Виктор Мари Гюго
Under Sentence of Death
CHAPTER XLI
I was longing to be alone with Pierrot. His embarrassment when I had questioned him as to the fate of Marie, the ill-concealed tenderness with which he had dared to pronounce her name, had made those feelings of hatred and jealousy which had sprung up in my heart take far deeper root than at the time I saw him bearing away through the flames of Fort Galifet, her whom I could scarcely call my wife.
What did I care for the generous indignation with which he had reproved the cruelties of Biassou, the trouble which he had taken to preserve my life, and the curious manner which marked all his words and actions. What cared I for the mystery that appeared to envelop him, which brought him living before my eyes, when I thought to have witnessed his death. He proved to be a prisoner of the white troops when I believed that he lay buried in the depths of Grande-Riviere—the slave become a king, the prisoner a liberator. Of all these incomprehensible things one was clear—Marie had been carried off by him; and I had this crime to punish, this outrage to avenge.
However strange were the events that had passed under my eyes, they were not sufficient to shake my determination, and I had waited with impatience for the moment when I could compel my rival to explain all. That moment had at last arrived.
We had passed through crowds of negroes, who cast themselves on the ground as we pursued our way, exclaiming in tones of surprise, “Miraculo! ya no esta prisonero!” (“A miracle! he is no longer a prisoner!”), but whether they referred to Pierrot or to myself I neither knew nor cared. We had gained the outskirts of the camp, and rocks and trees concealed from our view the outposts of Biassou; Rask in high good humour was running in front of us, and Pierrot was following him with rapid strides, when I stopped him.
“Listen to me,” cried I; “it is useless to go any farther—the ears that you dreaded can no longer listen to us. What have you done with Marie? tell me!”
Concentrated emotion made my voice tremble. He gazed upon me kindly.
“Always the same question!” said he.
“Yes, always,” returned I, furiously; “always. I will put that question to you as you draw your last breath, or as I utter my last sigh. Where is Marie?”
“Can nothing, then, drive away your doubts of my loyalty? But you shall know all soon.”
“Soon, monster!” repeated I, “soon; it is now, at this instant, that I want to know all. Where is Marie? where is Marie? Answer, or stake your life against mine. Defend yourself.”
“I have already told you,” answered he, sadly, “that that is impossible; the stream will not struggle against its source, and my life, which you have three times saved, cannot contend against yours. Besides, even if I wished it the thing is impossible; we have but one dagger between us.”
As he spoke, he drew the weapon from his girdle and offered it to me.
“Take it,” said he.
I was beside myself with passion, I seized the dagger and placed the point on his breast, he never attempted to move.
“Wretch,” cried I, “do not force me to murder you; I will plunge this blade into your heart if you do not at once tell me where my wife is.”
He replied, in his calm way, “You are the master to do as you like, but with clasped hands I implore you to grant me one hour of life, and to follow me. Can you doubt him who thrice has owed his life to you, and whom you once called brother? Listen: if in one hour from this time you still doubt me, you shall be at perfect liberty to kill me. That will be time enough; you see that I do not attempt to resist you. I conjure you in the name of Maria—of your wife,” he added slowly, as though the victim of some painful recollection, “give me but another hour, I beg of you, not for my sake, but for yours.”
There was so much pathos in his entreaties that an inner feeling warned me to grant his request, and I yielded to that secret ascendency which he exercised over me, but which at that time I should have blushed to have confessed.
“Well,” said I, slowly, “I will grant you one hour, and I am ready to follow you;” and as I spoke I handed him his dagger.
“No,” answered he, “keep it; you still distrust me, but let us lose no time.”
CHAPTER XLII
Again we started. Rask, who, during our conversation, had shown frequent signs of impatience to renew his journey, bounded joyously before us. We plunged into a virgin forest, and after half an hour’s walking we came out on a grassy opening in the wood. On one side was a waterfall dashing over rugged rocks, whilst the primeval trees of the forest surrounded it on all sides. Amongst the rocks was a cave, the grey face of which was shrouded by a mass of climbing plants. Rask ran towards it barking, but at a sign from Pierrot he became silent, and the latter taking me by the hand led me without a word to the entrance of the cave.
A woman with her back towards the light was seated on a mat: at the sound of our steps she turned–my friends–it was Marie! She wore the same white dress that she had done on the day of our marriage, and the wreath of orange blossoms was still on her head. She recognized me in a moment, and with a cry of joy threw herself into my arms. I was speechless with surprise and emotion. At her cry an old woman carrying a child in her arms hurried from an inner chamber formed in the depth of the cave, she was Marie’s nurse, and she carried my uncle’s youngest child.
Pierrot hastened to bring some water from the neighbouring spring, and threw a few drops in Marie’s face, who was overcome by emotion; she speedily recovered, and opening her eyes, exclaimed—
“Leopold, my Leopold!”
“Marie,” cried I, and my words were stifled in a kiss.
“Not before me, for pity’s sake,” cried a voice, in accents of agony.
We looked round; it came from Pierrot. The sight of our endearments appeared to inflict terrible torture on him, his bosom heaved, a cold perspiration bedewed his forehead, and every limb quivered. Suddenly he hid his face in his hands, and fled from the grotto repeating in tones of anguish—
“Not before me! not before me!”
Marie half raised herself in my arms, and following his retreating form with her eyes, exclaimed—
“Leopold, our happiness seems to trouble him; can it be that he loves me?”
The exclamation of the slave had showed that he was my rival, but Marie’s speech proved that he was my trusty friend.
“Marie,” answered I, as the wildest happiness mingled with the deepest regret filled my heart, “Marie, were you ignorant of it?”
“Until this moment I was,” answered she, a blush overspreading her beautiful features. “Does he really love me, for he never let me know it.”
I clasped her to my bosom, in all the madness of happiness.
“I have recovered both wife and friend; how happy am I, but how guilty, for I doubted him!”
“What!” cried Marie, in surprise, “had you doubts of Pierrot? oh, you have indeed been in fault. Twice has he saved my life, and perhaps more than life,” she added, casting down her eyes; “without him the alligator would have devoured me, without him the negroes: it was Pierrot who rescued me from their hands, when they were about to send me to rejoin my unhappy father.”
She broke off her speech with a flood of tears.
“And why,” asked I, “did not Pierrot send you to Cap, to your husband?”
“He tried to do so,” replied she, “but it was impossible, compelled as he was to conceal me both from the whites and the blacks, his position was a most difficult one; and then, too, he was ignorant where you were. Some said that they had seen you killed, but Pierrot assured me that this was not the case, and a something convinced me that he spoke the truth, for I felt that had you been dead, I should have died at the same time.”
“Then, Pierrot brought you here?” asked I.
“Yes, my Leopold, this solitary cave is known only to him. At the same time that he rescued me, he saved all that remained alive of our family, my little brother and my old nurse, and hid us here.”
“The place is very nice, and now that the war has destroyed our house, and ruined us, I should like to live here with you. Pierrot supplied all our wants. He used to come very often; he wore a plume of red feathers on his head. He used to console me by talking of you, and always assured me that we should meet again, but for the past three days I have not seen him, and I was beginning to be uneasy, when to-day he came back with you. He had been seeking for you, had he not?”
“Yes,” replied I.
“But if so, how can he be in love with me? Are you sure of it?”
“Quite,” answered I, “it was he who was about to stab me beneath your window, and spared me lest it should afflict you; it was he who sang the love songs at the pavilion by the river.”
“Then he is your rival,” exclaimed Marie, with naïve surprise, “and the wicked man with the wild marigolds is Pierrot; I can hardly believe that. He was so respectful and humble to me, much more so than when he was our slave. It is true that sometimes he looked at me in a strange manner, but I attributed his sadness to our misfortunes. If you could only know with what tenderness he spoke of you, my Leopold. His friendship made him speak of you as much as my love did.”
These explanations of Marie enchanted and yet grieved me. I felt how cruelly I had treated the noble-hearted Pierrot, and I felt all the force of his gentle reproach, “It is not I who am ungrateful.”
At this instant Pierrot returned. His face was dark and gloomy, and he looked like a martyr returning from the place of torture, but yet retaining an air of triumph.
He came towards me, and pointing to the dagger in my belt, said—“The hour has passed!”
“Hour, what hour?” asked I.
“The one you granted me; it was necessary for me to have so much time allowed me in which to bring you here. Then I conjured you to spare my life, now I supplicate you to take it away.”
The most tender feelings of the heart, love, gratitude, and friendship, united themselves together to torture me. Unable to say a word, but sobbing bitterly, I cast myself at the feet of the slave. He raised me up in haste.
“What are you doing?” cried he.
“I pay you the homage that is your due, but I am no longer worthy of friendship such as yours; can your friendship be pushed so far as to forgive me my ingratitude?”
For a time his expression remained stern, he appeared to be undergoing a violent mental contest. He took a step towards me; then drew back, and seemed on the point of speaking, but no words passed his lips. The struggle was a short one, he opened his arms to embrace me, saying—
“May I now call you brother?”
My only reply was to cast myself on his breast. After a short pause, he added—
“You were always kind, but misfortune had rendered you unjust.”
“I have found my brother once again,” said I. “I am unfortunate no longer, but I have been very guilty.”
“Guilty, brother, I also have been guilty, and more so than you; you are no longer unhappy, but I shall be so for ever!”
CHAPTER XLIII
The expression of pleasure which the renewal of our friendship had traced on his features, faded away and an appearance of deep grief once more pervaded them.
“Listen,” said he, coldly; “my father was the King of Kakongo. Each day he sat at the door of his hut and dispensed justice amongst his subjects. After every judgment, according to the custom of the kings his ancestors, he drank a full goblet of palm wine. We were happy and powerful. But the Europeans came to our country; it was from them that I learnt the accomplishments which you appeared to be surprised at my possessing. Our principal acquaintance amongst the Europeans was a Spanish captain; he promised my father territories far greater than those he now ruled over, treasure, and white women; my father believed him, and gathering his family together, followed him.... Brother, he sold us as slaves!”
The breast of the negro rose and fell, as he strove to restrain himself; his eyes shot forth sparks of fire; and without seeming to know what he did, he broke in his powerful grasp a fancy medlar tree that stood beside him.
“The master of Kakongo in his turn had a master, and his son toiled as a slave in the furrows of Saint Domingo. They tore the young lion from his father, that they might the more easily tame him; they separated the wife from the husband, and the little children from the mother who nursed them, and the father who used to bathe them in the torrents of their native land. In their place they found cruel masters and a sleeping place shared with the dogs!”
He was silent, though his lips moved as though he were still continuing his narrative; after a moment’s pause he seized me roughly by the arm, and continued—
“Brother, do you understand, I have been sold to different masters like a beast of burden? Do you remember the punishment of Ogé? it was on that day that I saw my father after a long separation—he was on the wheel!”
I shuddered; he went on—
“My wife was outraged by white men, and she died calling for revenge. Must I tell you I was guilty towards her, for I loved another; but let that pass by. All my people urged me to deliver and avenge them; Rask brought me their messages, I could do nothing for them, I was fast in your uncle’s prison. The day upon which you obtained my release, I hurried off to save my children from the power of a cruel master. Upon the very day that I arrived, the last of the grandchildren of the King of Kakongo had expired under the blows of the white man; he had followed the others!”
He interrupted his recital, and coldly asked me:
“Brother, what would you have done?”
This frightful tale froze me with horror. I replied by a threatening gesture. He understood me, and with a bitter smile he continued—
“The slaves rose against their master, and punished the murder of my children. They chose me for their chief. You know the frightful excesses that were perpetrated by the insurgents. I heard that your uncle’s slaves were on the point of rising. I arrived at Acul on the night upon which the insurrection broke out. You were away. Your uncle had been murdered in his bed, and the negroes had already set fire to the plantation. Not being able to restrain them—for in destroying your uncle’s property they thought that they were avenging my injuries—I determined to save the survivors of his family. I entered the fort by the breach that I had made. I entrusted your wife’s nurse to a faithful negro. I had more trouble in saving your Marie; she had hurried to the burning portion of the fort to save the youngest of her brothers, the sole survivor of the massacre. The insurgents surrounded her, and were about to kill her.... I burst upon them, and ordered them to leave her to my vengeance; they obeyed me, and retired. I took your wife in my arms, I entrusted the child to Rask, and I bore them both away to this cavern, of which I alone knew the existence and the access. Brother, such was my crime.”
More than ever overwhelmed with gratitude and remorse, I would again have thrown myself at his feet, but he stopped me.
“Come,” said he, “take your wife, and let us leave this, all of us.”
In wonder I asked him whither he wished to conduct us.
“To the camp of the whites,” answered he. “This retreat is no longer safe. To-morrow at break of day the camp of Biassou will be attacked, and the forest will assuredly be set on fire. Besides, I have no time to lose. Ten lives are in jeopardy until my return. We can hasten because you are free; we must hasten because I am not.”
These words increased my surprise, and I pressed him for an explanation.
“Have you not heard that Bug-Jargal is a prisoner?” replied he, impatiently.
“Yes; but what has Bug-Jargal to do with you?”
In his turn he seemed astonished, and then in a grave voice he answered—
“I am Bug-Jargal.”
CHAPTER XLIV
I had thought that nothing that related to this extraordinary man could have surprised me. I had experienced some feelings of astonishment in finding the slave Pierrot transformed into an African King, but my admiration reached its height, when from his own confession I learned that he was the courageous, and magnanimous Bug-Jargal, the chief of the insurgents of Morne-Rouge; and I understood the respectful demeanour shown by all the rebels, even by Biassou, to Bug-Jargal, the King of Kakongo. He did not notice the impression that his last words had made upon me.
“They told me,” continued he, “that you were a prisoner in Biassou’s camp, and I hastened to deliver you.”
“But you told me just now that you too were a prisoner.”
He glanced inquisitively at me, as though seeking my reason for putting this natural question.
“Listen,” answered he. “This morning I was a prisoner in the hands of your friends, but I heard a report that Biassou had announced his intention of executing, before sunset to-day, a young prisoner named Leopold d’Auverney. They doubled my guards, and I was informed that my execution would immediately follow yours, and that in the event of escape, ten of my comrades would suffer in my stead. So you see that I have no time to lose.”
I still detained him.
“You made your escape then?” asked I.
“How else could I have been here? it was necessary to save you. Did I not owe you my life? Come, let us set out, we are an hour’s march from the camp of the whites, and about the same distance from that of Biassou. See the shadow of the cocoa-nut trees are lengthening, and their round tops look on the pass like the egg of the giant condor. In three hours the sun will have set. Come, brother, time waits for no man.”
In three hours the sun will have set! These words froze my blood, like an apparition from the tomb. They recalled to my mind the fatal promise which bound me to Biassou. Alas! in the rapture of seeing Marie again, I had not thought of our approaching eternal separation. I had been overwhelmed with my happiness, a flood of joyful emotions had swept away my memory, and in the midst of my delight I had forgotten that the inexorable finger of death was beckoning to me. But the words of my friend recalled everything to my mind. In three hours the sun will have set! It would take an hour to reach Biassou’s camp. There could be no faltering with my duty. The villain had my word, and it would never do to give him the chance of despising what he seemed still to put trust in—the word of a Frenchman; better far to die. The alternative was a terrible one, and I confess that I hesitated for a moment before I chose the right course. Can you blame me, gentlemen?
CHAPTER XLV
With a deep sigh, I placed one hand in that of Bug-Jargal, and the other in that of Marie, who gazed with anxiety on the sadness that had overspread my features.
“Bug-Jargal,” said I, struggling with emotion, “I entrust to you the only being in the world that I love more than you—my Marie. Return to the camp without me, for I may not follow you.”
“Great heavens!” exclaimed Marie, hardly able to breathe from her terror and anxiety, “what new misfortune is this?”
Bug-Jargal trembled, and a look of mingled sorrow and surprise passed over his face.
“Brother, what is this that you say?”
The terror that had seized upon Marie at the thought of the coming misfortune which her love for me had almost caused her to divine, made me determined to spare her the dreadful truth for the moment. I placed my mouth to Bug-Jargal’s ear, and whispered in hurried accents: “I am a prisoner. I swore to Biassou that two hours before sunset I would once more place myself in his hands; in fact, I have sworn to return to my death!”
Filled with rage, in a loud voice he exclaimed:
“The monster! This then was his motive for a secret interview with you—it was to bind you with this fatal promise. I ought to have distrusted the wretch. Why did I not foresee that there must be some treachery lurking in the request, for he is a mulatto, not a black.”
“What is this—what treachery? what promise?” said Marie, in an agony of terror. “And who is Biassou?”
“Silence, silence,” repeated I, in a low voice to Bug-Jargal; “do not let us alarm Marie.”
“Good,” answered he; “but why did you give such a pledge, how could you consent?”
“I thought that you had deceived me, and that Marie was lost to me for ever. What was life to me then?”
“But a simple promise cannot bind you to a brigand like that.”
“I gave my word of honour.”
He did not seem to understand me.
“Your word of honour,” repeated he; “but what is that? You did not drink out of the same cup; you have not broken a ring together, or a branch of the red-blossomed maple?”
“No, we have done none of these things.”
“Well, then, what binds you to him?”
“My honour!”
“I cannot understand you; nothing pledges you to Biassou; come with us?”
“I cannot, my brother, for I am bound by my promise.”
“No, you are not bound,” cried he, angrily. “Sister, add your prayers to mine, and entreat your husband not to leave you. He wishes to return to the negro camp from which I rescued him, on the plea that he has promised to place his life in Biassou’s hands.”
“What have you done?” cried I.
It was too late to stay the effects of the generous impulse that had prompted him to endeavour to save the life of his rival by the help of her he loved. Marie cast herself into my arms with a cry of anguish, her hands clasped my neck, and she hung upon my breast, speechless and breathless.
“Oh, my Leopold, what does he say?” murmured she, at last. “Is he not deceiving me? It is not immediately after our reunion that you must quit me again. Answer me quickly or I shall die. You have no right to throw away your life, for you have given it to me. You would not leave me, never to see me again.”
“Marie,” answered I, “we shall meet again, but it will be in another place.”
“In another place! Where?” she asked, in faltering accents.
“In heaven,” I answered; for to this angel I could not lie.
Again she fainted, but this time it was from grief. I raised her up, and placed her in the arms of Bug-Jargal, whose eyes were full of tears.
“Nothing can keep you back, then,” said he; “I will add nothing to my entreaties, this sight ought to be enough. How can you resist Marie? For one word like she has spoken I would have sacrificed the world, and you cannot even give up death for her.”
“Honour binds me,” answered I, sadly. “Farewell, Bug-Jargal, farewell, brother; I leave her to you.”
He grasped my hand, overwhelmed with grief, and appeared hardly to understand me.
“Brother,” said he, “in the camp of the whites there are some of your relations, I will give her over to them; for my part I cannot accept your legacy.”
He pointed to a rocky crag which towered high above the adjacent country.
“Do you see that rock?” asked he, “when the signal of your death shall float from it, it will promptly be answered by the volley that announces mine.”
Hardly understanding his last words, I embraced him, pressed a last kiss upon the pale lips of Marie, who was slowly recovering under the attentions of her nurse, and fled precipitately, fearing that another look or word would shake my resolution.
