The Whites and the Blues. Alexandre Dumas

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      Charles returned to the prisoner's side.

      "Only," continued the latter, "when I am dead, pick it up without seeming to attach more importance to it than it deserves. But you will remember, will you not, that my last wish—and the last wishes of a dying man are sacred—that my last wish is that the letter in it be given to my brother. If the cap bothers you, take out the letter and throw the cap into the first ditch you come to; but the letter—you will not lose the letter?"

      "No."

      "You will not mislay it?"

      "No, no; do not worry."

      "And you will give it to my brother yourself?"

      "Yes, myself."

      "Try to. Then you must tell him how I died, and he will say: 'I had a brave brother; when my turn comes I will die like him'; and, if his turn comes, he will die like me."

      They had reached a point where two roads branched off; the main road led to the city of Auenheim itself, and the crossroad to the citadel.

      "Citizen," said the captain, "if you are going, as you said, to General Pichegru's headquarters, that is your road. A good journey to you, and try to become a good soldier; you will be in a fine school."

      Charles tried to speak, but his lips refused to form the words. He looked entreatingly at the prisoner.

      "Captain," said the latter, "will you grant me a favor?"

      "If it is in my power to do so."

      "It only depends upon you."

      "What is it?"

      "Well, it may be a weakness, but it will remain between ourselves, will it not? When I die I should like to embrace a compatriot. We are both children of the Jura, this young boy and I; our families live in Besançon, and are on a friendly footing. Some day he will go home, and tell how he met me by chance, how he followed me up to the last moment, and saw me die."

      The captain looked inquiringly at the boy. He was weeping.

      "Why," he said, "if it can give you both any pleasure—"

      "I do not suppose that it will give him much pleasure, but it will please me."

      "I see no objection, and, since you, the person most interested, ask it—"

      "It is granted," said the prisoner.

      "Granted," replied the captain.

      The troop, which had halted for a moment at the crossroads, now resumed its march. At the top of the little hill they saw the citadel of Auenheim. It was the goal of their sad journey. Charles drew closer to the prisoner.

      "You see," said the latter, "so far all goes beautifully."

      They went up the slope, which was very steep, although it wound around the hill. At the gate they made themselves known, and were then swallowed up in the depths of the fortress. The escort, the prisoner and Charles were left in the court while the captain in charge of the squad went to make his report to the commanding officer. In the meantime, Charles and the count improved their acquaintance, Charles in his turn giving information about his family. The captain reappeared on the doorstep in about ten minutes.

      "Are you ready, citizen?" he asked the prisoner.

      "Whenever you are," replied the latter.

      "Have you anything to say?"

      "No; but I have a few favors to ask."

      "As I told you, anything in my power I will grant."

      "Thank you, captain."

      The captain came closer to the count. "We may serve under different flags," said he, "but we are still Frenchmen, and brave men recognize each other at a glance. Speak then; what do you want?"

      "First, I want you to take off these cords which make me look like a galley-slave."

      "You are right," said the captain. "Unbind the prisoner."

      Two men stepped forward; but Charles had already darted toward the count and freed his hands.

      "Ah!" exclaimed the count, stretching out his arms, and shaking himself beneath his mantle, "how good it feels to be free."

      "And now?" asked the captain.

      "I want to give the word of command."

      "You shall give it. And then?"

      "I should like to send some souvenir to my family."

      "You know that we are forbidden to take any letters from political prisoners who are condemned to death; but anything else, yes."

      "I do not wish to give you any trouble on that score. Here is my compatriot Charles, who, as you have already promised, is to accompany me to the place of execution; he will undertake to deliver something to my family; let it be, not a letter, but an article that has belonged to me—my old foraging cap, for instance."

      The count named his cap in the same careless tone he would have employed in speaking of any other article of his apparel, and the captain did not hesitate to grant his request.

      "Is that all?" he asked.

      "Faith, yes," answered the count, "and it is time. My feet are growing cold, and there is nothing in the world I dislike so much as cold feet. Come, captain; for you are coming with us, I presume."

      "It is my duty."

      The count bowed, smilingly pressed little Charles's hand, and looked inquiringly at the captain to know what direction to take.

      "This way," said the captain, placing himself at the head of the squad.

      They followed him, passing through a postern gate into a second court, upon the ramparts of which sentinels were pacing back and forth. At the end was a tall wall riddled with balls at about the height of a man's head.

      "Ah! there it is," said the prisoner; and he went toward the wall of his own accord. Four steps from it he stopped.

      "Here we are," said the captain. "Clerk, read the sentence to the condemned man."

      After the reading the count bowed his head, as if to acknowledge its justice. Then he said: "I beg your pardon, captain; I have a few words to say by myself."

      The captain and the soldiers drew aside. The count put the elbow of his right arm in his left hand, leaned his forehead upon his right hand, shut his eyes, and remained motionless, his lips moving silently. He was praying.

      There is something holy about a man who is about to die, and who is praying, which even the most unbelieving respect. Not a word, not a smile, not a jest, disturbed the count's last communion with God. When he raised his head his face wore a smile; he embraced his young compatriot, and, like Charles I., his last injunction was: "Remember!"

      Charles СКАЧАТЬ