THE SON
Olivier did not wait until the end of the rejoicings at Saint-Prix.
About five o'clock, profiting by a moment when the public were
occupied with one of the usual commonplaces of popular festivals, and
their attention was fixed on the simulated dispute of two mountebanks
on the stage, he made his way through the gaping groups until he
reached the country. Besides the pleasure of surprising his mother
and Thérèse by his unexpected return, the thoughts of an early supper
and a long sleep possessed him pleasantly as he quickened his steps.
His nerves had been more unstrung by all this bustle and movement of
the revels than by the sleepless night he had passed on the eve of
the _fête_. His brain reeled; he had been dazed in the midst of the
surging tumult, the boisterous merrymaking of a multitude let loose
under the burning midsummer sun, as the clamour rolled in swelling
waves of sound above the crowd, above the gleam and shimmer of
tricolour scarves and cockades, up to the official stands, in murmurs
of enthusiastic approval, which harmonised with the extravagant
harangues of the orators almost as a musical accompaniment.
How they mouthed their periods, and declaimed their sentences, lavish
of revolutionary rant, repeated and reiterated to such excess that
Olivier's heart throbbed and a pulse beat at his temples, responsive
to the din of those recurring words liberty, equality, fraternity,
truth, justice, virtue, tyrant, pervert, corruptor, and suspect! And
to think that to-morrow it would all begin again! For at the
workshop they discussed politics, and he dared not be indifferent, or
even appear luke-warm before these enthusiasts, or he would be
immediately suspected! Ah, yes! Every one was suspected who did not
howl with the wolves.
"My God! I am weary to death of it all," he exclaimed, in a sudden
revulsion of feeling at the _rôle_ he had assumed for fourteen
months--he, the son of a noble, of a Vendean! His lips quivered, his
breast heaved at the thought of the string of horrors discussed and
upheld in his presence, which caused every fibre of his being to
shrink, and against which his whole soul revolted in mute indignation.
The image of two women rose before his eyes: his mother with joined
hands imploring him to moderate his zeal, to subdue the impetuous
ardour of his youth a while longer.
"Have but a little patience," she would say; "it will not, cannot
last. The reaction is nearer than you think."
He smiled at her over-confidence, feigned perhaps to quiet him, as he
hastened his steps, thinking of the expected kiss, picturing her joy
and surprise, imagining himself already in her arms, looking into her
eyes, so full of tender love, and saying to her, "Yes, mother, it is
I, and I am going to stay till to-morrow morning!"
Olivier had taken a path across a rough and woody district, which
shortened his walk by the third of a mile. He felt worn out, but at
the sight of the trees in the distance which surrounded their little
cottage, he took heart and quickened his steps.
The gardener was waiting for him at the door, and Olivier called out
to him joyfully--
"Hallo, Paul! You did not expect to see me so soon, eh?"
But the man's expression told him instantly that something unusual
had happened. His mother was ill perhaps--or Thérèse? He began to
question the man anxiously, and when he reached him, stammered out--
"What is amiss? What is it? Oh, tell me quickly!"
In a few words the gardener told him all: how the home had been
invaded; the arrest of the two women; the agent's rough, off-hand
replies to Clarisse's entreaties and protestations; then their tears,
their screams, and their hurried departure in the direction of
Montmorency, hastened, no doubt, to avoid disturbing the little
family gathering just near the Carrefour de la Chèvre.
Olivier, overpowered by the terrible details the gardener had been
giving him, did not even think of asking to what family gathering he
was alluding, but the name of the place, the Carrefour de la Chèvre
struck him at once, and made him think of Vaughan.
"And the Englishman?" he asked.
"Which Englishman?" the gardener replied.
Olivier, seizing him nervously by the arm, hurriedly explained.
"You know that when I left this morning, Thérèse was alone.... My
mother.... Did not she return afterwards with a stranger?"
"No," answered the gardener, "the citoyenne Durand returned alone,
and even...."
"And even, what?"
"And even in great haste. She seemed excited, looking behind her, as
if she did not wish to be seen by the pleasure-party."
"What pleasure-party?" asked Olivier excitedly.
"A pleasure-party of citoyens and citoyennes, who were picnicking on
the grass at the cross-roads of la Chèvre, and who seemed to know all
about the arrest, for one of the agents went to speak to them
afterwards."
"And who were they?" asked Olivier, thinking he was on the track at
last.
"Indeed, citoyen, I do not know."
"Are they still there?" inquired Olivier, with a ray of hope.
"Oh! they have been gone a long time."
"In what direction?"
"I cannot say."
"And you say that my mother and Thérèse have been taken to
Montmorency?"
"I am quite sure of it, unless, of course, the agents could find
means of conveyance somewhere else."
"A conveyance? What for?"
"To take them to Paris."
"Are they going to Paris, then?"
"I suppose so, as they are arrested."
Arrested! Olivier could not reconcile himself to the idea. Why
arrested? What had they done? Of what crime were they guilty? For
the tenth time the gardener told him he knew no more than he did, and
the lad, beside himself with rage, violently reproached the gardener
for not having fetched him at once from Saint-Prix.
"And who would have watched the house?" the gardener replied, who had
thought it better to guard his bedridden wife than to compromise
himself by starting off in search of Olivier.
The young man rushed into the house like a whirlwind, his haggard
eyes roving round the empty rooms, with the mad, impossible hope that
Thérèse was hidden behind some piece of furniture, and would burst
upon him in a peal of laughter, as in the days of childish gambols.
Then suddenly he darted off like a madman in the direction of
Montmorency. He would go and tell the news to Leonard, who must have
returned by this time. Perhaps he already knew? He stopped as
suddenly: an idea had struck him. If the agents had ordered a
conveyance at Montmorency, he had only to interrogate the driver.
That was clear enough! So he resumed his headlong course, jumping
the ditches as he went, reckless of all risks.
On the way he fell into Leonard's arms. The locksmith had learnt
everything from the driver who had taken Clarisse and Thérèse to
Paris, and had stopped at the workshop on his way back. The two
women had been placed in the prison of La Bourbe, at Port-Royal,
arrested as "suspects."
"But by whose orders?" asked Olivier, stupefied.
"Robespierre's."
"The wretch!" he vociferated as he fell on a chair, frantic with rage.
But he was soon on his feet again, resolute and decided.
"I must go!" he said; "I must start at once for Paris. I must have
them from that prison! For now prison means the guillotine!"
Leonard held him back, begging him to wait till the morrow,
entreating him to be prudent, and to do nothing rashly. But Olivier
was deaf to counsel or entreaty, and at last succeeded in obtaining
from the locksmith the address of a furnished apartment in the Rue du
Rocher, in a quiet, respectable house. Only giving himself time to
go in the adjoining room and take a travelling-bag he had left in
Leonard's care, packed with a few clothes and sundry other articles
brought with him from Pontivy, Olivier started for Paris, accompanied
at first by Leonard, who took leave of him at a junction of the roads.
"Pray for me, Leonard," he said, taking an affectionate farewell,
"for I say it again, they shall come out of that prison, even if I
have to pay for it with my life."
At midnight Olivier arrived at the Rue du Rocher, having walked the
whole way without really knowing how, mind and body being given up to
the one haunting thought. He rang at the house indicated to him, and
secured a room, mentioning Leonard as a reference, and when the
concierge asked his name he replied--
"Germain, Citoyen Germain. Could I go to my room now? I am so
sleepy."
And yet he did not sleep. He did not even attempt to lie down, but
paced the room impatiently, trying at times to sit down quietly, then
rising to recommence his walk to and fro, waiting for the daylight
with feverish impatience. He undid his bed, rumpled it to make it
look as if it had been slept in, and going downstairs knocked gently
at the concierge's room to have the front door opened. He then
hastened through the deserted streets to the prison of La Bourbe,
without once asking his way, for the directions Leonard had given him
were firmly engraved on his memory, and arrived there sooner than he
had expected.
When the grey and red mass of Port-Royal Abbey rose before him, his
heart beat wildly. It was in one of those buildings, now transformed
into a prison, that his mother and his _fiancée_ were immured! It
was within those walls that they suffered, that they wept bitter
tears in their utter despair, thinking surely of him, wondering what
had been his fate!
And the reality appeared even more desperate now! In his haste to
reach them Olivier had not considered how to gain admittance to the
prison. In a moment all the difficulty of such an undertaking rushed
on his mind, as he stood alone and helpless before those massive
walls. Trying to solve the problem, he devised schemes only to
discard them as impracticable. He no longer scanned the windows, for
fear of attracting attention. He suspected a spy in every passer-by.
Once he even tried to assume a smile, thinking his mental agony might
be seen on his face. He put on an air of indifference, making a
_détour_ of the prison, carelessly examining everything to avert
suspicion. At last, thoroughly worn out, he moved away, vaguely
hoping to find a happy inspiration in some lonely spot, where he
could be more master of himself.
To whom could he turn for assistance? He knew no one. All the
friends of his family, formerly settled in Paris, were now either
abroad or in prison, if they had not perished on the scaffold or in
the war. And then he thought of the Englishman Vaughan. Where was
he to be found? In prison, perhaps, arrested with the others in the
forest. Everything was possible. A sudden idea flashed across his
mind, an idea which, however, he quickly rejected, judging it
imprudent. He had wandered into the Rue des Lions, the neighbourhood
of his grandfather's town house, and had thought of Benoit, the
porter. Was he still there? He shrugged his shoulders despairingly,
just remembering that the mansion was now the property of the State.
The neighbours might also recognise him, and he would compromise
himself uselessly.
Thus wandering, Olivier found himself back again in the Rue du
Rocher, in front of his lodgings, though he could not tell by what
way he had come. Going up to his room, he locked himself in to rest
a while. His head swam, and he realised for the first time that he
had eaten nothing since the previous day, so he called down to ask if
he could have something to eat. As it was just breakfast-time they
sent up some eggs, a cutlet, and some fruit. He ate the eggs, tasted
the cutlet, but did not finish it. Then, as a reaction set in, he
sunk into an armchair and slept.
When Olivier awoke it was four o'clock. He started up quickly, vexed
at having lost his day, and hurried downstairs. On the ground floor
the concierge stopped him.
"I want a word with you," he said. "You are really the citoyen
Germain, are you not?"
"Yes," answered Olivier, already apprehensive, and wondering what was
coming.
"Well, I was going to say you haven't shown me your passport. I
didn't ask you last night, as it was so late."
"But I have not any," said Olivier, taken back. Then, on second
thoughts, he added--
"That is to say, I left it in the country."
"You can easily procure one at the police section. It is
indispensable. We cannot keep you here without it. That is the law
now."
"I know," said Olivier, forcing a smile, "Well, to-morrow I will put
everything right, for to-day I have so much to do."
"To-morrow is _décadi_," the concierge remarked, "and it would be
difficult for you."
"Then the day after to-morrow?"
"Very well," said the concierge, "but don't fail, for I am
responsible, you know."
Olivier thanked him and hastened away. He had not reckoned on such a
complication. If he could only see his mother and his _fiancée_,
what mattered anything else? He retraced his steps towards the
prison, this time taking the Rue de l'Arcade, and finding himself
suddenly opposite the Madeleine, he turned into the Rue da la
Révolution.
There he noticed an unusual stir, which increased as he neared the
Place de la Révolution. The streets appeared very gay, gayer than
those he had just left. On looking up he saw that the houses were
decorated with tricolour scarves and flags, and that men perched on
ladders were hanging garlands and foliage over the shop windows. At
the entrance of the Place masts were being erected by a continuous
stream of journeymen and workmen, with whom were mixed an increasing
crowd of onlookers. Olivier thought of the previous day's _fête_,
and of the platforms he had helped to construct.
"So the Paris Democratic Society are having their _fête_ also," he
said to himself.
On questioning a passer-by he was told that preparations were being
made for a festival in honour of the Supreme Being, which was to take
place the next day on the Place de la Révolution. Olivier had
forgotten this in the confusion of his mind, though he had heard it
spoken of among his comrades at the workshop.
The Festival of the Supreme Being! The coming triumph of
Robespierre, the open parade of his hypocrisy and pride, amidst the
acclamations of a servile multitude dominated by a tyrannical and
terrorising Dictator!
Olivier's whole soul revolted against the injustice of human destiny
which placed supreme power in the hands of such a tyrant. The image
of his mother and Thérèse, arrested by this man's orders, rose again
before his eyes.
Suddenly he stopped.
On the Place de la Révolution, between the statue of Liberty and the
entrance to the Tuileries, his astonished sight fell on an erection
which, to all appearance, was being taken down--cross-bars of wood,
lowered by the aid of ropes and pulleys, and an enormous knife slowly
descending.
Olivier turned pale, his knees shaking under him.
It was the guillotine!
The hideous, barbarous word breathing death--a horrible, ghastly
death--rang in his ears, and was re-echoed by mock voices of
despairing victims, the guil ... lo ... tine--the guil ... lo ...
tine--the guil ... lo ... tine.
Yes, this was the guillotine!
There it rose in front of him, the atrocious, abominable machine,
which had caused the best blood of France to flow, the instrument of
human butchery, which had severed so many heads; there it rose amidst
the festive preparations, as a fearful warning!
The knife continued its descent, slowly, silently, mirroring the sun
in blue metallic reflections, which seemed to sparkle in its rays.
Olivier followed every movement, with fascinated horror.
When the huge blade disappeared the young man shook himself together
with an effort, and seeing a woman of the people passing, questioned
her--
"What was that?"
The woman was wary in her answer, the question appeared to her so
ingenuous.
"It's Madame Robespierre!"
"I know it is the guillotine," replied Olivier, "but I wish to know
what they are doing there."
"They are taking it away."
"Ah!" he exclaimed, much relieved.
"But it is to be put up elsewhere."
"Where?" he asked, again cast down.
"At the Place de la Bastille." And she added with a smile: "It seems
there are still some aristocrats to settle."
Olivier gave her an anxious, searching glance, but reading mere
ignorance in her eyes, he was reassured, and began to wonder at the
indifference of this people, this simple, open-hearted race, which
had allowed themselves to be duped so many long months. He looked
around him at the vast square which, as the horrible scaffold was
removed, wore quite a festive air, smiling under its gay decorations
of flags and coloured devices and girandoles, which were
characteristic of the jovial humour and the drollery of the French
populace, always so light-hearted.
All this increased his own misery.
What? Alone in the crowd, he must suffer, alone he must lament! He
rebelled against it. Was there no one to defy that infamous
instrument of torture which had been erected there as an insult to
human reason, and which was taken down to be set up elsewhere? It
was indeed the end of France! Not one upright soul, not one just man
brave enough to cry with outraged conscience: "Down with the
scaffold!" Not a single Frenchman to be found to stay his
fellow-countrymen, ignorant of true justice, dupes of cruel men in
power, and to tear from their hands that ignoble invention, that
monument of death, and make a bonfire of it all! Perhaps many
thought as he did, but they dared not! ... No, they dared not act!
And yet a spark was sufficient to inflame the multitude, frivolous
and easily led perhaps, but withal so noble, so humane, so generous!
Olivier crossed the Place de la Révolution, discouraged and
down-hearted. He followed the parapet of the bridge without looking
where he was going, making his way unconsciously in the direction of
the Port-Royal quarter, where the prison lay.
An unexpected sight awaited him before the building. People were
briskly entering by the principal door, moving gaily along with
cardboard boxes, baskets, and bags. They were certainly neither
tradespeople nor officials, for some of them were smartly dressed.
They were visitors, perhaps? The thought filled him with joy. Alas!
if he were mistaken!
On questioning a guard, his hopes were confirmed. They were
visitors, relations or friends of the prisoners, admitted to see them
and bring them sweets, fruits, and change of clothes.
"You have some one there?" asked the man.
"My mother and my _fiancée_"
"You wish to see them?"
"Yes, I do."
"Have you any money?"
Olivier had already offered him a piece of gold.
"Oh! not for me, for the concierge," the man protested as he beckoned
to Olivier to follow him. Passing through the gateway, he presented
him to the concierge, a little man, thick set, brisk, and sly, who,
seeing them in the distance, had understood Olivier's object, and now
asked him the name of the prisoners he wished to see.
"The citoyennes Durand? Very good! Follow me. They must be in the
Acacia Court;" and turning round, he added--
"Here is a card which you will return to me when you come out."
He then crossed a dark, narrow corridor, and stopped before an iron
grating, which he opened for Olivier to pass in. As he showed him
the courtyard he said laughing--
"You will recognise them, won't you?"
And he went away, shutting the grating.