A Night on the Borders of the Black Forest Part 35

_Lieut._ "Did you thoroughly search the Val du Rocher Rouge?"

_A. Guinot._ "Yes, Monsieur. There was no dead wolf to be seen in any part. Snow had been falling for two days and nights before we got there, so there would have been nothing but the carcase of the beast to guide us; but there was no such carcase anywhere about."

Elie Blainval was next examined. Went with the last witness. Saw no carcase. Snow was deep on the ground, and of course no stains or other marks could be distinguished. Would swear there was no dead wolf anywhere on the mountain roads. Corroborated the statement of his companion in every particular.

On this the Prosecutor for the Crown again addressed the Court, but very briefly. The jury, he said, had heard the statements of the last witnesses. M. the Lieutenant of Police had despatched them on the day following the murder, as soon as they arrived from St. Flour, in order that the prisoner's statement might be thoroughly investigated. No carcase of any description had been found. It was not his (the Prosecutor's) desire to prejudice his hearers against the prisoner; but he felt it his duty to remind them that his defence was unsupported by any kind of proof. They had before them a strong case of circ.u.mstantial evidence on the one side, and on the other the bare a.s.sertion of a man whose only chance for life depended on the plausibility of his defence and the credulity of his auditors. He begged now to leave the matter in the hands of the Jury.

After an address from the judge, in which he summed up the evidence in a very similar manner to the Prosecutor for the Crown, and in which he exhorted them to lay any doubts which they might entertain to the side of mercy, the jury retired.

Then the chorus of laughter and loud talking, so long hushed, broke forth again. By this time night had come on, and the patch of daylight seen through the _oeil-de-boeuf_ had long since disappeared. The young men made bets with each other on the verdict. All the ladies took the part of the prisoner; and, to do them justice, most of the gentlemen likewise. The peasants pulled out lumps of brown bread and country cheese, and began to eat.

Time went on. Two hours pa.s.sed away without the return of the jury. Then another hour. Ten o'clock struck by the great clock over the entrance, and the audience grew silent and weary. Still the twelve came not. The judge nodded on the bench. Madame de Peyrelade sat, statue-like, in the same spot. The Chevalier de Fontane paced the dock in an agony of suspense.

Then eleven struck; and ere the last stroke had died away, the jury returned and took their places.

"Gentlemen of the jury," said his lordship waking up, "are you all agreed?"

"Yes, my Lord," said the foreman slowly and distinctly.

The silence was intense throughout the court. Every breath was held; every eye turned towards him.

"Do you find the prisoner guilty, or not guilty?"

"_Guilty._"

A loud murmur broke from all parts of the hall. The prisoner--a shade paler than before--folded his arms across his breast, and looked calmly round him. The Countess de Peyrelade was carried fainting from the court.

The judge then p.r.o.nounced sentence of death. Not a word was audible; but his lips were seen to move, and he shed tears.

The Chevalier was then conducted from the dock; the judge and jury retired; and the great ma.s.s of spectators, undulating and noisy, gradually dispersed; thankful to exchange the thick, steaming atmosphere of the densely-crowded Justice Hall, for the cold night-air, with the keen stars overhead.

The trial had lasted fourteen hours. They had begun at nine A.M., and it now wanted less than an hour to midnight. All was over--the hope, the fear, the suspense. The Chevalier de Fontane was condemned to die within twenty-four hours.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Scaffold and the Confession.

It is night. The air is cold and biting; the stars are bright in the clear sky; and the moon is slowly sinking behind the Cathedral of St.

Flour. Snow lies on the ground and on the house-tops, and everything looks pale in the blue moonlight. A gloomy platform hung with black cloth and surrounded by horse-soldiers, each with a torch in his left hand and a drawn sword in his right, stands in the midst of the public square. A vast mult.i.tude is a.s.sembled outside the barriers that surround the scaffold. The houses blaze with lights, and all the windows are crowded with curious spectators. Huge and sombre, the prison rises on one side of the square, and the church upon the other. A low unquiet sound comes from the indistinct ma.s.s all around, as it heaves and sways from side to side in ever-restless undulation.

Now the great Cathedral clock strikes the first stroke of ten. Scarcely has it begun when the iron tongues of all the churches in the town reply. They clash--they mingle--they are still. Then the gates of the gaol swing apart, and a procession comes slowly forth. First, soldiers; then the sheriff and the governor of the gaol; then more soldiers; then the bishop of the diocese; then the prisoner; then more soldiers to bring up the rear.

They pa.s.s slowly through a double file of horse-soldiery till they reach the scaffold. They ascend; and the sheriff, with his black wand in one hand, advances with a parchment roll in the other, and reads aloud the dreadful formula:--

"He whom we have brought hither is Eugene Fontane, formerly called Chevalier de Fontane, and ex-Captain of Hussars in the military service of His Majesty the King of Prussia. The said Eugene de Fontane is brought hither to suffer death, being condemned thereto by the criminal court of this town. He will now be broken on the wheel, being charged and convicted of the crime of homicide on the person of the very n.o.ble, puissant, and excellent Seigneur George, Baron de Pradines, and, during life, Captain of the Auvergne Light Dragoons. Pray to G.o.d for the repose of their souls!"

Eugene is pale, but resigned. He has not long since taken leave of Marguerite, and, despite the agony of that parting, he is comforted, for she believes him innocent. His step is firm, his head erect, his eye bright and fearless. His right hand is hidden in the breast of his coat, closely pressed against his heart. It holds a lock of her hair.

Now the bishop addresses to him the last words which a prisoner hears on earth.

"Eugene de Fontane," he says, solemnly, "if you will speak the truth and declare yourself guilty of the crime for which you are condemned, I am here, in the name of G.o.d, to give you absolution; and when you are stretched upon the wheel the executioner will give you the _coup de grace_, in order to spare you the sufferings which you would otherwise endure. Reflect, for the sake of both body and soul. Do you yet persist in saying that you are innocent?"

The young man cast a glance of horror at the hideous apparatus. His lip quivered, and for a moment his resolution seemed to fail. Then he fell upon his knees and prayed silently.

When he rose, he was calm and stedfast as before.

"Let the executioner do his office," he said, firmly. "I will not die with a lie upon my tongue. I _am_ innocent, and Heaven knows it."

The Chevalier then draws at ring from his finger and gives it to the executioner, in token of pardon. And now he takes off his coat and waistcoat and holds out his arms to be bound; and now, suddenly, a cry is heard on the outskirts of the crowd--a shrill, piercing, despairing cry.

"Stop! stop! let me pa.s.s! I am the murderer!--he is innocent! I am the murderer of the Baron de Pradines!"

And a mounted man, pale, breathless, disordered, is seen pressing wildly through the crowd. He gains the foot of the scaffold--he rushes eagerly up the steps--falls fainting at the feet of the condemned!

It is the priest--it is Andre Bernard.

Once again the Justice Hall is thronged. Once again we see the former crowd; the same faces; the same peasants; the same lawyers; the same ma.s.s of spectators, n.o.ble and plebeian; the same judge; the same jury.

Yet there is one great and material difference; there is not the same prisoner. Andre Bernard is in the dock, and the Chevalier de Fontane is nowhere present.

Madame de Peyrelade and servants are also absent. Otherwise the Court House looks as it did a week since, when an innocent man was there condemned to die.

"Prisoner," says the Judge, "the Court is prepared to listen to your confession."

The Abbe rose. A profound silence reigned throughout the hall. In a voice broken with emotion, he began as follows:--

"About three months since, I was visited by the Baron de Pradines in my parsonage at St. Saturnin. He had not been on good terms with his sister, Madame de Peyrelade, for some years, and he now desired a reconciliation. He was a man of violent temper and dissolute habits; but he professed repentance for his former courses, and ardently entreated my intercession with Madame. I believed him, and became the bearer of his penitent messages. Owing to my representations, the lady believed him also, and he was received into the Chateau. A fortnight had scarcely elapsed, when M. de Fontane arrived at the Chateau; and on a due consideration of--of all the previous events" (here the prisoner's voice faltered), "I absolved Madame from a rash vow which she had too hastily contracted. Now M. de Pradines had hoped to inherit the estates and fortune of his sister; he was therefore much enraged on finding that the said vow was made null and void. He departed at once to join his regiment, and in the course of a few days I received from him an abusive letter. Of this I took no notice, and I may say that it caused me no anger. I destroyed and forgot it. In about two months' time from the date of his departure, the marriage of his sister with M. de Fontane was appointed to take place. The Baron, seeing the uselessness of further hostilities, then yielded to the entreaties of Madame and accepted her invitation, appointing the Fete of All-Saints as the day of his arrival, that he might be present at the ceremony of betrothal. On that day I said ma.s.s in the morning at my chapel, and high ma.s.s at seven o'clock in the afternoon. I was invited to the Chateau that evening, and nine was the hour appointed. Ma.s.s would not be over till half-past eight--I had therefore half an hour only to reach the Chateau; and, as soon as I had p.r.o.nounced the benediction, I hastened from the chapel by the side-door, and was some distance on the road before my congregation dispersed. The moon shone out at times, and at times was overcast. I had my gun with me; for after night-fall at this season, the wolves are savage, and often come down from the heights, I had not gone far when I heard a horse coming along at full speed behind me. I drew on one side to let the rider pa.s.s. The moon just then shone out, and I recognised the Baron de Pradines. He knew me also; and though he had been galloping before, he now reigned up his horse and stood quite still.

"'Good evening, most reverend Abbe,' said he in a mocking voice. 'Will you favour me with a piece of G.o.dly information; for I am but a poor sinner, and need enlightening. Pray how much have you been paid by M. le Chevalier for patching up this marriage?'

"I felt my blood boil and my cheeks burn at this insult, but I affected to treat it as a jest."

"'You are facetious, Monsieur le Baron,' I replied.

"'Not at all,' he said, with a bitter laugh. 'Gentlemen in your profession, M. le Cure, have their prices for everything; from the absolution for a vow to the absolution for a murder.'

"'Monsieur,' I replied, 'your expressions exceed the limits of pleasantry.'

"'Not at all, Monsieur le Cure,' he repeated again, 'not at all. And, withal, you are a very n.o.ble, and meek, and self-sacrificing gentleman, M. le Cure. _You love my sister_, most holy sir; and yet you sell the absolution which enables her to marry another. It is really difficult to tell, M. le Cure, which of your admirable qualities predominates--your Avarice, or your Love. Both, at least, are equally respectable in a priest who is vowed to poverty and celibacy.'

"'_And peace_, M. le Baron,' I added. 'You are aware, Monsieur, that my profession forbids me to chastise you as you deserve, and therefore you insult me. Pa.s.s on, and interfere with me no more.'

"'Indeed I shall not pa.s.s on, M. le Cure,' he continued, 'I must stay and compliment you as you deserve. It is a pity, is it not, M. le Cure, that your vows prevent you from marrying my sister yourself?'

"'If you will not pa.s.s me, M. le Baron,' I said, for I was trembling with suppressed rage, 'I must pa.s.s you, for I will bear this no longer.'