TWO INTERLUDES
§1
Two hours later the Rue St. Honoré had resumed its habitual
graveyard-like stillness. The stillness had to come at last. Men in
their wildest passions, in their most ebullient moods, must calm down
sooner or later, if only temporarily. Blood aglow with enthusiasm, or
rage, or idolatry, cannot retain its fever-pitch uninterruptedly for
long. And so silence and quietude descended once more upon the setting
of that turbulent scene of awhile ago.
Here, as in other quarters of Paris, the fraternal suppers had come to
an end; and perspiring matrons, dragging weary children at their skirts,
wended their way homewards, whilst their men went to consummate the
evening's entertainment at one of the numerous clubs or cabarets where
the marvellous doings in the Rue St. Honoré could be comfortably lived
over again or retailed to those, less fortunate, who had not been there
to see.
In the early morning the "nettoyeurs publiques" would be coming along,
to clear away the debris of the festivities and to gather up the tables
and benches which were the property of the several Municipal sections,
and put them away for the next occasion.
But these "nettoyeurs" were not here yet. They, too, were spending an
hour or two in the nearest cabarets, discussing the startling events
that had rendered notorious one corner of the Rue St. Honoré.
And so the streets were entirely deserted, save here and there for the
swift passage of a furtive form, hugging the walls, with hands in
pockets and crimson cap pulled over the eyes, anxious only to escape the
vigilance of the night-watchman, swift of foot and silent of tread; and
anon, in the Rue St. Honoré itself, when even these night-birds had
ceased to flutter, the noiseless movement of a dark and mysterious form
that stirred cautiously upon the greasy cobblestones. More silent, more
furtive than any hunted beast creeping out of its lair, this mysterious
form emerged from under one of the tables that was standing nearly
opposite the house where Robespierre lived and close to the one where
the superhuman colossus had wrought his magic trick.
It was Bertrand Moncrif. No longer a fiery Demosthenes now, but a
hunted, terror-filled human creature, whom a stunning blow from a giant
fist had rendered senseless, even whilst it saved him from the
consequences of his own folly. His senses still reeling, his limbs
cramped and aching, he had lain stark and still under the table just
where he had fallen, not sufficiently conscious to realise what was
happening beyond his very limited range of vision or to marvel what was
the ultimate fate of his companions.
His only instinct throughout this comatose condition was the blind one
of self-preservation. Feeling rather than hearing the tumult around him,
he had gathered his limbs close together, lain as still as a mouse,
crouching within himself in the shelter of the table above. It was only
when the silence around had lasted an eternity of time that he ventured
out of his hiding place. With utmost caution, hardly daring to breathe,
he crept on hands and knees and looked about him, lip and down the
street. There was no one about. The night fortunately was moonless and
dark; nature had put herself on the side of those who wished to pass
unperceived.
Bertrand struggled to his feet, smothering a cry of pain. His head ached
furiously, his knees shook under him; but he managed to crawl as far as
the nearest house, and rested for a while against its wall. The fresh
air did him good. The April breeze blew across his burning forehead.
For a few minutes he remained thus, quite still, his eyes gradually
regaining their power of vision. He recollected where he was and all
that had happened. An icy shiver ran down his spine, for he also
remembered Régine and Mme. de Serval and the two children. But he was
still too much dazed, really only half conscious, to do more than
vaguely marvel what had become of them.
He ventured to look fearfully up and down the street. Tables scattered
pell-mell, the unsavoury remnants of fraternal suppers, a couple of
smouldering braziers, collectively met his gaze. And, at one point,
sprawling across a table, with head lost between outstretched arms, a
figure, apparently asleep, perhaps dead.
Bertrand, now nothing but a bundle of nerves, could hardly suppress a
cry of terror. It seemed to him as if his life depended on whether that
sprawling figure was alive or dead. But he dared not approach in order
to make sure. For a while he waited, sinking more and more deeply into
the shadows, watching that motionless form on which his life depended.
The figure did not move, and gradually Bertrand nerved himself up to
confidence and then to action. He buried his head in the folds of his
coat-collar and his hands in the pockets of his breeches, and with
silent, stealthy footsteps he started to make his way down the street.
At first he looked back once or twice at the immobile figure sprawling
across the table. It had not moved, still appeared as if it might be
dead. Then Bertrand took to his heels and, no longer looking either
behind him or to the right or left, with elbows pressed close to his
side, he started to run in the direction of the Tuileries.
A minute later, the motionless figure came back to life, rose quickly
and with swift, noiseless tread, started to run in the same direction.
§2
In the cabarets throughout the city, the chief topic of conversation was
the mysterious event of the Rue St. Honoré. Those who had seen it all
had marvellous tales to tell of the hero of the adventure.
"The man was eight or else nine feet high; his arms reached right across
the street from house to house. Flames spurted out of his mouth when he
coughed. He had horns on his head; cloven feet; a forked tail!"
These were but a few of the asseverations which rendered the person of
the fictitious citizen Rateau a legendary one in the eyes of those who
had witnessed his amazing prowess. Those who had not been thus favoured
listened wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
But all agreed that the mysterious giant was in truth none other than
the far-famed Englishman--that spook, that abominable trickster, that
devil incarnate, known to the Committees as the Scarlet Pimpernel.
"But how could it be the Englishman?" was suddenly put forward by
citizen Hottot, the picturesque landlord of the Cabaret de la Liberté,
a well-known rendezvous close to the Carrousel. "How could it be the
Englishman who played you that trick, seeing that you all say it was
citizen Rateau who . . . The devil take it all!" he added, and scratched
his bald head with savage vigour, which he always did whene'er he felt
sorely perplexed. "A man can't be two at one and the same time; nor two
men become one. Nor . . . Name of a name of a dog!" concluded the worthy
citizen, puffing and blowing in the maze of his own puzzlement like an
old walrus that is floundering in the water.
"It was the Englishman, I tell thee!" one of his customers asserted
indignantly. "Ask any one who saw him! Ask the tappe-durs! Ask
Robespierre himself! _He_ saw him, and turned as grey as--as putty, I
tell thee!" he concluded, with more conviction than eloquence.
"And _I_ tell thee," broke in citizen Sical, the butcher--he with the
bullet-head and hull-neck and a fist that could in truth have felled an
ox; "I tell thee that it was citizen Rateau. Don't I know citizen
Rateau?" he added, and brought that heavy fist of his down upon the
upturned cask on which stood pewter mugs and bottles of eau de vie, and
glared aggressively round upon the assembly. He had only one eye; the
other presented a hideous appearance, scarred and blotched, the result
of a terrible fatality in his early youth. The one eye leered with a
glance of triumph as well as of challenge, daring any less muscular
person to impugn his veracity.
One man alone was bold enough to take up the challenge--a wizened little
fellow, a printer by trade, with skin of the texture of grained oak and
a few unruly curls that tumbled over one another above a highly polished
forehead.
"And I tell thee, citizen Sical," he said with firm decision; "I tell
thee and those who aver, as thou dost, that citizen Rateau had anything
to do with those monkey-tricks, that ye lie. Yes!" he reiterated
emphatically, and paying no heed to the glowering looks and blasphemies
of Sical and his friends. "Yes, ye lie! Not consciously, I grant you;
but you lie nevertheless. Because----" He paused and glanced around him,
like a clever actor conscious of the effect which he produced. His tiny
beady eyes blinked in the glare of the lamp before him.
"Because what?" came in an eager chorus from every side.
"Because," resumed the other sententiously, "all the while that ye were
supping at the expense of the State in the open, and had your gizzards
stirred by the juggling devices of some unknown mountebank, citizen
Rateau was lying comfortably drunk and snoring lustily in the
antechamber of Mother Théot, the soothsayer, right at the other end of
Paris!"
"How do you know that, citizen Langlois?" queried the host with icy
reproval, for butcher Sical was his best customer, and Sical did not
like being contradicted. But little Langlois with the shiny forehead and
tiny, beady, humorous eyes, continued unperturbed.
"Pardi!" he said gaily, "because I was at Mother Théot's myself, and
saw him there."
That certainly was a statement to stagger even the great Sical. It was
received in complete silence. Every one promptly felt that the moment
was propitious for another drink; nay! that the situation demanded it.
Sical, and those who had fought against the Scarlet Pimpernel theory,
were too staggered to speak. They continued to imbibe citizen Hottot's
eau de vie in sullen brooding. The idea of the legendary Englishman,
which had so unexpectedly been strengthened by citizen Langlois'
statement concerning Rateau, was repugnant to their common sense.
Superstition was all very well for women and weaklings like Langlois;
but for men to be asked to accept the theory that a kind of devil in
human shape had so thrown dust in the eyes of a number of perfectly
sober patriots that they literally could not believe what they saw, was
nothing short of an insult.
And they had _seen_ Rateau at the fraternal supper, had talked with him,
until the moment when . . . Then who in Satan's name had they been
talking with?
"Here, Langlois! Tell us----"
And Langlois, who had become the hero of the hour, told all he knew, and
told it, we are told, a dozen times and more. How he had gone to Mother
Théot's at about four o'clock in the afternoon, and had sat patiently
waiting beside his friend Rateau, who wheezed and snored alternately for
a couple of hours. How, at six o'clock or a little after, Rateau went
out because--the aristo, forsooth!--had found the atmosphere filthy in
Mother Théot's antechamber--no doubt he went to get another drink.
"At about half-past seven," the little printer went on glibly, "my turn
came to speak with the old witch. When I came out it was long past eight
o'clock and quite dark. I saw Rateau sprawling upon a bench, half
asleep. I tried to speak with him, but he only grunted. However, I went
out then to get a bit of supper at one of the open-air places, and at
ten o'clock I was once more past Mother Théot's place. One or two
people were coming out of the house. They were all grumbling because
they had been told to go. Rateau was one who was for making a
disturbance, but I took him by the arm. We went down the street
together, and parted company in the Rue de l'Anier, where he lodges. And
here I am!" concluded Langlois, and turned triumphantly to challenge the
gaze of every one of the sceptics around him.
There was not a single doubtful point in his narrative, and though he
was questioned--aye! and severely cross-questioned, too--he never once
swerved from his narrative or in any manner did he contradict himself.
Later on it transpired that there were others who had been in Mother
Théot's antechamber that day. They too subsequently corroborated all
that the little printer had said. One of them was the wife of Sical's
own brother; and there were others. So, what would you?
"Name of a name of a dog, then, who was it who spirited the aristos
away?"