Tales of the Wonder Club Volume II Part 43

Then came another thought forcing its way through my brain, despite my efforts to crush it. Pauline for the present, it is true, was disgusted with Millefleurs, especially for this last dastardly act of his, but women are proverbially fickle--the whole French nation is volatile--and after my death, and she had shed a few transient tears belike to my memory, Jacques _might_ work himself into her good graces again, and even _marry_ her--the thought was agony. The mere fear of death itself was perhaps the last thought that occupied me, for I felt I had no parents to regret me; on the contrary, I felt consoled in the thought that I should see them again in the other world. No; it was not mere death that I feared so much; but then, to leave Pauline, to be cut short in my brilliant career, before I had established my fame!

These were thoughts that galled me. Nevertheless, I tried to console myself. Perhaps things might not be so black as my imagination had painted them, and even if they should be--even if I should die by the guillotine for an imagined State offence--it was not like being gibbeted alive in my own country for a highway robbery or murder. No; there was something aristocratic in the idea of being guillotined, for did not the scaffold reek with n.o.ble blood?

Amid such reflections as these I was conducted by the guard to the gates of the Bastille, and before I was well aware of it, found myself in a s.p.a.cious cell, and heard the lock turned upon me. Here a singular and never-to-be-forgotten scene was presented to my view. The prison was crowded with men and women of all ranks and ages, many of whom were to die on the morrow, yet most of them appeared to have no fear of death whatever. Here and there were knots of friends who seemed determined to make the most of their short stay in this world, and to enjoy life to the utmost. Here was dicing and card playing, laughing, joking, and swearing, as if they thought it prime fun to die in company. Surely these men, thought I, must be accustomed to death, as they say eels are to skinning, that they no longer mind it.

There were, however, prisoners of another cast, persons who preferred spending their last moments on earth in prayer and pious meditation.

Parents took leave of their children, children of their parents, friends parted from friends, lovers from lovers. Tears flowed on all sides.

Profane mirth and ribald jests mingled discordantly with pious oraisons and tearful farewells. Others again were sullenly awaiting their doom with crossed arms and heads drooping on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, keeping apart from the others, being too proud to pray, and yet indifferent to the amus.e.m.e.nts of the more light-hearted.

Well, days, weeks, pa.s.sed by, I suppose, for I do not recollect what time elapsed during my incarceration, as I kept no count, being in a kind of mental stupor all the time, nor could I bring myself to believe that the scene before me was real, and not a dream. All the events from the time of my arrest, flitted through my mind like a vast phantasmagoria.

Since my imprisonment, I had been tried, found guilty, and condemned to death. The day had been fixed, and yet it weighed but lightly upon me, being nothing more that what I had expected and prepared myself for.

Each day brought new arrests, and each day some of my companions were led forth to execution. It is wonderfully consoling to find that others are about to share a like fate as one's self. This I found by experience, for, engrossed as I was, with my own selfish thoughts, I still found time to be touched with the misfortunes of others, and on several occasions I offered consolation, and received consolation from many of my fellow prisoners. In some instances I had struck up quite a warm friends.h.i.+p with the inmates of my cell, but alas! our intimacy lasted but long enough for us to know, love, and esteem each other. No sooner had I begun to feel for my fellow sufferer as a friend and brother, than the following day he was certain to be torn from me, and led off to execution. One of these friends.h.i.+ps formed in prison, especially dwells upon me; perhaps because it was one of the longest.

My friend was a young man of my own years, and of n.o.ble family, as he said. He told me also his name, but I have forgotten it. He was imprisoned because it was thought he entertained aristocratic opinions, and was a devout Catholic. He was in love, but the idol of his affections belonged to an atheistical family. It had been the dream of his ambition to eradicate the heretical opinions she had imbibed and convert her to the Catholic faith. He was looked upon with suspicion by her family, who, disapproving of the match, were instrumental in placing him in the Bastille. I ventured to condole with him, though he needed not my consolation, as his comfort was in his religion. Of all my companions in prison, I found him the most resigned.

When I had learnt his tale, I told him mine, saying that I was a poor _perruquier-barbier_ who had left his country for a while to complete his art studies, and who, happening to fall in love with his employer's daughter, had, through the jealousy and malice of a rival, who had falsely accused him, found himself imprisoned in the Bastille, and condemned to death. He was touched with my tale as I had been with his, for our histories had something in common. We were both in love, in prison, and condemned to death. We wept together, we embraced, we kissed (Frenchmen always kiss); and though he was a gentleman of n.o.ble family, and I only a lowly barber, yet, on the brink of the grave, all distinctions are levelled, so we embraced, and called ourselves brothers in adversity. How I prayed and longed that our lives might be spared, that we might the longer enjoy each other's friends.h.i.+p, or that we might quit this world in each other's company! But fate willed it otherwise.

On the morrow, he whom I had learnt to love as a brother was torn from me and led to the scaffold. My life seemed now a blank. Whilst my friend lived in his troubles, I forgot my own; now that he was no more I began to realise all the horrors of my situation.

At length the eve of my execution arrived. I tried to give myself up wholly to pious meditation, so throwing myself down in the corner of my cell, I endeavoured to recall all my past life, to repent of my sins, and pray for a speedy and peaceful end; but then the guillotine rose up before me in all its terrors, and bodily fear would usurp the place of holier thoughts. The nearer the hour drew, the more vividly everything painted itself to my mind's eye. I must leave Pauline without a word of farewell. The heartless turnkey, inured to scenes of death and misery, would witness me depart to execution without a tear. Then the insolence of the brutal guard, the gaping crowd, the scaffold, and surly executioner, the cold steel close to my neck, one terrible shock and then--then--eternity--a vast blank--an unexpected world--doubt, suspense, _perhaps_, total annihilation.

"Merciful G.o.d!" I exclaimed in agony, "is there no hope? I ask not for length of days, but only time to repent. Let me not be ushered into Thy awful presence unprepared. Help me to my salvation, and fit me for my end." Here I shut my eyes and prayed long and fervently, after which I felt more resigned. I heard the clock toll forth the hour of midnight, and most of the inmates of my cell were fast asleep. I now felt a chilly sensation creep over me, an indescribable awe, as if in the presence of something more than mortal. I opened my eyes and was aware of a vaporous form or column of luminous ether standing beside me, which gradually growing more distinct, shaped itself into the bearing and lineaments of my father. My breath forsook me. My eyeb.a.l.l.s straining from their sockets, fixed the cloudy image without my having the power to remove them, and I was unable to utter a word.

Presently a low, though distant, voice (whether it proceeded from the figure or not, I cannot say, for it seemed to come from a distance and to sing through my head) uttered these words: "My son, it has pleased Heaven for once that the innocent shall be spared and the wicked punished. Fear not, for I am sent to protect you. Another has been provided to take your place at the scaffold. In another minute he will be here. When you hear the key turn in the lock and see the door open wide, be ready to fly with me."

"Fly with you, father!" I mentally cried. To which the spectre answered, "I will envelop you in my essence, and being invisible myself to others, will make you likewise invisible. Thus, as the new prisoner enters, we will pa.s.s unseen by the turnkey through the open door, and so on, past the guard, till we find ourselves outside. Once past all danger, I will conduct you to the seash.o.r.e, where a vessel awaits you to carry you back to England."

Each word was uttered slowly and distinctly, and whilst he was yet speaking I heard the key grate against the lock, and the door of my prison being flung open, a fresh prisoner entered, accompanied by the jailor. What was my surprise when, by the light of the jailor's lanthorn, I recognised my old rival, Jacques Millefleurs!

I had no time to speculate on the "how" or the "wherefore" of his arrest, but in obedience to my father's orders I pa.s.sed fearlessly through the open door, which was immediately closed after me. I pa.s.sed the guards, not without a certain tremor, yet no one appeared to see me or impede my course. I hurried past the outer gate, and quickening my pace, soon left the Bastille and its terrors far behind me.

Morning at length dawned, and as I pa.s.sed through the streets I observed that n.o.body looked me in the face, but rather looked through me into s.p.a.ce, as if I were air. I was thus aware that I was still invisible, so entering a diligence, arrived in due time at Calais.

"This is the vessel," said the voice, in my ear. "Embark--the wind is fair. Farewell," and I found myself once more alone and visible, for sundry pa.s.sers-by stared at me in surprise, no doubt wondering how I had made my appearance there all of a sudden, not having been on the spot a moment ago.

I hastened to take my place on board, and having set sail, arrived, after a good pa.s.sage, at Dover. How the dear old white cliffs and the grand old castle seemed to welcome me back to my native land! How thankful I felt for my recent miraculous preservation! How joyfully I leapt ash.o.r.e, and with what buoyancy I trod my native land again! It was as if I had never breathed the air of liberty till now.

Once more in the land of the free, after a hearty meal, I took the stage, and travelled until I reached my native village; and here I am, gentlemen.

"Upon my word, Mr. Suds," broke in Dr. Bleedem as the barber concluded his story, "if you have many more tales of that sort you'll soon rival the members of the club. What do you say, Mr. Oldstone. Was not that story worthy of a member?"

Mr. Oldstone could not go so far as to admit that any one member of the club had ever been equalled in story telling by a barber, and that, too, a Frenchified barber, but he condescended to give a complacent look of approval at the young man without directly answering the question put to him, and then addressing him said, as he pulled out his watch, "I don't know if you are aware of it, Mr. Suds, but the absorbing interest that you have forced us to take in your narrative has made us quite forget church time, and it now wants but a quarter to one o'clock."

"You don't say so," cried several voices at once. "Sure enough," said another, "here are all the people coming out of church."

"What!" cried our late story teller, in alarm, "have I really, through my talk, prevented your honours from exhibiting your chins at divine service, as a sample of my art? This is indeed a sin my soul must answer."

"Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, "time past cannot be recalled, all we can do is, to try to make up for it by going to church this afternoon."

"Stop! stop! Mr. Suds, whither away so fast," he cried, as he saw the young man making towards the door with his tackle in his hand. "You have not told us what became of Pauline. You finished your story rather too abruptly; it requires a sequel. Come, let's hear it."

The youth returned, after closing the door, and resting the tips of his fingers against the back of a chair, proceeded gravely thus: "Little more remains to be told, gentlemen. I heard from Pauline not long since.

Her letter runs as nearly as I can recollect in these words:

"Dear Mr. Suds, I write to you for the first and last time. Perhaps I should not have written to you at all. If I have erred from maiden modesty in so doing, I hope you will excuse me. I really could not let so great a friend pa.s.s from me without a word. I heard of your escape by chance, and you may imagine my extreme delight and thankfulness at the joyful news, though I never could learn in what manner you effected it.

Enough for me that you are safe in your own free country, far from the broils of civil discord and intestine misery.

"Alas! my friend, if I may be allowed to call you by that name, I have suffered much since we parted; so much, indeed, that were you to see me now, you would not know me again for the gay capricious Pauline of former times, whose eyes and complexion you were once wont to praise.

Forgive me, my friend, forgive me, Mr. Suds, if I have already said too much, and bear with me still, while I yet disburden my heart of more.

The words tremble on my pen, my hand refuses to write what my heart dictates, for fear of incurring your displeasure and contempt, rather than brook which I would that my hand would paralyse, that I might never touch pen more; that my lips were sealed that I might never more express the feelings that rise and crave for utterance, ay that my heart itself would cease to beat. I can no longer restrain my pen. My eyes fill with tears as I write. Pardon my temerity. I feel I must speak or die.

"Dear Mr. Suds, did you ever imagine that from the very first moment that you introduced yourself at my father's shop that my heart was no longer my own? Did you know that the attentions of the odious Jacques Millefleurs which my vanity only induced me to encourage, from that time became loathsome to me, and my heart told me too truly the reason why?

"Oh! my dearest friend, if you knew how hard it has been to me to persist in dissimulation for so long, to hide from my father and from Millefleurs that which was pa.s.sing in my bosom!

"Oh! if you knew the shock I received when I witnessed your arrest and the deadly hatred that I bore towards Jacques Millefleurs for being the cause, oh, then my love! then, I say, you would pardon me all, ay, even the hideous crime I perpetrated for your sake. Know then, my loved one, that it was I--I,--your Pauline, who accused Jacques to the government for conspiring against it, even as he had falsely accused you, and caused him to be arrested and condemned! Know you that whilst your bark was peacefully crossing the channel that Jacques Millefleurs was taking your place at the scaffold? You are avenged, and through me, though I know your n.o.ble nature must recoil at such retaliation. Enough, he is judged; peace be to his soul.

"But, alas, evil though he may have been, will his crimes help to wash out one iota of the stain of my guilt? Shall I ever feel the stings of remorse less keenly because I committed the rash and mean act in the very torrent of pa.s.sion?

"Oh! my friend, I feel I have merited your contempt and scorn for having given way thus to the promptings of my evil nature. I fancy I see you start and shrink back whilst reading these lines, and saying to yourself, 'Can Pauline have been guilty of so black a crime?' No wonder you shrink back in horror and loathing; yet, loathe me as you will, you cannot loathe me as much as I loathe myself. I thought revenge would be sweet, but now the bitterness of remorse has filled my heart. The remembrance of my crime is intolerable to me; it haunts me night and day. I feel that nothing short of the sacrifice of my whole life can do aught towards atoning for so black a deed.

"Yes, my friend, many and bitter have been the tears of remorse that I have shed, very bitter the reproaches I have launched against myself.

But to what purpose all this? What should your young and innocent soul know of the torments I bear within? Enough, my resolution is fixed never to be changed.

"Start not, friend, when I tell you that I have renounced the world and its vanities, and intend to retire into a convent, there to atone by a lifetime of fasting and prayer for the fell crime that harrows my soul.

I was once vain enough to dream of becoming your bride, but now I am called upon to be the bride of Heaven. Shortly after you receive this I shall have taken the veil. Think no more of one unworthy to find a place in your thoughts. Forgive me if you can. Farewell, yours, Pauline."

"These, gentlemen, are the words of her letter, as well as I can recollect. The letter bears no date or address, but it bore the post-mark, 'Brussels.' As the letter did not appear to crave an answer, I wrote none and thus the matter dropped."

"Poor girl!" broke in Parna.s.sus, with a sigh; "her crime was great, no doubt; but done in the very heat of pa.s.sion; and then, her repentance is extremely touching."

"Yes," said Mr. Blackdeed, "she winds up in a manner quite dramatic."

The members of the club then expressed, severally, their approbation of the barber's narrative, upon which the young man bowed and sc.r.a.ped, and hoped he should be able to satisfy the honourable members as well on a future occasion, if his services should be required, and then quitted the inn. In the afternoon our members attended divine service, to a man; and, after a stroll in the wood, returned home in the evening, which they spent in their usual jovial manner.