XX Of How François Gave Amar Advice, and of How the Marquis Bought His Own Head
It was now about May 26, when, at evening, a commissioner in a cocked hat, much plumed and scarfed, came into the dining-hall. Toto was between his master’s knees, and was being fed. François heard a gray-haired old lady exclaim to a neighbor: “Mon Dieu! chérie, look! ’T is the Terror in person.”
The actor Champville cried out gaily: “I must practise that face. ’T is a fortune for the villain of a play. If ever I get out, it will be inestimable.” Alas! he was in the next day’s list,—the corvée, they called it,—and came no more to table. François looked up, caught a glimpse of that relentless visage, and dropped his head again over the slender relics of a not bountiful meal. It was Jean Pierre Amar!
The marquis looked up from his plate, but made no effort to conceal himself. Amar walked around the table. Now and then his mouth wandered to left. It was comical, and yet horribly grotesque. He seemed to notice no one, and went out to make his inspection. Presently a turnkey came and touched François’s shoulder.
“The citizen commissioner would see thee.”
“I am ruined—done for!” murmured the thief; and, followed by Toto, he went after the turnkey. In the room used as a registering-office, Amar, le farouche, sat handling a paper.
“Ah!” he said. “Citizen turnkey, leave the suspect with me, and close the door.” The commissioner laid a pair of pistols on the table, and looked up at François.
“Well, citizen, we are met again. I am free to say that I had careful search made for thee, and now good fortune has brought hither not thee alone, but that infernal ci-devant who pinned me like a butterfly.” As he spoke there was something fascinating in the concentration of emotion on the active side of this unnatural face. François felt the need to be careful.
“Why the devil don’t you speak?”
“Will the citizen kindly advise me what answer it will be most prudent to make?” And for comment on his own words, which altogether pleased him, a pleasant smile drifted downward over his large features.
“Sacré! but thou art a queer one, and no fool,” said the Jacobin. “Thou wilt be dead before long; a monstrous pity! I would give my place for thy laugh.”
“’T is a bargain to my mind. Let us change. I shall set thee free at once—at once, citizen commissioner; I bear no malice.”
Amar, silent for a moment, stroked his nose with thumb and finger.
“Thou dost not remind me thou didst save my life.”
“No; what is the use?”
“Use? Why not?”
“Because men like the citizen commissioner do not lightly change. I have a too plain recollection of what I was promised in return for my benevolence. I should regret it except for—”
“For what?” said Amar.
Then François rose to the height of his greatness.
“I am a Frenchman, even if I am not of thy party. Had not the country needed thee, that day had been thy last. Citizen, as a man thou wouldst set me free; as a patriot thou wilt bow to the law of the republic. I am willing to die rather than soil the record of one to whom France owes so much.” An overwhelming solemnity of aspect came upon this comedian’s face as it met the gaze of the commissioner. “Alas! the country has few such citizens.”
“Tonnerre! True—true; it is sad.” The man’s vanity was excelled only by that of the prisoner before him. François had personal appreciation of the influential value of the bait he cast. A great diplomatist of the older type was lost when François took to the war against society in place of that against nations.
“If the citizen commissioner has no more need of me, I will go! To waste his time is to waste the genius of France.” Not for nothing had François been of late in the society of the Comédie Française.
“Tiens! Who told thee to go? I desire to do my own thinking. Why art thou here?”
François laughed, but made no other reply.
“Young man, art thou laughing at the Revolutionary Tribunal?”
“Thou art also laughing, monsieur.” When François laughed, he who looked at him laughed also.
“Diable! yes. What right hast thou to make an officer of the Great Committee laugh? Thou wilt get into trouble.”
“I am in it now, monsieur—up to the neck.”
“No ‘monsieur’ to me, aristocrat! What brought thee here?”
‘“A greedy woman denounced me. Could not I denounce her in turn?”
“Mort du diable! that is a fine idea—to let the denounced also denounce. It would make things move. I will mention that to Couthon.” The half of the face that was able to express emotion manufactured a look of ferocious mirth; but it was clear that he took the proposition seriously.
“It appears that we do not go fast enough, citizen,” said François. “In April, 257; in May, so far, only 308. So say the gazettes. What if we denounce Citizens Robespierre and Vadier? We might go faster. Let us denounce everybody, and, last, the devil.”
Amar set an elbow on the table, and, with his chin in his hand, considered this novel specimen of humanity.
François had a controlling idea that what chance of safety there was lay in complete abandonment to the natural recklessness of his ever-dominant mood of humor.
“Art thou at the end of thy nonsense, idiot?” said the Jacobin.
“Not quite; the citizen might denounce himself.”
“By all the saints! Art making a jest of me—me, Jean Pierre Amar? Thou must value thy head but little.”
“Dame! it was never worth much; and as to saints, one Citizen Montmorency said yesterday that the republic hath abolished the noblesse of heaven and earth too. Droll idea, citizen”; and he laughed merrily.
“Oh, quit that infernal laughing! Thou must be of the Comédie Française.”
“No; I am of the comedy of France, like the rest—like the commissioner; but the citizen has two ears for a joke.”
“I—I think so”; and he made it manifest by a twisted, unilateral grin of self-approval. “That idea of the citizen—prisoners denouncing—I shall not forget that. Wilt thou serve the republic?”
“Why not?”
“These common spies in the prisons are useless. I will put an ‘M’ to thy name on our list; ‘M’ for mouchard—spy. That will put thee down at the bottom whenever the Committee of Safety comes to thy case. I am not ungrateful.”
“Very good,” said François, promptly. “I am as honest a Jacobin as the best. I will serve the republic, citizen, to the best of my ability.”
“Then thou wilt report once a week, especially on the ci-devants. The head keeper will give thee pen, ink, and paper, and a chance to write here alone. I will so order it. But beware, citizen! I am not a man to trifle with; I do not forget.’7
“I should think not,” said François, humbly.
“And when Grégoire comes, in June, thou wilt report to him.”
“I—Grégoire—report—”
“Certainly. What’s the matter? Off with thee now. Ah, that sacré Citizen Ste. Luce! I forgot him. Tell him his case will come on shortly.”
“I am sorry.”
“That is to lack patriotism.”
“But he and De Crosne are the only people who amuse me, and it is dull in this bird-cage. He swears thou art clumsy with the small sword.”
“I—I clumsy! I should like to catch him somewhere. I was too fat; but now!” and he smote his chest. “Didst thou think me clumsy—me, Pierre Amar?”
“I? No, indeed. These aristocrats think no one else can handle a rapier. Ah, if I could fence with the citizen commissioner a little, and then—”
“Impossible.”
“He swears thou art coward enough to use the guillotine to settle a quarrel, and that thou dost fence like a pigsticker.”
Amar, le farouche, swore an oath too blasphemous to repeat. The great thick-lipped mouth moved half across so much of his face as could move at all. He was speechless with rage, and at last gasped, as he struck the table: “Me—Amar? Ah, I should like well to let him out and kill him; and I would, too, but there are Saint-Just, and Couthon, and the rest. Go; and take care how thou dost conduct thyself. Go! The sacré marquis must take his chance. Pig-sticker indeed!”
Thus terminated this formidable interview; but, alas! it was now close to the end of May, and in the background of June was the man with the wart.
The next day, in the garden, Francis related to the marquis his interview with the dreaded Jacobin. The gentleman was delighted.
“Mon Dieu! François, you are a great man; but I fear it will do no good; my turn must be near. De Crosne and poor Fleury got their little billets last evening, and are off on a voyage of discovery to-morrow, along with M. de la Morne, and De Lancival, and more. They will be in good society. Did you think that Jacobin Apollo would be pricked into letting me out for the chance of killing me?”
“It came near to that, monsieur. I did say that you were not much of a blade, after all; that Citizen Amar was out of condition when you last met; and that if he and I could fence a little,—outside, of course,—M. le Marquis would regret the meeting.”
“Delicious! And he took it all?”
“Yes, as little Annette takes a fairy-tale of M. Fleury’s—who will tell no more, poor fellow!”
“But, after all, we are still here. I envy you the interview. Parbleu! these fellows do their best, but they can’t take the jests out of life. I hope the next world will be as amusing.”
As he ceased, François exclaimed:
“By all the saints! there is that crazy fool Despard.”
“Despard—Despard?” repeated the marquis. “That is a contribution to the show. How the mischief did he get here?”
The unlucky Jacobin was wandering about like a lost dog, a shabby, dejected figure. Toto, at play, recognized his master’s former partner, and jumped up in amiable recognition. Despard kicked him, and the poodle, unaccustomed to rude treatment, fled to François. The thief’s long face grew savage and stern; to hurt Toto was a deadly offense.
“Pardon, monsieur,” he said to the marquis, and went swiftly to where Despard stood against the wall.
“Look here, rascal,” said François; “if ever thou dost kick that dog again, I will twist thy neck.”
Despard did not seem to take in his meaning.
“It is thou, François. There is the ci-devant—the marquis. I followed him. I—Pierre Despard—I denounced him. I did it. I am not afraid.”
“Stuff! Didst thou hear me? What have I to do with ci-devant marquises? Thou hast kicked Toto.”
“I see him; I must speak with him.”
“Fichtre! he is mad,” said the thief, and went after him.
At the coming of Despard, ragged, wild-eyed, excited, the group about the tall gentleman turned.
Despard paused before him. “It is my turn now! I followed—I followed—I denounced thee—I, Pierre Despard. They will let me out when thou art to die; it will be soon. I will take thy child—thy bastard—my wife’s child. We will go to see thee—I and thy hunchback—to see thee on the tumbrel at the guillotine. She hath thy own cold eyes—frozen eyes. Thou wilt know her by those when thou art waiting—waiting—shivering.”
The marquis listened with entire tranquillity.
“One or two more in the audience will matter little”; and, smiling, he walked away.
A strange tremor seized on the chin and lower lip of Despard. He said to François, “Come with me,” and then, in a bewildered manner, “He isn’t afraid yet. I—I want him to be afraid.”
“Dame! thou wilt wait then till the cows roost and the chickens give milk.”
“No; it will come.”
“Stuff! How camest thou here? Didst thou denounce thyself? I have heard of men mad enough to do that.”
“No. Do not tell. I trust thee; I always did trust thee. I am a spy. I am to stay here till I want to be let out, when he—he is tried. I wanted to watch him. Some day he will have fear—fear—and—I—”
“Well, of all the mad idiots! A mouse to walk into a trap of his own accord! Dieu! but the cheese must have smelt good to thee.”
“I shall go out when I want to go. Didst thou know his daughter is dead? I am sorry she is dead.”
“Yes—God rest her soul!”
“I am sorry she is dead because she cannot be here. I wish she were here. If only she were here, it would be complete. Then he would be afraid.”
“Bon Dieu!” cried several, “he will kill him!” The thief had caught Pierre by the throat, and, scarce conscious of the peril of his own strength, he choked the struggling man, and at last, in wild rage, hurled him back amid a startled mass of tumbled people.
“Beast!” muttered François, at his full height regarding angrily the prostrate man.
In an instant the jailers were at his side. “What is this?” said they.
“He—he kicked my dog!”
“Did he? Well, no more of this, citizen.”
“Then let him be careful how he kicks my dog; and take him away, or—”
Pierre needed no further advice.
Presently Ste. Luce came over to François.
“What is wrong?”
“He kicked my dog!”
“Indeed? Do you know this man well? Once you warned me about him. Where have you met?”
“We juggled together, monsieur, when I used to read palms. He is a bit off his head, I think.”
“’T is common in France just now, or else the reverse is. But he has a damnably good memory. We of Normandy say, ‘As is the beast, so are his claws.’ The fellow is of good blood in a way; but, mon Dieu! he is a coward to be pitied. To be through and through a coward does much enlarge the limits of calamity. If I or if you were to hate a man, for reasons good or bad, we would kill him. But a coward! What can he do? He has his own ways, not mine or yours. His claws are not of the make of mine. I have no complaint to make as to his fashion of revenging himself; but really, revenge, I fancy, must lose a good deal of its distinctness of flavor when it waits this long. It is, I should say, quite twelve years—quite. There is a child, he says, or there was. Do you chance to know anything about it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever see it? Is it male or female?”
“A girl, monsieur. I never saw it.”
“How old?”
“I do not know.”
“Penitence becomes a question of dates, François. But it is true—true that I never had the least talent for regret; and if a man is not capable of regret, why, François, how the deuce can he achieve penitence? Don’t think I am joking, my most accomplished thief. There are men here who—there is M. de—well, no matter. There are men here who are honestly bewailing their past—well, amusements—sins, if you please. I cannot. There are some here who, because they are noble by descent, are making believe not to be afraid, and will make believe until the knife falls. I am not penitent, because I am not; and as to the knife, I have had a most agreeable life, and should never have gone on living if life had ceased to amuse me.”
He was now silent awhile, his strong, handsome features clear to see, as they lay on the scant grass in the sunshine. The thief had learned that at times this great seigneur would talk, and liked to do so; and that at other times he was to be left to the long silences which were difficult to secure where this morbidly gay crowd, of all conditions of men, was seeking the distraction of too incessant chat.
He rose quietly, and went away to talk with Domville of the Comédie, who himself was always glad of the company of François’s cheery visage.
In the salon, which was now deserted, he saw Despard. Pierre stood at an open window, and was pulling at his fingers, as François had so often seen him doing. He was gazing at the people in the yard. His eyes wandered feebly here and there, as if without interest or purpose. His attitude of dejection touched some chord of pity in his partner’s heart.
“Dame! he must have thought I was rough with him for a dog—a dog.” He had no mind to explain.
Pierre turned to meet him. He was not angry, nor was he excited. The shifting phases of his malady had brought to him again the horrible misery of such melancholy as they who are sound of mind cannot conceive. When this torture has a man in its grip, the past is as nothing; the present a curse; duty is dead; the future only an assurance of continued suffering; death becomes an unconsidered trifle; life—continued life—an unbearable burden.
Poor Pierre said no word of his ex-partner’s recent violence. The tears were running down his cheeks. The man at his side was, as usual, gaily cheerful.
“What is wrong with thee?” said François. “I was hard on thee, but thou knowest—”
“What is it?” replied Pierre. “I—it is no matter.”
François, surprised, went on: “Can I help thee?”
“No. I cannot sleep; I cannot eat. I suffer. I am in a hell of despair.”
“But how, or why, mon ami?”
“I do not know. I suffer.”
“Rouse up a bit. Why didst chance to come here? I asked thee that before. If thou canst get out, go at once. Thou art not fit to be in this place. This devil of a marquis excites thee. To be a spy thou shouldst be ashamed. Canst thou really get out when it pleases thee to go?”
“Why not?” said Pierre, in alarm. “Dost thou think they will not let me go? I did not want to be a spy, but I was half starved. All I could get I sent to keep my—his poor little hunchback. Vadier lent me some money. I kept none, not a sou. I asked him to let me come here as a spy. They say my reports are useless. I can’t help that. I will go out. I want to see that man suffer; I want to see him afraid. He is not afraid. Dost thou think he is afraid?”
“No.”
For a moment there was a pause, when Pierre, in a quiet, childlike manner, said: “Dost thou think he ever will be afraid?”
“No, Pierre; he never will be. What a fool thou art to have come here! ’T is not so easy to get out.”
“Mon Dieu! don’t say that. I—they said—”
“Dost thou believe a Jacobin—and Vadier, the beast, of all men?”
“Hush!” said Pierre, looking about him suspiciously. “I must go—I must go. I must walk; I cannot keep still.”
He remained in this mood of subdued terror and the deepest melancholy for some days. Then for a few hours he followed the marquis about, proclaiming his own wrongs in a high-pitched voice. At last Ste. Luce complained to the keeper, Vaubertrand, who hesitated to interfere, being puzzled and fearful as to the amount of influence possessed by this spy of the Committee of Safety. He mustered enough courage at last to tell Despard that he must not speak to the marquis; and, as he luckily caught him in his mood of despair and depression, the man timidly promised to obey.