As Gaillard stepped out from the theatre into a dark side street a hand fell upon his right shoulder. He looked around and saw a tall gendarme standing by his side. The prospect did not please him, so he turned to the left and saw another gendarme standing there. This one was short, and stout with a smile on his red face. Then Gaillard stopped.
"Well, citizens of the police," he exclaimed, "I don't need any escort. I can find my way home alone."
"Is your name Gaillard?" asked one.
"I have every reason to believe so," was the reply.
"Actor?" demanded the other.
"Ah, there I am not so certain," he answered.
"How? You do not know your own vocation?"
"My friends say I am an actor, and my enemies dispute it. What is your opinion?"
"I can say you are an actor, for I have seen you act," said the stout gendarme. "And a very good actor you were. You made me laugh heartily."
"Then I shall count you among my friends!" exclaimed Gaillard. "And between friends now, what is it that you want of me?"
"We are going to take you to the Luxembourg."
"What for?"
"I will read you the warrant," said the tall gendarme. "Come under the light of the lantern yonder."
Gaillard accompanied the two police officers to the other side of the street.
One of them took a large paper from his breast-pocket:—
"Warrant of arrest for the Citizen Gaillard, actor of the theatre of the Republic. Cause: Friend of the Suspect Tournay, and, therefore, to be apprehended."
Gaillard repressed the start that the sight of his friend's name gave him. "'The Suspect Tournay.' My colonel has been arrested," he said to himself. Then heaving a deep sigh he exclaimed aloud in a pathetic tone of voice:—
"It is very sad to think I should be arrested just as I was going to have such a good part in the new piece at the theatre."
"Was it a funny one?" inquired the short gendarme.
"Funny! why if you should hear it, you'd laugh those big brass buttons off your coat."
"It's a shame you can't play it," was the sympathetic rejoinder.
"I'll tell you what you can do," said Gaillard. "Go with me to my house, 15 Rue des Mathurins, and let me fetch the part so that I can study it while in prison; then, if I should be released soon I shall be prepared to play the part."
"It's against our orders," said the tall gendarme. "We must take you at once to the Luxembourg."
"It's very near here," persisted Gaillard, "and I will read one or two of the funniest speeches while we are there."
"It will not take us more than fifteen minutes," interposed the stout gendarme, looking at his mate.
"And when I am released," said Gaillard persuasively, "and play the part, I'll send you each an admission."
"Well," said the tall gendarme, "we'll go."
"You see," explained Gaillard as they walked off in the direction of the Rue des Mathurins, "my arrest is a mistake, that's clear. Whoever heard of an actor being mixed up in politics!"
"That's so," remarked the short gendarme.
"Yes," admitted the long one, "I have arrested many a suspect, and you're the first actor. But I have my duty to perform, and if the warrant calls for an actor, an actor has to come."
"Of course," agreed Gaillard, "you are a man of high principle, as any one can see."
Gaillard knew that as soon as he was arrested his rooms would be searched for any evidence of a suspicious nature. In all the house there was only one document which could possibly compromise either himself or Tournay, and that was the letter his friend had received that same afternoon, and which was now lying upon the chimney-piece.
"Here we are at No. 15; I live on the fourth floor," he said, as they came to the door.
"Whew!" exclaimed the stout gendarme. "You'll have to give us half a dozen of the best jokes if we go way up there."
"You shall have as many as you can stand," answered Gaillard. "Now, citizen officers, mind the angle in the wall, that's it. It's not a hard climb when you're used to it."
"Whew!" exclaimed the stout man as they entered Gaillard's apartment, "I could not climb that every day." He sank down in a chair and mopped the perspiration from his brow.
"I wish I was sure of climbing it every day of my life," said Gaillard. "It's thirsty work, however, so let us have something to refresh ourselves with;" and he took out from the closet a bottle of the choice Burgundy and three glasses.
"Here's to the gendarmerie," he said as he filled the glasses.
A moment later two pairs of lips smacked approvingly in concert.
"That's a vintage for you," said the short gendarme approvingly.
"I never drank but one glass of better wine than this in my life," said the tall gendarme meditatively.
"When was that?" asked Gaillard as he filled the glasses again.
"That was when the Count de Beaujeu's house was sacked, and the citizens threw all the contents of his wine cellar into the street."
"You did not drink a glass that time," remarked the stout gendarme, "you had a hogshead."
The tall man scowled.
"Well, there's plenty of this," said Gaillard; "have another glass?"
"We will," said both of the gendarmes. "Let us have a few of the funny lines of your new part, citizen actor," said the stout gendarme swallowing his third glass of Burgundy.
"Willingly!" exclaimed Gaillard. He turned toward the chimney-piece and took from it the manuscript of his part. Close beside it lay the letter. His fingers itched to take it, but the eyes of the police officers were upon him so closely that he dared not touch it.
"Let us fill our glasses again before I begin," said the actor, producing another bottle from the closet.
"How many bottles of that wine have you?" inquired the tall gendarme.
"Two more besides this," answered Gaillard, drawing the cork.
"We might as well drink them all, now that we are here," said the officer solemnly.
"It would be a pity to leave any of it," Gaillard acquiesced.
The short gendarme nodded his approval.
"I wish I had a hogshead of it," thought Gaillard. "I'd put you both in bed and leave you."
After filling the glasses once again, Gaillard took up the lines and began to act out his part. If he had been playing before a large and enthusiastic audience, he could not have done it more effectively.
The stout gendarme was soon in such a state of laughter that the tears ran down his red cheeks. His merriment continued to increase to such an extent as to alarm his companion.
"He'll die of apoplexy some day, if he is so immoderate in his raptures," said the tall man, shaking his head sadly.
The fat gendarme was now coughing violently. Gaillard stopped to slap him on the back. When the paroxysm was over, the actor brought out the two remaining bottles of Burgundy.
"A little of this wine may relieve your throat," he said, and filled the glasses all round.
"Continue, my friend," called out the jolly-faced officer; "don't stop on my account."
Gaillard went on with his rehearsal. The tall gendarme drank twice as much wine as his stout companion, who was now rolling on the floor with shouts of laughter.
Finally, when the merry fellow could laugh no more, and the last drop of wine had disappeared, the tall gendarme stooped, and lifting his fallen companion to his feet leaned him up against the wall. "Jean," he said, "thou art drunk. Shame upon thee." Then he turned toward Gaillard. "Come, citizen actor, we must take you to the Luxembourg."
"Let us at least smoke a pipe of tobacco before we go," said Gaillard, bringing out smoking materials from the closet.
"No time, citizen; as it is we may get in trouble through Jean's indulgence in the bottle." The short gendarme certainly showed the effect of the wine he had taken, though he straightened up and denied it.
"Pierre, thou liest, thou hast taken twice the quantity I have," he rejoined, waving his hand toward the empty bottles.
This also was true; and Gaillard looked with wonder at the solemn countenance of the tall gendarme.
"In any case, let us light our pipes and smoke them as we go along the street," said the actor as he filled the pipes and handed one to each of the police officers.
"I'm quite agreeable to that," said Gendarme Pierre.
Gendarme Jean made no reply, but endeavored to light his pipe over the flame of the candle.
Through a defect in vision occasioned by his potations, he held the bowl several inches away from the flame and puffed vigorously.
At this the tall gendarme laughed audibly for the first time during the evening. Gaillard felt relieved. "He can laugh," he murmured.
"Wait one moment and I will give you a light," he said, and taking a piece of paper from the chimney-piece he carelessly twisted it in his fingers, ignited it in the candle's flames, and held it over Jean's pipe. Then he repeated the service to Gendarme Pierre, and ended by lighting his own pipe, holding the offending list until the flame touched his fingers and it was entirely consumed.
"Forward, my children!" cried the stout gendarme gayly. "We must be off. Shall we place seals upon the doors, comrade?" he said addressing his friend Pierre.
"No, my little idiot Jean, you will remember we are not supposed to have come here at all. The seals will be placed here by men from the section. Hurry forward now."
They descended the stairs in single file. The tall gendarme leading, and stout Jean bringing up the rear. He would stumble from time to time and strike his head into Gaillard's shoulders. "Very awkward stairs," he would murmur in apology, "very awkward."
Once in the street he got along better, although his knees were a little weak, and he showed an inclination to sing.
"Be quiet, Jean," expostulated his companion in arms; "you will get both of us in trouble."
"As mute as a mouse, my clothespin," was the obedient reply.
"You would better take his arm, citizen actor. We shall get along faster." Gaillard complied, and arm in arm they walked off in the direction of the Luxembourg.
"What's this?" demanded the warden in the prison lodge, rubbing his sleepy eyes as three men appeared before him in the gray light of early morning.
"Hector Gaillard, actor; domicile Rue des Mathurins 15; suspect. Warrant executed by Officers Pierre Echelle and Jean Rondeau," said the tall gendarme.
The sleepy guardian turned over the pages of his book.
"Ah yes, here it is. Bring your prisoner this way, citizen gendarme."
Whereupon the stout gendarme, who had been quiet for some time, burst into tears.
"In God's name, what's the matter with him?" asked the astonished warden.
"He always does that way," said the gendarme Pierre. "'Tis his sympathetic nature. He gets very much attached to his prisoners. Cease thy tears, Jean, thou imbecile," and he cursed his brother gendarme under his breath.
Jean drew a long sob. "Adieu, my friend," he said, throwing his arms about Gaillard's neck.
"Why weepest thou?" inquired the actor pretending to be much affected.
"I am afraid they will guillotine thee, my beautiful actor, before I have laughed all the brass buttons off my coat at the play."
"Courage, my friend," replied Gaillard; "I trust for thy sake that I may live to act in many plays. Adieu, my gendarme," and he was led away to a cell.
Robert Tournay breathed easier after having sent the message to Gaillard by La Liberté. Gaillard at least was not likely to become implicated; and the anonymous communication once destroyed, nothing of an incriminating nature would be found, should their lodging be visited. Nevertheless, he could not repress a feeling of disquiet as the iron door of the Luxembourg clanked behind him and he found himself a prisoner.
The cell into which he was conducted was absolutely dark.
"It will not be so bad during the day," volunteered the jailer. "There is a small window that looks out on the courtyard." Tournay drew a sigh of thankfulness on hearing this.
"Your bed is near the door. Can you see it?" asked the jailer.
"I can feel for it," replied Tournay. "Yes, here it is."
"Very well, I will now lock you up safely. Pleasant dreams in your new quarters, citizen colonel." And with this parting salute the cheerful jailer went jingling down the corridor, leaving Tournay in the darkness, seated on the edge of his narrow bed, with elbows on knees and his chin resting in the palms of his hands.
Suddenly he sat up straight and listened attentively. The sound of regular breathing told him that he was not the sole occupant of the cell. "Whoever he may be, he sleeps contentedly," thought Tournay; "I may as well follow his good example." In a very few minutes a quiet concert of long-drawn breaths told of two men sleeping peacefully in the cell on the upper tier of the Luxembourg prison.
The little daylight that could struggle through the bars of the tiny window near the ceiling had long since made its appearance, when Robert Tournay opened his eyes next morning.
His fellow prisoner was already astir; and without moving, Tournay lay and watched him at his toilet. He was most particular in this regard. Despite the diminutive ewer and hand basin, his ablutions were the occasion of a great amount of energetic scrubbing and rubbing, accompanied by a gentle puffing as if he were enjoying the luxury of a refreshing bath. After washing, he wiped his face and hands carefully on a napkin correspondingly small. He proceeded with the rest of his toilet in the same thorough manner, as leisurely as if he had been in the most luxurious dressing-room. A wound in his neck, that was not entirely healed, gave him some trouble; but he dressed it carefully, and finally hid it entirely from sight by a clean white neckerchief which he took from a little packet in a corner of the room near the head of his bed. Having adjusted the neckcloth to his satisfaction, he put on a well-brushed coat, and, sitting carelessly upon the edge of the table,—the room contained no chair,—he began to polish his nails with a little set of manicure articles which were also drawn forth from his small treasury of personal effects.
The light from the slit of a window above his head fell on his face. It was thin and haggard, like that of a man who had undergone a severe illness, but, despite this fact, it was an attractive face, and the longer Tournay looked at it, the more it seemed to be familiar to him, recalling to his mind some one he had once known.
Suddenly the colonel sprung to his feet. "St. Hilaire!" he exclaimed aloud, answering his own mental inquiry.
St. Hilaire rose from his seat on the table and saluted Tournay graciously.
"I am what is left of St. Hilaire," he replied lightly. "And you are—For the life of me I cannot recall your name at the moment. Though I am fully aware that I have seen you more than once before this."
"My name is Robert Tournay."
"Of course. I should have remembered it. You must pardon my poor memory." Then, looking at him closely, he continued: "You wear the uniform of a colonel. You have won distinction, and yet I see you here in prison."
"It matters not how loyal a soldier or citizen one may be if one incurs the enmity or suspicion of Robespierre," was the answer.
"What you say is true, Colonel Tournay," said St. Hilaire.
"Do you also owe your arrest to him?" asked the colonel.
"No," replied St. Hilaire, resuming his former seat. "I became involved in a slight dispute with some of the gendarmerie about a certain question of—of etiquette. The altercation became somewhat spirited. They lost their tempers. I nearly lost my life. When I regained consciousness I discovered what remained of myself here, and I am recovering as fast as could be expected, in view of the rather limited amount of fresh air and sunlight in my chamber."
Tournay thought of the brilliant and dashing Marquis Raphael de St. Hilaire as he had seen him in his boyhood, and looked with deep interest at the figure sitting easily on the edge of the table in apparent contentment, cheerfully accepting misfortune with a smile, and parrying the arrows of adversity with the best of his wit, like the brave and sprightly gentleman he was.
"The resources here are somewhat limited," St. Hilaire continued. "But by placing the table against the wall and mounting upon it one can squeeze his nose between the bars of the window and get a glimpse of the courtyard beneath. Occasionally the jailer has taken me for a promenade there. It seems that we prisoners on the second tier are considered of more importance, or else it is feared that we are more likely to attempt to escape, for we are kept in closer confinement than those who are on the main floor. Although this may be construed as a compliment, it is nevertheless very tedious. But I am keeping you from your toilet by my gossip. I have left you half of the water in the pitcher. Pardon the small quantity. We will try to prevail upon our jailer to bring us a double supply in future. He is an obliging fellow, particularly if you grease his palm with a little silver."
Tournay accepted his share of the water with alacrity grateful for the courtesy that divides with another even a few litres of indifferently clean water in a prison cell.
After this toilet, and a breakfast of rolls and coffee, partaken together from the rough deal table, the two prisoners felt as if they had known each other for years.
The lines of their lives had frequently run near together during the years of the Revolution, yet in all that whirl of events had never crossed till now, since the summer day in the woods of La Thierry, when the Marquis de St. Hilaire had placed his hand upon the boy's shoulder and bade him save his life by flight.
By some common understanding, subtler than words, no reference to past events was made by either of them. They began their acquaintance then and there; the officer in the republican army, and the Citizen St. Hilaire; fellow prisoners, who in spite of any misfortune that might overtake them would never falter in their devotion and loyalty to their beloved country, France, and who recognized each in the other a man of courage and a gentleman.
So the day passed in discussing the victories of the armies, the oppression and tyranny practiced by the committee, and the prospects of the future.
A few days after Tournay's incarceration the turnkey came toward nightfall to give them a short time for recreation in the courtyard. This, though far from satisfying, was hailed with pleasure by the prisoners, and especially by Tournay, who, accustomed to the violent exertion of the camp and field, chafed for want of exercise.
They were escorted along the upper corridor, whence they could look down into the main hall on the first floor of the Luxembourg. Here, those prisoners who were happy enough not to be confined under special orders, had the privilege of congregating during the hours of the day and early evening. Looking down upon this scene shortly after the supper hour, Tournay drew a breath of surprise. He felt for a moment as if he were transported back to the days before the Revolution and was looking upon a reception in the crowded salons of the château de Rochefort where the baron entertained as became a grand seigneur. The republican colonel turned a look of inquiry toward St. Hilaire. The latter gave a slight shrug as he answered:—
"The ladies dress three times a day and appear in the evening in full toilet. As for the men, they also wear the best they have. You will see that many wear suits which in better days would have been thrown to their lackeys. Now they are mended and remended during the day, that they may make their appearance at night, and defy the shadows of the gray stone walls and the imperfect candlelight quite bravely." And St. Hilaire himself pulled a spotless ruffle below the sleeves of his well-worn coat.
"And so," mused Tournay, "they can find the heart to wear a gay exterior in such a place as this?"
"No revolution is great enough to change the feelings and passions of human nature," replied St. Hilaire. "They only adapt themselves to new conditions. Here, within these walls, under the shadow of the guillotine, Generosity, Envy, Love, and Vanity play the same parts they do in the outer world. Affairs of the heart refuse to be locked out by a jailer's key, and these darkened recesses nightly resound with tender accents and the sighs of lovers. Bright eyes kindle sparks that only death can quench. Jealousy, also, is sometimes aroused, and I am told that even affairs of honor have taken place here."
"I should never have dreamed it possible," said the soldier, looking with renewed interest upon the moving picture at his feet; from which a sound of vivacious conversation arose like the multiplied hum of many swarms of bees.
St. Hilaire leaned idly with one arm on the gallery rail, while he flecked from his coat a few grains of dust with a cambric handkerchief. Suddenly he straightened himself and grasped the railing tightly with both hands.
"Good God! can it be possible?" he exclaimed to himself.
Tournay looked at him, surprised by his sudden change of manner. St. Hilaire did not notice him, but looked intently at some one in the hall below.
Tournay followed the direction of his companion's eyes and saw a young woman, with childish countenance, standing by the elbow of a woman who was seated in a chair occupied with some needlework.
"Countess d'Arlincourt," St. Hilaire continued sadly, speaking to himself. "I hoped that I had saved her."
The woman glanced upward, and her large blue eyes met St. Hilaire's gaze. After the first start of surprise her look expressed the deepest gratitude, while his denoted interest and pity.
Then he turned away. "Come citizen jailer," he said, addressing the attendant, "lead us back to our cell."
As Tournay was about to follow St. Hilaire, he saw, to his amazement, the figure of de Lacheville standing apart from the rest, in the shadow of the wall, as if he preferred the gloomy companionship of his own thoughts to the society of his fellow beings in adversity.
"Do you see that man skulking in the shadow by the wall?" asked Tournay, pointing de Lacheville out to the jailer. "When did he come here?"
"A few days ago. Either the same evening you were brought in, or the day following," was the reply.
"The same evening!" exclaimed Tournay to himself as he followed St. Hilaire to their cell. "Robespierre has indeed been consistent in that poor devil's case."
The Countess d'Arlincourt drew up a little stool and placed herself at the feet of her friend, Madame de Rémur. The latter was still a woman in the full flush of beauty. She was dressed in black velvet which seemed but little worn, and which set off a complexion so brilliant that it needed no rouge even to counteract the pallor of a prison.
The countess leaned her head against the knees of her friend, allowing the velvet of the dress to touch her own soft cheek caressingly.
"Do not grieve, my child," said Madame de Rémur, laying down her embroidery and placing one hand upon the blonde head in her lap. "Grieve not too much for your husband; there is not one person in this room who has not to mourn the loss of some near friend or relative, and yet for the sake of those who are living they continue to wear cheerful faces. I only regret that you, who were at that time safe, should have surrendered yourself after the count was taken. It has availed nothing, and has sacrificed two lives instead of one."
"Hush, Diane; a wife should not measure her duty by the result. He was a prisoner. He was ill. It was my duty to come to his side."
"Your pardon, dear child. You, with your baby face and gentle manner, have more real courage than I. I hardly think I could do that for any man in the world."
"You always underrate yourself, dear Diane, you who are the noblest and most generous of women!" exclaimed the countess, rising. "Now I am going to speak to that poor little Mademoiselle de Choiseul. It was only yesterday that they took her father." And Madame d'Arlincourt moved quietly across the room.
"I cannot understand the courage and devotion of that child," said Madame de Rémur, addressing the old Chevalier de Creux who stood behind her chair. "I might possibly be willing to share any fate, even the guillotine, with a man if I loved him madly; but"—and Madame de Rémur finished the sentence with a shrug of her shoulders.
"Perhaps the countess loved her husband," suggested the young Mademoiselle de Bellœil who sat near the table, bending over some crochet work, but at the same time lending an ear to the conversation.
"How could she?" said Diane, "he was so cold, so austere, and so dreadfully uninteresting, and then I happen to know she did not, because"—
"Because she loved another gentleman," said the chevalier, completing the sentence with a laugh. "Under the circumstances I do not know whether I admire the countess's loyalty in following her husband to prison, or condemn her cruelty in leaving a lover to pine outside its walls."
"She was always a faithful wife, I would have you understand, you wicked old Chevalier de Creux!" exclaimed Madame de Rémur, looking up at him as he leaned over the back of her chair.
"Perhaps the lover may be confined in the prison also," suggested the philosopher, who had also been a silent listener to the dialogue.
"More than likely," assented the chevalier dryly.
"Whether he were here or not," said madame decidedly, "she would have done the same."
"Here is the Count de Blois," said the chevalier; "let us put the case before him."
"Oh, you men," laughed Madame de Rémur. "I will not accept the verdict of the best of you. But the count is accompanied by the poet; let us get him to recite us some verses." And she tossed her fancywork upon the table at her side.
Monsieur de Blois, with his arm through the poet's, bowed low before them. The count had been in the prison for over a year, and the poor gentleman's wardrobe had begun to show the effect of long service.
"They have evidently forgotten my existence entirely," he had said pathetically one morning to a friend who found him washing his only fine shirt in the prison-yard fountain. "When this shirt is worn out, I shall make a demand to be sent to the guillotine from very modesty."
A few days later he had received a couple of shirts and a note by the hand of the jailer.
"Dear de Blois," the letter had read. "I am called, and shall not need these. If they prevent you from carrying out your threat of the other morning, I shall go with a lighter heart."Yours, V. de K."
"Dear de Blois," the letter had read. "I am called, and shall not need these. If they prevent you from carrying out your threat of the other morning, I shall go with a lighter heart.
"Yours, V. de K."
"De Blois!" said the chevalier, drawing the count away from the table of Mademoiselle de Bellœil, "you are called to decide a point of the greatest delicacy."
The count put his glass to his eye as if to look at the chevalier and the philosopher, but in reality he only saw Mademoiselle de Bellœil bending over her embroidery.
"If a lady," continued the chevalier, his bright eyes twinkling, "voluntarily puts herself into a prison where are confined both her husband and her lover, what credit does she deserve for her action? Can it be called self-sacrifice?"
Before replying, the count looked attentively at the group before him: at the philosopher's impenetrable countenance; at the chevalier's quizzical and wrinkled brown physiognomy; then at Madame de Rémur's handsome face, and lastly and most tenderly at the drooping eyelids of the delicate Mademoiselle de Bellœil.
"She would be twice revered," replied de Blois.
Mademoiselle de Bellœil's needle stopped in its click-click.
"Why so, monsieur le comte?" inquired the philosopher. "If she has a double motive for the sacrifice, should not the honor of it be only half as great?"
"She should receive credit for her loyalty to the husband whom she had sworn to obey, and homage for her devotion to the lover on whom by nature she has placed her affections," replied the count, bowing to Madame de Rémur, while he noted with a certain satisfaction the smile of approval on the lips of Mademoiselle de Bellœil.
"And no one has said that she has a lover," declared Madame de Rémur warmly.
"Did you not imply as much, dear madame?" asked the old chevalier slyly.
"I intimated that she might have had one—if—let us change the subject. I move that the poet read us his latest verses. I am dying for some amusement."
"Ladies and gentlemen," cried the old chevalier, clapping his hands together to attract the attention of all those in the room, "this brilliant young author and poet, who needs no introduction to you, has consented to read his latest production. Will you kindly take places?"
There was some polite applause. "The poem! let us hear the poem," buzzed upon all sides, and the throng began to settle down around the poet, the ladies occupying the chairs, and the gentlemen either leaning against the walls or seated upon stools by the side of those ladies in whose eyes they found particular favor.
In a few moments a hush of expectancy fell upon an audience delighted at the prospect of being entertained.
"This is a play in verse," began the poet, taking a roll of manuscript from his pocket.
"A play! how charming," said Mademoiselle de Bellœil.
"It is in three acts," continued the author. "Act first, in the prison of the Luxembourg, where the young people first meet and fall deeply in love."
A rustle of approval ran through his audience.
"Act second is in the prison yard where they are separated, she being set at liberty and he conducted to the guillotine."
"Oh, how terrible!" murmured the young damsel.
"One moment, monsieur le poëte," said Madame de Rémur. "How does it end? I warn you that I shall not like your play if it ends unhappily."
"You shall judge of that in a moment, madame," replied the poet, bowing to her graciously.
"In the third act," he continued, "the lovers are brought together under the shadow of the guillotine, whither she has followed him. The knife falls upon both of them in quick succession, and their souls are united in the next world, never to be separated more."
"What a beautiful ending," cried Mademoiselle de Bellœil, and the exclamation on the part of the audience showed that her sentiment was echoed generally.
"Continue," said Madame de Rémur. "I was afraid it was going to end unhappily."
The chevalier took a pinch of snuff and settled himself back in the arm-chair which was accorded to him as a tribute to his advanced age; and the poet unfolded his manuscript and began to read.
It was an intensely appreciative audience that listened to the dramatic work of the poet. They followed with breathless interest the meeting of the young lovers in the hall of the Luxembourg; assisted smilingly at their rendezvous in the corridors and shadowy corners of the old prison; and sighed gently during the most tender passages. At the scene of separation, tears of regret flowed freely, and in the meeting in the last act, tears of joy and sorrow mingled together in sympathetic unison.
As the young poet ended he folded up his manuscript and bowed his blushing acknowledgments to the storm of applause that greeted him.
The wave of approbation had not ceased to resound through the room when the outer door opened, and the jailer and some half a dozen gendarmes entered abruptly.
Instantly the hum of conversation stopped, and an icy chill fell upon the assemblage. Faces that the moment before were wreathed in smiles now became pale and marked with fear.
"The call of to-morrow's list to the guillotine," rang out through the room in harsh notes.
Amid the silence of death, a captain of gendarmerie took a slip of paper from his pocket, while a comrade held a lantern under his nose. Some of those who listened wiped the clammy perspiration from their foreheads, others trembled and sat down. Some affected an air of indifference, and began a forced conversation with their neighbors; but all ears were strained. Each dreaded lest his own name or that of some loved one should be called out by that monotonous, relentless voice.
"Bertrand de Chalons."
An old man stepped forward.
"Annette Duclos."
There was a pause after each name, during which the suspense was intensified.
"Diane de Rémur."
Madame de Rémur laid aside her work and rose.
"Diane! Diane! I cannot bear it!" cried the Countess d'Arlincourt, throwing her arms about her friend's neck. "Oh, sirs, have pity!"
"Hush, my dear," replied Madame de Rémur soothingly. "Chevalier, look to the poor child; she is hysterical." The chevalier gently drew the countess aside, then took Madame de Rémur's hand and silently bending over it, put it to his lips.
"Take your place in the line, citizeness," called out a gendarme, and Madame de Rémur stood with the others.
"André de Blois!"
As de Blois' name was called, a shrill cry echoed through the room, and Mademoiselle de Bellœil fell back into the chair from which she had just risen. She did not swoon, but sat like one in a dream, staring with wide-open eyes.
The count stepped to her side.
"Adèle," he said, bending down and speaking in a low voice, "give me one of those roses you are wearing on your breast." Mechanically she took the flower from her bosom and put it in his hand. He placed it over his heart. "It shall be here to the last," he said softly; "now farewell;" and he pressed a kiss upon her cold lips.
"Maurice de Lacheville."
A man crouched down behind a group of prisoners, and all heads were turned in his direction.
"Maurice de Lacheville, you are called," said a gendarme, going up to him and seizing him by the arm with no gentle grasp.
"There is some mistake," cried de Lacheville pitiably.
"There is no mistake, your name is here."
"I say, there must be some mistake. My arrest was a mistake. I was promised"—
"Into the line with you," was the gruff interruption. "Many would claim there was a mistake if it would avail them to say so."
"But in my case it is true," pleaded de Lacheville. "Send word to Robespierre; he promised"—
"Into the line, I tell you!" cried the exasperated gendarme. "There is no mistake; your name is written here. You go with the rest."
"One moment, one little moment," implored the wretched marquis in an agony of fear. "Oh, messieurs the gendarmes, if you will but hear me, I have an important communication to make." All this time he was fighting desperately as the two officers of the law dragged him toward the door.
"Silence, idiot!" yelled the angry captain, "or I will have you bound and gagged. Take example from these women who put you to shame."
"Idiot that I was," cried de Lacheville, "why did I ever return from a place of safety? None but a fool would have trusted the word of Robespierre."
"Bind him," ordered the captain.
With a strength no one would have believed that he possessed, de Lacheville threw off those who held him.
"Stand back!" he shouted wildly, as the officers endeavored to seize him. He drew an object quickly from his pocket.
"Take care, Jean. He has a weapon," cried one.
There was a report of a pistol, and the marquis fell forward to the floor.
A murmur of horror filled the prison hall. Women fainted, and men turned away their heads. The gendarmes hastened to bend over him.
"I believe he is dead, captain," said one after a brief examination.
"Carry him out with the others just the same," ordered the captain. "Pierre, continue with the list."
"Bertrand de Tourin."
"Here."
"Adèle de Bellœil."
There was a cry of joy in the answer:—
"I am here. The Blessed Virgin has heard my prayer;" and Mademoiselle de Bellœil stepped forward. "André, I come with you; we shall go together where they can never separate us." And she threw herself into the arms of her lover.
"About face—fall in—forward! march." The heavy door closed, and those who had been called were led away, while those remaining in the prison went quietly to their cells, to recommence the same life on the morrow until the next roll-call.
"The nobility of France," said the chevalier to the philosopher, "may not have known how to live, but it knows how to die."
"Except the Marquis de Lacheville," was the reply.
"Bah. He was always one of the canaille at heart; he only proves my assertion," and the chevalier took an extra large pinch of snuff and limped off to his mattress of straw.
"What are you bringing us now?" growled a voice from a corner of the cell. Gaillard heard the rustling of straw, but his eyes were not enough accustomed to the gloom to enable him to see what sort of being it was who gave utterance to this harsh welcome.
"Are not two enough in a trap like this?" the speaker went on, rising and coming forward. "There's hardly enough air for us as it is, without your putting in another one."
"So it's you, Tappeur, complaining again," remarked the jailer. "You had better be thankful you're not four in a cell as they are in most of them. The prison is full to overflowing. No matter how many they take out, there's always more to fill their places. You'll have to make the best of it." And he closed the door with an unfeeling slam.
Tappeur brushed some of the straw from his hair and beard. "A plague upon these suspects that fill up our prisons!" he exclaimed with an oath; "we honest criminals have to put up with the vilest accommodations because you crowd us to the wall by force of numbers. Youarea suspect, aren't you?" he demanded, coming nearer and putting a dirty face close to Gaillard's.
The cell which they occupied was below the level of the ground. Overhead at the juncture of the ceiling and wall was a grating through which came all the light and air they received.
"You are a suspect, is it not so?" repeated Tappeur as Gaillard made no answer.
"I have not the honor of being an 'honest criminal,'" replied the actor, drawing away with a movement of disgust from the seamed and distorted visage thrust close to his.
"Bah, I thought not," said Tappeur with another oath. "Well, suspect, come over here under the grating and let me take a good look at your face," and he seized Gaillard roughly by the arm.
Tappeur received a violent blow on the chest which sent him reeling into a dark corner of the cell, clutching at the empty air as if to sustain himself by catching hold of the shadows. His fall to the ground was followed by an explosion of oaths in a new voice, in which explosion Tappeur himself joined vigorously.
"I've stirred up a nest of them," said Gaillard to himself, and then stood awaiting developments.
The torrent of profanity having exhausted itself, Tappeur emerged from the shadowy recess of the wall followed by a smaller man.
"How do you like my looks?" inquired Gaillard cheerfully.
"I'm satisfied for the present," replied Tappeur.
"Your fist is hard enough; what may your trade be?"
"I have no regular profession, I'm a little of everything. What's yours?"
"I belong to the 'Brotherhood of the Ready Hand.' Our motto is 'Steal and Kill;' our watchward 'Blood and Death;' and our coat of arms 'A Cord and Gallows.'" And Tappeur chuckled gleefully.
"You are evidently a rare accumulation of talent and virtue. I should enjoy knowing more of you. Is this a member of your band?" and Gaillard pointed to the man who had just been awakened, and who was yawning and stretching his arms.
"Our band, oh no, this is the great Petitsou."
"And who is Petitsou?"
"What! you don't know Petitsou?" demanded Tappeur pityingly.
"Never heard of him."
"He never even heard of you, Petitsou!" exclaimed Tappeur, turning to his companion with a gesture of disgust.
Petitsou shrugged his shoulders in reply, as if to say, "He has been the only loser."
"Pray let me be compensated for my ill fortune, by learning all about you now, Citizen Petitsou."
"I have made more counterfeit money than any man in France now living, I might say more than any man who ever has lived, but I believe some one or two of the old kings have surpassed me," said Petitsou.
"He is an artist," whispered Tappeur; "he does not make you a clumsy, bungling coin only to be palmed off upon women and blind men. He creates an article finer to look at than the government mint can produce.Pardieu, I'd rather have a pocket full of his silver than that bearing either the face of Louis Capet or of this new Republic." And Tappeur looked at his friend the artist admiringly.
"It was when the government issued these assignats that my great fortune was made," continued Petitsou. "In fact, it was too much success that brought me here. I found them so easy to make that I manufactured them by the wholesale. I stored my cellar with them. I even had the audacity to make the government a small loan in assignats on which I did the entire work myself, reproducing the very signatures of the officials who received the funds. Oh, it was a rare sport."
"But your forgeries were finally detected?" said Gaillard inquiringly.
"The workmanship and the signatures never. I could have gone on making enough to buy up the whole government, but for a mishap. I made a glaring error in the date of a certain issue of assignats. I never liked the new calendar, and always had to take particular care to get it right, but one day my memory slipped up, and I dated a batch of one hundred thousand francs, November 14, 1793, instead of 25th Brumaire, year II. Oh, that was an unpardonable slip, and I deserved to pay the penalty."
"It seems cruel," remarked Gaillard, "to keep a useful member of society, like you, in this filthy dungeon."
"The greatest cruelty is in keeping the materials of my trade away from me. They know my love for my art, and take delight in torturing me. Although I promise not to try any dodge, they won't trust me. If they would only let me have a little pen, ink, and paper, I should be happy."
"Pen, ink, and paper?" repeated Gaillard. "That's a modest desire."
"They won't let him have them," put in Tappeur. "He'd play them all sorts of tricks. He'd forge all sorts of documents, and worry the life out of the jailers."
The door opened a few inches, and a jug of water and a large square loaf made their appearance, pushed in by an invisible hand.
"Let's divide our rations for the day," suggested Petitsou. "Have they given us a larger loaf, Tappeur, on account of our increased number?"
"But very little larger," replied Tappeur, picking up the loaf of black bread and surveying it hungrily.
"Is that all we receive in the way of food?" asked Gaillard ruefully. He had missed his usual supper after the theatre the night before, and was quite ready for breakfast.
"That's all, unless you've got money. You can buy what you like with that." And Tappeur eyed him slyly out of his deep-set eyes.
"What do you say to some wine in place of this cold water, and some white bread, with perhaps a little sausage added by the way of relish?" suggested Gaillard mildly.
"Hey, you jailer!" called out Tappeur, frantically rushing toward the door, fearful lest the man might be out of hearing. The jailer retraced his steps reluctantly.
"A commission from the new lodger. A bottle of wine. A white loaf in place of this vile, sour stuff, and some sweet little sausage. A little tobacco also. Am I not right, my comrade?" asked Tappeur, looking at Gaillard inquiringly.
"Some tobacco, of course," nodded Gaillard, producing a coin.
"Have it strong; I have tasted none for so long that it must bite my tongue to make up for lost time. Hurry with thy commissions my good little citizen jailer; the new lodger is hungry, and we, too, have no small appetites."
"Tobacco," said Petitsou, "next to ink and paper, I have longed for that. And I have money, too!" and he produced a five-franc piece. "As good a piece of silver as ever rang from the government mint, and yet that cursed jailer refuses to take it, or bring me the smallest portion of tobacco for it. The donkey fears I have manufactured it here on the premises, or that I extracted it from thin air like a magician."
The breakfast being brought, Tappeur rolled a couple of large stones toward the lightest portion of the cell, and placed a board across them for a table. They had nothing to sit upon but their heels. The two criminals had accustomed themselves to this method of sitting at meals, but Gaillard found it more comfortable to partake of his food standing with his shoulders to the wall.
"Fall to, comrades!" cried Tappeur, breaking off an end of the loaf and taking a sausage in his other hand. "There's no cup, so we must drink from the bottle." And he handed the wine to Gaillard first, by way of attention.
Gaillard put the bottle to his lips and took a long draught of the contents while Tappeur watched him anxiously. He then passed it over to Petitsou, who treated it in a like manner. Tappeur received it in his turn in thankful silence, and after having punished it severely, put it down by his side. Gaillard helped himself to a piece of bread and a sausage, and ate with good appetite, leaving his new companions to finish the wine, to the evident satisfaction of those two worthies.
"You have a hard fist, my brave comrade!" exclaimed Tappeur, filling a pipe as short and grimy as the thumb that pushed the tobacco down into the bowl. "A hard fist and a free purse and Tappeur is your friend for life." To give emphasis to his words he puffed a cloud of blue smoke up into Gaillard's face, and drained the last few drops of wine in the flagon.
"That's very good stuff," he continued, balancing the empty bottle upon its nose, "but brandy would be more satisfying."
Gaillard refused to take the hint, and turned away to spread his cloak in a corner of the cell, where he lay down upon it and was soon in a deep sleep.
Week followed week, and Gaillard continued to live below the ground far from the sunlight which he loved so dearly, while Tournay, confined in the cell upon the second floor, wondered why he received no word from the friend in the outside world.
Thus they lived within one hundred yards of each other, thinking of each other daily, and with no means of communication. One thing Gaillard had to be thankful for, and that was the sum of money the theatre manager had paid him on the very night of his arrest. With it he had purchased many comforts to make his life more bearable. He had procured a fresh supply of straw and a warm blanket for his bed; some candles and a rough chair upon which he took turns in sitting with the two jail-birds, his companions, although at meals he always occupied it by tacit consent.
Under the influence of the additional food which Gaillard's purse supplied, Tappeur grew fat and better natured, though he swore none the less, and drank and smoked all that Gaillard would provide for him. Indeed, he thought the actor a little niggardly in furnishing the brandy, and one day, after a good meal, was inclined to be swaggering, intimating that, with respect to drink, the rations should be increased. Whereupon Gaillard cut off his potations entirely for twenty-four hours, and he became as meek as a lamb and remained so ever after.
Both the bully and Petitsou would frequently regale Gaillard with long accounts of their past crimes. During the recitals, Tappeur, although always boastful on his own account, showed a certain deference to the forger.
"I can cut a throat or rob a purse with the best blackguard in France," he would say to the actor, "but that little Petitsou is the true artist."
Notwithstanding these diversions, the time dragged wearily, and Gaillard's face began to lose its roundness, while the smile did not broaden his wide mouth so frequently as of old. His money began to get low, and he looked forward with dread to the time when it would be entirely gone and he would have to divide the musty black loaf and the pitcher of fetid water with the two criminals, without the wherewithal to buy even such good nature and entertainment as they could furnish. He longed for the time of his trial to come. He knew from what he had heard of the experiences of others, that he might be called for trial any day, or that he might languish in jail for months, forgotten and neglected. Every day when he asked the jailer who brought their food, "Have I not been called for trial?" and received the response, "Not to-day," his heart sank lower.
One day when he had only five francs left in his purse, and had refrained from ordering any wine, much to Tappeur's disgust, the jailer came to inform him that he was to come forth for trial.
"Good luck attend you, citizen actor," said Petitsou, with some show of friendship, as Gaillard prepared to leave them, smiling.
"As we must lose you in one way or another," called out Tappeur after him as he disappeared down the corridor, "let us hope that the national razor will not bungle when it shaves you, my brave."
Gaillard's spirits rose as he came up to the light of day. In a few hours he would know what his destiny would be, and the fresh air gave him renewed courage to meet it. His wish to learn just what fate had overtaken Tournay gave him an additional interest in life.
Passing through the main corridor he heard his name called, and looking toward the corridor of the upper tier he saw the face of his friend.
It was only an instant, and then Gaillard passed out with others to the street. At first Tournay's heart throbbed with apprehension at the sight of his friend. He had feared all along that had Gaillard been at liberty he would have received some message from him, or other evidence of his existence, and now his fears were confirmed. Yet somehow the very sight of Gaillard's cheerful face, smiling up at him, reassured him.
"Am called for trial," the actor's lips framed. "And you?" Tournay made a negative gesture.
"Paper destroyed," Gaillard next signaled with his lips, but he dared not make the words too plain for fear of detection, and the message was lost on Tournay. Then they saw each other no longer.
It was into a small court room that Gaillard saw himself conducted. He looked round with surprise. The trials were usually attended by large and interested crowds of people.
"I am evidently considered of small importance, and so am disposed of by an inferior court," thought he. "So much the better."
The case being tried at the moment was one of petty larceny. "The other courts must be doing an enormous business, to oblige them to turn some of us over to these little criminal courts," continued Gaillard musingly as the affair in question was disposed of and he was called.
"Read the act of accusation," said the judge, "and hurry the affair. I wish to go to dinner."
"Don't let me detain you," thought Gaillard. Then he put his hands to his head to ascertain if his ears were in their proper place, for he could not understand a word of the accusation as read by the clerk. He heard a jumble about "coat," "personal assault," "refused payment," then looked in bewilderment at the judge and prosecuting attorney, till from them his eyes wandered about the dingy court room. All at once the sight of a face in the witness box caused a light to flash through his brain, and elucidate the whole matter. He recognized his tailor, who sat with vindictive eyes, holding over his arm the identical coat that had been the cause of the dispute on the very day of his arrest.
Gaillard could barely repress his merriment. The rancor of the little tailor had followed him to prison, and dragged him out to answer a complaint of assault and intent to defraud.
"I wonder," thought Gaillard, "if I am convicted and sentenced for this crime, and subsequently condemned to the guillotine, which penalty I shall have to pay first?"
"Have you any counsel, prisoner?" demanded the judge.
"I will plead my own case," replied Gaillard cheerfully.
"Call the complainant and witness."
After a long recital on the part of the tailor of the history of the coat, and the treatment he had received at the hands of the brutal prisoner, during which the judge yawned, indicating his desire to get out to dinner, Gaillard took the stand.
"My sole defense," said he smilingly, "is that the tailor wittingly, maliciously, and falsely, endeavored to palm off upon me, a poor actor, a garment never made for me."
"How will you prove it?" demanded the judge.
"By simply trying on the coat," answered Gaillard. "If you decide it was made for me, I will abandon my defense."
"Let the prisoner have the garment," ordered the judge.
Gaillard slowly proceeded to divest himself of his own coat and don the offending garment which the tailor now presented to him reluctantly.
It had fitted him badly on the first occasion he had tried it on, and now, by a slight contortion of his supple body, the actor made the misfit ridiculously apparent.
The court officers grinned, even the judge could not repress a smile, and the tailor looked foolish.
"That is quite sufficient," said the justice. "How much did the tailor want you to pay for this grotesque garment?"
"Two hundred francs the bill calls for."
"Two hundred francs?" ejaculated the judge.
"In gold coin," emphasized Gaillard.
"It is very expensive material," explained the tailor ruefully.
"Down how many flights of stairs does the complaint state the prisoner kicked the tailor?" asked the judge.
"Only one short one," volunteered Gaillard, grinning at the discomfited tailor.
"Only one short one?" repeated the judge. "You were very moderate; such an absurd garment would have justified three flights."
There was a laugh in the court room. The judge tapped for order.
"The prisoner is discharged," he said.
Gaillard rose and looked for the guards who had escorted him from the Luxembourg, thankful for the brief respite he had had from the tedium of confinement.
"You are a free man, Citizen Gaillard," said the judge, waving his hand toward the open door.
"Do you mean I can leave the court room by that door?" asked Gaillard, his heart rising up in his throat.
"Certainly; I dismiss the complaint."
"Thank you, your honor," said Gaillard, stepping quickly through the doorway into the street.
"Your honor!" gasped a court attendant hurriedly appearing at the judge's desk.
"I have no time to listen to anything further now. I am off to dinner," said the judge snappishly.
"But does your honor know? Is your honor aware that the prisoner was a suspect from the Luxembourg, brought here by me for trial on this charge of assault, to be returned after"—
"Bring him back at once!" yelled the judge. "You idiot, why didn't you say so before?"
"But, your honor, I"—
"After him, constables; be quick, he cannot have gone fifty yards."
Half a dozen men rushed into the street and looked in all directions. But Gaillard was not to be seen.
One April day a wave of excitement swept through the entire prison. It was repeated in every cell and whispered in every ear.
"The lion has been taken in the mesh! The great Danton is a prisoner in the Luxembourg!"
At first Tournay could not believe the report. It seemed as if those giant arms need but to be extended to break the bonds that held them, and allow their owner to walk out into the air a free man.
Yet it was indeed true, and one day, for a few moments only, Tournay had an opportunity to see and converse with the fallen chieftain as he stood in the door of his cell, talking in a loud voice to all who were near enough to hear him.
As Danton saw Colonel Tournay he ceased speaking and held out his hand. In his eyes there was a peculiar look which the latter understood.
"You see, it has come at last even to me," said Danton quietly.
"Ah, why did you not crush the snake before it entwined you with its coils?" asked Tournay sadly.
"I did not think he would dare do it," replied Danton. "Robespierre is rushing to his ruin. What will they do without me? They are all mad."
"You should have distrusted their madness, even if you did not fear it," was the rejoinder.
"The end is near," answered Danton. "It is fate. Yet if I could leave my brains to Robespierre and my legs to Couthon, the Revolution might still limp along for a short time," and he laughed roughly. "Good-by, Tournay," he said in a tone of kindliness. "You are a brave man and a true Republican; such men as you might have saved the Republic, but it was not to be." He entered his cell, and Tournay never saw him again.
The next day Danton was taken to the conciergerie and to his trial, and the day following to the guillotine. The lion head was parted from the giant trunk, and the Revolution swept on.
The weeks dragged on monotonously to Colonel Tournay and St. Hilaire in the Luxembourg. The trees in the gardens beyond their prison walls had put forth their leaves, and the song of birds was borne sometimes even into the recesses of their cell.
"Why are we left to rot here in this stifling place?" exclaimed Colonel Tournay for the thousandth time. "Why are we not even called for trial? Has Robespierre forgotten our existence?"
"Let us hope that he has," rejoined St. Hilaire. "As long as we are overlooked we shall get into no worse trouble. We are not so very uncomfortable here," and St. Hilaire sprang upon the table to put his nose out between the window bars, like a fox in a cage, to get what air there was stirring and to look at the little patch of blue sky.
Tournay smiled sadly. He envied St. Hilaire his cheerfulness and adaptability, while he felt his own spirit breaking under the long confinement.
He sat down upon the edge of the bed and wondered what had happened in the world since he had been cut off from it. His thoughts were frequently of Gaillard, and he wished he could learn something about his friend. As he was sitting thus, oppressed by the warmth of a June afternoon, the turnkey entered the cell.
"There is an old man come to see you," he said, addressing Tournay. "Your uncle from the provinces, I believe. You may see him outside here in the corridor."
"I wonder who this visitor may be," thought Tournay as he followed the turnkey. "Had I not received word of my poor father's death two months ago I should expect to find him."
An old man stood leaning on his cane at the end of the corridor. He seemed quite feeble, and the jailer, moved to compassion by his infirmity, placed a stool for him to sit upon.
"My nephew!" exclaimed the old man in tremulous accents as Tournay made his appearance.
Apparently the old man had made some mistake. To Colonel Tournay's eyes he was an entire stranger; but being aware that the slightest suspicion aroused in the mind of the prison authorities sometimes led to very serious consequences, he determined to wait until the turnkey was out of hearing before undeceiving the mild-eyed old gentleman.
"My uncle," he answered, taking the venerable citizen by the outstretched hand, "how did your old legs manage to"—
The septuagenarian squeezed the colonel's hand until the fingers cracked.
"My old legs would have brought me here long before," said the voice of Gaillard in guarded tones, "but it took me two weeks to get this disguise!"
"Gaillard! In heaven's name can it be you?"
"'Tis I! I may have aged since we last met, my colonel, but my heart is as young as ever."
"My dear Gaillard, how did you manage to leave this prison? What are you doing? Is this not dangerous?" asked Tournay, putting the questions in rapid succession.
"Gaillard's liberty would not be worth a brass button if he should come here," replied the actor, "but old Michelet has nothing to fear. I have been playing hide and seek with the police for the past fortnight. I am now living at 15 Rue des Mathurins."
Even Tournay, who knew his friend so well, started.
"It is a very long story, and I can only give you an outline of it," said Gaillard, seating himself on the stool and leaning heavily on his cane, while he turned his face so that he could see from one corner of his eye every motion the turnkey might make.
"I escaped from my dungeon below the ground; I will tell you how when we have more leisure. The first thing I thought of, when I was once out in the free air, was a bath. I wanted to drown out the recollection of assassins and dirty straw, vile air and counterfeiters with whom I had been on such intimate terms for so many weeks.
"I was afraid to go to any bath houses lest I should be seen and recognized; besides, I had no money, so I finally concluded to try the river. I therefore skulked in unfrequented byways until nightfall, when I went swimming in the Seine by starlight, and I can assure you I never before appreciated the kindly properties of water to such an extent. My next desire, after I had slept in the arches of the bridge St. Michel and broken my fast with a crisp roll, was to see you."
"My dear old uncle!" exclaimed Tournay aloud, placing his hand affectionately on Gaillard's shoulder.
"I knew that I should be safe if I could procure a good disguise, but that it would be folly to attempt it without one," continued Gaillard. "The want of money was still an obstacle. 'Among the costumes in my chest at home,' thought I, 'is material to disguise a whole race of Gaillards.' Ah, but how to reach them? That was the matter that required careful study. Those annoying little red seals that the government places on the doors of all arrested persons are terribly dangerous to meddle with. Yet within were clothing and disguises, and a very little sum of money stowed away for an emergency. Meanwhile, in the evening, I promenaded down the Rue des Mathurins to look the ground over. There, planted in front of the house, staring up at the windows of our apartment, was a great hulking gendarme.
"That night I slept again under the St. Michel bridge,—commodious and airy enough, but a little damp in the morning hours. Before daylight I was up and off to the Rue des Mathurins, drawn like a criminal to the scene of his misdeeds, to inspect the enemy unseen by him.
"There is a certain mouselike gratification in watching from afar the cat, which, with claws extended, is lying in wait, ready to pounce upon you as soon as you show your nose." And Gaillard stopped to take a pinch of snuff and blink at the light with a pair of mild blue eyes. Then, after applying a colored handkerchief to his nose, he resumed his narrative.
"At all hours of the day, late at night, or early in the morning, there was always some officer of police staring persistently at my windows as if he expected me, furnished with a pair of wings, to come flying in or out of a fourth story. 'Not yet, my fine fellow,' said I, and vanished around the corner.
"One night it rained dismally; a cold mist was rising from the river. The St. Michel bridge had little attraction as a bedroom for me at that moment, I can assure you. Muffling myself in my cloak, I directed my steps toward my old abode, hoping that owing to the inclemency of the weather the officers of the law might be less vigilant. For I had resolved, the opportunity offering, to make an attempt to enter my own domicile that very night. Imagine my disgust when, upon arriving, I saw two gendarmes sheltered in the entrance of the house opposite. Both of them were obtrusively wide-awake and alert.
"I do not know whether one of them noticed me, lurking by the corner, but he immediately started to walk in my direction, and not wishing to run any chances I darted into an alley blacker than a whole calendar of nights, scaled a wall, and found myself in the narrow court which flanks our own building. Here I resolved to wait until I could safely venture out upon the street once more.
"The rain had almost ceased, but I could still hear the gurgle of the water coming down the spout from the roof. You know that water spout, my little colonel? It is made to carry off the water from three houses, is unusually large, and is held firmly in place a few inches from the house wall by iron braces at intervals of five to six feet. I placed my hand on one of these braces, and instantly the thought flashed through my brain, 'It can be done.'"
"You are not going to tell me that you attempted to climb up by the water pipe?" demanded Tournay incredulously.
"I divested myself of my cloak, coat, and waistcoat, removed my heavy, rain-soaked shoes, and began the ascent as bravely as any seaman ordered to the foretop," replied Gaillard.
"I could reach the brace above while standing on the one beneath, and partly using my knees and partly drawing myself up by the arms, I made quicker progress than I had deemed possible. In fact, I went up so vigorously that on reaching the third story I struck my knee against a piece of loose stucco which was clinging to the wall, waiting for the first strong wind to blow it to the ground.