Once, Gauvain had seen him, when he rushed into the fire at the risk of being swallowed up by it; a second time, when he came down the ladder to give himself up to his enemies—that ladder, a means of safety for others, for him a means of destruction.
And why had he done this?
To save three children.
And now, what was going to be done with him?
He would be guillotined.
Were these three children his own? No. Did they belong to his family? No. To his rank? No. For three poor little ones, foundlings, unknown, in rags, barefooted, this nobleman, this prince, this old man, saved, delivered, a conqueror,—for escape is a triumph,—had risked everything, compromised everything, put all things into doubt; and, while he was delivering the children, he proudly surrendered his life,—his life till then so terrible, now so majestic, he offered it up.
And what were they going to do with it?
Accept it.
The Marquis de Lantenac had the choice between the life of others and his own; in this superb option, he had chosen death.
And they were going to grant it to him.
They were going to kill him.
What a reward for heroism!
To respond to an act of generosity with an act of cruelty!
To give this stab to the Revolution!
What a belittling of the Republic!
While a man of prejudices and slavish ideas, suddenly transformed, was returning to humanity, they, the men of freedom and enfranchisment, clung to civil war, to the routine of blood, to fratricide.
And the lofty divine law of pardon, of abnegation, of redemption, of sacrifice, existed for the combatants of error, and did not exist for the soldiers of truth!
What! not engage in this struggle of magnanimity! Be resigned to this defeat; the stronger to become the weaker, the victors to become murderers, and to have it said that on the side of the monarchy there were those who saved children, and on the side of the Republic those who killed old men!
