"This place smoulders. Words are apt to prove oil on the embers. There are 900 prisoners, and constant talk of massacre. Chalier is a firebrand, the Mayor one of those moderate persons who provoke immoderate irritation in others. We are doing our best."Danton frowned heavily over the curt sentences, drawing those black brows of his into a wrathful line. He turned to other letters from other Deputies, all telling the same weary tale of jangle and discord, strife and clamour of parties unappeased and unappeasable. Soon he would be at death-grips with the Gironde—force opposed to philosophy, action to eloquence, and philosophic eloquence would go to the guillotine shouting the Marseillaise.His feet were set upon a bloody path, and one from which there was no returning. All Fate's force was in him and behind him, and he drove before it to his doom.CHAPTER XIVA DANGEROUS ACQUAINTANCEIt was in April that Fate began to concern herself with Mlle de Rochambeau once more. It was a day of spring's first exquisite sweetness—air like new-born life sparkling with wayward smiles, as the hurrying sunbeams glanced between one white cloud and the next; scent of all budding blossoms, and that good smell of young leafage and the wet, fecund earth.On such a day, any heart, not crushed quite dumb and dry, must needs sparkle a little too, tremble a little with the renewal of youth, and sing a little because earth's myriad voices call for an echo.Aline put on her worn print gown with a smile, and twisted her hair with a little more care than usual. After all, she was young, time passed, and life held sunshine, and the spring. She sang a little country air as she passed to and fro in the narrow room.Outside it was delicious. Even in the dull street where she took her place in the queue the air smelled of young flowering things, and touched her cheeks with a soft, kissing breath, that brought the tender colour into them. Under the bright cerulean sky her eyes took the shade of dark forget-me-nots.It was thus that Hébert saw her for the first time—one of Fate's tricks—for had he passed on a dull, rainy, day, he would have seen nothing but a pale, weary girl, and would have gone his way unnoticing, and unremembered, but to-day that spring bloom in the girl's heart seemed to have overflowed, and to sweeten all the air around her. The sparkle of the deep, sweet, Irish eyes met his cold, roving glance, and of a sudden changed it to an ugly, intent glitter. He passed slowly by, then paused, turned, and passed again.When he went by for the second time, Aline became aware of his presence. Before, he had been one of the crowd, and she an unnoticed unit in it, but now, all at once, his glance seemed to isolate her from the women about her, and to set her in an insulting proximity to himself.She looked down, coldly, and pressed slowly forward. After what seemed like a very long time, she raised her eyes for a moment, only to encounter the same fixed, insolent stare, the same pale smile of thick, unlovely lips.With an inward shudder she turned her head, feeling thankful that the queue was moving at a good rate, and that the time of waiting was nearly over. It was not until she had secured her portion that she ventured to look round again, and, to her infinite relief, the coast was clear. With a sigh of thankfulness she turned homewards, plunging her thoughts for cleansing into the fresh loveliness of the day.Suddenly in her ear a smooth, hateful voice:"Why do you hurry so, Citoyenne?"She did not look up, but quickened her pace."But, Citoyenne, a word—a look?"Hébert's smile broadened, and he slipped a dexterous arm about the slim waist, and bent to catch the blue glance of her eyes. Experience taught him that she would look up at that. She did, with a flame of contempt that he thought very becoming. Blue eyes were apt to prove insipid when raised, but the critic in him acknowledged these as free from fault."Citizen!" she exclaimed, freeing herself with an unexpectedly strong movement. "How dare you! Oh, help me, Louison, help me!"In the moment that he caught her again she had seen the small, wiry figure of Jean Michel's wife turn the corner."Louison, Louison Michel!" she called desperately.Next moment Hébert was aware of some one, under-sized and shrivelled looking, who whirled tempestuously upon him, with an amazing flow of words."Oh, my Ste. Géneviève! And is a young girl not to walk unmolested to her home. Bandit! assassin! tyrant! pig! devil! species of animal, go then—but on the instant—and take that, and that, to remember an honest woman by,"—the first "that" being a piece of his hair torn forcibly out, and thrown into his perspiring face, and the second, a most superlative slap on the opposite cheek.He was left gasping for breath and choking with fury, whilst the whirlwind departed with as much suddenness as it had come, covering the girl's retreat with shaken fist, and shrill vituperation.After a moment he sent a volley of curses in her wake. "Fury! Magaera!" he muttered. "So that is Jean Michel's wife! If she were mine, I 'd wring her neck."He thought of his meek wife at home, and laughed unpleasantly."For the rest, she has done the girl no good by interfering." This was unfortunately the case. Hébert's eye had been pleased, his fancy taken; but a few passing words, a struggle may be, ending in a kiss, had been all that was in his thought. Now the bully in him lifted its head, urging his jaded appetite, and he walked slowly after the women until he saw Mademoiselle leave her companion, and enter Rosalie's shop. An ugly gleam came into his eyes—so this was where she lived! He knew Rosalie Leboeuf by sight and name; knew, too, of her cousinship with his former mistress, Thérèse Marcel, and he congratulated himself venomously as he strolled forward and read the list of occupants which, as the law demanded, was fixed on the front of the house at a distance of not more than five feet from the ground:"Rosalie Leboeuf, widow, vegetable seller, aged forty-six. Marie Roche, single, seamstress, aged nineteen. Jacques Dangeau, single, avocat, aged twenty-eight,"—and after the last name an additional notice—"absent on business of the Convention."Hébert struck his coarse hands together with an oath. Dangeau—Dangeau, now it came back to him. Dangeau was infatuated with some girl, Thérèse had said so. He laughed softly, for Thérèse had gone into one of her passions, and that always amused him. If it were this girl? If it were—if it only were, why, what a pleasure to cut Dangeau out, and to let him find on his return that the bird had flown to a nest of Hébert's feathering.There might be even more in it than that. The girl was no common seamstress; pooh—he was not stupid—he could see as far into a brick wall as others. Even at the first glance he had seen that she was different, and when her eyes blazed, and she drew herself from his grasp, why, the aristocrat stood confessed. Anger is the greatest revealer of all.Madame la Roturière may dress her smiling face in the mode of Mme l'Aristocrate; may tune her company voice to the same rhythm; but put her in a passion, and see how the mud comes boiling up from the depths, and how the voice so smooth and suave just now, rings out in its native bourgeois tones.Hébert knew the difference as well as another, and his thoughts were busy. Aristocrat disguised, spelled aristocrat conspiring, and a conspiring aristocrat under the same roof as Jacques Dangeau, what did that spell?He rubbed his pale fat hands, where the reddish hair showed sickly, and strolled away thinking wicked thoughts. Plots were the obsession of the day, and, to speak the truth, there were enough and to spare, but patriot eyes were apt to see double, and treble, when drunk with enthusiasm, and to detect a conspirator when there was only a victim. Plots which had never existed gave hundreds to the knife, and the populace shouted themselves into a wilder delirium.Did the price of bread go up? Machinations of Pitt in England. Did two men quarrel, and blows pass? "Monarchist!" shouted the defeated one, and presently denounced the other.Had a woman an inconvenient husband, why, a cry of "Austrian Spy!" and she might be comfortably rid of him for ever.Evil times for a beautiful, friendless girl upon whom gross Hébert cast a wishful eye!He walked into the shop next day, and accosted Rosalie with Republican sternness of manner."Good-day, Citoyenne Leboeuf."Rosalie was fluttered. Her nerves were no longer quite so reliable as they had been. Madame Guillotine's receptions were disturbing them, and in the night she would dream horribly, and wake panting, with her hands at her fat throat."Citizen Hébert," she murmured.He bent a cold eye upon her, noting a beaded brow."You have a girl lodging here—Marie Roche?""Assuredly, Citizen.""I must speak to her alone."Rosalie rallied a little, for Hébert had a certain reputation, and Louison had not held her tongue."I will call her down," she said, heaving her bulky form from its place."No, I will go up," said Hébert, still with magisterial dignity."Pardon me, Citizen Deputy, she shall come down.""It is an affair of State. I must speak privately with her," he blustered.Rosalie's eyes twinkled; her nerves were steadying. They had begun to require constant stimulation, and this answered as well as anything else."Bah," she said. "I shall not listen to your State secrets. Am I an eavesdropper, or inquisitive? Ask any one. That is not my character. You may take her to the farther end of the shop, and speak as low as you please, but, she is a young girl, this is a respectable house, and see her alone in her room you shall not, not whilst she is under my care.""That privilege being reserved for my colleague, Citizen Dangeau," sneered Hébert."Tchtt," said Rosalie, humping a billowy shoulder—"the girl is virtuous and hard-working, too virtuous, I dare say, to please some people. Yes, that I can very well believe," and her gaze became unpleasantly pointed—"Well, I will call her down."She moved to the inner door as she spoke, and called up the stair: "Marie! Marie Roche! Descend then; you are wanted."Hébert stood aside with an ill grace, but he was quite well aware that to insist might, after yesterday's scene, bring the whole quarter about his ears, and effectually spoil the ingenious plans he was revolving in his mind.He moved impatiently as Mademoiselle delayed, and, at the sound of her footstep, started eagerly to meet her.She came in quite unsuspiciously, looking at Rosalie, and at first seeing no one else. When Hébert's movements brought him before her, she turned deadly white, and a faintness swept over her. She caught the door, fighting it back, till it showed only in that change of colour, and a rather fixed look in the dark blue eyes.Hébert checked a smile, and entrenched himself behind his office."You are Marie Roche, seamstress?""Certainly, Citizen.""Father's and mother's names?""By what right do you question me?" the voice was icy with offence, and Rosalie stirred uneasily."It is the Citizen Deputy Hébert; answer him," she growled—and Hébert commended her with a look.Really this was amusing—the girl had spirit as well as beauty. Decidedly she was worth pursuing."Father's and mother's names?" he repeated.Mademoiselle bit her lip, and gave the names she had already given when she took out her certificate of Citizenship.They were those of her foster-parents, and had she not had that rehearsal, she might have faltered, and hesitated. As it was, her answer came clear and prompt.Hébert scowled."You are not telling the truth," he observed in offensive tones, expecting an outburst, but Mlle de Rochambeau merely looked past him with an air of weary indifference."I am not satisfied," he burst out. "If you had been frank and open, you would have found me a good friend, but I do not like lies, and you are telling them. Now I am not a safe person to tell lies to, not at all—remember that. My friendship is worth having, and you may choose between it and my enmity, my virtuous Citoyenne."Mademoiselle raised her delicate eyebrows very slightly."The Citizen does me altogether too much honour," she observed, her voice in direct contradiction to her words."Tiens," he said, losing self-control, "you are a proud minx, and pride goes before a fall. Are you not afraid? Come," dropping his voice, as he caught Rosalie's ironical eye—"Come, be a sensible girl, and you shall not find me hard to deal with. I am a slave to beauty—a smile, a pleasant look or two, and I am your friend. Come then, Citoyenne Marie."Mademoiselle remained silent. She looked past Hébert, at the street. Rosalie got up exasperated, and pulled her aside."Little fool," she whispered, "can't you make yourself agreeable, like any other girl. Smile, and keep him off. No one wants you to do more. The man 's dangerous, I tell you so, I—— You 'll ruin us all with your airs and graces, as if he were the mud under your feet."Aline turned from her in a sudden despair."I am a poor, honest girl, Citizen," she said imploringly. "I have no time for friendship. I have to work very hard, I harm nobody.""But a friend," suggested Hébert, coming a little closer, "a friend would feel it a privilege to do away with that necessity for hard work."Mademoiselle's pallor flamed. She turned sharply away, feeling as if she had been struck."Good-day, Citizen," she said proudly; "you have made a mistake," and she passed from Rosalie's detaining hand.Hébert sent an oath after her. He was most unmagisterially angry. "Fool," he said, under his breath—"Damned fool."Rosalie caught him up."He is a fool who wastes his time trying to pick the apple at the top of the tree, when there are plenty to his hand," she observed pointedly.He swore at her then, and went out without replying.From that day a period of terror and humiliation beyond words set in for Mlle de Rochambeau. Hebert's shadow lay across her path, and she feared him, with a sickening, daily augmenting fear, that woke her gasping in the night, and lay on her like a black nightmare by day.Sometimes she did not see him for days, sometimes every day brought him along the waiting queue, until he reached her side, and stood there whispering hatefully, amusing himself by alternately calling the indignant colour to her cheeks, and replacing it by a yet more indignant pallor.The strain told on her visibly, the thin cheeks were thinner, the dark eyes looked darker, and showed unnaturally large and bright, whilst the violet stains beneath them came to stay.There was no one to whom she could appeal. Rosalie was furious with her and her fine-lady ways. Louison, and the other neighbours, who could have interfered to protect her from open insult, saw no reason to meddle so long as the girl's admirer confined himself to words, and after the first day Hébert had not laid hands on her again.The torture of the man's companionship, the insult of his look, were beyond their comprehension.Meanwhile, Hébert's passing fancy for her beauty had changed into a dull, malignant resolve to bend, or break her, and through her to injure Dangeau, if it could possibly be contrived.Women had their price, he reflected. Hers might not be money, but it would perhaps be peace of mind, relief from persecution, or even life—bare life.After the first few days he gave up the idea of bringing any set accusation against Dangeau. The man was away, his room locked, and Rosalie would certainly not give up the key unless a domiciliary visit were paid—a thing involving a little too much publicity for Hébert's taste. Besides, he knew very well that rummage as he might, he would find no evidence of conspiracy. Dangeau was an honest man, as he was very well aware, and he hated him a good deal the more for the inconvenient fact. No, it would not do to denounce Dangeau without some very plain evidence to go upon. The accuser of Danton's friend might find himself in an uncommonly tight place if his accusations could not be proved. It would not do—it was not good enough, Hébert decided regretfully; but the girl remained, and that way amusement beckoned as well as revenge. If she remained obstinate, and if Dangeau were really infatuated, and returned to find her in prison, he might easily be tempted to commit some imprudence, out of which capital might be made. That was a safer game, and might prove just as well worth playing in the end. Meanwhile, was the girl Marie Roche, and nothing more? Did that arresting look of nobility go for nothing, or was she playing a part? If Rosalie knew, Thérèse might help. Now how fortunate that he had always kept on good terms with Thérèse.He took her a pair of gold ear-rings that evening, and whilst she set them dangling in her ears, he slipped an arm about her, and kissed her smooth red cheek."Morbleu!" he swore, "you 're a handsome creature, Thérèse; there 's no one to touch you.""What do you want?" asked Thérèse, with a shrewd glance into his would-be amorous eyes."What, ma belle? What should I want? A kiss, if you 'll give it me. Ah! the old days were the best."Thus Hébert, disclaiming an ulterior motive.Thérèse frowned, and twitched away from him."Ma foi, Hébert, am I a fool?" she returned, with a shrug. "You 've forgotten a lot about those same old days if you think that. I 'll help you if I can, but don't try and throw sand in my eyes, or you 'll get some of it back, in a way that will annoy you"; and her black eyes flared at him in the fashion he always admired. He thought her at her best like that, and said so now."Chut!" she said impatiently. "What is it that you want?"Hébert considered."You see your cousin sometimes, the widow Leboeuf, who has the shop in the rue des Lanternes?""I see her often enough, twice—three times a week at present.""Could you get something out of her?""Not if she knew I wanted to. Close as a miser's fist, that's what Rosalie is, if she thinks she can spite you; but just now we are very good friends—and, well, I dare say it might be done. Depends what it is you want to know."Hébert looked at her keenly."Perhaps you can tell me," he said, watching her face. "That girl who lodges there, who is she? What is her name—her real name?"In a flash Thérèse was crimson to the hair, and he had her by the wrist, swinging her round to face him."Oho!" she cried, laughing till the new ear-rings tinkled, "so that's it—that's the game? Well, if you can give that stuck-up aristocrat the setting-down I 've promised her ever since I first saw her, I 'm with you."Hébert pounced on one word, like a cat."Aristocrat? Ah! I thought so," he said, his breathing quickening a little. "Who is she, then, ma mie?"Thérèse regarded him with a little scorn. She did not care who got Hébert, since she had done with him herself, but what,par exemple, did he see in a pale stick like that—and after having admired her, Thérèse? Certainly men were past understanding.She lolled easily on the arm of the chair."I 've not an idea, but I dare say I could find out—that is, if Rosalie knows.""Well, when you do, there 'll be a chain to match the ear-rings," said Hébert, his arm round her waist again.All the same, April had passed into May before Thérèse won her chain.It was in the time between that Hébert haunted Mlle de Rochambeau's footsteps, and employed what he considered his most seductive arts, producing only a sensation of shuddering defilement from which neither prayer nor effort could free her thoughts. One day, goaded past endurance, she left Dangeau's folded note at the door of Cléry's lodging. When it had left her hand, she would have given the world to have it back. How could she speak to a man of this shameful pursuit of Hébert? How, having put Dangeau out of her life, could she use his help, and appeal to his friend? And yet, how endure the daily shame, the nightly agony of remembering those smooth, poisonous whispers, that pale, dreadful smile? She cried her eyes red and swollen, and Edmond Cléry, looking up from a bantering exchange of compliments with Rosalie, wondered as she came in, first if this could be she, and then at his friend's taste. He permitted himself a complacent memory of Thérèse's glowing cheeks and supple curves, and commended his own choice. Rosalie's needles clicked amiably. She liked young men, and this was a personable one. What a goose this girl was, to be sure!—like a frightened rabbit with Hébert, and now with this amiable young man, shrinking, white-faced! Bah! she had no patience with her.Edmond bowed smilingly."My homage, Citoyenne," he said.Aline forced a "Bonjour, Citizen," and then fell silent again. Ah! why had she left the note—why, why, why?Cléry began to pity her plight, for there was something chivalrous in him which rose at the sight of her obvious unhappiness, and he gave the impulse rein."Will you not tell me how I can serve you?" he said in his gentlest voice. "It will be both a pleasure and an honour."Aline raised her tired eyes to his, and read kindness in the open glance."You are very good," she said slowly, and looked past him with a hesitating air.Rosalie was busy serving at the moment, and a shrill argument over the price of cabbage was in process. She stepped closer, and spoke very low."Citizen Dangeau said I might trust you, Citizen.""Indeed you may; I am his friend and yours."Even then the colour rose a little at this linking of their names. The impulse towards confidence increased."I am in trouble, Citizen, or I should not have asked your help. There is a man who follows, insults me, threatens even, and I am without a protector.""Not if you will confide that honour to me," said Cléry quickly.She smiled faintly."You are very good.""But who is it? Tell me his name, and I will see that you are not molested in future.""It is the Citizen Deputy Hébert," faltered Aline, all her terror returning as she pronounced the hateful name.Clary's brows drew close, and a long whistle escaped his lips."Oho, Hébert," he said,—"Hébert; but there, Citoyenne, do not be alarmed, I beg of you. Leave it to me"; after which he made his adieux without conspicuous haste, leaving Rosalie much annoyed at having missed most of the conversation.Two days later, Hébert came foaming in on Thérèse. When he could speak, he swore at her."See here, Thérèse, if you 've a hand in setting Cléry at me, let me warn you. I 'll take foul play from no woman alive, without giving as good as I get, and if there 's any of your damned jealousy at work, you she-devil, I 'll choke you as soon as look at you, and with a great deal more pleasure!"Thérèse stepped up to him and fixed her great black eyes on his pale, twitching ones."Don't be so silly, Hébert," she said steadily, though her colour rose. "What is it all about? What has young Cléry done to you? It 's rather late in the day for you to start quarrelling.""Did you flatter yourself it was about you?" said Hébert brutally. "Not much, my girl; I've fresher fish to fry. But he came up to me an hour ago, and informed me he had been looking for me everywhere to tell me my pursuit of that pattern of virtue, our good Dangeau's mistress, must cease, or I 'd have him to reckon with, and what I want to know is, have you a hand in this, or not?"Thérèse was heavily flushed, and her eyes curiously veiled."What! Cléry too?" she said in a deep whisper. "Dangeau, and you, and Cléry. Eh! I wish her joy of my cast-off clouts. But she shall pay—Holy Virgin, she shall pay!"Hébert caught her by the shoulder and shook it."What are you muttering? I ask you a plain question, and you don't answer it. What about Cléry—did you set him on?"She threw back her head at that, and gave a long, wild laugh."Imbécile!" she screamed. "I? Do you hate him? Well, think how I must love him when he too goes after this girl—goes to her from me, from swearing I am his goddess, his inspiration? Ah!"—she caught at her throat,—"but at least I can give you his head. The fool—the fool to betray a woman who holds his life in her hands! Here is what the imbecile wrote me only a week ago. Read, and say if it 's not enough to give him to the embraces of the Guillotine?"The paper she thrust at Hébert came from her bosom, and when he had read it his dull eyes glittered."'The King's death a crime—perhaps time not ripe for a Republic.' Thérèse, you 're worth your weight in gold. I don't think Edmond Cléry will write you any more love-letters."Thérèse drew gloomily away."And the girl?" she asked, with a shiver."That, my dear, was to depend on what you could find out about her," Hébert reminded her.His own fury had subsided, and he threw himself into a chair. Thérèse made an abrupt movement."There is nothing more to find out. I have it all.""You 've been long enough getting it," said Hébert, sitting up."Well, I have it now, and I told you all along that Rosalie was more obstinate than a mule. She has been in one of her silent moods; she would go to all the executions, and then, instead of being a pleasant companion, there she would sit quite mum, or muttering to herself. Yesterday, however, she seemed excited. There was a large batch told off, three women amongst them, and one of them shrieked when Sanson took her kerchief off. That seemed to wake Rosalie up. She got quite red, and began to talk as if she had a fever.""It is one you have caught from her, then," said Hébert impatiently. "The news, my girl, the news! What do I care for your cousin and her tantrums?"Thérèse looked dangerous."Am I your cat's-paw, Hébert?" she said. "Pah! do your own dirty work—you 'll get no more from me."Hébert cursed his impatience—fool that he was not to remember Thérèse's temper!He forced an ugly smile."Oh, well, as you please," he said. "Let the girl go. There are other fish in the sea. Best let Cléry go too, and then they can make a match of it, unless she should prefer Dangeau."His intent eyes saw the girl's face change at that. "A thousand devils!" she burst out. "Why do you plague me, Hébert? Be civil and play fair, and you 'll get what you want.""Come, come, Thérèse," he said soothingly. "We both want the same thing—to teach a stuck-up baggage of an aristocrat a lesson. Let's be friends again, and give me the news. Is it any good?""Good enough," said Thérèse, with a sulky look,—"good enough to take her out of my way, if I say the word. Why, she 's a cousin of the ci-devant Montargis, who got so prettily served on the third of September.""What?" exclaimed Hébert."Ah! you never guessed that, and you 'd never have got it out of Rosalie; for she 's as close as the devil, and I believe has a sneaking fondness for the girl.""The Montargis!" repeated Hébert, rubbing his hands, slowly. This was better than he expected. No wonder the girl went in terror! He had heard the Paris mob howl for the blood of the Austrian spy, and he knew that a word now would seal her fate."Her name?" he demanded."Rochambeau—Aline de Rochambeau. She only clipped the tail off, you see, and with a taste that way, she should have no objection to a head clipping—eh, my friend?" said Thérèse, with a short laugh.Hébert went off with his plans made ready to his hand. It pleased him to be able to ruin Cléry, since Cléry had crossed his path; and besides, it would terrify the girl, and annoy Dangeau, who had a liking for the boy. It was inconceivable that he should have been so imprudent as to trust a woman like Thérèse, but since he had been such a fool he must just pay for it with his head.The truth was that Cléry during his service at the Temple had been strangely impressed, like many another, by the bearing of the unfortunate Royal Family, and had conceived a young, whole-hearted adoration for the Queen, which did not, unfortunately for himself, interfere with his wholly mundane passion for Thérèse Marcel. In a moment of extraordinary imprudence he made the latter his confidante, never doubting that her love for himself would make her a perfectly safe one. Poor lad! he was to pay a heavy price for his trust.On the day following Hébert's interview with Thérèse he was arrested, and after a short preliminary examination, which revealed to him her treachery and his dangerous position, he was lodged in the Abbaye.His arrest made some little stir in his own small world. Thérèse herself brought the news of it to the rue des Lanternes. Her eyes were very bright and hard as she glanced round the shop, and she laughed louder than usual, as she threw out broad hints as to her own share in the matter, for she liked Rosalie to know her power."I think you are a devil, Thérèse," said the fat woman gloomily."So others have said," returned Thérèse, with a wicked smile.Mlle de Rochambeau took the blow in deadly silence. Hope was dead in her heart, and she prayed earnestly that she alone might suffer, and not have the wretchedness of feeling she had drawn another into the net which was closing around her.Hébert dallied yet a day or two, and then struck home. Aline was hurrying homewards, her ears strained for the step she had grown to expect, when all in a minute he was there by her side.She turned on him with a sudden resolve."Citizen," she said earnestly, "why do you persecute me? What have I done to you—to any one? Surely by now you realise that this pursuit is useless?""The day that I realise that will be a bad day for you," said Hébert, with malignant emphasis.The threat brought her head up, with one of those movements of mingled pride and grace which made him hate and covet her."I have done no wrong—what harm can you do me?" she said steadily."I have interest with the Revolutionary Tribunal—you may have heard of the arrest of our young friend Cléry? Ah! I thought so,"—as her colour faded under his cruel gaze.She shrank a little, but forced her voice to composure. "And does the Revolutionary Tribunal concern itself with the affairs of a poor girl who only asks to be allowed to earn her living honestly?"Hébert smiled—a smile so wicked that she realised an impending blow, and on the instant it fell."It would concern itself with the affairs of Mlle de Rochambeau, cousin of the ci-devant Marquise de Montargis, who, if my memory serves me right, was arrested on a charge of treasonable correspondence with Austria, and who met a well-deserved fate at the hands of an indignant people." He leaned closer as he spoke, and marked the instant stiffening of each muscle in the white face.For a moment her heart had stopped. Then it raced on again at a deadly speed. She turned her head away that he might not see the terror in her eyes, and a keen wind met her full, clearing the faintness from her brain.She walked on as steadily as she might, but the smooth voice was still at her ear."You are in danger. My friendship alone can save you. What do you hope for? The return of your lover Dangeau? I don't think I should count on that if I were you, my angel. Once upon a time there was a young man of the name of Cléry—Edmond Cléry to be quite correct—yes, I see you know the story. No, I don't think your Dangeau will be of any assistance to you when I denounce you, and denounce you I most certainly shall, unless you ask me not to, prettily, with your arms round my neck, shall we say—eh, Citoyenne Marie?"As he spoke there was a rumble of wheels, and a rough cart came round the corner towards them. He touched her arm, and she looked up mechanically, to see that it held from eight to ten persons, all pinioned, and through her own dull misery she was aware of pity stirring at her heart, for these were prisoners on their way to the Place de la Revolution.One was an old man, very white and thin, his scanty hair straggling above a stained, uncared-for coat, his misty blue eyes looking out at the world with the unseeing stare of the blind or dying. Beside him leaned a youth of about fifteen, whose laboured breath spoke of the effort by which he preserved an appearance of calm. Beyond them was a woman, very handsome and upright. Her hair, just cut, floated in short, ragged wisps about her pale, set face. Her lips moved constantly, her eyes looked down. Hébert laughed and pointed as the cart went by."That is where you 'll be if I give the word," he whispered. "Choose, then—a place there, or a place here,"—and he made as if to encircle her with his arm,—"choose, ma mie."Aline closed her eyes. All her young life ran hotly in her veins, but the force of its recoil from the man beside her was stronger than the force of its recoil from death."The Citizen insults me when he assumes there is a choice," she said, with cold lips."The prison is so attractive then? The embraces of the Guillotine so preferable to mine—hein?""The Citizen has expressed my views."Hébert cursed and flung away, but as she moved on he was by her side again."After all," he said, "you may change your mind again. Until to-morrow, I can save you.""Citizen, I shall never change my mind. There is no choice; it is simply that."An inexorable decision looked from her face, and carried conviction even to him."One cannot save imbeciles," he muttered as he left her.Mademoiselle walked home with an odd sense of relief. Now that the first shock was over, and the danger so long anticipated was actually upon her, she was calm. At least Hébert would be gone from her life. Death was clean and final; there would be no dishonour, no soiling of her ears by that sensual voice, nor of her eyes by those evil glances.She knelt and prayed for a while, and sat down to her work with hands that moved as skilfully as before.That night she slept more peacefully than she had done for weeks. In her dreams she walked along a green and leafy lane, birds sang, and the sky burned blue in the rising sun. She walked, and breathed blissful air, and was happy.Out of such dreams one awakes with a sense of the unreality of everyday life. Some of the glamour clings about us, and we see a mirage of happiness instead of the sands of the Desert of Desolation. Is it only mirage, or some sense sealed, except at rarest intervals?—a sense before whose awakened exercise the veil wears thin, and from behind we catch the voices of the withdrawn, we feel the presence of peace, and garner a little of the light of Eternity to shed a glow on Time.Aline woke happily to a soft May dawn. Her dream lay warm against her heart and cherished it.In the evening she was arrested and taken to the prison of the Abbaye.CHAPTER XVSANS SOUCIIn after days Aline de Rochambeau looked back upon her time in prison as a not unpeaceful interlude between two periods of stress and terror. After loneliness unspeakable, broken only by companionship with the coarse, the dull, the cruel, she found herself in the politest society of France, and in daily, hourly contact with all that was graceful, exquisite, and refined in her own sex,—gallant, witty, and courteous in the other.When she joined the other prisoners on the morning after her arrest, the scene surprised her by its resemblance to that ill-fated reception which had witnessed at once her debut and her farewell to society. The dresses were a good deal shabbier, the ladies' coiffures not quite so well arranged, but there was the same gay, light talk, the same bowing and curtsying, the same air of high-bred indifference to all that did not concern the polite arts.All at once she became very acutely conscious of her bourgeoise dress and unpowdered hair. She felt the roughness of her pricked fingers, and experienced that painful sense of inferiority which sometimes afflicts young girls who are unaccustomed to the world. The sensation passed in a flash, but the memory of it stung her not a little, and she crossed the room with her head held high.The old Comtesse de Matigny eyed her through a tortoise-shell lorgnette which bore a Queen's cipher in brilliants, and had been a gift from Marie Antoinette."Who is that?" she demanded, in her deep, imperious tones."Some little bourgeoise, accused of Heaven knows what," shrugged M. de Lancy.The old lady allowed hazel eyes which were still piercing to rest for a moment longer on Aline. Then they flashed mockingly on M. le Marquis."My friend, you are not as intelligent as usual. Did you see the girl's colour change when she came in? When a bourgeoise is embarrassed, she hangs her head and walks awkwardly. If she had an apron on, she would bite the corner. This girl looked round, and flushed,—it showed the fine grain of her skin,—then up went her head, and she walked like a princess. Besides, I know the face."A slight, fair woman, with tired eyes which looked as if the colour had been washed from them by much weeping, leaned forward. She was Mme de Créspigny, and her husband had been guillotined a fortnight before."I have seen her too, Madame," she said in an uninterested sort of way, "but I cannot recall where it was."Mme la Comtesse rapped her knee impatiently with a much-beringed hand."It is some one she reminds me of," she said at last—"some one long ago, when I was younger. I never forget a face, I always prided myself on that. It was at Court—long ago—those were gay days, my friends. Ah! I have it. La belle Irlandaise, Mlle Desmond, who married— Now, who did Mlle Desmond marry? It is I who am stupid to-day. It is the cold, I think.""Was it Henri de Rochambeau?" said De Lancy.She nodded vivaciously."It was—yes, that was it, and I danced at their wedding, and dreamed on a piece of the wedding-cake. I shall not say of whom I dreamed, but it was not of feu M. le Comte, for I had never seen him then. Yes, yes, Henri de Rochambeau, and la belle Irlandaise. They were a very personable couple, and why they saw fit to go and exist in the country, Heaven alone knows—and perhaps his late Majesty, who did Mme de Rochambeau the honour of a very particular admiration.""And she objected, chère Comtesse?" De Lancy's tone was one of pained incredulity.Chère Comtesse shrugged her shoulders delicately."What would you?" she observed. "She was as beautiful as a picture, and as virtuous as if Our Lady had sat for it. It even fatigued one a little, her virtue."Her own had bored no one—she had not permitted it any such social solecism."I remember," said De Lancy; "they went down to Rochambeau, and expired there of dulness and each other's unrelieved society."Mme de Créspigny had been looking attentively at Aline. "Now I know who the girl is," she said. "It is the girl who disappeared, who was supposed to have been massacred. I saw her at Laure de Montargis' reception the day of the arrests, and I remember her now. Ah! that poor Laure——"She shuddered faintly. De Lancy became interested."But she accompanied her cousin to La Force and perished there.""She must have escaped. I am sure it is she. She had that way of holding her head—like a stag—proud and timid.""It was one of her mother's attractions," said the Comtesse. "Mlle Desmond was, however, a great deal more beautiful. Her daughter, if this girl is her daughter, has only that trick, and the eyes—yes, she has the lovely eyes," as Aline turned her head and looked in their direction. "M. de Lancy, do me the favour of conducting her here, and presenting her to me."The little old dandy clicked away on his high heels, and in a moment Mademoiselle was aware of a truly courtly bow, whilst a thin, shaky voice said gallantly:"We rejoice to welcome Mademoiselle to our society."She curtsied—a graceful action—and Madame de Matigny watching, nodded twice complacently. "Bourgeoise indeed!" she murmured, and pressed her lips together."You are too good, Monsieur," said Mademoiselle.Only four words, but the voice—the composure."Madame la Comtesse is right, as always; she is certainly one of us," thought De Lancy."Madame la Comtesse de Matigny begs the honour of your acquaintance," he pursued; "she had the pleasure of knowing your parents.""Monsieur?""Do I not address Mlle de Rochambeau?"Surprise, and a sense of terror at hearing her name, so long concealed, brought the colour to her face."That is my name," she murmured."She is always right—she is wonderful," repeated the Marquis to himself, as he piloted his charge across the room.He made the presentation in form."Madame la Comtesse, permit that I present to you Mademoiselle de Rochambeau."Aline bent to the white, wrinkled hand, but was raised and embraced."You resemble your mother too closely to be mistaken by any one who had the happiness of her acquaintance," said a gracious voice, and thereon ensued a whole series of introductions. "M. le Marquis de Lancy, who also knew your parents.""Mme de Créspigny, my granddaughter Mlle Marguerite de Matigny."A delightful sensation of having come home to a place of safety and shelter came over Aline as she smiled and curtsied, forgetting her poor dress and hard-worked fingers in the pleasure of being restored to the society of her equals."Sit down here, beside me," commanded Mme de Matigny. She had been a great beauty as well as a great lady in her day, and she spoke with an imperious air that fitted either part. "Marguerite, give Mademoiselle your stool."Aline protested civilly, but Mlle Marguerite, a little dark-eyed creature, with a baby mouth, dropped a soft whisper in her ear as she rose:"Grandmamma is always obeyed—but on the instant," and Aline sat down submissively."And now, racontez donc, mon enfant, racontez," said the old lady, "where have you been all these months, and how did you escape?"Embarrassing questions these, but to hesitate was out of the question. That would at once point to necessity for concealment. She began, therefore, and told her story quite simply, and truly, only omitting mention of her work with Dangeau.Mme de Matigny tapped her knee."But, enfin, I do not understand. What is all this? Why did you not appeal to your cousin's friends, to Mme de St. Aignan, or Mme de Rabutin, for example?""I knew only the names, Madame," said Aline, lifting her truthful eyes. "And at first I thought all had perished. I dared not ask, and there was no one to tell me.""Poor child," the hand stopped tapping, and patted her shoulder kindly. "And this Rosalie you speak of, what was she?""Sometimes she was kind. I do not think she meant me any harm, and at least she saved my life once."When she came to the story of her arrest, she faltered a little. The old eyes were so keen."What do they accuse you of? You have done nothing?""Oh, chère Comtesse, is it then necessary that one should have done anything?" broke in Adèle de Créspigny, a little bitter colour in that faded voice of hers. "Have you done anything, or I, or little Marguerite here?"Madame fanned herself, her manner slightly distant. She was not accustomed to be interrupted."They say I wrote letters to emigrés, to my son Charles, in fact. Marguerite also. It is a crime, it appears, to indulge in family feeling. But, you, you, Mademoiselle, did not even do that.""No," said Aline, blushing. "It was ... it was that the Citizen Hébert found out my real name—I do not know how—and denounced me."Her downcast looks filled in enough of the story for those penetrating eyes."Canaille!" said the old lady under her breath, and then aloud:"You are better here, with us. It is more convenable," and once more she patted the shoulder, and that odd sense of being at home brought sudden tears to Aline's eyes.A few days later a piece of news reached her. She and Marguerite de Matigny sat embroidering the same long strip of silk. They had become close friends in the enforced daily intimacy of prison life, and the luxury of possessing a friend with whom she could revive the old, innocent, free talk of convent times was delightful in the extreme to the lonely girl, forced too soon into a self-reliance beyond her years.Mlle Marguerite looked up from the brilliant half-set stitch, and glanced warily round."Tiens, Aline," she said, putting her small head on one side, "I heard something this morning, something that concerns you."Aline grew paler. That all news was bad news was one axiom which the events of the last few months had graved deeply on her heart. Marguerite saw the tremor that passed over her, and made haste to be reassuring."No, no, ma belle, it is nothing bad. Stupid that I am! It is that these wretches outside have been fighting amongst themselves, and your M. Hébert has been sent to prison. I hope he likes it," and she took a little vicious stitch which knotted her yellow thread, and confused the symmetrical centre of a most gorgeous flower. "There, I have tangled my thread again, and grandmamma will scold me. I shall say it was the fault of your M. Hébert.""Please don't call himmyM. Hébert," said Aline proudly. Marguerite laid down her needle."Aline, why did he denounce you?""Ah, Marguerite, don't talk of him. You don't know what a wretch—" and she broke off shuddering."No, but I should like to know. I can see you could tell tales—oh, but most exciting ones! Why did he do it? He must have had some reason; or did he just see you, and hate you, like love at first sight, only the other way round?"Mlle de Rochambeau assumed an air of prudence and reproof."Fi donc, Mlle de Matigny, what would your grandmother say to such talk?"Marguerite made a little, wickedmoue."She would say—it was not convenable," she mimicked, and laid a coaxing hand on her friend's knee. "But tell me then, Aline, tell me what I want to know—tell me all about it, all there is to tell. I shall tease and tease until you do," she declared."Oh, Marguerite, it is too dreadful to laugh about.""If one never laughed, because of dreadful things, why, then, we should all forget how to do it nowadays," pouted Marguerite. "But, see then, already I cry—" and she lifted an infinitesimal scrap of cambric to her dancing eyes.Mlle de Rochambeau laughed, but she shook her head, and Marguerite gave her a little pinch."Wicked one," she said; "but I shall find out all the same. All my life I have found out what I wanted to, yes, even secrets of grandmamma's," and she nodded mischievously; but Aline turned back to the original subject of the conversation."Are you sure he is in prison?" she asked anxiously."Yes, yes, quite sure. The Abbé Loisel said so when he came this morning. I heard him say to grand-mamma, 'The wolves begin to tear each other. It is a just retribution.' And then he said, 'Hébert, who edits that disgrace to the civilised world, thePère Duchesne, is in prison.' Oh, Aline, would n't it have been fun if he had been sent here?"Aline's hand went to her heart."Oh, mon Dieu!" she said quickly.Marguerite made round baby eyes of wonder."Youarefrightened of him," she cried. "He must have done, or said, something very bad to make you look like that. If you would tell me what it was, I should not have to go on worrying you about him, but as it is, I shall have to make you simply hate me. I know I shall," she concluded mournfully."Oh, child, child, you don't understand," cried Mlle de Rochambeau, feeling suddenly that her two years of greater age were twenty of bitter experience. Her eyes filled as she bent her burning face over the embroidery, whilst two large tears fell from them and lay on the petals of her golden flower like points of glittering dew.Marguerite coloured, and looked first down at the floor and then up at her friend's flushed face."Oh, Aline!" she breathed, "was it really that? Oh, the wretch! And when you wouldn't look at him he revenged himself? Ouf, it makes me creep. No wonder you feel badly about it. The villain!" she stamped a childish foot, and knotted her thread again."Oh dear, it will have to be cut," she declared, "and what grandmamma will say, the saints alone know."Aline took the work out of the too vehement hands, and spent five minutes in bringing order out of a sad confusion. "Now it is better," she said, handing it back again; "you are too impatient, little one.""Ah, 'twas not my fault, but that villain's. How could I be calm when I thought of him? But you are an angel of patience, ma mie. How can you be so quiet and still when things go wrong?""Ah," said Mademoiselle with half a sigh, "for eight months I earned my living by my work, you know, and if I had lost patience when my thread knotted I should have had nothing to eat next day, so you see I was obliged to learn."Mme de Matigny came by as she ended, and both girls rose and curtsied. She glanced at the work, nodded her head, and passed on, on M. de Lancy's arm. For the moment chattering Marguerite became decorous Mlle de Matigny—ajeune fille, bien élevée. In her grandmother's presence only the demurest of glances shot from the soft brown eyes, only the most dutiful and conventional remarks dropped from the pretty, prudish lips—but with Aline, what a difference! Now, the stately passage over, she leaned close again above the neglected needle."Dis donc, Aline! You were betrothed, were you not, to that poor M. de Sélincourt? Were you inconsolable when he was killed? Did you like him?"The ambiguous "aimer" fell from her lips with a teasing inflection."He is dead," reproved Mlle de Rochambeau."Tiens, I did not say he was alive! But did you; tell me? What did it feel like to be betrothed?""Ask Mme de Matigny what is the correct feeling for a young girl to have for her betrothed," said Aline, a hint of bitterness behind her smile."De grêce!" and Marguerite's plump hands went up in horror. "See then, Aline, I think it would be nice to love—really to love—do you not think so?"Mlle de Rochambeau shook her head with decision. Something in the light words had stabbed her, and she felt an inward pain."I do not see why one should not love one's husband," pursued Marguerite reflectively. "If one has to live with some one always, it would be far more agreeable to love him. But it appears that that is a very bourgeoise idea, and that it is more convenable to love some one else.""Oh, Marguerite!""Yes, yes, I tell you it is so! Here one hears everything. They cannot send one out of the room when the conversation begins to grow interesting. There is Mme de Créspigny—she is in our room—she weeps much in the night, but it is not because of her husband, oh no; it is for M. le Chevalier de St. Armand, who was guillotined on the same day.""Hush, Marguerite, you should not say such things.""But if they are true, and this is really true, for when they brought her the news she cried out 'Etienne' very loud, and fainted. M. de Créspigny was our cousin, so I know all his names. There is no Etienne amongst them," and she nodded wisely."Oh, Marguerite!""So you see it is true. I find that odious, for my part, though, to be sure, what could she do if she loved him? One cannot make oneself love or not love. It comes or it goes, and you can only weep like Mme de Créspigny, unless, to be sure, one could make shift to laugh, as I think I shall try to do when my time comes."Mlle de Rochambeau looked up with a sudden flame in her eyes."It is not true that one cannot help loving," she said quickly. "One can—one can. If it is a wrong love it can be crushed, and one forgets. Oh, you do not know what you are talking about, Marguerite."Marguerite embraced her."And do you?" she whispered slyly.Girls' talk—strange talk for a prison, and one where Death stood by the entrance, beckoning one and another.One day it was M. de Lancy who was called away in the midst of a compliment to his "Chère Comtesse," called to appear at Fouquier Tinville's bar, and later, at that of another and more merciful Judge.The next, Mme de Créspigny's tired eyes rested for the last time upon prison walls, and she went out smiling wistful good-byes, to follow husband and lover to a world where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.As each departed, the groups would close their ranks, and after a moment's pause would talk the faster and more lightly, until once more the summons came, and again one would be taken and one left.This was one side of prison society. On the other a group of devout persons kept up the forms of convent life, just as the coterie of Mme de Matigny did those of the salon. The Abbé de Nérac, the Abbé Constantin, and half a dozen nuns were the nucleus of this second group, but not all were ecclesiastics or religious. M. de Maurepas, the young soldier, with the ugly rugged face and good brown eyes, was of their number, and devout ladies not a few, who spent their time between encouraging one another in the holy life, and hours of silent prayer for those in the peril of trial and the agony of death.Their conversations may still be read, and breathe a piety as exquisite as it is natural and touching. To both these groups came daily the Abbé Loisel, bringing to the one news of the outside world, and to the other the consolations of religion. Mass was said furtively, the Host elevated, the faithful communicated, and Loisel would pass out again to his life of hourly peril, moving from hiding-place to hiding-place, and from plot to plot, risking his safety by day to comfort the prisoners, or to bless the condemned on their way to the scaffold, and by night to give encouragement to some little band of aristocrats who thought they could fight the Revolution.Singular mixture of conspirator and saint, his courage was undoubted. The recorded heroisms of the times are many, those unrecorded more, and his strange adventures have never found an historian.Outside the Gironde rocked, tottered, and fell. Imprisoned Hébert was loose again. Danton struck for the Mountain, and struck right home. First arrest, then prison, and lastly death came upon the men who had dreamed of ruling France. The strong man armed had kept the house, until there came one stronger than he.So passed the Girondins, first of the Revolution's children to fall beneath the Juggernaut car they had reared and set in motion.
"This place smoulders. Words are apt to prove oil on the embers. There are 900 prisoners, and constant talk of massacre. Chalier is a firebrand, the Mayor one of those moderate persons who provoke immoderate irritation in others. We are doing our best."
Danton frowned heavily over the curt sentences, drawing those black brows of his into a wrathful line. He turned to other letters from other Deputies, all telling the same weary tale of jangle and discord, strife and clamour of parties unappeased and unappeasable. Soon he would be at death-grips with the Gironde—force opposed to philosophy, action to eloquence, and philosophic eloquence would go to the guillotine shouting the Marseillaise.
His feet were set upon a bloody path, and one from which there was no returning. All Fate's force was in him and behind him, and he drove before it to his doom.
CHAPTER XIV
A DANGEROUS ACQUAINTANCE
It was in April that Fate began to concern herself with Mlle de Rochambeau once more. It was a day of spring's first exquisite sweetness—air like new-born life sparkling with wayward smiles, as the hurrying sunbeams glanced between one white cloud and the next; scent of all budding blossoms, and that good smell of young leafage and the wet, fecund earth.
On such a day, any heart, not crushed quite dumb and dry, must needs sparkle a little too, tremble a little with the renewal of youth, and sing a little because earth's myriad voices call for an echo.
Aline put on her worn print gown with a smile, and twisted her hair with a little more care than usual. After all, she was young, time passed, and life held sunshine, and the spring. She sang a little country air as she passed to and fro in the narrow room.
Outside it was delicious. Even in the dull street where she took her place in the queue the air smelled of young flowering things, and touched her cheeks with a soft, kissing breath, that brought the tender colour into them. Under the bright cerulean sky her eyes took the shade of dark forget-me-nots.
It was thus that Hébert saw her for the first time—one of Fate's tricks—for had he passed on a dull, rainy, day, he would have seen nothing but a pale, weary girl, and would have gone his way unnoticing, and unremembered, but to-day that spring bloom in the girl's heart seemed to have overflowed, and to sweeten all the air around her. The sparkle of the deep, sweet, Irish eyes met his cold, roving glance, and of a sudden changed it to an ugly, intent glitter. He passed slowly by, then paused, turned, and passed again.
When he went by for the second time, Aline became aware of his presence. Before, he had been one of the crowd, and she an unnoticed unit in it, but now, all at once, his glance seemed to isolate her from the women about her, and to set her in an insulting proximity to himself.
She looked down, coldly, and pressed slowly forward. After what seemed like a very long time, she raised her eyes for a moment, only to encounter the same fixed, insolent stare, the same pale smile of thick, unlovely lips.
With an inward shudder she turned her head, feeling thankful that the queue was moving at a good rate, and that the time of waiting was nearly over. It was not until she had secured her portion that she ventured to look round again, and, to her infinite relief, the coast was clear. With a sigh of thankfulness she turned homewards, plunging her thoughts for cleansing into the fresh loveliness of the day.
Suddenly in her ear a smooth, hateful voice:
"Why do you hurry so, Citoyenne?"
She did not look up, but quickened her pace.
"But, Citoyenne, a word—a look?"
Hébert's smile broadened, and he slipped a dexterous arm about the slim waist, and bent to catch the blue glance of her eyes. Experience taught him that she would look up at that. She did, with a flame of contempt that he thought very becoming. Blue eyes were apt to prove insipid when raised, but the critic in him acknowledged these as free from fault.
"Citizen!" she exclaimed, freeing herself with an unexpectedly strong movement. "How dare you! Oh, help me, Louison, help me!"
In the moment that he caught her again she had seen the small, wiry figure of Jean Michel's wife turn the corner.
"Louison, Louison Michel!" she called desperately.
Next moment Hébert was aware of some one, under-sized and shrivelled looking, who whirled tempestuously upon him, with an amazing flow of words.
"Oh, my Ste. Géneviève! And is a young girl not to walk unmolested to her home. Bandit! assassin! tyrant! pig! devil! species of animal, go then—but on the instant—and take that, and that, to remember an honest woman by,"—the first "that" being a piece of his hair torn forcibly out, and thrown into his perspiring face, and the second, a most superlative slap on the opposite cheek.
He was left gasping for breath and choking with fury, whilst the whirlwind departed with as much suddenness as it had come, covering the girl's retreat with shaken fist, and shrill vituperation.
After a moment he sent a volley of curses in her wake. "Fury! Magaera!" he muttered. "So that is Jean Michel's wife! If she were mine, I 'd wring her neck."
He thought of his meek wife at home, and laughed unpleasantly.
"For the rest, she has done the girl no good by interfering." This was unfortunately the case. Hébert's eye had been pleased, his fancy taken; but a few passing words, a struggle may be, ending in a kiss, had been all that was in his thought. Now the bully in him lifted its head, urging his jaded appetite, and he walked slowly after the women until he saw Mademoiselle leave her companion, and enter Rosalie's shop. An ugly gleam came into his eyes—so this was where she lived! He knew Rosalie Leboeuf by sight and name; knew, too, of her cousinship with his former mistress, Thérèse Marcel, and he congratulated himself venomously as he strolled forward and read the list of occupants which, as the law demanded, was fixed on the front of the house at a distance of not more than five feet from the ground:
"Rosalie Leboeuf, widow, vegetable seller, aged forty-six. Marie Roche, single, seamstress, aged nineteen. Jacques Dangeau, single, avocat, aged twenty-eight,"—and after the last name an additional notice—"absent on business of the Convention."
Hébert struck his coarse hands together with an oath. Dangeau—Dangeau, now it came back to him. Dangeau was infatuated with some girl, Thérèse had said so. He laughed softly, for Thérèse had gone into one of her passions, and that always amused him. If it were this girl? If it were—if it only were, why, what a pleasure to cut Dangeau out, and to let him find on his return that the bird had flown to a nest of Hébert's feathering.
There might be even more in it than that. The girl was no common seamstress; pooh—he was not stupid—he could see as far into a brick wall as others. Even at the first glance he had seen that she was different, and when her eyes blazed, and she drew herself from his grasp, why, the aristocrat stood confessed. Anger is the greatest revealer of all.
Madame la Roturière may dress her smiling face in the mode of Mme l'Aristocrate; may tune her company voice to the same rhythm; but put her in a passion, and see how the mud comes boiling up from the depths, and how the voice so smooth and suave just now, rings out in its native bourgeois tones.
Hébert knew the difference as well as another, and his thoughts were busy. Aristocrat disguised, spelled aristocrat conspiring, and a conspiring aristocrat under the same roof as Jacques Dangeau, what did that spell?
He rubbed his pale fat hands, where the reddish hair showed sickly, and strolled away thinking wicked thoughts. Plots were the obsession of the day, and, to speak the truth, there were enough and to spare, but patriot eyes were apt to see double, and treble, when drunk with enthusiasm, and to detect a conspirator when there was only a victim. Plots which had never existed gave hundreds to the knife, and the populace shouted themselves into a wilder delirium.
Did the price of bread go up? Machinations of Pitt in England. Did two men quarrel, and blows pass? "Monarchist!" shouted the defeated one, and presently denounced the other.
Had a woman an inconvenient husband, why, a cry of "Austrian Spy!" and she might be comfortably rid of him for ever.
Evil times for a beautiful, friendless girl upon whom gross Hébert cast a wishful eye!
He walked into the shop next day, and accosted Rosalie with Republican sternness of manner.
"Good-day, Citoyenne Leboeuf."
Rosalie was fluttered. Her nerves were no longer quite so reliable as they had been. Madame Guillotine's receptions were disturbing them, and in the night she would dream horribly, and wake panting, with her hands at her fat throat.
"Citizen Hébert," she murmured.
He bent a cold eye upon her, noting a beaded brow.
"You have a girl lodging here—Marie Roche?"
"Assuredly, Citizen."
"I must speak to her alone."
Rosalie rallied a little, for Hébert had a certain reputation, and Louison had not held her tongue.
"I will call her down," she said, heaving her bulky form from its place.
"No, I will go up," said Hébert, still with magisterial dignity.
"Pardon me, Citizen Deputy, she shall come down."
"It is an affair of State. I must speak privately with her," he blustered.
Rosalie's eyes twinkled; her nerves were steadying. They had begun to require constant stimulation, and this answered as well as anything else.
"Bah," she said. "I shall not listen to your State secrets. Am I an eavesdropper, or inquisitive? Ask any one. That is not my character. You may take her to the farther end of the shop, and speak as low as you please, but, she is a young girl, this is a respectable house, and see her alone in her room you shall not, not whilst she is under my care."
"That privilege being reserved for my colleague, Citizen Dangeau," sneered Hébert.
"Tchtt," said Rosalie, humping a billowy shoulder—"the girl is virtuous and hard-working, too virtuous, I dare say, to please some people. Yes, that I can very well believe," and her gaze became unpleasantly pointed—"Well, I will call her down."
She moved to the inner door as she spoke, and called up the stair: "Marie! Marie Roche! Descend then; you are wanted."
Hébert stood aside with an ill grace, but he was quite well aware that to insist might, after yesterday's scene, bring the whole quarter about his ears, and effectually spoil the ingenious plans he was revolving in his mind.
He moved impatiently as Mademoiselle delayed, and, at the sound of her footstep, started eagerly to meet her.
She came in quite unsuspiciously, looking at Rosalie, and at first seeing no one else. When Hébert's movements brought him before her, she turned deadly white, and a faintness swept over her. She caught the door, fighting it back, till it showed only in that change of colour, and a rather fixed look in the dark blue eyes.
Hébert checked a smile, and entrenched himself behind his office.
"You are Marie Roche, seamstress?"
"Certainly, Citizen."
"Father's and mother's names?"
"By what right do you question me?" the voice was icy with offence, and Rosalie stirred uneasily.
"It is the Citizen Deputy Hébert; answer him," she growled—and Hébert commended her with a look.
Really this was amusing—the girl had spirit as well as beauty. Decidedly she was worth pursuing.
"Father's and mother's names?" he repeated.
Mademoiselle bit her lip, and gave the names she had already given when she took out her certificate of Citizenship.
They were those of her foster-parents, and had she not had that rehearsal, she might have faltered, and hesitated. As it was, her answer came clear and prompt.
Hébert scowled.
"You are not telling the truth," he observed in offensive tones, expecting an outburst, but Mlle de Rochambeau merely looked past him with an air of weary indifference.
"I am not satisfied," he burst out. "If you had been frank and open, you would have found me a good friend, but I do not like lies, and you are telling them. Now I am not a safe person to tell lies to, not at all—remember that. My friendship is worth having, and you may choose between it and my enmity, my virtuous Citoyenne."
Mademoiselle raised her delicate eyebrows very slightly.
"The Citizen does me altogether too much honour," she observed, her voice in direct contradiction to her words.
"Tiens," he said, losing self-control, "you are a proud minx, and pride goes before a fall. Are you not afraid? Come," dropping his voice, as he caught Rosalie's ironical eye—"Come, be a sensible girl, and you shall not find me hard to deal with. I am a slave to beauty—a smile, a pleasant look or two, and I am your friend. Come then, Citoyenne Marie."
Mademoiselle remained silent. She looked past Hébert, at the street. Rosalie got up exasperated, and pulled her aside.
"Little fool," she whispered, "can't you make yourself agreeable, like any other girl. Smile, and keep him off. No one wants you to do more. The man 's dangerous, I tell you so, I—— You 'll ruin us all with your airs and graces, as if he were the mud under your feet."
Aline turned from her in a sudden despair.
"I am a poor, honest girl, Citizen," she said imploringly. "I have no time for friendship. I have to work very hard, I harm nobody."
"But a friend," suggested Hébert, coming a little closer, "a friend would feel it a privilege to do away with that necessity for hard work."
Mademoiselle's pallor flamed. She turned sharply away, feeling as if she had been struck.
"Good-day, Citizen," she said proudly; "you have made a mistake," and she passed from Rosalie's detaining hand.
Hébert sent an oath after her. He was most unmagisterially angry. "Fool," he said, under his breath—"Damned fool."
Rosalie caught him up.
"He is a fool who wastes his time trying to pick the apple at the top of the tree, when there are plenty to his hand," she observed pointedly.
He swore at her then, and went out without replying.
From that day a period of terror and humiliation beyond words set in for Mlle de Rochambeau. Hebert's shadow lay across her path, and she feared him, with a sickening, daily augmenting fear, that woke her gasping in the night, and lay on her like a black nightmare by day.
Sometimes she did not see him for days, sometimes every day brought him along the waiting queue, until he reached her side, and stood there whispering hatefully, amusing himself by alternately calling the indignant colour to her cheeks, and replacing it by a yet more indignant pallor.
The strain told on her visibly, the thin cheeks were thinner, the dark eyes looked darker, and showed unnaturally large and bright, whilst the violet stains beneath them came to stay.
There was no one to whom she could appeal. Rosalie was furious with her and her fine-lady ways. Louison, and the other neighbours, who could have interfered to protect her from open insult, saw no reason to meddle so long as the girl's admirer confined himself to words, and after the first day Hébert had not laid hands on her again.
The torture of the man's companionship, the insult of his look, were beyond their comprehension.
Meanwhile, Hébert's passing fancy for her beauty had changed into a dull, malignant resolve to bend, or break her, and through her to injure Dangeau, if it could possibly be contrived.
Women had their price, he reflected. Hers might not be money, but it would perhaps be peace of mind, relief from persecution, or even life—bare life.
After the first few days he gave up the idea of bringing any set accusation against Dangeau. The man was away, his room locked, and Rosalie would certainly not give up the key unless a domiciliary visit were paid—a thing involving a little too much publicity for Hébert's taste. Besides, he knew very well that rummage as he might, he would find no evidence of conspiracy. Dangeau was an honest man, as he was very well aware, and he hated him a good deal the more for the inconvenient fact. No, it would not do to denounce Dangeau without some very plain evidence to go upon. The accuser of Danton's friend might find himself in an uncommonly tight place if his accusations could not be proved. It would not do—it was not good enough, Hébert decided regretfully; but the girl remained, and that way amusement beckoned as well as revenge. If she remained obstinate, and if Dangeau were really infatuated, and returned to find her in prison, he might easily be tempted to commit some imprudence, out of which capital might be made. That was a safer game, and might prove just as well worth playing in the end. Meanwhile, was the girl Marie Roche, and nothing more? Did that arresting look of nobility go for nothing, or was she playing a part? If Rosalie knew, Thérèse might help. Now how fortunate that he had always kept on good terms with Thérèse.
He took her a pair of gold ear-rings that evening, and whilst she set them dangling in her ears, he slipped an arm about her, and kissed her smooth red cheek.
"Morbleu!" he swore, "you 're a handsome creature, Thérèse; there 's no one to touch you."
"What do you want?" asked Thérèse, with a shrewd glance into his would-be amorous eyes.
"What, ma belle? What should I want? A kiss, if you 'll give it me. Ah! the old days were the best."
Thus Hébert, disclaiming an ulterior motive.
Thérèse frowned, and twitched away from him.
"Ma foi, Hébert, am I a fool?" she returned, with a shrug. "You 've forgotten a lot about those same old days if you think that. I 'll help you if I can, but don't try and throw sand in my eyes, or you 'll get some of it back, in a way that will annoy you"; and her black eyes flared at him in the fashion he always admired. He thought her at her best like that, and said so now.
"Chut!" she said impatiently. "What is it that you want?"
Hébert considered.
"You see your cousin sometimes, the widow Leboeuf, who has the shop in the rue des Lanternes?"
"I see her often enough, twice—three times a week at present."
"Could you get something out of her?"
"Not if she knew I wanted to. Close as a miser's fist, that's what Rosalie is, if she thinks she can spite you; but just now we are very good friends—and, well, I dare say it might be done. Depends what it is you want to know."
Hébert looked at her keenly.
"Perhaps you can tell me," he said, watching her face. "That girl who lodges there, who is she? What is her name—her real name?"
In a flash Thérèse was crimson to the hair, and he had her by the wrist, swinging her round to face him.
"Oho!" she cried, laughing till the new ear-rings tinkled, "so that's it—that's the game? Well, if you can give that stuck-up aristocrat the setting-down I 've promised her ever since I first saw her, I 'm with you."
Hébert pounced on one word, like a cat.
"Aristocrat? Ah! I thought so," he said, his breathing quickening a little. "Who is she, then, ma mie?"
Thérèse regarded him with a little scorn. She did not care who got Hébert, since she had done with him herself, but what,par exemple, did he see in a pale stick like that—and after having admired her, Thérèse? Certainly men were past understanding.
She lolled easily on the arm of the chair.
"I 've not an idea, but I dare say I could find out—that is, if Rosalie knows."
"Well, when you do, there 'll be a chain to match the ear-rings," said Hébert, his arm round her waist again.
All the same, April had passed into May before Thérèse won her chain.
It was in the time between that Hébert haunted Mlle de Rochambeau's footsteps, and employed what he considered his most seductive arts, producing only a sensation of shuddering defilement from which neither prayer nor effort could free her thoughts. One day, goaded past endurance, she left Dangeau's folded note at the door of Cléry's lodging. When it had left her hand, she would have given the world to have it back. How could she speak to a man of this shameful pursuit of Hébert? How, having put Dangeau out of her life, could she use his help, and appeal to his friend? And yet, how endure the daily shame, the nightly agony of remembering those smooth, poisonous whispers, that pale, dreadful smile? She cried her eyes red and swollen, and Edmond Cléry, looking up from a bantering exchange of compliments with Rosalie, wondered as she came in, first if this could be she, and then at his friend's taste. He permitted himself a complacent memory of Thérèse's glowing cheeks and supple curves, and commended his own choice. Rosalie's needles clicked amiably. She liked young men, and this was a personable one. What a goose this girl was, to be sure!—like a frightened rabbit with Hébert, and now with this amiable young man, shrinking, white-faced! Bah! she had no patience with her.
Edmond bowed smilingly.
"My homage, Citoyenne," he said.
Aline forced a "Bonjour, Citizen," and then fell silent again. Ah! why had she left the note—why, why, why?
Cléry began to pity her plight, for there was something chivalrous in him which rose at the sight of her obvious unhappiness, and he gave the impulse rein.
"Will you not tell me how I can serve you?" he said in his gentlest voice. "It will be both a pleasure and an honour."
Aline raised her tired eyes to his, and read kindness in the open glance.
"You are very good," she said slowly, and looked past him with a hesitating air.
Rosalie was busy serving at the moment, and a shrill argument over the price of cabbage was in process. She stepped closer, and spoke very low.
"Citizen Dangeau said I might trust you, Citizen."
"Indeed you may; I am his friend and yours."
Even then the colour rose a little at this linking of their names. The impulse towards confidence increased.
"I am in trouble, Citizen, or I should not have asked your help. There is a man who follows, insults me, threatens even, and I am without a protector."
"Not if you will confide that honour to me," said Cléry quickly.
She smiled faintly.
"You are very good."
"But who is it? Tell me his name, and I will see that you are not molested in future."
"It is the Citizen Deputy Hébert," faltered Aline, all her terror returning as she pronounced the hateful name.
Clary's brows drew close, and a long whistle escaped his lips.
"Oho, Hébert," he said,—"Hébert; but there, Citoyenne, do not be alarmed, I beg of you. Leave it to me"; after which he made his adieux without conspicuous haste, leaving Rosalie much annoyed at having missed most of the conversation.
Two days later, Hébert came foaming in on Thérèse. When he could speak, he swore at her.
"See here, Thérèse, if you 've a hand in setting Cléry at me, let me warn you. I 'll take foul play from no woman alive, without giving as good as I get, and if there 's any of your damned jealousy at work, you she-devil, I 'll choke you as soon as look at you, and with a great deal more pleasure!"
Thérèse stepped up to him and fixed her great black eyes on his pale, twitching ones.
"Don't be so silly, Hébert," she said steadily, though her colour rose. "What is it all about? What has young Cléry done to you? It 's rather late in the day for you to start quarrelling."
"Did you flatter yourself it was about you?" said Hébert brutally. "Not much, my girl; I've fresher fish to fry. But he came up to me an hour ago, and informed me he had been looking for me everywhere to tell me my pursuit of that pattern of virtue, our good Dangeau's mistress, must cease, or I 'd have him to reckon with, and what I want to know is, have you a hand in this, or not?"
Thérèse was heavily flushed, and her eyes curiously veiled.
"What! Cléry too?" she said in a deep whisper. "Dangeau, and you, and Cléry. Eh! I wish her joy of my cast-off clouts. But she shall pay—Holy Virgin, she shall pay!"
Hébert caught her by the shoulder and shook it.
"What are you muttering? I ask you a plain question, and you don't answer it. What about Cléry—did you set him on?"
She threw back her head at that, and gave a long, wild laugh.
"Imbécile!" she screamed. "I? Do you hate him? Well, think how I must love him when he too goes after this girl—goes to her from me, from swearing I am his goddess, his inspiration? Ah!"—she caught at her throat,—"but at least I can give you his head. The fool—the fool to betray a woman who holds his life in her hands! Here is what the imbecile wrote me only a week ago. Read, and say if it 's not enough to give him to the embraces of the Guillotine?"
The paper she thrust at Hébert came from her bosom, and when he had read it his dull eyes glittered.
"'The King's death a crime—perhaps time not ripe for a Republic.' Thérèse, you 're worth your weight in gold. I don't think Edmond Cléry will write you any more love-letters."
Thérèse drew gloomily away.
"And the girl?" she asked, with a shiver.
"That, my dear, was to depend on what you could find out about her," Hébert reminded her.
His own fury had subsided, and he threw himself into a chair. Thérèse made an abrupt movement.
"There is nothing more to find out. I have it all."
"You 've been long enough getting it," said Hébert, sitting up.
"Well, I have it now, and I told you all along that Rosalie was more obstinate than a mule. She has been in one of her silent moods; she would go to all the executions, and then, instead of being a pleasant companion, there she would sit quite mum, or muttering to herself. Yesterday, however, she seemed excited. There was a large batch told off, three women amongst them, and one of them shrieked when Sanson took her kerchief off. That seemed to wake Rosalie up. She got quite red, and began to talk as if she had a fever."
"It is one you have caught from her, then," said Hébert impatiently. "The news, my girl, the news! What do I care for your cousin and her tantrums?"
Thérèse looked dangerous.
"Am I your cat's-paw, Hébert?" she said. "Pah! do your own dirty work—you 'll get no more from me."
Hébert cursed his impatience—fool that he was not to remember Thérèse's temper!
He forced an ugly smile.
"Oh, well, as you please," he said. "Let the girl go. There are other fish in the sea. Best let Cléry go too, and then they can make a match of it, unless she should prefer Dangeau."
His intent eyes saw the girl's face change at that. "A thousand devils!" she burst out. "Why do you plague me, Hébert? Be civil and play fair, and you 'll get what you want."
"Come, come, Thérèse," he said soothingly. "We both want the same thing—to teach a stuck-up baggage of an aristocrat a lesson. Let's be friends again, and give me the news. Is it any good?"
"Good enough," said Thérèse, with a sulky look,—"good enough to take her out of my way, if I say the word. Why, she 's a cousin of the ci-devant Montargis, who got so prettily served on the third of September."
"What?" exclaimed Hébert.
"Ah! you never guessed that, and you 'd never have got it out of Rosalie; for she 's as close as the devil, and I believe has a sneaking fondness for the girl."
"The Montargis!" repeated Hébert, rubbing his hands, slowly. This was better than he expected. No wonder the girl went in terror! He had heard the Paris mob howl for the blood of the Austrian spy, and he knew that a word now would seal her fate.
"Her name?" he demanded.
"Rochambeau—Aline de Rochambeau. She only clipped the tail off, you see, and with a taste that way, she should have no objection to a head clipping—eh, my friend?" said Thérèse, with a short laugh.
Hébert went off with his plans made ready to his hand. It pleased him to be able to ruin Cléry, since Cléry had crossed his path; and besides, it would terrify the girl, and annoy Dangeau, who had a liking for the boy. It was inconceivable that he should have been so imprudent as to trust a woman like Thérèse, but since he had been such a fool he must just pay for it with his head.
The truth was that Cléry during his service at the Temple had been strangely impressed, like many another, by the bearing of the unfortunate Royal Family, and had conceived a young, whole-hearted adoration for the Queen, which did not, unfortunately for himself, interfere with his wholly mundane passion for Thérèse Marcel. In a moment of extraordinary imprudence he made the latter his confidante, never doubting that her love for himself would make her a perfectly safe one. Poor lad! he was to pay a heavy price for his trust.
On the day following Hébert's interview with Thérèse he was arrested, and after a short preliminary examination, which revealed to him her treachery and his dangerous position, he was lodged in the Abbaye.
His arrest made some little stir in his own small world. Thérèse herself brought the news of it to the rue des Lanternes. Her eyes were very bright and hard as she glanced round the shop, and she laughed louder than usual, as she threw out broad hints as to her own share in the matter, for she liked Rosalie to know her power.
"I think you are a devil, Thérèse," said the fat woman gloomily.
"So others have said," returned Thérèse, with a wicked smile.
Mlle de Rochambeau took the blow in deadly silence. Hope was dead in her heart, and she prayed earnestly that she alone might suffer, and not have the wretchedness of feeling she had drawn another into the net which was closing around her.
Hébert dallied yet a day or two, and then struck home. Aline was hurrying homewards, her ears strained for the step she had grown to expect, when all in a minute he was there by her side.
She turned on him with a sudden resolve.
"Citizen," she said earnestly, "why do you persecute me? What have I done to you—to any one? Surely by now you realise that this pursuit is useless?"
"The day that I realise that will be a bad day for you," said Hébert, with malignant emphasis.
The threat brought her head up, with one of those movements of mingled pride and grace which made him hate and covet her.
"I have done no wrong—what harm can you do me?" she said steadily.
"I have interest with the Revolutionary Tribunal—you may have heard of the arrest of our young friend Cléry? Ah! I thought so,"—as her colour faded under his cruel gaze.
She shrank a little, but forced her voice to composure. "And does the Revolutionary Tribunal concern itself with the affairs of a poor girl who only asks to be allowed to earn her living honestly?"
Hébert smiled—a smile so wicked that she realised an impending blow, and on the instant it fell.
"It would concern itself with the affairs of Mlle de Rochambeau, cousin of the ci-devant Marquise de Montargis, who, if my memory serves me right, was arrested on a charge of treasonable correspondence with Austria, and who met a well-deserved fate at the hands of an indignant people." He leaned closer as he spoke, and marked the instant stiffening of each muscle in the white face.
For a moment her heart had stopped. Then it raced on again at a deadly speed. She turned her head away that he might not see the terror in her eyes, and a keen wind met her full, clearing the faintness from her brain.
She walked on as steadily as she might, but the smooth voice was still at her ear.
"You are in danger. My friendship alone can save you. What do you hope for? The return of your lover Dangeau? I don't think I should count on that if I were you, my angel. Once upon a time there was a young man of the name of Cléry—Edmond Cléry to be quite correct—yes, I see you know the story. No, I don't think your Dangeau will be of any assistance to you when I denounce you, and denounce you I most certainly shall, unless you ask me not to, prettily, with your arms round my neck, shall we say—eh, Citoyenne Marie?"
As he spoke there was a rumble of wheels, and a rough cart came round the corner towards them. He touched her arm, and she looked up mechanically, to see that it held from eight to ten persons, all pinioned, and through her own dull misery she was aware of pity stirring at her heart, for these were prisoners on their way to the Place de la Revolution.
One was an old man, very white and thin, his scanty hair straggling above a stained, uncared-for coat, his misty blue eyes looking out at the world with the unseeing stare of the blind or dying. Beside him leaned a youth of about fifteen, whose laboured breath spoke of the effort by which he preserved an appearance of calm. Beyond them was a woman, very handsome and upright. Her hair, just cut, floated in short, ragged wisps about her pale, set face. Her lips moved constantly, her eyes looked down. Hébert laughed and pointed as the cart went by.
"That is where you 'll be if I give the word," he whispered. "Choose, then—a place there, or a place here,"—and he made as if to encircle her with his arm,—"choose, ma mie."
Aline closed her eyes. All her young life ran hotly in her veins, but the force of its recoil from the man beside her was stronger than the force of its recoil from death.
"The Citizen insults me when he assumes there is a choice," she said, with cold lips.
"The prison is so attractive then? The embraces of the Guillotine so preferable to mine—hein?"
"The Citizen has expressed my views."
Hébert cursed and flung away, but as she moved on he was by her side again.
"After all," he said, "you may change your mind again. Until to-morrow, I can save you."
"Citizen, I shall never change my mind. There is no choice; it is simply that."
An inexorable decision looked from her face, and carried conviction even to him.
"One cannot save imbeciles," he muttered as he left her.
Mademoiselle walked home with an odd sense of relief. Now that the first shock was over, and the danger so long anticipated was actually upon her, she was calm. At least Hébert would be gone from her life. Death was clean and final; there would be no dishonour, no soiling of her ears by that sensual voice, nor of her eyes by those evil glances.
She knelt and prayed for a while, and sat down to her work with hands that moved as skilfully as before.
That night she slept more peacefully than she had done for weeks. In her dreams she walked along a green and leafy lane, birds sang, and the sky burned blue in the rising sun. She walked, and breathed blissful air, and was happy.
Out of such dreams one awakes with a sense of the unreality of everyday life. Some of the glamour clings about us, and we see a mirage of happiness instead of the sands of the Desert of Desolation. Is it only mirage, or some sense sealed, except at rarest intervals?—a sense before whose awakened exercise the veil wears thin, and from behind we catch the voices of the withdrawn, we feel the presence of peace, and garner a little of the light of Eternity to shed a glow on Time.
Aline woke happily to a soft May dawn. Her dream lay warm against her heart and cherished it.
In the evening she was arrested and taken to the prison of the Abbaye.
CHAPTER XV
SANS SOUCI
In after days Aline de Rochambeau looked back upon her time in prison as a not unpeaceful interlude between two periods of stress and terror. After loneliness unspeakable, broken only by companionship with the coarse, the dull, the cruel, she found herself in the politest society of France, and in daily, hourly contact with all that was graceful, exquisite, and refined in her own sex,—gallant, witty, and courteous in the other.
When she joined the other prisoners on the morning after her arrest, the scene surprised her by its resemblance to that ill-fated reception which had witnessed at once her debut and her farewell to society. The dresses were a good deal shabbier, the ladies' coiffures not quite so well arranged, but there was the same gay, light talk, the same bowing and curtsying, the same air of high-bred indifference to all that did not concern the polite arts.
All at once she became very acutely conscious of her bourgeoise dress and unpowdered hair. She felt the roughness of her pricked fingers, and experienced that painful sense of inferiority which sometimes afflicts young girls who are unaccustomed to the world. The sensation passed in a flash, but the memory of it stung her not a little, and she crossed the room with her head held high.
The old Comtesse de Matigny eyed her through a tortoise-shell lorgnette which bore a Queen's cipher in brilliants, and had been a gift from Marie Antoinette.
"Who is that?" she demanded, in her deep, imperious tones.
"Some little bourgeoise, accused of Heaven knows what," shrugged M. de Lancy.
The old lady allowed hazel eyes which were still piercing to rest for a moment longer on Aline. Then they flashed mockingly on M. le Marquis.
"My friend, you are not as intelligent as usual. Did you see the girl's colour change when she came in? When a bourgeoise is embarrassed, she hangs her head and walks awkwardly. If she had an apron on, she would bite the corner. This girl looked round, and flushed,—it showed the fine grain of her skin,—then up went her head, and she walked like a princess. Besides, I know the face."
A slight, fair woman, with tired eyes which looked as if the colour had been washed from them by much weeping, leaned forward. She was Mme de Créspigny, and her husband had been guillotined a fortnight before.
"I have seen her too, Madame," she said in an uninterested sort of way, "but I cannot recall where it was."
Mme la Comtesse rapped her knee impatiently with a much-beringed hand.
"It is some one she reminds me of," she said at last—"some one long ago, when I was younger. I never forget a face, I always prided myself on that. It was at Court—long ago—those were gay days, my friends. Ah! I have it. La belle Irlandaise, Mlle Desmond, who married— Now, who did Mlle Desmond marry? It is I who am stupid to-day. It is the cold, I think."
"Was it Henri de Rochambeau?" said De Lancy.
She nodded vivaciously.
"It was—yes, that was it, and I danced at their wedding, and dreamed on a piece of the wedding-cake. I shall not say of whom I dreamed, but it was not of feu M. le Comte, for I had never seen him then. Yes, yes, Henri de Rochambeau, and la belle Irlandaise. They were a very personable couple, and why they saw fit to go and exist in the country, Heaven alone knows—and perhaps his late Majesty, who did Mme de Rochambeau the honour of a very particular admiration."
"And she objected, chère Comtesse?" De Lancy's tone was one of pained incredulity.
Chère Comtesse shrugged her shoulders delicately.
"What would you?" she observed. "She was as beautiful as a picture, and as virtuous as if Our Lady had sat for it. It even fatigued one a little, her virtue."
Her own had bored no one—she had not permitted it any such social solecism.
"I remember," said De Lancy; "they went down to Rochambeau, and expired there of dulness and each other's unrelieved society."
Mme de Créspigny had been looking attentively at Aline. "Now I know who the girl is," she said. "It is the girl who disappeared, who was supposed to have been massacred. I saw her at Laure de Montargis' reception the day of the arrests, and I remember her now. Ah! that poor Laure——"
She shuddered faintly. De Lancy became interested.
"But she accompanied her cousin to La Force and perished there."
"She must have escaped. I am sure it is she. She had that way of holding her head—like a stag—proud and timid."
"It was one of her mother's attractions," said the Comtesse. "Mlle Desmond was, however, a great deal more beautiful. Her daughter, if this girl is her daughter, has only that trick, and the eyes—yes, she has the lovely eyes," as Aline turned her head and looked in their direction. "M. de Lancy, do me the favour of conducting her here, and presenting her to me."
The little old dandy clicked away on his high heels, and in a moment Mademoiselle was aware of a truly courtly bow, whilst a thin, shaky voice said gallantly:
"We rejoice to welcome Mademoiselle to our society."
She curtsied—a graceful action—and Madame de Matigny watching, nodded twice complacently. "Bourgeoise indeed!" she murmured, and pressed her lips together.
"You are too good, Monsieur," said Mademoiselle.
Only four words, but the voice—the composure.
"Madame la Comtesse is right, as always; she is certainly one of us," thought De Lancy.
"Madame la Comtesse de Matigny begs the honour of your acquaintance," he pursued; "she had the pleasure of knowing your parents."
"Monsieur?"
"Do I not address Mlle de Rochambeau?"
Surprise, and a sense of terror at hearing her name, so long concealed, brought the colour to her face.
"That is my name," she murmured.
"She is always right—she is wonderful," repeated the Marquis to himself, as he piloted his charge across the room.
He made the presentation in form.
"Madame la Comtesse, permit that I present to you Mademoiselle de Rochambeau."
Aline bent to the white, wrinkled hand, but was raised and embraced.
"You resemble your mother too closely to be mistaken by any one who had the happiness of her acquaintance," said a gracious voice, and thereon ensued a whole series of introductions. "M. le Marquis de Lancy, who also knew your parents."
"Mme de Créspigny, my granddaughter Mlle Marguerite de Matigny."
A delightful sensation of having come home to a place of safety and shelter came over Aline as she smiled and curtsied, forgetting her poor dress and hard-worked fingers in the pleasure of being restored to the society of her equals.
"Sit down here, beside me," commanded Mme de Matigny. She had been a great beauty as well as a great lady in her day, and she spoke with an imperious air that fitted either part. "Marguerite, give Mademoiselle your stool."
Aline protested civilly, but Mlle Marguerite, a little dark-eyed creature, with a baby mouth, dropped a soft whisper in her ear as she rose:
"Grandmamma is always obeyed—but on the instant," and Aline sat down submissively.
"And now, racontez donc, mon enfant, racontez," said the old lady, "where have you been all these months, and how did you escape?"
Embarrassing questions these, but to hesitate was out of the question. That would at once point to necessity for concealment. She began, therefore, and told her story quite simply, and truly, only omitting mention of her work with Dangeau.
Mme de Matigny tapped her knee.
"But, enfin, I do not understand. What is all this? Why did you not appeal to your cousin's friends, to Mme de St. Aignan, or Mme de Rabutin, for example?"
"I knew only the names, Madame," said Aline, lifting her truthful eyes. "And at first I thought all had perished. I dared not ask, and there was no one to tell me."
"Poor child," the hand stopped tapping, and patted her shoulder kindly. "And this Rosalie you speak of, what was she?"
"Sometimes she was kind. I do not think she meant me any harm, and at least she saved my life once."
When she came to the story of her arrest, she faltered a little. The old eyes were so keen.
"What do they accuse you of? You have done nothing?"
"Oh, chère Comtesse, is it then necessary that one should have done anything?" broke in Adèle de Créspigny, a little bitter colour in that faded voice of hers. "Have you done anything, or I, or little Marguerite here?"
Madame fanned herself, her manner slightly distant. She was not accustomed to be interrupted.
"They say I wrote letters to emigrés, to my son Charles, in fact. Marguerite also. It is a crime, it appears, to indulge in family feeling. But, you, you, Mademoiselle, did not even do that."
"No," said Aline, blushing. "It was ... it was that the Citizen Hébert found out my real name—I do not know how—and denounced me."
Her downcast looks filled in enough of the story for those penetrating eyes.
"Canaille!" said the old lady under her breath, and then aloud:
"You are better here, with us. It is more convenable," and once more she patted the shoulder, and that odd sense of being at home brought sudden tears to Aline's eyes.
A few days later a piece of news reached her. She and Marguerite de Matigny sat embroidering the same long strip of silk. They had become close friends in the enforced daily intimacy of prison life, and the luxury of possessing a friend with whom she could revive the old, innocent, free talk of convent times was delightful in the extreme to the lonely girl, forced too soon into a self-reliance beyond her years.
Mlle Marguerite looked up from the brilliant half-set stitch, and glanced warily round.
"Tiens, Aline," she said, putting her small head on one side, "I heard something this morning, something that concerns you."
Aline grew paler. That all news was bad news was one axiom which the events of the last few months had graved deeply on her heart. Marguerite saw the tremor that passed over her, and made haste to be reassuring.
"No, no, ma belle, it is nothing bad. Stupid that I am! It is that these wretches outside have been fighting amongst themselves, and your M. Hébert has been sent to prison. I hope he likes it," and she took a little vicious stitch which knotted her yellow thread, and confused the symmetrical centre of a most gorgeous flower. "There, I have tangled my thread again, and grandmamma will scold me. I shall say it was the fault of your M. Hébert."
"Please don't call himmyM. Hébert," said Aline proudly. Marguerite laid down her needle.
"Aline, why did he denounce you?"
"Ah, Marguerite, don't talk of him. You don't know what a wretch—" and she broke off shuddering.
"No, but I should like to know. I can see you could tell tales—oh, but most exciting ones! Why did he do it? He must have had some reason; or did he just see you, and hate you, like love at first sight, only the other way round?"
Mlle de Rochambeau assumed an air of prudence and reproof.
"Fi donc, Mlle de Matigny, what would your grandmother say to such talk?"
Marguerite made a little, wickedmoue.
"She would say—it was not convenable," she mimicked, and laid a coaxing hand on her friend's knee. "But tell me then, Aline, tell me what I want to know—tell me all about it, all there is to tell. I shall tease and tease until you do," she declared.
"Oh, Marguerite, it is too dreadful to laugh about."
"If one never laughed, because of dreadful things, why, then, we should all forget how to do it nowadays," pouted Marguerite. "But, see then, already I cry—" and she lifted an infinitesimal scrap of cambric to her dancing eyes.
Mlle de Rochambeau laughed, but she shook her head, and Marguerite gave her a little pinch.
"Wicked one," she said; "but I shall find out all the same. All my life I have found out what I wanted to, yes, even secrets of grandmamma's," and she nodded mischievously; but Aline turned back to the original subject of the conversation.
"Are you sure he is in prison?" she asked anxiously.
"Yes, yes, quite sure. The Abbé Loisel said so when he came this morning. I heard him say to grand-mamma, 'The wolves begin to tear each other. It is a just retribution.' And then he said, 'Hébert, who edits that disgrace to the civilised world, thePère Duchesne, is in prison.' Oh, Aline, would n't it have been fun if he had been sent here?"
Aline's hand went to her heart.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" she said quickly.
Marguerite made round baby eyes of wonder.
"Youarefrightened of him," she cried. "He must have done, or said, something very bad to make you look like that. If you would tell me what it was, I should not have to go on worrying you about him, but as it is, I shall have to make you simply hate me. I know I shall," she concluded mournfully.
"Oh, child, child, you don't understand," cried Mlle de Rochambeau, feeling suddenly that her two years of greater age were twenty of bitter experience. Her eyes filled as she bent her burning face over the embroidery, whilst two large tears fell from them and lay on the petals of her golden flower like points of glittering dew.
Marguerite coloured, and looked first down at the floor and then up at her friend's flushed face.
"Oh, Aline!" she breathed, "was it really that? Oh, the wretch! And when you wouldn't look at him he revenged himself? Ouf, it makes me creep. No wonder you feel badly about it. The villain!" she stamped a childish foot, and knotted her thread again.
"Oh dear, it will have to be cut," she declared, "and what grandmamma will say, the saints alone know."
Aline took the work out of the too vehement hands, and spent five minutes in bringing order out of a sad confusion. "Now it is better," she said, handing it back again; "you are too impatient, little one."
"Ah, 'twas not my fault, but that villain's. How could I be calm when I thought of him? But you are an angel of patience, ma mie. How can you be so quiet and still when things go wrong?"
"Ah," said Mademoiselle with half a sigh, "for eight months I earned my living by my work, you know, and if I had lost patience when my thread knotted I should have had nothing to eat next day, so you see I was obliged to learn."
Mme de Matigny came by as she ended, and both girls rose and curtsied. She glanced at the work, nodded her head, and passed on, on M. de Lancy's arm. For the moment chattering Marguerite became decorous Mlle de Matigny—ajeune fille, bien élevée. In her grandmother's presence only the demurest of glances shot from the soft brown eyes, only the most dutiful and conventional remarks dropped from the pretty, prudish lips—but with Aline, what a difference! Now, the stately passage over, she leaned close again above the neglected needle.
"Dis donc, Aline! You were betrothed, were you not, to that poor M. de Sélincourt? Were you inconsolable when he was killed? Did you like him?"
The ambiguous "aimer" fell from her lips with a teasing inflection.
"He is dead," reproved Mlle de Rochambeau.
"Tiens, I did not say he was alive! But did you; tell me? What did it feel like to be betrothed?"
"Ask Mme de Matigny what is the correct feeling for a young girl to have for her betrothed," said Aline, a hint of bitterness behind her smile.
"De grêce!" and Marguerite's plump hands went up in horror. "See then, Aline, I think it would be nice to love—really to love—do you not think so?"
Mlle de Rochambeau shook her head with decision. Something in the light words had stabbed her, and she felt an inward pain.
"I do not see why one should not love one's husband," pursued Marguerite reflectively. "If one has to live with some one always, it would be far more agreeable to love him. But it appears that that is a very bourgeoise idea, and that it is more convenable to love some one else."
"Oh, Marguerite!"
"Yes, yes, I tell you it is so! Here one hears everything. They cannot send one out of the room when the conversation begins to grow interesting. There is Mme de Créspigny—she is in our room—she weeps much in the night, but it is not because of her husband, oh no; it is for M. le Chevalier de St. Armand, who was guillotined on the same day."
"Hush, Marguerite, you should not say such things."
"But if they are true, and this is really true, for when they brought her the news she cried out 'Etienne' very loud, and fainted. M. de Créspigny was our cousin, so I know all his names. There is no Etienne amongst them," and she nodded wisely.
"Oh, Marguerite!"
"So you see it is true. I find that odious, for my part, though, to be sure, what could she do if she loved him? One cannot make oneself love or not love. It comes or it goes, and you can only weep like Mme de Créspigny, unless, to be sure, one could make shift to laugh, as I think I shall try to do when my time comes."
Mlle de Rochambeau looked up with a sudden flame in her eyes.
"It is not true that one cannot help loving," she said quickly. "One can—one can. If it is a wrong love it can be crushed, and one forgets. Oh, you do not know what you are talking about, Marguerite."
Marguerite embraced her.
"And do you?" she whispered slyly.
Girls' talk—strange talk for a prison, and one where Death stood by the entrance, beckoning one and another.
One day it was M. de Lancy who was called away in the midst of a compliment to his "Chère Comtesse," called to appear at Fouquier Tinville's bar, and later, at that of another and more merciful Judge.
The next, Mme de Créspigny's tired eyes rested for the last time upon prison walls, and she went out smiling wistful good-byes, to follow husband and lover to a world where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.
As each departed, the groups would close their ranks, and after a moment's pause would talk the faster and more lightly, until once more the summons came, and again one would be taken and one left.
This was one side of prison society. On the other a group of devout persons kept up the forms of convent life, just as the coterie of Mme de Matigny did those of the salon. The Abbé de Nérac, the Abbé Constantin, and half a dozen nuns were the nucleus of this second group, but not all were ecclesiastics or religious. M. de Maurepas, the young soldier, with the ugly rugged face and good brown eyes, was of their number, and devout ladies not a few, who spent their time between encouraging one another in the holy life, and hours of silent prayer for those in the peril of trial and the agony of death.
Their conversations may still be read, and breathe a piety as exquisite as it is natural and touching. To both these groups came daily the Abbé Loisel, bringing to the one news of the outside world, and to the other the consolations of religion. Mass was said furtively, the Host elevated, the faithful communicated, and Loisel would pass out again to his life of hourly peril, moving from hiding-place to hiding-place, and from plot to plot, risking his safety by day to comfort the prisoners, or to bless the condemned on their way to the scaffold, and by night to give encouragement to some little band of aristocrats who thought they could fight the Revolution.
Singular mixture of conspirator and saint, his courage was undoubted. The recorded heroisms of the times are many, those unrecorded more, and his strange adventures have never found an historian.
Outside the Gironde rocked, tottered, and fell. Imprisoned Hébert was loose again. Danton struck for the Mountain, and struck right home. First arrest, then prison, and lastly death came upon the men who had dreamed of ruling France. The strong man armed had kept the house, until there came one stronger than he.
So passed the Girondins, first of the Revolution's children to fall beneath the Juggernaut car they had reared and set in motion.