CHAPTER CIX.
THE PRISONS.
Subjects exist from which the pen shrinks away shuddering. Of such is the Reign of Terror, now fully inaugurated. The royal family were close prisoners in the Temple. The few friends that remained faithful to the last, had been massacred or were fugitives.
On the second of September, 1792, the Ablaye and Des Carmes were forced open by a mob, secretly instigated by the government, and the crowning massacre of those horrible times was perpetrated without check or hindrance. One of these prisons had been a cloistered convent, with a church on one side, surrounded with grassy courts and blooming gardens.
At open noonday, when an unclouded sun looked down upon the horrors of the deed, this beautiful spot was turned into a slaughter-house, where priests were slain at their own altars, in the courts, in the gardens, and kneeling in their cells. All day long the carnage went on, all day long the shrieks and prayers of those struggling victim rent the air and set the howling mob gathered outside the convent mad with desire to join in the fearful work.
From time to time the gates were thrown open, and carts drawn by noble horses, taken from the royal stables, carried out load after load of dead bodies, leaving a track of blood as they slowly moved along. Hideous men and women, with children in rags, crowded around the gates and followed the death carts howling the Marsellaise.
Night came and this fearful work of death was but half accomplished. The prisoners who had concealed themselves in the thickets of the court or gardens, were driven into the chapel and murdered on the very altars. This was the prison of the priests.
In the Ablaye, to the horrors of a general massacre was added the hideous farce of a court of justice. Here twelve assassins constituted themselves judges. Before these men, the wretched prisoners were brought, questioned, insulted and cast forth to the howling cruelty of the mob.
Among these was a young girl, a stranger to every one utterly alone. The president of these mock judges asked her name.
She answered in a low voice:
“Marguerite Gosner.”
“Ha, that is the name of our old prisoner of the Bastille!” cried one of the judges.
“He was my father,” said the girl.
The judges answered her with a laugh of derision.
“It is the name of citoyenne Gosner, the bravest patriot among our women.”
Marguerite cast down her eyes and clasped her trembling hands; her voice was scarcely audible as she said,
“She is my mother!”
“Her mother!” quoth an assassin, who stood near leaning on his dripping sword. “It is a trick to save her worthless life. I saw her fling herself at the feet of Capet’s wife; Louison Brisot was her accuser.”
“To the prison of La Force!”
This was a mocking sentence of death. The door opened. The poor girl was led through, and stood white and dumb with horror among a gang of executioners.
For one moment the fiends were held in check by her youth, her beauty, and the utter stillness of her despair. Then they rushed upon her; but a man, pale, firm and bloodless as yet, pushed through their ranks and seized her by the arm.
“She is mine!” he said. “You have had all the rest; am I to be deprived of everything?”
The assassins gave way, crying out,
“Yes, yes! he has waited till now. Let him have this pet lamb. Our sabres are too heavy for such dainty work. Here comes another. Fall in! fall in!”
“What is this?” cried a woman’s voice in fierce wrath. “Who is it that dares to let my enemies free?”
“Nay, nay, citoyenne Brisot, we have but given her up to death; nothing can save her.”
“I tell you,” answered the demon, “that man is her lover; he but came here to save her.”
Two or three ruffians broke from the rest and pursued Monsieur Jacques, who was moving swiftly through the crowd, carrying Marguerite in his arms. They followed him close; they came up with him. The crowd was densely packed; spears were thrust out at random; the assassins were in haste to get back to their awful work, and made awkward thrusts; a spear struck Jacques in the side. It was aimed at the girl, who uttered a piercing shriek. A young man broke his passage through the crowd and dashed the leveled weapons back.
“Bloodhounds, have you no better work than this?”
The ruffians looked at each other amazed.
“It is St. Just! It is St. Just! What has he to do with our vengeance?” they muttered.
“But St. Just is the friend of the people; we must not anger him; besides, there is plenty of work for us yonder.”
The men turned their spears and went away.
St. Just scarcely heeded them; he was bending over Monsieur Jacques, who had fallen upon the pavement. Marguerite knelt by him, pale with the horror she had passed through, trembling with sympathy for the wounded man.
Wounded! He was dying. He made a faint motion with his hand that the girl should bend down to him. She read the yearning wish in his eyes and pressed her lips to his.
That mournful kiss took the last breath from the great heart which had ceased to beat, loving her to the last.
St. Just lifted Marguerite from the pavement and gave orders that the body of that brave man should be carried to his home.
The crowd had recognised his face, and were ready to obey him.
Through all the horrors of that night, St. Just bore the girl in safety. She was sensible, though silent from exhaustion that seemed like death itself; but with that came a sweet sense of rest and protection. In her prison she had been utterly alone—utterly helpless. A mission of importance had taken St. Just into the interior. Her arrest had been secret; her incarceration was only known to those who had planned it. Even her mother had searched for her in vain. St. Just had reached Paris scarcely an hour before, and rushed to the prison, hoping to check the carnage there.
The cry that broke from Marguerite when that spear struck Jacques, brought him to her rescue. She was in his arms; he could feel the quivering beat of her heart against his own; her arms clung to him with faint spasms of strength, whenever a death cart rumbled by or a fiercer shout than usual rent the air. Still she was alive, and he had saved her.