he had been preparing his list, and placed the chair between them.
"I am not come to harm you," she said disdainfully. Still for a moment
he eyed her in doubt, before he was reassured. He grumbled:
"What do you want?"
From where she was she could see the list, and at its head the one name
she dreaded to find.
"Read, if you wish," he said indifferently. "It will give you pleasure."
There were ten names in all, Barabant's being the first, and hers was
not of the number.
"I have something to ask of you."
"Ask."
"I do not ask that we be sent to the guillotine together," she said,
planning cunningly to avoid one danger. "That would be too great a
consolation for you to accord us. Exchange my name for Barabant's."
"Nini," he said, watching her with covetous, blinking eyes. "I don't
intend to let you go."
"If you will send me instead," she cried; "if you swear it, swear to
spare him, I will give you a secret that will earn you the gratitude of
Fouquier."
"You are too pretty," he said, with a smirk; "when one is as pretty as
that, one is a patriot."
"You will not accept?"
"What, after this evening?"
"Citoyen," she cried, "he is in a delirium! It was the fever."
"Yes, indeed."
"Citoyen, he admitted to me that it was unjust."
"He shall go. You I'll keep."
"Citoyen Cramoisin," Nicole said coldly, "you can never make me belong
to you, if that is your purpose. You are not Javogues, and I killed
Javogues. Do you understand?"
Before the fire in her eyes Cramoisin shrank away, mumbling:
"You are more difficult than the women of the aristocrats."
"I give you my secret!" Nicole cried in despair. "Use it for your own
good. I did not kill Javogues because he pursued me; I killed him to
destroy a tyrant. Place my name there instead of Barabant's, and I will
affirm it before the Tribunal. You will have the credit of discovering
a plot. Fouquier will reward you."
"Is that your secret?" Cramoisin said contemptuously. "Nothing new in
that."
"What! You knew," she cried, "and held back my name?"
"Bah! When one is dead, one is no longer a patriot."
"Citoyen Cramoisin, listen. If you will put my name on the list instead
of Barabant's, I'll give you all the money I have."
To her joy, he looked up with a sudden interest.
"How much have you?"
"Twenty livres."
At the mention of this amount, which Nicole had managed to preserve,
his eye became eloquent; but suddenly controlling himself, he asked:
"Paper?"
"Gold."
"You have it with you?"
"Yes."
"Let's see it."
"When you agree."
"It is right to be merciful," he said at last, with a sigh. "But I
cannot spare him more than one day."
"For a week?" she pleaded.
He shook his head.
"Six days--five?"
"Impossible!"
"Cramoisin, for pity's sake, four?"
"Never, never!"
"Cramoisin, by your hope of salvation!"
"I'll give you three; not another hour."
He stretched out his hand.
"No; erase first."
He took off the name of Barabant and substituted, "The woman Nicole."
"What did you write?"
"The woman Nicole."
"Put the Citoyenne Nicole Barabant."
"What! You are his wife?"
"Put it down."
"There! Give me the money."
"And you will keep Barabant's name until the 10th of Thermidor?" she
said solemnly.
"Yes."
"Swear it."
"I swear it."
"On your honor."
"There, on my honor, then! Give me the money."
She gave it to him, and suddenly casting herself on her knees, she
cried hysterically:
"Thanks, thanks! You have a heart, I know. You will keep your word. You
can pity. You can be merciful. Thanks! Thanks!"
Catching the ugly, cruel hands in hers, she covered them with her
kisses and her tears. Then, escaping, she fled down the corridor,
returning to bed, but not to sleep.
* * * * *
In the morning Barabant awoke, to find her eyes open and the sunlight
in the room.
"How well I slept!" he said, springing up. Going to the window, he
spread his hands into the beam of the sun that entered. "That feels
good. Tiens, you have a strange look! What is it? You are not afraid?"
"No," she answered, smiling.
"Well, what then?"
"I have something--"
"Why, you're all wrought up," he said, in surprise, as she stopped.
"Barabant, I ask you only because there is no hope of life. Barabant,
I--"
"Why, mignonne, what is it? What has happened?"
She threw herself in his arms, sobbing:
"Barabant, I want to be a wife!"
The moments that he held her in stupefaction were moments of agony to
her. He put her from him, looking in amazement at the tear-stained face.
"Idiot that I am!" he cried suddenly. "That is what has been tormenting
you!"
Waiting only for the accent of his voice, she sprang back, trembling,
not daring to look at him.
"Then you will?" she cried, stretching out her hands to him. "Then you
will?"
"Of course!"
Into his arms she threw herself, sobbing with the poignant ecstasy of
joy, while he listened, still uncomprehending.
"That means so much to you?" he said. "But I always considered you as
my wife."
Even in her emotion his simplicity drew from her a smile.
"Since when have you had this idea?"
"From the beginning."
"True?"
"Yes."
"From--"
"From the afternoon of the 10th of August; but I did not realize it
then."
The correction summed up all her history.
All at once Barabant, rousing himself from his amazement, said:
"But how are we to be married?"
"Do you remember the abbé next to us?"
"Yes."
"I will ask him."
"Do you think he will do it?" he said doubtfully.
"I know how to convince him."
He kissed her and drew her away from him.
"Shall I go?" she said. "Now?"
"Fly!"
* * * * *
She was away a long time. When she reappeared with the priest she said
timidly:
"I have taken very long. I wanted to confess. It did me good. Does that
annoy you?"
"No," he said smilingly; and looking at the face of her companion, he
said to himself: "She has made him cry."
They joined hands, kneeling before the black-robed figure in the warm
room, pervaded with the sunlight that the bars on the window could not
arrest. He made them man and wife, and blessed them, and, bending, put
out his hands to raise the woman. But almost immediately, with a smile
that was of the compassionate master, he ceased his attempts and stole
from the room.
* * * * *
"Tell me one thing," Barabant asked.
"What is it?"
"Why did you not ask before?"
"I could not ask. Now it makes no difference."
"But why?"
Again and again, through their solitary afternoon, as they waited, now
silent, now questioning each other, he returned to his query without
success. At five o'clock, perceiving in her body an involuntary
shudder, he said:
"You're not afraid of to-morrow?"
"No. So many others have gone." She had a superstitious idea of God and
another world, confused, simple, and sufficient. Thinking of Javogues,
she added: "The abbé said I should be saved. Do you believe it?"
"Yes," he answered, respecting her faith. "I shall not fear, either."
"I know," she answered dreamily.
"She does not think of me," he thought. Then wishing to talk of
himself, he said:
"It is life that I regret. I ought to have done so much."
"I wanted to give you that," she said at last, feeling in the air the
approach of the last hour. "I wanted to die for you. That was my dream.
You would have revered my memory and I should have been happy."
"Why do you say that?" he said, frowning. "And what do you mean?"
"I am only an ignorant girl," she said. "I could not long have been
your companion."
"You are wrong," he cried vehemently, repeating it several times, "and
you do me an injustice."
She yielded, and asked the question that had been on her lips a dozen
times:
"Truly, Eugène, you would have married me?"
"Can you doubt it, Nicole?"
"You are good, very good." She smiled, satisfied to bear this promise
away with her, but in her heart she was not quite convinced. "You have
been very kind."
He was glad at such a moment to own a good action.
"Do you know, it's good to have you," he said slowly, a moment awed by
the thought of the morrow. "I do not fear, but I am glad you are to be
with me."
"Yes, I know."
All at once she sprang up, trembling from head to foot, crying:
"Do you hear?"
"The bell?"
"It is six."
"What! you are trembling?"
"Kiss me."
She threw herself into his arms, clutching him to her, while he, in
bewilderment, said:
"But I don't understand."
"Hold me, Eugène, hold me!" she cried. "Don't let me go!"
She kissed him, holding his head in her hands, and the kiss awakened
in him the memory of that first meeting of their lips, in the dark
stairway, under the weak torch. He placed his arm about her waist,
drawing her gently down the corridor, and believing that her courage at
the last had failed her, he whispered as they went:
"Do not fear, little one. I am with you. I'll have courage for us
both."
The prisoners assembled in the great hall, listless and dragging their
steps, searching among themselves with anxious or mechanical curiosity,
seeking to divine the chosen. Soon from the courtyard rumbled the
wheels of the arriving cart.
Presently, faint at first, down the distant corridor fell the step
of the turnkey, approaching slowly, as though to prolong the cruel
suspense. With a crash the gates were flung open, and, flanked by two
mastiffs, holding in his hand the fatal roll, the jailer suddenly
confronted every eye. Without pause, the monotonous, singing voice
opened the long, dreary preamble, finished it, and, rising to a shout,
began the list:
"The Citoyenne Nicole Barabant!"
A sigh of relief escaped the girl, and her head fell on the shoulder
of Barabant; but her ears, deaf to the cries of sorrow, to the
lamentations of mothers and wives, to the screams of astonishment
and despair that woke the silent hall, followed anxiously the roll,
counting:
"Seven--eight--nine!"
At the tenth she relaxed, and her arms wound about the neck of Barabant
in the last long embrace, violent with the pang of parting. Suddenly,
with a cry of despair, she tore herself from him,--an eleventh name was
being read:
"The Citoyen Eugène--"
Something extraordinary had happened; the jailer had stopped in
indecision. Nicole, in the agony of her mind, saw but one face--the
mocking face of Cramoisin--against an opposite pillar.
"The Citoyen Eugène Franz Cramoisin!"
The sneer dropped out; the face grew livid. On all sides astounded
cries went up:
"Cramoisin?"
"Impossible!"
"Cramoisin arrested!"
Nicole, understanding nothing but that Barabant was saved, hearing only
Barabant's voice demanding like a madman to be taken, fell into his
arms, crying:
"No, no, it is not a mistake! It is I who have saved you. Barabant!
Barabant! It is as I wanted it! Remember me, Barabant! Don't forget me!
The abbé will tell you all. Barabant--Barabant!"
They tore her from his arms and swept her away, still stretching out
the unavailing fingers, still calling:
"Barabant! Barabant!"
The weeping and the wailing died behind the clashing gates. A woman,
catching her in her arms, supported her down the unending corridor,
whispering:
"Lean on me. I have no one."
They entered the courtyard and climbed into the chariot, where a
few prisoners sadly and indifferently watched their arrival. There
presently two turnkeys, laughing boisterously, bore out and dumped
beside them the body of Cramoisin, who had fainted.
XV
THE FALL OF THE TERROR
On the 9th of Thermidor Dossonville, who had long foreseen the
inevitable conflict of Robespierre and the Convention, resolved on
another rapid shift, and, appearing in the Rue Maugout, denounced
Robespierre and the Jacobins in such unmeasured terms that he not only
sent his listeners galloping off to denounce him, but to his amazement
on turning about, found himself deserted even by Sans-Chagrin and Le
Corbeau.
According to his custom, he visited the Conciergerie to inspect the
prisoners. Already in the streets was the awakening of the great
conflict. In the crowds the Jacobins alone raised their voices in
furious boasting; but silence predominated, and the silence told of
anger and condemnation.
In the first division he found no familiar face among the twenty-odd
prisoners until, on the point of turning away, he discovered the abject
form of Cramoisin. The downfall of the Terrorists appeared to him as a
favorable presage.
He passed to the second division; there the crowd was thicker and more
turbulent. Over the uneven field of bobbing heads he saw the judges
on the bench, the listless jury, joking among themselves, and the
abhorrent figure of Fouquier; while to the right, packed together on
the benches, were the score of prisoners who waited, without hope, the
mockery of a trial.
Dossonville, taking his place in the stream of those who constantly
pressed to the front seeking the face of relative or friend, yielded
good-humoredly the right of way to those who sought in sorrow. After
some delay he reached the front rank. There a cry was torn from him:
"Oh, mon Dieu!"
At the first glance he had seen Nicole. Drawn by some subtle
intelligence, she raised her eyes and saw him.
"What a fatality!" he cried to himself. "She herself has done this!"
A sudden anger filled him, of revolt and resentment against the
stubborn sacrifice of this frail girl who had defeated him at the very
last. His glance of reproach she met with one of content, which said:
"You see, it is as I said."
She smiled seriously, a little sadly, as one who, though not regretting
the decision, had not foreseen the cost.
A hand swept him back as others pressed fervently forward. He heard a
mother's voice cry at his side:
"They have taken my child, my son."
His glance following dumbly the outstretched hands, he beheld at
the side of Nicole the figure of a boy, who searched the crowd with
frightened face. The buzz of voices rose about, the mother's mingling
with the crowd.
"But it's a mistake. He's sixteen."
"Then don't worry, they can't touch him!"
"Aye, he's safe!"
"They arrested him for his brother, who's twenty-six."
"Calm yourself, la petite mère, any one can see he's a boy."
"They'll release him?"
"Of course--he's under age."
"Aye, any one can see that."
Dossonville but half heard them. He was crushed by the cruel turn of
fate that had claimed her at the last, when the morrow would mean
life and security. His eyes, yet refusing to believe, had never left
Nicole's face. She was pale; but the pallor was of serenity, and gave
to her person a certain distinction that seemed to raise her above her
class. From time to time a certain pensiveness, whether of melancholy
or of regret, gathered in her eyes. She was looking with womanly revolt
below her, where, on a litter, exposed to all eyes, lay the unconscious
form of a woman. The audience, rebelling against such cruelty, began to
murmur:
"Remove her!"
"Take her out!"
"Send her to the hospital!"
The cry was taken up, passing from a murmur in the front ranks to
volume and distinctness as it rolled back. The protest became so
insistent that several of the jury began to cast anxious glances at
the audience, and a judge motioned to Fouquier. There was an expectant
lull; but Fouquier cried, with a sneer:
"She'll revive. Call the roll!"
The storm that had subsided in anticipation burst forth anew.
"No! No!"
"Remove her!"
"Justice!"
"Outrage!"
Near Dossonville a blacksmith, with leather apron, was shouting:
"To the hospital!"
A red-haired man in a baker's cap, with clenched fists, added:
"Tyrant!"
Fresh arrivals, bringing tidings of uprisings throughout the city,
gave new courage to the protests. Fouquier, impressed at last by the
outbursts, rose sullenly and commanded:
"Bear the woman to the witness-room, but the instant she revives bring
her back."
The roll-call was begun--the simple attestation of individuality that
had replaced the pleas of advocates and the taking of testimony.
Encouraged by its first success, the audience began to murmur:
"They say the Quartier St. Antoine is in revolt against Robespierre."
"The Convention will surely declare him under arrest."
"If he falls, the executions will stop."
"I say the trial ought to stop until we see."
"Yes, postpone the trial."
"What! There are traitors, then, in the room!" cried Fouquier, who, the
better to see, had mounted a step. Before his threatening glance the
movement of clemency died away. Again was heard the monotonous voice of
the clerk intoning the roll and the listless responses of the accused.
In the stand one of the jury impatiently pulled out a watch, another
stifled a yawn.
All at once there was a craning of heads. An interruption had come; the
voice of the young boy was protesting:
"Citoyen, the accusation is for my brother. I am not twenty-six. I have
done nothing against the Republic. Citoyen, I am sixteen. I have my
papers to prove it."
A greffier nodded his head in confirmation, and extended a handful of
papers toward the judge, saying:
"Citoyen, he speaks the truth."
Murmurs ran through the crowd:
"It's a mistake!"
"He's a child!"
"Release him!"
On the judges' bench the figure of Dumas arose.
"And if you are only sixteen," he cried brutally, "in the matter of
crime you are fully eighty." Then, with a furious gesture, he added:
"Pass on, and make haste!"
The murmur of revolt from the audience was overwhelmed in a sudden roar
of astonishment. Dumas had been arrested! The counter-revolution had
come! Those who had not seen the arrest cried:
"But what has happened?"
"Tell us! Tell us!"
Others answered:
"Dumas!"
"Arrested!"
"The counter-revolution has come!"
A voice cried:
"The quartiers are in arms!"
"True?"
"The tocsin is ringing!"
"They'll make an end of Robespierre?"
"Impossible!"
"It's true! Haven't they arrested Dumas?"
"Suspend the trial!"
"Mercy! Clemency!"
All eyes turned to Fouquier, who answered contemptuously and stubbornly:
"Justice must take its course!"
At Dossonville's side the blacksmith, with the sudden frenzy of
prophecy, cried:
"Fouquier, beware! The guillotine is waiting for you!"
While with brawny shoulders he wriggled free of the willing crowd,
Dossonville looked for the hundredth time at Nicole. She had not
abandoned her calm; only a slight frown told of the havoc the sudden
opening and closing of the gates of hope played in her soul.
Another judge replaced Dumas. The roll-call was hurried on. Twice
Fouquier sent a physician to report the condition of the woman in
the witness-room. A flutter of the eyelids would have meant death.
She remained in a stupor, and was at last sent to the hospital. The
roll-call ended. The jury, after the farce of declaring that they had
heard sufficient evidence, retired to deliberate upon the guilt of the
twenty-six. They returned shortly. It was late, and many suffered from
the postponement of the luncheon-hour. One man acquitted--Aviot Turot,
laborer.
A shudder passed through the body of Dossonville, and a groan escaped
his lips. The fatal, inevitable word "Guilty" overwhelmed him. Nicole
heard it with a smile--sad, yet satisfied.
Another stir, and a buzz of comments rose as the executioner entered
and began to converse with Fouquier. Those in front, who could hear,
called back:
"Sanson is remonstrating."
"Sanson wants the execution deferred."
"He says the city is rising."
A last time Fouquier refused to budge, and, crossing his arms,
reiterated bluntly, to be heard by all:
"No, no! I say no! Justice must take its course."
The condemned, who had paused as they had risen trembling with hope,
filed out, while the crowd in the court-room surged forth to meet the
tumbrels.
Dossonville, using his privilege of agent de sûreté, entered the
prison, seeking Nicole in the crowd of prisoners massed in the outer
hall; threading through anxious groups, who whispered:
"You saw Dumas arrested?"
"They say there is a revolt against Robespierre."
"The people seemed to sympathize with us."
Others, scorning to hang their hopes on desperate chances, waited
stoically or reverently the summons to the tumbrels. A young aristocrat
was whistling defiantly:
"Oh, Richard, oh, mon roi,
L'univers t'abandonne!"
In another group, guarding their enmity to the end, two brothers of the
people retorted with the "Marseillaise."
Two women near Dossonville were chatting gaily:
"I am so pale those cursed revolutionists will think that I am afraid."
"You must not give them that satisfaction."
"I do seem pale, then?"
"Yes."
"Ah, then I must rouge!"
Dossonville examined the figure of the graceful woman, who was gaily
daubing her cheeks, and recognized the famous Duchess of M----. At this
moment, in the obscurity of the arches, he discovered at last the blue
dress and golden hair of Nicole.
"Oh, it is you," she cried joyfully. "I had hoped you could see me."
"Nicole," he said bitterly, "this is your doing."
Her manner changed; she grew serious.
"My friend," she said, "I have but done what I wished. I am happy." She
held up her finger with Barabant's ring on it. "You see, I am his wife,
and I have saved him."
The outward movement toward the tumbrels had begun. From the doorway
the guards repeated:
"Hurry up, there; hurry up, you cursed aristocrats!"
Dossonville kissed her with more feeling than he had believed possible,
and said, through the tears that clouded his eyes, "I would have saved
you."
"Do not grieve," she said, touched by his sorrow. She took her scarf
and put it into his hand, saying: "Give it to him. Tell him that I am
happy--that it is best so. Adieu!"
Then, as though fearing to lose her self-control, she pressed his hand
and hurried away.
Dossonville, passing out by a side entrance, hastened to meet the slow
procession across the river. The city was in uproar; over the roofs the
bells were crying the civil strife, while every street seemed to give
forth the thunder of drums. Masses of volunteers, without formation
or leader, swept the boulevards, while the air was charged with the
conflict of shouts:
"Vive la Commune!"
"À bas les Jacobins!"
"Vive Robespierre!"
"Robespierre à la Guillotine!"
The chariots crossed from the gates of the Conciergerie, acclaimed by
the hoots and jeers of the daily hordes of mad women who gathered to
shriek their foul abuse and frantic revilings. But as the tumbrels
passed the river the insults ceased, replaced by murmurs of sympathy.
In the third chariot Dossonville found Nicole. The duchess, with her
brilliant cheeks, was on the same bench, and between the two women the
boy, his hand in Nicole's.
From the direction of the Convention came wild rumors of Robespierre's
defeat. The crowd, increasing, began to cry:
"Enough blood!"
"No more blood!"
"Pity on the condemned!"
Dossonville, hardly daring to hope, noticed that Sanson examined the
crowd anxiously--a not unfriendly glance. The demonstration continued,
growing bolder, a hundred voices insisting:
"Enough blood!"
"No more victims!"
"Stop the massacre!"
Among the prisoners several, unable to resist the sudden leap of hope
to their eyes, stretched out their hands, crying:
"We are innocent!"
In the first chariot Cramoisin, in a frenzy, was shouting:
"Citoyens, do not mistake me. I am a republican. Vive la République!
Save me, at least!"
Nicole was speaking to the boy; for the new vision of life had made
him tremble. Amid the leaping floods of humanity she remained calm, a
certain maternal sweetness and repose enveloping her as she sought to
fortify the resolution of her companion. To Dossonville, through the
rising storm of sound and swaying of bodies, a lull of peace seemed to
surround her and to remove her from the frenzy.
Again the revolt rose in him that she should die thus. Perceiving
all at once that the crowd had pressed about the carts until their
progress was impeded, he flung himself into the swirl, exhorting and
encouraging. The cries redoubled, becoming more threatening:
"Save them!"
"Enough butchery!"
"On, comrades! Save them!"
"Aye, deliver them!"
"Stop the chariots!"
"Unhitch the horses! Unhitch the horses!"
At this last, the cry of Dossonville, the multitude, with a shriek of
triumph, surged up against the tumbrels. A hundred hands checked the
horses, reaching out for the buckles of the harness, while a dozen
voices cried:
"Courage! We'll release you!"
Already the prisoners exclaimed joyfully, already Dossonville stretched
out his arms to Nicole, when a cry of fear and despair burst from the
rescuers, voiced in the dreaded name:
"Henriot! Henriot!"