The 2d of September
Victor de Gisons was, as usual, waiting near the door when Harry
left Louise Moulin's.
"What is the news, Henri? Nothing suspicious, I hope? You are out
sooner than usual."
"Yes, for I have something to think of. Here have we been planning
in vain for the last fortnight to hit upon some scheme for getting
our friends out of prison, and Jeanne has pointed out a way which
you and I never thought of."
"What is that, Henri?"
"The simplest thing in the world, namely, that we should seize one
of the leaders of these villains and compel him to sign an order
for their release."
"That certainly seems possible," Victor said. "I wonder it never
occurred to either of us. But how is it to be done?"
"Ah, that is for us to think out! Jeanne has given us the idea, and
we should be stupid if we cannot invent the details. In the first
place we have got to settle which of them it had better be, and
in the next how it is to be managed. It must be some one whose
signature the people at the prison would be sure to obey."
"Then," Victor said, "it must be either Danton or Robespierre."
"Or Marat," Harry added; "I think he is as powerful as either of
the others."
"He is the worst of them, anyhow," Victor said. "There is something
straightforward about Danton. No doubt he is ambitious, but I think
his hatred of us all is real. He is a terrible enemy, and will
certainly stick at nothing. He is ruthless and pitiless, but I do
not think he is double-faced. Robespierre is ambitious too, but
I think he is really acting according to his principles, such as
they are. He would be pitiless too, but he would murder on principle.
"He would sign unmoved the order for a hundred heads to fall if he
thought their falling necessary or even useful for the course of
the Revolution, but I do not think he would shed a drop of blood
to satisfy private enmity. They call him the 'incorruptible.' He is
more dangerous than Danton, for he has no vices. He lives simply,
and they say is fond of birds and pets. I do not think we should
make much of either Danton or him, even if we got them in our power.
"Danton would be like a wild beast in a snare. He would rage with
fury, but I do not think that he would be intimidated into signing
what we require, not do I think would Robespierre. Marat is a
different creature altogether. He is simply venomous. He hates the
world, and would absolutely rejoice in slaughter. So loathsome is
he in appearance that even his colleagues shrink from him. He is a
venomous reptile whom it would be a pleasure to slay, as it would
be to put one's heel upon a rattlesnake. Whether he is a coward
or not I do not know, but I should think so. Men of his type are
seldom brave. I think if we had him in our hands we might frighten
him into doing what we want."
"Then Marat it shall be," Harry said; "that much is settled. Tomorrow
we will find out something about his habits. Till we know about
that we cannot form any plan whatever. Let us meet at dinner-time
at our usual place. Then we will go outside the Assembly and wait
till he comes out. Fortunately we both know him well by sight. He
will be sure to go, surrounded, as usual, by a mob of his admirers,
to the Jacobin Club. From there we can trace him to his home. No
doubt anyone could tell us where he lives, but it would be dangerous
to ask. When we have found that out we can decide upon our next
step."
They were, however, saved the trouble they contemplated, for they
learned from the conversation of two men among the mob, who cheered
Marat as he entered the Assembly, what they wanted to know.
"Marat is the man for me," one of them said. "He hates the aristocracy;
he would bathe in their blood. I never miss reading his articles
in the Friend of the People. His cry is always 'Blood! Blood!' He
does not ape the manner of the bourgeois. He does not wash his face
and put on clean linen. He is a great man, but he is as dirty as
the best of us. He still lives in his old lodgings, though he could
move if he liked into any of the fine houses whose owners are in
the prisons. He wants no servants, but lives just as we do. Vive
Marat!"
"Where does the great citizen live?" Victor asked the men in a
tone of earnest entreaty. On learning the address they took their
way to the dirty and disreputable street where Marat lodged.
"The citizen Marat lives in this street, does he not?" Victor asked
a man lounging at the door of a cabaret.
"Yes, in that house opposite. Do you want him?"
"No; only I was curious to see the house where the friend of the
people lives, and as I was passing the end of the street turned
down. Will you drink a glass?"
"I am always ready for that," the man said, "but in these hard
times one cannot do it as often as one would like."
"That is true enough," Victor said as they took their seats at
a table. "And so Marat lives over there; it's not much of a place
for a great man."
"It is all he wants," the other said carelessly; "and he is safer
here than he would be in the richer quarters. There would be a plot
against him, and those cursed Royalists would kill him if they had
the chance; but he is always escorted home from the club by a band
of patriots."
In the evening Harry and Victor returned to the street and watched
until Marat returned from the Jacobin Club. His escort of men with
torches and bludgeons left him at the door, but two or three went
upstairs with him, and until far in the night visitors came and
went. Then the light in the upper room was extinguished.
"It is not such an easy affair," Victor said as they moved away;
"and you see, as that man in the wine-shop told us, there is an
old woman who cooks for him, and it is much more difficult to seize
two people without an alarm being given than one."
"That is so," Harry agreed; "but it must be done somehow. Every
day matters grow more threatening, and those bands of scoundrels
from Marseilles have not been brought all this way for nothing.
The worst of it is, we have such a short time to act. Marat does
not seem to be ever alone from early morning until late at night.
Supposing we did somehow get the order of release from him at night
we could not present it till the morning, and before we could
present it some one might arrive and discover him fastened up, and
might take the news to the prison before we could get them out."
"Yes, that is very serious," Victor agreed. "I begin to despair,
Henri."
"We must not do that," Harry rejoined. "You see we thought it
impossible before till Jeanne gave us the idea. There must be some
way out of it if we could only hit upon it. Perhaps by to-morrow
morning an idea will occur to one of us. And there is another thing
to be thought of; we must procure disguises for them. It would be
of no use whatever getting them out unless we could conceal them
after they are freed. It would not do for them to go to Louise
Moulin's. She has three visitors already, and the arrival of more
to stay with her would be sure to excite talk among the neighbours.
The last orders are so strict about the punishment of anyone giving
shelter to enemies of the republic, that people who let rooms will
all be suspicious. The only plan will be to get them out of the city
at once. It will be difficult for them to make their way through
France on foot, for in every town and village there is the strictest
look-out kept for suspected persons. Still, that must be risked;
there is no other way."
"Yes, we must see about that to-morrow, Henri; but I do not think
the marquise could support a journey, for they would have to sleep
in the fields. Moreover, she will probably elect to stay near her
children until all can go together. Therefore I think that it will
be best for her to come either to you or me. We can take an additional
room, saying that our mother is coming up from the country to keep
house for us."
"Yes, that would be much the best plan, Victor. And now here we
are close home. I hope by the time we meet in the morning one of
us may have hit upon some plan or other for getting hold of this
scoundrel."
"I have hit upon an idea, Victor," Harry said when they met the
next morning.
"I am glad to hear it, for though I have lain awake all night I
could think of nothing. Well, what is your idea?"
"Well, you see, Marat often goes out in the morning alone. He is
so well known and he is so much regarded by the lower class that
he has no fear of any assault being made upon him during the day.
"My plan is that we should follow him till he gets into some street
with few people about. Then I would rush upon him, seize him, and
draw a knife to strike, shouting, 'Die, villain!' You should be
a few paces behind, and should run up and strike the knife out of
my hand, managing at the same moment to tumble over Marat and fall
with him to the ground. That would give me time to bolt. I would
have a beard on, and would have my other clothes under the blouse.
I would rush into the first doorway and run up stairs, pull off
my beard, blouse, and blue pantaloons, and then walk quietly down.
You would, of course, rush up stairs and meet me on the way. I
should say I had just met a fellow running up stairs, and should
slip quietly off."
"It would be a frightful risk, Henri, frightful!"
"No, I think it could be managed easily enough. Then, of course,
Marat would be very grateful to you, and you could either get him
to visit your lodgings or could go up to his, and once you had
been there you could manage to outsit his last visitor at night,
and then we could do as we agreed."
"But, you know, we thought we should hardly have time in the morning,
Henri!"
"No, I have been thinking of that, and I have come to the conclusion
that our best plan would be to seize him and hold a dagger to his
heart, and threaten to kill him instantly if he did not accompany
us. Then we would go down with him into the street and walk arm in
arm with him to your lodging. We could thrust a ball of wood into
his mouth so that he could not call out even if he had the courage
to do so, which I don't think he would have if he were assured that
if he made the slightest sound we would kill him. Then we could
make him sign the order and leave him fastened up there. It would
be better to take him to your lodgings than mine, in case my visits
to Louise Moulin should have been noticed, and when he is released
there will be a hue and cry after his captors."
"The best plan will be to put a knife into his heart at once the
minute you have got the order signed," Victor said savagely; "I
should have no more hesitation in killing him than stamping on a
snake."
"No, Victor; the man is a monster, but we cannot kill him in cold
blood; besides, we should do more harm than good to the cause, for
the people would consider he had died a martyr to his championship
of their rights, and would be more furious than ever against the
aristocracy."
"But his account of what he has gone through will have just the
same effect, Henri."
"I should think it probable he would keep the story to himself.
What has happened once may happen again; and besides, his cowardice
in signing the release of three enemies of the people in order to
save his life would tell against him. No, I think he would keep
silence. After we have got them safe away we can return and so
far loosen his bonds that he would be able, after a time, to free
himself. Five minutes' start would be all that we should want."
But the plan was not destined to be carried out. It was the morning of
the 2d of September, 1792, and as they went down into the quarter
where the magazines of old clothes were situated, in order to
purchase the necessary disguises, they soon became sensible that
something unusual was in the air. Separating, they joined the groups
of men at the corners of the streets and tried to learn what was
going on, but none seemed to know for certain. All sorts of sinister
rumours were about. Word had been passed that the Jacobin bands
were to be in readiness that evening. Money had been distributed.
The Marseillais had dropped hints that a blow was to be struck at
the tyrants. Everywhere there was a suppressed excitement among
the working-classes; an air of gloom and terror among the bourgeois.
After some time Harry and Victor came together again and compared
their observations. Neither had learned anything definite, but both
were sure that something unusual was about to take place.
"It may be that a large number of fresh arrests are about to be
made," Harry said. "There are still many deputies who withstand
the violence of the Mountain. It may be that a blow is going to be
struck against them."
"We must hope that that is it," Victor said, "but I am terribly
uneasy."
Harry had the same feeling, but he did his best to reassure his
friend, and proposed that they should at once set about buying
the disguises, and that on the following morning they should carry
into effect their plan with reference to Marat. The dresses were
bought. Two suits, such as a respectable mechanic would wear on
Sundays or holidays, were first purchased. There was then a debate
as to the disguise for the marquise; it struck them at once that it
was strange for two young workmen to be purchasing female attire,
but, after some consultation, they decided upon a bonnet and long
cloak, and these Victor went in and bought, gaily telling the
shopkeeper that he was buying a birthday present for his old mother.
They took the clothes up to Harry's room, agreeing that Louise could
easily buy the rest of the garments required for the marquise as
soon as she was free, but they decided to say nothing about the
attempt that was about to be made until it was over, as it would
cause an anxiety which the old woman would probably be unable to
conceal from the girls.
Victor did not accompany Harry to his room; they had never, indeed,
visited each other in their apartments, meeting always some little
distance away in order that their connection should be unobserved,
and that, should one be arrested, no suspicion would follow the
other. As soon as he had deposited the clothes Harry sallied out
again, and on rejoining Victor they made their way down to the
Hotel de Ville, being too anxious to remain quiet. They could learn
nothing from the crowd which was, as usual, assembled before the
Hotel.
There was a general impression that something was about to happen,
but none could give any definite reason for their belief. All day
they wandered about restless and anxious. They fought their way
into the galleries of the Assembly when the doors opened, but for
a time nothing new took place.
The Assembly, in which the moderates had still a powerful voice,
had protested against the assumption of authority by the council of
the Commune sitting at the Hotel de Ville. But the Assembly lacked
firmness, the Commune every day gained in power. Already warrants
of arrest were prepared against the Girondists, the early leaders
of the movement.
Too restless to remain in the Assembly, Victor and Harry again
took their steps to the Hotel de Ville. Just as they arrived there
twenty-four persons, of whom twenty-two were priests, were brought
out from the prison of the Maine by a party of Marseillais, who
shouted, "To the Abbaye!" These ruffians pushed the prisoners into coaches
standing at the door, shouting: "You will not arrive at the prison;
the people are waiting to tear you in pieces." But the people looked
on silently in sullen apathy.
"You see them," the Marseillais shouted. "There they are. You are
about to march to Verdun. They only wait for your departure to
butcher your wives and children."
Still the crowd did not move. The great mass of the people had no
share in the bloody deeds of the Revolution; these were the work of
a few score of violent men, backed by the refuse of the population.
A few shouts were raised here and there of, "Down with the priests!"
But more of the crowd joined in the shouts which Victor and Harry
lustily raised of, "Shame, down with the Marseillais!" Victor would
have pressed forward to attack the Marseillais had not Harry held
his arm tightly, exclaiming in his ear:
"Restrain yourself, Victor. Think of the lives that depend upon
ours. The mob will not follow you. You can do nothing yourself.
Come, get out of the crowd."
So saying he dragged Victor away. It was well that they could not
see what was taking place in the coaches, or Victor's fury would
have been ungovernable, for several of the ruffians had drawn their
swords and were hacking furiously at their prisoners.
"We will follow them," Harry said, when he and Victor had made
their way out of the crowd; "but you must remember, Victor, that,
come what may, you must keep cool. You would only throw away your
life uselessly; for Marie's sake you must keep calm. Your life
belongs to her, and you have no right to throw it away."
"You are right, Henri," Victor said gloomily; "but how can one look
on and see men inciting others to massacre? What is going to take
place? We must follow them."
"I am ready to follow them," Harry said; "but you must not go
unless you are firmly resolved to restrain your feelings whatever
may happen. You can do no possible good, and will only involve
yourself in the destruction of others."
"You may trust me," the young count said; "I will be calm for
Marie's sake."
Harry had his doubts as to his friend's power of self-control, but
he was anxious to see what was taking place, and they joined the
throng that followed the coaches. But they were now in the rear,
and could see nothing that was taking place before them. When the
carriages reached the Abbaye the prisoners alighted. Some of them
were at once cut down by the Marseillais, the rest fled into the
hall, where one of the committees was sitting. Its members, however,
did nothing to protect them, and looked on while all save two were
massacred unresistingly. Then the Marseillais came out brandishing
their bloody weapons and shouting, "The good work has begun; down
with the priests! Down with the enemies of the people!"
The better class of people in the crowd assembled at the Hotel de
Ville had not followed the procession to the Abbaye. They had been
horror-struck at the words and actions of the Marseillais, and
felt that this was the beginning of the fulfilment of the rumours
of the last few days.
The murder of the first prisoner was indeed the signal for every
man of thought or feeling and of heart to draw back from the
Revolution. Thousands of earnest men who had at first thought that
the hour of life and liberty commenced with the meeting of the
States-General, and who had gone heart and soul with that body in
its early struggles for power, had long since shrunk back appalled
at the new tyranny which had sprung into existence.
Each act of usurpation of power by the Jacobins had alienated a
section. The nobles and the clergy, many of whom had at first gone
heartily with the early reformers, had shrunk back appalled when
they saw that religion and monarchy were menaced. The bourgeoisie,
who had made the Revolution, were already to a man against it; the
Girondists, the leaders of the third estate, had fallen away, and
over their heads the axe was already hanging. The Revolution had
no longer a friend in France, save among the lowest, the basest,
and the most ignorant. And now, by the massacres of the 2d of
September, the republic of France was to stand forth in the eyes
of Europe as a blood-stained monster, the enemy, not of kings
only, but of humanity in general. Thus the crowd following the
Marseillais was composed almost entirely of the scum of Paris,
wretches who had long been at war with society, who hated the rich,
hated the priests, hated all above them--men who had suffered
so much that they had become wild beasts, who were the products
of that evil system of society which had now been overthrown. The
greater proportion of them were in the pay of the Commune, for,
two days before, all the unemployed had been enrolled as the army
of the Commune. Thus there was no repetition before the Abbaye of
the cries of shame which had been heard in front of the Maine. The
shouts of the Marseillais were taken up and re-echoed by the mob.
Savage cries, curses, and shouts for vengeance filled the air;
many were armed, and knives and bludgeons, swords and pikes, were
brandished or shaken. Blood had been tasted, and all the savage
instincts were on fire.
"This is horrible, Henri!" Victor de Gisons exclaimed. "I feel as
if I were in a nightmare, not that any nightmare could compare in
terror to this. Look at those hideous faces--faces of men debased
by crime, sodden with drink, degraded below the level of brutes,
exulting in the thought of blood, lusting for murder; and to think
that these creatures are the masters of France. Great Heavens! What
can come of it in the future? What is going to take place now?"
"Organized massacre, I fear, Victor. What seemed incredible,
impossible, is going to take place; there is to be a massacre of
the prisoners."
They had by this time reached the monastery of the Carmelites, now
converted into a prison. Here a large number of priests had been
collected. The Marseillais entered, and the prisoners were called
by name to assemble in the garden.
First the Archbishop of Arles was murdered; then they fell upon the
others and hewed them down. The Bishops of Saintes and Beauvais
were among the slain, and the assassins did not desist until the
last prisoner in the Carmelites had been hacked to pieces. Graves
had already been dug near the Barrier Saint Jacques and carts were
waiting to convey the corpses there, showing how carefully the
preparations for the massacre had been made.
Then the Marseillais returned to the Abbaye, and, with a crowd
of followers, entered the great hall. Here the bailiff Maillard
organized a sort of tribunal of men taken at random from the
crowd. Some of these were paid hirelings of the Commune, some were
terrified workmen or small tradesmen who had, merely from curiosity,
joined the mob. The Swiss officers and soldiers, who were, with the
priests, special objects of hatred to the mob, were first brought
out. They were spared the farce of a trial, they were ordered to
march out through the doors, outside which the Marseillais were
awaiting them. Some hesitated to go out, and cried for mercy.
A young man with head erect was the first to pass through the fatal
doors. He fell in a moment, pierced with pikes. The rest followed
him, and all save two, who were, by some caprice of the mob,
spared, shared his fate. The mob had crowded into the galleries
which surrounded the hall and applauded with ferocious yells the
murder of the soldiers. In the body of the hall a space was kept
clear by the armed followers of the Commune round the judges' table,
and a pathway to the door from the interior of the prison to that
opening into the street.
When the Swiss had been massacred the trial of the other prisoners
commenced. One after another the prisoners were brought out. They
were asked their names and occupations, a few questions followed,
and then the verdict of "Guilty." One after another they were
conducted to the door and there slain. Two or three by the wittiness
of their answers amused the mob and were thereupon acquitted,
the acquittals being greeted by the spectators as heartily as the
sentences of death.
Victor and Harry were in the lowest gallery. They stood back from
the front, but between the heads of those before them they could see
what was going on below. Victor stood immovable, his face as pale
as death. His cap had fallen off, his hair was dank with perspiration,
his eyes had a look of concentrated horror, his body shook with
a spasmodic shuddering. In vain Harry, when he once saw what was
going to take place, urged him in a low whisper to leave. He did
not appear to hear, and even when Harry pulled him by the sleeve
of his blouse he seemed equally unconscious. Harry was greatly
alarmed, and feared that every moment his companion would betray
himself by some terrible out-burst.
After the three or four first prisoners had been disposed of,
a tall and stately man was brought into the hall. A terrible cry,
which sounded loud even above the tumult which reigned, burst from
Victor's lips. He threw himself with the fury of a madman upon those
in front of him, and in a moment would have bounded into the hall
had not Harry brought the heavy stick he carried with all his force
down upon his head. Victor fell like a log under the blow.
"What is it? What is it?" shouted those around.
"My comrade has gone out of his mind," Harry said quietly; "he
has been drinking for some days, and his hatred for the enemies
of France has turned his head. I have been watching him, and had
I not knocked him down he would have thrown himself head-foremost
off the gallery and broken his neck."
The explanation seemed natural, and all were too interested in
what was passing in the hall below to pay further attention to so
trivial an incident. It was well that Harry had caught sight of the
prisoner before Victor did so and was prepared for the out-break,
for it was the Duc de Gisons who had thus been led in to murder.
Harry dragged Victor back against the wall behind and then tried
to lift him.
"I will lend you a hand," a tall man in the dress of a mechanic,
who had been standing next to him, said, and, lifting Victor's body
on to his shoulder, made his way to the top of the stairs, Harry
preceding him and opening a way through the crowd. In another minute
they were in the open air.
"Thank you greatly," Harry said. "I do not know how I should have
managed without your aid. If you put him down here I will try and
bring him round."
"I live not far from here," the man said. "I will take him to my
room. You need not be afraid," he added as Harry hesitated, "I have
got my eyes open, you can trust me."
So saying he made his way through the crowd gathered outside. He
was frequently asked who he was carrying, for the crowd feared lest
any of their prey should escape; but the man's reply, given with
a rough laugh--"It is a lad whose stomach is not strong enough to
bear the sight of blood, and I tell you it is pretty hot in
there,"--satisfied them.
Passing through several streets the man entered a small house and
carried Victor to the attic and laid him on a bed, then he carefully
closed the door and struck a light.
"You struck hard, my friend," he said as he examined Victor's head.
"Ma foi, I should not have liked such a blow myself, but I don't
blame you. You were but just in time to prevent his betraying
himself, and better a hundred times a knock on the head than those
pikes outside the door. I had my eye on him, and felt sure he would
do something rash, and I had intended to choke him, but he was too
quick for me. How came you to be so foolish as to be there?"
"We had friends in the prison, and we thought we might do something
to save them," Harry answered, for he saw that it would be his best
policy to be frank. "It was his father whom they brought out."
"It was rash of you, young sir. A kid might as well try to save his
mother from the tiger who has laid its paw upon her as for you to
try to rescue any one from the clutches of the mob. Mon Dieu! To
think that in the early days I was fool enough to go down to the
Assembly and cheer the deputies; but I have seen my mistake. What
has it brought us? A ruined trade, an empty cupboard, and to be
ruled by the ruffians of the slums instead of the king, the clergy,
and the upper classes. I was a brass-worker, and a good one, though
I say it myself, and earned good wages. Now for the last month
I haven't done a stroke of work. Who wants to buy brass-work when
there are mansions and shops to pillage? And now, what are you
going to do? My wife is out, but she will probably be back soon.
We will attend to this young fellow. She is a good nurse, and I
tell you I think he will need all we can do for him."
"You don't think I have seriously injured him?" Harry said in a
tone of dismay.
"No, no; don't make yourself uneasy. You have stunned him, and
that's all; he will soon get over that. I have seen men get worse
knocks in a drunken row and be at work again in the morning; but
it is different here. I saw his face, and he was pretty nearly mad
when you struck him. I doubt whether he will be in his right senses
when he comes round; but never fear, we will look after him well.
You can stay if you like; but if you want to go you can trust him
to us. I see you can keep your head, and will not run into danger
as he did."
"I do want to go terribly," Harry said, "terribly; and I feel
that I can trust you completely. You have saved his life and mine
already. Now you will not be hurt at what I am going to say. He
is the son of the Duc de Gisons, the last man we saw brought out
to be murdered. We have plenty of money. In a belt round his waist
you will find a hundred louis. Please do not spare them. If you
think he wants a surgeon call him in, and get everything necessary
for your household. While you are nursing him you cannot go out
to work. I do not talk of reward; one cannot reward kindness like
yours; but while you are looking after him you and your wife must
live."
"Agreed!" the man said, shaking Harry by the hand. "You speak
like a man of heart. I will look after him. You need be under no
uneasiness. Should any of my comrades come in I shall say: 'this
is a young workman who got knocked down and hurt in the crowd, and
whom, having nothing better to do, I have brought in here."'
"If he should recover his senses before I come back," Harry said,
"please do not let him know it was I who struck him. He will
be well-nigh heart-broken that he could not share the fate of his
father. Let him think that he was knocked down by some one in the
crowd."
"All right! That is easily managed," the man said. "Jacques Medart
is no fool. Now you had best be off, for I see you are on thorns,
and leave me to bathe his head. If you shouldn't come back you can
depend upon it I will look after him till he is able to go about
again."