"A fit? Yes; I have them--not often. I remember now. Has he gone,
that devil?--that marquis?"
"Who? Ste. Luce? Was it he that troubled thee?"
"Yes; he."
"But what then?"
By and by Pierre sat up. Seeing him to be quite himself, but staring
about as if in fear, Francois said:
"Come, now; I must have the whole story. What the mischief has this
fine gentleman done to thee? I am out of patience with thy tiresome
mysteries. I know him; we have met before. Perhaps I can help thee."
"Thou?"
Pierre lay back on the floor, and covered his face.
"_Mon Dieu!_" he cried, "why wilt thou force me to talk of it? Oh, to
hate, and to be afraid!" He started up. "I am afraid."
"If I hated a man," said Francois, "_sacre bleu_! I would twist his
neck."
"If I could! if I could! I am not like thee. I am--am a coward.
That's the truth."
"_Dame!_ that is curious." He regarded the fat little man with
attentive eyes. "Suppose we have it all out, and get done with it."
"Done with it?"
"Yes; done with it! Hast thou often had these fits before?"
"Yes; and then I am better for a while."
"Tell me all about this man. I will take care of thee."
"No; God did not: thou canst not."
"Then we must separate. I am tired of thy nonsense, and I do not care a
rap how soon this business ends, what with your cursed melancholy and
that jade Quatre Pattes. Now, out with it!"
Pierre, seated on the floor of the booth, red-eyed and dejected, looked
up piteously at his questioner. "If I tell thee all, thou wilt despise
me."
"Not I. Go on! If thou canst speak out like a man, I may be able to
help thee; but if thou art of a mind to hold thy tongue, it were better
we parted. I am tired of thy folly."
Thus urged, Pierre told his story, reluctant, with bowed head, and at
times in tears. Francois sat over him on a stool, now and then asking a
question, or waiting patiently when Pierre, choked by overmastering
emotions, was silent for a while.
"I have been unhappy and unlucky from the time I can first remember,"
said Pierre. "My people belonged to the lesser noblesse, but my father
was poor--oh, very poor. We had been ruined folks away there in
Normandy for half a century, only a bit of farm and vineyard left to us.
My mother was of the bourgeoisie, foolish and pretty. She died young,
and I was left the only child. My father treated me ill. I had no
courage, he said. It was true. As I grew up, I was timid like a girl,
and fearful of quarrels. When I was about twenty years old I had a
trouble with a brother of this marquis. He struck me with his whip
because of something I said. My father learned that I had excused
myself, and was wild with rage. It was my bourgeois mother, he said; we
had lost all but honor, and now that too was gone. He died not long
after, and I, with a few hundred francs, was driven out to care for
myself. The marquis had a mortgage on the farm. I went to a village
near by, and lived awhile as I could until I was down to my lust sou. I
worked like a peasant in the fields; I was the servant at an inn. At
last a mountebank company attracted me, and in despair I went with them
to take care of the horses which served them in their performances. By
and by I learned sleight of hand, and fared better. At last I married a
girl who danced in our company. She was pretty,--oh, more than
pretty,--and clever, too. When we came again to our town, a notary
offered me a petty clerk's place, and I was well contented to settle
down. My wife was too eager for the society of the bourgeoisie, and
they would have none of that of the dancing-girl. Then, unhappily, this
marquis saw my wife, and how I know not, but his fine clothes and
cunning were too much for one who was eager for a society she could not
have. I was busy, and often absent collecting small debts. No one
warned me. I was satisfied, and even put by a little money.
"There was a woman in the village, Mme. Quintette, a dressmaker, a
shameless creature of bad life. She might have been then some fifty
years old. 'T is now twelve years ago. At her house the marquis met my
wife. One day my Renee was gone, and this Quintette with her. It is
she who is this Quatre Pattes."
"The deuce!" cried Francois. "Now I see."
"More than a year went by. Thou wouldst have killed the man. I could
not. I am a coward, Francois--a coward! God made me so; I can't help
it. One day an infant was brought to my door, with a note. _Mon Dieu_,
such a note! The dying mother in the hospital with her last money paid
a good sister to take the child to me--to me, of all men! And would I
pardon her? Francois, it was that devil's babe and hers. Would I
forgive her, and keep it? Wouldst thou have kept it?"
"No," said Francois; "not I."
"I did! I did! It was like her, all but the eyes. I grew to love it.
Then there was an accident, a fall, and the little maid is crippled for
life. It seemed horrible, but now I thank God, because she is safe from
the baseness of men. I wanted to die, but I must live; she has no other
friend."
Francois sat still, pitiful, and deep in thought. At last he said: "Why
were you so terribly afraid of that woman? She could do no worse than
ruin our business."
"I--hast thou ever been afraid thou wouldst murder some one? I was. I
would have done it in a minute hadst not thou come in."
"_Sac a papier_! Afraid of thyself! How queer! Thou wert afraid of
thyself?"
"Yes; I am--I was--I am often afraid of myself."
"Let us forget it."
"I cannot. What can I do?"
"Do? Nothing."
"But that man--"
"Well, thou art helpless. I should not be. Forget. Thy chance may
come." He was at the end of his wisdom. He pitied this weak-hearted
coward who so frankly avowed his defect. "We will speak of it no more,
Pierre, or not now. But what brought you to Paris? Let us have it all,
and get done with it."
"My poor little humpback was hardly six years old when she came to me,
crying, to know why the village children would not play with her. She
was a humpback and a bastard. What was 'bastard'? I have always fled
from trouble. One day I took the child and what little I had, and was
away to Paris. God knows how it hurt me to hear every evening how she
had been mocked and tormented; one is so foolishly tender. In this
great city I sought work, and starved. And when at last she was fading
before my eyes, I stole--my God, I stole!"
"_Dame_! thou art particular. Must a man starve?"
"When I got money out of a full purse I took, I set up our little
business, and then I found thee. And this is all. I dare say I shall
feel better to have told some one. I did not want to steal. I did not
steal after I began with the booth, unless I was in need--oh, sorely in
need. It was so on that fortunate day when I was saved by thee. In thy
place I should have kept the old fishwife's purse."
"And let me swing?"
"Yes--perhaps; I don't know. I--it is well for me thou wert not a
coward."
"_Sacristie_! It appears that not to be a coward has its uses. Now
_bon jour_ and adieu to the whole of this business. Let the miserable
past go. 'T is bad company, and not amusing. Have no fear; I will take
care of thee. Come, let us go home."
"Thou wilt look about a little before we go?"
"Toto, he is mad, this man."
"I sometimes think I am. At night, in my dreams, I have him by the
throat, and he laughs, and I cannot hold him. I wake up, and curse in
the darkness because I cannot kill him. And then I know it is a debt
never to be paid--never."
Francois had had enough of the small man's griefs. Contempt and pity
were strangely mingled as he listened to his story.
"I shall let thee talk no more," he said. "But _mille tonnerres_! I
cannot help thee to go mad. Let us go and wander in the country
to-morrow, thou and I and Toto. It will comfort thee. But no more of
this; I will not stand it."
The advice was wholesome, and, as usual, Pierre accepted the orders of
his more sturdy-minded friend.
*X*
_How Pierre became a Jacobin and how a nation became insane._
Although the marquis was not again upon the scene, as the months went by
Despard became by degrees more gloomy. At night, in place of the gay
little cafe, he went out to the club of the Jacobins, and fed full of
its wild declamations against the _emigres_ and the aristocrats. It
amused Francois, who saw no further ahead than other men. Despard came
home loaded with gazettes and pamphlets, and on these he fed his
excitement long after his partner was asleep.
When, as time went by, Pierre's vagaries increased, Francois found in
them less subject for mirth. The fat little man sat up later and later
at night. At times he read; at others he walked about muttering, or
moving his lips without uttering a sound. What disturbed Francois most
was that the poodle now and then showed fear of Pierre, and would no
longer obey him as he had been used to do.
Meanwhile, as Pierre still attended sedulously to business, Francois
could find no fault. He himself had become devoted to his art of
palm-reading. He bought at the stalls old books, Latin and French,
which treated of the subject, and tried to keep up the name his odd ways
had made so profitable. Deceit was a part of his working capital; but
deceit and credulity are apt to go together, as a great man has well
said. Not for many louis would the conjurer have let any one read again
the lines of his own hand. When Despard began to teach him the little he
himself knew of palmistry, it had caused interest, and after a while a
half-belief. This grew as he saw the evident disturbance to which the
use of his art gave rise in certain of those who at first appeared to
look upon it as an idle jest. The imaginative have need to be wary, and
this man was imaginative, and had the usual notions of the gambler and
thief as to omens and luck. I have said he had no definite working
conscience. I have also said that he possessed an inborn kindness of
heart; he had a long memory for benefits, and a short one for injuries.
His courage was of fine quality: not even Quatre Pattes could terrify
him.
The politics of the time were becoming month by month more troublous to
such as kept their heads steady in the amazing tumble of what for
centuries had been on top, and the rise of that which had been as long
underneath. The increasing interest of Pierre in all that went on
surprised Francois, and sometimes, as I have said, amused him. He could
not comprehend why he should care whether the king ruled, or the
Assembly. This mighty drama was nothing to him. He paid no taxes; he
toiled not, nor spun, except nets of deceit; and whether or not commerce
died and the plow stood idle in the furrow was to him of no moment.
Meanwhile, before the eyes of a waiting, wondering world historic fate
was shuffling the cards as neither war nor misrule had shifted them for
many a day. Knave and king, spade and club, were now up, now down.
Every one was in a new place. The old surnames were replaced by
classical appellations. Streets, palaces, and cities were rebaptized
with prenominal republican adjectives. Burgundy, Anjou, Navarre, and
the other ancient provinces, knew no more their great names heroically
famous.
All men were to be equal; all men were free to be what they could. But
the freedom of natural or acquired inequality was not to be recognized.
There were new laws without end. The Jacobin added a social creed. All
men must _tutoyer_. "Your Majesty" was no more to be used. Because the
gentles said "thou" and "thee" to one another and to an inferior, all
men must "thou" as a sign that all are on a level.
A bit of paper was to be five francs--and take care of thy head if thou
shouldst venture to doubt its value. As to all else, men accepted the
numberless and bewildering decrees of the Assembly. But the laws of
commerce no ruler can break. These are despotic, changeless, and as old
as the act of barter between man and man. The assignats fell in value
until two hundred francs would scarce buy a dinner. There, too, was a
new navy and a new army, with confusing theories of equal rights for
sailor, soldier, and captain.
A noble desire arose everywhere to exercise the new functions. What joy
to cast a ballot, to act the part of officials, to play at soldiering!
All the cross dogs in France are unchained and the muzzles off; and some
are bloodhounds. What luxury to be judge, jury, and hangman, like the
noble of long ago!
Even childhood caught the temper of the time. It played at being
officer and prisoner, built and tore down bastilles, and at last won
attention and a law all to itself when some young ruffians hung one of
their number in good earnest for an aristocrat.
However indifferent was Francois at this time, the shifting drama amused
him as some monstrous burlesque might have done. Its tragedies were as
yet occasional, and he was by nature too gay to be long or deeply
impressed. There was none he loved in peril, and how to take care of
Francois his life had taught him full well.
"_Allons zi gaiement!_" he cried, in the tongue of his old quarter; and
kept a wondering, anxious eye on Pierre.
*XI*
_The juggling firm of Despard, Francois & Co. is broken up--Despard goes
into politics, and Francois becomes a fencing-master._
January, 1791, Francois, having of late found business slack, had moved
to the open _place_ in front of the Palais Royal. He had taught Toto new
tricks--to shoulder a musket and to die _pour la patrie_. Time was
telling men's fortunes quite too fast for comfort. Neither his old
devices nor Toto's recently acquired patriotism was of much avail.
Moreover, Pierre was losing interest in the booth as he became absorbed
in politics.
"Thou wilt not go to thy _sacre_ club, Pierre," said Francois, one night
late in February. "Here are two days thou hast left us, the patriot
Toto and me, to feed thee and make sous for the poor little maid at
Sevres."
"She is not at Sevres."
"Why not? Thou hast not said a word to me of this."
"No; I had more important matters to think of."
Francois, who was tranquilly smoking his pipe, looked up at his partner.
The man had lately worn a look of self-importance.
"Well, what else?"
"The sisters are aristocrats. A good _citoyenne_ hath her. I shall
give up the show. The country calls me, Pierre Despard, to save her.
The great Robespierre hath asked me to go into Normandy, to Musillon,
whence I came. I am to organize clubs of Jacobins." He spoke with
excitement, striding to and fro. He declared that he was not afraid now
of any one. To serve France was to have courage.
"And how as to money?" asked Francois.
He said his expenses would be paid by the clubs. Barnave, Duport, and
the deputies of the Right must be taught a lesson. There must be no
more kings. The people must rule--the people! He declaimed wildly.
"_Fichtre!_" cried Francois, laughing. "It does seem to me that they
rule just now."
Pierre went on with increasing excitement; and would not Francois go
with him?
"Go with thee? Thou sayest we shall be deputies in the new Convention.
A fine thing that! And Toto too, I suppose? Not I. I am an
aristocrat. I like not thy Robespierre. As to the show, it pays no
longer, and I have greased the claws of the Crab until there is no more
grease left. I shall take to the streets, Toto and I. And so thou art
to be a great man, and to play poodle on thy hind legs for Petion and
the mob?"
Pierre was offended. He rose and stood glaring at Francois with
wide-open eyes; then he said, as if to himself: "The marquis is near
Evreux. Let him take heed!"
"_Mon Dieu_! He will eat thee as he would the frogs of his moat, that
man! I am not of those who fear, but if I had angered him--"
"I have named him to the great Robespierre, the just, the good. He will
remember him."
"Then go; and the devil take the whole lot of you!"
"I shall go. But do not say thou art an aristocrat, for then I must
hate thee."
"_Grand merci_! Thou poor, fat little pug, canst thou hate?"
"Aye, as hell hates." Upon this Toto took refuge under his master's
bed.
Francois rose, and, standing in front of the flushed, fat little man,
set a hand on each of Pierre's shoulders and stopped his excited march.
"I cannot understand thee. I never could contrive to hate even a
gendarme, and if hell hates, I know not. Thou art helpless as a turtle
that is on his back. What use to kick? No; do not answer me. Hear me
out. I shall go my way--thou thy way. I served thee a good turn once,
and thou hast helped me to a living. Now I like not thy ways; thou art
going mad, I think."
"Perhaps--perhaps," returned Pierre, gloomily. "Well, _c'est fini_--'t
is done. Now to settle."
They divided their spare cash; and after that Pierre went to his club,
and Francois to bed and a dreamless sleep.
In the morning he rose early, left his share of the rent on the table,
and with a little bag of clothes, and Toto after him, walked away across
the Seine, and soon found a small room under the roof. He paid in
advance the customary _denier a Dieu_, and settled down to think.
[Illustration: "HE PAID IN ADVANCE THE CUSTOMARY DENIER A DIEU."]
He was tired of the show, and meant to resume his old trade. His
conscience, or so much as he had, was at peace; all France was
plundering. Now the nobles were robbed, and now the church.
"The world is on my side," he laughed, as he sat with Toto on his knees,
looking over a wide prospect of chimney-pots and tiles.
Thus began again the life of the thief; but now, thanks to his long
training as a juggler, he was amazingly expert. He took no great risks,
but the frequent tumults of the streets were full of chances, although
it must be said that purses were thinner, watches and gold snuff-boxes
rarer, and caution less uncommon than it had once been. If business
prospered, he and Toto took long holidays in the country, and did a
little hunting of rabbits; for the gamekeeper was no longer a person to
be dreaded. Sometimes, lying on the turf, he thought how pleasant would
be a bit of garden, and assurance of good diet and daily work to his
taste. I fear it would scarcely have been long to his taste. When
something like a chance came, he could not make up his mind to accept
the heaven-sent offer. He was to see many things and suffer much before
his prosperous hour arrived.
One fine day in April, Francois, with whom of late fortune had
quarreled, was seated in the sun on a bench in the now ill-tended garden
of the Luxembourg. The self-made difficulties of the country were
affecting more and more the business of the honest, and of that
uncertain guild which borrows but never returns. He had a way of taking
Toto into his counsels. "What shall we do, little devil?" The poodle
barked. "No. These accursed Jacobins are ruining France. What, knock a
man on the head at night! Bad dog, hast thou no morals? _Va donc_! Go
to. Thou hast not my close experience of the lantern, and stone walls
for a home I like not. Work, thou sayest? Too late; there is work for
no one nowadays. Thou wilt end badly, little monster."
Toto whined, and having no more to say, fell asleep. At this moment
Francois, looking up, saw go by a young woman in black, and with her a
boy of perhaps ten years. On the farther side was a tall, well-dressed
man of middle age, whom, as he was looking away, Francois did not
recognize. Some bright thing fell unnoticed from the woman's wrist, and
lay in the sun. "Hist, Toto! Look there--quick!" In a moment the dog
was away, and back again, with a small miniature set in gold and
surrounded by pearls. It was the portrait of a young officer. Francois
hastily put it back into the dog's mouth, saying: "Go to sleep! Down!
down quickly!" The dog, well taught, accepted the trust, and dropped as
if in slumber, his head on his paws, while his master studied the
weathercocks on the old gray palace. A moment later both the man and
the woman turned to look for the lost miniature. Then Francois saw that
it was his old acquaintance the marquis. He had more than once seen him
in the garden, where he was fond of walking; but the great seigneur had
passed him always without notice. The boy ran back ahead of his
grandfather, and coming to Francois, said innocently:
"Monsieur, have you seen a little picture madame let fall? It is so
big, and I saw it only just now on her wrist. Please to help us to look
for it. It is my father; he is dead."
After the boy came the woman, looking here and there on the gravel.
"_Dame de Dieu!_ she is beautiful," murmured Francois; "and that _sacre_
marquis!"
The voice he heard was sweet and low, and tender with regret at her
loss.
"Has monsieur chanced to see a little miniature?"
Monsieur was troubled, but his pocket and stomach were both empty.
Monsieur was distressed. He had seen no miniature.
Next came the marquis.
"Ho, ho!" he said pleasantly. "Here is the citizen my thief again.
Have you seen a small miniature?"
Francois had not.
"_Diable_! 'T is a pity, monsieur. Well, pardon a _ci-devant_ marquis,
but I do think monsieur knows a little too much of that miniature for
his eternal salvation. Also, monsieur does not lie as well as might be
expected from one in his line of life."
Francois rose. He was embarrassed as he saw the tearful face of the
woman.
"I was about to say I would look--I would search."