Jambony, serving the spigot, impudent and mocking, bellowed:
"Citoyens, it is not enough to wipe out cults: we must level the
steeples. Steeples are aristocratic. What's the use of making Temples
of Reason of the ci-devant churches if steeples are to lord it over
us. Steeples are the princes of the city!"
"Citoyen, the Section des Bonnes Nouvelles has already done so!" a
woman cried.
"Then Vive la Section des Bonnes Nouvelles!"
With the departure of Javogues the crowd grew noisy, disputing and
haranguing. From the top of the vat, which he had gained, Cramoisin
bellowed in vain to them to listen to his ideas on the primeval
innocence and the community of women. The throng had turned to another
who, applauding the laws of burial, declared, beyond interring each
citoyen under the simple tricolor flag, perfect equality could be
obtained only by identical tombstones.
All at once la Mère Corniche, who had remained on the fringe of the
crowd, shrank into it with an exclamation of fear. At the entrance of
No. 38 appeared Nicole. On her face was the brooding and the color of
death. For a moment she leaned against the wall, searching uneasily
among the crowd. Then, still seeking, she approached, swaying from side
to side, and her eye fell on la Mère Corniche--and passed.
"It is not I," the old woman muttered, still trembling from the
suspense. "It's Cramoisin."
Then as Nicole, shaking her head, turned wearily and went down the
street, rubbing from time to time against the wall, la Mère Corniche
said to herself, "Ah, it is Javogues!"
She sought the eye of Cramoisin. He was still on the vat, struck
dumb in the midst of a furious harangue, following the girl as she
disappeared from sight.
* * * * *
The concierge, in her fear, had guessed rightly: Nicole sought the
Marseillais. Her doubts of Barabant, dispelled on the instant of his
arrest, had given place to bitter reproaches, to self-accusation,
and to an immense, confused hatred of the man who had betrayed him.
The separation was irrevocable; she could see nothing ahead. In the
desolation of her hopes her anger turned against the Revolution.
Barabant guilty! Barabant, the generous, impulsive advocate of great
ideas, a traitor! At such a thought her whole being rose in revolt
against the Revolution that would destroy him. Without distinguishing
its abuses from its truths, reasoning from men to ideas, revolting at
the doctrine of the community of women that menaced her pure ambitions,
she saw the Revolution only in the furious figure of Javogues, brutal,
despotic, and mad. Shrinking from her comrades, without faith, without
hope, adrift, with the figure of Charlotte Corday ever before her,
tormented with the thought of martyrdom, she followed Javogues,
restlessly keeping him under her eye, seeking him with an instinctive
impulse that gradually and fearfully shaped itself in her resolution.
The streets where she wandered were filled with barbaric processions
from the sack of the churches. Unshaven heads crowned with gorgeous
miters, ragged bodies clothed in purple robes, smudgy arms brandishing
golden chalices, crucifixes, and relics swept by with exultant, mocking
chorus. In the churchyards troops of beggars demolished monuments and
leveled the tombs, while still others beheaded the stone images in the
niches of the doors.
Toward night the lowest elements of the social order were unchained.
The drunkards, the thieves, the idiots, the pariahs, the beggars, the
destitute, the morbidly curious, the shrews, the hags, the harlots; all
who hated the good and many who had been taught to regard religion as
the shackles that fastened them to servitude, erupted into the night,
to mock the Church and dishonor it.
Listless, troubled, and uneasy, through the demented city Nicole
continued her search, stopping neither for lunch nor for supper,
sorting, without success, each successive throng, while every scene of
license and sacrilege that inflamed her anger steadied her resolve.
In the church of St. Gervais she stopped, appalled at the riot. Within,
shrieks of laughter mingled with hoarse shouts of men and the surging
rhythm of music. Horror and rage possessed her, and she plunged in,
seeking Javogues, while her hand went nervously to her breast.
The church was dim with the smoky glimmer of lamps, which veiled
the interior in a mantle of fog. The fishwives from the Marché St.
Jean offered salted herrings to all comers, poisoning the air and
disgusting the nostrils, while on their track followed limonadiers with
overtopping tanks, rattling their cups and hawking their beverage.
In the Chapel of the Virgin a hundred couples were dancing, bumping
into one another, hilarious with wine and hoarse with shouting; while
above the carnival, enthroned on the altar, a blue and white Goddess
of Reason, a girl of fifteen, watched the rout, arranging her scarlet
liberty-cap or extending her hand with conscious smiles to those who
acclaimed her.
Among these women whirling with closed eyes and tumbled hair, among
the reeling men, Nicole glided until satisfied that the Marseillais
was absent; then she left the unholy halls and ran, panting, to St.
Eustache.
There, inside the entrance, the uproar halted her, and she remained, in
bewilderment, gazing down the enormous length, asking herself if her
senses had departed.
The great vista was transformed into a country-side; at her elbow were
rustic huts and clumps of trees, while in the distance, hidden under
the foliage of thickets, rose mounds that echoed to the creaking of
planks under the rush of feet. Suddenly a hand caught her arm and
Dossonville's voice cried:
"Nicole, are you mad!"
Angry at this interruption to her plans, she turned with a gesture of
impatience; but Dossonville, without relinquishing his grasp, continued
sternly:
"You cannot stay, you cannot!"
"I am going to."
The next moment some one seized her by the waist; she turned with a
scream. It was Cramoisin who, unaware of her identity, had caught her.
At the sight of Nicole he relaxed his hold, in such utter terror that
he stumbled and fell on his back, when a band of women seized him by
the arms and legs and bore him raging into the crowd.
"Diable!" Dossonville muttered to himself. "If the beast recognized me,
I am done for." Then taking the girl's arm, he repeated: "Nicole, you
cannot remain; it is impossible."
"I can protect myself," she said savagely.
"Nicole--"
"I must stay!"
In a moment Dossonville guessed something of her design, and
withdrawing a step, said sternly:
"Whom are you seeking?"
"No one."
"You are meditating something desperate."
"No."
"You will not come?"
She shook her head impatiently.
"Then my life is in your hands; I will not leave you."
Satisfied with this solution, that offered her a certain protection,
Nicole inclined her head, and caring little how far she betrayed
herself to him, hastened feverishly into the throng. The loathing and
hatred which communicated itself to her body banished all other senses;
her breast rose tumultuously, her forehead grew ugly with anger, while
her restless eyes beheld the saturnalia without comprehension.
Silently she dragged him about the great space. On the altars of the
chapels were spilled bouquets and bottles of wine pell-mell with
sausages, pâtés, vegetables, and meats. A score of hands clutched the
food, scattering it over the steps, splashing the altars with the red
stains of wine. The people gorged, drank, embraced, and fell sprawling;
while at times, with a drunken cheer, some one in the tangle would hurl
a sausage or a ball of dripping bread at the statues and portraits
above, crying:
"There's for you, ci-devant Virgin!"
"Eat a little and become a good republican!"
Out of the scramble, boys and girls were thrust forward to plunge their
tiny hands into the food in sign of liberty, while bottles of wine,
snatched from the famished lips of beggars, were held out to them,
until in their intoxication they furnished amusement to the ribald
crowd.
"Pass on, pass on," cried Nicole.
A rush of women brushed them against the wall. In the procession were
tossing a dozen statues capped with liberty-bonnets. In front of them,
a woman, leaping forward, embraced a statue in her arms and bore it
crashing to the floor.
At the next chapel, Dossonville felt a sudden tension on his arm.
Within, a band of madmen and crazy women were performing a mockery
of a mass. Before a half-naked girl in stupor on the altar Boudgoust
was kneeling, while Jambony, insolent and sneering, swung a chain of
sausages to and fro as censers.
Below the figure of the Goddess of Reason had been placed a hastily
constructed guillotine, which Boudgoust elevated and replaced, pouring
over it a libation of red wine, announcing:
"The blood of aristocrats we offer thee!"
Then turning, he led the uproarious congregation, crouching below, in a
litany:
"St. Guillotine, protector of patriots, pray for us.
St. Guillotine, terror of aristocrats, protect us.
Lovely machine, have pity on us.
Admirable machine, have pity on us.
St. Guillotine, deliver us of our enemies!"
"Pass on, pass on," Nicole cried, after the unavailing search.
"If it is not they, it is Javogues," thought Dossonville, who had been
wondering whom she was seeking.
They left the chapels and emerged into the aisle, where no sound
predominated and everything was heard; where it seemed that Hell,
having overturned Heaven, was struggling to annihilate itself in the
need of venting its wickedness.
For a moment Nicole forgot herself, aghast at the frenzy of her kind.
She raised her eyes in terror to the deep vaults stretching upward
undisturbed, serene and awful, as though from the dim regions, which in
her childhood she had peopled with visions, the avenging thunderbolt
was about to smite the scoffers.
On every side the shouts grew wilder. Vile women, dropping the mask
of their sex, pursued men in long, haggard, furious lines over the
artificial mounds that groaned under the chase. The half-naked figure
of Cramoisin appeared, surrounded by bacchantes, exhorting the crowd
to return to the primitive innocence. Forms meaningless and confused
flitted, whirled, reeled before them in an unending danse Macabre,
while mingled with the tempest came the ever-exultant shout:
"Vive la Raison! Vive la Raison!"
Suddenly, by the catch of her breath and by the involuntary "Ah!"
Dossonville knew that Nicole had found Javogues.
Without awaiting her leap, he hurled himself on her and bore her back
into a thicket, struggling and pleading and burying her teeth in the
hand that muffled her screams. Then when the mad struggles had snapped
the bonds of consciousness, he picked her up in his arms and bore
her quickly out through the unbridled mob, who broke into applause,
believing her overcome with drunkenness.
IX
AS DID CHARLOTTE CORDAY
Behind Dossonville the riot and the tumult fell to a whisper; the
titanic upheaval ended with the walls. Above, the night was solemn and
gentle, and the Seine, toward which he bore Nicole, unconscious of the
revolt, flowed with the serenity of ages. Depositing the girl on a
bench, he busied himself with recalling her to the quiet world.
When consciousness returned, it was by flashes where the incoherent
words, jumbled and wild, showed she was still in the saturnalia,
preparing to spring at the hated figure of the Marseillais. Fearing
that her cries would attract a crowd, Dossonville shook her. She opened
her eyes, saw him, and sat up, seeking to assemble her thoughts. Then a
groan escaped her as memory returned.
"Ah, my friend," she said pitifully, "why did you stop me? It was the
moment."
She put down her feet, smoothed her dress, and stood up, while
Dossonville, rising, said peremptorily:
"Where are you going now?"
"Home. Give me your arm. You were too strong; I am tired."
"Nicole," Dossonville began, in the hope of diverting her mood, "let us
reason a little. That is not the Revolution: that is the scum. Judge it
not by that."
"You say that," she answered wearily--"you?"
"Aye, the Revolution has proved too immense, and the leaders too weak.
It has rolled over them; but the world is its path, and time will right
it."
But Nicole, despite all his artifices, refused to say another word
until in the Rue Maugout he cried sternly:
"Nicole, what do you intend to do?"
"Is that so difficult to guess?"
"Nicole! You are not going to take your life!"
"My life?" she answered, shaking her head. "That is all that is left to
me to use."
"Javogues's?"
She took his hands, smiling, and said:
"To-night I was mad and you could stop me; now I am calm and you can do
nothing. Good night. Forgive me if I have endangered your life. Good
night, my friend, good night."
* * * * *
From the profound sleep of exhaustion Nicole, the next morning,
struggled to open her eyes with the echo of Goursac's name sounding in
her ears.
"Nicole! Hé, Citoyenne Nicole!"
She rushed to the window, and, leaning far out, beheld below in the
misty court the abhorrent figures of the three Tapedures. At her
appearance they sent up the exultant shout: "Goursac dies to-day!"
"To-day," she repeated dully, watching their departure without emotion.
It was still early, and the weak sun, filtering through the fogs of
the November morning, cast yellow shadows where shadows showed at
all. Silent and calm, the girl withdrew and began to dress. Within
her soul the torment of the last days had given place to quiet. What
she had recoiled from doing as an individual now appeared easy to her
as the instrument of a high vengeance. In her now were the revolt
of womanhood, the anger of the Christian, and the resolution of a
Charlotte Corday, which is the resolution of a people.
Slowly and with great care she dressed, examining herself often,
selecting her best attire, and as she dressed she began to sing,
wondering the while that she could feel so light-hearted. From the
bureau she took her dagger and a ring that Barabant had left, slipping
it on her finger, saying wistfully:
"Poor Barabant. I might have betrayed you. Ah, I shall make reparation."
In the elevation of her soul he seemed very distant, and the room
of her happiness, as she paused meditatively, unreal and no more a
part of her life. She went to the bed and knelt, closing her eyes and
stretching up her clasped hands. Suddenly she took the dagger from her
breast and placed it as a cross before her, fastening her eyes upon it
as her lips repeated her prayers.
She rose, passed out of the room, and without a tremor descended the
stairs. But at Goursac's landing the sound of voices below compelled
her to halt and withdraw into the room. In the turning her skirt caught
on a splinter and was torn.
"Ah, what a misfortune!" she said to herself, unconscious of the
incongruity of her words. "My best skirt, too."
Her mind, before the immense decision, took refuge in trifles. She
sought a pin and occupied herself with hiding the rent, while from time
to time she exclaimed impatiently:
"They are taking a long time!"
Unable to remain still, she passed out to the landing, whence, fancying
that she had detected the name of Barabant, she stole down the steps as
far as the turn would permit, shrinking against the dark walls. Almost
immediately the door opened and the voice of Javogues said:
"He shall not escape, I promise it! Within three days Barabant shall
look through the little window of Mother Guillotine!"
"But how'll you find him?" replied the querulous voice of la Mère
Corniche. "Some one has transferred him from the Luxembourg."
"Never fear. I'll search the prisons and drag him out, in spite of all
the Dossonvilles in Paris."
"But when?"
"This morning. There, will that satisfy you, old patriot?"
A grunt came for all reply, and the next moment the ascending flight
creaked with the weight of the concierge.
Nicole, thus threatened with immediate discovery, seized her dagger in
a desperate resolve, but the advance stopped and the voice of la Mère
Corniche whispered:
"Nicole has gone out, hasn't she?"
"No, she is above."
"Then it is better to wait."
To the inexpressible relief of the trembling girl, the old woman turned
and descended. Left in security, Nicole resumed her composure. Without
fear of failure, without once debating the means she should employ,
confident that all that was essential was to be in the presence of the
tyrant, she descended, entering the room so softly that Javogues turned
with a startled:
"Who's that?"
"Nicole."
"What are you stealing in like a cat for?"
"I have come to speak with you."
"Speak."
"Why do you persecute Barabant?"
"He is a traitor!"
"But he said he was not a Girondin."
"He lied."
"But what is his offense?"
"He would show mercy to the aristocrats."
"Mercy!" she cried. "Have you forgotten to whom you owe your life? You
did not scorn his mercy!"
Instead of the expected explosion, Javogues, without resentment,
replied:
"Because I remembered that I did not listen when they told me Barabant
was contre-révolutionnaire. I have done a great wrong: I considered
myself instead of the Nation." He rose with the glance of the fanatic.
"Yes, I am guilty--I, Javogues! But I will denounce myself. If the
Nation decides that I must be punished, let my head warn others against
moderation!"
"Javogues," cried Nicole, recoiling, "have you not a drop of human
blood in you? Have you pity for nothing? Does not the sight of all the
blood spilled on the guillotine satisfy you?"
"Satisfy me?" he laughed. He elevated his arms, repeating it with
a clap of laughter. "That little pool of blood satisfy me? Only an
inundation can purify France. Twenty executions a day would not satisfy
me. The guillotine is too merciful for traitors. I would drown them
by hundreds--these aristocrats--these rich--these Moderates who have
crushed us for ages. If those we smite are not guilty, their fathers
were! We must be revenged on the ages."
Then addressing Nicole furiously, he cried: "See here, my girl; if you
talk of moderation, you'll go, too!"
There was a moment's silence. Then suddenly, from below, she heard the
voice of Dossonville calling:
"Nicole! Ho, Nicole!"
Without was life; within the dim room, martyrdom.
"Then you think," she said, looking down, "that Barabant is guilty?"
"He shall die!"
She was smiling with a deceitful smile as she answered:
"You are perhaps right. Moderation is wrong. We have suffered much."
"Well said!" Javogues cried. "There speaks the patriot."
"Nicole! Nicole, come down!" cried the voice without.
"It is that traitor Dossonville," Nicole said, still smiling. "He does
not know that Goursac is to die to-day. Call it down to him. That will
enrage him."
With a gleam of joy, Javogues turned to the window; but before he had
made two steps, Nicole, bounding forward, buried her dagger between
the vast shoulders. The hands went frantically into the air, a hideous
sound choked in the throat, and, spinning around, the great bulk
tottered and collapsed at her feet. A moment before was martyrdom, now
nothing but horror.
Hysterical, panic-stricken, holding out her hand before her,--the hand
that bore the curse of blood,--the girl fled from the room, shrieking:
"I have killed him!"
At each flight, shivering as though the specter pursued, she repeated:
"I have killed him! I have killed him!"
She rushed from the doorway into the court, haggard, stretching away
the accusing hand, and streaked across the court into the arms of
Dossonville, screaming always:
"I have killed him!"
Above, the face of Javogues, purple and choking, appeared a moment at
the window, and fell back, crying:
"Help! Help!"
From the four walls the windows put forth frightened heads. Two
or three half-dressed figures came tumbling into the court. But
Dossonville, seizing the maddened girl, rushed her away through the
passage and up the street before the startled lodgers could divine what
had happened.
X
UNRELENTING IN DEATH
Placing Nicole in safety in the Maison Talaru, a privileged jail,
of which the keeper, Schmidt, was his friend, Dossonville, picking
up Le Corbeau and Sans-Chagrin, returned to the court, now packed
with excited women. Forcing his way through the press, heedless of
questions, he mounted the stairs, to find the room of the Marseillais
black with the curious crowd, who shouted advice or sobbed hysterically
as they strove forward. Raising his voice, Dossonville thundered:
"Silence!"
There was a lull, and a hasty turning of heads.
"In the name of the Nation I summon all citoyens to depart! The Nation
takes possession."
Then followed a ludicrous sidling, shifting rush for the door as each,
fearing to be marked for arrest, strove to depart unnoticed. All at
once the long arm of Dossonville shot out and barred the way.
"Remain!"
Boudgoust fell back. Again, as Cramoisin sought to escape in the
shelter of a fat woman, the prohibition rang out:
"Remain!"
Jambony next presenting himself, the arm of Dossonville again denied
the way. In the room there remained at last but the wounded man,
unconscious on the bed, a bundle of humanity crouching at the head, a
doctor, and the three Tapedures huddling together against the wall.
From the doorway, the solemn face of Le Corbeau peered in, flanked by
the mocking smirk of Sans-Chagrin. Dossonville, master of the quiet
room, strode up and down in indecision, with glowing eyes fastened on
the frightened three, who dared not meet the menace of his glance.
After five minutes of this torture, during which all awaited the order
of arrest, Dossonville suddenly halted, extended his hand, and cried:
"Pass out!"
Sans-Chagrin, fearing to misinterpret the command, checked the
foremost, asking:
"Citoyen, are we to arrest them?"
"Not now."
Confident that the menace would rid the city of the three, Dossonville
turned anxiously to the doctor.
"Well, citoyen, what's your verdict?"
"Nothing to be done."
"Will he regain consciousness?"
"It is possible--probable."
Dossonville frowned.
"How long will he live?"
"Not beyond the day."
Desiring to prevent all communication with the outer world, Dossonville
said, with a quick resolve:
"Then I shall be forced to establish a guard. The Citoyen Javogues is
under arrest."
Turning to Sans-Chagrin, he gave orders to allow no one to enter--a
command which had the desired effect of hastening the departure of the
doctor. Approaching the bed, Dossonville became aware of the figure at
its side, drooped over an arm of the invalid that hung down.
"Mordieu! what's this?" he cried; and placing his hand on the shoulder,
he shook it.
The bundle resolved itself into the wild figure of a girl.
"Geneviève!"
At the next moment the girl, recognizing him, flew at him with a cry of
hatred. Avoiding the blind rush, Dossonville caught her by the arm,
crying:
"Eh, Le Corbeau, take her! Sans-Chagrin, go to his aid!"
Feeling herself overpowered, the girl became suddenly quiet,
calculating, and dissimulating; but from her eyes murder looked out.
"Take her below!"
The wild light died out in the girl, who, bursting into tears, cried:
"No, no! Let me stay! Let me stay!"
"Diable! what a complication!" Dossonville thought. Then, aloud, he
cried roughly: "Impossible! She must go!"
Geneviève, breaking away, clasped his knees, imploring pity.
"Let me stay, good, kind Dossonville. See, I kiss your hands. I'll be
quiet. Let me stay. I love him. I adore him. Don't take me away from
him now. I know he's going to die. I'll be quiet. I'll bless you."
"Stay, then!" Dossonville cried angrily. "I am a fool to do it."
The girl, released, flew to the bed and crouched down, laying her cheek
against the shaggy arm, while the big eyes looked up with frightened,
thankful appeal.
"Go and eat," Dossonville said, turning to Sans-Chagrin and Le
Corbeau. Accompanying them to the hall, he added in a whisper: "Mingle
with the crowd; convey the idea of an assault. Nicole was defending
herself, you know. Return in an hour."
He shut the door, straddled a chair, and folding his arms on the back,
with a glance at Geneviève, who continued motionless, entered on his
vigil.