The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [188]
Amid all these poor unfortunates, Sanson, weighed down less by his fifty-four years than by the gravity of his lugubrious office; Sanson, as gentle, as consoling as his mission allowed him to be, gave this one advice, that one sad encouragement, and found Christian words to respond to despair as much as to bravado!
“Citizeness,” he said to Geneviève, “we’ll have to take off your fichu and put your hair up or cut it off, if you don’t mind.”
Geneviève started trembling uncontrollably.
“Come, my friend,” said Lorin gently, “have courage.”
“May I put her hair up myself?” Maurice asked.
“Oh yes!” cried Geneviève. “Let him do it, I beg you, Monsieur Sanson.”
“Go ahead,” said the old man, turning his head the other way.
Maurice undid his cravat, which was dripping wet with the heat of his neck; Geneviève kissed it and placed herself on her knees before him, offering him her lovely head, more beautiful in pain than it had ever been in her joy.
When Maurice had finished the doleful operation, his hands were trembling so hard, there was so much pain in the expression on his face, that Geneviève cried out:
“Oh! I have courage, Maurice!”
Sanson turned back.
“Don’t I, monsieur, don’t I have courage?” she said.
“Certainly, citizeness,” replied the executioner in a moved voice. “Real courage.”
Meanwhile, the first assistant had run through the list sent by Fouquier-Tinville.
“Fourteen,” he said.
Sanson counted the condemned.
“Fifteen, including the dead man,” he said. “How can that be?”
Lorin and Geneviève counted after him, stirred by the same thought.
“You say there are only fourteen condemned and yet we are fifteen?” she said.
“Yes, citizen Fouquier-Tinville must have made a mistake.”
“Oh!” said Geneviève to Maurice. “You lied! You weren’t condemned.”
“Why should I wait till tomorrow when you are dying today?” Maurice replied.
“My friend,” she said smiling, “you reassure me: I see now how easy it is to die.”
“Lorin,” said Maurice, “Lorin, for the last time … No one recognizes you here.… Say you came to say good-bye.… Say you got locked in by mistake. Call the gendarme who saw you leave.… I’ll be the real condemned man, I who have to die; but you, we beg you, friend, do us the joy of living to keep our memory alive. There’s still time, Lorin, we beseech you!”
Geneviève joined her hands together in sign of prayer. Lorin took those hands and kissed them.
“I said no, and I meant no,” he said in a firm voice. “Not another word about it or you’ll make me feel I’m in the way.”
“Fourteen,” Sanson repeated. “And there are fifteen of ‘em!” Raising his voice, he went on, “Let’s see, is there someone with a special claim? Is there someone who can prove they’re here by mistake?”
Perhaps a few mouths opened at this question, but they closed again without uttering a word. Those who would have lied were ashamed of lying; the man who would not have lied did not wish to speak. There was a silence that lasted several minutes, during which the assistants went about their mournful business.
“Citizens, we are ready,” came the flat and solemn voice of old Sanson finally.
A few sobs and a few groans greeted him.
“Well then,” said Lorin, “so be it!
“Let’s die for the Nation,
It’s the finest fate!…
“Yes, when you die for the nation; but, really, I’m beginning to think we’re only dying for the pleasure of those watching us die. Good Lord, Maurice, I’m coming round to your opinion, I’m also beginning to be disgusted by the Republic.”
“Order!” barked a commissioner at the door.
Several gendarmes came into the room and thus sealed off the exits, placing themselves between the condemned and life, as though to prevent