The Mysteries Of Paris Volume Vi Part 26

The harsh, angular features of the widow stood out amidst the imperfect light of the place, cold, pale, and immovable as those of a marble statue. Deprived of the use of her hands, which were fastened beneath her black dress by the strait-waistcoat of the prison, formed of coa.r.s.e gray cloth and tightly secured behind her, she requested her cap might be taken off, complaining of an oppression and burning sensation in her head; this done, a ma.s.s of long, grizzled hair fell over her shoulders.

Seated at the side of her bed, she gazed earnestly and fixedly at her daughter, who was separated from her by the width of the dungeon, and, wearing like her mother the customary strait-waistcoat, was partly reclining and partly supporting herself against the wall, her head bent forward on her breast, her eye dull and motionless, and her breathing quick and irregular. From time to time a convulsive tremor rattled her lower jaw, while her features, spite of their livid hue, remained comparatively calm and tranquil.

Within the cell, and immediately beneath the wicket of the entrance door, was seated an old, gray-headed soldier, whose rough, sunburnt features betokened his having felt the scorch of many climes, and borne his part in numerous campaigns. His duty was to keep constant watch over the condemned prisoners.

"How piercing cold it is here!" exclaimed Calabash; "yet my eyes burn in my head, and I have a burning, quenchless thirst!" Then addressing the bald-headed veteran, she said, "Water! Pray give me a drink of water!"

The old soldier filled a cup of water from a pitcher placed near him, and held it to her lips. Eagerly swallowing the draught, she bowed her head in token of thankfulness, and the soldier proceeded to offer the same beverage to the mother.

"Would you not like to moisten your lips?" asked he, kindly.

With a rough, repulsive gesture, she intimated her disinclination, and the old man sat down again.

"What's o'clock?" inquired Calabash.

"Nearly half past four," replied the soldier.

"Only three hours!" replied Calabash, with a sinister and gloomy smile.

"Three hours more! And then--" She could proceed no further.

The widow shrugged up her shoulders. Her daughter divined her meaning, and said, "Ah, mother, you have so much more courage than I have,--you never give way, you don't."

"Never!"

"I see it, and I know you too well to expect it. You look at this moment as calm and collected as if we were sitting sewing by our own fireside.

Ah! those happy days are gone,--gone forever!"

"Folly! Why prate thus?"

"Nay, mother, I cannot bear to rest shut up with my own wretched thoughts! It relieves my heart to talk of bygone times, when I little expected to come to this."

"Mean, cowardly creature!"

"I know I am a coward, mother. I am afraid to die! Every one cannot boast of your resolution. I do not possess it. I have tried as much as I could to imitate you. I refused to listen to the priest because you did not like it. Still I may have been wrong in sending the holy man away; for," added the wretched creature, with a shudder, "who can tell what is after death? Mother, do you hear me? After, I say! And it only wants--"

"Exactly three hours, and you will know all about it!"

"How can you speak so indifferently on such a dreadful subject? Yet true enough; in three short hours, we who now sit talking to each other, who, if at liberty, should ail nothing, but be ready to enjoy life, must die.

Oh, mother, can you not say one word to comfort me?"

"Be bold, girl, and die as you have lived, a true Martial!"

"You should not talk thus to your daughter," interposed the old soldier, with a serious air; "you would have acted more like a parent had you allowed her to listen to the priest when he came."

Again the widow contemptuously shrugged her shoulders, and, without deigning to notice the soldier further than by bestowing on him a look of withering contempt, she repeated to Calabash:

"Pluck up your courage, my girl, and let the world see that women have more courage than men, with their priests and cowardly nonsense!"

"General Leblond was one of the bravest officers of the regiment he belonged to. Well, this dauntless man fell at the siege of Saragossa, covered with wounds, and his last expiring act was to sign himself with the cross," said the veteran. "I served under him. I only tell you this to prove that to die with a prayer on our lips is no sign of cowardice!"

Calabash eyed the bronzed features of the speaker with deep attention.

The scarred and weather-beaten countenance of the old man told of a life pa.s.sed in scenes of danger and of death, encountered with calm bravery.

To hear those wrinkled lips urging the necessity of prayer, and a.s.sociating religion with the memory of the good and valiant, made the miserable, vacillating culprit think that, after all, there could be no cowardice in recommending one's soul to the G.o.d who gave it, and breathing a repentant supplication for the past.

"Alas, alas!" cried she. "Why did I not attend to what the priest had to say to me? It could not have done me any harm, and it might have given me courage to face that dreadful afterwards, that makes death so terrible."

"What! Again?" exclaimed the widow, with bitter contempt. "'Tis a pity time does not permit of your becoming a nun! The arrival of your brother Martial will complete your conversion; but that honest man and excellent son will think it sinful to come and receive the last wishes of his dying mother!"

As the widow uttered these last words, the huge lock of the prison was heard to turn with a loud sound, and then the door to open.

"So soon!" shrieked Calabash, with a convulsive bound. "Surely the time here is wrong,--it cannot be the hour we were told! Oh, mother! Mother!

Must we die at least two hours before we expected?"

"So much the better if the executioner's watch deceives me! It will put an end to your whining folly, which disgraces the name you bear!"

"Madame," said an officer of the prison, gently opening the door, "your son is here,--will you see him?"

"Yes," replied the widow, without turning her head.

Martial entered the cell, the door of which was left open that those without in the corridor might be within hearing, if summoned by the old soldier, who still remained with the prisoners.

Through the gloom of the corridor, lighted only by the faint beams of the early morning, and the dubious twinkling of a single lamp, several soldiers and gaolers might be seen, the former standing in due military order, the later sitting on benches.

Martial looked as pale and ghastly as his mother, while his features betrayed the mental agony he suffered at witnessing so afflicting a sight. Still, spite of all it cost him, as well as the recollection of his mother's crimes and openly expressed aversion for himself, he had felt it imperatively his duty to come and receive her last commands. No sooner was he in the dungeon than the widow, fixing on him a sharp, penetrating look, said, in a tone of concentrated wrath and bitterness, with a view to rouse all the evil pa.s.sions of her son's mind:

"Well, you see what the good people are going to do with your mother and sister!"

"Ah, mother, how dreadful! Alas, alas! Have I not warned you that such would be the end--"

Interrupting him, while her lips became blanched with rage, the widow exclaimed:

"Enough! 'Tis sufficient that your mother and sister are about to be murdered, as your father was!"

"Merciful G.o.d!" cried Martial. "And to think that I have no power to prevent it! 'Tis past all human interference. What would you have me do?

Alas! Had you or my sister attended to what I said, you would not now have been here."

"Oh, no doubt!" returned the widow, with her usual tone of savage irony.

"To you the spectacle of mine and your sister's sufferings is a matter of delight to your proud heart; you can now tell the world without a lie that your mother is dead,--you will have to blush for her no more!"

"Had I been wanting in my duty as a son," answered Martial, indignant at the unjust sarcasms of his mother, "I should not now be here."

"You came but from curiosity! Own the truth if you dare!"

"No, mother! You desired to see me, and I obeyed your wish."

"Ah, Martial," cried Calabash, unable longer to struggle against the agonising terror she endured, "had I but listened to your advice, instead of being led by my mother, I should not be here!" Then losing all further control of herself, she exclaimed, "'Tis all your fault, accursed mother! Your bad example and evil counsel have brought me to what I am!"

"Do you hear her?" said the widow, bursting into a fiendish laugh.

"Come, this will repay you for the trouble of paying us a last visit!