Meantime Julie Gamelin, in her bottle-green box-coat, went every day to
the Luxembourg Gardens and there, on a bench at the end of one of the
avenues, sat waiting for the moment when her lover should show his face
at one of the dormers of the Palace. Then they would beckon to each
other and talk together in a language of signs they had invented. In
this way she learned that the prisoner occupied a fairly good room and
had pleasant companions, that he wanted a blanket for his bed and a
kettle and loved his mistress fondly.
She was not the only one to watch for the sight of a dear face at a
window of the Palace now turned into a prison. A young mother not far
from her kept her eyes fixed on a closed casement; then directly she saw
it open, she would lift her little one in her arms above her head. An
old lady in a lace veil sat for long hours on a folding-chair, vainly
hoping to catch a momentary glimpse of her son, who, for fear of
breaking down, never left his game of quoits in the courtyard of the
prison till the hour when the gardens were closed.
During these long hours of waiting, whether the sky were blue or
overcast, a man of middle age, rather stout and very neatly dressed, was
constantly to be seen on a neighbouring bench, playing with his
snuff-box and the charms on his watch-guard or unfolding a newspaper,
which he never read. He was dressed like a bourgeois of the old school
in a gold-laced cocked hat, a plum-coloured coat and blue waistcoat
embroidered in silver. He looked well-meaning enough, and was something
of a musician to judge by a flute, one end of which peeped from his
pocket. Never for a moment did his eyes wander from the supposed
stripling, on whom he bestowed continual smiles, and when he saw him
leave his seat, he would get up himself and follow him at a distance.
Julie, in her misery and loneliness, was touched by the discreet
sympathy the good man manifested.
One day, as she was leaving the gardens, it began to rain; the old
fellow stepped up to her and, opening his vast red umbrella, asked
permission to offer her its shelter. She answered sweetly, in her clear
treble, that she would be very glad. But at the sound of her voice and
warned perhaps by a subtle scent of womanhood, he strode rapidly away,
leaving the girl exposed to the rain-storm; she took in the situation,
and, despite her gnawing anxieties, could not restrain a smile.
Julie lived in an attic in the Rue du Cherche-Midi and represented
herself as a draper's shop-boy in search of employment; the widow
Gamelin, at last convinced that the girl was running smaller risks
anywhere else than at her home, had got her away from the Place de
Thionville and the Section du Pont-Neuf, and was giving her all the help
she could in the way of food and linen. Julie did her trifle of cooking,
went to the Luxembourg to see her beloved prisoner and back again to her
garret; the monotony of the life was a balm to her grief, and, being
young and strong, she slept well and soundly the night through. She was
of a fearless temper and broken in to an adventurous life; the costume
she wore added perhaps a further spice of excitement, and she would
sometimes sally out at night to visit a restaurateur's in the Rue du
Four, at the sign of the Red Cross, a place frequented by men of all
sorts and conditions and women of gallantry. There she read the papers
or played backgammon with some tradesman's clerk or citizen-soldier, who
smoked his pipe in her face. Drinking, gambling, love-making were the
order of the day, and scuffles were not unfrequent. One evening a
customer, hearing a trampling of hoofs on the paved roadway outside,
lifted the curtain, and recognizing the Commandant-in-Chief of the
National Guard, the _citoyen_ Hanriot, who was riding past with his
Staff, muttered between his teeth:
"There goes Robespierre's jackass!"
Julie overheard and burst into a loud guffaw.
But a moustachioed patriot took up the challenge roundly:
"Whoever says that," he shouted, "is a bl--sted aristocrat, and I should
like to see the fellow sneeze into Samson's basket. I tell you General
Hanriot is a good patriot who'll know how to defend Paris and the
Convention at a pinch. That's why the Royalists can't forgive him."
Glaring at Julie, who was still laughing, the patriot added:
"You there, greenhorn, have a care I don't land you a kick in the
backside to learn you to respect good patriots."
But other voices were joining in:
"Hanriot's a drunken sot and a fool!"
"Hanriot's a good Jacobin! Vive Hanriot!"
Sides were taken, and the fray began. Blows were exchanged, hats
battered in, tables overturned, and glasses shivered; the lights went
out and the women began to scream. Two or three patriots fell upon
Julie, who seized hold of a settle in self-defence; she was brought to
the ground, where she scratched and bit her assailants. Her coat flew
open and her neckerchief was torn, revealing her panting bosom. A patrol
came running up at the noise, and the girl aristocrat escaped between
the gendarmes' legs.
Every day the carts were full of victims for the guillotine.
"But I cannot, I cannot let my lover die!" Julie would tell her mother.
She resolved to beg his life, to take what steps were possible, to go to
the Committees and Public Departments, to canvas Representatives,
Magistrates, to visit anyone who could be of help. She had no woman's
dress to wear. Her mother borrowed a striped gown, a kerchief, a lace
coif from the _citoyenne_ Blaise, and Julie, attired as a woman and a
patriot, set out for the abode of one of the judges, Renaudin, a damp,
dismal house in the Rue Mazarine.
With trembling steps she climbed the wooden, tiled stairs and was
received by the judge in his squalid cabinet, furnished with a deal
table and two straw-bottomed chairs. The wall-paper hung in strips.
Renaudin, with black hair plastered on his forehead, a lowering eye,
tucked-in lips, and a protuberant chin, signed to her to speak and
listened in silence.
She told him she was the sister of the _citoyen_ Chassagne, a prisoner
at the Luxembourg, explained as speciously as she could the
circumstances under which he had been arrested, represented him as an
innocent man, the victim of mischance, pleaded more and more urgently;
but he remained callous and unsympathetic.
She fell at his feet in supplication and burst into tears.
No sooner did he see her tears than his face changed; his dark
blood-shot eyes lit up, and his heavy blue jowl worked as if pumping up
the saliva in his dry throat.
"_Citoyenne_, we will do what is necessary. You need have no
anxiety,"--and opening a door, he pushed the petitioner into a little
sitting-room, with rose-pink hangings, painted panels, Dresden china
figures, a time-piece and gilt candelabra; for furniture it contained
settees, and a sofa covered in tapestry and adorned with a pastoral
group after Boucher. Julie was ready for anything to save her lover.
Renaudin had his way,--rapidly and brutally. When she got up,
readjusting the _citoyenne's_ pretty frock, she met the man's cruel
mocking eye; instantly she knew she had made her sacrifice in vain.
"You promised me my brother's freedom," she said.
He chuckled.
"I told you, _citoyenne_, we would do what was necessary,--that is to
say, we should apply the law, neither more nor less. I told you to have
no anxiety,--and why should you be anxious? The Revolutionary Tribunal
is always just."
She thought of throwing herself upon the man, biting him, tearing out
his eyes. But, realizing she would only be consummating Fortuné
Chassagne's ruin, she rushed from the house, and fled to her garret to
take off Élodie's soiled and desecrated frock. All night she lay,
screaming with grief and rage.
Next day, on returning to the Luxembourg, she found the gardens occupied
by gendarmes, who were turning out the women and children. Sentinels
were posted in the avenues to prevent the passers-by from communicating
with the prisoners. The young mother, who used to come every day,
carrying her child in her arms, told Julie that there was talk of
plotting in the prisons and that the women were blamed for gathering in
the gardens in order to rouse the people's pity in favour of aristocrats
and traitors.