AN EVENING AT THE DUPLAYS'
Robespierre slowly descended the altar steps with a preoccupied air,
for that last desperate cry of Olivier had struck its mark. However
self-possessed he might be, he had felt the blow acutely. That
voice, full of hatred and revenge, had risen from the crowd he
thought entirely at one with him! In their very applause at that
moment the people were protesting against an insult coming from their
ranks! They were driven to defend him, when he had dreamt that the
populace would receive him with instant and unanimous enthusiasm,
insuring to him for ever the esteem of France!
Pale and anxious, he followed the procession to the Champ de Mars,
where the _fête_ was to close with one crowning patriotic
demonstration. He felt that his supremacy was tottering, and
wondered how many more discordant notes would disturb the prevailing
harmony. Alas! there were already signs of jarring discord. Certain
members of the Convention talked aloud in a free, sarcastic strain,
on the road, openly exchanging opinions, emboldened by Olivier's
public insult. Words of dark and ominous import reached the ears of
Robespierre--words of hatred and scorn, of tragic foreboding, and
portentous prophecy. "I despise and hate him!" said one. "There is
but one step from the Tarpeian Rock to the Capitol!" said another.
And a third added: "A Brutus may yet arise!" To close the mouths of
these backbiters, he mentally reflected, and to save all, nothing was
wanted but the _vox populi_, the supreme and national mandate,
uprising from the assembled multitude and re-echoed through the whole
of France: "Robespierre Dictator! Dictator for life!" But the
Incorruptible awaited any such acclaim in vain.
The _fête_ of the Champ de Mars which followed was wanting in the
brilliancy and magnificence of the preceding festival. Every one was
hot and unstrung. Robespierre again addressed the people, who, tired
from having stood so long under a burning sun, were listless and
absent-minded. The demonstration was drawing to its close amidst a
general feeling of depression.
Nothing but confusion reigned on the march homeward. Robespierre was
to return to the Tuileries to meet several of his colleagues, but
instead, he hurried away, fully resolved to shut himself up in his
room and open his door to no one, not even to the Duplays, who had
dogged his steps the whole way back, trying to catch him up, and only
succeeding at the threshold of their house, where Robespierre begged
them to have their little festive party without him.
"I want rest," he said.
"The _fête_ went very well, didn't it?" asked mother Duplay.
"Yes, very well!" replied Robespierre.
"Then you are satisfied?"
"Perfectly!"
As Cornélie began to tell him of some details which she thought had
escaped him, he put her off gently, saying--
"Was it so? Indeed! Well, you will tell me that to-morrow."
"What! You will not dine with us?"
"No; I must ask to be excused."
And as she pressed him to join them, he repeated--
"No, no; I must beg you to excuse me! _Au revoir_ till to-morrow!
_Au revoir!_"
With these words he went up to his room and locked himself in.
Every one was in low spirits at the Duplays' that evening. They
scarcely tasted their supper. No one was deceived by Robespierre's
feigned indisposition; they were well aware that the _fête_ had been
a great disappointment to him, and they shared his chagrin, though
they determined that this should be in no way apparent.
"We must not disturb his meditations," observed mother Duplay.
"But are we not going to see the fireworks?" asked the boy Maurice
anxiously.
"We are not," declared mother Duplay. "How could we enjoy ourselves
without him?"
And they went early to bed.
The house, which had awakened to joy, now slumbered silently whilst
Paris was being lit up to prepare for the populace, again in holiday
mood, the promised display of fireworks.
Robespierre rejoined the Duplays next day at supper. He had spent
the morning and afternoon locked in his room, under pretext of
working. And work he did. Alone, in sullen silence, he prepared
that atrocious Prairial law, which he intended to lay before
Convention forthwith--a law which aimed at nothing less than the
entire suppression of the right of defence before the Revolutionary
Tribunal. Moral evidence was to suffice; cross-examinations,
depositions, and the testimony of witnesses were to be done away
with. To be a "suspect" would itself be a proof of guilt.
Ah! he had been insulted! Well, this was his reply to the insult.
He had wished to establish his dictatorship under conditions of
peace, but the great pacific demonstration had not availed him. Were
these cowards only to be subjugated by terror? They should have it
then, with renewed vigour, in a whirlwind of tempestuous violence
carrying everything before it. It should be a fearful and memorable
lesson! Every trace of those stubborn, headstrong rebels should be
swept away by the stroke of its formidable wing!
This law, drafted entirely by him, with its every villainy cunningly
concealed, or placed in the light of a sacred duty, and as the only
means of assuring public safety, Robespierre would himself lay before
the Convention. The deputies, who had been insulted in the person of
their President by that brawling meddler arrested on the Place de la
Révolution, could not but pass the law, after such a scandalous
scene. That public insult of the riotous rebel was an excellent
pretext. It would help him to take them by surprise, to wring from
them the vote which would place entirely at his mercy not only his
rivals who had expressed their opinions so freely, but also that rude
scoffer, already doomed to die.
His trial would not last long! But before his death he should be
brought before Robespierre. He should lay bare the most secret
recesses of his soul, denounce his accomplices, and disclose his
connections and parentage. Such an insult, the cruellest Robespierre
had as yet sustained, demanded an exemplary penalty. The death of
the man himself would not suffice; he should pay with the heads of
every one connected with him in any way--accomplices, friends, and
relations. Ah! the wretch, he had sacrificed not only his own life,
but the lives of all near and dear to him!
Pondering still on the cross-examination he would so soon be able to
enforce, Robespierre descended into the dining-room, where the family
had assembled for supper. The table had not been laid out-of-doors,
partly on account of the uncertain weather, but more especially to
divert Robespierre's attention, by a change of surroundings, from the
remembrance of the last two days, and to turn into a fresh channel
the secret thoughts of their good friend, which they felt still dwelt
on the failure of his inauguration.
Robespierre found the family so bright and affable that his
reappearance was not embarrassing. He had but to explain vaguely the
cause of his indisposition, which was quite gone. Oh, yes! every one
could see that! Why, he looked so well, so full of life! What a
good thing it was, after all, to have had a day's rest!
But this conspiracy of smiles, which had put him at his ease so
quickly, soon began to irritate him. The whole family racked their
brains to find scraps of news and items of interest outside the one
all-absorbing subject of his thoughts. When the dessert came on,
however, Robespierre himself turned the conversation to the carefully
avoided theme, and asked their candid opinion of the previous day's
_fête_.
As they resorted to evasions, giving a host of details to escape the
main question, he asked them plainly what they thought of his
personal success.
"It was gigantic!" said Madame Duplay.
"Ah, that's a woman's answer--a mother's!" he replied sadly.
And longing for sympathy, he opened his heart to them; he had been
disappointed in his dearest hopes; everything must begin over again.
Lebas interrupted him.
"You exaggerate, I think."
Robespierre replied calmly--
"I am so far from exaggerating that I have passed the whole day in
preparing my revenge."
Here they were interrupted by a knock at the door, and young Duplay
rose to open it.
"Ah! it is Buonarotti!" they all exclaimed. "What a pleasant
surprise!"
But it was not a surprise at all. The demoiselles Duplay had invited
Buonarotti to supper, a valuable and ever-welcome guest, in so far
that he played the harpsichord to perfection, and used to accompany
Lebas, who was always ready to show his talent on the violin.
Buonarotti was an original character, a Corsican by birth, claiming
descent from Michaël-Angelo. He was an ardent revolutionist, and an
enthusiastic admirer of Robespierre. He had begged to be excused
from accepting the invitation to dinner, but promised to come in
afterwards to cheer up his friend.
The family took advantage of his entrance to leave the table and move
to the drawing-room, where music was soon started, in spite of the
terrible longing Buonarotti had to talk politics, and to give
Robespierre an account of the different opinions of the _fête_ which
he had picked up here and there. But they had dragged him coaxingly
to the harpsichord, laying a sonata of Mozart before him, of which
Lebas had already struck the first bars on his violin.
In no other apartment was the hero-worship of the Duplays more
evident than in this drawing-room, with its furniture covered in
Utrecht velvet, where portraits of the Incorruptible faced each other
in every conceivable form and position--on the walls, on the tables,
on the brackets, and even on the harpsichord; in crayon,
water-colours, plaster-cast medallions, bronze, and terra-cotta.
This was the sanctuary in which the Duplays loved to congregate under
the auspices of their demigod. It was here they spent their
evenings, when sometimes a few friends were admitted to the intimacy
of the family circle. The young women, seated at the round table,
would occupy themselves with sewing or embroidery, whilst the men
conversed on one subject or another, more often suggested by some
letters or reports among Robespierre's correspondence, which was
usually sorted by Lebas or Duplay.
The hours were sometimes enlivened by music, and sometimes also by
recitation. When there was music Lebas and Buonarotti carried off
all the honours, but in recitation it was Robespierre who triumphed,
for he had preserved from his youth the love of rhymed and sonorous
phrases. As he had read aloud to himself long ago in his little room
at the Hôtel de Pontivy the burning pages of "La Nouvelle Héloïse,"
so he read now, amidst these austere Republican surroundings, the
tragedies of Corneille and of Racine, giving himself up to the magic
sway of the rhythmic verse, a smile of appreciation on his lips.
But that evening he was quite preoccupied, and gave but little
attention to the music, as he sat with his back to the mantelpiece,
entirely absorbed in the voluminous correspondence which had just
reached him--letters, reports, denunciations and the like. He sorted
them feverishly, handing them one by one to Simon the wooden-legged,
who stood near him, either to classify them or to throw them in the
waste-paper basket. Mother Duplay, ensconced in a deep armchair, was
indulging in her after-dinner nap, whilst old Duplay smoked his pipe,
leaning on the window ledge to watch the departure of some of the
workmen kept late over some pressing work. Young Maurice Duplay ran
backwards and forwards from one group to another, as lively and
active as a squirrel.
Buonarotti, still at the harpsichord, was now playing the hymn to the
Supreme Being, by Gossec. The air fell on Robespierre's ears and
brought back the previous day's _fête_ to his memory: the procession
from the gardens of the Tuileries; the affectation of the deputies in
keeping so far behind him to make it appear that he had already
assumed the role of Dictator; the whole plot which he felt was
undermining the popular rejoicings; and the untoward scene of that
final insult. All this and more was suggested by that hymn composed
to celebrate his apotheosis, but reminding him to-day of his defeat.
His defeat! yes, nothing less than defeat! These anonymous letters,
inspired by hatred and envy, proved it only too plainly, and it was
emphasised by the reports of his police agents, in whose obsequious
language a certain embarrassment could be detected.
Just then Didier, the chief agent, entered, bringing the latest news,
and when Robespierre asked him his impression of the _fête_, he
declared it to have been perfect.
"You are lying!" said Robespierre.
Brought to bay by the Incorruptible's questions, the police agent
owned the truth. The affair bad been a disastrous failure. It was
the fault of the organisers, of Didier's own scouts. Every one, in
fact, was to blame. The men hired to applaud had been imprudently
paid in advance. They had drunk hard, lingered in the taverns, and
only arrived on the scene when the _fête_ was already compromised.
Didier gave him other details, corroborating the reports which had
just reached him, and opened his eyes to things ignored before.
Robespierre was dumfounded on hearing of the audacious conduct of his
enemies. He called Duplay, who was still at the window, to seek
counsel with him. But Didier, emboldened by the interest which the
Incorruptible took in his disclosures, ventured himself to proffer
advice.
"Between ourselves," he said, "the guillotine is becoming unpopular."
And he confessed that the young fanatic's cry of "Down with the
scaffold!" at the _fête_, seemed to have been trembling on the lips
of a considerable number of the spectators, who were more than half
inclined to protect the insulter from the violence of the crowd.
"They are heartily sick of it," he continued. "Another proof of this
is the protest the inhabitants near the Bastille have been making
against its erection there. The Committee of Public Safety had to
see into the affair to-day in your absence, and have decided that the
guillotine should be transported to the Barrière du Trône."
This last piece of news exasperated Robespierre beyond measure.
What! His colleagues of the Committee dared to take such an
important step in his absence? And that, too, the very day after he
had been publicly insulted! In truth, the moment was well chosen to
show themselves ashamed of the scaffold! And as Robespierre
questioned Duplay on the number of prisoners condemned during the
day, he was astonished to learn that there were only fifteen. Had
the Tribunal then been won over by the Conspiracy of the Lenient?
However, the carpenter assured him that it was simply a coincidence,
for he had heard Fouquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, remark at
the conclusion of the sitting that if things continued at this rate
there would never be an end of it. There were, it appeared, at that
moment seven thousand prisoners under lock and key.
"Fouquier-Tinville is right," said Robespierre; "things move too
slowly."
"But how can they go quicker?" asked Duplay, who regarded his
juryman's duties as sacred.
"Have patience! I have my plans."
"May we hear them?"
"You shall know to-morrow. I must first of all make an example of
that young fanatic, with whom it is time to deal."
And turning to Didier he asked--
"Where is he?"
"A few steps from here, at the police station of the Rue
Saint-Florentin, where Héron has locked him up, pending your orders."
"Very well! Bid Héron bring him here; I wish to examine him
instantly."
The peremptory tone admitted no reply. Didier, wishing the company
good-night, left the room with Simon Duplay, whom the Incorruptible
had charged with several messages, and Cornélie, taking advantage of
their departure, called Robespierre to the harpsichord.
"And now, I hope you will take a little notice of us," she said,
coming towards him in half petulant, half coquettish mood.
Robespierre, softening at her approach, kissed her hand. Only let
him have the time to answer a letter from his friend Saint-Just, and
he would be entirely at her disposal. And he seated himself at the
round table to write. Only Buonarotti played now. Lebas had laid
down his violin, and whilst filling his pipe asked Robespierre for
news of the Army of the North, where Saint-Just then was. All was
going well there. Robespierre had also good news from his brother
Augustin, then at Lyons, and on the point of returning. Augustin
warmly recommended to him a young general of the artillery whom he
had known at Nice, and who had already distinguished himself at
Toulon.
"Augustin tells me that this young man could replace, to some
advantage, that drunkard Hauriot as commander of the armed force of
Paris."
Buonarotti, who was still at the harpischord, turned at the mention
of Toulon.
"Bonaparte?" he said.
Robespierre looked across. He knew him, then?
Yes, he knew him. They had lived together in Corsica. And as the
Incorruptible asked what were the sentiments of the young soldier, he
replied--
"Excellent. He is Republican to the core."
"Well, we shall see," said Robespierre, favourably inclined to a
change, adverse as he was to the idea of a military commander
remaining too long in the same post.
And he began his letter to Saint-Just, at the same time lending an
ear to Lebas, who was telling Duplay of certain rumours coming from
the army of the aspiration of some of its chiefs to the dictatorship.
But Duplay interrupted him--
"_Sapristi_! I had almost forgotten!"
Robespierre raised his eyes inquiringly.
"I have a letter also to give you."
"From whom?" asked the Incorruptible, reassured as soon as he knew it
was only a letter.
"From a prisoner, I think, who very innocently confided it to one of
our spies. It was given to me just now at the Tribunal."
Duplay searched in his pockets, and having found the letter, handed
it to Robespierre, who continued writing.
"Look at it with Lebas," he said.
Lebas took the letter, and going to the mantel-piece, commenced to
read it by the light of a candle. Duplay, in the act of filling his
pipe, looked over his shoulder.
It was Clarisse's letter to Robespierre, and read thus--
"I should not write to you if I had only my own life to plead for.
But I have to protect that of two children, my niece imprisoned here
with me and a son of nineteen years, who may be arrested at any
moment and sent to the scaffold, and good God, by whom! CLARISSE."
Robespierre had now finished his letter to Saint-Just, and whilst
closing it, asked--
"Well, and the letter?"
"It is a woman who supplicates you for her niece imprisoned with
her," answered Lebas.
Robespierre, annoyed, stopped him, saying curtly that he received
twenty such letters every day.
"She also supplicates you for her son," added Lebas, still perusing
the note.
Robespierre simply shrugged his shoulders and sealed his letter to
Saint-Just.
"Always the same refrain!" he said.
"Shall I throw it in the basket, then?"
"Yes, do, for goodness' sake!"
But Duplay took the letter from Lebas's hands, twisted it into a
spill, and ignited it at the candle to light his pipe.
Robespierre now rose and went towards the harpsichord, where he was
received with joyous exclamations.
"Here you are at last!"
Cornélie whispered a few words to Buonarotti, and placed a new piece
of music before him.
"As a reward," she said, "Buonarotti will sing you one of his latest
compositions."
"And the words are by a friend of yours," added Madame Lebas, with a
mysterious air.
Robespierre, puzzled, asked the name of this friend, but Victoire
wished him to guess, and when he demurred a battle of words ensued,
in which his stronger will prevailed.
"Very well, then! We will tell you the poet's name."
And as he was all attention, they exclaimed in chorus--
"Maximilian Robespierre!"
The Incorruptible smiled. What were they talking about? He the
author of a poem!
"Yes."
Before he had time to protest, Cornélie recited the first verse--
"_Crois-moi, jeune et belle Ophélie..._"
Ah, yes! They were right. Robespierre remembered the piece now. He
had composed it at Arras, and read it in public before the Society of
the Rosati, of which he was a member. He went on with the verse from
memory, while Cornélie followed in the book--
"_Si flatteur que soit ton miroir,
Sois charmante avec modestie,
Fais semblant de n'en rien savoir._"
What! had Buonarotti really set that to music? Robespierre was very
curious to hear it.
"With pleasure!" said the Corsican.
Madame Lebas, seated at the piano, struck the first chord of the
accompaniment, and Buonarotti commenced the song. Every one had
gathered round the singer.
The first verse was greeted with loud applause.
Ah, how pretty it was! How well the music chimed in with the words!
What simplicity! What grace!
Robespierre, delighted, joined in the chorus of praise,
congratulating Buonarotti.
Suddenly every one stopped. An ominous cry came through the open
window--
"Buy to-day's list of the condemned."
It was the voice of newsvendors calling out the result of the day's
sitting at the Revolutionary Tribunal. The Incorruptible showed
signs of uneasiness. Buonarotti had already begun the second verse--
"_Sur le pouvair de tes appas
Demeure toujours alarmée..._"
But a new cry was heard--
"Winning numbers! ... Lottery of Sainte-Guillotine! Buy! Buy!"
"Shut that window!" Robespierre called out impatiently.
The boy Maurice ran to do so.
"Why!" he exclaimed, "here is Héron, and three people with him."
At Héron's name Robespierre turned round sharply, and as every one
seemed surprised at the untimely visit, he explained--
"Oh, it's all right! I expected him. He is bringing the young
villain of yesterday's _fête_."
"Ah yes," said the women, "the _chouan_ of the Place de la Concorde!"
and they looked curiously towards the door, at which the new-comers
were now knocking.
"Come in!" cried Duplay.
Héron entered and bowed to every one in the room.
"Is the culprit with you?" asked Robespierre nervously.
The police-agent replied in the affirmative, and was ordered to
introduce the prisoner. Héron turned and signed to two men, who
appeared escorting Olivier, pale and dejected, his hands tied behind
his back. The young man, no longer resisting, seemed already to
offer himself as a victim.
"He is a nice-looking fellow," observed Madame Lebas, in a low voice.
Héron pushed Olivier forward, who, perfectly indifferent to his
impending cross-examination, stood sullenly aside. Robespierre,
always mistrustful, made a rapid survey of the young man from head to
foot, keeping, however, at a safe distance from the fettered prisoner.
"What have you learnt about him?" he asked Héron.
The agent did not know much. The day before, while under arrest, the
prisoner had let fall some words by which Héron understood that his
mother, arrested with a young girl he loved, was threatened with the
scaffold. But since his imprisonment he had been completely mute.
No one had been able to draw a word from him, and things would have
very likely remained thus had not Madame Beaugrand, a lodging-house
keeper of the Rue du Rocher, come to the police-station for the
purpose of obtaining some particulars of the arrest, the news of
which had reached her. From the description of the young man she
fancied he might be one of her lodgers, who had arrived the day
before, and inscribed himself under the name of Germain, blacksmith's
apprentice. Brought face to face with the prisoner, she exclaimed
immediately, "Oh yes! it is he! most certainly!"
"And his papers!" asked Robespierre.
"He had none! Not even a passport! They had only found in his
possession a set of keys, some paper-money in _assignats_, a
pocket-book, and some small change in a purse." As he spoke, Héron
placed these articles on the table.
"And no arms?" interposed Robespierre again.
The police-agent replied in the negative.
"Untie his hands. We shall see if they are a workman's."
Duplay examined them, the women watching with great interest the
while. The carpenter declared it to be very possible, as the hands
looked used to handling wood and iron.
"In war, most likely!" said Robespierre.
The Incorruptible then stated his suspicions more precisely. The man
was perhaps a _chouan_, come in disguise from Vendée to stab him in
the excitement of the _fête_!
The women cried out in horror at the thought, and added, "Of course
he was not without accomplices!"
As this idea fastened in his mind, Robespierre wished to know if the
young man's room had been searched. Héron had not neglected to do
so, as could well be imagined! He had, however, only found a few
scattered clothes and a valise, which one of his men had with him.
He had brought it to open before Robespierre.
"Why didn't you say so, then? Be quick and open it!"
Héron tried a set of keys, and after some delay the valise was
unlocked.
The police-agent examined its contents, and enumerated them: linen,
articles of toilet, and an ivory casket mounted in silver. He took
out the ivory casket, which drew a cry of admiration from mother
Duplay, and passed it from hand to hand. Héron then drew forth a
rather heavy roll, from which he tore the paper wrapper, disclosing a
number of _louis d'or_. He deposited them on the table, and set to
work to count them, remarking that the young apprentice was, after
all, richer than himself!
Meanwhile the agent continued his search.
"Ah, some letters!" he exclaimed.
"Give them to Lebas," said Robespierre.
Lebas took the packet from the agent's hands.
"Go and examine them by the mantelpiece under the lamp," Robespierre
continued, "and tell me their contents."
The curiosity of the women had now reached its height. Héron had
drawn out a gold medallion, encircled with small pearls.
"Those are real pearls," observed mother Duplay.
The medallion was opened, and found to contain a lock of fair hair,
with the initials M.T. The jewel was handed round, admired, and
examined carefully, giving rise to all sorts of reflections, in
Olivier's presence, who looked on apparently unconcerned.
Robespierre was exasperated at this indifference. He knew, however,
how to restrain himself, and said mockingly--
"You will not tell me, I suppose, that there is nothing extraordinary
for a sum of money like that and such jewels to be found in the
possession of an apprentice?"
Héron insinuated that perhaps he had stolen them, at which Olivier
simply shrugged his shoulders. Duplay endorsed Héron's opinion. In
fact, he had not the slightest doubt about it. The young man had
stolen them.
Olivier could bear it no longer.
"Everything there belongs to me!" he said.
And as they seemed still to doubt, he repeated in a loud voice--
"Everything belongs to me! And, since you seem so anxious about it,
know that I am an aristocrat, a royalist, and a _chouan_!"
The men cried out almost with one voice--
"At last! He owns it!"
Olivier took up the word at once.
"Very well! Since I have owned it, why don't you get quit of me, and
send me forthwith to the scaffold? I am weary of it all!"
But Robespierre calmly told him not to be in such a hurry, for he
wished to know his name. As the young man defied him, saying he
would have to ask elsewhere, for he should never learn it from him,
Robespierre grew furious. He must have his name, and the names of
his accomplices as well, for he was not single-handed; that was
certain!
"And if I have no accomplice, you will find some, I'll be bound!"
cried Olivier ironically. "But you shall not have my name!"
Lebas, having finished the letters, came forward, and Robespierre
gave him a questioning glance. The letters, he said, revealed
nothing in particular. They had been written two or three years ago,
and bore no address or signatures of importance. Two signed Marie
Thérèse were apparently from a young girl, the prisoner's sister or
_fiancée_.
"Then the medallion belongs to her," put in Victoire; "M.T. are the
initials on it."
But these letters revealed nothing, nor did three others signed "Your
mother," couched in terms of endearment and advice. The style was
most certainly that of an aristocrat. Only one letter--dated
1791--gave a slight indication, a very vague one.
Robespierre pricked up his ears--
"And the contents of that letter?" he asked.
Lebas scanned it once more. It was dated 1791, from a country place
in one of the suburbs of Paris, and addressed to the young man, then
a student, by his grandfather, who seemed also to be his godfather,
for he says: "I shall expect you to-morrow evening, for my _fête_ and
yours, the Feast of St. Olivier."
"Is Olivier, then, his name?" inquired Robespierre, looking at the
young man.
But Lebas continued reading. "The valet, my dear child, will not
fetch you this time. At fifteen a lad ought to be able to travel
alone."
"The letter being dated May, 1791, the young man must be now
nineteen," Lebas observed.
"Nineteen! yes, just nineteen!" repeated Robespierre, as if a thought
had struck him. "Go on! Go on? What comes next?"
Lebas continued: "My travelling-coach will wait for you in the Rue
des Lions, before the door of the hotel."
"There can be only one Rue des Lions in Paris, the Rue des
Lions-Saint-Paul?" interposed Robespierre, more and more impressed,
and still looking intently at the youth.
"Just so!" Lebas answered.
"Go on with the letter! Go on!"
Lebas resumed his reading: "Benoit..."
"The concierge!" interrupted Robespierre, scarcely able to hide his
emotion.
Lebas went on: "Benoit will open the shutters of the little room
leading out of my study to the garden. In a bookcase, the one
surmounted by the busts of Cicero and Socrates, you will find just
within your reach, and will bring to me, volumes x. and xi. of a set
of folios bound in red morocco, with the title..."
"_Arrêts du Parlement!_" exclaimed Robespierre, to the general
surprise, carried beyond himself by the revelation which had suddenly
burst upon him.
Olivier looked at him, in bewilderment.
"That is it! _Arrêts du Parlement_," repeated Lebas; "but how did
you know?"
Robespierre, mastering his feelings, and without taking his eyes off
Olivier, answered with assumed indifference--
"Oh! I have had those books in my hands many a time at Monsieur de
Pontivy's, King's Councillor in Parliament, and that young man's
grandfather."
Olivier turned deadly pale, and grasped convulsively at the back of a
chair for support. His mother was lost! Exclamations of surprise
and astonishment had greeted the Incorruptible's words. Then
Robespierre knew his family, and all about him? And all eyes were
fixed on the young man with renewed curiosity.
"Yes ... I know," ... answered Robespierre, forcing himself to appear
calm, "I know ... who he is..."
"Oh, now we shall hear the whole story!" they all exclaimed, clapping
their hands.
"Certainly you shall," Robespierre replied, "but in order to make
sure I should like to be alone with him. We are too many here; I
shall call you back presently. Let Héron and the police-agents wait
in the courtyard."
Every one prepared to leave the room, looking rather disappointed,
specially the women, who wondered what would be the outcome of it all.
As Lebas was passing out Robespierre stopped him.
"Don't go," he said, "I may want you."
And the three men remained alone.
The father was face to face with his son!
Robespierre's anger had all melted before this sudden revelation. He
preserved, however, a stern countenance, subduing the almost
uncontrollable emotion which threatened to overpower him. He was
still struggling with it, trying to regain possession of himself,
and, moved by a natural impulse, he told Olivier in a gentle voice to
be seated.
The prisoner, however, did not heed him, and when Robespierre
repeated his words even more persuasively, and in a trembling voice,
Olivier still paid no attention. Seeing Lebas shrug his shoulders,
intimating that Robespierre was really very good to insist, the
Incorruptible explained--his eyes still fixed on Olivier--that it was
but natural for him to show kindness towards the grandchild of a man
whose secretary he had been for eighteen months.
The young man stared back in surprise.
"They never told you, then?" said Robespierre. "Of course not....
They loathe my very name, your people, do they not?"
But he immediately added, to Lebas's astonishment, that this was no
reason why he should forget his stay in Monsieur de Pontivy's house.
He could not help thinking now of the happy evenings he had spent
there and the many pleasant meals of which he had partaken, side by
side with Olivier's mother. That dim, sweet spirit of the past,
which the young man's presence had called from its grave, had
softened his heart strangely towards him.
But Olivier interrupted him harshly. Robespierre might harden his
heart again, then! His life was in Robespierre's hands! He could
take it if it pleased him to do so. All the family had been victims
to the Revolution: his grandfather who died of grief, his uncle
killed in Vendée, his father mortally wounded defending the cause of
the King....
"But your mother? She is alive; you have not the right to sacrifice
her life!"
Robespierre went on thus carefully, trying by well-placed
insinuations and questions to wring the truth from him. If Olivier
had cried "Down with the scaffold!" it was because he trembled for
his mother's life? ... because she was arrested?
"Am I not right in this?" he urged, with deep anxiety. "Is she not
arrested?"
But he was met by a blunt denial.
And so the struggle between father and son went on; the former
impatient to learn the woman's hiding-place, the latter firm and
unshaken in his refusal to betray it to one whom he regarded as a
tiger seeking his prey.
Robespierre, though wounded by every syllable, continued his soft
persuasions. What! was it possible Olivier could not understand his
wish to protect his mother, and to place her out of harm's reach, in
memory of the time he had passed so happily at her side?
Olivier smiled in bitter irony. Robespierre need not waste his
words. He well knew he had too much pride to allow any such
remembrance to incline him to leniency. Ah, there were memories in
that sweet past, as he called it, for which his mother would pay with
her head! Friendship? _Robespierre's friendship_! Why, it paved
the road to the scaffold! All his friends had trodden that deadly
path.
A cry of indignation escaped Lebas, but Robespierre quieted him in a
husky voice, himself a prey to the most feverish agitation. The
lad's head had been turned by the _chouans_! He was not responsible
for what he said! Then turning to Olivier he tried, with a ring of
sadness in his voice, to persuade him that had he been a tyrant he
would have punished his insolence, he would not have attempted to
reason with him. But Olivier remained unmoved. This kindness was
assumed, he told himself, to hide some dastardly plot! Robespierre
only wanted to find his mother that he might avenge her son's insult
on herself. In vain the Incorruptible protested, deeply grieved and
wounded. Olivier stoutly maintained his position, declaring that
Robespierre was not a man to pardon any one who had publicly insulted
him with such outspoken contempt and hatred.
"Wretch!" cried out Lebas.
But Robespierre signed to him to stop. Hatred? That word in the
young man's mouth sounded like blasphemy. And trying to master
himself, that his voice should not tremble, he asked him--
"Then you do hate me very much?"
Olivier again furiously asserted his abhorrence, and was met by the
question--
"When have I ever wronged you?"
At this Olivier, losing self-control, nearly betrayed his secret.
"Wronged me! ... When have you wronged me?" the young man repeated.
"Wasn't it through you that my mother was..."
But recollecting himself he stopped short.
"Arrested?" put in Robespierre.
"No!" exclaimed Olivier.
And then the struggle recommenced.
Robespierre was, however, quite sure now of the arrest. What he
wanted to know was the name of the prison to which the two women had
been taken, and he came near to the chair by which the prisoner was
standing. Olivier instinctively recoiled a step, Robespierre,
completely exhausted, made one last effort. He implored the young
man to lay aside his mistrust and hatred, to help him to save those
who were so dear to him.
"To help you to kill them, you mean!"
Robespierre started from his seat, exasperated beyond measure. This
was going too far! Olivier must be mad! Could he not, would he not
realise that the very way to kill the two unhappy women was to leave
them for the executioner to do his work! Their turn would soon come.
"If yours does not come first!" interrupted Olivier.
What madness! Perhaps at this very moment they were entering the
cart which was to take them to the Revolutionary Tribunal, and the
next day to the scaffold. It was Olivier who was sending them to
death, and all because he was too obstinate to say the word which
would save them! He was a blind, unnatural son; he would kill his
own mother!
Olivier, though amazed at Robespierre's persistence, remained
unshaken.
"Are you so thirsty for her blood?" he cried, hurling at him this
last insult.
At these words Robespierre lost all self-control.
"Fool!" he cried, "insensate fool!" as he paced the room in
unrestrained excitement.
But Lebas had heard enough.
"Let us have done with this madman," he said, hurrying towards the
door to call in the police-agents.
But Robespierre turned round--
"No! Not yet!..."
Lebas, pretending not to have heard, called out--
"Héron! Hér..."
Robespierre threw himself on him, and pinning him to the wall, said
breathlessly--
"Don't call, I tell you! Don't call!"
Then lowering his voice he muttered in a dry whisper--
"Be quiet, man, I say! Be quiet! ... It is my son!"
"Ah!" and Lebas looked at him in stupefied amazement.
When he had sufficiently recovered from his surprise, he asked in a
low voice--
"Why do you not tell him so?"
Could Robespierre tell him? Tell the lad who loathed him! Would he
believe him? Olivier would say it was false, or how could he hate
him so?
"Oh, no! I cannot tell him that I am his father!" he said sadly,
sinking down exhausted on a chair.
Lebas took his hand and pressed it sympathetically, deeply touched.
"You are right!" he murmured.
And turning to Olivier he said aloud--
"Then let us discover the prisoners without him!"
Olivier understood that matters were becoming very serious. However,
Robespierre looked discouraged. How was it possible to find the
women, under their assumed names, in Vendée? But Lebas remarked that
they might be in Paris. At this Olivier visibly trembled, which
Lebas did not fail to notice.
"Why," he continued--"why should he be so far from them?"
The point of this remark struck Robespierre.
"Yes, to be sure; you are right," he said, and interpreting Lebas's
thoughts he bade him take a carriage and drive to each prison and
interview every woman that had been arrested with a young girl.
Lebas, who had already put on his hat, remarked that he did not think
the night would suffice; there were so many women arrested with a
daughter or a younger sister. And what if Olivier spoke the truth,
and his mother had been inscribed on the prison-register under
another name--her husband's, for instance?
"Mauluçon," interrupted Robespierre, the name suddenly recurring to
him.
Lebas took out a note-book from his pocket. Was he a soldier, or a
magistrate, this Mauluçon? Robespierre could not say. All he knew
of him was that among the people represented as having gone into
mourning for Louis XVI. he had seen the names of Pontivy, his
son-in-law Mauluçon, and his daughter Clarisse.
"Clarisse!" repeated Lebas, stopping his note-taking.
Robespierre looked at him in surprise. In what way could that name
interest him? Lebas had now closed his note-book, deep in thought.
Clarisse? Olivier's mother was called Clarisse? But the woman who
implored Robespierre's clemency for her son, aged nineteen, the woman
whose letter he had refused to read just now ...
"Was signed Clarisse?" cried Robespierre breathlessly.
"Yes," replied Lebas.
"That is his mother!"...
And pointing to the young man, who was on the brink of swooning.
"You see, it is she! Look at him; there is no mistaking, it is she!"
"She is at the prison of La Bourbe, then," said Lebas.
Robespierre could no longer hide his joy, at last he knew where to
find them!
But he was interrupted by a cry of pain. Olivier, thinking his
mother now irretrievably lost, had fainted away. Robespierre ran to
him, and bending over tried to bring him to consciousness, gently
reassuring him, swearing he was going to give the prisoners their
liberty.
But Lebas, who was also bending over the young man, reminded the
Incorruptible that Olivier no longer heard him. Then Robespierre,
with infinite precautions, assisted by Lebas, lifted him into an
armchair, and taking a bottle of scent left behind by the ladies,
gently bathed Olivier's temples with the perfume. Lebas, rather
anxious lest Robespierre's paternal solicitude should be discovered,
remained on the watch, imploring him to be prudent.
"Some one might come in!" he urged.
Robespierre, entirely taken up with Olivier, shrugged his shoulders.
"Let them come!" he said impatiently. "I have a right surely to
pardon my own son!"
Lebas recalled him to reality.
No! he had no right to pardon a _chouan_, who had insulted the
Republic the day before in presence of the whole nation.
Robespierre's enemies would seize the occasion to cite the example of
Brutus sacrificing his son to the interest of his country. They
would exact from him a like proof of patriotism....
Robespierre was trying to loosen Olivier's cravat, but not succeeding
asked Lebas's assistance. After all, he was right, especially as his
enemies on the Committee of Public Safety, out of hatred for him,
would kill the lad all the quicker. Opening the collar gently, he
continued the while to reason about it, saying that the only means of
saving him was to throw him brutally into prison, so as to mislead
them, and to get him out secretly after three days.
The young man heaved a sigh.
"He is coming to," said Robespierre, checking his speculations.
Lebas observed that it was high time to let others come in; they
would wonder at the length of the cross-examining. Robespierre
assented, his eyes fixed on his son, who seemed now coming to
himself. As the Incorruptible bent over him to ascertain if this was
so, his lips touched the pale forehead.
But he heard steps, and had only time to pull himself up, when Héron
entered, followed by his men.
Héron looked straight at Olivier, who had now recovered his senses.
"What! Did he faint?" he asked.
Robespierre had regained possession of himself, and at once assumed a
brutal demeanour. Yes, the scoundrel had been playing a farce, and
an infamous farce too! The family now entered also, brimming with
curiosity and questions.
"Has the young man made a confession?"
"No; but he has betrayed himself, and I know all that I desired."
General satisfaction was expressed. At last, then, he was caught,
and his accomplices! At this moment Madame Lebas and Victoire
discovered in what a sad state Olivier was. Had he been ill, then?
They would have come to him; but Robespierre stopped them, assuming
contempt.
"It was better," he said, "to leave the young madman alone, for he
really did not deserve that any one should take interest in him."
"Monster!" Olivier groaned.
Robespierre had heard the word. He took hold of Lebas's arm, as if
for support, and pressed it convulsively. Then, in a voice which he
tried to render harsh, he told him to conduct Olivier to the Prison
de la Force. Héron had only waited for this; and his men seized
their prisoner, who at the roughness of the police-agents gave a
sharp cry.
"You brutes!" exclaimed Robespierre, in a faltering voice, taking a
step towards his son in spite of himself. But Lebas stopped him.
"Be careful!" he whispered.
Robespierre sat down, realising his imprudence.
Lebas again whispered to him--
"Don't be uneasy, I will watch over him."
And telling the men not to handle the prisoner too roughly, he went
out with them.
Robespierre watched his son disappear, and when he had gone he felt
some one take his hand. This made him tremble. It was Cornélie.
How tired he seemed! Every one was around him now. That young
madman had given him terrible trouble, hadn't he?
"Yes," he replied, wiping his temple, "it was very trying!
Exceedingly trying!"
Duplay remarked that, judging from the length of the
cross-examination, he must have learnt something very important.
Robespierre made a gesture, as if protesting. Then rising abruptly
he took leave of the company, on the pretext of urgent work.
"The lad can rest assured," said Duplay, "it is his death-warrant our
friend has gone to sign."
"What a pity!" observed Victoire; "the young fellow seemed so nice!"
But mother Duplay stopped her daughter indignantly, asking her if she
was mad. What would the Incorruptible say if he could hear her?