LA SALLE DES PAS-PERDUS.
Toward the decline of the day on which we have seen the municipals
so carefully inspecting the queen's prison, a man attired in a gray
jacket, his head covered with a mass of black hair, and on his
head one of those hairy bonnets, which then among the people was a
distinguishing mark of the most exaggerated patriotism, was walking
about in the large hall so philosophically termed "La Salle des
Pas-Perdus," and seemed most attentively observing all the goers and
comers forming the general population of this hall,--a population
considerably augmented at this period, when trials had acquired greater
importance, and when the only pleading was to dispute their heads with
the hangman and with Fouquier Tinville their indefatigable purveyor.
The attitude assumed by this man whose portrait we have just sketched
was in very good taste. Society at this epoch was divided into two
classes,--the lambs and the wolves. The one naturally inspired the
other with fear, since one half of society devoured the other. Our
fierce promenader was rather short, and wielded in his dirty black
hand one of those knotted cudgels then called "constitutions." It
is true the hand that flourished this horrible weapon might have
appeared rather small to any one who might take into his head to act
the inquisitorial part toward this singular personage which he had
arrogated to himself with respect to others; but no one felt the least
inclined to risk it, for this man's aspect was far too terrible.
Indeed, this man with the cudgel caused much disquietude to several
groups of petty scribes engaged in the discussion of public affairs,
which at this time daily progressed from bad to worse, or from better
to better, according as they were considered from a conservative or
revolutionary point of view. These valorous folks looked askance at
his long black beard, his green eyes surmounted by overhanging, shaggy
eyebrows, and trembled whenever the promenade of the mighty patriot (a
promenade which extended the whole length of the great hall) brought
them in near contact with one another.
This terror was augmented from the fact that whenever they ventured to
approach him too nearly, or even looked at him too attentively, the man
with the cudgel struck his powerful weapon with its full weight upon
the pavement, smashing the flag-stones upon which it fell, sometimes
with a dull and heavy, sometimes with a sonorous and clashing sound.
But it was not only these brave men among the scribes, designated
generally as the "rats of the Palace," who experienced this formidable
impression; it was also the various individuals who entered the Salle
des Pas-Perdus by the great door, or through some of its narrow
vomitories, who also quickened their pace on perceiving the man with
the cudgel, who obstinately continued his journey from one end of the
hall to the other, finding each moment some pretext for making his
weapon ring on the pavement.
If these writers had been less timorous, and the promenaders more
clear-sighted, they would have discovered that our patriot, capricious
like all eccentric or pronounced characters, appeared to evince a
preference for certain flag-stones, those for instance situated a
little distance from the wall on the right, near the centre of the
hall, which emitted a clear and ringing sound. He even finished by
concentrating his anger upon some particular stones in the centre of
the hall. At the same time he so far forgot himself as to stop, and
with his eye seemed to be estimating the distance.
True, it was a momentary absence of mind only, and he immediately
resumed his former expression, which a gleam of pleasure had replaced
for an instant.
Almost at the same moment another patriot,--for at this epoch every
one wore his opinions on his forehead, or rather in his dress,--almost
at the same moment, say we, another patriot entered by the door of the
gallery, and without appearing the least in the world to partake of
the fear generated by the former occupant, began to cross the hall at
a pace equal to his own, so that in the centre of the promenade they
encountered each other.
The new arrival had, like the former, a hairy bonnet, a gray jerkin,
dirty hands, and in one of them a cudgel; indeed, in addition he
carried a sword, which struck against his legs at every step; and
on the whole he appeared a greater subject for terror than his
predecessor. The first had an air of ferocity, the last seemed replete
with sinister cunning.
Although these two men appeared to belong to the same cause, and
entertained the same opinions, the assembly ventured to watch the
result, not of their meeting, for they were not walking in the same
line, but their approach toward each other. At the first turn they were
disappointed in their expectation, as the patriots contented themselves
with exchanging looks; at the same time the smaller of the two turned
slightly pale,--only from an involuntary movement of the lips it was
evident it was not caused by fear, but by disgust.
However, at the second turn, as if the patriot had made a violent
effort, his countenance, till now so overcast, cleared up suddenly, and
something like a smile passed over his lips as he inclined slightly to
the left, with the evident intention of stopping the second patriot in
his course.
Near the centre they joined each other.
"Why, upon my word, here is the Citizen Simon!" said the first patriot.
"Himself. But what do you want with the Citizen Simon? And, in the
first place, who are you?"
"It seems, then, that you do not recognize me?"
"I do not recognize you, and for an excellent reason,--I never saw you
before."
"Not recognize me!--when I had the honor to carry the head of the
Princess Lamballe!"
At these words, pronounced with savage fury, and bursting passionately
from the mouth of the patriot, Simon started.
"You?" said he, "you?"
"Ha! that surprises you! I thought that you would remember your friends
better than that, faith! Ah, Citizen! you grieve me."
"You have done very well," said Simon; "but I did not recognize you."
"It is a greater privilege to act as guardian to the young Capet; it
brings you more into notice. As for myself, I both know and esteem you."
"Ah! Thank you."
"You have no reason--are you taking a walk?"
"Yes; I am waiting for some one. And you?"
"I am doing the same."
"What is your name? I will make mention of you at the club."
"I am called Théodore."
"What else?"
"Nothing else: is not that enough?"
"Oh, certainly. Who are you waiting for, Citizen Théodore?"
"A friend to whom I wish to make a fine little denunciation."
"Indeed! Do tell me."
"A whole covey of aristocrats."
"What are their names?"
"No, indeed; I only tell that to my friend."
"You are wrong; for here is mine advancing toward us, who, it seems to
me, is sufficiently acquainted with business to settle at once all this
affair."
"Fouquier Tinville!" cried the first patriot.
"No one less, friend."
"That's all right."
"Yes. Good-day, Citizen Fouquier."
Fouquier Tinville, calm and pale, opening wide, according to habit, his
large black eyes shaded by his bushy eyebrows, at this moment entered
by a side-door, his register in his hand, and a bundle of papers under
his arm. "Good-day, Simon," said he; "anything new?"
"Several things. First, a denunciation from Citizen Théodore, who
carried the head of the Princess Lamballe. I will introduce him to you."
Fouquier fixed his scrutinizing glance upon the patriot, who,
notwithstanding his strong nerves, felt rather uneasy while undergoing
this examination.
"Théodore!" said he; "and who is Théodore?"
"I!" said the man in the jerkin.
"You carried the head of the Princess Lamballe?" said the public
accuser, with an unmistakable expression of doubt.
"I. Rue Saint Antoine."
"But I know a person who boasts that he did so," said Fouquier.
"I know ten," replied the Citizen Théodore, courageously; "but, indeed,
as they all make some claim for having done so, and I ask nothing, at
least I ought to have the preference, I hope."
This reply excited Simon's laughter, and dispersed the cloud on the
accuser's brow.
"Right," said he; "and if you did not do it, you ought to have done so.
But leave us now; Simon has some business to transact with me."
Théodore retired, very little hurt by the frankness of the public
accuser.
"One moment," cried Simon. "Do not send him away so; let us first hear
his denunciation."
"Ah!" said Fouquier Tinville, with an absent air, "a denunciation?"
"Yes; a covey of conspirators," replied Simon.
"All in good time. Speak; what is the matter now?"
"Oh! not much; only the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge and some of his
friends."
Fouquier made a leap backward, while Simon raised his arms toward
heaven.
"Is this the truth?" they exclaimed, both together.
"The pure truth; will you take them?"
"At once. Where are they?"
"I met the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge in the Rue de la Grande
Tissanderie."
"You are mistaken; he is not in Paris," replied Fouquier.
"I tell you I have seen him."
"Impossible! a hundred men have been sent in pursuit of him; he would
not show himself in the streets of Paris."
"It was he, by Heaven!" said the patriot. "A tall dark man, as strong
as three and bearded like the pard."
Fouquier shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
"Another blunder," said he; "the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is short,
pale, and has not the slightest sign of a beard."
The patriot dropped his weapon with an air of consternation.
"Never mind, your good intention is taken for the act. Come, Simon, we
must both make haste; they require the register, this is the time for
the carts."
"Well, there is nothing new; the child is well." The patriot turned his
back that he might not appear indiscreet, but remained in a position
which enabled him to hear.
"I will go," said he, "lest I should intrude."
"Adieu!" said Simon.
"Good-day," said Fouquier.
"Tell your friend that you were deceived," added Simon.
"Well, I shall wait," and Théodore removed to a short distance, and
stood resting on his cudgel.
"So the child goes on well; but how fares he morally?" asked Fouquier.
"I mould him to my will."
"He will speak then?"
"When I choose."
"Do you think he will testify in the trial of Antoinette?"
"I do not think it; I am sure of it."
Théodore was leaning against a pillar, his eyes directed toward the
door. But his eye was wandering, while his ears were erect and
uncovered under the hairy bonnet he wore. Perhaps he saw nothing, but
most assuredly he heard something.
"Reflect well," said Fouquier, "and do not make what is termed a
blunder of this commission. You feel sure that Capet will speak?"
"He will say all that I require."
"Has he told you what we are going to ask him?"
"He has told me."
"It is important, Simon, that you should promise this; the child's
evidence is fatal to the mother."
"Zounds! I count upon that."
"There will have been nothing equal to it seen since the intimacy
between Nero and Narcissus. Once more, reflect, Simon."
"One would fancy you took me for a brute, repeating constantly the same
thing. Take this as an example: when I put leather in water it becomes
supple, does it not?"
"But--I do not know," replied Fouquier.
"It becomes soft. Well, in my hands the little Capet becomes supple as
the softest leather. I have my own method for that."
"It may be so," said Fouquier. "Is that all you have to say?"
"All--I forgot. There is a denunciation."
"Again? You will overwhelm me with business," said Fouquier.
"One must serve his country."
Simon presented a small paper, black as the leather he had just
mentioned, but certainly less supple. Fouquier took it and read the
contents.
"Again the Citizen Lorin; you have a great hatred to this man."
"I find him always acting in hostility to the law. He said, 'Adieu,
Madame,' to a woman who saluted him from a window yesterday evening.
To-morrow, I hope to give you a little information concerning another
'suspect;' that Maurice who was Municipal at the Temple when that
affair of the red carnation occurred."
"Be sure! be sure!" exclaimed Fouquier, smiling at Simon.
He held out his hand, and then turned away with an abruptness that
evinced little favor toward the shoemaker.
"What the devil do you wish me to be sure of? Many have been
guillotined for much less."
"Patience," replied Fouquier, quietly; "everything cannot be done at
the same time," and he passed quickly through the wicket.
Simon looked round for the Citizen Théodore, to console himself with
him. He was no longer to be seen.
He had hardly crossed the western iron gate, when Théodore reappeared
at the corner of a writer's hut. The occupant of the hut accompanied
him.
"At what hour are the iron gates closed?" asked Théodore of this man.
"At five o'clock."
"Then what do they do here?"
"Nothing; the hall remains empty till next day."
"No rounds, no visits?"
"No, sir; our barracks are locked."
The word "sir" made Théodore knit his brows, and look round with
distrust.
"Are the crowbar and pistols safe in the barracks?" said he.
"Yes, under the carpet."
"Return home, then--By the bye, show me again the chamber of the
Tribunal that has not a grated window, and looks upon the court near
the Place Dauphine."
"To the left, between the pillars under the lantern."
"Go, now, and have the horses ready at the place assigned!"
"A glorious chance!--a glorious chance!--depend fully upon me."
"Now is your time--No one is looking--open your barrack."
"It is done, sir; I will pray for you."
"It is not for me you ought to pray. Adieu."
And the Citizen Théodore, after an eloquent look, glided so adroitly
under the low roof of the barrack, that he disappeared like the shadow
of the writer who closed the door.
The worthy scribe drew the key from the lock, took some papers under
his arm, and went out of the vast hall with the few employees that
the stroke of five sent rushing from their desks like a rear guard of
belated bees.