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IN THE NAME OF LIBERTY
[Illustration: BARABANT SURPRISES NICOLE]
IN THE NAME OF LIBERTY
A Story of the Terror
by
OWEN JOHNSON
Author of "Arrows of the Almighty"
O Liberty! Liberty! how many crimes are committed
in thy name! _Madame Roland_
[Illustration]
New York
The Century Co.
1905
Copyright, 1905, by
The Century Co.
Published January, 1905
The Devinne Press
TO
MY FATHER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I IN SEARCH OF THE REVOLUTION 3
II A RESCUE FROM ARISTOCRATS 14
III CITOYENNE NICOLE 30
IV BREWINGS OF THE STORM 54
V THE TAKING OF THE TUILERIES 74
VI THE HEART OF A WOMAN 92
VII THE FEAR OF HAPPINESS 104
VIII THE MOTHER OF LOUISON 116
IX THE TURN OF JAVOGUES 127
X A TRIUMPH OF INSTINCT 140
XI THE MAN WITH THE LANTERN 155
XII THE MASSACRE OF THE PRISONS 165
XIII DOSSONVILLE IN PERIL 176
XIV GOURSAC AS ACCUSER 188
XV LOVE, LIFE, AND DEATH 200
PART II
(One Year Later)
I FAMINE 211
II DOSSONVILLE EARNS A KISS 224
III WAITING FOR BREAD 235
IV SIMON LAJOIE 250
V CRAMOISIN PLOTS AGAINST NICOLE 266
VI BARABANT HESITATES 277
VII THE MADNESS OF JEALOUSY 290
VIII LA FÊTE DE LA RAISON 301
IX AS DID CHARLOTTE CORDAY 314
X UNRELENTING IN DEATH 323
XI NICOLE FORGOES THE SACRIFICE 332
XII THE FATHER OF LOUISON 346
XIII DAUGHTER OF THE GUILLOTINE 357
XIV THE LAST ON THE LIST 369
XV THE FALL OF THE TERROR 386
EPILOGUE 402
IN THE NAME OF LIBERTY
I
IN SEARCH OF THE REVOLUTION
In the month of August of the year 1792 the Rue Maugout was a distorted
cleft in the gray mass of the Faubourg St. Antoine, apart from the
ceaseless cry of life of the thoroughfare, but animated by a sprinkling
of shops and taverns. No. 38, like its neighbors, was a twisted,
settled mass of stone and timber that had somehow held together from
the time of Henry II. The entrance was low, pinched, and dank. On one
side a twisted staircase zig-zagged into the gloom. On the other a
squat door with a grating in the center, like a blind eye, led into
the cellar which la Mère Corniche, the concierge, let out at two sous
a night to travelers in search of an economical resting-place. Beyond
this rat-hole a murky glass served as a peep-hole, whence her flattened
nose and little eyes could dimly be distinguished at all hours of the
day. This tenebrous entrance, after plunging onward some forty feet,
fell against a wall of gray light, where the visitor, making an abrupt
angle, passed into the purer air of a narrow court. Opposite, the
passage took up its interrupted way to a farther court, more spacious,
where a dirt-colored maple offered a ragged shelter and a few parched
vines gripped the yellow walls. The tiled roofs were shrunk, the ridges
warped, the walls cracking and bulging about the distorted windows.
Along the roofs the dust and dirt had gradually accumulated and given
birth to a few blades of gray-green plants. Nature had slipped in
and assimilated the work of man, until the building, yielding to the
weight of time and the elements, appeared as a hollow sunk in fantastic
cliffs, where, from narrow, misshapen slits, the dwellers peered forth.
About the maple swarmed a troop of children, grimy, bare, and voluble.
In the branches and in the ivy a horde of sparrows shrilled and fought,
keeping warily out of reach of the lank cats that slunk in ambush.
In front of No. 38, each morning, prompt as the sun, which she often
anticipated, la Mère Corniche appeared with her broom. She was one of
those strange old women in whom the appearances of youth and age are
incongruously blended. Seen from behind, her short, erect stature (she
was an equal four feet), her skirt stopping half-way below the knees
to reveal a pair of man's boots, gave the effect of a child of twelve.
When she turned, the shock of the empty gums, the skin hanging in
pockets on the cheeks, the eyes showing from their pouches like cold
lanterns, caused her to seem like a being who had never known youth.
She had thrown open the doors on this August morning and was conducting
a resolute campaign with her broom when she perceived a young man, who
even at that early hour, from the evidence of dust, had just completed
an arduous journey. A bulging handkerchief swinging from a staff across
his shoulder evidently contained all his baggage, and proclaimed the
definite purpose of the immigrant. The concierge regarded him with
some curiosity. He was too old to be a truant scholar, and too much at
ease to be of the far provinces. Besides, his dress showed familiarity
with the city modes. He seemed rather the young adventurer running to
Paris in the first flush of that enthusiasm and attraction which the
Revolution in its influx had awakened.
The dress itself proclaimed, not without a touch of humor, the
preparation of the zealous devotee approaching the Mecca of his
ambitions. His cocked hat, of a largeness which suggested another
owner, was new and worn jauntily, with the gay assurance of youth in
its destiny. A brilliant red neck-cloth was arranged with the abandon
of pardonable vanity. A clear blue redingote, a cloth-of-gold vest,
and a pair of drab knickerbockers completed a costume that had drawn
many a smile. For while the coat was so long that the sleeves hid the
wrist, the vest was bursting its buttons, and though the knickerbockers
pinched, the hat continued to wobble in dumb accusation; so that two
generations at least must have contributed to the wardrobe of the young
buccaneer.
At the moment the concierge discovered the youthful adventurer, he was
engrossed in the task of slapping the dust from his garments, while his
eyes, wandering along the streets, were searching to some purpose.
Curiosity being stronger than need, it was la Mère Corniche who put the
first question.
"Well, citoyen, you seek some one in this street?"
"The answer should be apparent," the young fellow answered frankly. "I
seek a lodging. Have you a room to let?"
"H'm!" La Mère Corniche eyed him unfavorably. "Maybe I have, and maybe
I haven't; I take no aristocrats."
The young man, seeing that his clothes were in disfavor, began to laugh.
"In as far, citoyenne," he said, with a sweep of his hand, "as it
concerns these, I plead guilty: my clothes are aristocrats. But hear
me," as his listener began to scowl. "They were; but aristocrats being
traitors, I confiscated them; and," he added slyly, "I come to deliver
them to the State."
"And to denounce the traitors, citoyen," the concierge exclaimed
fiercely, "even were they your father and mother."
"Even that--if I had a family," he added cautiously. "And now,
citoyenne, what can you do for me?"
With this direct question, the fanatic light in her face died away.
The little woman withdrew a step and ran her eyes over the prospective
tenant. She made him repeat the question, and finally said, with a
sigh, as though regretting the price she had fixed in her mind, "How
long?"
"A year--two years--indefinitely."
"There are two rooms and a parlor on the second," she began tentatively.
"That suits me."
"The price will be for you--" la Mère Corniche hastened to increase the
sum, "thirty francs a month."
"Good."
"Payable in advance."
The young fellow shrugged his shoulders, and with a comical grin turned
his pockets inside out.
"What!" la Mère Corniche shrieked in her astonishment. "You swindler!
You have taken an apartment at thirty francs a month without a sou in
your pocket."
"At present."
"Get off, you, who'd rob a poor old woman."
"We'll renounce the apartment, then," he cried, with a laugh. "One
room, citoyenne; give me one room if you are a patriot."
"Patriot--robber! Be off or I'll denounce you!"
The young fellow, seeing his case hopeless, prepared to depart.
"Good-by, then, mother," he said. "And thanks for your patriotic
reception. Only direct me to the house of Marat and I'm done with you."
"What have you to do with the Citoyen Marat?" cried the old woman,
startled into speech at that name.
"That is my affair."
"You know him?"
"I have a letter to him."
La Mère Corniche looked at him in indecision. An emissary to Marat was
a very different matter. She struggled silently between her avarice
and the one adoration of her life, until her listener, mistaking her
silence, turned impatiently on his heel.
"Here, come back," the concierge cried, thus brought to decision. "Let
me see your letter."
The young fellow shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly and produced a
large envelope, on which the curious eye of his listener beheld the
magic words, "To Jean Paul Marat." But if she had hoped to find on it
some clue to its sender, she was disappointed. She turned the letter
over and handed it reluctantly back.
"Private business, hey?"
"Particularly private," he said. Then, seeing his advantage and
following up his good fortune, he added: "Now, citoyenne, don't you
think you could tuck me away somewhere until I make a fortune?"
The old woman hesitated a moment longer, whereupon he fell to scanning
pensively the address, and mumbling over "Jean Paul Marat, a great man
that."
"Damn, I'll do it!" la Mère Corniche suddenly cried, and with a crook
of her thumb she bade him follow her. But immediately she halted and
asked:
"Citoyen--?"
"Citoyen Barabant--Eugène Armand Barabant."
"Of--?"
"Of 38 Rue Maugout," he said laconically, then, with a smile, modified
his step to follow the painful progress of his guide.
At the dark entrance a raven came hopping to meet them, filling the
gloom with his raucous cry. Barabant halted.
"It's only Jean Paul," explained the old woman. "He brings good luck."
She placed him, flapping his wings, on her shoulder and continued. At
the first court, by the stairs that led to the vacant apartment on
the second floor, she hesitated, but the indecision was momentary.
Into the second court Barabant followed with an air of interest that
showed that, though perhaps familiar with the streets of Paris, he
had never delved into its secret places. Twice more la Mère Corniche
halted before possible lodgings, until at last, having vanquished each
temptation, she began to clamber up the shaky flights that led to the
attic.
Barabant had perceived each mental struggle with great enjoyment. He
was young, adventurous, entering life through strange gates. So when at
length they reached the end of their climb, and his guide, after much
tugging, accompanied by occasional kicks, had forced open the reluctant
door, the dingy attic appeared to him a haven of splendor.
La Mère Corniche watched him curiously from the doorway, rubbing her
chin. "Eh, Citoyen Barabant? Well, does it suit you?"
"Perfect."
He cast a careless glance at the impoverished room and craned out of
the window. In his survey of the court, his eye rested a moment on the
window below, where, through the careless folds of a half-curtain, he
had caught the gleam of a white arm.
"And what is the price of this?" he asked; but his thoughts were
elsewhere.
"Nothing."
La Mère Corniche sighed heroically, and hastened on as though
distrusting her generosity. "Only, when you see Citoyen Marat, tell him
that I, Citoyenne Corniche, have done this to one who is his friend."
Barabant remained one moment motionless, as though confounded at this
remnant of human feeling in the sibyl. But the door had hardly closed
when, without a glance at his new quarters, he was again at the window.
The truth was that, without hesitating to reflect on the insufficiency
of the evidence, he had already built a romance on the sight of a white
arm seen two stories below through the folds of a curtain. So when
he returned eagerly to his scrutiny, what was his disenchantment to
perceive below a very buxom matron, who was regarding him with equal
attentiveness.
Barabant, with a laugh at his own discomfiture, began to search more
cautiously. And as one deception in youth is sufficient to make a
skeptic for an hour, when in turn he began to explore the window
opposite he received, with indifference, the view of another arm,
though it was equally white and well modeled.
But this time, as though Fate were determined to rebuke him for
scorning her gifts, there appeared at the window the figure of a
young girl, whose early toilet allowed to be seen a throat and arm of
sufficient whiteness to dazzle the young romanticist.
Youth and natural coquetry fortunately are stronger than the
indifference of poverty. Had Barabant been fifty the girl would have
continued her inspection undisturbed; but perceiving him to be in the
twenties, and with a certain air of distinction, she hastily withdrew,
covering her throat with an instinctive motion of her hand, and leaving
Barabant, forgetful of his first disenchantment, to gallop through the
delightful fields of a new romance.
II
A RESCUE FROM ARISTOCRATS
After a moment of vain expectation, Barabant withdrew to the inspection
of his new possessions. In one corner stood a bed that bore the marks
of many restorations. Each leg was of a different shape, rudely
fastened to the main body, which, despite threatening fissures, had
still survived by the aid of several hitches of stout rope that
encouraged the joints. One pillow and two coverings, one chair and
a chest of drawers, that answered to much tugging, completed the
installation. The floor was of tiles; the ceiling, responding to the
sagging of the roof, bulged and cracked, while in one spot it had even
receded so far that a ray of the sun squeezed through and fell in a
dusty flight to the floor.
Barabant's survey was completed in an instant. Returning to the bed, he
paused doubtfully and cautiously tried its strength with a shake. Then
he seated himself and slowly drew up both legs. The bed still remaining
intact, he turned over, threw the covers over him, and, worn out with
the journey, fell asleep.
It was almost ten when he stirred, and the August sun was pouring
through the gabled window. A mouse scampered hurriedly home as he
started up; a couple of sparrows, hovering undecidedly on the sill,
fluttered off. He sat up, rubbing his eyes with the confusion of one
who awakens at an unaccustomed hour, and then sprang to the floor so
impetuously that the bed protested with a warning creak. His first
movement was to the window, where an eager glance showed the opposite
room vacant. More leisurely he turned to a survey of his horizon, where
in the distance the roofs, of an equal height, rolled away in high,
sloping billows of brown tile dotted with flashes of green or the white
fleck of linen. The air was warm, but still alive with the freshness
of the morning, inviting him to be out and seeing. He left his bundle
carelessly on the chair, brushed his clothes, arranged his neck-cloth
by means of a pocket-mirror, preparing himself with solicitude for his
appearance in the streets.
He descended the stairs alertly, listening for any sound of his
neighbors; but the stairways, as well as the courts, were silent and
empty, for at that period all Paris hastened daily to the streets,
expectant of great events.
Through the ugly, tortuous streets of the Faubourg St. Antoine Barabant
plunged eagerly to the boulevard, where the crowd, circulating slowly,
lingered from corner to corner, drifting to every knot of discussion,
avaricious for every crumb of rumor. Hawkers of ballads and pamphlets
sought to slip their wares into the young fellow's hand with a show of
mystery and fear of detection. One whispered his "Midnight Diversions
of the Austrian Veto"; another showed him furtively the title, "Capet
Exposed by his Valet."
Refusing all these, Barabant halted at every shop-window, before
numberless engravings representing the Fall of the Bastille, the Oath
in the Tennis-court, and the Section-halls.
The gloomy, disheveled figures of the Marseillais were abroad, stalking
melodramatically through the crowds or filling the cafés to thunder
out their denunciations of tyrants and aristocrats. Fishwives and
washerwomen retailed to all comers the latest alarms.
"The aristocrats are burning the grain-fields!"
"A plot has been unearthed to exterminate the patriots by grinding
glass in their flour."
"The Faubourg St. Antoine is to be destroyed by fire."
Venders of relics offered the manacles of the Bastille and the
rope-ladder of Latude; fortune-tellers prophesied, for a consideration,
the fall of Capet and the advent of the Republic; an exhibitor of
trick-dogs advertised a burlesque on the return of the royal family
from Versailles. At a marionette theater the dolls represented public
personages, and the king and the queen (Veto and the Austrian) were
battered and humiliated to the applause of the crowds.
At points on Barabant's progress he listened to young fellows from
tables or chairs reading to the illiterate from the newspapers,
quoting from witty Camille Desmoulins or sullen, headlong Marat.
Barabant was amazed at the response from the audience, at their sudden
movements to laughter or anger. Swayed by the infection, his lips moved
involuntarily with a hundred impetuous thoughts. In this era that
promised so much to youth, which demanded its ardor, its enthusiasm,
and its faith, he longed to emerge from obscurity. For youth is the
period of large resolutions, ardent convictions, and the championship
of desperate causes. In that season, when the world is new, the mind,
fascinated by its unfolding strength, leaps over decisions, doubts
nothing, nor hesitates. In revolutions it is the generation that dares
that leads.
From the young and daring Faubourg St. Antoine Barabant emerged,
inspired, elated, and meditative. Barabant, disciple of the Revolution
of Ideas, was bewildered by the might of this torrent. It excited
his vision, but it terrified him. It was immense, but it might erupt
through a dozen forced openings.
In the Rue St. Honoré, where the discussions grew more abstract, he was
startled at the contrast. Great events were struggling to the surface,
yet here in the cafés men discussed charmingly on theory and principle;
nor could he fancy, fresh from the vigor of the people, the sacred
Revolution among these gay colors, immaculate wigs, and well-fed and
thirsty orators.
But this first impression, acute with the shock of contrast, was soon
succeeded by a feeling of stimulation. Attracted, as is natural in
youth, by the beautiful and the luxurious, and led by his imagination
and his ambition, he forgot his emotions. Whereas in the mob he had
felt himself equal to the martyr, he now breathed an air that aroused
his powers. They discussed the freedom of the individual, the liberty
of the press, and the abolishment of the penalty of death, with grace
and with unfailing, agile wit, and debated the Republic with the airs
of the court.
Barabant, who wished to see everything at once, made a rapid excursion
to the Tuileries, to the Place de la Grève, the Place de la
Revolution, the Markets, and the famous Hall of the Jacobins.
Toward evening, as the dusk invaded the streets, and the lanterns, from
their brackets on the walls, set up their empire over the fleeting
day, an indefinable melancholy descended over him: the melancholy of
the city that affects the young and the stranger. Barabant's spirits,
quick to soar, momentarily succumbed to that feeling of loneliness and
aloofness that attacks the individual in the solitudes of nature and in
that wilderness of men, the city.
He was leaning against a pillar in the Rue St. Honoré, in this
ruminative mood watching the unfamiliar crowd, when his glance was
stopped by the figure of a flower-girl. She was tall, dark, and lithe,
and, though without any particular charm of form, she had such an
unusual grace in her movements that he fell curiously to speculating on
her face. But the turning proving a disappointment, he laughed at his
haste, and his glance wandered elsewhere.
"Citoyen, buy my cockade?"
Barabant turned quickly; the flower-girl was at his side, smiling
mischievously up at him. He was conscious of a sudden embarrassment--a
solicitude for his bearing before the frank amusement of the girl.
This time he did not turn away so carelessly. The face was attractive
despite its irregularity, full of force in the free span of the
forehead and of sudden passions in the high, starting eyebrows. The
eyes alone seemed cold and sardonic, without emotion or change.
"Come, citoyen, a cockade."
Barabant shrugged his shoulders, and diving into his purse, at length
produced a few coppers.
"A patriot's dinner is more my need, citoyenne, than a cockade."
The girl, who had been watching with amusement this search after the
elusive coins, ignoring his answer, asked curiously:
"From the provinces?"
Barabant, resenting the patronizing tone, said stiffly:
"No."
"But not quite Parisian," the flower-girl returned, with a smile, and
her glance traveled inquiringly over the incongruous make-up.
Barabant laughed. "Parisian by a day only."
The girl smiled again, and, suddenly fastening a cockade on his lapel,
said: "You are a good-looking chap; keep your sous; when your purse is
fuller, remember me." And thrusting back his proffered money, she took
up her basket and nodded gaily to him. "Good luck to you, citoyen. Vive
la jeunesse!"
The accidental meeting quite restored him to his eager zest again. The
one greeting converted the wilderness into a familiar land. He started
on his walk, seeking a humble bill of fare within the range of his
modest resources. He chose one where the dinner consisted of a thick
soup the filling qualities of which he knew--a purée of beans and a
piece of cheese. It was still somewhat earlier than the dinner-hour,
and he finished his meal silently watched by the waiter with suspicious
eyes. Thence he wandered through brighter streets, pausing at times on
the skirts of the crowd that invaded the cafés, which now began to grow
noisy with impromptu oratory.
The Palais Royal with its flaring halls drew him to its tumultuous
life. He wandered through the gambling-rooms, through fakers'
exhibitions, heedless of siren voices, watching the play of pickpockets
and dupes, until suddenly in the crowd a figure of unusual oddity
caught his attention: a tall, military man with a cocked hat, shifted
very much over one ear, and a nose thrown back so far that it seemed
to be scouting in the air, fearful lest its owner should miss a single
rumor.
Without purpose in his wanderings, Barabant unconsciously fell to
following this new character. The body was lank, the legs long,--out
of all proportion, and so thin that they seemed rather a pair of
pliable stilts,--while the arms hung or moved in loose jerks as though
dependent from the joints of a manikin.
Oblivious to the banter and the scrutiny of the throng, the wanderer
pursued his inquisitive way. From time to time he stopped, craning his
neck and remaining absorbed in the contemplation of a chance display of
tricolor or a group of shrill orators sounding their eloquence to the
eager mass. The inspection ended, a guttural exclamation or a whistle
escaping the lips showed that the impression had been registered behind
the keen, laughing countenance. Gradually the crowd, inclined at first
to jeer, perceiving him utterly unconscious of their interest, turned
to banter; but there too they were met with the utmost complacency.
"Hey, Daddy Long-legs!"
"Beware you keep out of their reach, my friend."
"Citizen Scissors!"
"Citizen Stilts!"
"Citizen Pique la bise!"
At this last allusion to the manner in which his nose might be said to
cut the breeze, he opened wide a gaping mouth and roared "Touché!" so
heartily that the crowd, who never laugh long at those who laugh with
them, returned to their occupation with grunts of approval. Still there
remained to be revealed the complexion of his political belief: whether
it was a patriot that thus paraded the steadfast Palais Royal, or a
hireling of a tyrant aristocracy.
Here again the visitor puzzled all conjectures. Arrived opposite the
café, "To the Fall of the Bastille," his glance no sooner seized the
inscription than he snatched off his hat with so hearty a "Bravo!"
that his neighbors echoed the infectious acclamation; but at the very
next turn, perceiving a mountebank's counter presided over by a pretty
citizeness, he paused and repeated the salute with equal vigor. Now,
though the tribute to a pretty face could not justly distinguish
the parties, yet the inspiration and the manner had the taint of
aristocracy. So that those who had listened looked dubious, then
scratched their heads, and finally retired, laughing over their own
mystification.
With a gluttonous chuckle the stranger turned suddenly into a
neighboring passage. Barabant followed, in time to see the lean figure
mount a chance staircase, ascending which on the humor of the moment,
he emerged in turn into a café of unusual magnificence.
Having no money with which to pay a _consommation_ at the tables,
Barabant remained among the spectators. The tall stranger had joined a
group in the middle of the room, whence a florid Chevalier de St. Louis
cried bombastically:
"Citizen Bottle-opener, send me the Citizen Table-wiper!"
"And bring the Citizen Broom," took up another, "to expel this Citizen
Dog!"
"Let the Citizen Crier," added another, with careless scorn, "call the
Citizen My Carriage!"
Amid this persiflage Barabant remained, chafing and angry, realizing
that he had stumbled into that abomination of patriots, a den of
aristocrats.
The purport of all table-to-table addresses was the incompetency of the
National Assembly and the state of anarchy existing since the royal
power had been defied. Although the café was not accessible to the mob,
and was evidently of a certain clientèle, there was a smattering of
unaccustomed guests, who manifested their disapproval of these remarks
by grumbling and even threats.
Barabant at length, losing control of his temper, sprang upon a chair.
"A government," he cried--"yes, a government is what we need. Let us
be frank: the present condition of affairs is an anomaly. It cannot
exist. The Revolution is to-day a farce."
"Anarchy!" "Chaos!" "Bravo!" "Continue!"
"And why?" he went on. "Because it has not gone far enough. Either king
or revolution: the two cannot exist. What we need is the Republic, the
Republic, the Republic!"
The words fell on the room like offal thrown in the midst of ravenous
wolves. A hideous upheaval, a hoarse shout, a multitude of scrambling
forms, and the listeners who had mistaken the drift of his first words
rose in fury. Some one pulled the table from under him. There were
shouts and blows, a confusion of bodies before his eyes, and babel let
loose. In the midst of it he felt himself suddenly enveloped in a pair
of wiry arms and dragged through the mêlée. He struggled, but the grip
that held him was not to be shaken. Leaving behind the shouting, they
passed out into the turning of a corridor, then through another into
quiet and a garden. There his captor, setting him on his feet, drew
back with a smile. Barabant, glancing up, beheld the lank military
figure of an hour before, with his nose tipped in the air in impudent
enjoyment.
"Well, my knight-errant," he said quizzically, "the next time you
preach the Republic, select a Sans-Culotte audience and not a Royalist
café, or there may not be a Dossonville to rescue you."
Barabant smoothed out his clothes, crestfallen, but resumed his dignity.
"From the country!" his rescuer continued, and the amusement gave
place to one of reflectiveness. "Dame! are they already crying for the
Republic outside of Paris?"
"They are. That is," Barabant added, "the masses are done with the
king. The Girondins are not so radical."
"H'm!" Dossonville said for all answer. He stood silent a moment,
wrapped in his own thoughts, before he again questioned him: "And the
Revolution: do you hear such opinions as you heard to-night in the
provinces? Is there no sign of a reaction?"
"No; everything is for more radical measures."
With this answer, Dossonville seemed to dismiss the matter from his
mind. He looked him over again, and a twinkle showing in his eyes, he
asked:
"More enthusiasm than friends, hey?"
Barabant laughed. "True."
"And what are you counting upon doing?"
Barabant remained silent.
"Good--discretion!"
Barabant, determined to shift the inquiry, demanded point-blank:
"What were you doing in a café of aristocrats?"
"What were you?" Dossonville retorted. "There are many ways to serve
the Revolution besides proclaiming it from the tops of tables. Leave me
my ways. Do you think if I were an aristocrat I'd have taken the pains
to save you? Come, young man, don't turn your back on opportunities.
Swallow your pride and confess that there are not many more meals in
sight."
"I am but a day in Paris," Barabant answered; and then, lest he should
seem to have relented: "there are a hundred ways to find a living."
"Can you write? Have you written pamphlets?" Dossonville persisted.
"What would you say to a chance to see that fine eloquence caught in
black and white and circulating in the streets?"
Barabant's face flushed with such a sudden delight that the other
laughingly drew his arm into his and exclaimed:
"Come, I see how it is. Camille Desmoulins is only twenty-nine. It is
the age for the youngsters. Only--" He stopped suddenly. "There are
many degrees of Republicans nowadays. Does your eloquence run in the
line of our valiant radical Marat, or Danton and Desmoulins, or are we
of the school of Condorcet and Roland?"
"I am Girondin," Barabant answered.
"Good." He reflected a moment. "Just the place!"
He started on, and then suddenly stopped, as by habit of caution. "No,
not to-night. Where do you live?"
"Eugène Barabant, Rue Maugout, No. 38." He drew out two letters. "I
have a word of introduction to Roland."
"And the other?"
"To Marat."
"Ah, Marat," Dossonville said, with a sudden cooling. "A strong man
that, and very patriotic."
"I do not intend to present it," Barabant said, seeing the change. He
hesitated a moment, as though to reveal a confidence, while a smile
struggled to his lips. But in the end, resisting the desire, he said
evasively, "It is a measure of protection, in case of danger."
Dossonville scrutinized him sharply, and then, as though reassured by
the frank visage, he said: "Very well; I'll be around to-morrow night.
Try your hand at a polemic or two. Have you a knack of poetry? Satires
are more powerful than arguments. A laugh can trip up a colossus."
"I have done a little verse."
"Who hasn't?" He paused. "You will be discreet? Au revoir!"
He turned on his heel, but immediately returned.
"I forgot. One word of advice."
"Well?"
"Revolutions strike only among the steeples. Take my advice: renounce
publicity and remain obscure."
"But I had rather die in this age than live through another."
"Well, my duty's done," Dossonville answered, shrugging his shoulders.
Then repeating to himself Barabant's last response, he added, "That
sounds well; food for the mob; put it down."
And without more ado, he left him as delighted as though he had just
been elected to the National Convention.
III
CITOYENNE NICOLE
Toward six o'clock the next morning, when la Mère Corniche and her
broom alone were stirring, there appeared at a gabled window that broke
through the crust of the roofs, the figure of a young girl, who, after
a glance down at the quiet courtyard and the windows void of life,
remained to give the final touches to a scattering of golden hair.
The air was still young, and in the skies the multifarious tints of the
dawn had not quite faded as the burly sun bobbed up among the distant
chimney-tops. She ensconced herself in the window, running her hands
with indolent movements through the meshes as though reluctant to leave
the flash and play of the sun amid its lusters. She was young and
pretty, and she knew it, and, with a frank enjoyment, she let the long
locks slip through her fingers or brought them caressingly against her
cheek.
Though from her figure she could not have been more than eighteen, yet
in the poise of her head and in the subtile smile, full of grace and
piquancy, there showed the coquetry of the woman who plans to please
the masculine eye.
Suddenly she sprang back, leaving the window vacant. A moment later
there emerged opposite the thoughtful face of Barabant. Unaware of her
proximity, he swept the courtyard with an indifferent look, and drawing
from his pocket the three sous that alone remained to him, he fell into
a deep meditation.
Presently the sprightly eyes and mischievous profile of the girl
returned, cautiously, as though awaiting a challenge. Then, as in the
abstraction of his mood he continued to be oblivious to her presence,
she advanced to fuller view.
Gradually her curiosity became excited by an evident conflict in his
moods. At one moment he pulled a long, somber face, and at the next
he lapsed into laughter. As human nature cannot endure in silence the
spectacle of someone laughing to himself, the girl, unable longer to
restrain her interest, called to him with that melody which is natural
to the voice of a maiden:
"Well, citoyen, are you going to laugh or cry?"
At her banter, Barabant started up so suddenly that one of the sous
which he had been regarding meditatively slipped from his fingers,
bounded on the roof, rolled along the gutter, and disappeared in the
water-hole.
"Diable! there goes my dinner!"
"How so?" the girl said, repressing her laugh at his long face.
"I had three; one for lunch, one for dinner, and one for some purchases
I intend to make."
"Dame! citoyen, three are not many sous."
Barabant drew himself up proudly. "Plenty, after to-night."
"When your banker returns?"
"Exactly."
"And I have made you lose your dinner: a bad beginning for neighbors,
Citoyen--?"
"Citoyen Eugène Barabant. Citoyenne--?"
"Nicole."
"Nicole--?"
"Heavens, isn't Nicole enough? One name is all we need; besides, it
would take me too long to find out the other."
As she said this, she smiled so unaffectedly that Barabant, forgetting
the pangs of hunger, looked on admiringly.
"You are a philosopher, Nicole. And what do you do--if it is not
indiscreet to ask?"
She understood perfectly the hesitancy, but laughed without a trace of
disconcertion.
"Oh, I work hard; I am a bouquetière. Which reminds me, I must be off
to the flower-market."
However, she lingered a moment. "And you, citoyen?"
"Traveler," Barabant said, with a superb wave of his hand, and then
exploded in laughter at the thought. "Citoyenne, tell me something."
"Speak."
"Have you ever fasted a day?"
"Hundreds of times."
"If you have but one meal in sight, when is the best time to take it?"
"In the middle of the day; something may happen before dinner."
Barabant made a wry face.
"Seriously, how much have you?"
He held up the two sous.
"Two sous, and you speak of buying a meal,--a crumb of bread!"
"Perhaps," Barabant admitted, "meal is an exaggeration."
"Come, you are a good fellow," Nicole said, nodding approvingly. "You
have the right spirit. I have made you lose one dinner; it is only
right that I should make reparation. Will you lunch with me?"
To her amusement, he drew up proudly at the thought of accepting a
favor from her. She smiled at this show of pride, liking it, but
trusting in the bloom and charm of her youth to defeat it. She did not
trust in vain. After a brief conflict which showed clearly the weak
surrender, he ended by smiling in turn.
"Only," he cried, "I accept it as a loan."
"Heavens! but I didn't intend to pay, myself," she protested, well
pleased with her victory. "If you think dinners are to be had only for
pay you are not a Parisian yet."
"In that case, I accept."
"Meet me, then, at eleven o'clock, Place de la République, Citoyen
Barabant."
"I shall be there an hour ahead!"
At the door of the next room she called, "Louison!" drumming quietly
with her fingers. Receiving no answer, she entered. The bed was vacant,
undisturbed. Without surprise, and with even a certain satisfaction at
being freed from the company of her friend, she passed down and out
into the streets on her way to the Marché des Fleurs.
As she went, with many an energetic toss of her head interspersed
with pensive smiles, she turned over in her mind the impressions of
her first encounter, with the confidence of the woman who at the
first exchange of glances feels her power. He had shown his admiration
without timidity, which would have been vexatious, or forwardness,
which would have been unendurable. She liked his show of pride, and
more that he had yielded before the temptation of her eyes. That
tribute sent her straying into the thousand and one pleasurable paths
with which her ardent imagination filled the future.
At the flower-markets her preoccupation was so evident that she
was compelled to run the fire of banter. She bore the ordeal with
equanimity, hurrying away with buoyant step and eyes alert, impatient
for the morning to pass.
She passed along the boulevards, disposing of her cockades among
regular customers, until at length she arrived at her destination, the
Café Procopé. There, mounted on a chair, a short, roly-poly ragamuffin,
with bloated, pouter cheeks and squinting, almond eyes, was reading the
morning bulletins in such thunderous tones that one readily divined
the crier of carriages, whose voice had been trained in the battle of
street sounds.
Among those assembled at the tables, she directed her way to where a
gruff, gaunt man, sunk in a capacious redingote, was heralding her
approach with a look of welcome.
"Good morning, Papa Goursac," she said, slipping into a waiting seat.
"Here's your cockade,--the best, as usual!"
"There, take your drink," he answered, showing her the glass. He roused
himself from his attitude of whimsical inspection, turning to her a
look that belied the stern voice. "Well, and what luck to-day?"
"The best," she said, showing him her lightly laden basket.
"Of course you did not notice the new lodger," said Goursac,
scornfully. His bushy eyebrows and looming beak seemed so grim that
Nicole with difficulty suppressed a laugh.
"Indeed," she said, pretending ignorance to plague him, "is there a new
lodger?"
"Yes, but he's a doctor, old as I am, so he'll not interest you."
"What a bad humor you are in," she said, enjoying his wrath. "As though
you did not interest me!"
"You know what I mean."
Aware of his suspicious scrutiny, she continued. "What a pity! Why
couldn't he have been a young fellow? Ah, mon Dieu, what time is it?"
"Why do you want to know?" growled Goursac. "Whom are you going to
meet?"
"The old doctor, of course," she answered, laughing as she escaped.
As she passed in front, the ragamuffin was still roaring the news.
"Heavens, Jambony," she cried, "there is no need to let the foreigners
know what is taking place!"
"Citoyenne, you exaggerate," the carriage-crier answered; "I am only
whispering."
"Then, my dear Jambony, just think your thoughts. I am sure they will
be loud enough!"
In great good humor, she began to work her way in the direction of the
wrecked Bastille, and perhaps from the very elevation of her spirits,
good luck quickly emptied her basket. Thus freed, she lapsed into the
spectator, flattening her nose against the shop-windows or drifting
lazily from knot to knot of discussion.
All at once, when she was wandering from the thoroughfares among a
tangle of silent, murky alleys, a child's scream brought her to an
attentive halt. The cries redoubled. Without a thought of personal
danger, she plunged recklessly down the alley in the direction of the
appeals. Under the bulging shadow of a balcony a girl was struggling in
the clutches of a mountebank, while, from a box on the ground, a monkey
was adding its shrill chatter to the broil.
At Nicole's charge the man released the girl with an oath and sprang
back against the wall. At the sight of the shriveled-parchment face and
the familiar leer Nicole burst out, in astonishment:
"Ah, Cramoisin, I might have known it was you!" She replaced in her
belt the knife she had drawn, facing him with the whips of her scorn.
"Women are too strong for you, then! You must match your strength with
children. Bravo! my brave fellow, you are the victor at last. Wait
until I sing your praises. You shall become famous, tamer of children!"
"Vixen!" shrieked the mountebank, stung to words by her gadding. He
shook a lean fist at her, crying, "Thy turn'll come!"
"And I who thought you were pining away for love of me!" she continued
mercilessly. "Fickle Cramoisin! There, be off, be off, do you hear, or
I shall be tempted to chastise you!"
Cramoisin, not disdaining the offer of retreat, slung his mountebank's
box on his back and scurried off, the ape on his shoulder chattering
back at them with communicated fear.
Nicole turned. A slip of a girl, half child, half savage, was regarding
her from round, wolfish eyes, shrinking against the wall. "There,
there, ma petite," she said, "there is nothing to cry about. That
Cramoisin is as weak as a leaf; you could have pushed him over with a
finger. And your knife?"
The girl, still sobbing, shook her head.
"Heavens! child, you are not fit to be abroad. There, stop crying, I
tell you. I do not like to hear it." But perceiving that the girl was
thoroughly unnerved, she abandoned her note of command, and, enveloping
her with her arm, said gently: "Come, mon enfant, I promise you there
is nothing more to fear. Cramoisin is as much afraid of me as the fat
Louis of the Citoyen Marat. I'll take you under my protection. You are
nothing but a child; no wonder the brute has frightened you. Come,
what's your name?"
"Geneviève."
"How old?"
"Fifteen."
"But that is almost a woman! Why, I am but eighteen. One must be gay,
that is all, and have a bit of a temper."
Seeing that the girl was recovering, she continued for a while her
light tone. "And where do you live?"
"38 Rue Maugout."
"Impossible! Since when?"
"Two months."
"How curious! And I have never noticed you."
"I am not very big."
"Bah, you are big enough and old enough, only you need some hints.
See there!" With a deft hand she drew in the dress over the hips and
loosened it at the throat. "You have really a good figure, but you
don't know it. You must be coquette before you can be a woman. In
future I'll keep an eye on you. Where do you sleep?"
"In the cellar."
"I thought so. Sleep with me to-night, then; there's room enough. All
right now? I must be going."
Geneviève caught her hand and covered it with kisses.
"There, kiss my cheek," Nicole said, affected by her display of
gratitude. "What a baby! You shall stay with me. Until to-night, then."
All at once she remembered her engagement, and on the moment,
forgetting the new partnership so lightly contracted, she hurried away,
with such good will that she arrived exactly on time. As this was not
to her liking, she screened herself in the crowd, seeking Barabant. She
found him soon, approaching, still immersed in his projected article
and betraying his preoccupation by such scowls and sudden gestures that
the passers-by would have taken him for demented had not the spectacle
been one familiar to their eyes.
"Ah, mon Dieu!" Nicole said to herself, "I thought I'd found a man, and
he turns out a philosopher. Also, he does not seem very much occupied
in looking for me!"
She stepped forward to meet him, saying mischievously: "Well, have you
settled the affairs of the nation? What furor on an empty stomach,
Citoyen Eugène!"
Barabant returned to earth quickly, not a little ashamed at the flights
of his imagination, and his laugh betrayed his discomfiture as he said:
"It helps one to forget the vacancy."
Nicole leading the way, they hurried through the thronged streets,
scenting at every step the inviting odor of soups and stews, until they
arrived at a large tavern, or brasserie, around which was a thick crowd
struggling for admission.
"Have you heard of Santerre?" Nicole said. "A very wise man who has
discovered that the seat of popularity lies in the stomach."
"The Romans placed all the affections there."
"Ah, you've had an education," Nicole said, with a new respect.
"There's Santerre."
Before the entrance a huge mass of a man, boisterous in his hospitality
and his laughter, was distributing enormous hand-shakes.
Nicole saluted him with evident familiarity.
"I have brought you a patriot to dinner, citoyen!"
Santerre winced a bit and grumbled:
"Eh, Nicole, and you have brought yourself along."
"Vive Santerre!" the girl cried, with a laugh. "Citoyen Barabant has
just arrived, and the first thing he asked was to see the famous leader
of the Faubourg St. Antoine."
"At lunch-time, of course," said Santerre, with a shrug. "Pass in and
eat."
Nicole seized Barabant by the hand and entered the restaurant, already
crowded with the self-invited guests of the leader's ready hospitality.
They found a corner table and settled down to a quiet inspection of the
noisy room.
Masons, carters, and laborers preponderated, while a smattering of
young lawyers and journalists circulated from table to table, with
ready hand-shakes, to take up the conversation or clink a glass in
toasts to the dozen subjects most in favor. Above the din of plates and
cutlery, cutting the hum of voices, the toasts emerged sharply.
"To the Bonnets Rouges!"
"To the good Sans-Culottes!"
"À bas les Tyrans!"
"Vive la Constitution!"
"Vive Santerre!"
"Long life to our host!"
At times the Carmagnole, at times some popular ballad of the day, would
start from a corner, and gathering headway, would gradually run through
the noise of the room until, absorbing all other sounds, it ended in a
gale. Whereupon there would be a clatter of knives and glass, shouts of
"Bravo!" laughter, and more drinking.
Barabant was too susceptible a nature not to respond to the magnetism
of such surroundings. His look regained all its ardor of the morning,
until Nicole regarded him with a new interest. He had the long, narrow
forehead of the period, marked with thoughtfulness and curiosity. The
nose was high-bridged, the nostrils were sensitive and dilating with
emotion. The gray eyes were shrewd, kind, gay, and noting, with the
mobility and charm of the enthusiast, but, in their repose, without
that impress of authority and earnestness of purpose which give to the
man of imagination the genius of leadership.
"Come, citoyen," Nicole said, at the end of her inspection, "tell me
something about yourself. I am filled with curiosity."
"Ma foi, Nicole," Barabant answered, "it's not much. I was at
Fontainebleau; I'm now in Paris. I had an uncle who disapproved of my
ideas; he showed me the door, I declared his goods confiscate, and
here I am, not a bit depressed,--with but one debt," he added as an
afterthought.
"Debts are aristocratic; renounce them."
"The trouble is, I can't rid myself of the creditor, though I pay him
over and over."
Nicole raised her glance in surprise, but Barabant added, smiling, "It
is my stomach, and a persistent creditor he is."
Nicole laughed gaily. "There, touch hands," she cried. "You are the
philosopher." Persisting in her inquiry, she continued encouragingly:
"You have a father?"
Barabant smiled. "And a mother, too. And now no more questions, Nicole,
for I shall refuse them."
She drew back with a little movement of pique, but yielding to her
natural moods, she lifted her eyebrows and, with her charming smile,
said with frankness:
"Ah, you are legitimate, then. I have only a mother; that is to say, I
had. She is dead now. I don't remember her. God rest her soul."
A little movement of superstition passed over her face and she crossed
herself. "My father was a sergeant of the line, so they tell me." She
threw out the palms of her hands. "Who knows? It might as well be a
rag-picker, or a prince, for all the good it does me."
"Diable!" Barabant exclaimed, regarding her more closely. "You don't
seem to be cast down."