the memory of Louison. Since his encounter, the mystery of her birth
had continually teased his imagination. The terror of la Mère Baudrier
when Louison had announced the discovery of her father, and again the
mother's strange rendezvous in the Square de la Bastille, suggested
such an unusual solution, without offering a clue, that his mind
returned again and again to the problem.
In another corner, Sans-Chagrin, late in his cups, disputed with the
host upon the value of religion, while Le Corbeau, who by his silence
gained the majority of the decanter, pretended indifference to the
discussion.
"I know what I say," Sans-Chagrin was declaiming. "Religion is a farce
and the Assembly will do well to abolish it!"
"That is not so certain," objected the listener.
"It will come."
"Perhaps--"
"Religion will be abolished! I know what I'm saying. I was a priest
myself."
"Come, now!"
"True. They expelled me. And why? Why? Tell me that."
"Out with it."
"For instituting reforms. Religion is a farce!"
A woman, scenting a story, issued from the door, and leaning on the
shoulder of her husband, said:
"Come, Citoyen Sans-Chagrin, tell us of that."
"I reformed the confessional," Sans-Chagrin began querulously. "Aye,
and it needed it, too. Every day and every hour I had to be disturbed
for a confession. I said to myself, if there's so much wickedness, it's
because the confessional isn't rigid enough. That's logical, isn't it?"
"And what did you do?"
"Only this. I announced that, in future, to avert confusion and to
better impress the penitent with his crime, I would hear confessions
thus:
"On Monday, all the liars.
"On Tuesday, all the misers.
"On Wednesday, all the slanderers.
"On Thursday, all the thieves.
"On Friday, all the libertines.
"On Saturday, all women who lead bad lives."
His listeners burst out laughing, while the woman said, "And no one
came?"
"No one came!" Sans-Chagrin repeated indignantly. "No one came! And the
Church, instead of adopting the reform, expelled me. They said I wanted
to be rid of confessions. What a farce, my friends, what a mockery!"
He spread out his arms in appeal to their judgment, slapped his chest
three times, and fell back loosely in his chair, exclaiming, "Oh, oh,
oh!"
Dossonville, who had lent a moment's amused attention to this farcical
recital, rose and returned to the march, a manoeuver which caused
Sans-Chagrin and Le Corbeau to choke in their haste to empty the
decanter.
They had gone but a short distance when Dossonville's ear caught the
slight rasp of a window opening overhead. Flattening himself against
the wall, he covered his lantern with his cloak, with a whispered
caution to his followers as the window continued to give forth its low
complaint. There was a minute's silence, and then it was drawn shut,
and the slight click of a bolt was heard.
Hearing nothing further, Dossonville finally resumed his walk, but at
the next corner some one muffled in a cloak fell into his arms.
The man, with a dozen pardons, sought to make a detour, but
Dossonville's long arm, shooting out, grasped his shoulder.
"Not so fast, citoyen. There's a little formality we must not forget.
Name and errand?"
The stranger, perceiving him neither to be surrounded with pistols and
knives nor to have a very threatening air, answered:
"Citoyen Clappier, Section des Bonnes Nouvelles. I am hurrying to seek
a doctor."
"Show your card of citizenship, and pass."
"The devil!" the man exclaimed, after a show of searching in his
pockets. "I forgot to take it out of the coat I wore this morning."
"Really, citoyen, you are in bad luck," Dossonville replied. "I shall
be forced to accompany you." He summoned Sans-Chagrin and Le Corbeau
out of the shadow, and gave him into their charge, with a "Lead the
way!" Then he dropped behind, murmuring, "Provided one does not enter
that doctor's by the window."
They journeyed silently for several minutes, until suddenly the three
ahead halted, and Sans-Chagrin, returning, said:
"The citoyen wishes to speak with you."
Dossonville, who had expected this dénouement, had the prisoner brought
to him.
"Well, citoyen, what is it?"
"Citoyen, I ask a moment's private conversation."
"With me?"
"With you alone."
"It is important, then?"
"Very."
"Good!"
Perceiving that their walk had brought them near to their
starting-point, Dossonville led the way to the Café de Valmy, passing
through which, he entered a small room, giving orders to his body-guard
to remain without. Then shutting the door, he straddled a chair, rested
his arms on the back, and with a smile awaited the opening.
"Citoyen Dossonville--" the man began.
"What! You know me?"
"For a long time."
"Indeed!" Dossonville exclaimed, astounded and nonplussed by this
knowledge.
"Citoyen Dossonville," the man continued, "I ask of you one promise. If
I convince you of my patriotism and my citizenship, will you guard my
secret? I ask you as a man of honor."
Dossonville inclined his head.
"Agreed. I promise to keep the secret, on condition that you convince
me of your patriotism--that is, by showing me your true card of
citizenship."
"That will not be necessary."
Throwing back his cloak, he removed a wig and mustaches, discovering to
Dossonville the features of Sanson, the executioner.
"Do you recognize me?"
At this sinister figure, Dossonville recoiled with a movement beyond
his control, but recovering, he exclaimed:
"Pardon."
"It is nothing," Sanson answered flatly. "I am used to it."
"Pardon. What surprises me is this," said Dossonville, hiding his own
emotion. "That you who have been imprisoned for suspected Royalist
interests should expose yourself to suspicion for any cause."
"Have you not guessed my errand?" Sanson said, with a frown.
"Until you disclosed your identity, yes," Dossonville retorted sharply.
"But such adventures do not necessitate a disguise at one o'clock in
the night. Citoyen Sanson, had I met you otherwise, I should have
nothing to say; but disguised and under a false name is different. I
shall have to report it."
Sanson reseated himself.
"For thirty years I have assumed disguises and another name. Do you
need to be told the reason? You yourself gave it but a moment ago,"--he
paused,--"when you recoiled."
"I do not understand," Dossonville said coldly, resolved to push him to
the end. "Explain fully. If I am to risk myself thus, I must know all."
"What you cannot understand--you cannot understand!" Sanson broke out
irritably, while his eyes sought the face of his captor, doubting the
sincerity of the objection. The movement of anger passed; recognizing
the peril of his position, he extended his hand and began in a flat,
monotonous voice:
"Citoyen Dossonville, it is disagreeable, but I cannot make conditions.
Citoyen, I need not tell you that we have always lived apart from
society. As far back as we know, every male of our family, from
father to son, has been of the same profession. All others are barred
to us. Three have tried to bury themselves in the outer world. They
were driven back. Every woman has married an executioner, every man a
daughter of one. The office I hold was given Charles Sanson in the year
1688. My grandfather, my father, and myself have inherited it. It will
descend from son to son, whether King or Republic succeeds. Nothing
will ever change that!"
He paused a moment in distaste before continuing:
"When we appear in public, a space is opened to us. We pass in any
crowd without touching a shoulder. The poor, to whom we give alms,
recoil before our touch. The woman who would speak to us would be cast
out, as a pariah. But no woman, recognizing us, would wish to speak
to us. We had hoped the Revolution would free us from the universal
prejudice--vain hope!" Then, as though he had said enough, he broke off
acridly: "And yet you cannot understand why I disguise myself?"
Dossonville, lost in the strange vista which the recital had opened to
his imagination, did not at once reply.
"And you keep the secret from every one?" he asked at last.
Sanson, perceiving the question was one of personal curiosity, replied
curtly:
"I have said that no woman knowing us has ever spoken to us. I should
have said, except one." He smiled, if the curling of his lips could be
called a smile. "A bouquetière who was with you one day on the Place de
la Revolution."
"The story is on your word alone," Dossonville said, irritated by this
allusion. "It lacks evidence."
"Then you do not remember me?" Sanson said.
Dossonville, startled at the turn, for a moment lost his
self-possession as he strove to penetrate the allusion.
"Citoyen Dossonville, can you recall the Café Procopé about twenty
years ago, and a certain Simon Lajoie who sometimes played a game of
checkers with you in the evening, and who inspired you with a great
deal of curiosity?"
"Perfectly," Dossonville replied, staring at him in perplexity.
"Do you remember that his visits ceased the day your interest prompted
you to follow him from the café?"
"What!" Dossonville cried, rising, and extending his hand in question.
"It was--?"
"It was I."
"Tonnerre de Dieu!"
And falling back, he stared in empty, stupid amazement.
"Are you convinced?"
"I am."
"I hold your promise?"
"Yes."
Sanson readjusted his disguise, while Dossonville sought some pretext
to retain him and make him talk.
"Citoyen, one question."
"Well, what?"
"I should like to know," Dossonville said, "does the popular hatred
affect you?"
Sanson frowned, hesitated, and then answered in two words eloquent with
meaning:
"Not now."
Then, without offering his hand, he turned, saying peremptorily:
"Adieu!"
Sans-Chagrin and Le Corbeau, who would not have allowed the devil
himself to pass without an order, brought him back. Then Dossonville,
springing to his feet, cried:
"Set the Citoyen Clappier free! The Citoyen Clappier is an industrious
patriot!"
V
CRAMOISIN PLOTS AGAINST NICOLE
Cramoisin, since the day of his humiliation before Geneviève, had
vented his spite on Barabant, seeking thus his vengeance on Nicole.
Several times, in measure as the trial of the Girondins neared its end
and it became evident that their condemnation was inevitable, he had
sounded Javogues on the score of Barabant, only to be repulsed with
decided negatives. But each defeat, by feeding fuel to his hatred, only
increased his determination. Convinced, at length, that nothing could
be accomplished for the present through Javogues, he had recourse to la
Mère Corniche, hoping to find in her an ally.
The shrewd little woman was not long in perceiving his intention. So
having sufficiently enjoyed his timid skirmishes, she summoned him
to her early one morning, after the distribution of bread, and said
point-blank:
"Out with it. What do you want to say to me?"
The face of Cramoisin artfully showed surprise.
"Come, old fellow, let us understand each other. You hate Barabant, eh?"
"Barabant is a Girondin," Cramoisin ventured, and then, deceived by her
mood, he plunged on: "He is a Moderate, a contre-Révolutionnaire. He is
against Robespierre and the Jacobins."
"Not a bit," la Mère Corniche interrupted, having now entrapped him.
"He is a follower of the great Marat!"
"Who are you telling that to!" Cramoisin cried contemptuously.
"Hark, old fellow, no airs with me," the concierge retorted sharply.
"The Citoyen Barabant came here with a letter to Marat. I saw it. As
for you, I know what you're after, my fine patriot,--your eyes are on
the girl!"
Cramoisin, now thoroughly alarmed, sought only to retreat.
"Never in the world," he cried indignantly. "Come, mother, you mustn't
wrong a fellow-patriot. I bear no hatred to Barabant. I thought him a
Girondin; he is always with that cursed Goursac. But if you say he's
not, I'm glad to hear it."
"Oui dà, of course you are! You look it," she retorted scornfully.
"Come, get out of my way; leave me in peace, old hypocrite. You don't
fool me an instant. Be off!"
Cramoisin escaped to the cabaret; la Mère Corniche, mumbling to
herself, settled back in her chair; as the distribution of bread ended,
the lodgers issued forth with buckets, to get water from the Seine.
Resolved to put Barabant on his guard, she had stopped him, when, to
her delight, she perceived Cramoisin disappearing into the cabaret in
such pitiful fright that she made a pretext and allowed Barabant to
depart, resolved to prolong for a few days the agony of the terrified
bully.
She began the round of inspection which, at the expense of her
strength, she never failed to accomplish each morning. She passed
through the empty rooms, scenting and prying, fumbling among papers and
garments, viewing one room with a glance, ransacking another for the
taint of aristocracy or the earmarks of a traitor.
Arrived on Barabant's landing, she made a satisfied, careless survey
of the room, entering to rest from her labors. On a chair, in a state
of mending, was the blue redingote the young fellow had worn on his
arrival. More from habit than from suspicion, she ran her fingers
through the pockets, and drew out the paper they encountered. It was
the envelop addressed to Jean Paul Marat.
She regarded it stupidly, contracting her brows, seeking an
explanation, before, with a cry, she tore it open. A sheet, empty and
white, slipped to the floor. La Mère Corniche, overcome by the evidence
of the duplicity, fell back against the wall.
It was five minutes before she could realize how she had been duped.
Then from the miser, and the devotee of Marat, a long howl of rage
broke forth, and clutching the letter, she fell from the landing,
rather than descended the stairs, gained her room, and abandoned
herself to the transports of her rage.
A half-hour later she hobbled forth, white but controlled, to the
entrance, where, perceiving Cramoisin, she cried with a furious gesture:
"Come here."
At this angry summons the Terrorist would have slunk away had not la
Mère Corniche cut off his escape, crying:
"Cramoisin, idiot, imbecile, come here!"
She seized him, trembling at her tone, and impelled him into the
entrance, exclaiming:
"You hate Barabant? Answer me, you hate him!"
"I swear--" he began, when she cut him short: "Fool, I despise him! Do
you hear me? I despise him!"
While Cramoisin remained, with gaping mouth, incapable of words, the
old woman poured out her reviling. At last he asked, in amazement:
"What do you want of me?"
"I want your help to destroy him."
"Then why didn't you say so at first?"
Fearing to be forced into explanations, she abated her fury and more
calmly demanded:
"You have a plan; what is it?"
"It's true?" Cramoisin said, still unconvinced. "You'll join me?"
"I swear it."
"We can't convince Javogues," Cramoisin began, "unless we can make
Nicole betray him."
"But how?"
"Jealousy."
"Jealousy? Is there cause? Do you know anything?"
"What is necessary we can invent."
"She won't believe it."
"She'll believe it when she hears it from three persons," Cramoisin
said, ruffling up his nose and sneering. "A woman'll believe anything
three persons tell her. With Boudgoust and Jambony, we are four."
"Is that your plan?" she cried, in disappointment. "It's stupid,
impossible!"
Cramoisin continued to argue with her its merits; she accorded it a
grunt, then a shake of the head, and finally said:
"Well, yes; it may do. We can try."
"It's agreed, then. We must excite her suspicions,--but nothing
definite."
"What, are you going to give me instructions!" la Mère Corniche cried
irately. "As though I couldn't handle a woman!"
"Touch hands, then; it's agreed?"
"Yes."
"You must speak the first word," he said hurriedly. "It will be
better." Shutting off a reply, he departed, leaving the concierge
scowling and angry.
"Oui dà, I'll speak the first word, old schemer. He doesn't want the
woman to lay it to him, the toad!"
* * * * *
The next morning, as Nicole was leaving for the flower-market, la Mère
Corniche called to her.
"Eh, Nicole, stop a moment." The girl, who feared her, approached
reluctantly.
"You're going to the market?"
"Yes."
"To-morrow is Sunday. I want to put some flowers on the tomb of Marat.
See what is going cheap this morning and tell me."
"Is that all?"
"You must stop from time to time to give me news," continued la Mère
Corniche, taking her hand.
"You know as much as I do."
"You sell flowers every day?"
"Yes."
"Your man doesn't earn enough, then?"
"With the price of food where it is one can't earn too much."
"You are happy?" the old woman asked brusquely.
"Why do you ask that?" Nicole replied, resenting the question.
"There, don't get angry. You may have friends you don't know of." She
released her hand, adding: "If you suspect nothing, I'll say no more."
Penetrating readily the stratagem, Nicole laughed over the encounter,
and, perceiving the bald attempt to rouse her jealousy, she dismissed
the conversation contemptuously from her mind.
Toward midday, however, the insinuation returned, and forgetting
her first attitude, she suffered a little at the very shadow of what
her imagination could conjure up. She ended by again laughing at her
simplicity, nor did her mind recur again to the thought during the day.
That evening, as she passed in front of the Prêtre Pendu, she
encountered Cramoisin, who watched her from the corners of his eyes,
rubbing his splayed thumb over his lip in such an ironical fashion that
she stopped and demanded impatiently:
"Well, what is it? I seem to amuse you."
"Eh, perhaps you do."
"Come, what do you mean by such looks!"
Then rising, he looked her a moment in countenance, and replied:
"Nicole, they told me you were clever."
"Well, what does that mean?"
"It means that you are either very stupid," he said curtly, "or very
blind."
Nicole mounted the steps in perplexity, arresting her journey at every
landing to ask herself anxiously what he could have meant. In her
room she remained blankly at the window, forgetting the meal she had
to prepare. Several times she passed her hand across her forehead, as
though to rout the unquiet thoughts, but always returned to the same
reverie. The church bell ringing five aroused her, and, ashamed to
have yielded to such doubts, she said angrily:
"Come, I'm an idiot! I'll tell the whole affair to Barabant when he
returns and we will laugh at it together."
Yet when he entered, her resolution forgotten, she rose quickly, and
taking him by the arms, looked anxiously in his face.
"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "Why do you look at me so
curiously?"
"I was afraid you would do something rash," she said evasively.
"What--what of the Girondins?"
"It is hopeless. To-morrow they may be condemned." But only half
satisfied, he returned to the question. "Was that all you wanted to
know? You looked at me very queerly."
"I don't doubt it," she said quickly. "Ah, Barabant, I am so afraid
that you will compromise yourself with them."
"I must decide--and you would not have me a coward, Nicole?"
She defended her position, she repeated the old arguments, she tried to
win him from the thought of sacrifice; but of what had happened during
the day she said not a word.
"It is getting late," she exclaimed finally. "I must get into line."
"Let me take the whole night," he pleaded; "you are tired."
"No, no. Not at all."
She hurried below, furious at herself for having betrayed to him her
unrest, but when she remembered how instantly he had noticed the
strangeness of her look, she could not help thinking that a little
suspicious.
The next morning she prepared to meet the concierge with a new
defiance, but la Mère Corniche did not even raise her head. Cramoisin,
to her relief, was absent; only Boudgoust and Jambony were lounging in
front of the cabaret. She cast a furtive glance in their direction;
they were laughing boisterously.
"They are laughing at me," she thought, all her doubts returning.
She passed a miserable morning, tortured by the fears that now seemed
always to have been with her. Unable to bear the tumult within her
breast, she determined to recount all to Barabant. If anything existed,
she must know it definitely.
Unfortunately, the arrival of Dossonville, who joined them at lunch
on the boulevards, prevented the confidence, and during the meal
another suggestion added to her suffering. Barabant, in speaking of
Dossonville's interest in Louison, expressed his astonishment at the
attraction, ending peremptorily:
"As for me,--she repels me."
He had put considerable warmth into his criticism; that and the simple
declaration of antagonism made havoc in the imagination of Nicole. She
thought the opinion obviously unnecessary. She asked herself if he
really were interested in Louison, whom she had always feared, would he
not have said exactly what he had. But from logical inquiry she soon
flew to conjecture and supposition, to weighing each word and action
and seeking a hidden meaning. She thought no longer of confiding in
Barabant, but held herself on her guard.
She was not convinced--she but half believed; yet she returned sadly.
Her dream was over. Whatever might come, the first breath of jealousy
had entered her heart, and, rightly or wrongly, she knew that her
tranquillity had departed forever.
VI
BARABANT HESITATES
The Place de la Revolution was choked with the multitude come to
witness the end of the Girondins. The populace, indifferent to the
sight of two or three executions a day, gathered with common impulse
to witness these men, long lifted above their heads, go down to their
death in humiliation and disgrace. Many who hungered, cursed them in
the need of some object to their hatred; others who feared them, in the
savage joy of deliverance; but the mass hooted simply from the delight
of seeing them fallen.
Toward one o'clock the procession of five carts, announced by all the
tumults of the human voice, cut through the frenzied hordes, who from
time to time fell back into silence, astonished at the demeanor of
these men; who to insults addressed the crowds with cries of "Vive la
République!" or joined in the chorus of the "Marseillaise."
The rumor had circulated that the body of Valazé, who had committed
suicide the night before, was to be guillotined with the rest. In the
last cart, indeed, the people discovered the corpse stretched among the
living.
Arrived at the scaffold, the twenty descended; the one remained. A
jailer, to win a laugh, propped up the corpse, crying:
"Hurry up--Valazé's waiting for you."
The crowd applauded with jeers and taunts. The Girondins meanwhile
ranged themselves at the foot of the scaffold. When their number was
complete, with one movement they embraced.
Several, turning toward the public, lifted up their arms and repeated
the cry:
"Vive la République!"
Then, drawn up one against the other, giving front to the torrent of
their enemies, forgetting even their individualities in the supreme
moment, the condemned began the hymn of the Republic:
"Allons, enfants de la Patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé."
Every two minutes one of the fraternity left the ranks and ascended
the ladder; but the chorus continued, uninterrupted either by the wild
acclaim that greeted the appearance of each victim on the scaffold, or
by the thundering shout that told of the severed head.
The chorus thinned to three, to two, to one. The last, without ceasing
the chant, mounted to the platform; only the knife interrupted the song.
Then, as far as the eye could travel, over the immense square, over the
packed bridges and distant, darkened streets, like an immense flight
of released birds there appeared above the crowd the red flutter of
agitated liberty-caps. The populace, who believed that from out this
hecatomb would come relief from famine, bread and meat to save them,
shouted frantically. They also shouted who feared to be silent. The
uproar continued for ten minutes before the mass disintegrated.
As Goursac, with heavy heart yielding to the impulse of the crowd,
sought his friends, from whom he had separated for the sake of
prudence, a touch on his arm checked his progress. To his surprise, he
encountered the solemn face of Le Corbeau.
"What do you wish?"
"To talk with you," the lips answered, but the eyes said, "You are
under arrest."