THE CITIZEN THÉODORE.
Night had enveloped in her gray mantle the immense hall, whose sad
echoes had to repeat the severe words of the advocates and the
suppliant ones of the pleaders.
From afar, in the midst of the obscurity, upright and immovable, a
white column seemed watching, in the centre of the hall, like a phantom
protector over the sacred place.
The only noise heard in this darkness was the nibbling and galloping
of innumerable rats, which gnawed the papers enclosed in the writer's
huts, after drilling their way through the wood.
Sometimes the sound of a carriage penetrated as far as this sanctuary
of Themis (as an Academician would say), and the vague clanking of
keys, which appeared to proceed from under the ground; but all this
only reverberated in the distance, and nothing save these distant
sounds ever broke the deep silence, or penetrated the thick darkness
save the glimmering of some far remote light.
Certainly the man would be seized by bewildering terror who at this
hour would have ventured into the vast hall of the Palace, the exterior
of whose walls was yet stained with the blood of the victims of
September; whose staircases this very day had witnessed the descent of
twenty-five human beings condemned to an ignominious death, and were
separated only by a few feet from the dungeons of the Conciergerie,
peopled with bleached skeletons.
Nevertheless, in the middle of this frightful night, in the midst of
this almost solemn silence, a low grating noise was heard; the door of
a writer's hut turned upon its creaking hinges, and a shadow, darker
than the shadow of night, glided cautiously out of the barrack.
Then the fierce patriot we have heard addressed as "sir," but who
called himself Théodore, stepped lightly over the uneven stones. He
held in his right hand a ponderous iron lever, and with his left felt
that his double-barrelled pistol was secure in his belt.
"I reckoned twelve flag-stones from the stall; and see, here is the end
of the first!" murmured he; and while calculating, he groped with the
point of his foot to discover the chinks which time had rendered more
perceptible.
"Let me see," said he, stopping; "have I taken my measurement
correctly? Shall I possess strength sufficient; and she--will she have
the courage? Oh, yes, her courage is known to me. Oh, my God! When I
shall take her hand--when I can say, Madame, you are saved!"
He suddenly paused, as if oppressed by the weight of so great a hope.
"Ah!" he resumed, "rash and foolish project! others will say, hiding
themselves under their bedclothes, or contenting themselves by
sauntering about disguised as lackeys through the Conciergerie; but
they have not my motive for daring all,--it is, that I not only desire
to serve the queen, but the woman.
"Well, to work; let us again sum up the whole.
"To raise the stone is nothing, to leave it open is the danger,--they
may perhaps make the rounds; but yet they never do so. They cannot
suspect anything, for I have no accomplices; and then what time is
needed by an ardor like mine to dart through the dark passage? In three
minutes I am under her chamber; in other five I raise the stone which
is on the hearth. She will hear me working, but has too much firmness
to feel alarmed; on the contrary, she will understand that a deliverer
is near--She is guarded by two men who will doubtless hasten to the
spot--
"Well, after all," said the patriot, with a melancholy smile, looking
first at the weapon concealed in his girdle, and then at the one he
held poised in his hand, "a double shot from this pistol, or a couple
of strokes from this iron bar. Poor creatures! they will die like
others not more culpable than themselves."
And Citizen Théodore resolutely pressed his lever between the chinks of
the flag-stones.
At this moment a vivid light gleamed like a ray of gold across the
stones, and a noise, repeated by the echoes of the vault, caused the
conspirator to turn, and then with a single bound to conceal himself in
the stall.
Soon voices, weakened by the distance, and softened by the emotion
experienced by every one at night in a large and desolate building,
reached the ears of Théodore.
He stooped down, and through an aperture in the stall perceived first
a man in military costume, whose long sabre clanking on the pavement
partly produced the sound which had attracted his attention; then, a
man in a pistachio-colored suit, holding a rule in his hand and a roll
of papers under his arm; thirdly, a man in a large waistcoat of ratteen
and a fur bonnet; and lastly, a fourth, with wooden shoes and a jerkin.
The iron gate Des Merciers creaked upon its sonorous hinges, rattling
the chain intended to keep it open during the day.
The four men entered.
"A round," murmured Théodore. "God be praised! ten minutes later and I
should have been ruined."
He then with the utmost attention endeavored to recognize the
individuals who composed the round,--indeed, three of them were known
to him.
He who walked first, clad in the uniform of a general, was Santerre;
the man in the ratteen waistcoat and fur bonnet was Richard the porter,
and the man in clogs and jerkin was in all probability a turnkey.
But he had never seen the man in the pistachio-colored coat, who held
a rule in his hand and a bundle of papers under his arm. Who or what
could this man be; and what brought, at ten o'clock at night, to the
Salle des Pas-Perdus, the general of the Commune, the keeper of the
Conciergerie, a turnkey, and this other man? The Citizen Théodore knelt
on one knee, holding in one hand his loaded pistol, while with the
other he replaced his bonnet and hair, which his precipitous movement
had deranged too much to look natural.
Up to this moment the nocturnal visitors had kept silence, or if they
had spoken, their words had not reached the ears of the conspirator;
but when about ten paces from his lurking place Santerre spoke, and his
voice was distinctly heard by the Citizen Théodore.
"We are now," said he, "in the Salle des Pas-Perdus. It is for you now
to guide us, Citizen Architect, and to endeavor to convince us that
your revelation is no idle story; for you see the Revolution has done
justice to all this folly, and we believe no more in these subterranean
passages than in ghosts. What do you say, Citizen Richard?" added
Santerre, turning toward the man in the fur bonnet and ratteen vest.
"I have never said there was no subterranean passage under the
Conciergerie," he replied. "Here is Gracchus, who has been turnkey
for ten years, and consequently is as familiar with the whole of
the Conciergerie as he is with the alphabet, and yet he ignores the
existence of the vault of which the Citizen Giraud has spoken. However,
as the Citizen Giraud is the city architect, he ought to know better
than any of us. It is his business."
Théodore shivered from head to foot on hearing these words.
"Fortunately," murmured he, "the hall is large, and before they find
what they search for, two days at least must expire."
But the architect opened his great roll of papers, put on his
spectacles, and knelt down to examine the plan by the flickering light
of the lantern which Gracchus held in his hand.
"I fear," said Santerre, ironically, "that the Citizen Giraud has been
dreaming."
"You will see, Citizen General, if I am a dreamer. Wait a little; wait!"
"You see we are waiting," said Santerre.
"Good!" said the architect; and he began to calculate. "Twelve and four
make sixteen," said he, "and eight are twenty-four, which, divided by
six, makes four, and then half remains; that is it. I can tell the very
spot; and if I am mistaken by so much as a foot, you may henceforth dub
me an ass."
The architect pronounced these words with an assurance which curdled
the blood of the Citizen Théodore.
Santerre regarded the plan with a species of respect, but evidently
admired more than he comprehended it.
"Now follow what I say."
"Where?" asked Santerre.
"Zounds! upon this chart which I have drawn. Here we are! thirteen feet
from the wall is a movable stone I have marked A; do you see it?"
"Certainly, I see A," said Santerre. "Do you think I do not know how to
read?"
"Under this stone," continued the architect, "is a staircase; do you
see? It is marked B."
"B!" said Santerre; "I see B, but I do not see the staircase," and the
general laughed heartily at his own facetiousness.
"When once the stone is raised, and the foot upon the last step,
count fifty paces, look up, and you will find yourself exactly at the
register-office where the subterraneous passage terminates, passing
under the cell of the queen."
"Capet's widow, you mean, Citizen Giraud," said Santerre, knitting his
brows.
"Yes, Capet's widow."
"But you said 'the queen.'"
"The force of old habit."
"You say, then, it may be found under the register-office?" demanded
Richard.
"Not only under the register-office, but I will tell you also in what
part of the office you will discover it,--under the stove."
"That is curious," said Gracchus, "for I have noticed that every time I
dropped a log in that place the stone sounded hollow."
"In short, if we find your statement correct, Citizen Architect, I
shall pronounce geometry a fine thing."
"Then declare it, Citizen Santerre, for I am now going to conduct you
to the place indicated by the letter A."
The Citizen Théodore sank his nails into his flesh.
"When I have seen it," said Santerre,--"when I have seen it! I rather
resemble Saint Thomas."
"Ah! you said Saint Thomas."
"Yes, as you said 'the queen,' from mere habit; but they cannot accuse
me of conspiring for him."
"Nor me for the queen."
After this retort the architect delicately placed his rule, reckoned
the distance, then stopped, having apparently finished his calculation,
and struck upon a particular stone.
This was the identical stone struck by the Citizen Théodore in his fit
of frantic rage.
"It is here, Citizen General," said the architect.
"You fancy so, Citizen Giraud."
Our concealed patriot so far forgot himself as to strike his thigh with
his clinched fist, at the same time groaning deeply.
"I am positive," said Giraud; "and your examination, combined with my
report, will prove to the Convention that I have not been deceived.
Yes, Citizen General," continued the architect, with emphasis,
"this stone opens upon a subterranean passage, terminating at the
register-office, and passing below the cell of the Widow Capet. Let us
raise the stone; descend with me into the vault, and I will convince
you that two men, even one man, could effect a rescue in a single
night, without any one suspecting it."
A murmur of terror and admiration, elicited by the architect's words,
ran through the group, and faintly reached the Citizen Théodore, who
seemed turned to stone.
"Look at the danger we run," continued Giraud. "Well, now with a
grating which I shall place in the middle of this underground passage
before it reaches the cell of the Widow Capet, I shall save the
country."
"Ah, Citizen Giraud!" said Santerre, "that is an idea bordering on the
sublime."
"Perdition seize you, addle-pated fool!" grumbled the patriot, with
redoubled fury.
"Now raise the stone," said the architect to the Citizen Gracchus, who
in addition to a lantern carried a crowbar.
Gracchus set to work, and in a second the stone was raised.
The vault appeared open, with the staircase lost in its profundity,
while the moist air escaped like a pestilent vapor.
"Another abortive attempt," murmured the Citizen Théodore. "Alas!
Heaven does not will that she should escape, and her cause must be
accursed!"