Statistics for Business and Economics

12th Edition McClave Test Bank

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Statistics for Business and Economics 12th Edition McClave Test Bank

MULTIPLE CHOICE. Choose the one alternative that best completes the statement or answers the question.

Solve the problem.

1) In an eye color study, 25 out of 50 people in the sample had brown eyes. In this situation, what 1)
does the number .50 represent?
A) a class relative frequency B) a class
C) a class percentage D) a class frequency
Answer: A

2) What class percentage corresponds to a class relative frequency of .37? 2)

A) 63% B) .63% C) .37% D) 37%
Answer: D

SHORT ANSWER. Write the word or phrase that best completes each statement or answers the question.

3) A sample of 100 e-mail users were asked whether their primary e-mail account was a free 3)
account, an institutional (school or work) account, or an account that they pay for
personally. Identify the classes for the resulting data.
Answer: free account, institutional account, account paid for personally

MULTIPLE CHOICE. Choose the one alternative that best completes the statement or answers the question.

4) What number is missing from the table? 4)

Grades Relative
on Test Frequency Frequency
A 6 .24
B 7
C 9 .36
D 2 .08
F 1 .04

A) .07 B) .72 C) .70 D) .28

Answer: D

5) What number is missing from the table? 5)

Year in Relative
College Frequency Frequency
Freshman 600 .30
Sophomore 560 .28
Junior .22
Senior 400 .20

A) 440 B) 520 C) 480 D) 220

Answer: A

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SHORT ANSWER. Write the word or phrase that best completes each statement or answers the question.

6) Complete the frequency table for the data shown below. 6)

green blue brown orange blue

brown orange blue red green
blue brown green red brown
blue brown blue blue red

Color Frequency
Green
Blue
Brown
Orange

Answer:
Color Frequency
Green 3
Blue 7
Brown 5
Orange 2
Red 3

MULTIPLE CHOICE. Choose the one alternative that best completes the statement or answers the question.

Answer the question True or False.

7) A frequency table displays the proportion of observations falling into each class. 7)
A) True B) False
Answer: B

2
Solve the problem.
8) 260 randomly sampled college students were asked, among other things, to state their year in 8)
school (freshman, sophomore, junior, or senior). The responses are shown in the bar graph below.
How many of the students who responded would be classified as upperclassmen (e.g., juniors or
seniors)?

A) Approximately 100 B) Approximately 125

C) Approximately 25 D) Approximately 10
Answer: B

9) 9)

The manager of a store conducted a customer survey to determine why customers shopped at the
store. The results are shown in the figure. What proportion of customers responded that
merchandise was the reason they shopped at the store?
2 1 3
A) B) 30 C) D)
7 2 7
Answer: D

3
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the preceding chapter had suffered most of all, and whose anxieties merit
the liveliest sympathy on the part of our readers.
The sun shone gloriously in the Rue de la Monnaie, and the gossips were
discoursing merrily at their doors, as if for the last ten months a mist of
blood had not hung over the city, when Maurice returned home, bringing, as
he had promised, the cabriolet with him. He gave the bridle of the horse to a
shoeblack, on the pavement of Saint Eustache, and hastily ran upstairs, his
heart filled with joy.
Love is a vivifying sentiment. It animates hearts long deadened to every
other sensation; it peoples the desert; it resuscitates before the eyes the
shade of the beloved one; it causes the voice which sings in the soul of the
lover to display before him the entire creation illumined by the brilliant rays
of hope and happiness,—at the same time it is egotistical, blinding him who
loves to all but the existence of the beloved object.
Maurice neither saw these women nor listened to their commentaries; he
saw only Geneviève preparing for a departure which was at last to bring
them durable happiness; he heard only Geneviève singing carelessly her
customary song, and this little song trilled so sweetly in his ear that he
might have sworn he was listening to the varied modulations of her voice,
mingled with the less harmonious sound of closing locks.
Upon the landing Maurice stopped; the door was half open; it was generally
kept closed, and this circumstance surprised Maurice. He looked all around,
thinking Geneviève was in the corridor. She was not there. He entered,
looked in the antechamber, the dining-room, the parlor, the bed-chamber;
but anteroom, parlor, and bed-chamber were all empty. He loudly called. No
one replied.
The official, as he knew, had gone out. Maurice imagined that during his
absence Geneviève had perhaps required some cord to fasten her trunk, or
some refreshments to store in the carriage, and had gone out to purchase
them. He thought it imprudent; but although every moment his anxiety
increased, he as yet feared nothing serious.
Maurice waited for some time, walking up and down the room with long
impatient strides, and occasionally leaning out of the window, which, half
opened, admitted puffs of air charged heavily with rain.
But soon he believed that he heard a step upon the staircase; he listened, it
was not that of Geneviève; he ran to the landing, looked over the palisade,
and recognized the official, who leisurely mounted the stairs after the
manner of domestics.
"Scævola!" cried he.
The official raised his head.
"Ah! is it you, Citizen?"
"Yes. Where is the lady?"
"The lady?" demanded Scævola, with much surprise, as he continued
mounting the stairs.
"Certainly! Have you seen her below?"
"No."
"Go down, then, and ask the porter, and inquire of all the neighbors!"
Scævola descended.
"Quicker! quicker!" said his master; "do you not see I am burning with
impatience?"
After waiting five or six minutes, and Scævola not having made his
appearance, Maurice re-entered the apartment and again leaned out of the
window. He saw Scævola enter several shops, and leave them without
having gained any fresh intelligence. He called him. The official raised his
head, and saw his master impatiently looking from the window. Maurice
signed to him to come up.
"It is impossible that she has gone out," said Maurice to himself, and again
he called, "Geneviève! Geneviève!"
All was silent as death; even the solitary chamber appeared no longer to
have an echo. Scævola reappeared.
"Well?" demanded Maurice.
"The porter is the only person who has seen her."
"The porter has seen her; how was that?"
"He saw her go out."
"She has gone out, then?"
"It seems so."
"Alone! It is impossible Geneviève would go out alone."
"She was not alone, Citizen; she had a man with her."
"How! a man with her?"
"That is what the porter says, at least."
"Go and seek him. I must find out who this man was."
Scævola made a step toward the door, then, turning, "Wait," said he,
appearing to reflect.
"What is it?" said Maurice. "Speak, or you will be the death of me!"
"Perhaps it was the man who ran after me."
"What for?"
"To tell me that you wished the key."
"What key, stupid! will you not tell me?"
"The key of your apartment."
"You gave the key of the apartment to a stranger?" cried Maurice, seizing
the official by the collar with both hands.
"It was not to a stranger, sir; it was to one of your friends."
"Ah, yes! to one of my friends. It is Lorin, no doubt. She has gone out with
Lorin," and smiling a ghastly smile Maurice wiped away the drops of agony
which had gathered on his brow.
"No, sir; no, it was not he. Zounds! I think I should know Monsieur Lorin."
"Who was it, then?"
"You know the man who came here one day?"
"What day?"
"The day when you were so sad; and he took you away with him, and you
returned so happy."
Scævola had remarked all these things.
Maurice regarded him with a bewildered air; a cold shudder ran through his
body. Then after a long silence:
"Dixmer!" cried he.
"By my faith! yes. I think it was he, Citizen."
Maurice tottered, and fell back upon a chair.
"Oh, my God!" murmured he.
When he re-opened his eyes they encountered the violets, forgotten, or
rather left there by Geneviève.
He rushed toward them, seized and kissed them; then, remarking where she
had placed them,—
"There is no longer any doubt," said he, "these violets—It is her last adieu."
When Maurice turned round he perceived for the first time that the trunk
was half full, the rest of the linen was on the floor, or in the half-opened
wardrobe.
The linen which lay upon the floor had no doubt fallen from Geneviève's
hand at the appearance of Dixmer.
It was all explained now. The scene rose vivid and terrible before his eyes,
between these four walls that had lately witnessed so much happiness.
Till now Maurice had remained crushed and heart-broken. Now the reaction
was fearful. His rage bordered on frenzy.
He rose, closed the window, took from the top of his desk a pair of pistols,
ready loaded for their intended journey, looked to the priming, and finding
all right placed them in his pocket.
He also furnished himself with two rolls of louis, which notwithstanding his
patriotism he had thought it prudent to conceal at the bottom of a drawer,
and taking his sabre in his hand,—
"Scævola," said he, "you are attached to me, I think; you have served my
father and myself for fifteen years."
"Yes, Citizen," replied the official, terrified at the pallor and nervous
trembling he had never before remarked in his master, who had always been
justly considered one of the most courageous and vigorous of men,—"yes;
what are your orders for me?"
"Listen! if this lady who lived here—" He stopped; his voice trembled so
much in pronouncing these words that he was unable to proceed. "If she
should return," continued he, after a moment's pause, "receive her, close the
door after her, take this gun, and station yourself upon the staircase; and for
your head, for your life, for your soul, do not permit a single person to enter
here! If any one should try to break through the door, defend it! Strike! kill!
kill! and fear nothing, Scævola, for I will answer for all."
The young man's impetuous harangue, his vehement confidence, electrified
Scævola.
"I will not only kill, but will even suffer death for the Citizeness
Geneviève," said he.
"Thanks. Now attend! This apartment is odious to me, and I shall not enter
it again until I find her; if she has been able to effect her escape, if she
return, place before the window the Japan vase with the china-asters, which
she loved so much. That is, during the day. At night, put a lantern. Every
time I pass the end of the street I shall know, and if I see neither vase nor
lantern I shall still continue my researches."
"Be prudent, sir! Oh, pray be prudent!" continued Scævola.
His master made no reply, but rushing from the chamber flew down the
staircase as if possessed of wings, and ran toward Lorin's house.
It would be difficult to paint the astonishment and rage of our worthy poet
when he heard the news; we might as well attempt to indite the touching
elegies with which Orestes inspired Pylades.
"And you do not know where she is?" he repeated, incessantly.
"Lost! disappeared!" shrieked Maurice, in accents of despair, "he has killed
her, Lorin! he has killed her!"
"No, my dear friend; no, Maurice; he has not killed her; it is not after so
many days of reflection that he would be likely to kill a woman like
Geneviève. If he had thought of doing so, he would have done it on the
spot, and have left her corpse there in token of his just vengeance. No, no;
he has taken her away, only too happy at having regained his lost treasure."
"You do not know him, Lorin; you do not know him! This man had
something fatal in his look."
"You are mistaken," said Lorin; "he always struck me as a brave man. He
has taken her as a sacrifice. He will get himself arrested with her; and they
will die together. Ah, there is the danger!"
These words redoubled Maurice's fury.
"I will find her! I will find her, or perish in the attempt!" cried he.
"Oh, as to that, we are certain to find her," said Lorin; "only calm yourself.
They fail in success who do not reflect, and when agitated as you are, we
reflect badly and unwisely."
"Adieu, Lorin, adieu!"
"Where are you going, then?"
"I am going."
"You will leave me, then? Why is that?"
"Because this concerns me only. I alone should risk my life to save
Geneviève's."
"Do you wish to die?"
"I will face all. I will find out the president of the Committee of
Surveillance. I will speak to Hébert, to Danton, to Robespierre. I will avow
all; but she must be restored to me."
"Very well," said Lorin; and without adding another word he rose, adjusted
his belt, put on his military cap, and as Maurice had done, provided himself
with a pair of pistols, ready loaded, which he put in his pocket.
"Let us go," said he, simply.
"But you will compromise yourself," said Maurice.
"Well! what of that?"
"Where shall we seek her first?" asked Maurice.
"We will first search in the old quarter, you know,—the old Rue Saint
Jacques; then we will watch for Maison-Rouge, as where he is, doubtless
Dixmer will be also; then we will draw near the houses in the Vieille
Corderie. You know they talk of transferring Marie Antoinette to the
Temple; believe me, men like them will not, till the last moment, abandon
the hope of saving her."
"Yes," repeated Maurice; "you are right—Maison-Rouge, do you think he is
in Paris?"
"Dixmer is certainly."
"It is true, it is true; of course they will be together!" said Maurice, to whom
these vague ideas seemed partially to restore reason.
The two friends commenced their search immediately, but all in vain. Paris
is large and well adapted for concealment. Never was a pit known to
conceal more obscurely the secret confided to its keeping by crime or
misery.
A hundred times Maurice and Lorin passed over the Place de Grève, a
hundred times passed the house that contained Geneviève, watched
incessantly by Dixmer, as the priests watch the victim destined for sacrifice.
Geneviève on her side, seeing herself destined to perish, like all generous
souls accepted the sacrifice, and only wished to die quietly and unnoticed;
besides, she dreaded less for Dixmer than for the cause of the queen the
publicity that Maurice would not fail to give to his vengeance.
She kept, then, a silence as profound as if death had already sealed her lips.
In the mean time, without saying anything to Lorin, Maurice had applied to
the members of the terrible Committee of Public Safety; and Lorin, without
speaking to Maurice, had, on his part, determined to adopt similar
proceedings.
Thus on the same day a red cross was affixed by Fouquier Tinville to both
their names, and the word "Suspects" united them in a sanguinary embrace.
 CHAPTER XLVI.
THE SENTENCE.
O the twenty-third day of the month of the second year of the French
Republic, one and indivisible, corresponding to the 14th of October, 1793,
old style, as it was then called, a curious crowd had since the morning
invaded the galleries of the hall where the revolutionary sittings were held.
The passages of the Palace, the avenues of the Conciergerie, were lined
with greedy and impatient spectators, who made over one to another their
reports and passions, as the waves transmit their froth and foam.
Notwithstanding the curiosity with which each spectator was agitated, and
perhaps even on account of this curiosity, each wave of this sea, swaying,
pressed between two barriers,—the outer barrier which urged it forward, the
inner barrier which urged it backward,—each wave kept, in this flux and
reflux, almost the same position which it had at first taken. Thus those more
conveniently situated, comprehending it was necessary they should obtain
forgiveness for their good fortune, kept this object in view by transmitting
to their neighbors less comfortably and commodiously placed than
themselves, and who in their turn recounted to others, the first words they
heard, and all they saw.
Near the door of the Tribunal a group of men was collected, rudely
disputing for ten lines of space in width and height,—for ten lines in
breadth sufficed to see between two shoulders the corner of the hall and the
form of the judges; for ten lines in height was sufficient to overlook the
entire hall and see the face of the accused.
Unfortunately, this entrance to the passage of the hall, this narrow defile,
was almost entirely filled by a man with broad shoulders, and his arms
akimbo, who most effectually excluded the wavering crowd ready to drop
into the hall if this rampart of flesh were to give way.
This immovable man was young and handsome; and at every push
bestowed on him by the crowd, he shook his head of hair, thick as a lion's
mane, under which gleamed a dark and resolute expression; then, when
either by a look or a movement he had repelled the crowd and resisted their
violent attacks, he fell back into his attentive immobility.
A hundred times this compact mass had, notwithstanding, striven hard to
overthrow him,—as, from his great height, to see anything behind him was
utterly impossible,—but, as we have said, firm as a rock, he stood his
ground.
In the mean time, at the other extremity of this human sea, in the midst of
the crushing crowd, another man was forcing a passage, with a
perseverance almost amounting to ferocity. Nothing impeded his
indefatigable exertions,—neither the blows of those he left behind, the
fearful imprecations of those he almost stifled in passing, nor the wails of
the women, for there were many females in this crowd.
To blows he responded with blows; to imprecations, by a look before which
the most courageous quailed; to complaints, by a carelessness bordering on
disdain.
At last he arrived behind the powerful young man who, so to speak, closed
the entrance to the hall. In the midst of the general expectation—for all
were anxious to see how the contest between two such rude antagonists
would terminate—he essayed his peculiar method, which consisted in
planting like wedges his elbows between two spectators, and thus breaking
through the thickest of the crowd.
He was, notwithstanding, a short young man, whose wan face and
emaciated appearance betokened latent illness.
His elbows had scarcely touched the young man before him, when he,
indignant at the aggression, turned sharply round, at the same moment
raising his clinched fist, which threatened, in falling, to crush the slender
form of the intruder.
The two antagonists now found themselves face to face, when a cry of
recognition escaped from each.
"Ah, Citizen Maurice," said the delicate young man, with an accent of
inexpressible anguish, "permit me to pass; only let me see her, I entreat you;
you may kill me afterward."
Maurice—for it was indeed he—felt himself affected by admiration and
compassion for this ceaseless devotion, this adventurous daring.
"You here!" murmured he. "How imprudent!"
"Yes; but I am exhausted—O God! she speaks. Let me see her; let me hear
her!"
Maurice drew aside, and the young man passed before him, and being at the
head of the crowd there was nothing now to intercept the view of him who
had undergone so many blows, so much buffeting, to attain his end.
All this scene, and the murmurs it occasioned, aroused the curiosity of the
judges.
The accused also turned round, and immediately perceived and recognized
the Chevalier.
A shudder ran through the queen's frame, seated in the iron arm-chair. The
examination, conducted by the President Harmand, interpreted by Fouquier
Tinville, discussed by Chauveau Lagarde, the counsel for the queen, lasted
as long as the strength of the judges and the accused permitted.
During all this time Maurice remained motionless in his place, while
several times already the concourse was renewed both in the hall and the
corridors.
The Chevalier leaned against a pillar. He was no less pale than the marble
that supported him.
The day was succeeded by a dark night; some lighted candles on the tables
of the jurors, and some smoky lamps on the walls of the hall threw a red
and sinister expression on the noble face of that woman who had been the
cynosure of all eyes at the splendid fêtes at Versailles.
She was alone there, replying in brief and dignified language to the
questions of the president, and occasionally addressing some words to her
counsel in a low voice.
Her white and polished forehead retained all its wonted haughtiness. She
was attired in a black dress, which she had worn ever since her husband's
death.
The judges retired from the hall. The sitting had terminated.
"Have I evinced too much contempt for them, sir?" said she, addressing
herself to Chauveau Lagarde.
"Ah, Madame," replied he, "you are always right when you act like
yourself."
"How proud she is!" cried a woman among the audience, as if a voice from
the people had replied to the question of the unfortunate queen to her
advocate.
The queen turned and looked at her.
"Yes," repeated the woman, "you are proud, Antoinette; and I tell you, pride
has been the ruin of you."
The queen blushed. The Chevalier turned toward the female who had
uttered these words, and replied softly, "She was queen."
Maurice seized him by the wrist, saying, in a low tone, "Take care; do not
forget yourself!"
"Oh, Monsieur Maurice!" replied the Chevalier, "you are a man yourself,
and you know you are speaking to a man. Tell me, oh, tell me! do you think
they will condemn her?"
"I do not think it," said Maurice; "I am sure of it."
"What! a woman!" said the Chevalier, with a deep groan.
"No, a queen," said Maurice; "you have yourself said so."
The Chevalier in his turn seized Maurice by the wrist, and with a force of
which he appeared incapable compelled him to bend his ear. It was half-past
three in the morning. Many vacuums were visible among the spectators;
and a few lights burning here and there served only to render darkness
visible. In one of the most obscure parts of the hall were the Chevalier and
Maurice, the latter listening to what the former was telling him.
"Why are you here? What brings you here?" demanded the Chevalier; "you,
sir, who have not a tiger's heart?"
"Alas!" said Maurice, "to discover what has become of an unfortunate
woman."
"Yes, yes," said Maison-Rouge; "she whom her husband forced into the
queen's cell? The female who was arrested before my eyes?"
"Geneviève?"
"Yes, Geneviève."
"Then Geneviève is a prisoner, sacrificed by her husband, killed by
Dixmer? Oh, I comprehend all; I understand all now! Chevalier, tell me all
that has occurred; tell me where she is; tell me where I can find her!
Chevalier, this woman constitutes my life; do you hear me?"
"I witnessed all. I was there when she was arrested. I was there also to
effect the escape of the queen; but our different projects not having been
communicated to each other, injured instead of assisting our mutual cause."
"Why did you not save her, at least—your sister, Geneviève?"
"How could I when an iron bar divided us? Oh, if you had only been there,
if you had united your efforts with mine, the bar must have yielded, and
both might have been saved!"
"Geneviève! Geneviève!" murmured Maurice. Then regarding Maison-
Rouge with an indefinable expression of hatred and rage,—
"And Dixmer, where is he?" demanded he.
"I know not; he saved himself, as I did also."
"Oh!" said Maurice, grinding his teeth, "if ever I meet him—"
"Yes; I understand. But there is nothing yet to despair about concerning
Geneviève," said Maison-Rouge; "her case is not yet desperate; but the
queen—Oh! stop, Maurice, you are a man of feeling, an influential man;
you have friends—Oh! I pray to you as I would pray to my God—Maurice,
help me to save the queen! Maurice, Geneviève supplicates you through
me!"
"Pronounce not that name, sir! Who knows but that, like Dixmer, you may
have sacrificed this unhappy woman?"
"Sir," replied the Chevalier, haughtily, "when I attach myself to a cause, I
know better than to sacrifice any one but myself."
Maurice was about to reply, when the door of the chamber of debate
opened.
"Silence, sir! silence!" said the Chevalier, "the judges are returning," and
Maurice felt the hand tremble which Maison-Rouge had placed upon his
arm. "Ah!" murmured the Chevalier, "my heart fails me now!"
"Have courage and constrain yourself, or you are lost!" said Maurice.
The Tribunal re-entered; and the news of its return spread rapidly through
the corridors and galleries. The crowd again congregated in the hall, and
even the dim lights appeared to burn brighter at this solemn and decisive
moment. The queen rose and stood erect, haughty and immovable, her eyes
fixed, her lips closed. The decree was then read which doomed the queen to
death. She heard her sentence without even turning pale or uttering a sigh;
her countenance evinced not the slightest emotion. Then turning toward the
Chevalier, she regarded him with a long and eloquent look, as if to indicate
her gratitude to this man whom she had ever seen a living statue of
devotion, and supported on the arm of the officer of the gendarmes who
commanded the forces, with a calm and dignified demeanor she quitted the
court.
Maurice drew a deep sigh. "Thank God!" said he, "nothing in this
declaration can compromise Geneviève; there is yet hope."
"Thank God!" murmured the Chevalier on his side, "it is all finished, and
the struggle at length terminated. I have not strength to go further."
"Courage, sir!" said Maurice, in a low voice.
"I will take courage, sir," replied the Chevalier; and having shaken hands,
they disappeared by different outlets. The queen was reconducted to the
Conciergerie; the large clock struck four as she entered. At the end of Pont
Neuf, Maurice was stopped by Lorin.
"Halt!" said he; "you do not pass here!"
"Why?"
"First, where are you going?"
"I am going home. I can return there now, since I know what has become of
her."
"So much the better; but you must not enter there."
"For what reason?"
"The reason is, that two hours ago the gendarmes went there to arrest you."
"Ah!" cried Maurice. "Well, that is the greater reason why I should go!"
"Are you mad? And Geneviève?"
"You are right. But where are we to go?"
"Zounds! To my house."
"But I shall ruin you!"
"The more reason, then, that you should come," said Lorin, dragging
Maurice away with him.

CHAPTER XLVII.
THE PRIEST AND THE EXECUTIONER.
O leaving the court, the queen had been conducted back to the
Conciergerie. On reaching her chamber she had taken a pair of scissors, and
cut off her long and beautiful ringlets, rendered still more so from the
absence of powder, which she had not used for a year; she enclosed them in
a packet, on which was inscribed, "For my son and daughter." She then
seated herself, or rather sank into a chair, and worn out with fatigue, the
trial having lasted eighteen hours, she fell asleep. At seven o'clock the noise
of the opening screen roused her suddenly, and turning round, she beheld a
man perfectly unknown to her.
"What do you want?" demanded she.
He approached and saluted her as respectfully as if she had not been the
queen.
"I am called Sanson," said he.
The name was sufficient. The queen slightly shuddered and rose up.
"You are here early, sir; could you not have made it rather later?"
"No, Madame," replied Sanson; "I received orders to come."
As he uttered these words, he advanced still nearer to the queen. At this
moment everything about this man was expressive and terrible.
"I understand," said the prisoner; "you wish to cut off my hair?"
"It is necessary, Madame," replied the executioner.
"I knew it, sir; and I wished to spare you the trouble. My hair is on the
table."
Sanson followed the direction of the queen's hand.
"Only," said she, "I should like my hair sent to my children to-night."
"Madame," said Sanson, "this does not concern me."
"However, I thought—notwithstanding—"
"Oh, I get nothing," replied the executioner; "the clothes, the jewels—
unless formally made over to me—all go to La Salpêtrière, and are allotted
to the poor of the hospital. The Committee of Public Safety has so arranged
these things."
"But, sir," persisted Marie Antoinette, "may I at least depend upon this
packet being forwarded to my children?"
Sanson remained silent.
"I will endeavor to send it," said Gilbert.
The prisoner cast upon him a look of deep gratitude.
"I came," said Sanson, "to cut off your hair; but since you have done so, I
can, if you wish it, leave you for a moment alone."
"I entreat you to do so, sir. I wish to collect my scattered thoughts, and offer
up a prayer."
Sanson bowed and retired, when the queen once more found herself in
solitude. While the condemned knelt on a low chair which served her as a
prie-dieu, a scene no less terrible was passing in the parsonage of the small
church of Saint Landry, in the city. The curé had just got up; the old
housekeeper had prepared the humble morning meal, when a loud summons
at the gate was heard. Even in our day, an unexpected visit to a clergyman is
in general the precursor of some serious event,— either a baptism, a
marriage "in extremis," or a last confession; but at this epoch the visit of a
stranger announced some matter of far graver import. Indeed, at this period
the priest was no longer the mandatary of God, but rendered his account to
man.
However, the Abbé Girard was of the number of those who had least cause
for fear, as he had sworn to abide by the Constitution,—in him conscience
and probity had spoken louder than either self-love or religious spirit. No
doubt the Abbé Girard admitted the possibility of improvement in the
government, and much regretted the abuses committed under the name of
the Divine will, and had, while retaining his God, accepted the fraternity of
the Republican régime.
"Go and see, Dame Jacinthe," said he, "who disturbs us at this early hour;
and if the business is of no very pressing nature, say that this morning I
have been sent for to the Conciergerie, and must go there directly."
Dame Jacinthe, formerly called Madeleine, had accepted this flowery
appellation in lieu of her own, as the Abbé Girard had taken the title of
citizen instead of that of curé. At the suggestion of her master, Jacinthe
hastened down the steps of the little garden leading to the entrance gate.
She drew back the bolts, when a thin, pale young man, much agitated, but
with a frank and amiable expression, presented himself before her.
"Monsieur l'Abbé Girard?" said he.
Jacinthe, not slow to remark the disordered dress, the neglected beard, and
the nervous tremor of the new-comer, augured unfavorably of him.
"Citizen," said she; "there is here neither 'Monsieur' nor 'abbé.'"
"Pardon me, Madame," replied the young man; "I meant to say the Curé of
Saint Landry."
Jacinthe, notwithstanding her patriotism, was struck by the title "Madame,"
with which the Republicans would not have honored an empress. She,
however, replied,—
"You cannot see him now; he is repeating his breviary."
"In that case I will wait," replied the young man.
"But," said Jacinthe, in whom this obstinate persistence revived her first
unfavorable impression, "you will wait in vain; for he has been summoned
to the Conciergerie, and must go there immediately."
The young man turned frightfully pale, or rather from pale to livid.
"It is then true!" murmured he; then raising his voice, "This, Madame, is the
business which brings me to the Citizen Girard."
And in spite of the old woman he had, while speaking, effected an entrance;
then coolly but firmly closing the bolts, and notwithstanding the
expostulations and even menaces of Dame Jacinthe, he not only entered the
house, but also the chamber of the curé, who on perceiving him uttered an
exclamation of surprise.
"Forgive me, Monsieur le Curé," immediately said the young man; "I wish
to speak to you on a very serious subject; permit us to be alone."
The aged priest had experienced deep sorrow, and knew what it was to
endure. He discerned deep and devouring passion in the confusion of the
young man, and intense emotion in his fevered tones.
"Leave us, Dame Jacinthe!" said he.
The visitor impatiently followed with his eyes the receding steps of the
housekeeper, who, from being accustomed to the confidence of her master,
hesitated to comply; then when at length the door was closed, "Monsieur le
Curé," said the unknown, "you will first wish to know who I am. I will tell
you. I am a proscribed man, doomed to death, who only at this moment
lives from the power of audacity; I am the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."
The abbé started in horror from his arm-chair.
"Fear nothing!" said the Chevalier, "no one has seen me enter here; and
even those who might have seen me would never know me. I have altered
much these last two months."
"But what do you wish, Citizen?" asked the curé.
"You are going this morning to the Conciergerie, are you not?"
"Yes; the porter has sent for me."
"Do you know why?"
"To perform the duties of my sacred office to an invalid, or some dying
person, perhaps even to one condemned."
"You are right; it is to one condemned."
The old priest regarded the Chevalier with undisguised astonishment.
"But do you know who this person is?" demanded Maison-Rouge.
"No, I do not know."
"This person is the queen!"
The abbé uttered an exclamation of grief.
"The queen! Oh, my God!"
"Yes, sir; the queen! I made inquiry as to the priest who would attend her,
and learned it was you. I therefore came directly to seek an interview."
"But what do you require of me?" asked the priest, alarmed at the wild
accents of the Chevalier.
"I wish—I wish nothing, sir. I implore, I entreat, I supplicate you!"
"For what, then?"
"To allow me to enter with you into the presence of her Majesty?"
"You are mad!" exclaimed the curé; "you would not only ruin me, but
would sacrifice yourself."
"Fear nothing."
"The poor woman is condemned, and that is the end of her."
"I know it, and it is not to make any attempt to save her that I wish to see
her; it is—But listen to me, my father; you are not listening."
"I do not listen to you, since what you ask is impossible; I do not listen to
you, since you act like a man bereft of his senses," said the aged man. "I do
not listen to you, because you terrify me."
"Father, reassure yourself," said the young man, endeavoring to calm
himself; "believe me, Father, I am in my senses. The queen, I know, is lost;
but if I could only for an instant prostrate myself at her feet, it would save
my life. If I do not see her I shall kill myself; and as you will have caused
my despair, you will at the same moment destroy both body and soul."
"My son! my son!" replied the priest, "you ask me to sacrifice my life for
you! Old as I am, my existence is still necessary to the unfortunate; old as I
am, to precipitate my own death is to commit suicide."
"Do not refuse me, Father," replied the Chevalier; "you must have a curate,
an acolyte; take me, let me go with you."
The priest tried to maintain his firmness, which was beginning to give way.
"No, no!" said he; "this would be a dereliction of duty; I have sworn to the
Constitution, and I am bound heart, soul, and conscience. The unhappy
woman condemned to death is a guilty queen. I would accept death, if by so
doing I could benefit a fellow-creature; but I will not depart from the path
of duty."
"But," cried the Chevalier, "when I tell you, and again repeat, even swear to
you, I do not want to save the queen; here by the Gospel, by the crucifix, I
swear I do not go to the Conciergerie to prevent her death!"
"What is your motive, then?" said the old man, affected by such
undisguised accents of despair.
"Hearken!" said the Chevalier, whose soul seemed to speak from his lips;
"she was my benefactress; she is attached to me; to see me in her last
moments will I feel sure prove a consolation to her."
"And this is all that you desire?" demanded the curé, yielding to these
irresistible accents.
"Absolutely all."
"And you have woven no plot to attempt to rescue the condemned?"
"None. I am a Christian, Father; and if there rests in my heart a shadow of
deceit; if I entertain any hope of her life, or try in any way to save it,—may
God visit me with eternal damnation!"
"No, no!" said the curé; "I can promise nothing," as the innumerable
dangers attendant on an act so imprudent returned to his mind.
"Now listen to me, Father!" said the Chevalier, in a voice hoarse with
emotion; "I have spoken like a submissive child; I have not uttered one
bitter word or uncharitable sentiment; no menace has escaped my lips. Yet
now my head whirls; fever burns in my veins; now despair gnaws my heart;
now I am armed. Behold! here is my dagger." And the young man drew
from his bosom a polished blade which threw a livid reflection on his
trembling hand. The curé drew back quickly.
"Fear nothing," said the Chevalier, with a mournful smile; "others, knowing
you to be so strict an observer of your word, would have terrified you into
an oath. But no! I have supplicated, and I still continue to supplicate, with
hands clasped, my forehead in the dust, that I may see her for a single
moment. Look! here is your guarantee!" And he drew from his pocket a
billet which he presented to Girard, who opened it and read as follows:—

I, René, Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, declare by God and my honor,

that I have by threats of death compelled the worthy curé of Saint
Landry to convey me to the Conciergerie, notwithstanding his refusal
and great repugnance to do so. In proof of which I have signed—
M -R .

"It is well," said the priest; "but swear to me once again that you will be
guilty of no imprudence. It is not sufficient that my life is saved, I am
answerable also for yours."
"Think not of that," said the Chevalier. "Then you consent?"
"I must, since you so absolutely insist. You can wait outside, and when she
comes to the wicket you will see her."
The Chevalier seized the hand of the old priest and kissed it with all the
ardor and respect he would have kissed the crucifix.
"Oh!" murmured the Chevalier, "she shall die at least like a queen, and the
hand of the executioner shall never touch her!"

CHAPTER XLVIII.