"Hush!" said Captain Lestrange, before I could utter a word. "The
ladies are not safe here; they are marked down by the spies. They must
escape at once."
"My lady is still in a faint," said I.
"Faint or no, she must come. Tell them I am here."
He spoke as a soldier with authority; and a pang of jealousy smote me as
I looked at his handsome presence in spite of its disguise.
I went to my lady's room and announced him. She lay half stupified,
with her eyes open, her bosom heaving, and a choking sob in her throat.
Miss Kit kneeled at the bedside and held her hand.
Both were too numb and dazed to express much amazement at the news I
brought; and when Captain Lestrange followed me in, no breath was wasted
on empty greetings.
"I lodge in an attic six houses away. If you could only get on to the
roof," said he, "you would reach it easily."
"We are not far from the roof already," said I, pointing to a corner of
the ceiling through which, even as we spoke, flakes of snow were
drifting into the room.
Captain Lestrange took a log of fuel and poked the hole, till it was
large enough to let a person through.
He bade me tear the sheet, make a band of it, and fasten it round my
mistress, while he clambered through my window on to the roof. It was a
perilous climb, but the captain was lithe and active as a cat. In a
minute we saw him looking in through the hole in the ceiling.
"Now hand me the end of the band," said he, "and come here and help me
to haul.--Nerve yourself, cousin, and all will be well."
Between us, we had no difficulty in drawing the poor lady through the
opening on to the roof; and when we let down the band for Miss Kit, her
light, little form followed readily enough.
"Down," said the captain, crouching in the gutter of the parapet and
beginning to crawl along it.
We followed painfully and slowly, finding the journey very long, and
expecting any moment to hear the pursuer behind.
Presently we came to a halt, and saw our conductor remove some slates
and discover an opening into the house below.
Once more the linen band came into requisition. The ladies were lowered
into the room. The captain and I paused to set the slates, so that no
one should be able to detect the place of our entrance. Then he swung
himself over the parapet on to the ledge of the little window below,
bidding me follow. Next moment we stood, all four of us, in a tiny
chamber, no bigger than a cupboard, with nothing in it but a little bed,
a chair, and a shelf, on which stood a loaf and a bottle of wine.
"Welcome to my humble quarters, cousins," said he. "They are neither
large nor water-tight, but I natter myself they are airy and command an
extensive view. We will be safe here till night, but then we must seek
something more spacious and secluded."
And with all the grace in the world, he poured out a glass of wine for
my lady and begged her to drink it.
Presently Miss Kit said, with the first smile I had seen on her face
that day,--
"I am too bewildered to ask questions, otherwise I should like to know
how all this has come to pass."
"Not now," said he. "I am as bewildered and perplexed as you are.--
Gallagher, go to your daily work, but return early; and bring with
you,"--here he handed me a gold piece--"provisions for a journey."
It was hard to be dismissed thus at a moment of peril. But my little
lady's words and the smile that accompanied them made up for it.
"Yes. Come back early, Barry. We shall feel short of a protector while
you are away."
And she held out her hand, which I kissed with a glare at the captain,
who only laughed, and said,--
"Don't forget the provisions."
Little I thought as I groped my way down the tumble-down staircase how
many weary months were to elapse before I was to hold that gentle little
hand in mine again.
I had reached the stables, and was rubbing down a spent horse, when I
became aware that a woman was standing at the gate. I recognised her at
once as the woman who had pointed us out that morning when we entered
our house, and my heart filled with forebodings as I saw her.
It was a relief when my employer presently ordered me to take a horse
round to the house of a citizen in the suburbs. The woman had gone when
I started, and after half-an-hour's trot I almost dismissed her from my
mind. My orders were, after delivering the horse at its destination, to
return on foot, calling on my way at the hay merchant's with an order.
This I duly performed; and was hastening back by way of the Rue Saint
Honore, when two muskets were suddenly crossed in front of me, and a
harsh voice said,--
"Regnier, you are arrested by order of the Committee of Public Safety."
"On what charge?" faltered I.
"On the accusation of the Citoyenne Souchard, who denounces you as the
friend of royalism and of the miscreant Bailly."
"I am no friend of either," I exclaimed. "I do not--"
"Silence! march!" said the soldier.
Resistance was hopeless, escape impossible. In a daze I marched on,
pointed at and hooted at by the passers-by, amid cries of,--
"_A bas les mouchards! Mort aux aristocrates_!" [Saint Patrick! that I
should be taken for an aristocrat.] "_Vive la guillotine_!"
I cared not what became of me now, but when presently my conductors
actually turned towards the Island of the City, and I caught sight of
the high roofs of the houses on the Quai Necker, a wild hope of seeing
my little mistress once more took hold of me. Alas! it was but for a
moment. The cold muzzle of the soldier's gun recalled me to myself.
I longed to know if the accuser, who seemed to know my name and all my
movements, had joined the names of the ladies in my denunciation. If
so, woe betide them and all of us. In the midst of my trouble the one
thought that cheered me, despite the pang of jealousy that came with it,
was that they were not without protection; and that Captain Lestrange,
who had shown himself so ready of resource in the morning, might succeed
even without my help in rescuing those innocent ones from the bloody
hands of "the terror."
A chill went through me when it dawned upon me at last that I was being
conducted to the fatal Conciergerie--that half-way house between life
and death towards which so many roads converged, but from which only
one, that to the guillotine, led.
An angry parley took place at the door between the jailer and my
captors.
"Why here?" demanded the former; "we are packed to the bursting point."
"To-morrow you will have more room by fifty," said the other.
"This is not to-morrow," growled the hard-worked official.
"The _detenu_ is your parishioner," said the soldier.
"It is scandalous the slowness with which the Committee works," said the
jailer. "Fifty a day goes no way; we want one hundred and fifty."
"You shall have it, Citizen Concierge. Patience!--Now, Regnier, enter,
and adieu," said he, with a push from the butt-end of his gun.
Beyond entering my name and assigning me my night's quarters, no notice
was taken of me by my jailers. I was allowed to wander on into the
crowded courtyard, where of the hundreds who prowled about like caged
animals none troubled themselves so much as to look up at the new
unfortunate. Men and women of all sorts were there: gentlemen who held
themselves aloof and had their little _cercle_ in one corner, with
servants to attend them; rogues and thieves who quarrelled and gambled
with one another, and made the air foul with their oaths; terrified
women and children who huddled together for shelter from the impudent
looks and words of the ruffians, who amused themselves by insulting
them. Sick people were there with whom it was a race whether disease or
the guillotine would claim them first. And philosophers were there, who
looked with calm indifference on the scene, and jested and discussed
among themselves.
Among this motley company I was lost, and, indeed, it would have
troubled me to be anything else. I found leaning-room against the wall,
and had no better wish than that the promised fifty who to-morrow were
to feed the guillotine might count me in their number.
As soon as the short February day closed in, we were unceremoniously
ordered within doors. Some of the more distinguished and wealthy
retired to their private apartments; the women (though I heard they were
not always so fortunate) were shut up in quarters of their own. Others
retired in batches to chambers, for the use of which they had clubbed
together in bands of twenty or thirty. The rest of us, comprising all
the poorer prisoners, were huddled into great foul, straw-strewn rooms
to sleep and pass the night as best we might.
Rough countryman as I have been, the thought of those nights in the
Conciergerie turns my stomach even now. The low ceiling and small
windows made the atmosphere, laden as it was with dirt of all sorts,
choking and intolerable. The heat, even on a winter night, was
oppressive. The noise, the groaning, the wrangling, the fighting, the
pilfering, were distracting. Only twice in the night silence, and that
but for a few moments at a time, prevailed.
Once was when the guard, accompanied by great dogs, made their nightly
round, kicking us who lay in their way this side and that, and testing
every bar and grating of our prison with hammers and staves. For the
sake of the dogs, who were stern disciplinarians, we kept the peace till
the bolt was once more turned upon us.
The other time the hush was of a more terrible kind, as I discovered
that first night. A jangle of keys without imposed a sudden lull on the
noise. The door opened, and in came the concierge and his turnkeys.
Every eye turned, not on the man or his myrmidons, but on the paper that
he held in his hand. It was the list of prisoners who to-morrow were to
appear before the Tribunal--that is to say, of the victims who the day
after to-morrow were to ride in the tumbrels to the guillotine.
A deadly silence prevailed as the reading proceeded, broken only by the
agonised shriek of some unfortunate, and the gradual sighs of relief of
those whose names were omitted.
The ceremony over, the door (on the outside of which a turnkey had
chalked the doomed names) swung to, and all once more was noise and
babel. The victims drew together, embracing their friends and uttering
their farewells. The others laughed louder than ever, like schoolboys
who have escaped the rod. Morning came, and with it the summons. Those
who quitted us we knew we should never see again. They would spend that
night in the dungeon of the _condamnes_; the next day the lumbering roll
of the tumbrels would announce to us that they were on their way to the
Place de la Revolution.
The first night, I confess, I was disappointed that the fatal list did
not contain my name; but as days, and then weeks, and then months
passed, the love of life rose high within me, and I grew to tremble for
that which I had once hoped for. Day by day I scrutinised the new
arrivals in the vague expectation of seeing among them those I loved
best. But they never came.
I made few, if any, acquaintances, for I resolved to keep my mouth shut.
Spies, I knew, infested the prisons as they did the streets, and many a
chance word uttered in the confidence of the dungeon was reported and
used as evidence against the victim. Now and again we were thrown into
excitement by the arrival in our midst of some notable prisoner, before
whose name, a few short weeks since, all Paris, nay, all France had
trembled, but who now was marked down and doomed by his rivals in power.
And sometimes rumours of convulsions without penetrated the walls of
our cells, and made us hope that, could we but endure a while, the end
of "the terror" was not far distant.
I remember one night when a new prisoner whispered to me that the great
Robespierre, at whose nod any head in Paris might drop into the dreadful
basket, had been blown upon within the walls of the Convention itself.
"Death is marked on his face," said he; "and when he falls there is hope
for us, for the people are sick of blood."
Alas! this same poor whisperer heard his name called out that very
night, and fell grovelling at my side, as if I could help him.
Still my name was held back. Either they had overlooked it in the
crowd, or had marked it through as dead already, or considered it less
important than others who had more pressing claims on the executioner's
knife.
Hope rose within me. I became so used to being passed that I ceased to
expect anything else, and only counted the days till the blood-red cloud
should have drifted past and left me free.
When, therefore, on the very night that news had come in that
Robespierre had indeed fallen, and was even then before his judges, I
heard the name "Regnier" read off the fatal list, I broke into a cold
sweat of amazement and terror, and fancied myself in a dream.
My name was the last on the list. With a dreadful fascination I watched
the turnkey chalk it on the door and the governor fold up his paper and
stick it in his belt. Then as they turned to the door despair seized
me. But before they could leave, a sudden clamour at the far end of the
room detained them. One of the condemned, driven mad by the
announcement of his doom, had sprung to the window and was tearing at
the bars with such superhuman force that they promised at any moment to
yield.
The jailer and his men made a dash to seize him, and in that moment I
slipped out of the half-closed door, stopping only to wipe out my name
with my cap as I passed, and crept into the courtyard.
No one could have seen my departure, for though I lay hid an hour under
the shadow of the wall, and even saw the jailer and his men cross the
court, there was no hue and cry or alarm of an escape. Nor, I surmise,
did any one even of my fellow-prisoners, distracted as they were by
their own concerns and the excitement of the madman's attempt, miss me.
My only hope now lay in patience and prudence. To scale the wall I knew
was impossible. To steal through the governor's office would mean
instant detection. But to wait where I was was my only chance.
I had studied the ways of the place enough to know that on the stroke of
six the outer gates swung open to admit the carts which were to carry to
the scaffold the victims of the day. I knew, too, since the horse-
master I had served had often supplied carts on an emergency, that these
vehicles were usually sent in charge of common carters, one man often
being in charge of two or three. These men, having deposited their
carts in the yard, were wont to go off to breakfast and return in an
hour to convey their freight under an escort of Guards to the place of
execution.
Their daily arrival was now so common an occurrence that it attracted
little attention inside or out. Indeed, the gate was often left
standing open a minute or two while some parley was taking place; for no
prisoners were allowed in the court till after the departure of the
procession, and no precautions therefore seemed necessary for closing it
with special celerity.
This, then, was my hope. Could I but lie _perdu_ beside the gate till
the time of opening, I might in a happy moment slip out. As if to
favour me, a cart of straw intended for the floors of the prison rooms
had been admitted into the court the night before, and stood drawn up
close to the gate. It was not difficult to conceal myself at the tail
of this, under the straw, and so remain unseen, not only by the carters
that entered, but by the turnkey that let them in. By equal good
fortune, the owner of the cart had left his coat and whip and cap behind
him, thus giving me just a disguise that suited me best.
The night--it was July then--seemed interminable; and with morning a
drenching rain set in that found its way through the straw and soaked me
to the skin. I heard the city without gradually waking up. Market-
carts rumbled in the roads, the shrill cry of the street vendors sounded
in the air, and above all was the heavy splash of the rain.
At last a long low sound fell on my ear, which I knew only too well to
proclaim the approach of the carts crawling in our direction. Nearer
and nearer they came till they stopped at the gate, and the familiar
bell tolled out. I heard the footsteps of the warder plashing across
the yard, growling at the rain. Then I heard the grating of the bolts
as they were slowly drawn back, and the creaking of the gates on their
hinges. Then the rumble began again, and one by one the carts drew up
into the yard. There were eight of them, and as I peeped out I could
see that the last three were all in charge of one driver, who rode on
the leader. The warder, impatient to return to shelter, called to this
man to see the bolts made fast after him, which the man, a surly fellow
and hardly sober, grumblingly promised to do at his own convenience.
Now was my chance. I slipped from my hiding-place, clad in the driver's
blouse and peaked cap, with a whip over my shoulder and a straw between
my lips, and strolled quietly and to all appearance unconcernedly out
into the street. If any saw me come out, they probably set me down as
one of the tumbrel drivers on his way to breakfast, and paid me no more
heed than such a fellow deserved; indeed less, for on that day of all
others Paris was in a tremendous ferment. The tocsin was ringing from
the steeples, there was a rush of people towards the Tuileries, and
cries of "_A bas Robespierre_"--the most wonderful cry Paris had heard
yet.
In the midst of it all I walked unchallenged to the Quai Necker. Alas!
any hopes I had of comfort there were vanished. The familiar top storey
stood empty, with the hole still in the roof, and six doors away, where
I had left them last, the attic was empty too.