XIV
François escapes from Paris and goes in search of a father. He meets a man who has a wart on his nose, and who because of this is unlucky.
He had been fortunate. Not more than an hour and a quarter had gone by since Amar’s entrance, and the mid-hour of breakfast had probably secured them from intrusion of foe or friend. François, who knew Paris as few men did, strode on through narrow streets and the dimly lighted passages which afforded opportunity to avoid the busier haunts of men. The barriers were carelessly guarded, and he passed unmolested into the country. Once outside of the city, he took the highroad to Evreux, down the Seine, simply because the passport of Jean François, juggler, pointed to Normandy as his destination. Naturally a man of forethinking sense, he had assumed that the village whence came Despard should be the home of that father who was ill. He knew from his former partner enough of the village to answer questions. It lay westward of Evreux. France was then less full of spies and less suspicious than it became in the Terror; and until he arrived at a small town on the north bank of the Seine, not far from Poissy, he had no trouble. He saw no couriers. The post went only once a week. He was safe, and, to tell the truth, merry and well pleased again to wander. His money was sewed in his garments. He wore his rapier under his cloak, but with it he carried the conjurer’s thin, supple blade, which, when he feigned to swallow it, a spring caused to coil into the large basket-hilt. His pistols were strapped behind him, and on his back he carried his knapsack and small bag of juggling apparatus. Thus, clad in sober gray, with the tricolor on his red cap and a like decoration on the poodle’s collar, he was surely a quaint enough figure. Long, well built, and wiry, laughing large between his two wing-like ears, he held his way along the highroad on the bank of the winding Seine.
He avoided towns and people, camped in the woods, juggled and told fortunes at farm-houses for a dinner, and, as I have said, had no trouble until he came at midday to the hamlet of Île Rouge. Here, being tired, and Toto footsore, he thought he might venture to halt and sleep at the inn.
It was a little gray French town in the noonday quiet, scarce a soul in sight, and a warmer sun than January usually affords on street and steaming roof-tiles. Hostile dogs, appearing, seemed to consider Toto a Royalist. François tucked him under his arm, and carelessly entered the stone-paved tap-room of the “Hen with Two Heads.” He repented too late. The room was half full. One of the many commissioners who afterward swarmed through France was engaged with the mayor of the commune. François, putting on an air of humility, sought out the innkeeper, and asked meekly to have a room. As he did so, a fat man in the red bonnet of the Jacobins called out from the table where he sat, “Come here!”
François said, “Yes, citizen,” and stood at the table where this truculent person was seated.
He was sharply questioned, and his papers and baggage were overhauled with small ceremony, while, apparently at his ease, he liberally distributed smiles and the kindly glances of large blue eyes. At last he was asked why he carried a sword; it was against the law. He made answer that he carried two tools of his trade—would the citizen see? And when he had swallowed two feet of his juggler’s blade, to the wonder of the audience, nothing further was said of the rapier. At last, seeing that the commissioner still hesitated, he told, with great show of frankness, whither he was going, and named Despard as one who would answer for him. The mention of this name seemed to annoy the questioner, who said Despard was a busy fellow, and was stirring up the citizens at Musillon. He, Grégoire, was on his way to see after him. He should like to make the acquaintance of that sick father, and, after all, François might be an émigré. He must wait, and go with the commissioner to Musillon.
François smiled his best; and, when the citizen commissioner had done with business, might he amuse him with a little juggling? Citizen Grégoire would see; let him sit yonder and wait. After a few minutes the great man’s breakfast was set before him; the room was cleared, and the citizen ate, while François looked him over.
Grégoire was a short, stout man with long hair, a face round, red, chubby, and made expressionless by a button-nose, which was decorated with a large rugose wart. The meal being over, he went out, leaving a soldier at the door, and taking no kind of note of his prisoner. François sat still. He was patient, but the afternoon was long. At dusk Citizen Grégoire reappeared, and, as François noted, was a little more amiable by reason of the vinous hospitality of the mayor. He sat down, and ordered dinner. When it came, François said tranquilly:
“Citizen Commissioner Grégoire, wouldst thou kindly consider the state of my stomach? Swallowing of swords sharpens the appetite.”
The commissioner looked up from his meal. He was in the good-humored stage of drunkenness.
“Come and eat,” he said, laughing.
“He hath the benevolence of the bottle,” thought François. “Let us amuse him.”
The commissioner took off his red bonnet, poured out a glass of wine, looked at a paper or two in his hand-bag, and set it on a seat near by, while the juggler humbly accepted the proffered place. Then the poodle was made to howl at the name of Citizen Capet, and to bark joyously at the mention of Jacobins. François told stories, played tricks, and drank freely. The commissioner drank yet more freely. François proposed to make a punch,—a juggler’s punch,—and did make a drink of uncommon vigor. About nine the commissioner began to nod, and François, who had been closely studying his face, presently saw him drop into a deep slumber. The open bag looked tempting. He swiftly slipped a dexterous hand into its contents, and feeling a wallet of coin, transferred it to his own pocket. The temptation had been great, the yielding to it imprudent; but there was no one else about, except the careless guard outside the door. François concluded to replace the wallet; but at this moment the great Grégoire of the committee woke up. “That was funny,” he said. “I did not quite catch the end of it.”
“No,” said François; “the citizen slept a little.”
Grégoire became angry.
“I—I asleep? I am on duty. I never sleep on duty.” The citizen was very drunk. He got up, and, staggering, set a foot on Toto’s tail. The poodle yelped, and the Jacobin kicked him. “Sacrée béte!” The poodle, unaccustomed to outrage, retorted by a nip at a fat calf. Then the great man asserted himself.
“Hallo, there! Curse you and your dog! Landlord! landlord!” The host came in haste, and two soldiers. “Got a safe place? Lock up this sc-scoundrel, and k-kill his dog!” The landlord kindly suggested a disused wine-cellar. “Now, no delay. I’m Grégoire. Lock him up!” Having disposed of the juggler, the citizen contrived to get out of the room and to bed with loss of dignity and balance.
A few minutes sufficed to set François in a chilly cellar, the poodle at his heels; for no one took seriously the order to kill Toto. Of the two soldiers, one, who was young and much amused, brought an old blanket, and a lantern with a lighted candle set within it. Yes, the prisoner could have his knapsack and bag—there were no orders; but he must give up his sword. It was so dark that when François promptly surrendered his juggler’s blade it seemed to satisfy the soldiers; for who could dream that a man would carry two swords? With a laugh and a jest, François bade them to wake him early. He called to the young recruit, as they were leaving, that he would like to have a bottle of wine, and gave him sufficient small change to insure also a bottle for these good-humored jailers.
They took the whole affair as somewhat of a practical joke. All would be well in the morning. When Grégoire was drunk he arrested everybody. The young soldier would fetch the wine in an hour. Good night.
François was alone and with leisure to consider the situation.
“Attention, Toto!” he said. This putting of thought into an outspoken soliloquy, with the judicial silence of the poodle to aid him, was probably a real assistance; for to think aloud formulates conditions and conclusions in a way useful to one untrained to reason. To read one’s own mind, and to hear one’s own mind, are very different things.
“Toto,” he said, “we are in a bad way. Why didst thou bite that fat beast’s calf? It did thee no good, thou ill-tempered brute. ’T is not good diet; a pound of it would make thee drunk. I shall have to whip thee, little beast of an aristocrat, if thou dost take to nipping the calves of the republic.”
Toto well knew that he was being scolded. He leaped up and licked the thief’s face.
“Down, Citizen Toto! Where are thy manners? I like better Citizen Grégoire drunk than Citizen Grégoire sober. How about my poor papa? Oh, but I was an ass to name Despard. Didst thou observe that the commissioner’s eyebrows meet? And, Toto, he has a great wart on his nose. ’T is a man will fetch ill luck. I knew a thief had a wart on his nose, and he was broken on the wheel at Rouen. Besides, there was the wallet. Toto, attention! Thou dost wander. It is all the doings of that sacré marquis. À bas les aristocrates! Let us inspect a little.” Upon this he pried about every corner, tried the heavy oaken door, still gaily talking, and at last sat on an empty cask and considered the grated window and the limited landscape dimly visible between its four iron rods. The end of a woodpile, about four feet away, was all that he could see. This woodpile set him to thinking.
An hour later the young recruit returned with the wine. “I came to see if thou wert safe,” he said. “Like as not Grégoire will forget all about thee to-morrow. Wine hath a short memory.”
François laughed. “Le bon Dieu grant it. I can tell fortunes, but not my own.” And should he tell the citizen soldier’s fortune? With much laughter it was told, and the gifts of fateful time were showered on the soldier’s future in opulent abundance. He would be with the army on the frontier soon. He would marry—dame!—a woman rich in looks and lands. He would be a general one day. And this, oddly enough, came true; for he became a general of division, and was killed the morning after at Eylau. Seeing that this young man had agreeable fashions, the thief ventured to express his thanks.
“Monsieur—” he began.
“Take care! Mon Dieu! thou must not say that; ‘citizen,’ please. The messieurs are as dead as the saints, and the devil, and the bon Dieu, and the rest.”
As he did not seem displeased, François said:
“Oh, thou art no Jacobin. Hast a De to thy name?”
This recruit’s manners appeared to François a good deal like those of the young nobles whom he had taught to fence.
“What I was is of no moment,” replied the young fellow. “The De’s are as dead as the saints. I am a soldier. But, pardon me, the citizen may be as frank as suits his appetite for peril. I have had my bellyful.”
“Frank? Dame! why not? Up-stairs I was a Jacobin; down here I am a Royalist. I was an aide in Gamel’s fencing-school, and, pardie! I came away. Thou canst do me a little service.”
“Can I help thee, and not hurt myself? We—my people—are grown scarce of late. I am the last; I take no risks.”
“There will be none. Bring me a little steel fork and a good long bit of twine.”
“A fork! What for?” He had a lad’s curiosity.
“To eat with.”
“But there is nothing to eat.”
“Quite true. But it assists one’s imagination; and, after all, there may be to-morrow, and to eat with decency a fork is needed. A citizen may use his bare paws, but a monsieur may not use the fingers of equality. Thou wilt observe how the thought of these tools of luxury reminds one of messieurs and the like.”
The lad—he was hardly over twenty—laughed merrily. “Thou art a delightful companion. Gamel—thou didst say Gamel?”
“I did, monsieur. Gamel that was the master of arms in the Rue St. Honoré.”
“My poor brother used to fence there. By St. Denis! thou must be François!”
“I am.”
“Then thou shalt have the tool of luxury. But, good heavens! take care. Thou hast a tongue which—well, I have learned to bridle mine.”
“My tongue never got me into trouble; like my legs, it is long, and, like them, it has got me out of a good many scrapes. I thank thee for the warning. One knows whom to talk to. I can be silent. Oh, you may laugh. I did not speak for a day after I first saw that juggler’s tool, the guillotine, in the sun on the Place de la Révolution. Dieu! behold there is a man that talks and laughs; and, presto, pass! there is eternal silence.”
“Âme de St. Denis! thou art not gay,” cried the soldier.
“Tête de St. Denis were better. He was a fellow for these times—a saint that could carry his head under his arm when it was chopped off.”
The young recruit laughed, but more uneasily. Not to laugh in some fashion was among the impossibilities of life when this face-quake of mirth broke out between those wing-like ears.
He would fetch the tools, and, in fact, did so in a few minutes. Then he bade François good night, and went away. As soon as he had gone, François retired to a corner with his lantern to inspect the wallet. There were three louis, a few sous, and no more. The risk was large, the profit small. In an inner pocket was a thin, folded paper. When opened it seemed to be a letter in due form, dated a month before, but never sent. It was addressed to Citizen de la Vicomterie of the Great Committee. François whistled. It was a furious attack on Robespierre and Couthon, and an effort to sum up the strength which an assault on the great leaders would command in the Convention—a rash document for those days. Clearly the writer, whose full signature of Pierre Grégoire was appended, had wisely hesitated to send it.
“It seems to have been forgotten. Was he drunk, Toto? Surely now we must get out and away. ’T is a letter of death; ’t is a passport worth many louis, Toto.” He pulled off a shoe, folded the paper neatly, and pulling up a tongue of leather on the inside sole, placed the letter underneath, and put on the shoe again. He took the louis, threw the wallet under a cask, and waited.
When the house was still he set to work. He had found behind a barrel a long staff used to measure the height of wine in casks. On the end of this he tied securely, crosswise, the steel fork, and then began to inspect the thin rods of the window, which were but ill fitted to guard a man of resources.
“Art still too fat?” he said, as he lifted Toto and managed to squeeze him between the bars. After that he began to fish with his stick and fork for a small log which had fallen from the woodpile and was just a foot or two out of reach. Twice he had it, and twice it broke loose, but now Toto understood, and, seizing the log, dragged it nearer. At last François had the prize. The rest was easy. He set the log between the thin bars, and threw on this lever all the power of one of the strongest men in Paris. In place of breaking, the iron rod bent and drew out of its sockets. A second proved as easy, and at last the window-space was free. It seemed large enough. He concluded to leave his bag; but the knapsack he set outside, and also his weapons and the conjuring-balls. Next he stripped off most of his clothes, and laid these too on the far side of the window. Finally his legs were through, and his hips. But when it came to the shoulders he was in trouble. It seemed impossible. He felt the poor poodle pulling at his foot, and had hard work to restrain his laughter. “Dame! would I grin at Mère Guillotine? Who knows? How to shrink?” He wriggled; he emptied his chest of air; he turned on his side; and, leaving some rags and a good bit of skin on the way, he was at last outside. Here, having reclothed himself, he broke up the wine-measurer and threw the fork over the wall. In a few minutes he was on the highway, and running lightly at the top of his speed. At dawn he found a farm-house which seemed to be deserted—no rare thing in those days. He got in at a window, and stayed for two days, without other food than the crusts he had carried from the cellar. The night after, weak and hungry, he walked till dawn; and being now a good ten leagues from that terrible commissioner, he ventured to buy a good dinner and to get himself set over the Seine. Somewhat reassured, he asked the way to Evreux, and, for once in his life perplexed and thoughtful, went along without a word to Toto.
He had been three weeks on the way, owing to his need to hide or to make wide circuits in order to avoid the larger towns. It was now the February of northern France, and there was sometimes a little snow, but more often a drizzling rain. He had suffered much from cold; but as he strode along, with a mind more at ease, he took pleasure in the sunshine. A night wind from the north had dried the roads. It was calm, cold in the shadows, deliriously warm on the sun-lit length of yellow highway. He had lost time,—quite too much,—but he still hoped to reach Musillon before that man with the wart arrived. If so, he would see Despard, warn him as to Grégoire, and, with this claim, and their old partnership, on which he counted less, he might get his passport altered, and lose himself somewhere. If he had to remain in the town, he must see, or be presumed to have seen, that sick father, and must be promptly adopted if by cruel circumstances he became unable to journey far enough from Paris to feel secure. The distorted face of Amar haunted him—the man who, to save his own life, would not even make believe to forgive. He had no power within him to explain a man like Amar; and because the Jacobin was to him incomprehensible, he was more than humanly terrible. What possessed that devil of a marquis to turn up! And was he now at his château? And why had Achille Gamel set down Normandy in the passport? And why had he himself been fool enough to fill up the vacant place for the name of his destination with that of the only small town he could recall in that locality? He had been in haste, and now a net seemed to be gathering about him. He must go thither, or take perilous chances. He was moving toward a fateful hour.
“Toto,” he said, “let us laugh; for I like not the face of to-morrow.”