Виктор Мари Гюго
Ninety-Three
The Marquis slowly crossed the guard-room and the breach, – not without hitting his head more than once, – and went out. The sentinel, supposing that it was Gauvain whom he saw, presented arms.
Once outside, within two hundred steps of the forest, feeling the turf beneath his feet, and space, the protecting night, liberty, and life before him, he paused and stood for a moment motionless, like a man who has allowed himself to be influenced, has been overcome by surprise, and who, having taken advantage of an open door, asks himself whether he has acted nobly or ignobly, and hesitates before going on, – giving ear, as it were, to an afterthought. After some moments of deep reverie, he raised his right hand, and snapping his thumb and finger, cried, —
"Faith!"
And he went on.
The door of the prison had closed again, and this time it was upon Gauvain.
II
THE COURT-MARTIAL
Nearly all the court-martials of this period were arbitrary tribunals. In the Legislative Assembly, Dumas had drawn up a rough plan of military legislation, afterwards improved by Talbot in the Council of the Five Hundred, but the final code of councils of war was not drawn up until the time of the Empire. From that time also, be it mentioned by way of parenthesis, dates the law imposed on military tribunals in regard to the taking of votes, that of beginning with the lower grade. This law was not in existence during the Revolution.
In 1793, the president of a military tribunal might almost be said to personify the tribunal itself; he elected the members, arranged the order of the ranks and regulated the method of voting; he was master as well as judge.
Cimourdain had selected the identical room on the ground-floor where the retirade had been, and where the guard was now posted, for the judgment-hall of the court-martial. He was anxious to shorten everything, – the road from the prison to the tribunal, and the passage from the tribunal to the scaffold.
In accordance with his orders, the court opened its session at noon with no more display of ceremonial than three straw chairs, a pine table, two lighted candies, and a stool placed in front of the table.
The chairs were for the judges and the stool was for the prisoner. At each end of the table stood another stool, one for the commissioner-auditor, who was a quartermaster, and the other for the clerk, who was a corporal.
On the table there was a stick of red sealing-wax, a copper seal of the Republic, two inkstands, bundles of white paper, and two printed placards, spread wide open, – one containing the sentence of outlawry, the other, the decree of the Convention.
The middle chair was pushed back against a group of tricolored flags; in those times of rude simplicity, decorations were quickly arranged, and but little time was needed to change a guard-hall into a court of justice. The middle chair, intended for the president, faced the prison door.
The audience was composed of soldiers.
Two gendarmes stood on guard beside the stool.
Cimourdain was seated in the middle chair, with Captain Guéchamp, the first judge, on his right, and Sergeant Radoub, the second, on his left.
He wore a hat with tricolored plumes, a sabre by his side, and two pistols on his belt. His scar, of a vivid red, increased the ferocity of his appearance.
Radoub had at last consented to allow his wounds to be dressed. He wore a handkerchief tied round his head, on which a blood-stain was gradually extending.
At noon, before the Court opened, a messenger stood beside the table of the tribunal, while his horse impatiently pawed the ground outside. Cimourdain was writing; and this was what he wrote: —
"Citizen members of the Com. of Public Safety:"
"Lantenac is taken. He will be executed to-morrow."
After dating and signing the despatch he folded and sealed it, and then handed it to the messenger, who took his leave.
Whereupon Cimourdain said in a loud voice, —
"Open the dungeon."
Two gendarmes drew back the bolts, opened the dungeon, and went in.
Cimourdain raised his head, crossed his arms, glanced at the door, and exclaimed: —
"Bring forth the prisoner!"
Beneath the archway of the open door appeared a man between the two gendarmes.
It was Gauvain.
Cimourdain started.
"Gauvain!" he cried
Then continued: —
"I demand the prisoner."
"It is I," said Gauvain.
"Thou?"
"I."
"And Lantenac?"
"He is free."
"Free?"
"Yes."
"Escaped?"
"Escaped."
Cimourdain trembled as he murmured: —
"True, it is his own castle, he is familiar with all its outlets; the crypt perhaps communicates with one of them. I ought to have thought of this; he probably found means of escape; he would need no help."
"He has been helped," said Gauvain.
"To escape?"
"To escape."
"Who helped him?"
"I."
"Thou?"
"I."
"Thou art dreaming."
"I went into the dungeon, I was alone with the prisoner, I took off my cloak and wrapped it about him, I drew the hood over his face; he went out in my stead, while I remained in his. Here I am."
"Thou hast not done this?"
"I have."
"It is impossible."
"It is true."
"Bring me Lantenac."
"He is no longer here. The soldiers, seeing the commander's-cloak, took him for me and allowed him to pass. It was still dark."
"Thou art mad."
"I tell you what happened."
A silence ensued. Cimourdain stammered: —
"Then thou deservest – "
"Death," said Gauvain.
Cimourdain was as pale as a corpse, and as motionless as a man who has been struck by lightning. He seemed to have lost the power of breathing. A great drop of sweat formed upon his forehead.
He controlled his voice, forcing himself to speak firmly as he said: —
"Gendarmes, seat the accused."
Gauvain took his seat on the stool.
Cimourdain continued: —
"Gendarmes, draw your sabres."
This was the usual formula when the accused was under sentence of death.
The gendarmes bared their sabres.
Cimourdain's voice regained its ordinary tone.
"Accused," he said, "rise."
He no longer used the familiar "thee" and "thou."
III
THE VOTES
Gauvain rose.
"What is your name?" asked Cimourdain.
"Gauvain," was the reply.
Cimourdain went on with the interrogatory: —
"Who are you?"
"I am commander-in-chief of the expeditionary column of the Côtes-du-Nord."
"Are you a kinsman or connection of the man who has escaped?"
"I am his great-nephew."
"Are you acquainted with the decree of the Convention?"
"I see the placard on your table."
"What have you to say in regard to this decree?"
"That I have countersigned it, and have ordered its execution; that it was I who had that placard written, to which my name is affixed."
"Choose your defender."
"I will defend myself."
"You may speak."
Cimourdain had become impassible. Only his impassibility was more like the calmness of a rock than that of a man.
For a moment Gauvain remained silent and thoughtful.
Cimourdain continued: —
"What have you to say in your defence?"
Gauvain slowly raised his head, and without looking at any one, replied: —
"This: one thing has prevented me from seeing another. A good deed, viewed too near at hand, hid from my sight hundreds of criminal actions; on the one side, an aged man, on the other, children, – all this interfered between me and my duty. I forgot the burning villages, the ravaged fields, the massacred prisoners, the wounded cruelly put to death, the women shot; I forgot France betrayed to England: I have set at liberty the country's murderer. I am guilty. When I speak thus I seem to speak against myself, but it is not so; I am speaking in my own behalf. When he who is guilty acknowledges his fault, he saves the only thing worth saving – honor."
"Is this all you have to say in your defence?" returned Cimourdain.
"I will add, that being the commander I should have set an example, and that you in turn as judges must offer one."
"What example do you require of us?"
"My death."
"You think it just?"
"And necessary."
"Take your seat."
The quartermaster, who was commissioner-auditor, rose and read, first the decree pronouncing the sentence of outlawry against the ci-devant Marquis de Lantenac; second, that of the Convention sentencing to death any one whomsoever who should aid or abet the escape of a rebel prisoner. He ended with the few lines printed at the bottom of the placard, forbidding men to "aid or abet" the rebel aforesaid, "under penalty of death," and signed: "Commander-in-chief of the expeditionary column, GAUVAIN." The reading ended, the auditor-commissioner again took his scat.
Cimourdain, crossing his arms, said: —
"Attention, accused, and let the public listen, look on, and keep silence. The law lies before you. It will be put to vote. The sentence will be determined by the vote of the majority. Each judge will in turn pronounce his decision aloud, in the presence of the accused; for justice has nothing to conceal."
Cimourdain continued, —
"Let the first judge cast his vote. Speak, Captain Guéchamp."
Captain Guéchamp seemed unconscious of the presence either of Gauvain or Cimourdain. His eyes, riveted upon the placard of the decree, as if he were absorbed in the contemplation of an abyss, were hidden by his downcast lids. He said: —
"The law is clearly defined. The judge is more and less than a man, – less than a man, inasmuch as he has no heart; more than a man, in that he wields the sword. In the year 414 of the building of the city of Rome, Manlius put his son to death because he gained a victory without waiting for orders. That infraction of discipline required an expiation. Here, the law has been violated; and the law stands higher than discipline. A man has been overcome by the emotion of pity, and the country is once more endangered. Pity may rise to the level of a crime. Commander Gauvain has connived at the escape of the rebel Lantenac. Gauvain is guilty. I vote for death."
"Write it down, clerk," said Cimourdain.
The clerk wrote, "Captain Guéchamp: death."
Gauvain said in a firm voice, —
"Guéchamp, you have voted well; I thank you."
Cimourdain continued, —
"It is the turn of the second judge. Speak, Sergeant Radoub."
Radoub rose, and turning towards Gauvain, he made the military salute, exclaiming, —
"If that is the way things are going, then guillotine me; for upon my most sacred word of honor, I would like to have done, first, what the old man did, and then what my commander did. When I beheld that man of eighty rushing into the flames to save the three midgets, I said to myself, 'Good man, you are a brave fellow!' And since I hear that it was my commander who saved this old man from your beastly guillotine, by all that is holy, I say, 'Commander, you ought to be the general; and you are a true man; and by thunder, I would give you the Cross of Saint-Louis if there were any crosses or saints or Louises left!' Are we going to make idiots of ourselves, for pity's sake? I should say so, if this is to be the result of winning the battles of Jemmapes, Valmy, Fleurus, and Wattignies. What! here is Commander Gauvain, who for these four months past has been driving those donkeys of Royalists to the sound of the drum, who saves the Republic by his sword, and who did something at Dol that needed brains to accomplish it; and when you have a man like that, you try to get rid of him, and instead of making him your general you propose to cut his throat! I say that it is enough to make one throw one's self head-foremost from the Pont-Neuf! and if you, citizen Gauvain, were only a corporal instead of being my commander, I would tell you that you talked a heap of nonsense just now. The old man did well when he saved the children, you did well to save the old man; and if men are to be guillotined for their good actions, then we might as well go to the deuce; and I am sure I don't know what it all means. There is nothing to depend upon. This must be a sort of dream, isn't it? I pinch myself to see if I am really awake. I don't understand. So the old man ought to have let the midgets burn alive, and my commander did wrong to save the old man's head? See here! guillotine me; I wish you would! Suppose the midgets had died; then the battalion of the Bonnet-Rouge would have been dishonored. Is that what they wanted? If that is the case, then let us destroy one another. I know as much about politics as you do, for I belonged to the Club of the Section of the Pikes. Sapristi! we are getting to be no better than the brutes! In a word, this is the way I look at it. I don't like such an upsetting state of affairs. Why the devil do we risk our lives? So that our chief may be put to death. None of that, Lisette! I want my chief; I must have my chief. I love him better to-day than I did yesterday. You make me laugh when you say that he is to be guillotined. We'll have nothing of the sort. I have listened. You may say what you please; but let me tell you in the first place, it is impossible."
And Radoub took his seat. His wound had reopened. A thin stream of blood oozed from under the bandage, from the place where his ear had been, and ran along his neck.
Cimourdain turned towards Radoub.
"You vote that the accused be acquitted?"
"I vote to have him made general," replied Radoub.
"I ask you whether you vote for his acquittal."
"I vote that he be made the head of the Republic."
"Sergeant Radoub, do you, or do you not, vote for Captain Gauvain's acquittal? Yes, or no?"
"I vote that you behead me in his place."
"Acquittal," said Cimourdain. "Write it down, clerk."
Then the clerk announced, —
"One vote for death, one for acquittal: a tie."
It was Cimourdain's turn to vote.
He rose, took off his hat, and placed it on the table. He was no longer pale or livid; his face was the color of clay.
Had every man present been lying in his shroud, the silence could not have been more profound.
In solemn, measured tones Cimourdain said, —
"Gauvain, the accused, your case has been heard. The court-martial, in the name of the Republic, by a majority of two against one – "
He broke off; he seemed to pause. Was he still doubtful whether to vote for death or for life? The audience was breathless. Cimourdain went on, —
" – condemns you to the penalty of death."
His face revealed the torture of an awful triumph. When Jacob in the darkness forced a blessing from the angel whom he had overthrown, he must have worn the same terrible smile.
It passed like a flash, however, and Cimourdain again became marble. He took his seat, replaced his hat on his head, and added, —
"Gauvain, you will be executed to-morrow at sunrise."
Gauvain rose, bowed, and said, —
"I thank the court."
"Remove the prisoner," said Cimourdain; and at a sign from him the door of the dungeon was reopened, Gauvain entered, and it closed behind him. Two gendarmes with drawn sabres were stationed on each side of the door.
Radoub, who had just fallen senseless, was carried away.
IV
AFTER CIMOURDAIN THE JUDGE, CIMOURDAIN THE MASTER
A camp is a wasps nest, especially in time of revolution. The civic sting which exists in the soldier darts forth at a moments notice, and after driving out the enemy, will often turn without ceremony upon its own chief. The brave army which had taken the Tourgue was alive with conflicting rumors. When first the escape of Lantenac was discovered, it was all against Gauvain; but when the latter was seen coming out of the dungeon where they had supposed Lantenac to be imprisoned, it was like the transmission of an electric spark, and in less than a minute the whole army knew of it. A murmur broke forth from the little band; at first it ran: "They are getting ready to try Gauvain. But it is all a farce. He is a fool who trusts these ci-devants and calotins! We have just seen a Viscount save a Marquis, and presently we shall see a priest acquit a noble!"
When the condemnation of Gauvain became known, there was a second murmur: "That is an outrage! Our chief, our brave chief, our young commander, a hero! He is a Viscount, to be sure, but so much more to his credit that he is also a Republican! What, he, the liberator of Pontorson, of Villedieu, of Pont-au-Beau: the conqueror of Dol and of the Tourgue! the man who has made us invincible! the sword of the Republic in the Vendée, – he who for five months holds his own against the Chouans, and corrects all the blunders of Léchelle and others! And Cimourdain dares to condemn him! Wherefore? Because he saved an old man who had rescued three children! Does it become a priest to put a soldier to death?"
Thus murmured the victorious and dissatisfied camp. On every side a dull sense of anger prevailed against Cimourdain. Four thousand men against one might be supposed to constitute a power; but it does not. These four thousand men were nothing more than a crowd; Cimourdain was a will. They all knew that his frown was easily provoked, and this knowledge sufficed to hold the army in awe. In those times it needed but the shadow of the Committee of Public Safety behind a man to make him formidable, and to convert an imprecation into a whisper, and that whisper into silence. Before, as well as after their murmuring, Cimourdain was absolute master of the fate of all, as well as of that of Gauvain. They knew that it would be vain to entreat him; that he would listen only to his conscience, – that superhuman voice audible to himself alone. Everything depended upon him. What he had done simply in his capacity of military judge, he could undo as civil delegate. He alone could pardon; there were no limits to his authority; it needed but a sign from him to set Gauvain at liberty; life and death were in his hands; the guillotine was at his command. In this tragic moment he held supreme authority.
There was no resource but to wait.
The night came.
V
THE DUNGEON
Once more the hall of justice was changed into a guard-room; and as on the previous evening, the sentinels were doubled, two of whom guarded the door of the closed dungeon.
Toward midnight, a man, bearing a lantern in his hand, crossed the guard-room, where he made himself known, and ordered the dungeon to be opened. It was Cimourdain. He entered, leaving the door half open behind him. The dungeon was dark and silent. Taking one step forward in the gloom, he placed the lantern on the ground and stood still. The even breathing of a sleeping man could be heard through the darkness. Cimourdain stood dreamily listening to this peaceful sound.
On the truss of straw at the farther end of the dungeon lay Gauvain sound asleep. It was his breathing that he heard.
Cimourdain moved as noiselessly as possible, and when he had drawn near, he fixed his eyes upon Gauvain; no mother gazing upon her sleeping infant could have worn a look more unutterably tender. The expression was probably beyond his control; he pressed his clenched hands against his eyes as children sometimes do, and for a moment stood perfectly still. Then he knelt, gently lifted Gauvain's hand, and carried it to his lips.
Gauvain stirred. He opened his eyes, with the vague surprise of sudden waking. The feeble glimmer of a lantern dimly lighted the dungeon. He recognized Cimourdain.
"Ah, is that you, master?" he said.
Then he added, —
"I dreamed that Death was kissing my hand."
A sudden influx of thoughts will now and then startle a man, and so it was with Cimourdain; at times this wave rolls in so tumultuously that it threatens to submerge the soul. But Cimourdain's deep soul gave forth no sign; he could but utter the word "Gauvain!"
And the two men stood gazing at each other – Cimourdain's eyes alight with flames that scorched his tears, Gauvain with his sweetest smile.
Gauvain raised himself on one elbow, and said: —
"That scar I see on your face is the sabre-cut you received in my stead. It was but yesterday you stood beside me in the mêlée, and all for my sake. If Providence had not placed you by my cradle, where should I be to-day? In ignorance. If I have any sense of duty, it is to you that I owe it. I was born in fetters, – I mean the bonds of prejudice, – which you have loosened; you promoted my free development, and from the mummy you have created a child. You have implanted a conscience in a being who bade fair to prove an abortion. Without you my growth would have been cramped; it is through your influence that I live. I was but a lord, you have made of me a citizen; I was only a citizen, you have made of me a mind; you have fitted me to lead the life of a man upon the earth, and have shown my soul the way to heaven. It is you who placed in my hands the key of truth that unlocks the domain wherein we find the realities of human life, and the key of light to the realms above. I thank you, my master! To you I owe my life."
Cimourdain, seating himself on the straw beside Gauvain, said, —
"I have come to sup with you."
Gauvain broke the black bread and offered it to him. After Cimourdain had taken a piece, Gauvain handed him the jug of water.
"Drink first yourself," said Cimourdain.
Gauvain drank, and then passed the jug to Cimourdain, who drank after him.
Gauvain had taken but a swallow.
Cimourdain took deep draughts.
During this supper Gauvain ate, and Cimourdain drank, – a proof of the calmness of the one, and of the burning fever of the other.
A certain awful tranquillity pervaded this dungeon. The two men conversed.
"Gauvain was saying, —
"Grand events are taking form. No one can comprehend the mysterious workings of revolution at the present time. Behind the visible achievement rests the invisible, the one concealing the other. The visible work seems cruel; the invisible is sublime. At this moment I can see it all very clearly. It is strange and beautiful. We have been forced to use the materials of the Past. Hence this wonderful '93. Beneath a scaffolding of barbarism we are building the temple of civilization.
"Yes," replied Cimourdain, "these temporary expedients pave the way for the final adjustment, wherein justice and duty stand side by side, where taxation will be proportionate and progressive, and military service compulsory; where there is to be absolute equality in rank; and where, above all things else, the straight line of the Law is to be maintained, – the republic of the absolute."
"I prefer the republic of the ideal," said Gauvain.
He broke off, then continued: —
"But, oh, my master, where in the picture you have just drawn in words do you place devotion, sacrifice, abnegation, the sweet intermingling of kindliness and love? An accurate adjustment of proportions is a good thing, but harmony is still better. The lyre stands higher than the scales. Your republic deals with the material interest of man; mine transports him to the skies: it is like the difference between a theorem and an eagle."
"You are lost in the clouds."
"And you in your calculations."
"There is an element of dreaminess in harmony."
"So there is in algebra."
"I would have man fashioned according to Euclid."
"And I like him better as described by Homer."
The stern smile of Cimourdain rested on Gauvain as though to stay the flight of his soul.
"Poetry. Beware of poets!"
"Yes; that is a familiar warning: beware zephyrs, beware of sunbeams, beware of perfumes, beware of flowers, beware of the stars."
"That sort of thing can never supply us with food."
"How can you tell? There is mental nourishment: a man finds food in thought."
"Let us indulge in no abstractions! The republic is like two and two in mathematics: two and two make four. When I have given to each man his due – "
"Then your duty is to give him what does not revert to him as a right."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean those mutual concessions which each man owes his neighbor, and which go to make up the sum of social life."
"There is nothing beyond the just limits of the law."
"Ah, but there is – everything!"
"I see nothing but justice."
"I look higher."
"What stands higher than justice?"
"Equity."
Now and then both paused, as though a sudden light had flashed across their minds.
Cimourdain continued, —
"Explain your assertion. I challenge you to do it."
"Very well, then. You demand compulsory military service. Against whom? Against mankind. I object to military service; I would have peace. You desire to help the wretched; what I wish is the abolition of their misery. You demand proportionate taxation; I would have no taxes whatsoever. I would have the public expenses reduced to the lowest level, and paid for by the social surplus."
"What do you mean by that?"
"This: In the first place, it is for you to suppress sycophancy, – that of the priest, the soldier, and the judge. Then, use your wealth to the best advantage; distribute over your furrows all that fertilizing matter which is now thrown into your sewers. Three quarters of the soil lies fallow; plough it up; redeem the waste pastures; divide the communal lands; let each man have a farm, and each farm a man. You will increase a hundredfold the social product. At the present time, France affords her peasants meat but four times a year; well cultivated, she could feed three millions of men, all Europe. Utilize nature, that gigantic auxiliary; enlist every breeze, every waterfall, every magnetic current, in your service. This globe has a subterranean network of veins, through which flows a marvellous circulation of water, oil, and fire; pierce this vein of the globe, and let the water feed your fountains, the oil your lamps, and the fire your hearths. Consider the action of the waves, – the ebb and flow of the tides. What is the ocean? A prodigious force wasted. How stupid is the earth, to make no use of the ocean!"
"There you go, in full career with your dreams!"
"You mean with my realities."
Gauvain continued, —
"And woman, – how do you dispose of her?"
Cimourdain replied, —
"Leave her as she is, – the servant of man."
"Yes, under one condition."
"What is that?"
"That man shall be the servant of woman."
"What are you thinking of?" exclaimed Cimourdain. "Man a servant? Never! Man is the master. I admit but one kingdom, – that of the fire-side. Man is king in his own home."
"Yes, on one condition."
"What is that?"
"That woman shall be its queen."
"You mean that you demand for both man and woman – "
"Equality."
"'Equality'! Can you dream of such a thing? The two beings are so entirely unlike!"
"I said equality, not identity."
There was another pause, a sort of truce as it were, between these two minds exchanging their lightning flashes. Cimourdain broke it.
"And the child? To whose care would you intrust that?"
"First to the father who begets, then to the mother who gives him birth, later to the master who educates, and to the city that makes a man of him, then to the country which is his supreme mother, and lastly to humanity which is his great ancestress."
"You have not mentioned God."
"Each step – father, mother, master, city, country, humanity – is but a rung in the ladder that leads to God."
Cimourdain was silent, while Gauvain continued:
"When one climbs to the top of the ladder one has reached God. God is revealed, and one has but to enter into heaven."
Cimourdain made the gesture of one who calls another back: "Gauvain, return to earth. We want to realize the possible."
"Do not begin then by making it impossible."
"The possible may always be realized."
"Not always. Rough usage destroys Utopia. Nothing is more defenceless than the egg."
"Still, Utopia must be seized and forced to wear the yoke of reality; she must be circumscribed by a system of actual facts. The abstract must be resolved into the concrete: what it loses in beauty it gains in usefulness; although contracted, it is improved. Justice must enter into law; and when justice has become law, it is absolute. That is what I call the possible."
"The possible includes more than that."
"Ah, there you go again, soaring away into the land of dreams!"
"The possible is a mysterious bird, always hovering above the head of man."
"We must catch it."
"And take it alive too."
Gauvain continued: —
"My idea is this: Ever onward. If God had intended that man should go backwards He would have given him an eye in the back of his head. Let us look always towards the dawn, the blossom-time, the hour of birth. Those things which are falling to decay encourage the new springing life. In the splitting of the old tree may be heard a summons to the new one. Each century will do its work, – civic, to-day; humane, to-morrow: to-day, the question of justice; to-morrow, that of compensation. Wages and Justice are in point of fact synonymous terms. Man's life is not to be spent without a suitable compensation. When He bestows life, God contracts thereby a debt: justice is the inherent compensation; remuneration is the acquirement thereof."
Gauvain spoke with the calm serenity of a prophet; Cimourdain listened. The parts were changed, and now it seemed as if it were the pupil who had become the master.
Cimourdain murmured, —
"You go at a rapid rate."
"Perhaps because I have no time to lose," replied Gauvain with a smile.
He continued: —
"Ah, master, here is the difference between our two utopias. You would have military service obligatory; I demand the same for education. You dream of man the soldier; I, of man the citizen. You wish him to strike terror; I would have him thoughtful. You establish a republic of swords, while I desire to found – "
He broke off.
"I should like to establish a republic of minds."
Cimourdain looked down on the flag-stones of the dungeon.
"And in the mean time what would you have?" he asked.
"The existing condition of things."
"Then you absolve the present moment."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it is a tempest. A tempest always knows what it is about. For every oak that is struck by lightning, how many forests are purified! Civilization has a plague; a strong wind is sent to expel it from the land. It may not choose its methods wisely, perhaps, but can it do otherwise? Its task is no light one. Viewing the horror of the miasma, I can understand the fury of the wind."
Gauvain went on: —
"But what matters the storm to me, if I have a compass; and what power can events gain over me, if I have my conscience?"
And he added in that undertone which produces so solemn an effect: —
