JEAN MEETS WITH A THIN YOUNG MAN
When the Dauphin came to dig in his garden next morning, he found his
new friends again at the fence, accompanied by a woman.
"Little Citizen Prince, this is my mother," said Yvonne, "and we have
persuaded her to come with us and beg you to fulfil the promise that you
gave for your good father and mother yesterday. She is indeed in sore
need of help." The Dauphin came to the fence and gave Mother Clouet his
hand with his own peculiarly winning smile.
"Good Madame Clouet, my mother will be walking here in a little while.
Will you not wait and speak to her yourself? I know she will be glad to
help you." Now Mere Clouet bore no animosity toward this little
prince,--on the contrary, she admired and almost loved him,--but she
was plainly reluctant to meet the Queen who appealed in no way to her
sympathies. But there seemed nothing else to be done, so she drew aside
while the children chatted together and romped with Moufflet. Presently,
hearing voices, the Dauphin left his friends, ran along one of the
walks, and came back leading a lady and a young girl of thirteen.
"This is my Mother-Queen, and this is my sister, Marie-Therese," he
announced. "Mother, these are the new friends that I told you of
yesterday, and this is Yvonne's mother. She wishes to ask something of
you."
"Good Mistress Clouet," said the Queen gently, "whatever I can do for
you I will, if you will but make known your request." Her voice was soft
and penetratingly sweet, and her face, framed in waving hair whitened by
sorrow, was full of a strange beauty veiled by overwhelming sadness.
Here was something entirely different from the haughty sovereign that
Mere Clouet had expected to meet, and she was overcome by surprise and
bashfulness, but she managed to stammer out her request.
"Your Majesty," she faltered, "my good man when he died, left me the
house I live in, but though I work hard,--I am a laundress,--I have been
unable to do more than provide our three mouths with bread. Jean here I
adopted from the Foundling Hospital to help me with my work. But his
mouth is wide!--he eats quantities unknown, and hardly does he pay for
his keep! For three years past I have been unable to pay the taxes, so
great is their amount, and now they threaten to turn me out and keep the
house, if I do not pay up every sou next month. For myself, I would go
uncomplainingly, but how can I rob the little Yvonne of a roof to
shelter her!" Tears came into the woman's eyes as she clasped tighter
her little daughter's hand. "So I must beg for my daughter's sake, but
Madame I trust that some day I may repay it, for I would not be under
obligations, even to a queen!" The Queen was sincerely touched by this
revelation of mingled pride and mother-love.
"I know how you feel, Mistress Clouet. I should not be ashamed to do the
same for my own children. How much is the amount?" The laundress
shuddered, as with bated breath she named the sum,--a fortune in her
eyes.
"A thousand francs, your Majesty!" The Queen seemed not a whit appalled.
"I have not the money with me to-day, but come to-morrow and the Dauphin
shall give it to you. I do not walk out every day. God bless you and the
little Yvonne, and Jean also!" She held out her little white hand, and
Mere Clouet, moved by a gratitude and respect the like of which she
would not yesterday have believed she could experience, took it in both
her rough, work-worn ones. And so they stood a moment gazing at each
other, the proud, beautiful Marie Antoinette, and Citizeness Clouet, the
woman of the people, hand locked in hand across the tri-coloured fence.
"Some day I will repay you!" declared Mere Clouet. "It may not be in
money, but it shall be in service. We are of the people, and our hearts
and sympathies are with the people. But this is a debt of gratitude
which we three shall never forget. We will repay you!"
The Citizeness Clouet spoke more truly than she knew!
* * * * *
After this event, Jean was sorely perplexed. He talked his trouble over
with Mere Clouet who seemed more kindly disposed toward him since the
load of debt had been lifted from her shoulders, and her mind had been
set at rest about a home for her beloved Yvonne.
"I do not now know how to act," he told her. "My heart is still all for
the people and the cause of our Liberty, yet I do truly love the little
prince, and even the King and Queen. And I fear from the things I have
heard, that the people will sometime do them harm."
"Let your sympathies still be with the people," counselled Mere Clouet
wisely. "We are not royalists, and our heads will not be safe should we
appear so! But that need not prevent your loyal friendship for these
royal ones, only you must keep it very secret. Heaven help us should it
be discovered! I pray God that the royalty may be left in peace, or at
least be allowed to depart from the country unharmed when the time
comes. We may not desire their sway, but we should not menace their
personal safety."
"Well, at least," answered Jean, "it will do no harm for me to keep
posted as to what the popular intention toward them may be. And for
this, I could learn best what I wish at one of the political clubs,--the
Cordeliers or the Jacobins. But none except the initiated are allowed
to enter. However, I'm going to watch my chance and try!" True to this
resolve, he informed Mere Clouet one evening:
"I shall go to the Rue St. Honore to-night and linger near the Jacobin
Club. We shall see what we shall see!" And he was off before she could
even protest at the lateness of the hour.
The way from the Rue de Lille to the Rue St. Honore was not long, but it
was varied by sights and sounds only to be witnessed in Paris during one
of her revolutions. More than once Jean caught the infection from some
shouting group, and snatching outstretched hands, joined in the wild
dance of the Carmagnole. Then again he would pause before a
gesticulating orator madly haranguing his audience from a bench or
improvised platform. The air was filled with shouts of "Vive la Nation!"
"Vive Danton!" "A bas le Roi!" Jean drank it all in, his boyish bosom
filled with pride at the thought of this strange, new liberty. Yet at
the cry, "Down with the King!" his heart would grow sick with the menace
that it carried for his benefactors.
At last he reached the Rue St. Honore and stood before the great stone
building, so long the peaceful retreat of the Dominican Monks, now given
over to the strongest political society of the day,--the Jacobin Club.
Men were passing through its well-guarded doorway, each separately
interviewed for a moment by a crabbed, ill-disposed doorkeeper. Each as
he passed this watchful sentinel, exhibited a card or murmured some
magic password. Jean possessed neither a card nor the knowledge of the
proper watchword, but he was not to be daunted by either lack. Boldly he
marched up the steps, and would have walked straight into the hall, had
not the doorkeeper seized him wrathfully by the collar. No one else was
passing in at that moment.
"Impudent! What is your business here?" he shouted.
"I am a good citizen who loves liberty, and I demand to be admitted to
this meeting!" replied Jean, hopefully.
"Well, of all outrages!" gasped the astounded doorkeeper. "Begone, you
young scamp! The Nation has little use for such as you!" He released the
boy's collar, and pursued him down the steps with a thick cane he had
snatched up. Jean, deeming flight his wisest course, took to his heels
and was speedily beyond the premises. But so rapid was his retreat that
before he was aware of it, he had butted plumply into someone who was
coming in the opposite direction, and the concussion knocked the
stranger flat on his back!
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" entreated Jean, breathlessly, assisting his
victim to rise.
"You would make a splendid catapult on a field of artillery!" answered
the stranger who proved to be a short and exceedingly thin young man.
He was wrapped in an old grey great-coat, though the weather was May,
and warm. A round, shabby black hat was pulled over his eyes. His hair
was arranged in a slovenly manner, and hung about his ears. In the
lamplight his face was sallow, with high cheek-bones and a very
prominent chin. But he had, so Jean thought, the most extraordinary eyes
in the world. They were deepset, grey and piercing, and fixed one with a
look as sharp as a sword. Jean felt that, had the man's lips commanded
him to throw himself into the fire, those eyes would have compelled him
to obey!
"Perhaps you will explain the cause for this unwarrantable attack on a
peaceful citizen!" said the stranger as he brushed his coat.
"Indeed I meant no harm, nor even knew what I was about, since I was
occupied in being forcibly put out of the Jacobin Club!" laughed the
boy.
"And why should you want to be _in_ the Jacobin Club!" demanded the
stranger. Jean was on his guard at once.
"All good citizens must wish to be present at meetings so important," he
replied airily. "I merely had a curiosity to know what was going on!"
The young man fixed him with his brilliant eyes, and Jean felt the blood
mount guiltily to his cheeks.
"There's something deeper than that!" he remarked coolly. "I can see it!
What are your _real_ reasons? Are you a royalist?"
"Indeed, I'm not!" asserted Jean vehemently.
"Well, it doesn't make a sou's difference to _me_!" his new companion
declared. "I'm neither a royalist, nor am I a republican, nor, for that
matter, even a Frenchman. But I happen to have a ticket for the Jacobins
myself to-night, and since you're so interested, and have even
graciously condescended to knock me down, I'll take you in with me!"
Here was a stroke of luck indeed! Jean was instant in expressing his
delight, and the two climbed together the steps down which he had so
lately fled in ignominy. The gatekeeper scolded and muttered, but there
was nothing to do but let him pass, since a man with a card vouched for
him.
The boy never forgot that night. He reached home and the Rue de Lille
long after midnight, encountering Mere Clouet at the door. She had been
very uneasy, and was inclined to be somewhat wrathful at the lateness of
the hour. But Jean was too excited to care.
"Don't scold, Mere Clouet!" he entreated. "I've gotten into the Jacobin
Club at last!"
"You young rascal!" she exclaimed incredulously, "are you telling the
truth?"
"Every bit!" he answered. "Give me a bite to eat, good mother, and I'll
tell you all about it."
"Always hungry!" she muttered, but nevertheless she gave him a generous
slice of bread and jam. Between great mouthfuls, he told the story of
his forcible encounter with the thin young man and its sequel,--his
admission to the club.
"Ah, but it was a wonderful night for me!" he continued. "Such speeches
did I hear from Citizen Marat who is its president, and from one,
Robespierre, whose voice, they say, has greater weight than any, and
also from Citizen Danton, the president of the Cordeliers, who came this
evening with many more of his own club! Much of what they said was hard
for me to understand, but one thing I learned that it is well to know.
"The citizens of the Faubourg St. Antoine are planning a fete for the
twentieth of June (that's the day after to-morrow), in which they will
form a procession and march to the palace to present a petition to the
King. That, of course, is all very well, but let me tell you what I
heard whispered about by Santerre, the brewer, who is to lead them. Each
_sans-culotte_ is to carry a pike, and he thinks that when the King
sees forty thousand pikes assembled about his door that he will become
alarmed. Then will be the time to lead a general insurrection and demand
that he resign his throne and crown or else _force_ him to it. Is it not
outrageous thus to take advantage of him unfairly?" Mere Clouet was
alarmed and indignant.
"It is indeed!" she declared. "I believe the King means to do the right
thing by his people, but the country is becoming mob-ruled. It is only
the scum of Paris, of which that Santerre is a good sample, who would
sanction such plans! But sadly do I fear that they will do the royal
family harm!"
"And so do I," replied Jean, "and therefore I intend to march with the
mob on the twentieth. Who knows but I may be in some way useful to the
poor little Citizen Dauphin!"
"But," continued Mere Clouet, "it was kind of that strange young man to
take you into the club to-night! Did you learn who he may be?"
"Indeed I did!" answered the boy. "All through the meeting he sat with
his arms folded and his strange eyes fixed on the speakers. Once, when
Santerre harangued us, I heard him mutter, '_Canaille!_' and another
time when Robespierre was speaking, he whispered to me, 'That is a man
of power, but--one should beware!' When we left the club, we parted on
the Rue St. Honore, and he said, 'Perhaps you will tell me your name,
young sir. You seem a lad of spirit!' When I had informed him, he told
me his own. 'Tis a strange one, and has a foreign sound,--Napoleon
Bonaparte!"
IN WHICH THE DAUPHIN WEARS THE RED CAP