The worth of my credentials was very soon put to the test; for an hour's
ride brought me to Morlaix, where, as I had learned from a hastily
scrawled list of places on the cover of the passport, I was to expect my
first fresh horse.
Here there was some grumbling at my lateness and wondering as to the
cause of it. For the diligence guard had reported that I (or rather he
whom I represented) had started ahead of the coach from Brest, and
should have passed Morlaix three hours in front.
Whereupon I explained that I had been attacked by a highwayman, and
obliged to hide in the woods till daylight. At which they laughed, and
said if I chose to travel to Paris alone on horseback, instead of
journeying as most honest citizens did, I must expect to be shot at.
Then I was ordered into the _conciergerie_ while my passport and papers
were examined.
It was lucky for me I had put on the dead man's clothes, and that the
description chiefly related to these. As regards personal appearance I
was described as young, beardless, with blue eyes, brown hair, and
"nothing remarkable," which equally well described me as it did poor
John Cassidy.
"Who is your master?" demanded the officer.
"Citoyen Lestrange," said I boldly, "an Irishman resident in Paris."
"Where have you been?"
"To Dublin, to see my master's agent, Mr Patten."
"Is this Monsieur Patten's letter?"
"That to my master is his. That to the Citoyen Duport is from a French
gentleman in Dublin whose name I do not know."
It hurt me to tell so many lies in one breath. But I must needs have
some story to tell, and prayed Heaven to forgive me for this.
To my relief the officer seemed satisfied, and I gathered that the
Citoyen Duport must be a man of consequence in Paris.
"Pass, John Cassidy," said he, handing me back my papers.
The same ceremony awaited me at each halting-place, and I realised
before I was half-way to Paris that it was no easy matter for a stranger
to travel in France in those days. What would have become of me but for
the accident in the wood near Morlaix it were hard to say.
But though I had much to congratulate myself on, I confess that as I
drew near to the capital I had much to perturb me. At every halting-
place on the way there were some who shrugged their shoulders when they
heard I was going to Paris. Paris, I heard it whispered, was no safe
place just then even for a Frenchman, still less for a stranger. The
streets were flowing with the blood of those whose only crime was that
they were suspected of not being the friends of the people. As to my
passport, it would be of little use to me unless I could give a fit
account of myself and my masters. As for Citoyen Duport, if I once put
my head in his jaws I need not expect to see it on again. And as for my
letter to Citoyen Lestrange, I had better carry it in the sole of my
stocking, and let no one know I bore a missive to any Englishman or
Irishman in Paris. My wisest course, so one frank official at Alencon
told me, was to know no French, to have no errand but my letter to
Citoyen Duport; that delivered, he thought I should save trouble if I
shot myself through the head.
All this was very alarming; and I began to doubt, when at last I caught
sight of the towers and domes of Paris in the distance, whether I should
not have been better off after all hiding in the caves under Fanad, or
dangling on the gallows beside Brest harbour.
At the barrier, however, things fell out easier for me than I had
feared. For, just as I arrived, a common cart on the way out had been
stopped and searched, and in it, hidden in a wood packing-case, had been
unearthed some notorious enemy of the people, over whose detection there
was great rejoicing, and the promise of a famous execution in the
morning. For all these reasons the soldiers and officials into whose
hands I fell were in high good-humour, and after scanning my passport
and the letter to the deputy let me go by.
I had followed the advice of my late counsellor, and forgotten all the
little French I knew, and had hidden the letter to Citoyen Lestrange in
my stocking. Whether I was to carry out the rest of his advice remained
to be seen.
The officer at the barrier retained my passport, saying it was done
with, from which I concluded that now I was in Paris there was little
hope of getting out of it again. So, feeling like a mouse in a trap, I
parted company with my horse, my passport, and even my pistol (of which
I was also relieved), and walked forward into the noisy city, wishing I
only knew where to go next.
Presently I came into a long narrow street, where the houses overhead
slanted towards one another and nearly shut out the light of heaven.
Poles stuck out from the windows, on which hung clothes or signs or
legends; the sight of which, swaying in the wind, mingled with the foul
odour and the noise and the jostling crowd, fairly dazed a country boy
like me. How, in such a place as this, was I to find what I wanted--
namely, a meal and a night's lodging?
At last, in front of me, there swung a flaunting sign--"A l'Irlandois"--
at which I cheered up. Here, at any rate, in the midst of this noisome
babel, seemed to come a whiff from the old country, and I felt like a
castaway in sight of land.
But before I had time to reach the place the whole street seemed
suddenly to go mad. First there was a yell and a roll of drums at the
end by which I had entered. Then every window seemed alive with people,
straining forward with howls and execrations and clenched fists. From
every door below poured forth a crowd, who fought with one another for a
place next the roadway, waved their red caps, and shouted in a wild sort
of chant some French song. In the rush stalls and barrows were
overturned, but there was no one to heed; children were trampled on, but
no one heard their cries; pockets were picked, but there was no one to
miss their loss; windows were smashed, but there was no one to feel a
draught. To my wondering fancy, all Paris had suddenly turned into this
narrow Rue d'Agnes and there run mad.
I noticed that the one thing all were agreed upon, was to keep a clear
space in the roadway, and strain their necks impatiently in the
direction of the drums; and soon enough the reason of all this
excitement became clear. Drawn by a single horse, and escorted by a
troop of National Guards, came a low open cart, in which sat two
persons, deadly white, gazing in a dazed vacant way at the scene around
them, and sometimes casting a reproachful glance at the slowly plodding
horse. One of the two was an old man, of fine, aristocratic presence,
which the coarse clothes he wore could not disguise. The other was a
low ruffian, with swollen face and bleared eyes, in the dress of a
butcher. Between the two, except that they were on their way to death,
there was nothing in common. Till to-day they had never met, and after
to-day they would never meet again. The crime of one, so I heard, was
that he was related to an aristocrat; that of the other, that he had
murdered his own daughter. For both offences the law of France just
then had but one penalty. And of the two, he who was most execrated and
howled at and spat upon was the gentleman.
In less time than it takes to write it the show had passed. A few of
the crowd followed to see the end of the business. The rest, for the
most part, returned to their callings, and before the drums were out of
hearing the Rue d'Agnes was once more a plain, dirty, ordinary Paris
street.
With a heart a good deal weighted by what I had seen, I turned into the
Cabaret "a l'Irlandois." If I had expected to find anything there to
remind me of my own country, I was sorely disappointed. A few blouse-
clad idlers sat at a table, smoking and drinking sugar and water, and
discussing the news of the day with their host, a surly-looking fellow,
who, whatever his inn might be, was himself a common type of Frenchman.
"Now?" demanded he as I approached. "Monsieur," said I in English, "I
desire a bed and some food."
"Speak French," said he in English. "I speak no French," replied I in
French. Whereupon one of the idlers was summoned as interpreter. I
knew French enough to hear in the words that passed between him and mine
host the two expressions "spy" and "money," and I wished I had never
come into the place. But it was not easy to get out now without
confirming the suspicion, and I deemed it wise to appear indifferent.
"If monsieur can give me a bed, I will put up with him," said I to the
interpreter; "if not--"
"Citizen Picquot sees his money before he sells his wares," said the
other.
I laid a gold piece on the table. "Citizen Picquot is a wise man," said
I.
Then followed a cross-examination of me, prompted by the cautious
Picquot and interpreted by his ally.
"Who was I? Where did I come from? Why did I seek a lodging at his
house of all others? How long was I going to stay? What was my
occupation in Paris? How much more money had I got?" and so on.
To all of which I answered my best; and when I produced my letter to the
Depute Duport they treated me more ceremoniously. I was shown to a
room, the like of which for filth I had never slept in before, and shall
never, I hope, sleep in again. It was a large chamber, the boards of
which were furred with mildew, and the valance on the bed was dropping
off with rottenness. Generations of cats had haunted it and slept on
the coverlet. The dungeon at Brest was fresh and sweet compared to it.
Yet Citizen Picquot smilingly demanded two francs a night and the price
of my candle.
"Monsieur is safe here," said he, forgetting, as did I, that I knew no
French. "I had a guest, a week ago, who was found by the Guards and
taken before the Tribunal and guillotined. He would have been safe too,
but we had a difference about money, and I denounced him. It was only a
week ago. They will not search my house again for a month to come.
Monsieur will be quite safe; but if, alas, he perish (and who is quite
safe in these days?), I will myself protect his effects, and see his
letter to the depute duly forwarded."
All this was vastly consoling.
"Apropos," said I, "cannot I deliver my letter this evening?"
"This evening," said my host with a shrug; "it is death to approach a
depute a la Convention Nationale after the seance is closed. The last
who did it was Mademoiselle Corday, and she-- In the morning, monsieur,
when the Convention sits, you shall deliver your letter; till then,
peace and sound repose." And he bowed himself out.
I knew not much of the world, but I knew enough to wish myself out of
this rat-trap. To try to escape just now would, I saw, be futile. Yet
to spend the night there meant, if not murder, at least robbery and
pestilence. A brave face was the only thing to put upon the business,
and I followed Citizen Picquot downstairs and called for food and drink,
in which I invited not him only but his gossips to join me.
I noticed that the door was carefully locked when any one came in or
went out, and that any chance motion of mine in that direction was
quickly intercepted. So the evening wore on, and presently the lights
of the cabaret were extinguished, and my host passed me my candle and
again bade me good-night.
I went up by no means gaily. Three other men, I observed, were still in
the house, and would in all probability join in the attack upon me. I
had parted with my pistol. The door was without a lock. The window was
shuttered from the outside. My only arms were a small pocket-knife and
my belt.
I took the precaution to secrete my letter to the deputy, along with
that to Mr Lestrange, in my boot, and the little money I had left I
tied up in the tail of my shirt. Then I considered that the only safe
place for me that night was to sit on the floor with my back against the
door and my heels against the foot of the bed, which chanced to stand at
just the required length. In this posture, even if I fell asleep, any
attempt to force the door would arouse me; and if the door was
reasonably sound I could reckon, with my back and feet, on keeping it
fast against the four, at any rate for a while.
I had a long time to wait. They evidently meant to give me time to fall
asleep, and themselves, perhaps, time to consume some more of the cognac
which my money had provided. I was indeed almost dozing when my ears
caught the sound of an unsteady footstep on the stairs and a whispering
of voices below. Then the footstep stopped outside my door, and a hand
cautiously turned the handle.
"The young dog smells a rat," muttered my landlord, with a hickup which
gave me some hope.
"True for you, monsieur," replied I, in as good French as I could
muster. "I can shoot rats as well as smell them." And I made the blade
of my knife give a click that sounded for all the world like the cocking
of a pistol.
"Armed!" ejaculated the tipsy scoundrel. "God have mercy! Pardon,
monsieur, I came to see if you were comfortable."
"Monsieur citoyen is too good. I am most comfortable, and beg to be
waked at cock-crow. _Bonsoir_."
I knew of course that was not the end of him, but while he stumbled
downstairs to take counsel with his comrades I had at least time to
breathe. I peeped out of the door. All was dark, and there was no
sound but the ticking of the great Dutch clock in the shop below.
The clock! I had noticed it that evening--a great unwieldy structure
like a coffin on end, and a dial above. If I could but get down to it,
while my assailants were up despatching me, I might yet have a chance of
eluding them. I could hear them discussing together at the foot of the
stairs, and presently advance once more to the charge, not this time
with my host as an advance-guard, but all together. I slipped out into
the passage, and hid in a dark corner at the head of the stairs, so
close, indeed, that they all but brushed against me in passing.
"_Alors, il dort_," said my host, listening for a moment. "No; he
moves. All together now."
And with one accord they hurled themselves against the door, which of
course offered no resistance, and admitted them toppling one over the
other into the room.
I waited no longer, but slipped down the stairs and into the clock. I
had to displace the pendulum to do it, but trusted to the muddled
condition of the enemy not to miss the ticking.
After a while they came down in a towering rage, blaming one another for
what had happened. They were just in the humour to be quarrelsome, and
as I stood motionless in my narrow sentry-box I heard as pretty a battle
of words as it has ever been my lot to listen to.
Their one comfort was that I could not be far away. Either I had gone
out by the window, in which case I had undoubtedly broken my neck; or I
was down in the cellar, in which case I would keep till morning.
"Meanwhile, comrades, let us drink long life to the Republic, and down
with the Girondists."
So to drink they fell, but were hardly settled when a loud summons came
at the outer door, and a shout of, "Open, in the name of the Republic
One and Indivisible!"
Then did mine host quake in his shoes, and his comrades turned pale.
"To bed!" whispered my host with trembling voice. "Go up and sleep."
They were not long in obeying, and that night the bed that was meant for
me held three of the soundest sleepers in all France.
The knocking continued, and mine host, feigning a great yawn, took down
his key and asked who was there.
"Citoyen Picquot, open to the National Guard."
The door opened, and half-a-dozen soldiers trooped into the shop.
"Produce your lodgers," demanded the soldier in command.
"I have but three, citizen soldier. Follow me, they shall be at your
service."
The officer followed my host upstairs; the others remained below.
Presently I heard a loud outcry and scuffling of feet above, and a
shouted word of command. The soldiers instantly rushed up the stairs.
But no speed of theirs could equal that with which I darted from my
hiding-place and out at the open door into the street, thanking Heaven
that whatever rats might be caught that night in the Rue d'Agnes I was
not one of them.