The Child Wife

“L – !” cried the Irish-American, recognising a name well-known to the friends of freedom. “Is it possible? Is it you! My name is Maynard.”

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed his French fellow-prisoner. “I’ve heard of it! I know you, sir!”

Amidst the darkness the two met in mutual embrace, mutually murmuring those cherished words, “Vive la république!”

L – added, “Rouge et démocratique!”

Maynard, though he did not go thus far, said nothing in dissent. It was not time to split upon delicate distinctions!

“But what do you mean by speaking of your danger?” asked Maynard. “Surely it has not come to this?”

“Do you hear those sounds?” The two stood listening.

“Yes. There is shouting outside – shots, too. That is the rattle of musketry. More distant, I hear guns – cannon. One might fancy an engagement!”

“It is!” gravely responded the Red Republican. “An engagement that will end in the annihilation of our freedom. You are listening to its death-knell – mine, too, I make no doubt of it.”

Touched by the serious words of his fellow-captive, Maynard was turning to him for an explanation, when the door was suddenly thrown open, discovering a group outside it. They were officers in various uniforms – chiefly Zouaves and Chasseurs d’Afrique.

“He is in here,” cried one of them, whom Maynard recognised as the ruffian Virocq.

“Bring him out, then!” commanded one with the strap of a colonel upon his shoulders. “Let his trial proceed at once!”

Maynard supposed it to be himself. He was mistaken. It was the man more noted than he – more dangerous to the aspirations of the Empire. It was L – .

A large drum stood in the open courtyard, with half a dozen chairs around it. On its head was an inkstand, pens, and paper. They were the symbols of a court-martial.

They were only used as shams. The paper was not stained with the record of that foul proceeding. The pen was not even dipped in the ink. President and members, judge, advocate, and recorder, were all half-intoxicated. All demanded blood, and had determined on shedding it.

Of the trial, informal as it was, Maynard was not a spectator. The door had been re-closed upon him; and he stood listening behind it.

Not for long. Before ten minutes had elapsed, there came through the keyhole a simple word that told him his fellow-prisoner was condemned. It was the word “Coupable!”

It was quick followed by a fearful phrase: “Tires au moment!” There were some words of remonstrance which Maynard could hear spoken by his late fellow-prisoner; among them the phrase, “C’est un assassinat!”

They were followed by a shuffling sound – the tread as of a troop hurrying into line. There was an interval of silence, like a lull in the resting storm. It was short – only for a few seconds.

It was broken by a shout that filled the whole court, though proceeding only from a single voice! It was that shout that had more than once driven a king from his throne; but was now to be the pretext for establishing an Empire!

“Vive la république rouge!” were the last words of the heroic L – , as he bared his breast to the bullets of his assassins!

“Tirez!” cried a voice, which Maynard recognised as that of the sous-lieutenant Virocq; its echo around the walls overtaken and drowned by the deadly rattle it had invoked!

It was a strange time for exultation over such a dastardly deed. But that courtyard was filled with strange men. More like fiends were they as they waved their shakoes in air, answering the defiance of the fallen man with a cry that betokened the fall of France! “Vive l’Empereur!”

Chapter Thirty Eight.

The Two Flags

Listening inside his cell, hearing little of what was said, but comprehending all, Maynard had become half frantic.

The man he had so lately embraced – whose name he had long known and honoured – to be thus hurried out of the world like a condemned dog!

He began to believe himself dreaming!

But he had heard the protesting cry, “C’est un assassinat!”

He had repeated it himself striking his heels against the door in hopes of effecting a diversion or delay.

He kept repeating it, with other speeches, till his voice became drowned in the detonation of that death-dealing volley.

And once again he gave utterance to it after the echoes had ceased, and the courtyard became quiet. It was heard by the members of the court-martial outside.

“You’ve got a madman there!” said the presiding officer. “Who bit, Virocq?”

“One of the same,” answered the sous-lieutenant of Zouaves. “A fellow as full of sedition as the one just disposed of.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No, Colonel. He’s a stranger – a foreigner.”

“Of what country?”

“Anglais – Américain. He’s been brought in from the Boulevards. My men took him up, and by my orders.”

“For what?”

“Interfering with their duty. That isn’t all. I chanced to see him last night in the Café de Mille Colonnes. He was there speaking against the government, and expressing pity for poor France.”

“Indeed!”

“I should have answered him upon the spot, mon Colonel, but some of ours interfered to shield him, on the excuse of his being a stranger.”

“That’s no reason why he should be suffered to talk sedition here.”

“I know it, Colonel.”

“Are you ready to swear he has done so?”

“I am ready. A score of people were present. You hear how he talks now?”

“True – true!” answered the President of the court. “Bring him before us! His being a stranger shan’t shield him. It’s not a time to be nice about nationalities. English or American, such a tongue must be made silent. Comrades!” continued he in a low tone to the other members, “this fellow has been witness to – you understand? He must be tried; and if Virocq’s charges are sufficient, should be silenced. You understand?”

A grim assent was given by the others, who knew they were but mocking justice. For that they had been specially selected – above all, their president, who was the notorious Colonel Gardotte.

Inside his cell Maynard could hear but little of what was said. The turbulence was still continued in the streets outside – the fusillade, and the firing of cannon. Other prisoners were being brought into the courtyard, that echoed the tread of troops and the clanking of steel scabbards. There was noise everywhere.

Withal, a word or two coming through the keyhole sounded ominous in his ears. He had seen the ruffian Virocq, and knew that beside such a man there must be danger.