Part 6

“Because I do,” replied the inspector, and with that he passed on.

Claude’s head sank down, like the poor caged lion deprived of his dog; but the grief, though so deeply felt, in no way changed his appetite--he was famished. Many offered to share their rations with him, but he steadily refused, and continued his usual routine in silence--breaking it only to ask the inspector daily, in tones of anguish mingled with rage, something between a prayer and a threat, these two words: “And Albin?”

The inspector simply passed on, shrugging his shoulders; but had he only observed Claude he would have seen the evident change, noticeable to all present, and he would have heard these words, spoken respectfully but firmly:

“Sir, listen to me; send my companion to me. It would be wise to do so, I can assure you. Remember my words!”

On Sunday he had sat for hours in the courtyard, with his head bowed in his hands, and when a prisoner called Faillette came up laughing, Claude said: “I am judging some one.”

On the 25th of October, 1831, as the inspector went his rounds, Claude, to draw his attention, smashed a watch-glass he had found in the passage. This had the desired effect.

“It was I,” said Claude. “Sir, restore my comrade to me.”

“Impossible,” was the answer.

Looking the inspector full in the face, Claude firmly added: “Now, reflect! To-day is the 25th of October; I give you till the 4th of November.”

A warder remarked that Claude was threatening Monsieur D----, and ought at once to be locked up.

“No, it is not a case of blackhole,” replied the inspector smiling disdainfully; “we must be considerate with people of this stamp.”

The following day Claude was again accosted by one of the prisoners named Pernot, as he was brooding in the courtyard.

“Well, Claude, you are sad indeed; what are you pondering over?”

“I fear some evil threatens that good Monsieur D----.” answered Claude.

Claude daily impressed the fact on the inspector how much Albin’s absence affected him, but with no result save four-and-twenty hours’ solitary confinement.

On the 4th of November he looked round his cell for the little that remained to remind him of his former life. A pair of scissors, and an old volume of the “Émile,” belonging to the woman he had loved so well, the mother of his child--how useless to a man who could neither work nor read!

As Claude walked down the old cloisters, so dishonored by its new inmates and its fresh whitewashed walls, he noticed how earnestly the convict Ferrari was looking at the heavy iron bars that crossed the window, and he said to him: “To-night I will cut through these bars with these scissors,” pointing to the pair he still held in his hand.

Ferrari laughed incredulously, and Claude joined in the mirth. During the day he worked with more than ordinary ardor, wishing to finish a straw hat, which he had been paid for in advance by a tradesman at Troyes--M. Bressier.

Shortly before noon he made some excuse to go down into the carpenters’ quarters, a story below his own, at the time the warders were absent. Claude received a hearty welcome, as he was equally popular here as elsewhere.

“Can any one lend me an ax?” he said.

“What for?”

Without exacting any promises of secrecy he at once replied: “To kill the inspector with to-night.”

Claude was at once offered several; choosing the smallest, he hid it beneath his waistcoat and left. Now, there were twenty-seven prisoners present, and not one of those men betrayed him; they even refrained from talking upon the subject among themselves, waiting for the terrible event which must follow.

As Claude passed on, seeing a young convict of sixteen yawning idly there, he strongly advised him to learn how to read. Just then Faillette asked what he was hiding.

Claude answered unhesitatingly: “An ax to kill Monsieur D---- to-night; but can you see it?”

“A little,” said Faillette.

At seven o’clock the prisoners were locked in their several workshops. It was then the custom for the warders to leave them, until the inspector had been his rounds.

In Claude’s workshop a most extraordinary scene took place, the only one of the kind on record. Claude rose and addressed his companions, eighty-two in number, Claude included, in the following words:

“You all know Albin and I were like brothers. I liked him at first for sharing his rations with me, afterward because he cared for me. Now I never have sufficient, though I spend the pittance I earn in bread. It could make no possible difference to the inspector, Monsieur D----, that we should be together; but he chose to separate us simply from a love of tormenting, for he is a bad man. I asked again and again for Albin to be sent back, without success; and when I gave him a stated time, the 4th of November, I was thrust into a dungeon. During that time I became his judge, and sentenced him to death on November the 4th. In two hours he will be here, and I warn you I intend to kill him. But have you anything to say?”

There was a dead silence. Claude then continued telling his comrades, the eighty-one thieves, his ideas on the subject--that he was reduced to a fearful extremity, and compelled by that very necessity to take the law into his own hands; that he knew full well he could not take the inspector’s life without sacrificing his own, but that as the cause was a just one he would bear the consequences, having come to this conclusion after two months’ calm reflection; that if they considered resentment alone hurried him on to such a step they were at once to say so, and to state their objections to the sentence being carried out.

One voice alone broke the silence which followed, saying, “Before killing the inspector, Claude ought to give him a chance of relenting.”

“That is but just,” said Claude, “and he shall have the benefit of the doubt.”

Claude then sorted the few things a poor prisoner is allowed, and gave them to the comrades he mostly cared for after Albin, keeping only the pair of scissors. He then embraced them all--some not being able to withhold their tears at such a moment. Claude continued calmly to converse during this last hour, and even gave way to a trick he had as a boy, of extinguishing the candle with a breath from his nose. Seeing him thus, his companions afterward owned that they hoped he had abandoned his sinister idea. One young convict looked at him fixedly, trembling for the coming event.

“Take courage, young fellow,” said Claude, gently; “it will be but the work of a minute.”

The workshop was a long room with a door at both ends, and with windows each side overlooking the benches, thus leaving a pathway up the centre for the inspector to review the work on both sides of him. Claude had now resumed his work--something like Jacques Clement, who did not fail to repeat his prayers.

As the clock sounded the last quarter to nine, Claude rose and placed himself near the entrance, apparently calm. Amid the most profound silence the clock struck nine; the door was thrown open, and the inspector came in as usual alone, looking quite jovial and self-satisfied, passing rapidly along, tossing his head at one; grinding words out to another, little heeding the eyes fixed so fiercely upon him. Just then he heard Claude’s step, and turning quickly around said:

“What are you doing here? Why are you not in your place?” just as he would have spoken to a dog.

Claude answered respectfully, “I wish to speak to you, sir.”

“On what subject?”

“Albin.”

“Again!”

“Always the same,” said Claude.

“So then,” replied the inspector, walking along, “you have not had enough with twenty-four hours in the blackhole.”

Claude, following him closely, replied: “Sir, return my companion to me!”

“Impossible!”

“Sir,” continued Claude, in a voice which would have moved Satan, “I implore you to send Albin back to me; you will then see how I will work. You are free, and it would matter but little to you; you do not know the feeling of having only one friend. To me it is everything, encircled by the prison walls. You can come and go at your pleasure; I have but Albin. Pray let him come back to me! You know well he shared his food with me. What can it matter to you that a man named Claude Gueux should be in this hall, having another by his side called Albin? You have but to say ‘Yes,’ nothing more. Sir, my good sir, I implore you in the name of Heaven to grant my prayer!”

Claude, overcome with emotion, waited for the answer.

“Impossible!” replied the inspector, impatiently; “I will not recall my words. Now go, you annoyance!” And with that he hurried on toward the outer door, amid the breathless silence maintained by the eighty-one thieves.

Claude, following and touching the inspector, gently asked:

“Let me at least know why I am condemned to death. Why did you separate us?”

“I have already answered you: because I chose,” replied the inspector.

With that he was about to lift the latch, when Claude raised the ax, and without one cry the inspector fell to the ground, with his skull completely cloven from three heavy blows dealt with the rapidity of lightning. A fourth completely disfigured his face, and Claude, in his mad fury, gave another and a useless blow; for the inspector was dead.

Claude, throwing the ax aside, cried out, “Now for the other!”

The other was himself; and taking the scissors, _his wife’s_, he plunged them into his breast. But the blade was short, and the chest was deep, and vainly he strove to give the fatal blow. At last covered with blood, he fell fainting across the dead. Which of the two would be considered the victim?

When Claude recovered consciousness he was in bed, surrounded by every care and covered with bandages. Near him were Sisters of Charity, and a recorder, ready to take down his deposition, who with much interest inquired how he was. Claude had lost a great deal of blood; but the scissors had done him a bad turn, inflicting wounds not one of which was dangerous: the only mortal blows he had struck were on the body of Monsieur D----. Then the interrogator commenced.

“Did you kill the inspector of the prison workshops at Clarvaux?”

“Yes,” was the reply.

“Why did you do so?”

“Because I did.”

Claude’s wounds assumed a more serious aspect, and he was prostrated with a fever which threatened his life. November, December, January, February passed, in nursing and preparations, and Claude in turn was visited by doctor and judge--the one to restore him to health, the other to glean the evidence needful to send him to the scaffold.

On the 16th of March, 1832, perfectly cured, Claude appeared in court at Troyes, to answer the charge brought against him. His appearance impressed the court favorably; he had been shaved and stood bareheaded, but still clad in prison garb. The court was well guarded by a strong military guard, to keep the witnesses within bounds, as they were all convicts.

But an unexpected difficulty occurred: not one of these men would give evidence; neither questions nor threats availed to make them break their silence, until Claude requested them to do so. Then they in turn gave a faithful account of the terrible event; and if one, from forgetfulness or affection for the accused, failed to relate the whole facts, Claude supplied the deficiency. At one time the women’s tears fell fast.

The usher now called the convict Albin. He came in trembling with emotion and sobbing painfully, and threw himself into Claude’s arms. Turning to the Public Prosecutor, Claude said:

“Here is a convict who gives his food to the hungry,” and stooping, he kissed Albin’s hand.

All the witnesses having been examined, the counsel for the prosecution then rose to address the court. “Gentlemen of the jury, society would be utterly put to confusion if a public prosecution did not condemn great culprits like him, who,” etc.

After the long address by the prosecution, Claude’s counsel rose.

Then followed the usual pleading for and against, which ever takes place at the criminal court.

Claude in his turn gave evidence, and every one was astonished at his intelligence; there appeared far more of the orator about this poor workman than the assassin. In a clear and straightforward way he detailed the facts as they were--standing proudly there, resolved to tell the whole truth. At times the crowd was carried away by his eloquence. This man, who could not read, would grasp the most difficult points of argument, yet treat the judges with all due deference. Once Claude lost his temper, when the counsel for the prosecution stated that he had assassinated the inspector without provocation.

“What!” cried Claude, “I had no provocation? Indeed! A drunkard strikes me--I kill him; then you would allow there was provocation, and the penalty of death would be changed for that of the galleys. But a man who wounds me in every way during four years, humiliates me for four years, taunts me daily, hourly, for four years, and heaps every insult on my head--what follows? You consider I have had no provocation! I had a wife for whom I robbed--he tortured me about her. I had a child for whom I robbed--he taunted me about this child. I was hungry, a friend shared his bread with me--he took away my friend. I begged him to return my friend to me--he cast me into a dungeon. I told him how much I suffered--he said it wearied him to listen. What then would you have me do? I took his life; and you look upon me as a monster for killing this man, and you decapitate me; then do so.”

Provocation such as this the law fails to acknowledge, because the blows leave no marks to show.

The judge then summed up the case in a clear and impartial manner--dwelling on the life Claude had led, living openly with an improper character; then he had robbed, and ended by being a murderer. All this was true. Before the jury retired, the judge asked Claude if he had any questions to ask, or anything to say.

“Very little,” said Claude. “I am a murderer, I am a thief; but I ask you, gentlemen of this jury, why did I kill? Why did I steal?”

The jury retired for a quarter of an hour, and according to the judgment of these twelve countrymen--_gentlemen of the jury_, as they are styled--Claude Gueux was condemned to death. At the very outset several of them were much impressed with the name of Gueux (vagabond); and that influenced their decision.

When the verdict was pronounced, Claude simply said: “Very well; but there are two questions these gentlemen have not answered. Why did this man steal? What made him a murderer?”

He made a good supper that night, exclaiming, “Thirty-six years have now passed me.” He refused to make any appeal until the last minute, but at the instance of one of the sisters who nursed him he consented to do so. She in her fulness of heart gave him a five-franc piece.

His fellow-prisoners, as we have already noticed, were devoted to him, and placed all the means at their disposal to help him to escape. They threw into his dungeon, through the air-hole, a nail, some wire, the handle of a pail: any one of these would have been enough for a man like Claude to free himself from his chains. He gave them all up to the warder.

On the 8th of June, 1832, seven months and four days after the murder, the recorder of the court came, and Claude was told that he had but one hour more to live, for his appeal had been rejected.

“Indeed,” said Claude, coldly; “I slept well last night, and doubtless I shall pass my next even better.”

First came the priest, then the executioner. He was humble to the priest, and listened to him with great attention, regretting much that he had not had the benefit of religious training, at the same time blaming himself for much in the past. He was courteous in his manner to the executioner; in fact he gave up all--his soul to the priest, his body to the executioner.

While his hair was being cut, some one mentioned how the cholera was spreading, and Troyes at any moment might become a prey to this fearful scourge. Claude joined in the conversation, saying, with a smile, “There is one thing to be said--I have no fear of the cholera!” He had broken half of the scissors--what remained he asked the jailor to give to Albin; the other half lay buried in his chest. He also wished the day’s rations to be taken to his friend. The only trifle he retained was the five-franc piece that the sister had given him, which he kept in his right hand after he was bound.

At a quarter to eight the dismal procession usual in such cases left the prison. Pale, but with a firm tread, Claude Gueux slowly mounted the scaffold, keeping his eyes fixed on the crucifix the priest carried--an emblem of the Saviour’s suffering. He wished to embrace the priest and the executioner, thanking the one and pardoning the other; the executioner simply repulsed him. Just before he was bound to the infernal machine, he gave the five-franc piece to the priest saying, “For the poor.”

The hour had scarcely struck its eight chimes, when this man, so noble, so intelligent, received the fatal blow which severed his head from his body.

A market-day had been chosen for the time of execution, as there would be more people about; for there are still in France small towns that glory in having an execution. The guillotine that day remained, inflaming the imagination of the mob to such an extent that one of the tax-gatherers was nearly murdered. Such is the admirable effect of public executions!

We have given the history of Claude Gueux’s life, more to solve a difficult problem than for aught else. In his life there are two questions to be considered--before his fall and after his fall. What was his training and what was the penalty? This must interest society generally; for this man was well gifted, his instincts were good. Then what was wanting? On this revolves the grand problem which would place society on a firm basis.

_What Nature has begun in the individual, let society carry out._ Look at Claude Gueux. An intelligent and most noble-hearted man, placed in the midst of evil surroundings, he turned thief. Society placed him in a prison where the evil was yet greater, and he ended with becoming a murderer. Can we really blame him, or ourselves?--questions which require deep thought, or the result will be that we shall be compelled to shirk this most important subject. The facts are now before us, and if the government gives no thought to the matter, what are the rulers about?...

A BAL MASQUÉ BY ALEXANDRE DAVY DE LA PAILLETERIE DUMAS

_The name of the author of “The Three Musketeers,” “The Count of Monte Cristo,” etc., appears on the title-page of two hundred and eighty-two volumes of stories, romances, and plays. He had ten assistants, who worked out details for him, the generals over whom he was Napoleon, to quote his own phrase._

_Alexandre Dumas, called Père, to distinguish him from his son, the famous dramatist, was born in 1803 at Villers-Cotterets. He was entirely self-educated, devoting most of his time to the study of French history. He had extraordinary genius in imparting dramatic life and action to whatever he touched, and the whole modern school of historical writers is largely indebted to him for inspiration, as he himself is indebted to Walter Scott._

_The short stories of the elder Dumas are collected in two volumes. The “Bal Masqué,” taken from the earlier volume, is an admirable bit of story-telling, and every line seems to be a well of thought, a vista of suggestion. Dumas died in 1870._

A BAL MASQUÉ BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS

I said that I was in to no one; one of my friends forced admission.

My servant announced Mr. Anthony R----. Behind Joseph’s livery I saw the corner of a black redingote[1]; it is probable that the wearer of the redingote, from his side, saw a flap of my dressing gown; impossible to conceal myself.

“Very well! Let him enter,” I said out loud. “Let him go to the Devil,” I said to myself.

While working it is only the woman you love who can disturb you with impunity, for she is always at bottom interested in what you are doing.

I went up to him, therefore, with the half-bored face of an author interrupted in one of those moments of sorest self-mistrust, while I found him so pale and haggard that the first words I addressed to him were these:

“What is the matter? What has happened to you?”

“Oh! Let me take breath,” said he. “I’m going to tell you all about it, besides, it’s a dream perhaps, or perhaps I am mad.”

He threw himself into an armchair, and let his head drop between his hands.

I looked at him in astonishment; his hair was dripping with rain; his shoes, his knees, and the bottom of his trousers were covered with mud. I went to the window; I saw at the door his servant and his cabriolet; I could make nothing out of it all.

He saw my surprise.

“I have been to the cemetery of Père-Lachaise,” said he.

“At ten o’clock in the morning?”

“I was there at seven--cursed bal masqué!”

I could not imagine what a bal masqué and Père-Lachaise had to do with one another. I resigned myself, and turning my back to the mantelpiece began to roll a cigarette for him between my fingers with the phlegm and the patience of a Spaniard.

While he was coming to the point I hinted to Anthony that I, for my part, was commonly very susceptible to attentions of that kind.

He made me a sign of thanks, but pushed my hand away.

Finally I bent over to light the cigarette for myself: Anthony stopped me.

“Alexandre,” he said to me, “Listen, I beg of you.”

“But you have been here already a quarter of an hour and have not told me anything.”

“Oh! it is a most strange adventure.”

I got up, placed my cigarette on the mantelpiece and crossed my arms like a man resigned; only I began to believe, as he did, that he was fast becoming mad.

“You remember the ball at the Opera, where I met you?” he said to me after a moment’s silence.

“The last one where there were at least two hundred people?”