So doubtful was the Government of the day in what way the people of Paris would be disposed to regard the trial of the Chouan prisoners,—how far public sympathy might side with misfortune and heroism, and in what way they would regard Moreau, whose career in arms so many had witnessed with pride and enthusiasm,—that for several days they did not dare to strike the decisive blow which was to establish their guilt, but advanced with slow and cautious steps, gradually accumulating a mass of small circumstances, on which the “Moniteur” each day commented, and the other journals of less authority expatiated, as if to prepare the public mind for further and more important revelations.

At last, however, the day arrived in which the mine was to be sprung. The secret police—whose information extended to all that went on in every class of the capital, and who knew the chitchat of the highest circles equally as they did the grumblings of the Faubourg St. Antoine— pronounced the time had come when the fatal stroke might no longer be withheld, and when the long-destined vengeance should descend on their devoted heads.

The want of energy on the part of the prosecution—the absence of important witnesses and of all direct evidence whatever—which marked the first four days of the trial, had infused a high hope and a strong sense of security into the prisoners' hearts. The proofs which they so much dreaded, and of whose existence they well knew, were not forthcoming against them. The rumored treachery of some of their party began at length to lose its terror for them; while in the lax and careless proceedings of the Procureur-GÉnÉral they saw, or fancied they saw, a desire on the part of Government to render the public uninterested spectators of the scene, and thus prepare the way for an acquittal, while no danger of any excitement existed.

Such was the state of matters at the close of the fourth day. A tiresome and desultory discussion on some merely legal question had occupied the court for several hours, and many of the spectators, wearied and tired out, had gone home disappointed in their expectations, and secretly resolving not to return the following day.

This was the moment for which the party in power had been waiting,—the interval of false security, as it would seem, when all danger was past, and no longer any apprehension existed. The sudden shock of the newly-discovered proofs would then come with peculiar force; while, mo matter how rapid any subsequent step might be, all charge of precipitancy or undue haste had been disproved by the tardy nature of the first four days' proceedings.

For the change of scene about to take place, an early edition of the “Moniteur” prepared the public; and by daybreak the walls of Paris were placarded with great announcements of the discoveries made by the Government: how, by their untiring efforts, the whole plot, which was to deluge France with blood and subvert the glorious institutions of freedom they had acquired by the Revolution, had been laid open; new and convincing evidence of the guilt of the Chouans had turned up; and a frightful picture of anarchy and social disorganization was displayed,—all of which was to originate in an effort to restore the Bourbons to the throne of France.

While, therefore, the galleries of the court were crowded to suffocation at an early hour, and every avenue leading to the tribunal crammed with people anxious to be present at this eventful crisis, the prisoners took their places on the “bench of the accused,” totally unaware of the reason of the excitement they witnessed, and strangely puzzled to conceive what unknown circumstance had reinvested the proceedings with a new interest.

As I took my place among the rest, I stared with surprise at the scene: the strange contrast between the thousands there, whose strained eyes and feverish faces betokened the highest degree of excitement; and that little group on which every look was turned, calm and even cheerful. There sat George Cadoudal in the midst of them, his hands clasped in those at either side of him; his strongly-marked features perfectly at rest, and his eyes bent with a steady stare on the bench where the judges were seated. Moreau was not present, nor did I see some of the Chouans whom I remembered on the former day.

The usual formal proclamation of the court being made, silence was called by the crier,—a useless precaution, as throughout that vast assembly not a whisper was to be heard. A conversation of some minutes took place between the Procureur and the counsel for the prisoners, in which I recognized the voice of Monsieur Baillot, my own advocate; which was interrupted by the President, desiring that the proceedings should commence.

The Procureur-GÉnÉral bowed and took his seat, while the President, turning towards George, said:—

“George Cadoudal, you have hitherto persisted in a course of blank denial regarding every circumstance of the conspiracy with which you are charged. You have asserted your ignorance of persons and places with which we are provided with proof to show you are well acquainted. You have neither accounted for your presence in suspected situations, nor satisfactorily shown what were the objects of your intimacy with suspected individuals. The court now desires to ask you whether, at this stage of the proceedings, you wish to offer more explicit revelations, or explain any of the dubious events of your career.”

“I will answer any question you put to me,” replied George, sternly; “but I have lived too long in another country not to have learned some of its usages, and I feel no desire to become my own accuser. Let him there” (he pointed to the Procureur-GÉnÉral) “do his office; he is the paid and salaried assailant of the innocent.”

“I call upon the court,” said the Procureur, rising, when he was suddenly interrupted by the President, saying,—

“We will protect you, Monsieur le Procureur. And once again we would admonish the accused, that insolence to the authorities of this court is but a sorry plea in vindication of his innocence, and shall be no recommendation to our mercy.”

“Your mercy!” said George, in a voice of scorn and sarcasm. “Who ever heard of a tiger's benevolence or a wolf's charity? And even if you wished it, he whose slaves you are—”

“I call upon you to be silent,” said an advocate, rising from a bench directly behind him. “Another interruption of this kind, and I shall abandon the defence.”

“What?” said George, turning quickly round and staring at him with a look of withering contempt; “and have they bought you over too?”

“Call the first witness,” said the President; and an indistinct murmur was heard, and a slight confusion seen to agitate the crowd, as the gendarmes opened a path towards the witness bench. And then I saw two men carrying something between them, which I soon perceived to be a man. The legs, which were alone apparent, hung down listlessly like those of a corpse; and one arm, which fell over the shoulder of the bearer, moved to and fro, as they went, like the limb of a dead man. Every neck was stretched from the galleries above, and along the benches beneath, to catch a glimpse of the mysterious figure, which seemed like an apparition from the grave come to give evidence. His face, too, was concealed by a handkerchief; and as he was placed in a chair provided for the purpose, the assistants stood at either side to support his drooping figure.

“Let the witness be sworn,” said the President; and, with the aid of an officer of the court, a thin white hand was held up, on which the flesh seemed almost transparent from emaciation. A low, muttering sound followed, and the President spoke again,—“Let the witness be uncovered. George Cadoudal, advance!”

As the hardy Chouan stepped forward, the handkerchief fell from the witness's face, while his head slowly turned round towards the prisoner. A cry, like the yell of a wounded animal, broke from the stout Breton, as he bounded into the air and held up both his arms to their full height.

“Toi, toi!” screamed he, in accents that seemed the very last of a heart wrung to agony, while he leaned forward and fixed his eyes on him, till the very orbs seemed bursting from their sockets. “Oui,” added he, in a lower tone, but one which was felt in every corner of that crowded assemblage—“oui, c'est lui!” Then clasping his trembling hands together, as his knees bent beneath him, he turned his eyes upwards, and said, “Le bon Dieu, that makes men's hearts and knows their thoughts, deals with us as he will; and I must have sinned sorely towards him when such punishment as this has fallen upon me. Oh, my brother! my child! my own Bouvet de Lozier!”

“Bouvet de Lozier!” cried the other prisoners, with a shout wild as madness itself, while every man sprang forward to look at him. But already his head had fallen back over the chair, the limbs stretched out rigidly, and the arm fell heavily down.

“He is dying!” “He is dead!” were the exclamations of the crowd, and a general cry for a doctor was heard around. Several physicians were soon at his side, and by the aid of restoratives he was gradually brought back to animation; but cold and speechless he lay, unable to understand anything, and was obliged to be conveyed back again to his bed.

It was some time before the excitement of this harrowing scene was over; and when order at length was restored in the court, George Cadoudal was seen seated, as at first, on the bench, while around him his faithful followers were grouped. Like children round a beloved father, some leaned on his neck, others clasped his knees; some covered his hands with kisses, and called him by the most endearing names. But though he moved his head from, side to side, and tried to smile upon them, a cold vacancy was in his face; his lips were parted, and his eyes stared wildly before him; his very hair stood out from his forehead, on which the big drops of sweat were seen.

“Father; dear father, it is but one who is false; see, look how many of your children are true to you! Think on us who are with you here, and will go with you to death without shrinking.”

“He is but a child, too, father; and they have stolen away his reason from him,” said another.

“Yes, they have brought him to this by suffering,” cried a third, as with a clenched hand he menaced the bench, where sat the judges.

“Order in the court!” cried the President. But the command was reiterated again and again before silence could be obtained; and when again I could observe the proceedings, I saw the Procureur-GÉnÉral addressing the tribunal, to demand a postponement in consequence of the illness of the last witness, whose testimony was pronounced all-conclusive.

A discussion took place on the subject between the counsel for the prisoners and the prosecution; and at length it was ruled that this trial should not be proceeded with till the following morning.

“We are, however, prepared to go on with the other cases,” said the Procureur, “if the court will permit.”

“Certainly,” said the President.

“In that case,” continued the Procureur, “we shall call on the accused Thomas Burke, lieutenant of the huitieme hussars, now present.”

For some minutes nothing more could be heard, for the crowded galleries, thronged with expectant hundreds, began now to empty. Mine was a name without interest for any; and the thronged masses rose to depart, while their over-excited minds found vent in words which, drowned all else. It was in vain silence and order were proclaimed; the proceedings had lost all interest, and with it all respect, and for full ten minutes the uproar lasted. Meanwhile, M. Baillot, taking his place by my side, produced some most voluminous papers, in which he soon became deeply engaged. I turned one look throughout the now almost deserted seats, but not one face there was known to me. The few who remained seemed to stay rather from indolence than any other motive, as they lounged over the vacant benches and yawned listlessly; and much as I dreaded the gaze of that appalling multitude, I sickened at the miserable isolation of my lot, and felt overwhelmed to think that for me there was not one who should pity or regret my fall.

At last order was established in the court, and the Procureur opened the proceeding by reciting the act of my accusation, in which all the circumstances already mentioned by my advocate were dwelt and commented on with the habitual force and exaggeration of bar oratory. The address was short, however,—scarcely fifteen minutes long; and by the tone of the speaker, and the manner of the judges, I guessed that my case excited little or no interest to the prosecution, either from my own humble and insignificant position, or the certainty they felt of my conviction.

My advocate rose to demand a delay, even a short one, pleading most energetically against the precipitancy of a proceeding in which the indictment was but made known the day previous. The President interrupted him roughly, and with an assurance that no circumstance short of the necessity to produce some important evidence not then forthcoming, would induce him to grant a postponement.

M. Baillot replied at once, “Such, sir, is our case; a witness, whose evidence is of the highest moment, is not to be found; a day or two might enable us to obtain his testimony. It is upon this we ground our hope, our certainty, of an acquittal. The court will not, I am certain, refuse its clemency in such an emergency as this.”

“Where is this same witness to be found? Is he in Paris? Is he in France?”

“We hope in Paris, Monsieur le President.”

“And his name?”

“The AbbÉ d'Ervan.”

A strange murmur ran along the bench of judges at the words; and I could see that some of them smiled in spite of their efforts to seem grave, while the Procureur-GÉnÉral did not scruple to laugh outright.

“I believe, sir,” said he, addressing the President, “that I can accommodate my learned brother with this so-much desired testimony perhaps more speedily, I will not say than he wishes, but than he expects.”

“How is this?” said my advocate, in a whisper to me. “They have this AbbÉ then. Has he turned against his party?”

“I know nothing of him,” said I, recklessly; “falsehood and treachery seem so rife here, that it can well be as you say.”

“The Abbe d'Ervan!” cried a loud voice; and with the words the well-known figure moved rapidly from the crowd and mounted the steps of the platform.

“You are lost!” said Baillot, in a low, solemn voice; “it is MehÉe de la Touche himself!”

Had the words of my sentence rung in my ears I had not felt them more, that name, by some secret spell, had such terror in it.

“You know the prisoner before you, sir?” said the President, turning towards the AbbÉ.

Before he could reply, my advocate broke in:—

“Pardon me, sir; but previous to the examination of this respectable witness, I would ask under what name he is to figure in this process? Is he here the AbbÉ d'Ervan, the agreeable and gifted frequenter of the Faubourg St. Germain?—is he the Chevalier Maupret, the companion and associate of the house of Bourbon?—or is he the no less celebrated and esteemed citizen MehÉ e de la Touche, whose active exertions have been of such value in these eventful times that we should think no recompense sufficient for them had he not been paid by both parties? Yes, sir,” continued he, in an altered tone, “I repeat it: we are prepared to show that this man is unworthy of all credit; that he whose testimony the court now calls is a hired spy and bribed calumniator,—the instigator to the treason he prosecutes, the designer of the schemes for which other men's blood has paid the penalty. Is this abbÉ without, and gendarme within, to be at large in the world, ensnaring the unsuspecting youth of France by subtle and insidious doctrines disguised under the semblance of after-dinner gayety? Are we to feel that on such evidence as this, the fame, the honor, the life of every man is to rest?—he, who earns his livelihood by treason, and whose wealth is gathered in the bloody sawdust beneath the guillotine!”

“We shall not hear these observations longer,” said the President, with an accent of severity. “You may comment on the evidence of the witness hereafter, and, if you are able to do so, disprove it. His character is under the protection of the court.”

“No, sir!” said the advocate, with energy; “no court, however high,—no tribunal, beneath that of Heaven itself, whose decrees we dare not question,—can throw a shield over a man like this. There are crimes which stain the nation they occur in; which, happening in our age, make men sorry for their generation, and wish they had lived in other times.”

“Once more, sir, I command you to desist!” interrupted the President.

“If I dare to dictate to the honorable court?” said the so-called AbbÉ, in an accent of the most honeyed sweetness, and with a smile of the most winning expression, “I would ask permission for the learned gentleman to proceed. These well-arranged paragraphs, this indignation got by heart, must have vent, since they 're paid for; and it would save the tribunal the time which must be consumed in listening to them hereafter.”

“If,” said the advocate, “the coolness and indifference to blood which the headsman exhibits, be a proof of guilt in the victim before him, I could congratulate the prosecution on their witness. But,” cried he, in an accent of wild excitement, “great Heavens! are we again fallen on such times as to need atrocity like this? Is the terrible ordeal of blood through which we have passed to be renewed once more? Is the accusation to be hoarded, the calumnious evidence secreted, the charge held back, till the scaffold is ready,—and then the indictment, the slander, the sentence, and the death, to follow on one another like the flash and the thunder? Is the very imputation of having heard from a Bourbon to bear its prestige of sudden death?”

“Silence, sir!” cried the President, to whom the allusion to the Duc d'Enghien was peculiarly offensive, and who saw in the looks of the spectators with what force it told. “You know the prisoner?” said he, turning towards D'Ervan.

“I have that honor, sir,” said he, with a bland smile.

“State to the court the place and the occasion of your first meeting him.”

“If I remember correctly, it was in the Palais Royal, at Beauvilliers's. There was a meeting of some of the Chouan party arranged for that evening, but from some accident only three or four were present. The sous-lieutenant, however, was one.”

“Repeat, as far as your memory serves you, the conduct and conversation of the prisoner during the evening in question.”

In reply, the AbbÉ, recapitulated every minute particular of the supper; scarcely an observation the most trivial he did not recall, and apply, by some infernal ingenuity, to the scheme of the conspiracy. Although never, even in the slightest instance, falsifying any speech, he tortured the few words I did say into such a semblance of criminality that I started, as I heard the interpretation which now appeared so naturally to attach to them. (During all this time my advocate never interrupted him once, but occupied himself in writing as rapidly as he could follow the evidence.) The chance expression which concluded the evening,—the hope of meeting soon,—was artfully construed into an arranged and recognized agreement that I had accepted companionship amongst them, and formally joined their ranks.

From this he passed on to the second charge,—respecting the conversation I had overheard at the Tuileries, and which I so unhappily repeated to Beauvais. This the AbbÉ, dwelt upon with great minuteness, as evidencing my being an accomplice; showing how I had exhibited great zeal in the new cause I had embarked in, and affecting to mark how very highly the service was rated by those in whose power lay the rewards of such an achievement.

Then followed the account of my appointment at Versailles, in which I heard, with a sinking heart, how thoroughly even there the toils were spread around me. It appeared that the reason of the neglect I then experienced was an order from the minister that I should not be noticed in any way; that the object of my being placed there was to test my fidelity, which already was suspected; that it was supposed such neglect might naturally have the effect of throwing me more willingly into the views of the conspirators, and, as I was watched in every minute particular, of establishing my own guilt and leading to the detection of others.

Then came a narrative of his visits to my quarters, in which the omission of all mention of his name in my report was clearly shown as an evidence of my conscious culpability. And, to my horror and confusion, a new witness was produced,—the sentinel, Pierre Dulong, who mounted guard at the gate of the chÂteau on the morning when I passed the AbbÉ, through the park.

With an accuracy beyond my belief, he repeated all out conversations, making the dubious hints and dark suggestions which he himself threw out as much mine as his own; and having at length given a full picture of my treacherous conduct, he introduced my intimacy with Beauvais as the crowning circumstance of my guilt.

“I shall pause here,” said he, with a cool malignity, but ill concealed beneath a look of affected sorrow—“I shall pause here, and, with the permission of the court, allow the accused to make, if he will, a full confession of his criminality; or, if he refuse this, I shall proceed to the disclosure of other circumstances, by which it will be seen that these dark designs met favor and countenance in higher quarters; and among those, too, whose sex, if nothing else, should have removed them beyond the contamination of confederacy with assassination.”

“The court,” said the President, sternly, “will enter into no compromise of this kind. You are here to give such evidence as you possess, fully, frankly, and without reserve; nor can we permit you to hold out any promises to the prisoner that his confession of guilt can afford a screen to the culpability of others.”

“I demand,” cried the Procureur-GÉnÉral, “a full disclosure from the witness of everything he knows concerning this conspiracy.”

“In that case I shall speak,” said the AbbÉ.

At this instant a noise was heard in the hall without; a half murmur ran through the court; and suddenly the heavy curtain was drawn aside, and a loud voice called out,—

“In the name of the Republic, one and indivisible, an order of council.”

The messenger, splashed and covered with mud, advanced through the court, and delivered a packet into the hands of the President, who, having broken the large seals, proceeded leisurely to read it over.

At the same moment I felt my arm gently touched, and a small pencil note was slipped into my hand. It ran thus:—

Before I could recover from the shock of such glad tidings, the President rose, and said,—

“In the matter of the accused Burke, this court has no longer cognizance, as he is summoned before the tribunal of the army. Let him withdraw, and call on the next case,—Auguste Leconisset.”

D'Ervan stooped down and whispered a few words to the Procureur-GÉnÉral, who immediately demanded to peruse the order of council. To this my advocate at once objected, and a short and animated discussion on the legal question followed. The President, however, ruled in favor of my defender; and at the same instant a corporal's guard appeared, into whose charge I was formally handed over, and marched from the court.

Such was the excited state of my mind, in such a confused whirl were all my faculties, that I knew nothing of what was passing around me; and save that I was ordered to mount into a carriage, and driven along at a rapid pace, I remembered no more. At length we reached the quay Voltaire, and entered the large square of the barrack. The tears burst out and ran down my cheeks, as I looked once more on the emblems of the career I loved. We stopped at the door of a large stone building, where two sentries were posted; and the moment after I found myself the occupant of a small barrack-room, in which, though under arrest, no feature of harsh confinement appeared, and from whose windows I could survey the movement of the troops in the court, and hear the sounds which for so many a day had been the most welcome to my existence.