Once more he was being led through the interminable corridors of the
gigantic building. Once more from the narrow, barred windows close by
him he heard the heart-breaking sighs, the moans, the curses which spoke
of tragedies that he could only guess.
Heron was walking on ahead of him, preceding him by some fifty metres or
so, his long legs covering the distances more rapidly than de Batz could
follow them. The latter knew his way well about the old prison. Few men
in Paris possessed that accurate knowledge of its intricate passages and
its network of cells and halls which de Batz had acquired after close
and persevering study.
He himself could have led Heron to the doors of the tower where the
little Dauphin was being kept imprisoned, but unfortunately he did not
possess the keys that would open all the doors which led to it. There
were sentinels at every gate, groups of soldiers at each end of every
corridor, the great--now empty--courtyards, thronged with prisoners in
the daytime, were alive with soldiery even now. Some walked up and
down with fixed bayonet on shoulder, others sat in groups on the stone
copings or squatted on the ground, smoking or playing cards, but all of
them were alert and watchful.
Heron was recognised everywhere the moment he appeared, and though in
these days of equality no one presented arms, nevertheless every guard
stood aside to let him pass, or when necessary opened a gate for the
powerful chief agent of the Committee of General Security.
Indeed, de Batz had no keys such as these to open the way for him to the
presence of the martyred little King.
Thus the two men wended their way on in silence, one preceding the
other. De Batz walked leisurely, thought-fully, taking stock of
everything he saw--the gates, the barriers, the positions of sentinels
and warders, of everything in fact that might prove a help or a
hindrance presently, when the great enterprise would be hazarded. At
last--still in the wake of Heron--he found himself once more behind the
main entrance gate, underneath the archway on which gave the guichet of
the concierge.
Here, too, there seemed to be an unnecessary number of soldiers: two
were doing sentinel outside the guichet, but there were others in a file
against the wall.
Heron rapped with his keys against the door of the concierge’s lodge,
then, as it was not immediately opened from within, he pushed it open
with his foot.
“The concierge?” he queried peremptorily.
From a corner of the small panelled room there came a grunt and a reply:
“Gone to bed, quoi!”
The man who previously had guided de Batz to Heron’s door slowly
struggled to his feet. He had been squatting somewhere in the gloom, and
had been roused by Heron’s rough command. He slouched forward now still
carrying a boot in one hand and a blacking brush in the other.
“Take this lanthorn, then,” said the chief agent with a snarl directed
at the sleeping concierge, “and come along. Why are you still here?” he
added, as if in after-thought.
“The citizen concierge was not satisfied with the way I had done his
boots,” muttered the man, with an evil leer as he spat contemptuously on
the floor; “an aristo, quoi? A hell of a place this... twenty cells
to sweep out every day... and boots to clean for every aristo of a
concierge or warder who demands it.... Is that work for a free born
patriot, I ask?”
“Well, if you are not satisfied, citoyen Dupont,” retorted Heron dryly,
“you may go when you like, you know there are plenty of others ready to
do your work...”
“Nineteen hours a day, and nineteen sous by way of payment.... I have
had fourteen days of this convict work...”
He continued to mutter under his breath, whilst Heron, paying no further
heed to him, turned abruptly towards a group of soldiers stationed
outside.
“En avant, corporal!” he said; “bring four men with you... we go up to
the tower.”
The small procession was formed. On ahead the lanthorn-bearer, with
arched spine and shaking knees, dragging shuffling footsteps along the
corridor, then the corporal with two of his soldiers, then Heron closely
followed by de Batz, and finally two more soldiers bringing up the rear.
Heron had given the bunch of keys to the man Dupont. The latter, on
ahead, holding the lanthorn aloft, opened one gate after another. At
each gate he waited for the little procession to file through, then he
re-locked the gate and passed on.
Up two or three flights of winding stairs set in the solid stone, and
the final heavy door was reached.
De Batz was meditating. Heron’s precautions for the safe-guarding of the
most precious life in Europe were more complete than he had anticipated.
What lavish liberality would be required! what superhuman ingenuity and
boundless courage in order to break down all the barriers that had been
set up round that young life that flickered inside this grim tower!
Of these three requisites the corpulent, complacent intriguer possessed
only the first in a considerable degree. He could be exceedingly liberal
with the foreign money which he had at his disposal. As for courage and
ingenuity, he believed that he possessed both, but these qualities had
not served him in very good stead in the attempts which he had made at
different times to rescue the unfortunate members of the Royal Family
from prison. His overwhelming egotism would not admit for a moment that
in ingenuity and pluck the Scarlet Pimpernel and his English followers
could outdo him, but he did wish to make quite sure that they would
not interfere with him in the highly remunerative work of saving the
Dauphin.
Heron’s impatient call roused him from these meditations. The little
party had come to a halt outside a massive iron-studded door.
At a sign from the chief agent the soldiers stood at attention. He then
called de Batz and the lanthorn-bearer to him.
He took a key from his breeches pocket, and with his own hand unlocked
the massive door. He curtly ordered the lanthorn-bearer and de Batz to
go through, then he himself went in, and finally once more re-locked the
door behind him, the soldiers remaining on guard on the landing outside.
Now the three men were standing in a square antechamber, dank and dark,
devoid of furniture save for a large cupboard that filled the whole of
one wall; the others, mildewed and stained, were covered with a greyish
paper, which here and there hung away in strips.
Heron crossed this ante-chamber, and with his knuckles rapped against a
small door opposite.
“Hola!” he shouted, “Simon, mon vieux, tu es la?”
From the inner room came the sound of voices, a man’s and a woman’s,
and now, as if in response to Heron’s call, the shrill tones of a child.
There was some shuffling, too, of footsteps, and some pushing about
of furniture, then the door was opened, and a gruff voice invited the
belated visitors to enter.
The atmosphere in this further room was so thick that at first de Batz
was only conscious of the evil smells that pervaded it; smells which
were made up of the fumes of tobacco, of burning coke, of a smoky lamp,
and of stale food, and mingling through it all the pungent odour of raw
spirits.
Heron had stepped briskly in, closely followed by de Batz. The man
Dupont with a mutter of satisfaction put down his lanthorn and curled
himself up in a corner of the antechamber. His interest in the spectacle
so favoured by citizen Heron had apparently been exhausted by constant
repetition.
De Batz looked round him with keen curiosity with which disgust was
ready enough to mingle.
The room itself might have been a large one; it was almost impossible to
judge of its size, so crammed was it with heavy and light furniture of
every conceivable shape and type. There was a monumental wooden bedstead
in one corner, a huge sofa covered in black horsehair in another. A
large table stood in the centre of the room, and there were at least
four capacious armchairs round it. There were wardrobes and cabinets, a
diminutive washstand and a huge pier-glass, there were innumerable boxes
and packing-cases, cane-bottomed chairs and what-nots every-where. The
place looked like a depot for second-hand furniture.
In the midst of all the litter de Batz at last became conscious of two
people who stood staring at him and at Heron. He saw a man before him,
somewhat fleshy of build, with smooth, mouse-coloured hair brushed away
from a central parting, and ending in a heavy curl above each ear; the
eyes were wide open and pale in colour, the lips unusually thick and
with a marked downward droop. Close beside him stood a youngish-looking
woman, whose unwieldy bulk, however, and pallid skin revealed the
sedentary life and the ravages of ill-health.
Both appeared to regard Heron with a certain amount of awe, and de Batz
with a vast measure of curiosity.
Suddenly the woman stood aside, and in the far corner of the room
there was displayed to the Gascon Royalist’s cold, calculating gaze the
pathetic figure of the uncrowned King of France.
“How is it Capet is not yet in bed?” queried Heron as soon as he caught
sight of the child.
“He wouldn’t say his prayers this evening,” replied Simon with a coarse
laugh, “and wouldn’t drink his medicine. Bah!” he added with a snarl,
“this is a place for dogs and not for human folk.”
“If you are not satisfied, mon vieux,” retorted Heron curtly, “you can
send in your resignation when you like. There are plenty who will be
glad of the place.”
The ex-cobbler gave another surly growl and expectorated on the floor in
the direction where stood the child.
“Little vermin,” he said, “he is more trouble than man or woman can
bear.”
The boy in the meanwhile seemed to take but little notice of the vulgar
insults put upon him by his guardian. He stood, a quaint, impassive
little figure, more interested apparently in de Batz, who was a stranger
to him, than in the three others whom he knew. De Batz noted that the
child looked well nourished, and that he was warmly clad in a rough
woollen shirt and cloth breeches, with coarse grey stockings and thick
shoes; but he also saw that the clothes were indescribably filthy, as
were the child’s hands and face. The golden curls, among which a young
and queenly mother had once loved to pass her slender perfumed fingers,
now hung bedraggled, greasy, and lank round the little face, from the
lines of which every trace of dignity and of simplicity had long since
been erased.
There was no look of the martyr about this child now, even though,
mayhap, his small back had often smarted under his vulgar tutor’s
rough blows; rather did the pale young face wear the air of sullen
indifference, and an abject desire to please, which would have appeared
heart-breaking to any spectator less self-seeking and egotistic than was
this Gascon conspirator.
Madame Simon had called him to her while her man and the citizen Heron
were talking, and the child went readily enough, without any sign of
fear. She took the corner of her coarse dirty apron in her hand, and
wiped the boy’s mouth and face with it.
“I can’t keep him clean,” she said with an apologetic shrug of the
shoulders and a look at de Batz. “There now,” she added, speaking once
more to the child, “drink like a good boy, and say your lesson to please
maman, and then you shall go to bed.”
She took a glass from the table, which was filled with a clear liquid
that de Batz at first took to be water, and held it to the boy’s lips.
He turned his head away and began to whimper.
“Is the medicine very nasty?” queried de Batz.
“Mon Dieu! but no, citizen,” exclaimed the woman, “it is good strong eau
de vie, the best that can be procured. Capet likes it really--don’t you,
Capet? It makes you happy and cheerful, and sleep well of nights. Why,
you had a glassful yesterday and enjoyed it. Take it now,” she added in
a quick whisper, seeing that Simon and Heron were in close conversation
together; “you know it makes papa angry if you don’t have at least half
a glass now and then.”
The child wavered for a moment longer, making a quaint little grimace of
distaste. But at last he seemed to make up his mind that it was wisest
to yield over so small a matter, and he took the glass from Madame
Simon.
And thus did de Batz see the descendant of St. Louis quaffing a glass of
raw spirit at the bidding of a rough cobbler’s wife, whom he called by
the fond and foolish name sacred to childhood, maman!
Selfish egoist though he was, de Batz turned away in loathing.
Simon had watched the little scene with obvious satisfaction. He
chuckled audibly when the child drank the spirit, and called Heron’s
attention to him, whilst a look of triumph lit up his wide, pale eyes.
“And now, mon petit,” he said jovially, “let the citizen hear you say
your prayers!”
He winked toward de Batz, evidently anticipating a good deal of
enjoyment for the visitor from what was coming. From a heap of litter in
a corner of the room he fetched out a greasy red bonnet adorned with a
tricolour cockade, and a soiled and tattered flag, which had once been
white, and had golden fleur-de-lys embroidered upon it.
The cap he set on the child’s head, and the flag he threw upon the
floor.
“Now, Capet--your prayers!” he said with another chuckle of amusement.
All his movements were rough, and his speech almost ostentatiously
coarse. He banged against the furniture as he moved about the room,
kicking a footstool out of the way or knocking over a chair. De
Batz instinctively thought of the perfumed stillness of the rooms at
Versailles, of the army of elegant high-born ladies who had ministered
to the wants of this child, who stood there now before him, a cap on his
yellow hair, and his shoulder held up to his ear with that gesture
of careless indifference peculiar to children when they are sullen or
uncared for.
Obediently, quite mechanically it seemed, the boy trod on the flag which
Henri IV had borne before him at Ivry, and le Roi Soleil had flaunted in
the face of the armies of Europe. The son of the Bourbons was spitting
on their flag, and wiping his shoes upon its tattered folds. With shrill
cracked voice he sang the Carmagnole, “Ca ira! ca ira! les aristos a la
lanterne!” until de Batz himself felt inclined to stop his ears and to
rush from the place in horror.
Louis XVII, whom the hearts of many had proclaimed King of France by the
grace of God, the child of the Bourbons, the eldest son of the Church,
was stepping a vulgar dance over the flag of St. Louis, which he had
been taught to defile. His pale cheeks glowed as he danced, his eyes
shone with the unnatural light kindled in them by the intoxicating
liquor; with one slender hand he waved the red cap with the tricolour
cockade, and shouted “Vive la Republique!”
Madame Simon was clapping her hands, looking on the child with obvious
pride, and a kind of rough maternal affection. Simon was gazing on
Heron for approval, and the latter nodded his head, murmuring words of
encouragement and of praise.
“Thy catechism now, Capet--thy catechism,” shouted Simon in a hoarse
voice.
The boy stood at attention, cap on head, hands on his hips, legs wide
apart, and feet firmly planted on the fleur-de-lys, the glory of his
forefathers.
“Thy name?” queried Simon.
“Louis Capet,” replied the child in a clear, high-pitched voice.
“What art thou?”
“A citizen of the Republic of France.”
“What was thy father?”
“Louis Capet, ci-devant king, a tyrant who perished by the will of the
people!”
“What was thy mother?”
“A ----”
De Batz involuntarily uttered a cry of horror. Whatever the man’s
private character was, he had been born a gentleman, and his every
instinct revolted against what he saw and heard. The scene had
positively sickened him. He turned precipitately towards the door.
“How now, citizen?” queried the Committee’s agent with a sneer. “Are you
not satisfied with what you see?”
“Mayhap the citizen would like to see Capet sitting in a golden chair,”
interposed Simon the cobbler with a sneer, “and me and my wife kneeling
and kissing his hand--what?”
“‘Tis the heat of the room,” stammered de Batz, who was fumbling with
the lock of the door; “my head began to swim.”
“Spit on their accursed flag, then, like a good patriot, like Capet,”
retorted Simon gruffly. “Here, Capet, my son,” he added, pulling the boy
by the arm with a rough gesture, “get thee to bed; thou art quite drunk
enough to satisfy any good Republican.”
By way of a caress he tweaked the boy’s ear and gave him a prod in the
back with his bent knee. He was not wilfully unkind, for just now he
was not angry with the lad; rather was he vastly amused with the effect
Capet’s prayer and Capet’s recital of his catechism had had on the
visitor.
As to the lad, the intensity of excitement in him was immediately
followed by an overwhelming desire for sleep. Without any preliminary
of undressing or of washing, he tumbled, just as he was, on to the sofa.
Madame Simon, with quite pleasing solicitude, arranged a pillow under
his head, and the very next moment the child was fast asleep.
“‘Tis well, citoyen Simon,” said Heron in his turn, going towards
the door. “I’ll report favourably on you to the Committee of Public
Security. As for the citoyenne, she had best be more careful,” he added,
turning to the woman Simon with a snarl on his evil face. “There was no
cause to arrange a pillow under the head of that vermin’s spawn. Many
good patriots have no pillows to put under their heads. Take that pillow
away; and I don’t like the shoes on the brat’s feet; sabots are quite
good enough.”
Citoyenne Simon made no reply. Some sort of retort had apparently
hovered on her lips, but had been checked, even before it was uttered,
by a peremptory look from her husband. Simon the cobbler, snarling in
speech but obsequious in manner, prepared to accompany the citizen agent
to the door.
De Batz was taking a last look at the sleeping child; the uncrowned King
of France was wrapped in a drunken sleep, with the last spoken insult
upon his dead mother still hovering on his childish lips.