ANYbody could kill SOME-body,except the commoner and the slave;these had no privileges.If they killed,it was murder,and the law wouldn't stand murder.It made short work of the experimenter --and of his family,too,if he murdered somebody who belonged up among the ornamental ranks.
If a commoner gave a noble even so much as a Damiens-scratch which didn't kill or even hurt,he got Damiens'dose for it just the same;they pulled him to rags and tatters with horses,and all the world came to see the show,and crack jokes,and have a good time;and some of the performances of the best people present were as tough,and as properly unprintable,as any that have been printed by the pleasant Casanova in his chapter about the dismemberment of Louis XV.'s poor awkward enemy.
I had had enough of this grisly place by this time,and wanted to leave,but I couldn't,because I had something on my mind that my conscience kept prodding me about,and wouldn't let me forget.If I had the remaking of man,he wouldn't have any conscience.It is one of the most disagreeable things connected with a person;and although it certainly does a great deal of good,it cannot be said to pay,in the long run;it would be much better to have less good and more comfort.Still,this is only my opinion,and I am only one man;others,with less experience,may think differently.
They have a right to their view.I only stand to this:I have noticed my conscience for many years,and I know it is more trouble and bother to me than anything else I started with.I suppose that in the beginning Iprized it,because we prize anything that is ours;and yet how foolish it was to think so.If we look at it in another way,we see how absurd it is:if I had an anvil in me would I prize it?Of course not.And yet when you come to think,there is no real difference between a conscience and an anvil --I mean for comfort.I have noticed it a thousand times.
And you could dissolve an anvil with acids,when you couldn't stand it any longer;but there isn't any way that you can work off a conscience --at least so it will stay worked off;not that I know of,anyway.
There was something I wanted to do before leaving,but it was a disagreeable matter,and I hated to go at it.Well,it bothered me all the morning.
I could have mentioned it to the old king,but what would be the use?--he was but an extinct volcano;he had been active in his time,but his fire was out,this good while,he was only a stately ash-pile now;gentle enough,and kindly enough for my purpose,without doubt,but not usable.
He was nothing,this so-called king:the queen was the only power there.
And she was a Vesuvius.As a favor,she might consent to warm a flock of sparrows for you,but then she might take that very opportunity to turn herself loose and bury a city.However,I reflected that as often as any other way,when you are expecting the worst,you get something that is not so bad,after all.
So I braced up and placed my matter before her royal Highness.I said I had been having a general jail-delivery at Camelot and among neighboring castles,and with her permission I would like to examine her collection,her bric-a-brac --that is to say,her prisoners.She resisted;but I was expecting that.But she finally consented.I was expecting that,too,but not so soon.That about ended my discomfort.She called her guards and torches,and we went down into the dungeons.These were down under the castle's foundations,and mainly were small cells hollowed out of the living rock.Some of these cells had no light at all.In one of them was a woman,in foul rags,who sat on the ground,and would not answer a question or speak a word,but only looked up at us once or twice,through a cobweb of tangled hair,as if to see what casual thing it might be that was disturbing with sound and light the meaningless dull dream that was become her life;after that,she sat bowed,with her dirt-caked fingers idly interlocked in her lap,and gave no further sign.This poor rack of bones was a woman of middle age,apparently;but only apparently;she had been there nine years,and was eighteen when she entered.She was a commoner,and had been sent here on her bridal night by Sir Breuse Sance Pite,a neighboring lord whose vassal her father was,and to which said lord she had refused what has since been called le droit du seigneur,and,moreover,had opposed violence to violence and spilt half a gill of his almost sacred blood.
The young husband had interfered at that point.believing the bride's life in danger,and had flung the noble out into the midst of the humble and trembling wedding guests,in the parlor,and left him there astonished at this strange treatment,and implacably embittered against both bride and groom.The said lord being cramped for dungeon-room had asked the queen to accommodate his two criminals,and here in her bastile they had been ever since;hither,indeed,they had come before their crime was an hour old,and had never seen each other since.Here they were,kenneled like toads in the same rock;they had passed nine pitch dark years within fifty feet of each other,yet neither knew whether the other was alive or not.
All the first years,their only question had been --asked with beseechings and tears that might have moved stones,in time,perhaps,but hearts are not stones:"Is he alive?""Is she alive?"But they had never got an answer;and at last that question was not asked any more --or any other.
