CHAPTER XXVIIIINMATES OF THE PRISONIt was the first week in July, and heat fetid and airless brooded over the crowded prison. Mlle Ange drooped daily. To all consoling words she made but one reply—"C'est fini"—and at last Aline gave up all attempt at rousing her. After all, what did it matter since they were all upon the edge of death?There were six people in the small, crowded cell, and they changed continually. No one ever returned, no one was ever released now.Little Madame de Verdier, stumbling in half blind with tears, sat with them through one long night unsleeping. In her hand she held always the blotted, ill-spelled letter written at the scaffold's foot by her only child, a lad of thirteen. In the morning she was fetched away, taking to her own death a lighter heart than she could have borne towards liberty. In her place came Jeanne Verdier, ex-mistress of Philippe Égalité, she who had leaned on the rail and laughed as the votes went up for the King's death. Her laughing days were over now, tears blistered her raddled skin, and she wrung her hands continually and moaned for a priest. When the gaoler came for her, she reeled against him, fainting, and he had to catch her round the waist, and use a hard word before he could get her across the threshold. That evening the door opened, and an old man was pushed in."He is a hundred at least, so there need be no scandal," said the gaoler with a wink, and indeed the old gentleman tottered to a corner and lay there peaceably enough, without so much as a word or look for his companions.In a day or two, however, he revived. The heat which oppressed the others seemed to suit him, and after a while he even began to talk a little, throwing out mysterious hints of great powers, strange influences, and what not.Mme de Labédoyère, inveterate chatterbox, was much interested."He is somebody," she assured Aline, aside. "An astrologer, perhaps. Who knows? He may be able to tell the future.""I have no future," said the melancholy Mme de Vieuxmesnil with a deep sigh. "No one can bring back the past, not even le bon Dieu Himself, and that is all I care for now."The little Labédoyère shrugged her plump shoulders, and old Mme de Breteuil struck into the conversation."He reminds me of some one," she said, turning her bright dark eyes upon the old man's face. He was leaning against the wall, dozing, his fine-cut features pallid with a clear yellowish pallor like dead ivory. As she looked his eyes opened, very blue, through the mist which age and drowsiness hung over them. He smiled a little and sat up, rubbing his thin hands slowly, as if they felt a chill even on that stifling afternoon."The ladies do me the honour of discussing me," he said in his queer, level voice, from which all the living quality seemed to have drained away, leaving it steadily passionless."I was thinking I had seen you somewhere," said Mme de Breteuil, "and perhaps if Monsieur were to tell me his name, I should remember."He smiled again."My name is Aristide," he said, and seemed to be waiting for a sensation. The ladies looked at one another puzzled. Only Mme de Breteuil frowned a moment, and then clapped her hands."I have it—ah, Monsieur Aristide, it is so many years ago. I think we won't say how many, but all Paris talked about you then. They called you the Sorcerer, and one's priest scolded one soundly if one so much as mentioned your name.""Yes," said the old man with a nod."Well, you have forgotten it, I daresay, but I came to see you then, I and my sister-in-law, Jeanne de Breteuil. In those days the future interested me enormously, but when I got into the room, and thought that perhaps I should see the devil, I was scared to death; and as to Jeanne, she pinched me black and blue. There was a pool of ink, and a child who saw pictures in it.""Oh, but how delightful," exclaimed Julie de Labédoyère."Not at all, my dear, it was most alarming.""But what did he tell you?"The old lady bridled a little."Oh, a number of things that would interest nobody now, though at the time they were extremely absorbing. But one thing you told me, Monsieur, and that was that I should die in a foreign land, and I assure you I find it a vastly consoling prophecy at present.""It is true," said Aristide, fixing his blue eyes upon her."To be sure," she continued, "you told Jeanne she would have three husbands, and a child by each of them, all of which came most punctually to pass; but, Monsieur, I fear now that Jeanne will have my prophecy as well as her own, since she had the sense to leave France two years ago when it was still possible, and I was foolish enough to stay here."The old man shook his head and leaned back again, closing his eyes."What is the future to us now?" said Mme de Vieuxmesnil in a low voice. "It holds nothing.""Are you so sure?" asked Aristide, and she started, turning a little paler, but Mme de Labédoyère turned on him with vivacity."Oh, but can you really tell the future?" she asked."When there is a future to tell," he said, stroking his white beard with a thin transparent hand, and his eyes rested curiously upon her as he spoke. Something in their expression made old Mme de Breteuil shiver a little."Even now he frightens me," she whispered to Aline, but Julie de Labédoyère had clasped her hands."Oh, but how ravishing," she exclaimed. "Tell us then, Monsieur, tell us all our futures. I am ready to die of dulness, and so I am sure are these ladies. It will really be a deed of charity if you will amuse us for an hour.""The future is not always amusing," said Aristide with a slight chilly smile. "Also," he added after a pause, "there is no child here. I need one to read the visions in the pool of ink.""The gaoler has a tribe of children," said Mme de Labédoyère eagerly. "I have a little money. If I made him a present he would send us one.""It must be a young child, under seven years old.""But why?""The eyes, Madame, must be clear. With conscious sin, with the first touch of sorrow, the first breath of passion, there comes a mist, and the visions are read no longer.""Well, there are children enough," she answered with a shrug. "I have seen a little girl of about five,—Marie, I think she is called: we will ask for her."Almost as she spoke the door was thrown open and the gaoler entered. He brought another prisoner to share the already crowded room. If Paris streets were silent and empty, her prisons were full enough. This was a pale slip of a girl, with a pitiful hacking cough. She entered listlessly, and sank down in a corner as if she had not strength to stand."The end of the journey," said Aristide under his breath, but Mme de Labédoyère was by the gaoler's side talking volubly."It is only for an hour,—and see—" here something slipped from her hand to his. "It will be a diversion for the child, and for us, mon Dieu, it may save our lives! How would you feel if you were to find us all dead one morning just from sheer ennui?""I don't know that I should fret," said the man with a grin, and Mme de Labédoyère bit her lip."But you will lend us Marie," she said insistently."Oh, if you like, and if she will come. It is nothing to me, and she is not of an age to have her principles corrupted," said the man, laughing at his own wit.He went out with a jingle of keys, and in a few minutes the door opened once more, and a serious-eyed person of about five years old staggered in, carrying a very fat, heavy baby, whose sleepy head nodded across her shoulder.She hesitated a moment and then came in, closed the door, and finally sat down between Aline and Mlle Ange, disposing the baby upon her diminutive lap."This is Mutius Scaevola," she volunteered; "my mother washes and I am in charge. He is very sleepy, but one is never sure. He is a wicked baby. Sometimes he roars so that the roof comes off one's head. Then my mother says it is my fault, and slaps me.""Give him to me," said Mlle Ange suddenly.The serious Marie regarded her for a moment, and then allowed her charge to be transferred to the stranger's lap, where he promptly fell fast asleep."Come here, my child," said the old gentleman in the corner, and Marie went to him obediently.He had poured ink into his palm, and now held it under her eyes, putting his other arm gently round the child."Look now, little one. Look and tell us what you see, and you, Madame," he said, beckoning to Mme de Labédoyère, "come nearer and put your hand upon her head.""Do you see anything, child?""I see ink," said Marie sedately. "It will make your hand very dirty, sir. Once I got some on my frock, and it never came out. I was beaten for that.""Hush, then, little one, and look into the ink. Presently there will be pictures there. Then you may speak and tell us what you see."Silence fell on the small hot room. Ange Desaix rocked softly with the sleeping child. She was the only one who never even glanced at the astrologer and his pupil.Presently Marie said:"Monsieur, there is a picture.""What then, say?""A boy, with a broom, sweeping."He nodded gravely."Yes, yes. Watch well; the pictures come.""He has made a clean place," said the child, "and on the clean place there is a shadow. Ah, now it turns into a lady—into this lady whose hand is on my head. She stands and looks at me, and a man comes and catches her by the neck and cuts off her hair. That is a pity, for her hair is very long and fine. Why does he cut it?""Mon Dieu!" said Mme de Labédoyère with a sob. She released the child and sat down by the wall, leaning against it, her eyes wide with fear."You asked to see the future, Madame," said the old man impassively."Can you show the past?" asked Mme de Vieuxmesnil, half hesitatingly."Assuredly. You must touch the child, and think of what you wish to see."She came forward and put out her hand, but drew it quickly back again."No," she murmured; "it is perhaps a sin. I am too near the end for that, and when one cannot even confess.""As you will," said the old man."And you, Madame," he turned to Aline, "is there nothing you would know; no one for whose welfare you are anxious?"She started, for he had read her thoughts, which were full of Dangeau. It was months now since any word had come from him, and she longed inexpressibly for tidings. Lawful or unlawful, she would try this way, since there was no other. She laid her hand lightly on the little girl's head, and once more the child looked into the dark pool."There are so many people," she said at last. "They run to and fro, and wave their arms. That makes one's head ache.""Go on looking," said Aristide."There is a lady there now. It is this lady. She looks very frightened. Some one has put a red cap on her head. Ah—now a gentleman comes. He takes her hand and puts a ring on it. Now he kisses her."Aline drew away. The clamour and the crowd, the hasty wedding, the cold first kiss, all swam together in her mind."That is the past," she said in a low, strained voice. "Tell me where he is now. Is he alive? Where is he? Shall I see him again?"She had forgotten her surroundings, the listeners, Mme de Breteuil's sharp eyes. She only looked eagerly at Aristide, and he nodded once or twice, and laid her hand again on the child's head."She shall look," he said, but Marie lifted weary eyes."Monsieur, I am tired," she said."Just this once more, little one. Then you shall sleep," and she turned obediently and bent again over his hand."I do not like this picture," she said fretfully."What is it?""I do not know. There is a platform, with a ladder that goes up. I cannot see the top. Ah—there is the lady again. She goes up the ladder. Her hair is cut off, close to the head. That is not at all pretty, but it is the same lady, and the gentleman is there too.""What gentleman?" asked Aline, in a clear voice."The same who was in the other picture, who put the ring upon your finger and kissed your forehead. It is he, a tall monsieur with blue eyes. He has no hat on, and his arms are tied behind him. Oh, I do not like this picture. Need I look any more?" and her voice took a wailing sound."No, it is enough," said Aline gently.She drew the child away and sat down by Mlle Ange, who still rocked the sleeping baby. Marie leaned her head beside her brother's and shut her eyes. Ange Desaix put an arm about her too, and she slept.But Aristide was still looking at Aline."I do not understand," he said under his breath. "You have none of the signs, none of them. Now she,"—he indicated Mme de Labédoyère, "one can see it at a glance. A short life, and a death of violence, but with you it is different. Give me your hand."He was within reach, and she put it out half mechanically. He looked at it long, and then laid it back in her lap."You have a long life still," he said, "a long, prosperous life. The child was tired, she read amiss. The sign was not for you."Aline shook her head. It did not seem to matter very much now. She was so tired. What was death? At least, if the vision were true, she would see her husband again. They would forgive one another, and she would be able to forget his bitter farewell look.Meanwhile Dangeau waited for death in La Force. His cell contained only one inmate, a man who seemed to have sustained some serious injury to the head, since he lay swathed in bandages and moaned continually."Who is he?" he asked Defarge, the gaoler, and the man shrugged his shoulders."One there is enough coil about for ten," he grumbled. "One pays that he should have a cell to himself, and another sends him milk. It seems he is wanted to live, since this morning I get orders to admit a surgeon to him. Bah! If he knew when he was well off, he would make haste and die. For me, I would prefer that to sneezing into Sanson's basket; but what would you? No one is ever contented."That afternoon the surgeon came, a brisk, round-bodied person with a light roving hazel eye, and quick, clever hands. He fell to his work, and after loitering a moment Defarge went out, leaving the door open, and passing occasionally, when he would pop his head in, grumble a little, and pass on again.Dangeau watched idly. Something in the little man's appearance seemed familiar, but for the moment he could not place him. Suddenly, however, the busy hands ceased their work for a moment, and the surgeon glanced sharply over his shoulder. "Here, can you hold this for me?" and as Dangeau knelt opposite to him and put his finger to steady the bandage, he said:"I know your face. Where have I seen you, eh?""And I know yours. My name is Dangeau.""Aha—I thought so. You were Edmond's friend. Poor Edmond! But what would you? He was too imprudent.""Yes, I was Edmond Cléry's friend," said Dangeau; "and you are his uncle. I met you with him once. Citizen Goyot, is it not?""At your service. There, that's finished.""Who is he; will he live?" asked Dangeau, as the patient twitched and groaned.Goyot shrugged."He has friends who want him to live, and enemies who are almost as anxious that he should n't die.""A riddle, Citizen?""Oh, I don't know. You may conceive, if you will, that his friends desire his assistance, and that his enemies desire him to compromise his friends.""Ah, it is that way?""I did not say so," said Goyot. "Good-day, Citizen," and he departed, leaving Dangeau something to think about, and a new interest in his fellow-prisoner.Next day behold Goyot back again. He enlisted Dangeau's services at once, and Defarge having left them, shutting the door this time, he observed with a keen look:"I 've been refreshing my memory about you, Citizen Dangeau.""Indeed.""Yes; you still have a friend or two. Who says the days of miracles are over? You have been away a year and are not quite forgotten.""And what did my friends say?" asked Dangeau, smiling a little."They said you were an honest man. I said there were n't two in Paris. They declared you were one of them.""Ciel, Citizen, you are a pessimist.""Optimists lose their heads these days," said Goyot with a grimace. "But after all one must trust some one, or one gets no further.""Certainly.""Well, we want to get further, that is all.""Your meaning, Citizen?""Mon Dieu, must I dot all the i's?""Well, one or two perhaps.""I have a patient sicker than this," said Goyot abruptly."Yes?""France," he said in a low voice.Dangeau gave a deep sigh."You are right," he said."Of course, it's my trade. The patient is very ill. Too much blood-letting—you understand? There 's a gangrene which is eating away the flesh, poisoning the whole body. It must be cut out.""Robespierre.""Mon Dieu, Citizen, no names! Though, to be sure, that one 's in the air. A queer thing human nature. I knew him well years ago. You 'd have said he could n't hurt a fly; would turn pale at the mention of an execution; and now,—well, they say the appetite comes with eating, and life is a queer comedy.""Comedy?" said Dangeau bitterly. "It's tragedy that fills the boards for most of us to-day.""Ah! that depends on how you take it. Keep an eye on the ridiculous: foster it, play for it, and you have farce. Take things lightly, with a turn of wit and a playful way, and it is comedy. Tragedy demands less effort, I 'll admit, but for me—Vive la Comédie. We are discussing the ethics of the drama," he explained to Defarge, who poked his head in at this juncture."Will that mend his head?" inquired the gaoler with a scowl."Ah, my dear Defarge, that, I fear, is past praying for; but I have better hopes of my other patient.""Who 's that?" asked the man, staring."A lady, my friend, in whom Citizen Dangeau is interested. A surgical case—but I have great hopes, great hopes of curing her," and with that he went out, smiling and talking all the way down the corridor.Dangeau grew to look for his coming. Sometimes he merely got through his work as quickly as possible, but occasionally he would drop some hint of a plot,—of plans to overthrow Robespierre."The patient's friends are willing now," he said one day. "It is a matter of seizing the favourable moment. Meanwhile one must have patience."Dangeau smiled a trifle grimly. Patience, when one's head is under the axe, may be a desirable, but it is not an easily cultivated, virtue.Life had begun to look sweet to him once more. The mood in which he had suddenly flung defiance at Robespierre was past, and if the old, vivid dreams came back no more, yet the dark horizon began to show a sober gleam of hope.Every sign proclaimed the approaching fall of Robespierre, and Dangeau looked past the Nation's temporary delirium to a time of convalescence, when the State, restored to sanity, might be built up, if not towards perfection, at least in the direction of sober statesmanship and peaceful government.CHAPTER XXIXTHROUGH DARKNESS TO LIGHTSo dawned the morning of the twenty-seventh of July, the 9th Thermidor in the new Calendar of the Revolution. A very hot, still day, with a veiled sky dreaming of thunder. Dangeau had passed a very disturbed night, for his fellow-prisoner was worse. The long unconsciousness yielded at last, and slid through vague mutterings into a high delirium, which tasked his utmost strength to control. Goyot was to come early, since this development was not entirely unexpected; but the morning passed, and still he did not appear. By two o'clock the patient was in a stupour again, and visibly within an hour or two of the end. No skill could avail him now.Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Dangeau heard himself summoned."Your time at last," said Defarge, and he followed the man without a word. In the corridor they met Goyot, his hair much rumpled, his eyes bright and restless with excitement."You? Where are you going?" he panted."Where does one go nowadays?" returned Dangeau, with a slight shrug."No, no," exclaimed Goyot. "It's not possible. We had arranged—your name was to be kept back.""Bah," said Defarge, spitting on the ground. "You need not look at me like that, Citizen. It is not my fault. You know that well enough. Orders come, and must be obeyed. I 'm neither blind nor deaf. Things are changing out there, I 'm told, but orders are orders, and a plain man looks no further."Goyot caught at Dangeau's arm."We'll save you yet," he said. "Robespierre is down. Accused this morning in Convention. They 're all at his throat now. Keep a good heart, my friend; his time has come at last.""And mine," returned Dangeau."No, no,—I tell you there is hope. It is only a matter of hours.""Just so."Defarge interposed."Ciel, Citizens, are we to stand here all day? Citizen Goyot, your patient is dying, and you had better see to him. This citizen and I have an engagement,—yes, and a pressing one."An hour later Dangeau passed in to take his trial. His predecessor's case had taken a scant five minutes, so simple a matter had the death penalty become.Fouquier Tinville seated himself, his sharp features more like the fox's mask than ever, only now it was the fox who hears the hounds so close upon his heels that he dares not look behind to see how close they are. Fear does not improve the temper, and he nodded maliciously at his former colleague."Name," he rapped out, voice and eye alike vicious.With smooth indifference Dangeau repeated his names, and added with a touch of amusement:"You know me and my names well enough, or did once, my good Tinville."The thin lips lifted in a snarl."That, my friend, was when you were higher in the world than you are now. Place of abode?"Dangeau's gaze went past him. He shrugged his shoulders with a faintly whimsical effect."Shall we say the edges of the world?" he suggested.Fouquier Tinville spat on the floor and leaned over the table with a yellow glitter in his eyes."How does it feel?" he sneered. "The edges of the world. Ma foi, how does it feel to look over them into annihilation?"Dangeau returned his look with composure."I imagine you may soon have an opportunity of judging," he observed.At Tinville's right hand a man sat drumming on the table. Now he looked up sharply, exhibiting a dead white face, where the lips hung loose, and the eyes showed wildly bloodshot."But if one could know first," he said in a shaking voice. "When one is so close and looks over, one should see more than others. I have asked so many what they saw. I asked Danton. He said 'The void.' Do you think it is that? As man to man now, Dangeau, do you think there is anything beyond or not?"Dangeau recognised him with a movement of half-contemptuous pity. It was Duval, the actor who had taken to politics and drink, and sold his soul for a bribe of Robespierre's.Tinville plucked him down with a curse."Tiens, Duval, you grow too mad," he said angrily. "You and your beyond. What should there be?""If there were,—Hell," muttered Duval, with shaking lips. Tinville banged the table."Am I to have all the Salpêtrière here?" he shouted. "Have n't we cut off enough priests' heads yet? I tell you we have abolished Heaven, and Purgatory, and Hell, and all the rest of those child's tales."A murmur of applause ran round. Duval's hand went to his breast, and drew out a flask. He drank furtively, and leaned back again.Dangeau was moving away, but he turned for a moment, the old sparkle in his eyes."My felicitations, Tinville," he observed with a casual air."On what?"Dangeau smiled politely."The convenience for you of having abolished Hell! It is a masterstroke. It only remains for me to wish you an early opportunity of verifying your statements.""Take him out," said Tinville, stamping his foot, and Dangeau went down the steps, and into the long adjoining room where the prisoners waited for the tumbrils. It was too much trouble now to take them back again to prison, so the Justice Hall was itself the ante-chamber of the guillotine. It was hot, and Dangeau felt the lassitude which succeeds a strain. Of what use to bandy words with Fouquier Tinville, of what use anything, since the last word lay with the strongest, and this hour was the hour of his death? It is very difficult for a strong man, with his youth still vigorous in every vein, to realise that for him hope and fear, joy and pain, struggle and endurance, are all at an end, and that the next step is that final one into the blind and unknown pathways of the infinite.He thought of Robespierre, out there in the tideway fighting for his life against the inexorable waves of Fate. Even now the water crept salt and sickly about his mouth. Well, if it drowned him, and swept France clean again, what did it matter if the swirl of the tide swept Dangeau from his foothold too?Absorbed in thought, he took no note of his companions in misfortune. There was a small crowd of them at the farther end of the room, a gendarme or two stood gossiping by, and there was a harsh clipping sound now and again, for the prisoners' hair was a perquisite of the concierge's wife, and it was cut off here, before they went to the scaffold.The woman stood by to-day and watched it done. The perquisite was a valuable one, and on the previous day she had been much annoyed by the careless cutting which had ruined a magnificent head of auburn hair. To-day she had noted that one of the women had a valuable crop, and she was instant in her directions for its cutting. Presently she pushed past Dangeau and lifted the lid of a basket which hung against the wall. His glance followed her idly, and saw that the basket was piled high with human hair. The woman muttered to herself as her eye rested on the ruined auburn locks. Then she took to-day's spoil, tress by tress, from her apron, knotting the hair roughly together, and dropping it into the open basket. Dangeau watched her with a curious sick sensation. The contrast between the woman's unsexed face and the pitiful relics she handled affected him disagreeably, but beyond this he experienced a strange, tingling sensation unlike anything in his recollection.The auburn hair was hidden now by a bunch of gay black curls. A long, straight, flaxen mass fell next, and then a thick waving tress, gold in the light, and brown in the shade, catching the sun that crossed it for a moment, as Aline's hair had always done.He shuddered through all his frame, and turned away. Thank God, thank God she was safe at Rancy! And with that a sudden movement parted the crowd at the other side of the room, and he looked across and saw her.He had heard of visions in the hour of death, but as he gazed, a cold sweat broke upon his brow, and he knew it was she herself, Aline, his wife, cast for death as he was cast. Her profile was towards him, cut sharply against the blackened wall. Her face was lifted. Her eyes dwelt on the patch of sky which an open window gave to view. How changed, O God, how changed she was! How visibly upon the threshold. The beauty had fallen away from her face, leaving it a mere frail mask, but out of her eyes looked a spirit serenely touched with immortality. It is the look worn only by those who are about to die, and look past death into the Presence.It was a look that drove the blood from Dangeau's heart; a wave of intolerable anger against Fate, of intolerable anguish for the wife so found again, swept it back again. He moved to go to her, and as he did so, saw a man approach and begin to pinion her arms, whilst the opening of a door and the roll of wheels outside proclaimed the arrival of the tumbrils. In the same moment Dangeau accosted the man, his last coin in his hand."This for you if you will get me into the same cart as this lady, and see, friend, let it be the last one."What desperate relic of spent hope prompted his last words he hardly knew, for after all what miracle could Goyot work? but at least he would have a few more minutes to gaze at Aline before the darkness blotted out her face.Jean Legros, stupid and red-faced, stared a moment at the coin, then pocketed it with a nod and grunt, and fell to tying Dangeau's arms. At the touch of the cord an exclamation escaped him, and it was at this moment that Aline, roused from her state of abstraction by something in the voice behind her, turned her head and saw him.They were so close together that her movement brought them into contact, and at the touch, and as their eyes met, anguish was blotted out, and for one wonderful instant they leaned together whilst each heart felt the other's throb."My heart!" he said, and then before either could speak again they were being pushed forward towards the open door.The last tumbril waited; Dangeau was thrust into it, roughly enough, and as he pitched forward he saw that Aline behind him had stumbled, and would have fallen but for fat Jean's arm about her waist. She shrank a little, and the fellow gave a stupid laugh."What, have you never had a man's arm round you before?" he said loudly, and gave her a push that sent her swaying against Dangeau's shoulder. The knot of idlers about the door broke into coarse jesting, and the bound man's hands writhed against his bonds until the cords cut deep into the flesh of his wrist, and the blood oozed against the twisted rope.Aline leaned nearer. She was conscious only that here was rest. Since Mlle Ange died of the prison fever two days ago, she had not slept or wept. She had thought perhaps she might die too, and be saved the knife, but now nothing mattered any more. He was here; he loved her. They would die together. God was very good.His voice sounded from far, far away."I thought you safe; I thought you at Rancy, oh, God!" and she roused a little to the agony in his tone, and looked at him with those clear eyes of hers. Through all the dreamlike strangeness she felt still the woman's impulse to comfort the beloved."God, who holds us in the hollow of His hand, knows that we are safe," she said, and at that he groaned "Safe!" so that she fought against the weariness that made her long just to put her head upon his shoulder and be at peace."There was too much between us," she said very low. "We could not be together here, but we could not be happy apart. I do not think God will take us away from one another. It is better like this, my dear!—it is better."Her voice fell on a low, contented note, and he felt her lean more closely yet. An agony of rebellion rent his very soul. To love one woman only, to renounce her, to find her after long months of pain, to hear her say what he had hoped for only in his dreams, and then to know that he must watch her die. What vision of Paradise could blot this torture out? Powerless, powerless, powerless! In the height of his strength, and not able even to strike down the brute whose coarse hand touched her, and that other brute who would presently butcher her before his very eyes.Then, whilst his straining senses reeled, he felt a jolt and the cart stopped. All about them surged an excited crowd.There was a confused noise, women screamed. One high, clear voice called out, "Murderers! Assassins!" and the crowd took up the cry with angry insistence."See the old man! and the girl! ma foi, she has an angel's face. Is the guillotine to eat up every one?"The muttering rose to a growl, and the growl to a roar. To and fro surged the growing crowd, the horses began to back, the car tilted. Dangeau looked round him, his heart beating to suffocation, but Aline appeared neither to know nor care what passed. For her the world was empty save for they two, and for them the gate of Heaven stood wide. She heard the song of the morning stars; she caught a glimpse of the glory unutterable, unthinkable.As the shouting grew, the driver of their cart cast anxious glances over his shoulder. All at once he stood up, waving his red cap, calling, gesticulating.A cry went up, "The gendarmerie, Henriot! Henriot and the gendarmes!" and the press was driven apart by the charge of armed horsemen. At their head rode Henriot, just freed from prison, flushed with strong drink, savage with his own impending doom.The crowd scattered, but a man sprang for an instant to the wheels of the cart, and whispered one swift sentence in Dangeau's ear:"Robespierre falls; nothing can save him."It was Goyot in a workman's blouse, and as he dropped off again Dangeau made curt answer."In time for France, if not for me. Good-bye, my friend," and then Goyot was gone and the lumbering wheels rolled on.On the other side of the cart, the Abbé Delacroix prayed audibly, and the smooth Latin made a familiar cadence, like running water heard in childhood, and kept in some secret cell of the memory. Beside the priest sat old General de Loiserolles, grey and soldierly, hugging the thought that he had saved his boy; how entirely he was not to know. Answering his son's name, leaving that son sleeping, he was giving him, not the doubtful reprieve of a day, but all the years of his natural life, since young De Loiserolles was amongst those set free by the death of Robespierre.As the cart stopped by the scaffold foot, he crossed himself, and followed the Abbé to the axe, with a simple dignity that drew a strange murmur from the crowd. For the heart of Paris was melting fast, and the bloodshed was become a weariness. Prisoner after prisoner went up the steps, and after each dull thud announced the fallen axe, that long ominous "ah" of the crowd went up.Dangeau and Aline were the last, and when they came to the steps he moved to go before her, then cursed himself for a coward, and stood aside to let her pass. She looked sweetly at him for a moment and passed on, climbing with feet that never faltered. She did not note the splashed and slippery boards, nor Sanson and his assistants all grimed and daubed from their butcher's work, but her eye was caught by the sea of upturned faces, all white, all eyeing her, and her head turned giddy. Then some one touched her, held her, pulled away the kerchief at her breast, and as the sun struck hot upon her uncovered shoulders, a burning blush rose to her very brow, and the dream in which she had walked was gone. Her brain reeled with the awakening, heaven clouded, and the stars were lost. She was aware only of Sanson's hot hand at her throat, and all those eyes astare to see her death.The hand pushed her, her foot felt the slime of blood beneath it, she saw the dripping knife, and all at once she felt herself naked to the abyss. In Sanson's grip she turned wide terror-stricken eyes on Dangeau, making a little, piteous, instinctive movement towards him, her protector, and at that and his own impotence he felt each pulse in his strong body thud like a hammered drum, and with one last violent effort of the will he wrenched his eyelids down, lest he should look upon the end. All through the journey there had been as it were a sword in his heart, but at her look and gesture—her frightened look, her imploring gesture—the sword was turned and still he was alive, alive to watch her die. In those moments his soul left time and space, and hung a tortured point, infinitely lonely, infinitely agonised, in some illimitable region of never-ending pain. There was no past, no future, only Eternity and his undying soul in anguish. The thousand years were as a day, and the day as a thousand years. There was no beginning and no end. O God, no end!He did not hear the crowd stir a little, and drift hither and thither as it was pressed upon from one side; he did not see the gendarmes press against the drift, only to be driven back again, hustled, surrounded so that their horses were too hampered to answer to the spur. Suddenly a woman went down screaming under the horses' feet, and on the instant the crowd flamed into fury before the agonised shriek had died away. In a moment all was a seething, shouting, cursing welter of struggling humanity. The noise of it reached even Dangeau's stunned brain, and he said within himself, "It is over. She is dead," and opened his eyes.The scaffold stood like an island in a sea grown suddenly wild with tempest, and even as he looked, the human waves of it broke in a fierce swirl which welled up and overflowed it on every side.Sanson, his hand on the machinery, was whirled aside, jostled, pushed, cursed. A fat woman, with bare, mottled arms, Heaven knows how she came on the platform, dealt him a resounding smack on the face, and shrieked voluble abuse, which was freely echoed.Dangeau was surrounded, embraced, cheered, lifted off his feet, the cord that bound his arms slashed through, and of a sudden Goyot had him round the neck, and he found voice and clamoured Aline's name. The little surgeon, after one glance at his wild eyes, pushed with him through the surging press; they had to fight their way, and the place was slippery, but they were through at last, through and down on their knees by the woman who lay bound beneath the knife that Sanson's hand was freeing when the tumult caught him. A dozen hands snatched her back again now, the cords were cut, and Dangeau's shaking voice called in her ears, called loudly, and in vain."Air, give her air and room," he cried, and some pushed forwards and others back. The fat woman took the girl's head upon her lap, whilst tears rained down her crimson cheeks."Eh, the poor pretty one," she sobbed hysterically, and pulled off her own ample kerchief to cover Aline's thin bosom. Dangeau leaned over her calling, calling still, unaware of Goyot at his side, and of Goyot's voice saying insistently, "Tiens, my friend, that was a near shave, eh?""My wife," he muttered, "my wife—my wife is dead," and with that he gazed round wildly, cried "No, no!" in a sharp voice, and fell to calling her again.Goyot knelt on the reeking boards, caught the frail wrist in that brown skilful hand of his, shifted his grasp once, twice, a third time, shook his head, and took another grip. "No, she 's alive," he said at last, and had to say it more than once, for Dangeau took no heed."Aline! Aline! Aline!" he called in hoarse, trembling tones, and Goyot dropped the girl's wrist and took him harshly by the shoulder."Rouse, man, rouse!" he cried. "She's alive. I tell you. I swear it. For the love of Heaven, wake up, and help me to get her away. It's touch and go for all of us these next few hours. At any moment Henriot may have the upper hand, and half an hour would do our business, with this pretty toy so handy." He grimaced at the red axe above them, "Come, Dangeau, play the man!"Dangeau stared at him."What am I to do?" he asked irritably.Goyot pressed his shoulder with a firm hand."Lift your wife, and bring her along after me. Can you manage? She looks light enough."It was no easy matter to come through the excited crowd, but Dangeau's height told, and with Aline's head against his shoulder he pushed doggedly in the wake of Goyot, who made his way through the press with a wonderful agility. Down the steps now, and inch by inch forward through the jostling excited people. Up a by way at last, and then sharp to the left where a carriage waited, and with that Goyot gave a gasp of relief, and mopped a dripping brow."Eh, mon Dieu!" he said; "get in, get in!"The carriage had mouldy straw on the floor, and the musty odour of it mounted in the hot air.Dangeau complained of it sharply."A devil of a smell, this, Goyot!" and the little surgeon fixed him with keen, watchful eyes, as he nodded acquiescence.What house they came to, or how they came to it, Dangeau knew no more than his unconscious wife. She lay across his breast, white and still as the dead, and when he laid her down on the bed in the upper room they reached at last, she fell limply from his grasp, and he turned to Goyot with a groan.A soft, white-haired woman, dark-eyed and placid,—afterwards he knew her for Goyot's housekeeper,—tried to turn him out of the room, but he would go no farther than the window, where he sat staring, staring at the houses across the way, watching them darken in the gathering dusk, and mechanically counting the lights that presently sprang into view.Behind him Marie Carlier came and went, at Goyot's shortly worded orders, until at last Dangeau's straining ears caught the sound of a faint, fluttering sigh. He turned then, the lights in the room dancing before his burning eyes. For a moment the room seemed full of the small tongues of flame, and then beyond them he saw his wife's eyes open again, whilst her hand moved in feeble protest against the draught which Goyot himself was holding to her lips.Dangeau got up, stood a moment gazing, and then stumbled from the room and broke into heavy sobbing. Presently Goyot brought him something in a glass, which he drank obediently."Now you will sleep," said the little man in cheerful accents, and sleep he did, and never stirred until the high sun struck across his face and waked him to France's new day, and his.For in that night fell Robespierre, cast down by the Convention he had dominated so long. The dawn that found him shattered, praying for the death he had vainly sought, awakened Paris from the long nightmare which had been the marriage gift of her nuptials with this incubus.At four o'clock on the afternoon of the 10th Thermidor, Robespierre's head fell under the bloody axe of the Terror, and with his last gasp the life went out of the greatest tyranny of modern times.When Goyot came home with the news, Dangeau's face flamed, and he put his hand before his eyes for a moment.Then he went up to Aline. She had lain in a deep sleep for many, many hours, but towards the afternoon she had wakened, taken food, and dressed herself, all in a strange, mechanical fashion. She was neither to be gainsaid nor persuaded, and Dangeau, reasonable once more, had left her to the kind and unexciting ministrations of Marie Carlier. Now he could keep away no longer; Goyot followed him and the housekeeper met them by the door."She is strange, Monsieur," she whispered."She has not roused at all?" inquired Goyot rather anxiously.Marie shook her head."She just sits and stares at the sky. God knows what she sees there, poor lamb. If she would weep——""Just so, just so," Goyot nodded once or twice. Then he turned a penetrating look on Dangeau."Ha, you are all right again. A near thing, my friend, eh? Small wonder you were upset by it.""Oh, I!" said Dangeau, with an impatient gesture. "It is my wife we are speaking of.""Yes, yes, of course—a little patience, my dear Dangeau—yes, your wife. Marie here, without being scientific, is a sensible woman, and it's a wonderful thing how common-sense comes to the same conclusions as science. A fascinating subject that, but, as you are about to observe, this is not the time to pursue it. What I mean to say is, that your wife is suffering from severe shock; her brain is overcharged, and Marie is quite right when she suggests that tears would relieve it. Now, my good Dangeau, do you think you can make your wife cry?""I don't know—I must go to her.""Well, well, go. Don't excite her, but—dear me, Marie, how impatient people are. When one has saved a man's life, he might at least let one finish a sentence, instead of breaking away in the middle of it. Get me something to eat, for, parbleu, I 've earned it."Dangeau had closed the door, and stood looking at his wife."Aline," he said, "have they told you? We are safe—Robespierre is dead."Then he threw back his head, took a long, deep breath, and cried:"It is new life—new life for France, new work for those who love her—new life for us—for us, Aline."Aline stood by the window, very still. At the sound of Dangeau's voice she turned her head. He saw that she was smiling, and his heart contracted as he looked at her.Death had come so close to her, so very close, that it seemed to him the shadow of it lay cold and still above that strange unchanging smile; and he called to her abruptly, with a rough tenderness."Aline! Aline!"She looked up then, and he saw then the same smile lie deep within her eyes. Unfathomably peaceful they were, but not with the peace of the living."Won't you come to me, my dear," he said gently, and with the simplicity he would have used to a child.A little shiver just stirred the stillness of her form, and she came slowly, very slowly, across the room, and then stood waiting, and with a sudden passion Dangeau laid both hands upon her shoulders insistently, heavily.He wondered had she lost the memory of the last time he had touched and held her thus. Then he had fought with pride and been defeated. Now he must fight again, fight for her very soul and reason, and this time he must win, or the whole world would be lost. He paused, gathering all the forces of his soul, then looked at her with passionate uneasiness.If she would tremble, if she would even shrink from him—anything but that calm which was there, and shone serenely fixed, like the smile upon the faces of the dead.It hinted of the final secret known."Mon Dieu! Aline, don't look like that!" he cried, and in strong protest his arms slipped lower, and drew her close to his heart that beat, and beat, as if it would supply the life hers lacked. She came passively at his touch, and stood in his embrace unresisting and unresponsive.Remembering how she had flushed at a look and quivered at a touch, his fears redoubled, and he caught her close, and closer, kissing her, at first gently, but in the end with all the force of a passion so long restrained. For now at last the dam was down, and they stood together in love's full flowing tide.When he drew back, the smile was gone, and the lips that it had left trembled piteously, as her colour came and went to each quickened breath."Aline," he said, very low, "Aline, my heart! It is new life—new life together."She pushed him back a pace then, and raised her eyes with a look he never forgot. The peace had left them now, and they were troubled to the depths, and brimmed with tears. Her lips quivered more and more, the breath came from them in a great sob, and suddenly she fell upon his breast in a passion of weeping.
CHAPTER XXVIII
INMATES OF THE PRISON
It was the first week in July, and heat fetid and airless brooded over the crowded prison. Mlle Ange drooped daily. To all consoling words she made but one reply—"C'est fini"—and at last Aline gave up all attempt at rousing her. After all, what did it matter since they were all upon the edge of death?
There were six people in the small, crowded cell, and they changed continually. No one ever returned, no one was ever released now.
Little Madame de Verdier, stumbling in half blind with tears, sat with them through one long night unsleeping. In her hand she held always the blotted, ill-spelled letter written at the scaffold's foot by her only child, a lad of thirteen. In the morning she was fetched away, taking to her own death a lighter heart than she could have borne towards liberty. In her place came Jeanne Verdier, ex-mistress of Philippe Égalité, she who had leaned on the rail and laughed as the votes went up for the King's death. Her laughing days were over now, tears blistered her raddled skin, and she wrung her hands continually and moaned for a priest. When the gaoler came for her, she reeled against him, fainting, and he had to catch her round the waist, and use a hard word before he could get her across the threshold. That evening the door opened, and an old man was pushed in.
"He is a hundred at least, so there need be no scandal," said the gaoler with a wink, and indeed the old gentleman tottered to a corner and lay there peaceably enough, without so much as a word or look for his companions.
In a day or two, however, he revived. The heat which oppressed the others seemed to suit him, and after a while he even began to talk a little, throwing out mysterious hints of great powers, strange influences, and what not.
Mme de Labédoyère, inveterate chatterbox, was much interested.
"He is somebody," she assured Aline, aside. "An astrologer, perhaps. Who knows? He may be able to tell the future."
"I have no future," said the melancholy Mme de Vieuxmesnil with a deep sigh. "No one can bring back the past, not even le bon Dieu Himself, and that is all I care for now."
The little Labédoyère shrugged her plump shoulders, and old Mme de Breteuil struck into the conversation.
"He reminds me of some one," she said, turning her bright dark eyes upon the old man's face. He was leaning against the wall, dozing, his fine-cut features pallid with a clear yellowish pallor like dead ivory. As she looked his eyes opened, very blue, through the mist which age and drowsiness hung over them. He smiled a little and sat up, rubbing his thin hands slowly, as if they felt a chill even on that stifling afternoon.
"The ladies do me the honour of discussing me," he said in his queer, level voice, from which all the living quality seemed to have drained away, leaving it steadily passionless.
"I was thinking I had seen you somewhere," said Mme de Breteuil, "and perhaps if Monsieur were to tell me his name, I should remember."
He smiled again.
"My name is Aristide," he said, and seemed to be waiting for a sensation. The ladies looked at one another puzzled. Only Mme de Breteuil frowned a moment, and then clapped her hands.
"I have it—ah, Monsieur Aristide, it is so many years ago. I think we won't say how many, but all Paris talked about you then. They called you the Sorcerer, and one's priest scolded one soundly if one so much as mentioned your name."
"Yes," said the old man with a nod.
"Well, you have forgotten it, I daresay, but I came to see you then, I and my sister-in-law, Jeanne de Breteuil. In those days the future interested me enormously, but when I got into the room, and thought that perhaps I should see the devil, I was scared to death; and as to Jeanne, she pinched me black and blue. There was a pool of ink, and a child who saw pictures in it."
"Oh, but how delightful," exclaimed Julie de Labédoyère.
"Not at all, my dear, it was most alarming."
"But what did he tell you?"
The old lady bridled a little.
"Oh, a number of things that would interest nobody now, though at the time they were extremely absorbing. But one thing you told me, Monsieur, and that was that I should die in a foreign land, and I assure you I find it a vastly consoling prophecy at present."
"It is true," said Aristide, fixing his blue eyes upon her.
"To be sure," she continued, "you told Jeanne she would have three husbands, and a child by each of them, all of which came most punctually to pass; but, Monsieur, I fear now that Jeanne will have my prophecy as well as her own, since she had the sense to leave France two years ago when it was still possible, and I was foolish enough to stay here."
The old man shook his head and leaned back again, closing his eyes.
"What is the future to us now?" said Mme de Vieuxmesnil in a low voice. "It holds nothing."
"Are you so sure?" asked Aristide, and she started, turning a little paler, but Mme de Labédoyère turned on him with vivacity.
"Oh, but can you really tell the future?" she asked.
"When there is a future to tell," he said, stroking his white beard with a thin transparent hand, and his eyes rested curiously upon her as he spoke. Something in their expression made old Mme de Breteuil shiver a little.
"Even now he frightens me," she whispered to Aline, but Julie de Labédoyère had clasped her hands.
"Oh, but how ravishing," she exclaimed. "Tell us then, Monsieur, tell us all our futures. I am ready to die of dulness, and so I am sure are these ladies. It will really be a deed of charity if you will amuse us for an hour."
"The future is not always amusing," said Aristide with a slight chilly smile. "Also," he added after a pause, "there is no child here. I need one to read the visions in the pool of ink."
"The gaoler has a tribe of children," said Mme de Labédoyère eagerly. "I have a little money. If I made him a present he would send us one."
"It must be a young child, under seven years old."
"But why?"
"The eyes, Madame, must be clear. With conscious sin, with the first touch of sorrow, the first breath of passion, there comes a mist, and the visions are read no longer."
"Well, there are children enough," she answered with a shrug. "I have seen a little girl of about five,—Marie, I think she is called: we will ask for her."
Almost as she spoke the door was thrown open and the gaoler entered. He brought another prisoner to share the already crowded room. If Paris streets were silent and empty, her prisons were full enough. This was a pale slip of a girl, with a pitiful hacking cough. She entered listlessly, and sank down in a corner as if she had not strength to stand.
"The end of the journey," said Aristide under his breath, but Mme de Labédoyère was by the gaoler's side talking volubly.
"It is only for an hour,—and see—" here something slipped from her hand to his. "It will be a diversion for the child, and for us, mon Dieu, it may save our lives! How would you feel if you were to find us all dead one morning just from sheer ennui?"
"I don't know that I should fret," said the man with a grin, and Mme de Labédoyère bit her lip.
"But you will lend us Marie," she said insistently.
"Oh, if you like, and if she will come. It is nothing to me, and she is not of an age to have her principles corrupted," said the man, laughing at his own wit.
He went out with a jingle of keys, and in a few minutes the door opened once more, and a serious-eyed person of about five years old staggered in, carrying a very fat, heavy baby, whose sleepy head nodded across her shoulder.
She hesitated a moment and then came in, closed the door, and finally sat down between Aline and Mlle Ange, disposing the baby upon her diminutive lap.
"This is Mutius Scaevola," she volunteered; "my mother washes and I am in charge. He is very sleepy, but one is never sure. He is a wicked baby. Sometimes he roars so that the roof comes off one's head. Then my mother says it is my fault, and slaps me."
"Give him to me," said Mlle Ange suddenly.
The serious Marie regarded her for a moment, and then allowed her charge to be transferred to the stranger's lap, where he promptly fell fast asleep.
"Come here, my child," said the old gentleman in the corner, and Marie went to him obediently.
He had poured ink into his palm, and now held it under her eyes, putting his other arm gently round the child.
"Look now, little one. Look and tell us what you see, and you, Madame," he said, beckoning to Mme de Labédoyère, "come nearer and put your hand upon her head."
"Do you see anything, child?"
"I see ink," said Marie sedately. "It will make your hand very dirty, sir. Once I got some on my frock, and it never came out. I was beaten for that."
"Hush, then, little one, and look into the ink. Presently there will be pictures there. Then you may speak and tell us what you see."
Silence fell on the small hot room. Ange Desaix rocked softly with the sleeping child. She was the only one who never even glanced at the astrologer and his pupil.
Presently Marie said:
"Monsieur, there is a picture."
"What then, say?"
"A boy, with a broom, sweeping."
He nodded gravely.
"Yes, yes. Watch well; the pictures come."
"He has made a clean place," said the child, "and on the clean place there is a shadow. Ah, now it turns into a lady—into this lady whose hand is on my head. She stands and looks at me, and a man comes and catches her by the neck and cuts off her hair. That is a pity, for her hair is very long and fine. Why does he cut it?"
"Mon Dieu!" said Mme de Labédoyère with a sob. She released the child and sat down by the wall, leaning against it, her eyes wide with fear.
"You asked to see the future, Madame," said the old man impassively.
"Can you show the past?" asked Mme de Vieuxmesnil, half hesitatingly.
"Assuredly. You must touch the child, and think of what you wish to see."
She came forward and put out her hand, but drew it quickly back again.
"No," she murmured; "it is perhaps a sin. I am too near the end for that, and when one cannot even confess."
"As you will," said the old man.
"And you, Madame," he turned to Aline, "is there nothing you would know; no one for whose welfare you are anxious?"
She started, for he had read her thoughts, which were full of Dangeau. It was months now since any word had come from him, and she longed inexpressibly for tidings. Lawful or unlawful, she would try this way, since there was no other. She laid her hand lightly on the little girl's head, and once more the child looked into the dark pool.
"There are so many people," she said at last. "They run to and fro, and wave their arms. That makes one's head ache."
"Go on looking," said Aristide.
"There is a lady there now. It is this lady. She looks very frightened. Some one has put a red cap on her head. Ah—now a gentleman comes. He takes her hand and puts a ring on it. Now he kisses her."
Aline drew away. The clamour and the crowd, the hasty wedding, the cold first kiss, all swam together in her mind.
"That is the past," she said in a low, strained voice. "Tell me where he is now. Is he alive? Where is he? Shall I see him again?"
She had forgotten her surroundings, the listeners, Mme de Breteuil's sharp eyes. She only looked eagerly at Aristide, and he nodded once or twice, and laid her hand again on the child's head.
"She shall look," he said, but Marie lifted weary eyes.
"Monsieur, I am tired," she said.
"Just this once more, little one. Then you shall sleep," and she turned obediently and bent again over his hand.
"I do not like this picture," she said fretfully.
"What is it?"
"I do not know. There is a platform, with a ladder that goes up. I cannot see the top. Ah—there is the lady again. She goes up the ladder. Her hair is cut off, close to the head. That is not at all pretty, but it is the same lady, and the gentleman is there too."
"What gentleman?" asked Aline, in a clear voice.
"The same who was in the other picture, who put the ring upon your finger and kissed your forehead. It is he, a tall monsieur with blue eyes. He has no hat on, and his arms are tied behind him. Oh, I do not like this picture. Need I look any more?" and her voice took a wailing sound.
"No, it is enough," said Aline gently.
She drew the child away and sat down by Mlle Ange, who still rocked the sleeping baby. Marie leaned her head beside her brother's and shut her eyes. Ange Desaix put an arm about her too, and she slept.
But Aristide was still looking at Aline.
"I do not understand," he said under his breath. "You have none of the signs, none of them. Now she,"—he indicated Mme de Labédoyère, "one can see it at a glance. A short life, and a death of violence, but with you it is different. Give me your hand."
He was within reach, and she put it out half mechanically. He looked at it long, and then laid it back in her lap.
"You have a long life still," he said, "a long, prosperous life. The child was tired, she read amiss. The sign was not for you."
Aline shook her head. It did not seem to matter very much now. She was so tired. What was death? At least, if the vision were true, she would see her husband again. They would forgive one another, and she would be able to forget his bitter farewell look.
Meanwhile Dangeau waited for death in La Force. His cell contained only one inmate, a man who seemed to have sustained some serious injury to the head, since he lay swathed in bandages and moaned continually.
"Who is he?" he asked Defarge, the gaoler, and the man shrugged his shoulders.
"One there is enough coil about for ten," he grumbled. "One pays that he should have a cell to himself, and another sends him milk. It seems he is wanted to live, since this morning I get orders to admit a surgeon to him. Bah! If he knew when he was well off, he would make haste and die. For me, I would prefer that to sneezing into Sanson's basket; but what would you? No one is ever contented."
That afternoon the surgeon came, a brisk, round-bodied person with a light roving hazel eye, and quick, clever hands. He fell to his work, and after loitering a moment Defarge went out, leaving the door open, and passing occasionally, when he would pop his head in, grumble a little, and pass on again.
Dangeau watched idly. Something in the little man's appearance seemed familiar, but for the moment he could not place him. Suddenly, however, the busy hands ceased their work for a moment, and the surgeon glanced sharply over his shoulder. "Here, can you hold this for me?" and as Dangeau knelt opposite to him and put his finger to steady the bandage, he said:
"I know your face. Where have I seen you, eh?"
"And I know yours. My name is Dangeau."
"Aha—I thought so. You were Edmond's friend. Poor Edmond! But what would you? He was too imprudent."
"Yes, I was Edmond Cléry's friend," said Dangeau; "and you are his uncle. I met you with him once. Citizen Goyot, is it not?"
"At your service. There, that's finished."
"Who is he; will he live?" asked Dangeau, as the patient twitched and groaned.
Goyot shrugged.
"He has friends who want him to live, and enemies who are almost as anxious that he should n't die."
"A riddle, Citizen?"
"Oh, I don't know. You may conceive, if you will, that his friends desire his assistance, and that his enemies desire him to compromise his friends."
"Ah, it is that way?"
"I did not say so," said Goyot. "Good-day, Citizen," and he departed, leaving Dangeau something to think about, and a new interest in his fellow-prisoner.
Next day behold Goyot back again. He enlisted Dangeau's services at once, and Defarge having left them, shutting the door this time, he observed with a keen look:
"I 've been refreshing my memory about you, Citizen Dangeau."
"Indeed."
"Yes; you still have a friend or two. Who says the days of miracles are over? You have been away a year and are not quite forgotten."
"And what did my friends say?" asked Dangeau, smiling a little.
"They said you were an honest man. I said there were n't two in Paris. They declared you were one of them."
"Ciel, Citizen, you are a pessimist."
"Optimists lose their heads these days," said Goyot with a grimace. "But after all one must trust some one, or one gets no further."
"Certainly."
"Well, we want to get further, that is all."
"Your meaning, Citizen?"
"Mon Dieu, must I dot all the i's?"
"Well, one or two perhaps."
"I have a patient sicker than this," said Goyot abruptly.
"Yes?"
"France," he said in a low voice.
Dangeau gave a deep sigh.
"You are right," he said.
"Of course, it's my trade. The patient is very ill. Too much blood-letting—you understand? There 's a gangrene which is eating away the flesh, poisoning the whole body. It must be cut out."
"Robespierre."
"Mon Dieu, Citizen, no names! Though, to be sure, that one 's in the air. A queer thing human nature. I knew him well years ago. You 'd have said he could n't hurt a fly; would turn pale at the mention of an execution; and now,—well, they say the appetite comes with eating, and life is a queer comedy."
"Comedy?" said Dangeau bitterly. "It's tragedy that fills the boards for most of us to-day."
"Ah! that depends on how you take it. Keep an eye on the ridiculous: foster it, play for it, and you have farce. Take things lightly, with a turn of wit and a playful way, and it is comedy. Tragedy demands less effort, I 'll admit, but for me—Vive la Comédie. We are discussing the ethics of the drama," he explained to Defarge, who poked his head in at this juncture.
"Will that mend his head?" inquired the gaoler with a scowl.
"Ah, my dear Defarge, that, I fear, is past praying for; but I have better hopes of my other patient."
"Who 's that?" asked the man, staring.
"A lady, my friend, in whom Citizen Dangeau is interested. A surgical case—but I have great hopes, great hopes of curing her," and with that he went out, smiling and talking all the way down the corridor.
Dangeau grew to look for his coming. Sometimes he merely got through his work as quickly as possible, but occasionally he would drop some hint of a plot,—of plans to overthrow Robespierre.
"The patient's friends are willing now," he said one day. "It is a matter of seizing the favourable moment. Meanwhile one must have patience."
Dangeau smiled a trifle grimly. Patience, when one's head is under the axe, may be a desirable, but it is not an easily cultivated, virtue.
Life had begun to look sweet to him once more. The mood in which he had suddenly flung defiance at Robespierre was past, and if the old, vivid dreams came back no more, yet the dark horizon began to show a sober gleam of hope.
Every sign proclaimed the approaching fall of Robespierre, and Dangeau looked past the Nation's temporary delirium to a time of convalescence, when the State, restored to sanity, might be built up, if not towards perfection, at least in the direction of sober statesmanship and peaceful government.
CHAPTER XXIX
THROUGH DARKNESS TO LIGHT
So dawned the morning of the twenty-seventh of July, the 9th Thermidor in the new Calendar of the Revolution. A very hot, still day, with a veiled sky dreaming of thunder. Dangeau had passed a very disturbed night, for his fellow-prisoner was worse. The long unconsciousness yielded at last, and slid through vague mutterings into a high delirium, which tasked his utmost strength to control. Goyot was to come early, since this development was not entirely unexpected; but the morning passed, and still he did not appear. By two o'clock the patient was in a stupour again, and visibly within an hour or two of the end. No skill could avail him now.
Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Dangeau heard himself summoned.
"Your time at last," said Defarge, and he followed the man without a word. In the corridor they met Goyot, his hair much rumpled, his eyes bright and restless with excitement.
"You? Where are you going?" he panted.
"Where does one go nowadays?" returned Dangeau, with a slight shrug.
"No, no," exclaimed Goyot. "It's not possible. We had arranged—your name was to be kept back."
"Bah," said Defarge, spitting on the ground. "You need not look at me like that, Citizen. It is not my fault. You know that well enough. Orders come, and must be obeyed. I 'm neither blind nor deaf. Things are changing out there, I 'm told, but orders are orders, and a plain man looks no further."
Goyot caught at Dangeau's arm.
"We'll save you yet," he said. "Robespierre is down. Accused this morning in Convention. They 're all at his throat now. Keep a good heart, my friend; his time has come at last."
"And mine," returned Dangeau.
"No, no,—I tell you there is hope. It is only a matter of hours."
"Just so."
Defarge interposed.
"Ciel, Citizens, are we to stand here all day? Citizen Goyot, your patient is dying, and you had better see to him. This citizen and I have an engagement,—yes, and a pressing one."
An hour later Dangeau passed in to take his trial. His predecessor's case had taken a scant five minutes, so simple a matter had the death penalty become.
Fouquier Tinville seated himself, his sharp features more like the fox's mask than ever, only now it was the fox who hears the hounds so close upon his heels that he dares not look behind to see how close they are. Fear does not improve the temper, and he nodded maliciously at his former colleague.
"Name," he rapped out, voice and eye alike vicious.
With smooth indifference Dangeau repeated his names, and added with a touch of amusement:
"You know me and my names well enough, or did once, my good Tinville."
The thin lips lifted in a snarl.
"That, my friend, was when you were higher in the world than you are now. Place of abode?"
Dangeau's gaze went past him. He shrugged his shoulders with a faintly whimsical effect.
"Shall we say the edges of the world?" he suggested.
Fouquier Tinville spat on the floor and leaned over the table with a yellow glitter in his eyes.
"How does it feel?" he sneered. "The edges of the world. Ma foi, how does it feel to look over them into annihilation?"
Dangeau returned his look with composure.
"I imagine you may soon have an opportunity of judging," he observed.
At Tinville's right hand a man sat drumming on the table. Now he looked up sharply, exhibiting a dead white face, where the lips hung loose, and the eyes showed wildly bloodshot.
"But if one could know first," he said in a shaking voice. "When one is so close and looks over, one should see more than others. I have asked so many what they saw. I asked Danton. He said 'The void.' Do you think it is that? As man to man now, Dangeau, do you think there is anything beyond or not?"
Dangeau recognised him with a movement of half-contemptuous pity. It was Duval, the actor who had taken to politics and drink, and sold his soul for a bribe of Robespierre's.
Tinville plucked him down with a curse.
"Tiens, Duval, you grow too mad," he said angrily. "You and your beyond. What should there be?"
"If there were,—Hell," muttered Duval, with shaking lips. Tinville banged the table.
"Am I to have all the Salpêtrière here?" he shouted. "Have n't we cut off enough priests' heads yet? I tell you we have abolished Heaven, and Purgatory, and Hell, and all the rest of those child's tales."
A murmur of applause ran round. Duval's hand went to his breast, and drew out a flask. He drank furtively, and leaned back again.
Dangeau was moving away, but he turned for a moment, the old sparkle in his eyes.
"My felicitations, Tinville," he observed with a casual air.
"On what?"
Dangeau smiled politely.
"The convenience for you of having abolished Hell! It is a masterstroke. It only remains for me to wish you an early opportunity of verifying your statements."
"Take him out," said Tinville, stamping his foot, and Dangeau went down the steps, and into the long adjoining room where the prisoners waited for the tumbrils. It was too much trouble now to take them back again to prison, so the Justice Hall was itself the ante-chamber of the guillotine. It was hot, and Dangeau felt the lassitude which succeeds a strain. Of what use to bandy words with Fouquier Tinville, of what use anything, since the last word lay with the strongest, and this hour was the hour of his death? It is very difficult for a strong man, with his youth still vigorous in every vein, to realise that for him hope and fear, joy and pain, struggle and endurance, are all at an end, and that the next step is that final one into the blind and unknown pathways of the infinite.
He thought of Robespierre, out there in the tideway fighting for his life against the inexorable waves of Fate. Even now the water crept salt and sickly about his mouth. Well, if it drowned him, and swept France clean again, what did it matter if the swirl of the tide swept Dangeau from his foothold too?
Absorbed in thought, he took no note of his companions in misfortune. There was a small crowd of them at the farther end of the room, a gendarme or two stood gossiping by, and there was a harsh clipping sound now and again, for the prisoners' hair was a perquisite of the concierge's wife, and it was cut off here, before they went to the scaffold.
The woman stood by to-day and watched it done. The perquisite was a valuable one, and on the previous day she had been much annoyed by the careless cutting which had ruined a magnificent head of auburn hair. To-day she had noted that one of the women had a valuable crop, and she was instant in her directions for its cutting. Presently she pushed past Dangeau and lifted the lid of a basket which hung against the wall. His glance followed her idly, and saw that the basket was piled high with human hair. The woman muttered to herself as her eye rested on the ruined auburn locks. Then she took to-day's spoil, tress by tress, from her apron, knotting the hair roughly together, and dropping it into the open basket. Dangeau watched her with a curious sick sensation. The contrast between the woman's unsexed face and the pitiful relics she handled affected him disagreeably, but beyond this he experienced a strange, tingling sensation unlike anything in his recollection.
The auburn hair was hidden now by a bunch of gay black curls. A long, straight, flaxen mass fell next, and then a thick waving tress, gold in the light, and brown in the shade, catching the sun that crossed it for a moment, as Aline's hair had always done.
He shuddered through all his frame, and turned away. Thank God, thank God she was safe at Rancy! And with that a sudden movement parted the crowd at the other side of the room, and he looked across and saw her.
He had heard of visions in the hour of death, but as he gazed, a cold sweat broke upon his brow, and he knew it was she herself, Aline, his wife, cast for death as he was cast. Her profile was towards him, cut sharply against the blackened wall. Her face was lifted. Her eyes dwelt on the patch of sky which an open window gave to view. How changed, O God, how changed she was! How visibly upon the threshold. The beauty had fallen away from her face, leaving it a mere frail mask, but out of her eyes looked a spirit serenely touched with immortality. It is the look worn only by those who are about to die, and look past death into the Presence.
It was a look that drove the blood from Dangeau's heart; a wave of intolerable anger against Fate, of intolerable anguish for the wife so found again, swept it back again. He moved to go to her, and as he did so, saw a man approach and begin to pinion her arms, whilst the opening of a door and the roll of wheels outside proclaimed the arrival of the tumbrils. In the same moment Dangeau accosted the man, his last coin in his hand.
"This for you if you will get me into the same cart as this lady, and see, friend, let it be the last one."
What desperate relic of spent hope prompted his last words he hardly knew, for after all what miracle could Goyot work? but at least he would have a few more minutes to gaze at Aline before the darkness blotted out her face.
Jean Legros, stupid and red-faced, stared a moment at the coin, then pocketed it with a nod and grunt, and fell to tying Dangeau's arms. At the touch of the cord an exclamation escaped him, and it was at this moment that Aline, roused from her state of abstraction by something in the voice behind her, turned her head and saw him.
They were so close together that her movement brought them into contact, and at the touch, and as their eyes met, anguish was blotted out, and for one wonderful instant they leaned together whilst each heart felt the other's throb.
"My heart!" he said, and then before either could speak again they were being pushed forward towards the open door.
The last tumbril waited; Dangeau was thrust into it, roughly enough, and as he pitched forward he saw that Aline behind him had stumbled, and would have fallen but for fat Jean's arm about her waist. She shrank a little, and the fellow gave a stupid laugh.
"What, have you never had a man's arm round you before?" he said loudly, and gave her a push that sent her swaying against Dangeau's shoulder. The knot of idlers about the door broke into coarse jesting, and the bound man's hands writhed against his bonds until the cords cut deep into the flesh of his wrist, and the blood oozed against the twisted rope.
Aline leaned nearer. She was conscious only that here was rest. Since Mlle Ange died of the prison fever two days ago, she had not slept or wept. She had thought perhaps she might die too, and be saved the knife, but now nothing mattered any more. He was here; he loved her. They would die together. God was very good.
His voice sounded from far, far away.
"I thought you safe; I thought you at Rancy, oh, God!" and she roused a little to the agony in his tone, and looked at him with those clear eyes of hers. Through all the dreamlike strangeness she felt still the woman's impulse to comfort the beloved.
"God, who holds us in the hollow of His hand, knows that we are safe," she said, and at that he groaned "Safe!" so that she fought against the weariness that made her long just to put her head upon his shoulder and be at peace.
"There was too much between us," she said very low. "We could not be together here, but we could not be happy apart. I do not think God will take us away from one another. It is better like this, my dear!—it is better."
Her voice fell on a low, contented note, and he felt her lean more closely yet. An agony of rebellion rent his very soul. To love one woman only, to renounce her, to find her after long months of pain, to hear her say what he had hoped for only in his dreams, and then to know that he must watch her die. What vision of Paradise could blot this torture out? Powerless, powerless, powerless! In the height of his strength, and not able even to strike down the brute whose coarse hand touched her, and that other brute who would presently butcher her before his very eyes.
Then, whilst his straining senses reeled, he felt a jolt and the cart stopped. All about them surged an excited crowd.
There was a confused noise, women screamed. One high, clear voice called out, "Murderers! Assassins!" and the crowd took up the cry with angry insistence.
"See the old man! and the girl! ma foi, she has an angel's face. Is the guillotine to eat up every one?"
The muttering rose to a growl, and the growl to a roar. To and fro surged the growing crowd, the horses began to back, the car tilted. Dangeau looked round him, his heart beating to suffocation, but Aline appeared neither to know nor care what passed. For her the world was empty save for they two, and for them the gate of Heaven stood wide. She heard the song of the morning stars; she caught a glimpse of the glory unutterable, unthinkable.
As the shouting grew, the driver of their cart cast anxious glances over his shoulder. All at once he stood up, waving his red cap, calling, gesticulating.
A cry went up, "The gendarmerie, Henriot! Henriot and the gendarmes!" and the press was driven apart by the charge of armed horsemen. At their head rode Henriot, just freed from prison, flushed with strong drink, savage with his own impending doom.
The crowd scattered, but a man sprang for an instant to the wheels of the cart, and whispered one swift sentence in Dangeau's ear:
"Robespierre falls; nothing can save him."
It was Goyot in a workman's blouse, and as he dropped off again Dangeau made curt answer.
"In time for France, if not for me. Good-bye, my friend," and then Goyot was gone and the lumbering wheels rolled on.
On the other side of the cart, the Abbé Delacroix prayed audibly, and the smooth Latin made a familiar cadence, like running water heard in childhood, and kept in some secret cell of the memory. Beside the priest sat old General de Loiserolles, grey and soldierly, hugging the thought that he had saved his boy; how entirely he was not to know. Answering his son's name, leaving that son sleeping, he was giving him, not the doubtful reprieve of a day, but all the years of his natural life, since young De Loiserolles was amongst those set free by the death of Robespierre.
As the cart stopped by the scaffold foot, he crossed himself, and followed the Abbé to the axe, with a simple dignity that drew a strange murmur from the crowd. For the heart of Paris was melting fast, and the bloodshed was become a weariness. Prisoner after prisoner went up the steps, and after each dull thud announced the fallen axe, that long ominous "ah" of the crowd went up.
Dangeau and Aline were the last, and when they came to the steps he moved to go before her, then cursed himself for a coward, and stood aside to let her pass. She looked sweetly at him for a moment and passed on, climbing with feet that never faltered. She did not note the splashed and slippery boards, nor Sanson and his assistants all grimed and daubed from their butcher's work, but her eye was caught by the sea of upturned faces, all white, all eyeing her, and her head turned giddy. Then some one touched her, held her, pulled away the kerchief at her breast, and as the sun struck hot upon her uncovered shoulders, a burning blush rose to her very brow, and the dream in which she had walked was gone. Her brain reeled with the awakening, heaven clouded, and the stars were lost. She was aware only of Sanson's hot hand at her throat, and all those eyes astare to see her death.
The hand pushed her, her foot felt the slime of blood beneath it, she saw the dripping knife, and all at once she felt herself naked to the abyss. In Sanson's grip she turned wide terror-stricken eyes on Dangeau, making a little, piteous, instinctive movement towards him, her protector, and at that and his own impotence he felt each pulse in his strong body thud like a hammered drum, and with one last violent effort of the will he wrenched his eyelids down, lest he should look upon the end. All through the journey there had been as it were a sword in his heart, but at her look and gesture—her frightened look, her imploring gesture—the sword was turned and still he was alive, alive to watch her die. In those moments his soul left time and space, and hung a tortured point, infinitely lonely, infinitely agonised, in some illimitable region of never-ending pain. There was no past, no future, only Eternity and his undying soul in anguish. The thousand years were as a day, and the day as a thousand years. There was no beginning and no end. O God, no end!
He did not hear the crowd stir a little, and drift hither and thither as it was pressed upon from one side; he did not see the gendarmes press against the drift, only to be driven back again, hustled, surrounded so that their horses were too hampered to answer to the spur. Suddenly a woman went down screaming under the horses' feet, and on the instant the crowd flamed into fury before the agonised shriek had died away. In a moment all was a seething, shouting, cursing welter of struggling humanity. The noise of it reached even Dangeau's stunned brain, and he said within himself, "It is over. She is dead," and opened his eyes.
The scaffold stood like an island in a sea grown suddenly wild with tempest, and even as he looked, the human waves of it broke in a fierce swirl which welled up and overflowed it on every side.
Sanson, his hand on the machinery, was whirled aside, jostled, pushed, cursed. A fat woman, with bare, mottled arms, Heaven knows how she came on the platform, dealt him a resounding smack on the face, and shrieked voluble abuse, which was freely echoed.
Dangeau was surrounded, embraced, cheered, lifted off his feet, the cord that bound his arms slashed through, and of a sudden Goyot had him round the neck, and he found voice and clamoured Aline's name. The little surgeon, after one glance at his wild eyes, pushed with him through the surging press; they had to fight their way, and the place was slippery, but they were through at last, through and down on their knees by the woman who lay bound beneath the knife that Sanson's hand was freeing when the tumult caught him. A dozen hands snatched her back again now, the cords were cut, and Dangeau's shaking voice called in her ears, called loudly, and in vain.
"Air, give her air and room," he cried, and some pushed forwards and others back. The fat woman took the girl's head upon her lap, whilst tears rained down her crimson cheeks.
"Eh, the poor pretty one," she sobbed hysterically, and pulled off her own ample kerchief to cover Aline's thin bosom. Dangeau leaned over her calling, calling still, unaware of Goyot at his side, and of Goyot's voice saying insistently, "Tiens, my friend, that was a near shave, eh?"
"My wife," he muttered, "my wife—my wife is dead," and with that he gazed round wildly, cried "No, no!" in a sharp voice, and fell to calling her again.
Goyot knelt on the reeking boards, caught the frail wrist in that brown skilful hand of his, shifted his grasp once, twice, a third time, shook his head, and took another grip. "No, she 's alive," he said at last, and had to say it more than once, for Dangeau took no heed.
"Aline! Aline! Aline!" he called in hoarse, trembling tones, and Goyot dropped the girl's wrist and took him harshly by the shoulder.
"Rouse, man, rouse!" he cried. "She's alive. I tell you. I swear it. For the love of Heaven, wake up, and help me to get her away. It's touch and go for all of us these next few hours. At any moment Henriot may have the upper hand, and half an hour would do our business, with this pretty toy so handy." He grimaced at the red axe above them, "Come, Dangeau, play the man!"
Dangeau stared at him.
"What am I to do?" he asked irritably.
Goyot pressed his shoulder with a firm hand.
"Lift your wife, and bring her along after me. Can you manage? She looks light enough."
It was no easy matter to come through the excited crowd, but Dangeau's height told, and with Aline's head against his shoulder he pushed doggedly in the wake of Goyot, who made his way through the press with a wonderful agility. Down the steps now, and inch by inch forward through the jostling excited people. Up a by way at last, and then sharp to the left where a carriage waited, and with that Goyot gave a gasp of relief, and mopped a dripping brow.
"Eh, mon Dieu!" he said; "get in, get in!"
The carriage had mouldy straw on the floor, and the musty odour of it mounted in the hot air.
Dangeau complained of it sharply.
"A devil of a smell, this, Goyot!" and the little surgeon fixed him with keen, watchful eyes, as he nodded acquiescence.
What house they came to, or how they came to it, Dangeau knew no more than his unconscious wife. She lay across his breast, white and still as the dead, and when he laid her down on the bed in the upper room they reached at last, she fell limply from his grasp, and he turned to Goyot with a groan.
A soft, white-haired woman, dark-eyed and placid,—afterwards he knew her for Goyot's housekeeper,—tried to turn him out of the room, but he would go no farther than the window, where he sat staring, staring at the houses across the way, watching them darken in the gathering dusk, and mechanically counting the lights that presently sprang into view.
Behind him Marie Carlier came and went, at Goyot's shortly worded orders, until at last Dangeau's straining ears caught the sound of a faint, fluttering sigh. He turned then, the lights in the room dancing before his burning eyes. For a moment the room seemed full of the small tongues of flame, and then beyond them he saw his wife's eyes open again, whilst her hand moved in feeble protest against the draught which Goyot himself was holding to her lips.
Dangeau got up, stood a moment gazing, and then stumbled from the room and broke into heavy sobbing. Presently Goyot brought him something in a glass, which he drank obediently.
"Now you will sleep," said the little man in cheerful accents, and sleep he did, and never stirred until the high sun struck across his face and waked him to France's new day, and his.
For in that night fell Robespierre, cast down by the Convention he had dominated so long. The dawn that found him shattered, praying for the death he had vainly sought, awakened Paris from the long nightmare which had been the marriage gift of her nuptials with this incubus.
At four o'clock on the afternoon of the 10th Thermidor, Robespierre's head fell under the bloody axe of the Terror, and with his last gasp the life went out of the greatest tyranny of modern times.
When Goyot came home with the news, Dangeau's face flamed, and he put his hand before his eyes for a moment.
Then he went up to Aline. She had lain in a deep sleep for many, many hours, but towards the afternoon she had wakened, taken food, and dressed herself, all in a strange, mechanical fashion. She was neither to be gainsaid nor persuaded, and Dangeau, reasonable once more, had left her to the kind and unexciting ministrations of Marie Carlier. Now he could keep away no longer; Goyot followed him and the housekeeper met them by the door.
"She is strange, Monsieur," she whispered.
"She has not roused at all?" inquired Goyot rather anxiously.
Marie shook her head.
"She just sits and stares at the sky. God knows what she sees there, poor lamb. If she would weep——"
"Just so, just so," Goyot nodded once or twice. Then he turned a penetrating look on Dangeau.
"Ha, you are all right again. A near thing, my friend, eh? Small wonder you were upset by it."
"Oh, I!" said Dangeau, with an impatient gesture. "It is my wife we are speaking of."
"Yes, yes, of course—a little patience, my dear Dangeau—yes, your wife. Marie here, without being scientific, is a sensible woman, and it's a wonderful thing how common-sense comes to the same conclusions as science. A fascinating subject that, but, as you are about to observe, this is not the time to pursue it. What I mean to say is, that your wife is suffering from severe shock; her brain is overcharged, and Marie is quite right when she suggests that tears would relieve it. Now, my good Dangeau, do you think you can make your wife cry?"
"I don't know—I must go to her."
"Well, well, go. Don't excite her, but—dear me, Marie, how impatient people are. When one has saved a man's life, he might at least let one finish a sentence, instead of breaking away in the middle of it. Get me something to eat, for, parbleu, I 've earned it."
Dangeau had closed the door, and stood looking at his wife.
"Aline," he said, "have they told you? We are safe—Robespierre is dead."
Then he threw back his head, took a long, deep breath, and cried:
"It is new life—new life for France, new work for those who love her—new life for us—for us, Aline."
Aline stood by the window, very still. At the sound of Dangeau's voice she turned her head. He saw that she was smiling, and his heart contracted as he looked at her.
Death had come so close to her, so very close, that it seemed to him the shadow of it lay cold and still above that strange unchanging smile; and he called to her abruptly, with a rough tenderness.
"Aline! Aline!"
She looked up then, and he saw then the same smile lie deep within her eyes. Unfathomably peaceful they were, but not with the peace of the living.
"Won't you come to me, my dear," he said gently, and with the simplicity he would have used to a child.
A little shiver just stirred the stillness of her form, and she came slowly, very slowly, across the room, and then stood waiting, and with a sudden passion Dangeau laid both hands upon her shoulders insistently, heavily.
He wondered had she lost the memory of the last time he had touched and held her thus. Then he had fought with pride and been defeated. Now he must fight again, fight for her very soul and reason, and this time he must win, or the whole world would be lost. He paused, gathering all the forces of his soul, then looked at her with passionate uneasiness.
If she would tremble, if she would even shrink from him—anything but that calm which was there, and shone serenely fixed, like the smile upon the faces of the dead.
It hinted of the final secret known.
"Mon Dieu! Aline, don't look like that!" he cried, and in strong protest his arms slipped lower, and drew her close to his heart that beat, and beat, as if it would supply the life hers lacked. She came passively at his touch, and stood in his embrace unresisting and unresponsive.
Remembering how she had flushed at a look and quivered at a touch, his fears redoubled, and he caught her close, and closer, kissing her, at first gently, but in the end with all the force of a passion so long restrained. For now at last the dam was down, and they stood together in love's full flowing tide.
When he drew back, the smile was gone, and the lips that it had left trembled piteously, as her colour came and went to each quickened breath.
"Aline," he said, very low, "Aline, my heart! It is new life—new life together."
She pushed him back a pace then, and raised her eyes with a look he never forgot. The peace had left them now, and they were troubled to the depths, and brimmed with tears. Her lips quivered more and more, the breath came from them in a great sob, and suddenly she fell upon his breast in a passion of weeping.