Boulogne had gone through many phases, in its own languid and sleepy
way, whilst the great upheaval of a gigantic revolution shook other
cities of France to their very foundations.
At first the little town had held somnolently aloof, and whilst Lyons
and Tours conspired and rebelled, whilst Marseilles and Toulon opened
their ports to the English and Dunkirk was ready to surrender to
the allied forces, she had gazed through half-closed eyes at all the
turmoil, and then quietly turned over and gone to sleep again.
Boulogne fished and mended nets, built boats and manufactured boots
with placid content, whilst France murdered her king and butchered her
citizens.
The initial noise of the great revolution was only wafted on the
southerly breezes from Paris to the little seaport towns of Northern
France, and lost much of its volume and power in this aerial transit:
the fisher folk were too poor to worry about the dethronement of kings:
the struggle for daily existence, the perils and hardships of deep-sea
fishing engrossed all the faculties they possessed.
As for the burghers and merchants of the town, they were at first
content with reading an occasional article in the “Gazette de Paris” or
the “Gazette des Tribunaux,” brought hither by one or other of the many
travellers who crossed the city on their way to the harbour. They were
interested in these articles, at times even comfortably horrified at the
doings in Paris, the executions and the tumbrils, but on the whole they
liked the idea that the country was in future to be governed by duly
chosen representatives of the people, rather than be a prey to the
despotism of kings, and they were really quite pleased to see the
tricolour flag hoisted on the old Beffroi, there where the snow-white
standard of the Bourbons had erstwhile flaunted its golden fleur-de-lis
in the glare of the midday sun.
The worthy burgesses of Boulogne were ready to shout: “Vive la
Republique!” with the same cheerful and raucous Normandy accent as they
had lately shouted “Dieu protege le Roi!”
The first awakening from this happy torpor came when that tent was put
up on the landing stage in the harbour. Officials, dressed in shabby
uniforms and wearing tricolour cockades and scarves, were now quartered
in the Town Hall, and repaired daily to that roughly erected tent,
accompanied by so many soldiers from the garrison.
There installed, they busied themselves with examining carefully
the passports of all those who desired to leave or enter Boulogne.
Fisher-folk who had dwelt in the city--father and son and grandfather
and many generations before that--and had come and gone in and out of
their own boats as they pleased, were now stopped as they beached their
craft and made to give an account of themselves to these officials from
Paris.
It was, of a truth, more than ridiculous, that these strangers should
ask of Jean-Marie who he was, or of Pierre what was his business, or
of Desire Francois whither he was going, when Jean-Marie and Pierre
and Desire Francois had plied their nets in the roads outside Boulogne
harbour for more years than they would care to count.
It also caused no small measure of annoyance that fishermen were
ordered to wear tricolour cockades on their caps. They had no special
ill-feeling against tricolour cockades, but they did not care about
them. Jean-Marie flatly refused to have one pinned on, and being
admonished somewhat severely by one of the Paris officials, he became
obstinate about the whole thing and threw the cockade violently on the
ground and spat upon it, not from any sentiment of anti-republicanism,
but just from a feeling of Norman doggedness.
He was arrested, shut up in Fort Gayole, tried as a traitor and publicly
guillotined.
The consternation in Boulogne was appalling.
The one little spark had found its way to a barrel of blasting
powder and caused a terrible explosion. Within twenty-four hours
of Jean-Marie's execution the whole town was in the throes of
the Revolution. What the death of King Louis, the arrest of Marie
Antoinette, the massacres of September had failed to do, that the arrest
and execution of an elderly fisherman accomplished in a trice.
People began to take sides in politics. Some families realized that they
came from ancient lineage, and that their ancestors had helped to build
up the throne of the Bourbons. Others looked up ancient archives and
remembered past oppressions at the hands of the aristocrats.
Thus some burghers of Boulogne became ardent reactionaries, whilst
others secretly nursed enthusiastic royalist convictions: some were
ready to throw in their lot with the anarchists, to deny the religion
of their fathers, to scorn the priests and close the places of worship;
others adhered strictly still to the usages and practices of the Church.
Arrest became frequent: the guillotine, erected in the Place de la
Senechaussee, had plenty of work to do. Soon the cathedral was closed,
the priests thrown into prison, whilst scores of families hoped to
escape a similar fate by summary flight.
Vague rumours of a band of English adventurers soon reached the little
sea-port town. The Scarlet Pimpernel--English spy or hero, as he was
alternately called--had helped many a family with pronounced royalist
tendencies to escape the fury of the blood-thirsty Terrorists.
Thus gradually the anti-revolutionaries had been weeded out of the city:
some by death and imprisonment, others by flight. Boulogne became the
hotbed of anarchism: the idlers and loafers, inseparable from any town
where there is a garrison and a harbour, practically ruled the city now.
Denunciations were the order of the day. Everyone who owned any money,
or lived with any comfort was accused of being a traitor and suspected
of conspiracy. The fisher folk wandered about the city, surly and
discontented: their trade was at a standstill, but there was a trifle
to be earned by giving information: information which meant the arrest,
ofttimes the death of men, women and even children who had tried to seek
safety in flight, and to denounce whom--as they were trying to hire a
boat anywhere along the coast--meant a good square meal for a starving
family.
Then came the awful cataclysm.
A woman--a stranger--had been arrested and imprisoned in the Fort Gayole
and the town-crier publicly proclaimed that if she escaped from jail,
one member of every family in the town--rich or poor, republican or
royalist, Catholic or free-thinker--would be summarily guillotined.
That member, the bread-winner!
“Why, then, with the Duvals it would be young Francois-Auguste. He keeps
his old mother with his boot-making...”
“And it would be Marie Lebon, she has her blind father dependent on her
net-mending.”
“And old Mother Laferriere, whose grandchildren were left penniless...
she keeps them from starvation by her wash-tub.”
“But Francois-Auguste is a real Republican; he belongs to the Jacobin
Club.”
“And look at Pierre, who never meets a calotin but he must needs spit on
him.”
“Is there no safety anywhere?... are we to be butchered like so many
cattle?...”
Somebody makes the suggestion:
“It is a threat... they would not dare!...”
“Would not dare?...”
'Tis old Andre Lemoine who has spoken, and he spits vigorously on the
ground. Andre Lemoine has been a soldier; he was in La Vendee. He was
wounded at Tours... and he knows!
“Would not dare?...” he says in a whisper. “I tell you, friends, that
there's nothing the present government would not dare. There was the
Plaine Saint Mauve... Did you ever hear about that?... little children
fusilladed by the score... little ones, I say, and women with babies at
their breasts ... weren't they innocent?... Five hundred innocent people
butchered in La Vendee... until the Headsman sank--worn not... I could
tell worse than that... for I know.... There's nothing they would not
dare!...”
Consternation was so great that the matter could not even be discussed.
“We'll go to Gayole and see this woman at any rate.”
Angry, sullen crowds assembled in the streets. The proclamation had been
read just as the men were leaving the public houses, preparing to go
home for the night.
They brought the news to the women, who, at home, were setting the soup
and bread on the table for their husbands' supper. There was no thought
of going to bed or of sleeping that night. The bread-winner in every
family and all those dependent on him for daily sustenance were
trembling for their lives.
Resistance to the barbarous order would have been worse than useless,
nor did the thought of it enter the heads of these humble and ignorant
fisher folk, wearied out with the miserable struggle for existence.
There was not sufficient spirit left in this half-starved population
of a small provincial city to suggest open rebellion. A regiment of
soldiers come up from the South were quartered in the Chateau, and the
natives of Boulogne could not have mustered more than a score of disused
blunderbusses between them.
Then they remembered tales which Andre Lemoine had told, the fate of
Lyons, razed to the ground, of Toulon burnt to ashes, and they did not
dare rebel.
But brothers, fathers, sons trooped out towards Gayole, in order to
have a good look at the frowning pile, which held the hostage for their
safety. It looked dark and gloomy enough, save for one window which gave
on the southern ramparts. This window was wide open and a feeble light
flickered from the room beyond, and as the men stood about, gazing at
the walls in sulky silence, they suddenly caught the sound of a loud
laugh proceeding from within, and of a pleasant voice speaking quite
gaily in a language which they did not understand, but which sounded
like English.
Against the heavy oaken gateway, leading to the courtyard of the prison,
the proclamation written on stout parchment had been pinned up. Beside
it hung a tiny lantern, the dim light of which flickered in the evening
breeze, and brought at times into sudden relief the bold writing and
heavy signature, which stood out, stern and grim, against the yellowish
background of the paper, like black signs of approaching death.
Facing the gateway and the proclamation, the crowd of men took its
stand. The moon, from behind them, cast fitful, silvery glances at the
weary heads bent in anxiety and watchful expectancy: on old heads and
young heads, dark, curly heads and heads grizzled with age, on backs
bent with toil, and hands rough and gnarled like seasoned timber.
All night the men stood and watched.
Sentinels from the town guard were stationed at the gates, but these
might prove inattentive or insufficient, they had not the same price
at stake, so the entire able-bodied population of Boulogne watched the
gloomy prison that night, lest anyone escaped by wall or window.
They were guarding the precious hostage whose safety was the stipulation
for their own.
There was dead silence among them, and dead silence all around, save for
that monotonous tok-tok-tok of the parchment flapping in the breeze. The
moon, who all along had been capricious and chary of her light, made
a final retreat behind a gathering bank of clouds, and the crowd, the
soldiers and the great grim walls were all equally wrapped in gloom.
Only the little lantern on the gateway now made a ruddy patch of light,
and tinged that fluttering parchment with the colour of blood. Every now
and then an isolated figure would detach itself from out the watching
throng, and go up to the heavy, oaken door, in order to gaze at the
proclamation. Then the light of the lantern illumined a dark head or a
grey one, for a moment or two: black or white locks were stirred gently
in the wind, and a sigh of puzzlement and disappointment would be
distinctly heard.
At times a group of three or four would stand there for awhile, not
speaking, only sighing and casting eager questioning glances at one
another, whilst trying vainly to find some hopeful word, some turn of
phrase of meaning that would be less direful, in that grim and ferocious
proclamation. Then a rough word from the sentinel, a push from the
butt-end of a bayonet would disperse the little group and send the men,
sullen and silent, back into the crowd.
Thus they watched for hours whilst the bell of the Beffroi tolled all
the hours of that tedious night. A thin rain began to fall in the small
hours of the morning, a wetting, soaking drizzle which chilled the weary
watchers to the bone.
But they did not care.
“We must not sleep, for the woman might escape.”
Some of them squatted down in the muddy road, the luckier ones managed
to lean their backs against the slimy walls.
Twice before the hour of midnight they heard that same quaint and merry
laugh proceeding from the lighted room, through the open window. Once it
sounded very low and very prolonged, as if in response to a delightful
joke.
Anon the heavy gateway of Gayole was opened from within, and half a
dozen soldiers came walking out of the courtyard. They were dressed in
the uniform of the town-guard, but had evidently been picked out of the
rank and file, for all six were exceptionally tall and stalwart, and
towered above the sentinel, who saluted and presented arms as they
marched out of the gate.
In the midst of them walked a slight, dark figure, clad entirely in
black, save for the tricolour scarf round his waist.
The crowd of watchers gazed on the little party with suddenly awakened
interest.
“Who is it?” whispered some of the men.
“The citizen-governor,” suggested one.
“The new public executioner,” ventured another.
“No! no!” quoth Pierre Maxime, the doyen of Boulogne fishermen, and a
great authority on every matter public or private with the town; “no, no
he is the man who has come down from Paris, the friend of Robespierre.
He makes the laws now, the citizen-governor even must obey him. 'Tis he
who made the law that if the woman up yonder should escape...”
“Hush!... sh!... sh!...” came in frightened accents from the crowd.
“Hush, Pierre Maxine!... the Citizen might hear thee,” whispered the man
who stood closest to the old fisherman; “the Citizen might hear thee,
and think that we rebelled....”
“What are these people doing here?' queried Chauvelin as he passed out
into the street.
“They are watching the prison, Citizen,” replied the sentinel, whom he
had thus addressed, “lest the female prisoner should attempt to escape.”
With a satisfied smile, Chauvelin turned toward the Town Hall, closely
surrounded by his escort. The crowd watched him and the soldiers as
they quickly disappeared in the gloom, then they resumed the stolid,
wearisome vigil of the night.
The old Beffroi now tolled the midnight hour, the one solitary light in
the old Fort was extinguished, and after that the frowning pile remained
dark and still.