ON THE WHOLE DEATH MAY BE BETTER THAN LIFE

Marteau realized fully his position, and it would be idle to say that despite his depression he contemplated his fate without regret.  Normally he would have wanted to live as much as any man, even though in his more passionate moments he had said that life without Laure d’Aumenier held nothing for him.  To be sure, life without her did not look very inviting, and there was nothing in it for which he particularly cared, especially since the Emperor was gone, and Marteau had become a stranger, as it were, in France.  If the Emperor had come back, or was coming back, it would be different.

In spite of rumors, originating nowhere apparently and spread by what means no one could say, that the Emperor was coming back, Marteau, in the depressed condition of his mind, gave these statements but little credence.  Besides, even if they were true, even if Laure d’Aumenier loved him, even if he had everything on earth for which a man could ask or expect to live, he could not therewith purchase life; he could not even purchase love, at the expense of his honor.

He could not give up the Eagle for the kingdom.  It was only a bit of gilded copper, battered and shattered, but it awakened in his nature the most powerful emotions which he was capable of entertaining.  His love for Laure d’Aumenier was the great passion of his life.  Yet even his love for the woman, or hers for him, if she had returned his devotion with equal intensity and ardor, would not avail to persuade him to give up that battered standard.

Even if she had loved him!  Ah, what had she said in that moment of madness in her room that night?  It was a moment of madness, of course, nothing else.  Marteau put it out of his mind, or strove to.  It could not be.  Indeed, now that he was about to die, he would even admit that it should not be.  But, if it were true, if that impulsive declaration indicated the true state of her regard-the possibility was thrilling, yet reflection convinced him it was better that he should die just the same, because there could be no mating between the two.

He had crossed swords with the Marquis.  He had felt the hardness, the inflexibility and temper of the old man’s steel.  There would be no breaking him, no altering his will.  He had made assurance doubly sure in some way, Marteau was convinced.  This marriage with this young Englishman, whom the Frenchman regarded with a tolerant, half-amused contemptuousness for his simplicity and bluntness, would have to be carried through.  When Marteau was dead the Countess would presumably return to a saner frame of mind, and forget the mad attachment, if indeed she had entertained it.

He took a certain melancholy satisfaction in the hope that he would at least become one of her sacred and cherished memories.  But no memory can successfully dispute the claim of the living, as a rule.  She would eventually marry this Englishman; he would make her a good husband, and by and by she would be happy, and Marteau would not be there to see.  And for that he would be glad.

If the Emperor had been there, if the war god had come and summoned his men to arms again, Marteau might have eased the fever in his brain and soul by deeds of prowess on fields of battle, but in peace he should only eat his heart out thinking of her in the other man’s arms.  There were things worse than death, and this was one.  On the whole, he concluded it was just as well, or even better, that he should die.

He was sufficiently versed in military and even civil law to see that his condemnation was irregular in the extreme, but he let it go.  He was an obscure officer of a lost cause.  There would not be any too rigorous an inquiry into what disposition the Marquis made of him.  Nobody would care after it was all over.  There remained nothing for him, therefore, but to die like a soldier, and-he smiled bitterly at the thought-almost a gentleman!

He had been informed that any reasonable request he made would be granted.  He would fain see a priest of his Church, but later, and endeavor to make his peace with man after the time-honored custom of his religion, and thus insure his peace with God.  Meanwhile, a request for a brief interview with the woman he loved had trembled on his lips, but it had found no utterance.  He was quite aware how he stood in that quarter.  He had come to the conclusion that the Marquis, at least, had seen through the little comedy-or, was it not a tragedy, after all?-which he had played in her bed-chamber, and he had convinced himself that the swiftness, the almost unseemly haste of his trial and condemnation and the nearness of his execution were largely due to a determination on the part of the old noble to get him out of the way before any scandal should arise.  Perhaps scandal was certain to come, and gossip to prevail, but it would be less harmful if the man were dead.

To ask to see a woman whom he was supposed to have insulted so deeply and wronged so grievously would have served only to call attention to those things, to have given the whole game away, as it were.  Besides, what would be the good of it?  She would leave him weaker in his resolution than before.  If she had loved him-ah, God, how his heart throbbed-if that impulsive admission had been the truth of her heart!  Well, he told himself, he would have gone through the trial, accepted the verdict, received the bullets of the firing-squad in his heart, although it would have been harder.  And yet-how he longed to see her.

He had not expected to see her ever again during his long tramp from Salzburg to Grenoble.  He had not entertained the least idea that she would be there.  He had schooled himself to do without her, contemplate life absolutely sundered from her.  But when he did see her his whole being had flamed with the passion he had so long repressed in vain.

And the Countess Laure knew more of his heart than he fancied.  During the morning she had had young Pierre before her.  She had questioned him, suggesting and even prompting his artless revelations.  The boy needed no suggestions.  He was quick-witted and keen-eyed.  Admiring Marteau extravagantly and devotedly as he did, he could not conceive how any one could fail to share his feelings.  He told the hungry-hearted woman the story of their lives since they had been captured together at Arcis.

Reticent at first, Marteau had finally made a confidant of the lad, who had shown himself sympathetic, discreet, adoring.  He had to tell somebody, he had to ease his heart of his burden.  And when he had once begun naturally he poured it all out before the boy.  He could not have told a man, a woman, perhaps, had one been by sufficiently sympathetic and tender, but, failing that, it was the boy who received the confidences and who never once presumed on these revelations.  Indeed, he had a vein of romance in his peasant heart.  He was a poet in his soul.  Perhaps that was one reason why the man could confide in him.  And then, when Marteau lay in the delirium of fever, the boy had shared their watches with the good Sisters of Charity.  He alone had understood the burden of his ravings, for they were all about the woman.  And, when she questioned him and gave him the opportunity, he poured forth in turn all the stored treasure of his memory.

And the poor, distraught, unhappy young woman hung on his words with heaving breast and panting heart and tear-dimmed eyes and cheeks that flushed and paled.  Glad she was that he had so loved her; sad that it could make no difference.  Indeed, young Pierre served his master well in that hour, and earned whatsoever reward, however great it might be, he should receive from him in the future.

How strangely selfish even in its loves is humanity!  Although Marteau was intensely fond of the lad, and deeply devoted to him, absorbed in his overwhelming affection for the woman he had forgot the boy until too late to send for him that day.  Well, he would remedy that omission on the morrow, he thought, as he abandoned himself once more to dreams of other days, to fruitless anticipations, to vain hopes of what might have been.

To him suddenly came St. Laurent.  The young aide knew but vaguely of the scene in the Countess’s bed-chamber and, therefore, there was no prejudice in his mind against the officer.  Although he was a loyalist to the core, he could sympathize as a soldier with the other’s point of view.  His address toward him, therefore, was respectful, and even indicated some of that sympathy.

“Monsieur,” he began most courteously, “I am sent by the Governor to conduct you elsewhere.”

“Shall I need my hat and cloak, monsieur?” asked the other, quite appreciative of the young man’s treatment of him.

“You will,” was the answer.

“Am I leaving this room permanently?”

“You will return to it in half an hour.”

“And whither -”

“You will pardon me,” was the firm reply, “I have orders to conduct you, not to answer questions.”

“Your reproof,” admitted Marteau, smiling faintly, “is well deserved.  I attend you at once, sir.”

Escorted by St. Laurent and two soldiers, he left the building, walked across the barrack yard, attracting instant attention from the soldiers off duty congregated there, and a few officers of the garrison who chanced to be passing.  All of them saluted him with the utmost deference and the most profound respect.  He punctiliously acknowledged their salutes with a melancholy grace and dignity.  There was an air of great excitement everywhere, and he wondered vaguely what could be the cause of it.

To his further wonderment also he found his steps directed to the Governor’s palace.  Entering, he was ushered through the halls and marched to the door of a room which he remembered was one of the smaller waiting-rooms of the palace.  St. Laurent stopped before the door, his hand upon the knob.

“Monsieur,” he said, “to this room there is but this one door.  I remain without with these soldiers.  You can see by a glance through the windows that they also are closely guarded.  Escape is impossible.  In half an hour I will knock upon the door, open it, and escort you back to your place of confinement.  Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“Enter.”

Somewhat bewildered by the mysteriousness of the whole proceeding, and yet with a heart which in spite of himself did beat a little faster, Marteau entered the room, St. Laurent closing the heavy door behind him.