the intention of visiting the Convention. Her step, that a year ago
would have been confounded with the hum of life, now echoed down the
quiet streets without interruption. Her eye, that once flashed so
alertly through the curious crowd, passed with the indifference of
habit down the deserted vista, and returned into the fixity of mental
abstraction. The passers-by were rare; those who hung on the windows
screened themselves. At a few doorways groups of emaciated children
watched her progress, eyeing her basket with wolfish eyes. A year had
brought but slight change in her. She still retained the bloom of
youth, but her glance was more pensive. She was no longer gipsy or
girl. A certain thoughtfulness had succeeded, elusive and arch, that
told of the awakened imagination.
Twice on her way a band of police enveloping a prisoner passed, as
passes a whirlwind over the stretches of the desert. Nicole gave them
but a casual glance; such of the inhabitants as the familiar fall
of feet brought to the windows retired indifferently, the prisoners
themselves stoically adding their resignation to the monotony of the
scene.
On the thoroughfares knots of Tapedures, the ruffians of the Terror,
became frequent, stalking the town, beating the streets for their human
game. Occasionally she met a bill-poster affixing the latest decree
of the Republic--violent notes, in blue, violet, yellow, or red, that
splashed the walls on every side. About the bakeries and butcher-shops
knots of beggars were assembled, often reclining on the ground,
watching with dreary, troubled glances those havens of food, ready to
battle for a scrap of refuse.
A mother from a distant quarter, drifting from shop to shop, halted
before such a group with a timid inquiry. From the loiterers, watching
with confident indifference, a hag, extending her shriveled arm,
shouted sarcastically:
"Welcome, citoyenne. You want something to eat? Take it; take it. We
are so tired of eating meat in this section--nothing but beef and
mutton and venison and pheasants here, morning and night. We get
tired of that sort of thing in the end, you know. You were right to
come here; see how well fed we are, how sleek! Don't believe him, his
cellars are full of meat. It's rotting away. No one to eat it!"
From the fasting hags a rumble, rather than a laugh, went up. The woman
who had covered perhaps half of Paris melted into a storm of sobs,
beseeching a crust or a bone for the sake of her children. Then the
hag, her raillery changing to anger, burst out:
"And we, have we no children? Are we not mothers, too? Hark to the
woman: she thinks she's the only one to be pitied! Be off! Leave us in
peace with your eternal wailings!"
At other times, women from the quarter itself, returning from a
scouring of the markets, would awaken a sudden flame of interest.
"What luck?"
"What did you get?"
"Bread?"
"Meat?"
The scouts always denied success. Then a chorus arose:
"She's hiding it!"
"Show us your basket!"
"Eh, and under your dress!"
Once, in the Rue St. Honoré, a slip of a girl had almost freed herself
of the questioning crowd, when a lean dog with a sharp nose bounded,
sniffing, to her side. There was a quick turning in the crowd, and the
nearest woman, leaping to her feet, shouted hysterically:
"I smell dried fish!"
The next moment, up the street a scuttling speck fled before a frenzied
cloud from which shot out white arms and grasping hands.
Through such mad scenes of famine, Nicole arrived at the Hall of the
Convention; where, being early, she entered the Tuileries to await the
arrival of Barabant.
The gardens that once resounded with the hum of life, that once
were gay with the swish of many colors, were now brown with the
uninterrupted stretch of earth, rustling with the pervading sigh of
leaves. Already in the trees, in the air, and in the tired soil was
the melancholy of the parting season. Each breath that disturbed the
branches, however slightly, set free a caravansary of fluttering
leaves, and the leaves were sear.
She seated herself on a bench and abandoning the basket and clasping
her knee, watched the whirling leaves heap themselves about her feet.
One or two poised on her shoulder, in her hair, without her heeding
them. Presently Goursac, also on his way to the Convention, joined her.
"This is the work of the cursed Montagne!" he said grimly, viewing the
desolate gardens. "And yet Javogues is not satisfied. He would turn it
into a cemetery!"
"Listen, my friend," she said earnestly. "If the Girondins fall, you
will not stay to sacrifice your life to Javogues?"
"Do you think that I, a Girondin, would fly from that rascal!" he cried
indignantly. "He works in the dark; he is incapable of striking in the
open."
"And if the Girondins fall?" she persisted. But he refused to entertain
the suggestion.
"This reminds me," he said, with a sweep of his arm, "of the time we
were here a year ago. Do you remember?"
She nodded.
"Well," he said brusquely, "are you happy?"
"Yes."
"As happy as you thought?"
"No," she said slowly, "but it is my fault. The fault of my position,
if you wish. I am jealous!"
"Of Louison?"
"No! Of what may happen."
"Why shouldn't he marry you?" he said angrily.
"Because I have not asked him," she answered wearily. "And because I
would not have it."
"Why?"
"Because I love him, my friend," she said in rebuke. "And because a
waif of the streets does not marry a man of education and position
unless she wishes to drag him down."
Goursac, to her surprise, leaned over and patted her hand; then, as
though ashamed to have shown such tenderness, he added gruffly:
"That is the only thing that can make you happy."
She did not deny it.
"I know what you have passed through."
She shook her head incredulously.
"It is but the history of womankind," he said laconically.
She took a leaf that had fallen on her hair and tore it slowly to
shreds.
"Yes," he continued, warming to the subject, "you but resume in a
year what woman has struggled for throughout the centuries. What is
marriage but the instinct of self-preservation? Who imagined the bond?
The weaker being, woman; and all the advances up the social scale have
resulted from her silent striving toward equality with man. Without
marriage you are a slave at the mercy of an angry word or a hostile
mood; a slave who, in her search for security, must learn, without
tears or show of fatigue, to render herself indispensable to the man."
Nicole rose abruptly, frowning, and with nervous fingers; but
immediately she reseated herself with a forced laugh.
Presently, seeing that he had said more than he should have, he
withdrew, leaving her immersed in the reverie his words had awakened.
Goursac had guessed truly. What womankind has endured, she had begun
from the bottom. The instinct of self-preservation within her had
awakened the immense intuitions that in the silent, enduring conflict
of the sexes alike direct the wife, the mistress, and the outcast. She
had studied Barabant, seeking the needs of his temperament, discovering
his faults, and leading him to gradual dependence on her. Her
imagination awoke. She saw the peril of mere domestic companionship.
Where at first she had belittled the force of passionate love, she had
come to realize its necessity and the need of constantly provoking his
curiosity. She hid her thoughts from him, making of herself a mystery,
employing that coquetry which, to the seeing eye, has at the bottom
nothing but pathos. She had loved as a child. She had become an actress.
But in her heart of jealousy and doubt she knew well all her artifices
could avail no longer than her youth. In marriage alone was peace and
security. The daring of the thought frightened her. She knew it to be
beyond her lot, nor in her devotion to Barabant would she have it so,
but each day the dream returned, as from a pit one sees a star, or from
a wreck the beacon on the forbidden shore.
Barabant found her lost in reverie, the leaves again unnoticed on her
shoulders.
"The effect is pretty," he said, smiling down at her.
"On whom the leaves fall and rest, the earth will fall before the year
is out," Nicole said. "That's the superstition."
"Nicole, I forbid you to say such things," he cried sharply. "They hurt
me, and you know it!"
Satisfied with this evidence of his affection, she sprang up, brushing
away the leaves, and saying with a smile:
"There, they have no power now."
"You are early."
"Yes; I was a little melancholy; I wanted to reflect. The gardens are
delightful for that."
"I do not find them so."
"The mood is gone, now that you are here." She took his arm, smiling
up into his face. They strolled through the alleys of chestnut and
maple, Nicole drawing her skirt across her, placing her feet daintily,
shaking her head in pretended anger as from time to time a leaf
fluttered against her cheek.
"And the Girondins, mon ami? You have told me nothing of them."
"It grows worse and worse for them. The Jacobins are relentless."
"Don't identify yourself too much with them, then."
"But that is cowardice."
"No. If the Girondins fall, all the more will the Nation need the
Moderates," Nicole answered anxiously, for her one dread was of his
impulsive nature. "Why play into the hands of our enemies?"
Leaving the gardens, they entered the Place de la Revolution. The vast
square that had swarmed with the multitude on the day of the execution
of the king was devoid of movement, except where a few curious,
wandering toward the emplacement of the absent guillotine, streaked
like insects across the placid expanse.
Nearing the plaster statue of Liberty, Nicole was attracted by the lank
figure of a man.
"Look over there," she said, drawing Barabant's attention. "Wouldn't
you say that it was Dossonville?"
"There's a little resemblance."
"Much."
Barabant, who continued to study the figure, exclaimed:
"Really, the resemblance is striking!"
At this moment the man, turning, disclosed indeed the familiar
features, while the well-known voice cried:
"Mordieu! It is Nicole and my little orator Barabant! Well, what's the
matter? Touch hands!"
For Nicole, with a movement of superstition, had crossed herself, while
Barabant, stock-still, remained staring stupidly at the apparition,
until he was able to blurt out:
"What, it is you! Then you're not dead."
"Not even once!" he cried, slapping his hand emphatically across his
chest. "I give you my word, it is not true! Come, feel of me. Is this
the arm or the chest of a specter?"
"Still, I saw you," exclaimed Nicole, unable to reconcile the fact to
her memory--"I saw you at the gate of the Abbaye--"
"My dear girl," Dossonville responded, with much good humor, "believe
me, I am not dead; and, what's more, I never have been dead that I
remember."
"But--"
"Mordieu, Nicole! are you determined to exterminate me?" Dossonville
cried. "Let us reason. You saw me at the gate, but you didn't see me
cut down, did you?"
"No."
"Then I reject your theory."
The three burst out laughing, until Dossonville suddenly exclaimed:
"But come, Louison must have told you."
"Louison!" echoed Barabant and Nicole, more and more amazed.
"Extraordinary woman! She can even keep a secret then!" Dossonville
cried. "Why, it was Louison who found me in the crowd and piloted me to
safety."
He recounted shortly the events of his escape, adding, as he extended
his arm in a sweeping embrace of the horizon:
"And here I have lain concealed. I don't say where; the secret is too
good. For ten months I lay like a rat. For the last two I have gone out
only after midnight. To-day is the first trip into the blessed sun."
"Do you dare to risk it even now?" Barabant cried.
"Yes, now. Everything is arranged," he answered carelessly. "It was a
little long coming, but it came."
But suddenly Nicole, remembering, exclaimed: "Barabant, you must warn
him that Javogues is back."
"Back!" Dossonville repeated. "When did he leave?"
Barabant, in his turn, recounted the arrest and disappearance of the
Marseillais, concluding:
"He reappeared with the rise of the Terrorists."
"Aïe, aïe!" Dossonville cried, having followed the recital with
interest; "I cannot say that the situation is pleasant for the Citoyen
Goursac."
A shadow passed over the brow of the young man, and he answered
bitterly:
"I was a fool. We should have crushed the monster when we had him."
"There's good in him."
"What! You say it?"
"He wanted to cut my throat," Dossonville replied; "but that's nothing.
He is sincere. It is true, from his point of view, there are not three
men who should be alive in France to-day; but that is only a prejudice.
I am keeping you; where are you bound?"
"To the Convention."
"Always a Girondin?"
"Well," Barabant answered doubtfully, "the Girondins had their chance,
and they could not control the Convention."
"I say it's their own fault if they fall," Nicole interjected hastily.
"Nicole, you are right," Dossonville replied. "Moreover, they are
about to lose their heads." He drew his finger across his neck. "In a
political party, that's a grave failing."
"What, guillotine the Girondins!" Barabant exclaimed. "Guillotine
Vergniaud, Brissot,--they would never dare!"
"Bah! you look upon it too seriously," Dossonville retorted. "What is
the guillotine? Simply a vote of censure. But Louison--where can I find
her?"
"At the Prêtre Pendu," Nicole answered. "You'll find her there about
noon. That is, if there is no execution this afternoon."
"The Prêtre Pendu? Don't know it."
"It opened lately in the Rue Maugout, opposite No. 38."
"You call it--"
"The Prêtre Pendu."
"Charming!"
"I warn you, Javogues will be there."
"You are positive?"
"Absolutely."
"Good. Then I'll set out at once."
II
DOSSONVILLE EARNS A KISS
Dossonville, taking the river bank, proceeded with many inquiring
halts, inhaling the air and sunshine in full breaths. He strolled into
the halles, where the stalls, in state of siege, extended in long,
deserted barracks; no buying, no selling, no provisions, only in the
shadows the same clusters of limp basking beggars, slumbering with one
ear alert.
As he languidly pursued his way, a door at his side was flung violently
open and a man bearing on his back an enormous side of beef scurried
across the place toward a butcher-shop, the door of which swung open
to receive him. Instantly, with a hue and cry from every corner, there
was a swift leaping of famished men, women, and children. Before
Dossonville could leap aside he was caught in the rush, elbowed,
buffeted, and thrown off his feet. When again he rose, the butcher
was buried under a mound of ravenous humanity, thirty feet from his
destination, while the square was obscured with the multitude that
battled over the shreds of meat which came up from the bottom of the
heap.
Hardly had he extricated himself from the tangle when, in the Place de
la Bastille, a group of savage boys, pursuing a dog with a bone, swept
by him, snatching at the fleeing animal, unmindful of its anger. One
hand at last, more fortunate than the others, closed over the brute,
and the human children tore the bone from the beast. Pursuing now a
haggard boy, they returned in a cloud, panting, with famine-inflamed
eyes, while the lean, infuriated brute at their heels struck with angry
jaws into the pack.
Beset on every side by troops of children too weak to extend their
hands, Dossonville arrived at the Rue Maugout, readily recognizing the
Cabaret of the Prêtre Pendu by its figure of a priest, which, swinging
from a miniature gibbet, advertised the republican principles of the
host.
Seeing no one before the entrance of No. 38, he penetrated into the
inner room of the cabaret, where, the two or three groups occupied with
cards being unknown to him, he exchanged salutations with the hostess,
asking genially:
"Your husband, citoyenne, I hope, is frying me a bit of steak?"
"My man's with the army."
"A patriot, then."
"And there's no meat."
"An omelet will do."
"No eggs, no fish, no vegetables."
"Diable! that leaves nothing but bread and cheese."
"No bread, no cheese!"
"Mordieu, what am I going to lunch on?"
"Soup."
"Ah!" Dossonville nodded, with understanding. "True! As long as the
material world exists, soup is possible. Well, soup be it, citoyenne,
soon and hot."
He passed curiously to the card-players, for his ear had caught such
strange expressions as these:
"I play the Liberty of Marriage."
"I the Genius of Peace."
"The Equality of Rank."
"Liberty of the Press."
"Taken by the Genius of Arts."
Dossonville, much perplexed, moved to a survey of the pack. He found
the Monarchs indeed dethroned; the Kings succeeded by the Geniuses
of War, Commerce, Peace, and the Arts; the Queens replaced by the
Liberties of Faith, Professions, Marriage, and the Press. The Knaves
themselves, as though suspected of royalistic tendencies, had yielded
to the Equalities of Duties, Color, Rights, and Rank.
"The sentiment is perfect," he murmured to himself, "perfect, but
perplexing."
The hostess appearing with a capacious bowl, he returned to his corner,
where he contemplated the soup with that respect and curiosity which a
Parisian gives to a dish of which he has not had the making. He stirred
it doubtfully, and at the first taste drew a long face.
"Tonnerre de Dieu! They've put the aristocrats in the soup," he
grumbled. "However, being good patriots, we must eat it."
He was bending over the bowl, when a shadow darkened the open doorway,
and with the fragrant scent of flowers came the voice of Louison,
chanting:
"Cockades, patriots; cockades, my Sans-Culottes. The last ones I have
been able to save for you."
She passed among them, calling to them by name, tapping them on the
shoulders, but receiving nothing but banter.
"Are they good to eat--your cockades?"
"As a salad, nothing is better." Taking up the idea, she repeated
laughingly: "Buy my salads, citoyens; buy my patriotic salads!"
Wishing to enjoy her surprise, Dossonville kept silent, leaning
forward, his chin in his palm, smiling expectantly. Thus Louison
discovered him. The very slightest look of astonishment passed over her
face, a fugitive amazement that she immediately controlled.
"Louison, you are discretion itself," Dossonville said approvingly, his
smile extending to a grin as he stretched forth his hand. "If ever the
Revolution places women in power (and what is impossible to-day?), I'll
recommend you for Minister of Foreign Affairs."
"Citoyen, citoyen, you are mad to enter this place," Louison cried. "Do
you not know that this is the headquarters of Javogues?"
"I know it; but see you, Louison, that animal is so stupid."
Divining that despite his careless manner he was fortified against the
encounter, she relaxed and said more calmly:
"Really, I didn't expect that you'd escape."
"My dear Louison, it is not so difficult."
"In these days it is."
"A man has as many lives as a cat," he said ironically. "It is the
imagination that is lacking."
As though to put this theory to the test, a voice jarred upon the
stillness, crying:
"Where is the spy?"
The next instant the cabaret was thrown into turmoil as Javogues, at
the head of three or four companions, rushed in.
"Good day, citoyen," Dossonville's cool voice was heard saying above
the uproar, "and how goes it with you since we parted last?"
Guided by his voice, Javogues precipitated himself toward his enemy,
but as his hand shot forth it stopped in mid-air, and he fell back in
astonishment.
Dossonville, never losing his poise, with an imperceptible movement of
his hand had rolled back the lapel of his redingote, disclosing on his
breast the shield of an agent de sûreté.
"Impossible!" Javogues exclaimed, recoiling. "You an agent de sûreté!
It's a counterfeit!"
Dossonville checked the second rush as coolly as the first. His hand
went into his breast pocket and withdrew a document, which he tendered
to Javogues on the tips of his fingers, saying:
"Read, and grow wise."
The Marseillais passed it to a companion, who shook his head and passed
it to a third, who read in a piping voice:
OFFICE OF THE COMMITTEE OF SAFETY
The Citoyen Santerre having appeared before us and established the
alibi of the Citoyen Dossonville on the day of the Tenth of August,
we declare the Citoyen Dossonville innocent of all suspicion.
Furthermore, as it appears he refused to disclose the nature of
the secret mission, in the interests of the Nation, on which he
was engaged, even at the risk of his life, we declare the Citoyen
Dossonville a patriot who deserves the gratitude of his country.
We further appoint the said Citoyen Dossonville agent de sûreté,
with the following powers--
"The rest is quite technical," Dossonville interrupted. He turned
to Javogues, who, thus robbed of his dearest vengeance, remained
transfixed with stupor. "You see, Citoyen Javogues, you cannot always
tell a traitor by the look in his eyes."
Stung by the taunt, Javogues advanced furiously:
"It's a lie," he cried. "It's another of his tricks. The paper is a
forgery." Then turning to his companions, he shouted: "Don't let him
out of your sight until I return!"
Dossonville, erect and solemn, checked him sternly:
"Enough! Enough, citoyen, do you hear? What you have done I
forgive--but go no further! An act such as you contemplate is a
defiance of the Nation. I represent the Nation. Citoyen Javogues, I
warn you, at the next attack you make against me I'll have you on the
scaffold within twenty-four hours."
Javogues, impressed despite himself, found no encouragement in the
faces of his comrades. He turned on his heel and went dejectedly toward
the door. There he wheeled, and shaking his fist, cried:
"Dossonville, if I am not to hate you, arrest me, guillotine me at
once. For, as long as I live, it is war between you and me! If you want
me, you'll find me here, at five."
Dossonville remained a moment pensive and erect.
"Mordieu!" he exclaimed at last, "the fellow is genuine. Devil take me
if I can help liking him." Then turning to Louison, who had followed
him with fascinated eyes, he said: "As for you, ma belle, I owe you
everything. To begin with, I swear an eternal love."
And, taking her in his arms, he kissed her on the cheek, and then sat
down.
In a moment the room was swept of its terrified guests, while the
proprietress, disappearing through a back door, left the memory of a
red stocking.
Louison, at the familiarity, recoiled, while anger like a blast from an
oven inflamed her face. Her hand stole to her bosom, and with a sudden
movement she hid a knife behind her. Dossonville, feigning ignorance,
appeared engrossed in the selection of a cockade from the abandoned
basket. But as the girl in her passion leaped at him, he sprang aside,
whipped out his sword, and flung himself behind a table.
Then, those without, flattening their noses against the window or
peering through the doorway, beheld a furious combat between them; the
man, always cool and alert, checking the rushes of the girl with the
point of his sword, turning, retreating, or advancing as his assailant,
with the rapidity of a bird, flew from point to point, darting,
feinting, or striking for an opening. Meanwhile above the scuffle and
the patter of feet the voice of Dossonville rose imperturbably in
running comment:
"Hoop-là, parried! A little more to the left and you had me. Mordieu,
who'd have thought a pretty woman would resent a kiss? Such a fraternal
kiss, too, so full of gratitude! Perhaps that's the trouble; you never
can tell with a woman. What now?"
Bounding on the table, the girl without a pause leaped full at him.
"Bravo! That's a jump for you. What a woman! Louison, you are splendid.
Dame, what fury! À toi!"
Hard pressed with the recklessness of her attacks, he threatened her
throat so closely that, with the slightest stiffening of his arm, he
would have run her through.
"A life for a life! there's gratitude for you!"
From outside they cried to him offers of help.
"Never; any man that interferes, I'll shoot down. This little affair is
between us,--eh, Louison? What now?"
He sprang away, barely avoiding a chair hurled to break down his guard.
"That was well imagined. Mille diables, what a woman--and not a sound!
Louison, I adore you already. Louison, my dear, do you believe in
another life? If you would only guarantee me another, I'd give you this
out of courtesy,--only then I couldn't adore you. What energy! If you
are getting tired, Louison, rest a while."