Part 8

Within the limits of the citadel of Montaignac stands an old building known as the chapel. Originally consecrated to purposes of worship, this structure had, at the time of which we write, fallen into disuse. It was so damp that it could not even be utilized for storage purposes, and yet this was the place selected by the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu for the assembling of the military commission. When Maurice and the abbe entered this gloomy building they found that the proceedings had not yet commenced. The little trouble taken to transform the old chapel into a hall of justice impressed them sadly, for it testified beyond power of mistake to the precipitation of the judges, and revealed their determination to carry out the work of vengeance without either delay or mercy. Three large tables taken from a soldier’s mess-room, and covered with horse blankets instead of baize, stood on a raised platform formerly occupied by the chief altar. Behind these tables were ranged a few rush-seated chairs, waiting the president’s assessors, and in their midst glittered a richly-carved and gilt arm chair which his grace had had sent from his own house for his personal accommodation. In front of the tables three or four long wooden benches had been placed in readiness for the prisoners, while several strong ropes were stretched from one wall to the other, so as to divide the chapel into two parts and allow considerable room for the public. This last precaution had proved quite superfluous, for, contrary to expectation, there were not twenty persons in the building. Prominent among these were ten or twelve men of martial mien, but clad in civilian attire. Their scarred and weather beaten features testified to many an arduous campaign fought in imperial times; and indeed they had all served Napoleon--this one as a lieutenant, that other as a captain--but the Restoration had dismissed them with scanty pensions and given their well-earned commissions to cadets of the old nobility. Their pale faces and the sullen fire gleaming in their eyes showed plainly enough what they thought of the Duke de Sairmeuse’s proceedings. In addition to these retired officers there were three men dressed in professional black who stood conversing in low tones near the chapel door; while in a corner one could perceive several peasant women with their aprons thrown over their faces; they were the mothers, wives, and daughters of some of the imprisoned rebels. Save for their constant sobs the silence would have been well-nigh undisturbed.

Nine o’clock had just struck when a rolling of drums shook the window panes; a loud voice was heard outside exclaiming, “Present arms!” and then the members of the commission entered, followed by the Marquis de Courtornieu and various civil functionaries. The Duke de Sairmeuse was in full uniform, his face rather more flushed, and his air a trifle more haughty than usual. “The sitting is open!” he announced, and adding in a rough voice, “Bring in the culprits.”

They came in, one by one, to the number of thirty, and sat themselves down on the benches at the foot of the platform. Chanlouineau held his head proudly erect, and looked about him with an air of great composure. The Baron d’Escorval was calm and grave; but not more so than when, in days gone by, he had been called upon to express his opinion in the councils of the empire. Both of them perceived Maurice, who was so overcome that he had to lean upon the abbe for support. But while the baron greeted his son with a simple bend of the head, Chanlouineau made a gesture that clearly signified: “Have confidence in me--fear nothing.” The attitude of the other prisoners indicated surprise rather than fear. Perhaps they were unconscious of the peril they had braved, and the extent of the danger that now threatened them.

When the prisoners had taken their places, a colonel who filled the office of commissary for the prosecution rose to his feet. His presentation of the case was violent but brief. He narrated a few leading facts, exalted the merits of the government of his majesty King Louis XVIIIth, and concluded by demanding that sentence of death should be pronounced upon the culprits. When he had ceased speaking, the duke rudely bade the first prisoner on the nearest bench to stand up and give his name, age, and profession.

“Eugene Michel Chanlouineau,” was the reply, “aged twenty nine, a farmer by occupation.”

“An owner of national lands, probably?”

“The owner of lands which, having been paid for with good money and made fertile by my own labour, are rightfully mine.”

The duke did not wish to waste time in useless discussion. “You took part in this rebellion?” he asked; and receiving an affirmative reply, pursued, “You are right in confessing, for witnesses will be introduced who will prove this fact conclusively.”

Five grenadiers entered--the same that Chanlouineau held at bay while Maurice, the abbe, and Marie-Anne were getting into the cabriolet near the cross roads. They all of them declared upon oath that they recognized the prisoner; and one of them even went so far as to say he was a solid fellow of remarkable courage. During this evidence Chanlouineau’s eyes betrayed an agony of anxiety. Would the soldiers allude to the circumstance of the cabriolet and Marie-Anne’s escape? Perhaps they might have done so had not the Duke de Sairmeuse abruptly stated that as the prisoner confessed he had heard quite enough.

“What were your motives in fomenting this outbreak?” asked his grace, turning to Chanlouineau.

“We hoped to free ourselves from a government brought back by foreign bayonets; to free ourselves from the insolence of the nobility, and to retain the lands that are justly ours.”

“Enough! You were one of the leaders of the revolt?”

“One of the leaders--yes.”

“Who were the others?”

A faint smile flitted over the young farmer’s lips as he replied: “The others were M. Lacheneur, his son Jean, and the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”

The duke bounded from his carved arm-chair. “You wretch! you rascal! you vile scoundrel!” he exclaimed, catching up a heavy inkstand that stood on the table before him. Every one supposed that he was about to hurl it at the prisoner’s head.

But Chanlouineau stood perfectly unmoved in the midst of the assembly, which had been excited to the highest pitch by his startling declaration. “You questioned me,” he resumed, “and I replied. You may gag me if my answers don’t please you. If there were witnesses _for_ me as there are against me, I could prove the truth of what I say. As it is, all the prisoners here will tell you that I am speaking the truth. Is it not so, you others?”

With the exception of the Baron d’Escorval, there was not one of the other prisoners who was capable of understanding the real bearing of these audacious allegations; nevertheless, they all nodded assent.

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse was so truly our leader,” exclaimed the daring peasant, “that he was wounded by a sabre-thrust while fighting by my side.”

The duke’s face was as purple as if he had been struck with apoplexy; and his fury almost deprived him of the power of speech. “You lie, scoundrel! you lie!” he gasped.

“Send for the marquis,” said Chanlouineau, quietly, “and see whether he’s wounded or not.”

A refusal on the duke’s part was bound to arouse suspicion. But what could he do? Martial had concealed his wound on the previous day, and it was now impossible to confess that he had been wounded. Fortunately for his grace, one of the commissioners relieved him of his embarrassment. “I hope, sir,” he said, “that you will not give this arrogant rebel the satisfaction he desires. The commission opposes his demand.”

“Very naturally,” retorted Chanlouineau. “To-morrow my head will be off, and you think nothing will then remain to prove what I say. But, fortunately, I have other proof--material and indestructible proof--which it is beyond your power to destroy, and which will speak when my body is six feet under ground.”

“What is this proof?” asked another commissioner, on whom the duke looked askance.

The prisoner shook his head. “You shall have it,” he said, “when you promise me my life in exchange for it. It is now in the hands of a trusty person, who knows its value. It will go to the king if necessary. We should like to understand the part which the Marquis de Sairmeuse played in this affair--whether he was truly with us, or whether he was only an instigating agent.”

A tribunal regardful of the simplest rules of justice, or even of its own honour, would have instantly required the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s attendance. But the military commission considered such a course quite beneath its dignity. These men arrayed in glittering uniforms were not judges charged with the vindication of the law; but simply agents selected by the conquerors to strike the conquered in virtue of that savage saying, “Woe to the vanquished!” The president, the noble Duke de Sairmeuse, would not have consented to summon Martial on any consideration. Nor did his associate judges wish him to do so. Had Chanlouineau foreseen this result? Probably he had; and yet, why had he ventured on so hazardous a course? The tribunal, after a short deliberation, decided that it would not admit this “unjustifiable” denunciation which, while exciting the whole audience, had quite stupefied Maurice and the Abbe Midon.

The examination was continued, therefore, with increased bitterness. “Instead of designating imaginary leaders,” resumed the duke, “you would do well to name the real instigator of this revolt--not Lacheneur, but an individual seated at the other end of the bench, the elder D’Escorval--”

“Monsieur le Baron d’Escorval was entirely ignorant of the conspiracy, I swear it by all that I hold most sacred--”

“Hold your tongue!” interrupted the emmissary for the prosecution. “Instead of trying the patience of the commission with such ridiculous stories, you should endeavour to merit its indulgence.”

Chanlouineau’s glance and gesture expressed such disdain that his interrupter was abashed. “I wish for no indulgence,” said the young farmer. “I have played my game and lost it; here is my head. But if you are not wild beasts you will take pity on the poor wretches who surround me. I see at least ten among them who were not our accomplices, and who certainly did not take up arms. Even the others did not know what they were doing.”

With these words he resumed his seat, proud, indifferent, and apparently oblivious of the murmur which ran through the audience, the soldiers of the guard, and even to the platform, at the sound of his ringing voice. His appeal for clemency towards his fellow prisoners had reawakened the grief of the poor peasant women, whose sobs and moans now filled the hall. The retired officers had grown paler than before, and as they nervously pulled at their long moustaches they murmured among themselves, “That’s a man, and no mistake!” Just then, moreover, the abbe leant towards Maurice and whispered in his ear: “Chanlouineau evidently has some plan. He intends to save your father, though I don’t at all understand how.”

The judges were conversing with considerable animation, although in an undertone. A difficulty had presented itself. The prisoners, ignorant of the charges which would be brought against them, and not expecting instant trial, had not thought of procuring defenders. And this circumstance, bitter mockery! caused great annoyance to this iniquitous tribunal, despite the complacency with which it was prepared to trample justice under foot. The commissioners had made up their minds, they had already determined on their verdict, and yet they wished to hear a voice raised in defence of those who were already doomed. It chanced that three lawyers, retained by the friends of a few prisoners, were in the hall. They were the three men whom Maurice had noticed conversing near the door when he entered the chapel. The duke was informed of their presence. He turned to them, and motioned them to approach; then, pointing to Chanlouineau, asked, “Will you undertake this culprit’s defence?”

For a moment the lawyers hesitated. They were disgusted with these monstrous proceedings, and looked inquiringly at one another. “We are all disposed to undertake the prisoner’s defence,” at last replied the eldest of the three; “but we see him for the first time; we do not know what defence he can present. He must ask for a delay; it is indispensable, in order to confer with him.”

“The court can grant you no delay,” interrupted M. de Sairmeuse; “will you undertake his defence, yes or no?”

The advocate hesitated, not that he was afraid, for he was a brave man: but he was endeavouring to find some argument strong enough to turn these mock judges from the course on which they seemed bent. “I will speak on his behalf,” said the advocate, at last, “but not without first protesting with all my strength against these unheard of modes of trial.”

“Oh! spare us your homilies, and be brief.”

After Chanlouineau’s examination, it was difficult to improvise any plea for him, and especially so on the spur of the moment. Still, in his indignation, the courageous advocate managed to present a score of arguments which would have made any other tribunal reflect. But all the while he was speaking the Duke de Sairmeuse fidgeted in his arm-chair with every sign of angry impatience. “Your speech was very long,” he remarked, when the lawyer had finished, “terribly long. We shall never get through with this business if each prisoner takes up as much time!”

He turned to his colleagues and proposed that they should unite all the cases, in fact try all the culprits in a body, with the exception of the elder d’Escorval. “This will shorten our task,” said he, “and there will then be but two judgments to be pronounced. This will not, of course, prevent each individual from defending himself.”

The lawyers protested against such a course; for a general judgment such as the duke suggested would destroy all hope of saving any one of these unfortunate men. “How can we defend them,” pleaded one advocate, “when we know nothing of their precise situations; why, we do not even know their names. We shall be obliged to designate them by the cut of their coats or by the colour of their hair.”

They implored the tribunal to grant a week for preparation, four days, even twenty-four hours; but all their efforts were futile, for the president’s proposition was adopted by his colleagues. Consequently, each prisoner was called to the table, according to the place which he occupied on the different benches. Each man gave his name, age, dwelling place, and profession, and received an order to return to his seat. Six or seven of the prisoners were actually granted time to say that they were absolutely ignorant of the conspiracy, and that they had been arrested while conversing quietly on the public highway. They begged to be allowed to furnish proof of the truth of their assertions, and they invoked the testimony of the soldiers who had arrested them. M. d’Escorval, whose case had been separated from the others, was not summoned to the table. He would be examined last of all.

“Now the counsel for the defence will be heard,” said the duke; “but make haste; lose no time for it is already twelve o’clock.”

Then began a shameful and revolting scene. The duke interrupted the lawyers every other moment, bidding them be silent, questioning them, or jeering at their arguments. “It seems incredible,” said he, “that any one can think of defending such wretches!” Or again: “Silence! You should blush with shame for having constituted yourself the defender of such rascals!”

However, the advocates courageously persevered, even although they realized the utter futility of their efforts. But what could they do under such circumstances? The defence of these twenty-nine prisoners lasted only one hour and a half.

Before the last word was fairly uttered, the Duke de Sairmeuse gave a sigh of relief, and in a tone which betrayed his inward delight, exclaimed: “Prisoner d’Escorval, stand up.”

Thus called upon, the baron rose to his feet, calm and dignified. Terrible as his sufferings must have been, there was no trace of them on his noble face. He had even repressed the smile of disdain which the duke’s paltry spite in not giving him the title he had a right to almost brought to his lips. But Chanlouineau sprang up at the same time, trembling with indignation, and his face all aglow with anger.

“Remain seated,” ordered the duke, “or you shall be removed from the court-room.”

Despite this order the young farmer declared that he would speak: that he had some remarks to add to the plea made by the defending counsel. At a sign from the duke, two gendarmes approached him and placed their hands on his shoulders. He allowed them to force him back into his seat, though he could easily have crushed them with one blow of his brawny arm. An observer might have supposed that he was furious; but in reality he was delighted. He had attained the end he had in view. Whilst standing he had been able to glance at the Abbe Midon, and the latter had plainly read in his eyes: “Whatever happens, watch over Maurice; restrain him. Do not allow him to defeat my plans by any outburst.”

This caution was not unnecessary, for Maurice was terribly agitated; his sight failed him, his head swam, he felt that he was suffocating, that he was losing his reason. “Where is the self-control you promised me?” murmured the priest.

But no one observed the young man’s condition. The attention of the audience was elsewhere, and the silence was so perfect that one could distinctly hear the measured tread of the sentinels pacing to and fro in the courtyard outside. It was plain to every one that the decisive moment for which the tribunal had reserved all its attention and efforts had now arrived. The conviction and condemnation of the poor peasants were, after all, mere trifles; otherwise, indeed, was the task of humbling a prominent statesman, who had been the emperor’s faithful friend and counsellor. Seldom could circumstances offer so splendid an opportunity to satisfy the cravings of royalist prejudice and ambition; and the Duke de Sairmeuse and his colleagues had fully determined not to allow it to slip by. If they had acted informally in the case of the obscure conspirators, they had carefully prepared their suit against the baron. Thanks to the activity of the Marquis de Courtornieu, the prosecution had found no fewer than seven charges against him, the least notable of which was alone punishable with death. “Which of you,” asked the president, turning to the lawyers, “will consent to defend this great culprit?”

“I!” exclaimed the three advocates all in one breath.

“Take care,” said the duke, with a malicious smile; “the task may prove a difficult one.”

“Difficult, indeed!” It would have been better to have said dangerous, for the defender risked his career, his peace, his liberty, and very probably--his life.

“Our profession has its exigencies,” nobly replied the oldest of the advocates. And then the two courageously took their places beside the baron, thus avenging the honour of their robe.

“Prisoner,” resumed M. de Sairmeuse, “state your name and profession.”

“Louis Guillaume, Baron d’Escorval, Commander of the order of the Legion of Honour, formerly Councillor of State under the Empire.”

“So you avow these shameful services? You confess----”

“Excuse me; I am proud of having had the honour of serving my country, and of being useful to her in proportion to my abilities----”

“Ah ha! very good indeed!” interrupted the duke with a furious gesture. “These gentlemen, my fellow commissioners, will appreciate those words of yours. No doubt it was in the hope of regaining your former position that you entered into this shameful conspiracy against a magnanimous prince.”

“You know as well as I do myself, sir, that I have had no hand in this conspiracy.”

“Why, you were arrested in the ranks of the conspirators with weapons in your hands!”

“I was unarmed, as you are well aware; and if I was among the peasantry, it was only because I hoped to induce them to relinquish their senseless enterprise.”

“You lie!”

The baron paled beneath the insult, but he made no response. There was, however, one man in the assemblage who could no longer endure such abominable injustice, and this was the Abbe Midon, who, only a moment before, had advised Maurice to remain calm. Abruptly leaving his place, he advanced to the foot of the platform.

“The Baron d’Escorval speaks the truth,” he cried, in a ringing voice: “as each of the three hundred prisoners in the citadel will swear. Those who are here would say the same, even if they stood upon the guillotine; and I, who accompanied him, who walked beside him, I, a priest, swear before the God who one day will judge us all, Monsieur de Sairmeuse, I swear we did everything that was humanly possible to do to arrest this movement!”

The duke listened with an ironical smile. “I was not deceived, then,” he answered, “when I was told that this army of rebels had a chaplain! Ah! sir, you should sink to the earth with shame. What! You, a priest, mingle with such scoundrels as these--with these enemies of our good king and of our holy religion! Do not deny it! Your haggard features, your swollen eyes, your disordered attire, plainly betray your guilt. Must I, a soldier, remind you of what is due to your sacred calling? Hold your peace, sir, and depart!”

But the prisoner’s advocates were on their feet. “We demand,” cried they, “we demand that this witness be heard. He must be heard! Military commissions are not above the laws that regulate ordinary tribunals.”

“If I do not speak the truth,” resumed the abbe, “I am a perjured witness--worse yet, an accomplice. It is your duty, in that case, to have me arrested.”

The duke’s face assumed a look of hypocritical compassion. “No, Monsieur le Cure,” said he, “I shall not arrest you. I wish to avert the scandal which you are trying to cause. We will show your priestly garb the respect the wearer does not deserve. Again, and for the last time, retire, or I shall be obliged to employ force.”

What would further resistance avail? Nothing. The abbe, with a face whiter than the plastered walls, and eyes filled with tears, returned to his place beside Maurice.

In the meanwhile, the advocates were protesting with increasing energy. But the duke, hammering on the table with both fists, at last succeeded in reducing them to silence. “Ah! you want evidence!” he exclaimed. “Very well then, you shall have it. Soldiers, bring in the first witness.”

There was some little movement among the guards, and then Father Chupin made his appearance. He advanced with a deliberate step, but his restless, shrinking eyes showed plainly enough that he was ill at ease. And there was a very perceptible tremor in his voice when, with hand uplifted, he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

“What do you know concerning the prisoner d’Escorval?” asked the duke.

“I know that he took part in the rising the other night.”

“Are you sure of this?”

“I can furnish proofs.”

“Submit them to the consideration of the commission.”

The old scoundrel began to grow more confident. “First of all,” he replied, “directly Lacheneur had given up your grace’s family estates, much against his will, he hastened to M. d’Escorval’s house, where he met Chanlouineau. It was then that they plotted this insurrection between them.”

“I was Lacheneur’s friend,” observed the baron, “and it was perfectly natural that he should come to me for consolation after a great misfortune.”

M. de Sairmeuse turned to his colleagues. “Do you hear that!” said he. “This D’Escorval calls the restitution of a deposit a great misfortune! Proceed, witness.”