancies, Jacques said, to do all she could for him, in
consideration of his broken arm. And, indeed, Clement was wasting
away daily; for he had received other injuries, internal and more
serious than that to his arm, during the melee which had ended in his
capture. The stranger made Jacques conscious of his presence by a
sigh, which was almost a groan. All three prisoners looked round at
the sound. Clement's face expressed little but scornful
indifference; but Virginie's face froze into stony hate. Jacques
said he never saw such a look, and hoped that he never should again.
Yet after that first revelation of feeling, her look was steady and
fixed in another direction to that in which the stranger stood,--
still motionless--still watching. He came a step nearer at last.
"'Mademoiselle,' he said. Not the quivering of an eyelash showed
that she heard him. 'Mademoiselle!' he said again, with an intensity
of beseeching that made Jacques--not knowing who he was--almost pity
him, when he saw his young lady's obdurate face.
"There was perfect silence for a space of time which Jacques could
not measure. Then again the voice, hesitatingly, saying, 'Monsieur!'
Clement could not hold the same icy countenance as Virginie; he
turned his head with an impatient gesture of disgust; but even that
emboldened the man.
"'Monsieur, do ask mademoiselle to listen to me,--just two words.'
"'Mademoiselle de Crequy only listens to whom she chooses.' Very
haughtily my Clement would say that, I am sure.
"'But, mademoiselle,'--lowering his voice, and coming a step or two
nearer. Virginie must have felt his approach, though she did not see
it; for she drew herself a little on one side, so as to put as much
space as possible between him and her.--'Mademoiselle, it is not too
late. I can save you: but to-morrow your name is down on the list.
I can save you, if you will listen.'
"Still no word or sign. Jacques did not understand the affair. Why
was she so obdurate to one who might be ready to include Clement in
the proposal, as far as Jacques knew?
"The man withdrew a little, but did not offer to leave the prison.
He never took his eyes off Virginie; he seemed to be suffering from
some acute and terrible pain as he watched her.
"Jacques cleared away the breakfast-things as well as he could.
Purposely, as I suspect, he passed near the man.
"'Hist!' said the stranger. 'You are Jacques, the gardener, arrested
for assisting an aristocrat. I know the gaoler. You shall escape,
if you will. Only take this message from me to mademoiselle. You
heard. She will not listen to me: I did not want her to come here.
I never knew she was here, and she will die to-morrow. They will put
her beautiful round throat under the guillotine. Tell her, good old
man, tell her how sweet life is; and how I can save her; and how I
will not ask for more than just to see her from time to time. She is
so young; and death is annihilation, you know. Why does she hate me
so? I want to save her; I have done her no harm. Good old man, tell
her how terrible death is; and that she will die to-morrow, unless
she listens to me.'
"Jacques saw no harm in repeating this message. Clement listened in
silence, watching Virginie with an air of infinite tenderness.
"'Will you not try him, my cherished one?' he said. 'Towards you he
may mean well' (which makes me think that Virginie had never repeated
to Clement the conversation which she had overheard that last night
at Madame Babette's); 'you would be in no worse a situation than you
were before!'
"'No worse, Clement! and I should have known what you were, and have
lost you. My Clement!' said she, reproachfully.
"'Ask him,' said she, turning to Jacques, suddenly, 'if he can save
Monsieur de Crequy as well,--if he can?--O Clement, we might escape
to England; we are but young.' And she hid her face on his shoulder.
"Jacques returned to the stranger, and asked him Virginie's question.
His eyes were fixed on the cousins; he was very pale, and the
twitchings or contortions, which must have been involuntary whenever
he was agitated, convulsed his whole body.
"He made a long pause. 'I will save mademoiselle and monsieur, if
she will go straight from prison to the mairie, and be my wife.'
"'Your wife!' Jacques could not help exclaiming, 'That she will never
be--never!'
"'Ask her!' said Morin, hoarsely.
"But almost before Jacques thought he could have fairly uttered the
words, Clement caught their meaning.
"'Begone!' said he; 'not one word more.' Virginie touched the old
man as he was moving away. 'Tell him he does not know how he makes
me welcome death.' And smiling, as if triumphant, she turned again
to Clement.
"The stranger did not speak as Jacques gave him the meaning, not the
words, of their replies. He was going away, but stopped. A minute
or two afterwards, he beckoned to Jacques. The old gardener seems to
have thought it undesirable to throw away even the chance of
assistance from such a man as this, for he went forward to speak to
him.
"'Listen! I have influence with the gaoler. He shall let thee pass
out with the victims to-morrow. No one will notice it, or miss thee-
-. They will be led to trial,--even at the last moment, I will save
her, if she sends me word she relents. Speak to her, as the time
draws on. Life is very sweet,--tell her how sweet. Speak to him; he
will do more with her than thou canst. Let him urge her to live.
Even at the last, I will be at the Palais de Justice,--at the Greve.
I have followers,--I have interest. Come among the crowd that follow
the victims,--I shall see thee. It will be no worse for him, if she
escapes' -
"'Save my master, and I will do all,' said Jacques.
"'Only on my one condition,' said Morin, doggedly; and Jacques was
hopeless of that condition ever being fulfilled. But he did not see
why his own life might not be saved. By remaining in prison until
the next day, he should have rendered every service in his power to
his master and the young lady. He, poor fellow, shrank from death;
and he agreed with Morin to escape, if he could, by the means Morin
had suggested, and to bring him word if Mademoiselle de Crequy
relented. (Jacques had no expectation that she would; but I fancy he
did not think it necessary to tell Morn of this conviction of his.)
This bargaining with so base a man for so slight a thing as life, was
the only flaw that I heard of in the old gardener's behaviour. Of
course, the mere reopening of the subject was enough to stir Virginie
to displeasure. Clement urged her, it is true; but the light he had
gained upon Morin's motions, made him rather try to set the case
before her in as fair a manner as possible than use any persuasive
arguments. And, even as it was, what he said on the subject made
Virginie shed tears--the first that had fallen from her since she
entered the prison. So, they were summoned and went together, at the
fatal call of the muster-roll of victims the next morning. He,
feeble from his wounds and his injured health; she, calm and serene,
only petitioning to be allowed to walk next to him, in order that she
might hold him up when he turned faint and giddy from his extreme
suffering.
"Together they stood at the bar; together they were condemned. As
the words of judgment were pronounced, Virginie tuned to Clement, and
embraced him with passionate fondness. Then, making him lean on her,
they marched out towards the Place de la Greve.
"Jacques was free now. He had told Morin how fruitless his efforts
at persuasion had been; and scarcely caring to note the effect of his
information upon the man, he had devoted himself to watching Monsieur
and Mademoiselle de Crequy. And now he followed them to the Place de
la Greve. He saw them mount the platform; saw them kneel down
together till plucked up by the impatient officials; could see that
she was urging some request to the executioner; the end of which
seemed to be, that Clement advanced first to the guillotine, was
executed (and just at this moment there was a stir among the crowd,
as of a man pressing forward towards the scaffold). Then she,
standing with her face to the guillotine, slowly made the sign of the
cross, and knelt down.
"Jacques covered his eyes, blinded with tears. The report of a
pistol made him look up. She was gone--another victim in her place--
and where there had been a little stir in the crowd not five minutes
before, some men were carrying off a dead body. A man had shot
himself, they said. Pierre told me who that man was." _
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