ARCIS-SUR-AUBE--(_continued_).
But by far the most interesting acquaintance at this most historic
little town was the great-nephew of Danton. Middle-aged, unpretentious
of aspect, yet with that unmistakable look partly of dignified
self-possession, partly of authority, seldom absent from the French
official, I looked in vain for any likeness to the portraits of his
great kinsman. Yet perhaps in the stalwart figure, manly proportions and
bronzed complexion, might be traced some suggestion of the athlete, the
strong swimmer, the bold sportsman, whose mighty voice once made Europe
tremble. The brother of this gentleman also lived at Arcis-sur-Aube, but
was absent during my visit. The _juge de paix_ and his family were on
friendliest terms with my hostess, and he would often drop in for a
chat.
From him and other residents I gathered some interesting particulars
about the Danton family. The great tribune left two little sons, George
and Antoine, who grew up and resided in their ancestral home, hiding
themselves from the world. Their young step-mother it was whose memory,
when on the way to the guillotine, evoked from Danton the only betrayal
of personal emotion throughout his stormy career: “Must I leave thee for
ever, my beloved,” then, quickly recovering himself, cried “Danton, no
weakness!”
Madame Danton married again and is lost sight of. One of Danton’s
sisters entered a convent, as it was supposed hoping to expiate by a
life given up to prayer the crimes, as she deemed them, of her brother.
Meantime, appalled by the shadow of their father’s memory, George and
Antoine decided to remain celibate, a pair marked out for solitude and
obloquy.
“Let the name of Danton perish from the recollection of man,” they said.
The elder, however, afterwards acknowledged and, I believe, legitimised
a daughter according to the merciful French law. Mademoiselle Danton
became Madame Menuel, and, strange as it may seem, at the time of my
visit, this direct descendant of Danton was still living. President
Carnot had given her a small pension in the form of a _bureau de tabac_
at Troyes, where she died in 1896, leaving a son, who some years ago was
divorced from his wife, emigrated to Buenos Ayres, and has never been
heard of since. It is supposed that he is dead. The two great-nephews
have each a son and a daughter living.
The _juge de paix_ and his brother are now among the most respected
citizens of Arcis, and have lived to witness the rehabilitation of their
great ancestor. Neither of the pair inhabit the house in which Danton
was born, and to which he ever returned with joy and satisfaction.
A sight of Danton’s house is sufficient to disprove the calumnies of
that noble woman, but inveterate hater, Madame Roland.
From her memoirs we might gather that Danton was a poverty-stricken,
pettifogging lawyer of the basest class. That Danton’s family belong to
the well-to-do upper middle ranks, we see from the object lesson before
us. At the time of my visit, this large, roomy, well-built house, with
coach-house, stables and half-a-dozen acres of garden, orchard and wood,
was to let for 700 francs a year. But so low a rent now-a-days is no
indication of its value a hundred years ago.
[Illustration: DANTON’S HOME AT ARCIS-SUR-AUBE.]
The owner of the house most kindly showed me over every part.
It is two-storeyed, plainly but solidly constructed, and evidently
arranged, according to French fashion, for a combined tenancy. Two or
three families could here well be accommodated under the same roof, each
having separate establishments. I found myself in a covered carriageway,
cool dark corridors leading to outhouses and stables, a wide staircase
with handsome oak balustrade to upstair kitchen and bed-chambers, on
either side of the ground floor were spacious salon and dining room,
fronting town and river, water-mills and quays. In the vast kitchen was
an enormous chopping block, suggestive of large family joints.
My kind cicerone allowed me to linger in Danton’s bed-chamber. I now
looked out from the window at which the fallen leader was often seen
by his townsfolk during the last days of his stormy career. In his
night-cap the colossal figure might be descried gazing out into the
night, as if peering into futurity, trying to read the future. Did he
perhaps from time to time waver in his decision to abide his doom?
We know that again and again his friends urged him to seek safety in
flight.
“Does a man carry his country on the sole of his shoe?” he retorted
fiercely, but it may well be that he here envied weaker men. Danton’s
character was thoroughly French. His ambition was as he said to retire
to Arcis-sur-Aube and there plant cabbages. A devoted son, husband and
father, his affections were also centred upon others not of his blood
and name. He tenderly loved his old nurse, and left her a small pension.
Within the last thirty years, thanks to M. Aulard and his collaborators,
the history of the Revolution has been written anew, or rather for the
first time. The gigantic figure of Danton stands forth to-day in its
true light, as the saviour of France from the fate of Poland, and as a
founder of the democratic idea. He succumbed less because he was a rival
of Robespierre than because he was a friend of humanity.
“I would rather be guillotined than guillotine,” he repeated, and it was
mainly his effort to stay the Terror that made him its victim.
The study adjoining contained that suggestive library of English,
Spanish, Italian, and ancient classics of which his biographers have
given us a catalogue, but which are now, alas! dispersed for ever.
The house stands conspicuous, rearing a proud front to the world, if
world could be used appropriately of so quiet, humdrum a little place.
A few hundred yards off we reach the Church, Hôtel de Ville and open
square. In 1886, a monument to Danton was inaugurated here with much
ceremony. A bronze statue represents the great tribune in the fiery
attitude of an orator, pronouncing his immortal phrase:--
_“De l’audace, encore de l’audace, toujours de l’audace!”_
Arcis-sur-Aube is a little town of three thousand souls, within an
hour’s railway journey from Troyes. The river Aube (Alba), so called
from its silveriness flows by Danton’s house. In his time and up to the
opening of the railways the place was a port of some importance. Boats
and barges carried goods to Troyes, Bar-sur-Aube and other towns.
Of late years Arcis has been partially surrounded with pleasant shady
walks greatly appreciated by the townsfolk. Regretfully I quitted my
circle of acquaintances here, little dreaming under what interesting
circumstances I should next meet Danton’s great-nephew.