THE REGISTRAR OF THE MINISTER OF WAR.
The patriot left, but he had not gone far. Through the smoky panes
he kept watch over the turnkey, to discover if he entered into
conversation with any of the agents of the Republican police, one of
the best that ever existed, since one half of society closely watched
the other, less from the desire of promoting the great glory of the
government than for the greater security of their own heads.
But nothing occurred of what the patriot feared. At a few minutes
before nine the turnkey rose, chucked the hostess under the chin, and
went out.
The patriot rejoined him at the quay of the Conciergerie, and they
entered the prison together.
On that same evening the affair was concluded, and Father Richard
accepted Mardoche as a substitute for Gracchus.
Two hours before this arrangement took place, another scene had been
enacted in a different part of the prison, which, although apparently
of no interest, was possessed of vital importance to the principal
personages of this history.
The registrar of the Conciergerie, fatigued with his day's labor, was
folding up his papers and preparing to leave, when a man, conducted by
Madame Richard, presented himself in his office.
"Citizen Registrar," said she, "here is your fellow registrar of the
Minister of War, who comes on the part of the Citizen Minister to
transfer some military entries."
"Ah, Citizen," said the registrar, "you are too late; I have just put
away all my papers."
"Dear brother, pardon me," said the new-comer; "but we are really
so overwhelmed with business that we can only achieve our course by
turning our leisure to profit; and our leisure is the time occupied by
others in eating and sleeping."
"That alters the case, my dear fellow; so make haste, for, as you
observe, it is near supper-time, and I am very hungry. Have you your
documents?"
"Here they are," said the registrar of the Minister of War, exhibiting
a portfolio of papers which his brother, anxious as he was to leave,
scrutinized with the strictest attention.
"Oh, they are all right!" said Richard's wife, "and my husband has
already thoroughly inspected them."
"Never mind, never mind!" said the registrar, continuing his
examination. The registrar of the Minister of War remained like a man
who had expected the strict accomplishment of all due formalities.
"Perfectly correct," said the registrar of the Conciergerie; "and
you can now commence as soon as you please. Have you many entries to
transfer?"
"A hundred."
"That will occupy you for several days."
"Therefore dear brother, I wish to form a small establishment with
you,--that is to say, if you will permit me."
"How am I to understand you?" said the registrar of the Conciergerie.
"I will explain it to you fully, if you will join us at supper this
evening. You say you are hungry?"
"I do not deny it."
"Well, you shall see my wife, who is a good housekeeper; and you will
become better acquainted with me, and will acknowledge me for a good
companion."
"Faith, yes; you strike me as such, my dear brother; yet,
notwithstanding--"
"Oh, come without ceremony, and partake of some oysters that I will
purchase as I pass the Place du Châtelet, a roasted chicken, and a few
dishes which Madame Durand excels in."
"You tempt me, my brother," said the registrar of the Conciergerie,
delighted at the bill of fare, to which he was totally unaccustomed
as a registrar paid by the Revolutionary Tribunal at the rate of two
livres in paper money, in reality hardly equal to two francs.
"Then you will accept my invitation?"
"Yes, willingly."
"In that case, to work to-morrow; this evening let us go."
"All right; let us start."
"Are you ready?"
"In an instant, only I must first inform the gendarmes who guard the
Austrian."
"Why must you tell them?"
"So that when they know that I am absent, and that there is no one at
the wicket, they may become suspicious of every noise."
"Ah, that is a very wise precaution, faith!"
"You understand now?"
"Perfectly."
The registrar of the Conciergerie went and knocked at the wicket, which
was opened by one of the gendarmes.
"Who is there?"
"I, the registrar, you know. I am going out. Good-evening, Citizen
Gilbert."
"Good-evening, Citizen Registrar," and the wicket was shut.
The registrar of the Minister of War had paid the greatest attention
to this scene, and while the door of the queen's prison remained open,
his looks rapidly penetrated to the first compartment, when, seeing the
other gendarme Duchesne seated at table, he felt perfectly assured the
queen had only two guards.
When the registrar of the Conciergerie returned, his fellow registrar's
face had resumed its expression of stolid indifference.
As they went out of the Conciergerie two men entered. They were the
Citizen Gracchus and his cousin Mardoche.
On seeing each other, Cousin Mardoche and the registrar of the Minister
of War each, by a simultaneous movement arising from the same impulse,
pulled over their eyes, the one his hairy bonnet, the other his
broad-brimmed hat.
"Who are these men?" asked the registrar of the Minister of War.
"I only know one of them; it is a turnkey named Gracchus."
"Ah!" said the other, with affected indifference, "do the turnkeys then
go out of the Conciergerie?"
"They have their day."
The investigation did not proceed any further, and the new friends took
the road to the Pont-au-Change. At the corner of the Place du Châtelet,
the registrar of the Minister of War, following the programme he had
announced, purchased some oysters, and continued his way by the Quai de
Gèvres.
The dwelling of this individual was simple. The Citizen Durand
inhabited three little rooms in the Place de Grève, in a house
without any porter. Each tenant had a key of the door in the passage,
and it was agreed that if any one had omitted to take his key, he
should intimate the same by one, two, or three raps with the knocker,
according to the story he inhabited, and any one who was waiting, and
heard the signal, then descended and opened the door; but the Citizen
Durand, having provided himself with his key, had not any occasion to
knock. They ascended two flights of stairs, when the Citizen Durand
drew another key from his pocket, and they both entered.
The registrar of the Palace found his friend's wife much to his taste.
She was indeed a charming woman; an appearance of profound melancholy
diffused over her countenance stamped it with an expression of deep
interest. It has always been allowed that sadness is seductive in
women, especially pretty women. It attracts all men without exception,
even registrars,--for registrars are but men after all; and what man
possessed with natural feeling would not wish to console a pretty woman
in affliction, and, as the Citizen Dorat remarks, "Change the pale tint
of the white rose to a livelier hue"?
The two registrars did ample justice to their excellent supper; it was
only Madame Durand who ate nothing.
In the mean time conversation proceeded. The registrar inquired of his
brother registrar--with a curiosity the more remarkable in these days,
when such frightful dramas were daily enacted--concerning the customs
of the Palace, the days of judgment, and the means of surveillance.
The registrar of the Palace, delighted at being listened to with so
much deference, replied with the greatest complaisance, spoke of the
manners of the jailers, of Fouquier Tinville, and lastly of Citizen
Sanson, the principal actor in the tragedies daily performed upon the
Place de la Révolution.
Then in his turn, addressing his colleague and host, he made various
inquiries concerning his vocation and ministry.
"Oh!" said Durand, "I am not so well informed as yourself, being a
person of much less importance, seeing that I am rather secretary
to the registrar than the incumbent of the place. I do the work of
the registrar-in-chief,--an obscure employment,--laborious for me,
profitable for them; but that is the way with all bureaucracies, not
excepting those of the Revolution. Heaven and earth may perhaps change
one day, but these things never."
"Well, I will assist you, Citizen," said the registrar of the Palace,
charmed with the excellence of his host's wine, and above all with the
beautiful eyes of Madame Durand.
"Thanks!" said he to whom this offer had been made, "anything to vary
the habits; and locality is some distraction to a poor employee. I wish
to protract my work at the Conciergerie rather than to hasten it, and
therefore thought if I might every day bring Madame Durand with me to
the office, who is very dull here--"
"I do not see any inconvenience in that," said the registrar of the
Palace, delighted with the prospect of the charming recreation afforded
him by his colleague.
"She can dictate the papers," said the Citizen Durand; "and
occasionally when our work is finished, if you have not found this
evening unpleasant, you can return and spend an hour or two with us."
"Yes; but not too often," replied the registrar of the Palace,
foppishly; "for I declare I shall be scolded if I return later than
usual to a small house in the Rue du Petit Musc."
"Oh, we shall arrange all that splendidly; shall we not, my dear?"
Madame Durand, pale and melancholy as usual, raised her eyes toward her
husband, and replied,--
"What you wish shall be done."
Eleven o'clock struck, announcing it was time to retire. The registrar
of the Palace rose and took leave of his new friends, expressing the
great pleasure he felt in making their acquaintance.
The Citizen Durand conducted his friend to the landing, then re-entered
the apartment.
"Go, Geneviève, go to bed!" said he.
The young woman made no reply, but rose directly, took her lamp,
and withdrew to the bedroom on the right. Durand, or rather Dixmer,
watched her departure, remained stationary for a moment with a gloomy,
thoughtful expression of countenance, and then passed into his own
chamber on the opposite side.