"Ah! your new lodging and different bed?" said Duchesne.
"And then the lodging is not very comfortable," added Gilbert.
"Ah! it is not that, gentlemen," said the queen, shaking her head. "Lofty or lowly, it is all the same to me."
"What is it then?"
"I ask pardon for telling you; but I have suffered much inconvenience from the smell of the tobacco which that gentleman is smoking at this moment."
Indeed, Gilbert was smoking, which was his habitual occupation.
"Confound my stupidity!" cried he, much grieved from the kindness with which the queen had expressed herself. "Why did you not tell me so before, Citizen?"
"Because I thought, sir, I had no right to deprive you of any enjoyment."
"Well, you shall be incommoded no more,—by me, at least," said Gilbert, casting away his pipe, which broke upon the tiles, "for I shall smoke no more."
He turned round, his companion followed, and he closed the screen.
"Possibly they may cut off her head, that is an affair of the nation; but why should we cause her any suffering, poor woman? We are soldiers, and not hangmen, like Simon."
"It rather savors of the aristocrat, comrade, what you did just now," said Duchesne, shaking his head.
"Whom do you term an aristocrat? Explain yourself!"
"I call aristocrats all those who annoy the nation, and succor its enemies."
"Then, according to your theory, I annoy the nation because I cease to annoy with my smoking the Widow Capet? Go along, then! As for me," continued the brave fellow, "I remember my oath to my country, and the order of my brigadier. As for my order, I know it by heart. Not to permit the prisoner to escape; not to allow any one to see her; to resist all correspondence she may endeavor to institute; and to die at my post,—this is what I promised, and to this will I keep.Vive la nation!"
"That is what I tell you," said Duchesne. "It is not that I disapprove of your conduct, but I fear lest you should compromise yourself."
"Hush! here is some one."
The queen had not lost one word of this conversation,although carried on in a low voice. Captivity had rendered her hearing doubly acute.
The noise which had attracted the attention of the two guards was the sound of several steps approaching the door. It opened, and two municipals entered, followed by the keeper and some of the turnkeys.
"Well," they inquired, "where is the prisoner?"
"Here she is," replied the two gendarmes.
"How is she lodged?"
"You can see." And Gilbert touched the screen.
"What do you wish?" demanded the queen.
"It is the visit of the Commune, Citizeness Capet."
"This man is kind," thought the queen; "and if my friends—"
"Very good, very good!" said the municipals, pushing Gilbert aside and entering the queen's chamber; "so much ceremony is not requisite here."
The queen did not even raise her head; and it might have been believed from her impassibility that she neither saw nor heard them, but fancied herself alone. The delegates of the Commune curiously observed everything around the chamber, sounded the wainscoting, the bed, shaking the grating of the window which looked upon the court of the female prisoners, and then having recommended to the gendarmes the utmost vigilance, took their departure without having addressed a word to the queen, who on her part seemed not to have been aware of their presence.
CHAPTER XXXV.
LA SALLE DES PAS-PERDUS.
Towardthe decline of the day on which we have seen the municipals so carefully inspecting the queen's prison, a man attired in a gray jacket, his head covered with a mass of black hair, and on his head one of those hairy bonnets, which then among the people was a distinguishing mark of the most exaggerated patriotism, was walking about in the large hall so philosophically termed "La Salle des Pas-Perdus," and seemed most attentively observing all the goers and comers forming the general population of this hall,—a population considerably augmented at this period, when trials had acquired greater importance, and when the only pleading was to dispute their heads with the hangman and with Fouquier Tinville their indefatigable purveyor.
The attitude assumed by this man whose portrait we have just sketched was in very good taste. Society at this epoch was divided into two classes,—the lambs and the wolves. The one naturally inspired the other with fear, since one half of society devoured the other. Our fierce promenader was rather short, and wielded in his dirty black hand one of those knotted cudgels then called "constitutions." It is true the hand that flourished this horrible weapon might have appeared rather small to any one who might take into his head to act the inquisitorial part toward this singular personage which he had arrogated to himself with respect to others; butno one felt the least inclined to risk it, for this man's aspect was far too terrible.
Indeed, this man with the cudgel caused much disquietude to several groups of petty scribes engaged in the discussion of public affairs, which at this time daily progressed from bad to worse, or from better to better, according as they were considered from a conservative or revolutionary point of view. These valorous folks looked askance at his long black beard, his green eyes surmounted by overhanging, shaggy eyebrows, and trembled whenever the promenade of the mighty patriot (a promenade which extended the whole length of the great hall) brought them in near contact with one another.
This terror was augmented from the fact that whenever they ventured to approach him too nearly, or even looked at him too attentively, the man with the cudgel struck his powerful weapon with its full weight upon the pavement, smashing the flag-stones upon which it fell, sometimes with a dull and heavy, sometimes with a sonorous and clashing sound.
But it was not only these brave men among the scribes, designated generally as the "rats of the Palace," who experienced this formidable impression; it was also the various individuals who entered the Salle des Pas-Perdus by the great door, or through some of its narrow vomitories, who also quickened their pace on perceiving the man with the cudgel, who obstinately continued his journey from one end of the hall to the other, finding each moment some pretext for making his weapon ring on the pavement.
If these writers had been less timorous, and the promenaders more clear-sighted, they would have discovered that our patriot, capricious like all eccentric or pronounced characters, appeared to evince a preference for certainflag-stones, those for instance situated a little distance from the wall on the right, near the centre of the hall, which emitted a clear and ringing sound. He even finished by concentrating his anger upon some particular stones in the centre of the hall. At the same time he so far forgot himself as to stop, and with his eye seemed to be estimating the distance.
True, it was a momentary absence of mind only, and he immediately resumed his former expression, which a gleam of pleasure had replaced for an instant.
Almost at the same moment another patriot,—for at this epoch every one wore his opinions on his forehead, or rather in his dress,—almost at the same moment, say we, another patriot entered by the door of the gallery, and without appearing the least in the world to partake of the fear generated by the former occupant, began to cross the hall at a pace equal to his own, so that in the centre of the promenade they encountered each other.
The new arrival had, like the former, a hairy bonnet, a gray jerkin, dirty hands, and in one of them a cudgel; indeed, in addition he carried a sword, which struck against his legs at every step; and on the whole he appeared a greater subject for terror than his predecessor. The first had an air of ferocity, the last seemed replete with sinister cunning.
Although these two men appeared to belong to the same cause, and entertained the same opinions, the assembly ventured to watch the result, not of their meeting, for they were not walking in the same line, but their approach toward each other. At the first turn they were disappointed in their expectation, as the patriots contented themselves with exchanging looks; at the same time the smaller of the two turned slightly pale,—onlyfrom an involuntary movement of the lips it was evident it was not caused by fear, but by disgust.
However, at the second turn, as if the patriot had made a violent effort, his countenance, till now so overcast, cleared up suddenly, and something like a smile passed over his lips as he inclined slightly to the left, with the evident intention of stopping the second patriot in his course.
Near the centre they joined each other.
"Why, upon my word, here is the Citizen Simon!" said the first patriot.
"Himself. But what do you want with the Citizen Simon? And, in the first place, who are you?"
"It seems, then, that you do not recognize me?"
"I do not recognize you, and for an excellent reason,—I never saw you before."
"Not recognize me!—when I had the honor to carry the head of the Princess Lamballe!"
At these words, pronounced with savage fury, and bursting passionately from the mouth of the patriot, Simon started.
"You?" said he, "you?"
"Ha! that surprises you! I thought that you would remember your friends better than that, faith! Ah, Citizen! you grieve me."
"You have done very well," said Simon; "but I did not recognize you."
"It is a greater privilege to act as guardian to the young Capet; it brings you more into notice. As for myself, I both know and esteem you."
"Ah! Thank you."
"You have no reason—are you taking a walk?"
"Yes; I am waiting for some one. And you?"
"I am doing the same."
"What is your name? I will make mention of you at the club."
"I am called Théodore."
"What else?"
"Nothing else: is not that enough?"
"Oh, certainly. Who are you waiting for, Citizen Théodore?"
"A friend to whom I wish to make a fine little denunciation."
"Indeed! Do tell me."
"A whole covey of aristocrats."
"What are their names?"
"No, indeed; I only tell that to my friend."
"You are wrong; for here is mine advancing toward us, who, it seems to me, is sufficiently acquainted with business to settle at once all this affair."
"Fouquier Tinville!" cried the first patriot.
"No one less, friend."
"That's all right."
"Yes. Good-day, Citizen Fouquier."
Fouquier Tinville, calm and pale, opening wide, according to habit, his large black eyes shaded by his bushy eyebrows, at this moment entered by a side-door, his register in his hand, and a bundle of papers under his arm. "Good-day, Simon," said he; "anything new?"
"Several things. First, a denunciation from Citizen Théodore, who carried the head of the Princess Lamballe. I will introduce him to you."
Fouquier fixed his scrutinizing glance upon the patriot, who, notwithstanding his strong nerves, felt rather uneasy while undergoing this examination.
"Théodore!" said he; "and who is Théodore?"
"I!" said the man in the jerkin.
"You carried the head of the Princess Lamballe?"said the public accuser, with an unmistakable expression of doubt.
"I. Rue Saint Antoine."
"But I know a person who boasts that he did so," said Fouquier.
"I know ten," replied the Citizen Théodore, courageously; "but, indeed, as they all make some claim for having done so, and I ask nothing, at least I ought to have the preference, I hope."
This reply excited Simon's laughter, and dispersed the cloud on the accuser's brow.
"Right," said he; "and if you did not do it, you ought to have done so. But leave us now; Simon has some business to transact with me."
Théodore retired, very little hurt by the frankness of the public accuser.
"One moment," cried Simon. "Do not send him away so; let us first hear his denunciation."
"Ah!" said Fouquier Tinville, with an absent air, "a denunciation?"
"Yes; a covey of conspirators," replied Simon.
"All in good time. Speak; what is the matter now?"
"Oh! not much; only the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge and some of his friends."
Fouquier made a leap backward, while Simon raised his arms toward heaven.
"Is this the truth?" they exclaimed, both together.
"The pure truth; will you take them?"
"At once. Where are they?"
"I met the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge in the Rue de la Grande Tissanderie."
"You are mistaken; he is not in Paris," replied Fouquier.
"I tell you I have seen him."
"Impossible! a hundred men have been sent in pursuit of him; he would not show himself in the streets of Paris."
"It was he, by Heaven!" said the patriot. "A tall dark man, as strong as three and bearded like the pard."
Fouquier shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
"Another blunder," said he; "the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is short, pale, and has not the slightest sign of a beard."
The patriot dropped his weapon with an air of consternation.
"Never mind, your good intention is taken for the act. Come, Simon, we must both make haste; they require the register, this is the time for the carts."
"Well, there is nothing new; the child is well." The patriot turned his back that he might not appear indiscreet, but remained in a position which enabled him to hear.
"I will go," said he, "lest I should intrude."
"Adieu!" said Simon.
"Good-day," said Fouquier.
"Tell your friend that you were deceived," added Simon.
"Well, I shall wait," and Théodore removed to a short distance, and stood resting on his cudgel.
"So the child goes on well; but how fares he morally?" asked Fouquier.
"I mould him to my will."
"He will speak then?"
"When I choose."
"Do you think he will testify in the trial of Antoinette?"
"I do not think it; I am sure of it."
Théodore was leaning against a pillar, his eyes directed toward the door. But his eye was wandering, while hisears were erect and uncovered under the hairy bonnet he wore. Perhaps he saw nothing, but most assuredly he heard something.
"Reflect well," said Fouquier, "and do not make what is termed a blunder of this commission. You feel sure that Capet will speak?"
"He will say all that I require."
"Has he told you what we are going to ask him?"
"He has told me."
"It is important, Simon, that you should promise this; the child's evidence is fatal to the mother."
"Zounds! I count upon that."
"There will have been nothing equal to it seen since the intimacy between Nero and Narcissus. Once more, reflect, Simon."
"One would fancy you took me for a brute, repeating constantly the same thing. Take this as an example: when I put leather in water it becomes supple, does it not?"
"But—I do not know," replied Fouquier.
"It becomes soft. Well, in my hands the little Capet becomes supple as the softest leather. I have my own method for that."
"It may be so," said Fouquier. "Is that all you have to say?"
"All—I forgot. There is a denunciation."
"Again? You will overwhelm me with business," said Fouquier.
"One must serve his country."
Simon presented a small paper, black as the leather he had just mentioned, but certainly less supple. Fouquier took it and read the contents.
"Again the Citizen Lorin; you have a great hatred to this man."
"I find him always acting in hostility to the law. He said, 'Adieu, Madame,' to a woman who saluted him from a window yesterday evening. To-morrow, I hope to give you a little information concerning another 'suspect;' that Maurice who was Municipal at the Temple when that affair of the red carnation occurred."
"Be sure! be sure!" exclaimed Fouquier, smiling at Simon.
He held out his hand, and then turned away with an abruptness that evinced little favor toward the shoemaker.
"What the devil do you wish me to be sure of? Many have been guillotined for much less."
"Patience," replied Fouquier, quietly; "everything cannot be done at the same time," and he passed quickly through the wicket.
Simon looked round for the Citizen Théodore, to console himself with him. He was no longer to be seen.
He had hardly crossed the western iron gate, when Théodore reappeared at the corner of a writer's hut. The occupant of the hut accompanied him.
"At what hour are the iron gates closed?" asked Théodore of this man.
"At five o'clock."
"Then what do they do here?"
"Nothing; the hall remains empty till next day."
"No rounds, no visits?"
"No, sir; our barracks are locked."
The word "sir" made Théodore knit his brows, and look round with distrust.
"Are the crowbar and pistols safe in the barracks?" said he.
"Yes, under the carpet."
"Return home, then—By the bye, show me againthe chamber of the Tribunal that has not a grated window, and looks upon the court near the Place Dauphine."
"To the left, between the pillars under the lantern."
"Go, now, and have the horses ready at the place assigned!"
"A glorious chance!—a glorious chance!—depend fully upon me."
"Now is your time—No one is looking—open your barrack."
"It is done, sir; I will pray for you."
"It is not for me you ought to pray. Adieu."
And the Citizen Théodore, after an eloquent look, glided so adroitly under the low roof of the barrack, that he disappeared like the shadow of the writer who closed the door.
The worthy scribe drew the key from the lock, took some papers under his arm, and went out of the vast hall with the few employees that the stroke of five sent rushing from their desks like a rear guard of belated bees.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE CITIZEN THÉODORE.
Nighthad enveloped in her gray mantle the immense hall, whose sad echoes had to repeat the severe words of the advocates and the suppliant ones of the pleaders.
From afar, in the midst of the obscurity, upright and immovable, a white column seemed watching, in the centre of the hall, like a phantom protector over the sacred place.
The only noise heard in this darkness was the nibbling and galloping of innumerable rats, which gnawed the papers enclosed in the writer's huts, after drilling their way through the wood.
Sometimes the sound of a carriage penetrated as far as this sanctuary of Themis (as an Academician would say), and the vague clanking of keys, which appeared to proceed from under the ground; but all this only reverberated in the distance, and nothing save these distant sounds ever broke the deep silence, or penetrated the thick darkness save the glimmering of some far remote light.
Certainly the man would be seized by bewildering terror who at this hour would have ventured into the vast hall of the Palace, the exterior of whose walls was yet stained with the blood of the victims of September; whose staircases this very day had witnessed the descent of twenty-five human beings condemned to an ignominious death, and were separated only by a fewfeet from the dungeons of the Conciergerie, peopled with bleached skeletons.
Nevertheless, in the middle of this frightful night, in the midst of this almost solemn silence, a low grating noise was heard; the door of a writer's hut turned upon its creaking hinges, and a shadow, darker than the shadow of night, glided cautiously out of the barrack.
Then the fierce patriot we have heard addressed as "sir," but who called himself Théodore, stepped lightly over the uneven stones. He held in his right hand a ponderous iron lever, and with his left felt that his double-barrelled pistol was secure in his belt.
"I reckoned twelve flag-stones from the stall; and see, here is the end of the first!" murmured he; and while calculating, he groped with the point of his foot to discover the chinks which time had rendered more perceptible.
"Let me see," said he, stopping; "have I taken my measurement correctly? Shall I possess strength sufficient; and she—will she have the courage? Oh, yes, her courage is known to me. Oh, my God! When I shall take her hand—when I can say, Madame, you are saved!"
He suddenly paused, as if oppressed by the weight of so great a hope.
"Ah!" he resumed, "rash and foolish project! others will say, hiding themselves under their bedclothes, or contenting themselves by sauntering about disguised as lackeys through the Conciergerie; but they have not my motive for daring all,—it is, that I not only desire to serve the queen, but the woman.
"Well, to work; let us again sum up the whole.
"To raise the stone is nothing, to leave it open is the danger,—they may perhaps make the rounds; but yetthey never do so. They cannot suspect anything, for I have no accomplices; and then what time is needed by an ardor like mine to dart through the dark passage? In three minutes I am under her chamber; in other five I raise the stone which is on the hearth. She will hear me working, but has too much firmness to feel alarmed; on the contrary, she will understand that a deliverer is near—She is guarded by two men who will doubtless hasten to the spot—
"Well, after all," said the patriot, with a melancholy smile, looking first at the weapon concealed in his girdle, and then at the one he held poised in his hand, "a double shot from this pistol, or a couple of strokes from this iron bar. Poor creatures! they will die like others not more culpable than themselves."
And Citizen Théodore resolutely pressed his lever between the chinks of the flag-stones.
At this moment a vivid light gleamed like a ray of gold across the stones, and a noise, repeated by the echoes of the vault, caused the conspirator to turn, and then with a single bound to conceal himself in the stall.
Soon voices, weakened by the distance, and softened by the emotion experienced by every one at night in a large and desolate building, reached the ears of Théodore.
He stooped down, and through an aperture in the stall perceived first a man in military costume, whose long sabre clanking on the pavement partly produced the sound which had attracted his attention; then, a man in a pistachio-colored suit, holding a rule in his hand and a roll of papers under his arm; thirdly, a man in a large waistcoat of ratteen and a fur bonnet; and lastly, a fourth, with wooden shoes and a jerkin.
The iron gate Des Merciers creaked upon its sonorous hinges, rattling the chain intended to keep it open during the day.
The four men entered.
"A round," murmured Théodore. "God be praised! ten minutes later and I should have been ruined."
He then with the utmost attention endeavored to recognize the individuals who composed the round,—indeed, three of them were known to him.
He who walked first, clad in the uniform of a general, was Santerre; the man in the ratteen waistcoat and fur bonnet was Richard the porter, and the man in clogs and jerkin was in all probability a turnkey.
But he had never seen the man in the pistachio-colored coat, who held a rule in his hand and a bundle of papers under his arm. Who or what could this man be; and what brought, at ten o'clock at night, to the Salle des Pas-Perdus, the general of the Commune, the keeper of the Conciergerie, a turnkey, and this other man? The Citizen Théodore knelt on one knee, holding in one hand his loaded pistol, while with the other he replaced his bonnet and hair, which his precipitous movement had deranged too much to look natural.
Up to this moment the nocturnal visitors had kept silence, or if they had spoken, their words had not reached the ears of the conspirator; but when about ten paces from his lurking place Santerre spoke, and his voice was distinctly heard by the Citizen Théodore.
"We are now," said he, "in the Salle des Pas-Perdus. It is for you now to guide us, Citizen Architect, and to endeavor to convince us that your revelation is no idle story; for you see the Revolution has done justice to all this folly, and we believe no more in these subterranean passages than in ghosts. What do you say, CitizenRichard?" added Santerre, turning toward the man in the fur bonnet and ratteen vest.
"I have never said there was no subterranean passage under the Conciergerie," he replied. "Here is Gracchus, who has been turnkey for ten years, and consequently is as familiar with the whole of the Conciergerie as he is with the alphabet, and yet he ignores the existence of the vault of which the Citizen Giraud has spoken. However, as the Citizen Giraud is the city architect, he ought to know better than any of us. It is his business."
Théodore shivered from head to foot on hearing these words.
"Fortunately," murmured he, "the hall is large, and before they find what they search for, two days at least must expire."
But the architect opened his great roll of papers, put on his spectacles, and knelt down to examine the plan by the flickering light of the lantern which Gracchus held in his hand.
"I fear," said Santerre, ironically, "that the Citizen Giraud has been dreaming."
"You will see, Citizen General, if I am a dreamer. Wait a little; wait!"
"You see we are waiting," said Santerre.
"Good!" said the architect; and he began to calculate. "Twelve and four make sixteen," said he, "and eight are twenty-four, which, divided by six, makes four, and then half remains; that is it. I can tell the very spot; and if I am mistaken by so much as a foot, you may henceforth dub me an ass."
The architect pronounced these words with an assurance which curdled the blood of the Citizen Théodore.
Santerre regarded the plan with a species of respect, but evidently admired more than he comprehended it.
"Now follow what I say."
"Where?" asked Santerre.
"Zounds! upon this chart which I have drawn. Here we are! thirteen feet from the wall is a movable stone I have marked A; do you see it?"
"Certainly, I see A," said Santerre. "Do you think I do not know how to read?"
"Under this stone," continued the architect, "is a staircase; do you see? It is marked B."
"B!" said Santerre; "I see B, but I do not see the staircase," and the general laughed heartily at his own facetiousness.
"When once the stone is raised, and the foot upon the last step, count fifty paces, look up, and you will find yourself exactly at the register-office where the subterraneous passage terminates, passing under the cell of the queen."
"Capet's widow, you mean, Citizen Giraud," said Santerre, knitting his brows.
"Yes, Capet's widow."
"But you said 'the queen.'"
"The force of old habit."
"You say, then, it may be found under the register-office?" demanded Richard.
"Not only under the register-office, but I will tell you also in what part of the office you will discover it,—under the stove."
"That is curious," said Gracchus, "for I have noticed that every time I dropped a log in that place the stone sounded hollow."
"In short, if we find your statement correct, Citizen Architect, I shall pronounce geometry a fine thing."
"Then declare it, Citizen Santerre, for I am now going to conduct you to the place indicated by the letter A."
The Citizen Théodore sank his nails into his flesh.
"When I have seen it," said Santerre,—"when I have seen it! I rather resemble Saint Thomas."
"Ah! you said Saint Thomas."
"Yes, as you said 'the queen,' from mere habit; but they cannot accuse me of conspiring for him."
"Nor me for the queen."
After this retort the architect delicately placed his rule, reckoned the distance, then stopped, having apparently finished his calculation, and struck upon a particular stone.
This was the identical stone struck by the Citizen Théodore in his fit of frantic rage.
"It is here, Citizen General," said the architect.
"You fancy so, Citizen Giraud."
Our concealed patriot so far forgot himself as to strike his thigh with his clinched fist, at the same time groaning deeply.
"I am positive," said Giraud; "and your examination, combined with my report, will prove to the Convention that I have not been deceived. Yes, Citizen General," continued the architect, with emphasis, "this stone opens upon a subterranean passage, terminating at the register-office, and passing below the cell of the Widow Capet. Let us raise the stone; descend with me into the vault, and I will convince you that two men, even one man, could effect a rescue in a single night, without any one suspecting it."
A murmur of terror and admiration, elicited by the architect's words, ran through the group, and faintly reached the Citizen Théodore, who seemed turned to stone.
"Look at the danger we run," continued Giraud. "Well, now with a grating which I shall place in themiddle of this underground passage before it reaches the cell of the Widow Capet, I shall save the country."
"Ah, Citizen Giraud!" said Santerre, "that is an idea bordering on the sublime."
"Perdition seize you, addle-pated fool!" grumbled the patriot, with redoubled fury.
"Now raise the stone," said the architect to the Citizen Gracchus, who in addition to a lantern carried a crowbar.
Gracchus set to work, and in a second the stone was raised.
The vault appeared open, with the staircase lost in its profundity, while the moist air escaped like a pestilent vapor.
"Another abortive attempt," murmured the Citizen Théodore. "Alas! Heaven does not will that she should escape, and her cause must be accursed!"
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE CITIZEN GRACCHUS.
Foran instant the three men remained motionless at the entrance to the vault, while the turnkey plunged his lantern into the opening without being able to penetrate its depth. The architect triumphantly exulted over his companions from the summit of his genius.
"Well!" said he, at length.
"Faith! yes," replied Santerre, "here incontestably is the passage. It only remains to know where it leads to."
"Yes," repeated Richard, "it remains to know that."
"Well, then, descend yourself, Citizen Richard, and then you will see if I have told you the truth."
"I have something better to do than go in there," said the porter. "We will return with you and the general to the Conciergerie. There you can raise the hearthstone, and we shall see."
"Very well," said Santerre, "we will return."
"But we must be careful," said the architect; "this stone remaining unclosed may suggest an idea to some one."
"Who the devil do you imagine ever comes here at this hour?" said Santerre.
"Besides," said Richard, "the hall is deserted, and to leave Gracchus here is sufficient. Remain here, Citizen Gracchus, and we will return to you from the other side of the subterranean passage."
"All right," said Gracchus.
"Are you armed?" demanded Santerre.
"I have my sword and this crowbar, Citizen General."
"Just the thing! keep strict watch; in ten minutes we will be with you."
And having closed the iron gate, the three took their departure by the Gallery des Merciers, to repair to the private entrance of the Conciergerie.
The turnkey watched their receding footsteps, and followed them with his eyes as far as he could see, and listened as long as he had anything to hear; then all relapsed into silence, and supposing himself in perfect solitude, he placed his lantern on the ground, sat down, his legs overhanging the depths of the vault, and began to meditate. Turnkeys meditate sometimes; but people, generally speaking, do not trouble themselves to find out what is the subject of their meditations.
All at once, in the midst of his profound revery, he felt a hand press heavily upon his shoulder. He turned round, and attempted, on seeing a stranger, to give the alarm, but at the same instant the cold point of a pistol was pressed to his forehead.
The accents were arrested in his throat, his arms fell listlessly by his side, and his eyes assumed the most suppliant expression.
"Not a word," said the intruder, "or you are a dead man."
"What do you want, sir?" stammered the turnkey.
Even in '93, there were moments when, renouncing their idea of universal equality, they forgot to address each other as "Citizen."
"I wish," said the Citizen Théodore, "to be allowed to go down there."
"What for?"
"Never mind."
The turnkey regarded the person who had proffered this request with the most profound astonishment; but in the mean time his interlocutor fancied he detected in the man's look a ray of intelligence.
He lowered the pistol.
"Would you refuse to make your fortune?"
"I don't know. Hitherto no one has ever made me proposals on the subject."
"Well, then, I will begin."
"You offer to make my fortune?"
"Yes."
"What do you mean by a fortune?"
"Fifty thousand golden francs, for instance. Money is scarce, and fifty thousand francs now are worth a million. Well, I offer you that sum."
"To allow you to go down there?"
"Yes; but on condition that you come with me, and afford me your assistance in my undertaking."
"But what are you going to do? In five minutes that vault will be filled with soldiers, who will arrest you."
The Citizen Théodore was forcibly struck by this argument.
"Cannot you prevent the soldiers from descending there?"
"I have no means of so doing, I know none, and cannot think of any."
Indeed, it was evident the turnkey was taxing all his mental energies to discover some means of winning the fifty thousand francs.
"But," demanded the Citizen Théodore, "could we not enter to-morrow?"
"Yes; but to-morrow a grate of iron will be placed across the passage, occupying its whole width; and for thegreater security it is arranged that this partition should be entirely solid, and without even a door."
"Then we must think of something else," said Théodore.
"Yes; we must find some other way," said the turnkey.
It will be seen from the joint manner in which Gracchus expressed himself, that an alliance had already been struck between himself and the Citizen Théodore.
"That will be my concern," said Théodore. "What do you do at the Conciergerie?"
"I am a turnkey."
"What are your duties?"
"I open the doors and shut them."
"Do you sleep there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you take your meals there?"
"Not always. I have my hours of recreation."
"And then?"
"I avail myself of them."
"What to do?"
"To pay my respects to the mistress of a tavern called Noah's Well, who has promised to marry me when I am possessed of twelve hundred francs."
"Where is the tavern Noah's Well?"
"Near the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie."
"Very well."
"Hush, sir."
The patriot listened.
"Ah! ah!" said he.
"Do you hear?"
"Yes. Voices and footsteps."
"They are returning."
"You see very well that we should not have had time."
Thiswewas becoming more and more pronounced.
"That is true. You are a brave fellow, Citizen, and are through me predestined—"
"To what?"
"To be rich one day."
"God grant it!"
"You then still believe in God?"
"Sometimes; here and there. To-day, for example—"
"Well?"
"I should willingly believe."
"Believe, then," said the Citizen Théodore, putting ten louis into the man's hand.
"The devil!" said he, regarding the gold by the light of the lantern. "Is it, then, serious?"
"It could not be more so."
"What must I do?"
"Meet me to-morrow at Noah's Well; I will then tell you what I require of you. What is your name?"
"Gracchus."
"Well, Citizen Gracchus, get yourself dismissed from here to-morrow by the keeper Richard."
"Dismissed! give up my place!"
"Do you reckon on remaining a turnkey, with fifty thousand francs?"
"No, but being a turnkey and poor, I am certain of not being guillotined."
"Certain?"
"Or nearly so; while being free and rich—"
"You will hide your money, and make love to a spinster instead of to the mistress of Noah's Well."
"Well, then, it is settled."
"To-morrow at the tavern."
"At what hour?"
"At six in the evening."
"Flee quickly; there they are. I tell you to be quick,because, I presume, you descend and go through the vaults."
"To-morrow," repeated Théodore, hastening away.
And not before it was time, for the voices and steps drew near, and lights were already seen approaching in the obscurity of the underground passage. Théodore gained the gate which the writer from whom he had taken the hut had shown him, opened the lock with his crowbar, reached the window, threw it open, dropped softly into the street, and found himself upon the pavement of the Republic once again.
Before quitting the Salle des Pas-Perdus he heard the Citizen Gracchus again question Richard, and also his reply.
"The Citizen Architect was quite right; the vault passes below the chamber of the Widow Capet, and it was dangerous."
"I well believe it," said Gracchus, who in this instance told the perfect truth.
Santerre reappeared at the opening of the staircase.
"And the workmen, Citizen Architect?" demanded he of Giraud.
"Before daybreak they will be here; and during the session the grating will be placed," replied a voice which seemed to proceed from the bowels of the earth.
"And you will have saved the country," cried Santerre, half in jest, half in earnest.
"You little know the truth of what you say, Citizen General," murmured Gracchus.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE ROYAL CHILD.
Inthe mean time, as we have seen in the chapter preceding, the queen's trial was about to take place.
It was already surmised that by the sacrifice of this illustrious head the popular hatred, so long displayed in murmurs, would at length be satisfied.
The means were not wanting for the completion of this tragedy; and in the mean time Fouquier Tinville, that fatal accuser, had resolved not to neglect the new mode of accusation which Simon had promised to place in his hands.
The day after he and Simon had met in the Salle des Pas-Perdus, the noise of arms again startled the prisoners who remained in the Temple.
These prisoners were Madame Elizabeth, Madame Royale, and the child who after having been called "Your Majesty" in his cradle, was now styled simply the "Little Capet."
General Hanriot, with his tricolored plume, his splendid horse, and long sword, followed by several of the National Guard, dismounted, and entered the dungeon where the royal child languished.
By the general's side walked a registrar of very unprepossessing appearance, carrying a writing-desk, a large roll of paper, and flourishing a pen of immoderate length.
Behind the scribe walked the public accuser. We have seen, we know, and shall meet again at a later period, this dry, jaundiced, cold man, with his blood-shot eyes, who made the ferocious Santerre himself tremble, even when cased in his armor.
Several National Guards and a lieutenant followed them.
Simon, smiling hypocritically, and holding his bear-skin bonnet in one hand and his shoemaker's stirrup in the other, walked before to show the committee the way.
They came to a very dirty chamber, spacious and ill-furnished, at the end of which, seated upon his bed, was the young Louis, in a state of perfect immobility.
When we saw the poor child fleeing from the brutal anger of Simon, he still retained a species of vitality, resenting the unworthy treatment of the shoemaker of the Temple. He fled, he wept, he prayed; then he feared and suffered, but still he hoped.
But now both fear and hope had vanished; without doubt the suffering still existed, but if it still remained, the infant martyr, whom they had made pay after so cruel a fashion for his parents' faults, buried it in the depths of his heart, and veiled it under an appearance of total insensibility. He did not even raise his head when the commissioners walked up to him.
Without further ceremony they instantly installed themselves. The public accuser seated himself at the head of the bed, Simon at the foot, the registrar near the window, the National Guard and their lieutenant on the side and rather in the shade.
Those among them who regarded the little prisoner with the slightest interest, or even curiosity, remarked the child's pallor, his extraordinary stoutness (resultingfrom his bloated condition), and his bent legs, the joints of which had already begun to swell.
"That child is very ill," said the lieutenant, with an assurance that caused Fouquier to turn round, though already seated and prepared to question his victim.
Little Capet raised his eyes to discover who had uttered these words, and recognized the same young man who had already once before saved him from Simon's cruelty in the court of the Temple. A sweet and intelligent glance shot from his deep blue eyes, and that was all.
"Ah, ah! is that you, Citizen Lorin?" said Simon, thus calling the attention of Fouquier Tinville to the friend of Maurice.
"Myself, Citizen Simon," said Lorin, with his usual nonchalance.
And as Lorin though always ready to face danger was not the man to seek it uselessly, he availed himself of this circumstance to bow to Fouquier Tinville, which salutation was politely returned.
"You observed, I think, Citizen," said the public accuser, "that the child was ill; are you a doctor?"
"I have studied medicine, at least, if I am not a medical man."
"Well, and what do you discover in him?"
"Symptoms of sickness, do you mean?" asked Lorin.
"Yes."
"I find his cheeks and eyes puffed up, his hands thin and white, his knees swollen; and were I to feel his pulse, I should certainly count eighty-five or ninety pulsations in a minute."
The child appeared insensible to the enumeration of his sufferings.
"And to what might science attribute the condition of the prisoner?"
Lorin rubbed the tip of his nose, murmuring,—
"Phyllis wants to make me speak,I am not the least inclined.
"Faith, Citizen!" replied he, "I am not sufficiently acquainted with little Capet's constitution to reply. However—"
Simon lent an attentive ear, and laughed in his sleeve to find his enemy so near committing himself.
"However," said Lorin, "I think he does not have sufficient exercise."
"I believe the little scoundrel," said Simon, "does not choose to walk."
The child remained quite unmoved by this apostrophe of the shoemaker.
Fouquier Tinville arose, advanced to Lorin, and addressed some words to him in a low tone. No one heard the words, but it was evident they assumed the form of interrogatories.
"Oh, oh! do you believe that, Citizen? It is a serious charge for a mother—"
"Under any circumstances, we shall find out. Simon pretends he has heard him say so, and has engaged to make him acknowledge it."
"This would be frightful," said Lorin; "but indeed it is possible; the Austrian is not exempt from sin, and right or wrong, does not concern me—They have made her out a Messalina: but not content with that, they wish to make her an Agrippina. I must acknowledge it appears to me rather hard."
"This is what has been reported by Simon," said the impassible Fouquier.
"I do not doubt that Simon has said all this. There are some men who stick at nothing, even the most impossible accusations. But do you not find," said Lorin, fixing his eyes steadily on Fouquier,—"do you not find—you, an intelligent and upright man, possessed with a strong mind—that to inquire of a child concerning such circumstances as those which all the most natural and most sacred laws of Nature command us to respect, is to insult all human nature in the person of a child?"
The accuser did not frown, but took a note from his pocket and showed it to Lorin.
"The Convention enjoins me to investigate," said he; "the rest does not concern me. I shall investigate."
"It is just," said Lorin; "and I declare that if this child acknowledges—" And the young man shook his head, expressive of disgust.
"Besides," continued Fouquier, "it is not only upon the denunciation of Simon that we proceed; the accusation is public."
And Fouquier drew a second paper from his pocket.
This was a number of the paper entitled "Le Père Duchesne;" which, as is well known, was written by Hébert.
The accusation indeed appeared there in full.
"It is written, and even printed," said Lorin; "but till I hear a similar accusation proceed from the lips of the child,—mind, I mean voluntarily, freely, and without menaces,—notwithstanding Simon and Hébert, I shall disbelieve it, as much as you in reality do yourself."
Simon impatiently awaited the issue of this conversation.
The miserable creature was not unaware of the power exercised upon an intelligent man by the looks which he receives from the crowd, expressive either of sympathy or subtle hatred. Sometimes this subtle influence repels, sometimes it attracts, makes the thought flow out and even draws the person of the man toward that otherman of equal or superior mental calibre whom he recognizes in the crowd.
But Fouquier Tinville had felt the keen observation of Lorin, and was anxious to be fully understood by him.
"The examination is about to commence," said the public accuser. "Registrar, resume your pen!"
The registrar, who had just drawn out the preliminaries of the investigation, was waiting, like Hanriot, Simon, and all the rest, till the colloquy between Fouquier and Lorin had ceased.
The child alone appeared perfectly unconscious of the scene in which he was soon to become the principal actor, and his face, which had for an instant gleamed with a ray of the highest intelligence, had relapsed into its listless, apathetic expression.
"Silence!" cried Hanriot, "the Citizen Fouquier Tinville is going to interrogate the child."
"Capet," said the public accuser, "do you know what has become of your mother?"
The little Louis turned from an ashy paleness to a brilliant red, but made no reply.
"Did you hear me, Capet?"
He still remained silent.
"Oh, he hears well enough," said Simon, "only he is like the ape, he will not reply for fear he should be taken for a man, and so made to work."
"Reply, Capet!" said Hanriot; "it is the Commission of the Convention that interrogates you. You must show obedience to the laws."
The child turned pale, but did not reply.
Simon made a frantic gesture of rage. With natures so stupid and brutal as his, anger becomes an intoxication, attended with all the loathsome symptoms of alcoholic inebriety.
"Will you reply, wolf's cub?" showing him the strap.
"Be quiet, Simon," said Fouquier Tinville; "you have not the right to speak."
This expression, which had become habitual to Tinville at the Revolutionary Tribunal, now escaped him involuntarily.
"Do you hear, Simon?" said Lorin. "This is the second time you have been told this in my presence; the first was when you accused Tison's daughter, whom you had the pleasure of bringing to the scaffold."
Simon was silent.
"Does your mother love you, Capet?" asked Fouquier.
Still the same silence.
"They say not," continued the accuser.
Something like a ghastly smile passed over the child's pale lips.
"But then, I say," roared Simon, "he has told me she loves him too much!"
"Look here, Simon," said Lorin, "you are angry that the little Capet chatters so much when you are together, and remains silent before company to-day."
"Oh, if we were alone!" said Simon.
"Yes, if you were alone; but unfortunately you are not alone. Oh, if you were, brave Simon, excellent patriot! how you would belabor the poor child, eh? But you are not alone, and dare not show your rage before honest men like us who know that the ancients, whom we endeavor to take for our models, respected all who were weak. You dare not, for you are not alone; and you are not valiant, my worthy man, when you have children of five feet six inches to combat."
"Oh!" muttered Simon, grinding his teeth.
"Capet," said Fouquier, "have you confided any secrets to Simon?"
The child never turned round, but his face assumed an expression of irony impossible to describe.
"About your mother?" continued Fouquier.
A look of supreme contempt passed over his countenance.
"Reply, yes or no!" cried Hanriot.
"Say yes!" roared Simon, holding his leather stirrup over the child's head.
The child shuddered, but made no movement to avoid the blow. Those present uttered a cry expressive of their disgust. Lorin did more. Before the wretch could lower his arm he darted forward and seized him by the wrist.
"Will you let me go?" roared Simon, purple with rage.
"Come, there is no harm," said Fouquier, "in a mother loving her child. Tell us in what way your mother loved you, Capet. It may be useful to her."
The young prisoner started at the idea of being useful to his mother.
"She loves me as a mother loves her son, sir," said he; "there are not two ways for mothers to love their sons, or sons to love their mothers."
"And I, little serpent, declare that you have told me your mother—"
"You have dreamed that," interrupted Lorin, quietly, "you must often have the nightmare, Simon."
"Lorin! Lorin!" growled Simon, grinding his teeth.
"Yes, again, Lorin. There is no way of beating Lorin, since he chastises the wicked; there is no way to denounce him for what he did in arresting your arm, as it was done before General Hanriot and Fouquier Tinville, who approve of it, and they are not lukewarm in the cause. There is then no way to bring him to the guillotine, as you did poor Héloïse Tison. It is very grievous, very vexatious, very enraging; still it is so, my poor Simon!"
"Later! later!" replied the shoemaker, with his mocking laugh.
"Yes, dear friend," said Lorin, "I hope with the help of the Supreme Being—Ah! you expected I was going to say with the help of God! But I hope with the assistance of the Supreme Being, and my good sword, to disembowel you first; but move aside, Simon, you prevent me from seeing."
"Rascal!"
"Be silent, you prevent me from hearing," and Lorin silenced him with a threatening look.
Simon clinched his black hands and shook his fists, but as Lorin had told him, he was obliged to confine himself to these manifestations.
"Now he has begun to speak," said Hanriot, "he will continue no doubt. Go on, Fouquier!"
"Will you reply now?" demanded Fouquier.
The child returned to his former silence.
"You see, Citizen! you see!" exclaimed Simon.
"The obstinacy of this child is strange," said Hanriot, troubled in spite of himself at this royal firmness.
"He is ill advised," said Lorin.
"By whom?" demanded Hanriot.
"By his guardian."
"Do you accuse me?" cried Simon,—"do you denounce me? Ah! that is curious—"
"Let us try gentleness," said Fouquier. Then turning toward the child, whom one would have supposed to be insensible,—
"My child," said he, "reply to the National Commission; do not aggravate your situation by refusing us anyuseful information. You have spoken to the Citizen Simon about your mother,—how you caress her and love her; how she caresses and loves you?"
Louis threw a glance around the assembly, which gleamed with hatred when it rested on Simon, but he did not reply.
"Do you feel yourself unhappy?" demanded the accuser; "are you uncomfortably lodged, badly fed, and unkindly treated? Would you wish more liberty, better food, another prison, another guardian? Would you like a horse to ride upon, and some companions of your own age?"
Louis still maintained the profound silence he had only once broken, to defend his mother.
The Commission was utterly confounded at so much firmness and intelligence evinced by a child.
"Ah, these kings!" said Hanriot, in a low voice, "what a race! They are like tigers; even the young ones inherit their wickedness."
"How are we to write the investigation?" asked the registrar, much embarrassed.
"There is no charge against Simon; there is nothing to write," said Lorin; "that will suit him exactly."
Simon again shook his fist at his implacable enemy.
Lorin began to laugh.
"You will not laugh like that the day you will sneeze in the sack," said Simon, drunk with fury.
"I do not know whether I shall precede or follow you in the little ceremony you menace me with," said Lorin; "but this I do know, that many will laugh when your turn comes. Gods!—I have spoken in the plural,—gods! you will not be ugly then, Simon; you will be hideous."
And Lorin retired behind the Commission, with a fresh burst of laughter.
The Commission, having nothing more to attend to, withdrew.
As for the poor child, released from his tormentors, he began to sing a little melancholy ditty which had been a great favorite of his father.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE BOUQUET OF VIOLETS.
Asmight be foreseen, the felicity of Geneviève and Maurice was not of long continuance.
In the tempest which unchains the wind and hurls the thunderbolt, the nest of the doves is shaken in the tree where they had retired for shelter.
Geneviève passed from one terror to another. She no longer feared for Maison-Rouge, she now trembled for Maurice.
She knew her husband sufficiently well to feel convinced, the moment of his disappearance, that he was saved; but sure of his safety, she thought now of her own.
She dared not confide her grief to the least timid man of this epoch when all from desperation were devoid of fear, but it was plainly evinced by her red eyes and pallid cheeks.
One day Maurice softly entered, so quietly indeed that Geneviève, buried in a profound revery, did not notice his entrance. He stopped upon the threshold and saw Geneviève sitting immovable, her eyes fixed on vacancy, her hands lying listlessly on her lap, her head hanging pensively upon her bosom.
He gazed at her for a moment with an expression of deepest sadness, for all that was passing in the young girl's heart was suddenly revealed, as if he had read even to her latest thought. He stepped up to her.
"You have ceased to care for France, Geneviève; confess it is so. You fly from the air breathed here, and not without the greatest reluctance will you even approach the window."
"Alas!" said Geneviève, "I know I cannot conceal my thoughts from you, Maurice; you have divined rightly."
"It is nevertheless a fine country," said the young man; "life is here important, and well occupied now. This bustling activity of the Tribune, the clubs, the conspiracies, renders sweeter the hours spent by our own fireside. One loves it the more ardently, it may be, from the fear of not being able to love it on the morrow, for on the morrow one may have ceased to exist."
Geneviève shook her head. "An ungrateful country to serve," said she.
"Why so?"
"Yes; you who have labored so much for the cause of liberty, are you not to-day more than half suspected?"
"But you, dear Geneviève," said Maurice, with a look replete with tenderness, "you a sworn enemy to this liberty,—you who have done so much against it! You yet sleep, peaceable and inviolate, beneath the roof of a Republican; and there, you see, is my recompense."
"Yes," said Geneviève, "but that cannot last long; that which is wrong cannot endure."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean to say that I,—that is to say an aristocrat,—that I who dream quietly of the defeat of your party and the ruin of your plans; I who plot, even in your house, the return of the ancient régime; I who, recognized, would condemn you to death and dishonor, according to your opinions at least,—I, Maurice, will not remain here as the evil genius of your house; I will not drag you to the scaffold."