CHAPTER 15. A HEAVY FATE.

January 15, 1793.

"A count condemns a count to death,
Bringing retribution for those
Whose freedom, from under the keitona,
Recently took flight...
Have you so soon forgotten,
The blameless favors,
That you have changed your views so?
The world is unchanging, though it's old!
But I am not a count—I do not crave blood,
Though my blood flowed in streams,
When not long ago, the will of will,
My creators were carved alive,
The creators of those very ones, who slyly,
Wish to uphold the truth:
But do they have the right—
To mete out revenge for abuse?
But what does the death of those give me?
But what does their life give me?
The read pages cannot be returned—
Before us now is a white sheet...
But will it be stained with blood?
Will the dagger inscribe the verdict,
Handing the bodies over to the crows,
Or will a longuette create it? [1]
What do I desire—truth or fame?
What do I need at that hour?
Saying yes: I am part of the frame!
Saying no: I will stand—without adornment—
As a bright diamond...
Before the thoughtful thought of Clio,
Who, immortalizing me with a folio,
Will sweep me to the bottom of life!
Unknown fate or the burden of fame?
A worldly destiny or... an outcast?!
How to proceed? How to be? Oh, time,
Where the world is cherished with war!
What is better? With Buonarroti,
I ask myself a dilemma:
Is it a good that brings damage,
Or an evil that prevents a crowd? [2]
Answer me, reason—what should I do?
Answer me, heart—how should I live?
I was born to explore the world,
As an observer, but to hide,
My strength, life did not allow,
Calling me to change this world:
And now, on the threshold of the grave,
A great one, who was born only to harvest,
Whose mouth is great, and whose lineage is divisible,
Deprived of former honors,
Judged by my will...
And by the strong will of others,
Who come from the people:
We are entrusted by fate to choose,
The fate of Europe, which is a nodus [3],
Of a single family, which is the nobility.
Enough words! Answer me! Who am I?
Who deserved such an honor?
But is it an honor... or am I, against my will,
Sharing this fate?
Why am I here? No, not in the Convention!
But in this world, on earth!
Perhaps, so that here, in the moment,
I can reveal the calling of Yahweh?
What am I to Louis? And what is Capet to me?
No tear will light up in me,
When "Sacrifice!" begins to scratch,
On the snowy whiteness of the sheet,
My pen will start hastily...
And no laughter will be aroused in me,
Forgiveness, which, being peace-loving,
Gives the world a greater sin!
However, I will not hide at all,
That if my fate,
Serves as a spark for the death,
Of the fate of the former king,
Then I, alas, will not be happy...
But I will not betray the people either:
I have been too long a participant—
It is now the turn for deeds!
My father was a true Frenchman,
He knew his craft perfectly,
Louis's father—a burden,
For those whose time has dawned.
My father was kind-hearted, gentle,
Louis's father—a king.
But who is more pitiful today?
Is it not the son who was a leader?
Is it not the god today in chains,
Who was sacred not long ago?
He was spoiled not long ago—
But where are those days now?
The Sword of Damocles hangs over him,
An invisible hair holds death...
But am I myself so sinless?
I do not ripen the firmament in those thoughts..."

"Charles-François Dubosc!"—suddenly, a voice rang out somewhere nearby: it was this exclamation that instantly returned that man to the depths of reality from that very sweet state which humanity calls the process of reflection.