XXI
How François, having made a bargain with Citizen Amar, cannot keep it with the man of the wart—How Despard dies in the place of the marquis—Of François’s escape from prison.
The second week of June was over. The keeper, who had taken a fancy to the merry thief, called him aside one afternoon, and said:
“Thou must write thy report, because to-morrow comes Citizen Grégoire. Thou canst use the office for an hour, as is permitted. But take care. Thou dost know how they are treated in the prisons who are suspected of making these reports to the committee. I will come for thee at dusk.”
François thanked him, and at the time mentioned was locked up in the office; for despite Vaubertrand’s amiability, he was careful as to the security of his prisoners. As it was now dark, the office table was lighted by two candles. He found pen and ink and paper, but no competent thoughts. What was he to say—whom to accuse? He had made a hasty contract with Amar, and was of no mind to fulfil his share of it. He got up from the desk, and walked about. “The deuce!” he said to Toto, who never left him. “’T is a scrape of our own making. I should have told that scamp with the pretty face to go to the devil with his spy business. Sacristie! doggie, I am like that fellow in the play I once saw. He sold his soul to the devil, and didn’t want to pay up when the time came. What to do?” He had told the marquis, whom he trusted, of the difficulty he anticipated.
Ste. Luce, much amused, said: “Take me for a subject. I am as sure to die as an abbot’s capon. If you have a conscience, it may rest easy so far as I am concerned.”
François took it seriously. “I beg of you, monsieur—”
“Oh, a good idea!” laughed the nobleman, breaking in upon his remonstrance. “Tell them how you saw me kill three good citizens that night on the stairs. By Mars! François, those twenty minutes were worth living for. I was in a plot to rescue the king; tell them that.”
“Not I,” grinned the thief.
“Confound it! you are difficult.”
And now, as François recalled their talk, his task was not more easy. He nibbled the end of his quill, and looked around him. At last, as he walked to and fro, he began to exercise his natural inquisitiveness. It was never long quiet. He stared at the barred windows. A set of pigeonholes attracted him. He glanced hastily over their contents. “Tiens!” he exclaimed.
Every day or two, about 3 P.M., a clerk of the Committee of Safety brought a great envelop stamped with the seal of the republic. Within was a paper on which were clearly set out the names and former titles of the citizen prisoners selected for trial the night before in joint counsel by the Great Committee and that of Security. The keeper copied each name on to the space in the blank summons kept for this use, and these fatal papers were then duly delivered after supper.
François looked at the packet. It was sealed. He knew well what it meant. It was labeled: “Mandate of the Tribunals Nos. 4 and 5.”
“Toto, we may be among them; we must see.” He looked about him. Here were all the writing-table implements then in use. He heated a knife, and neatly loosened the under wax of the seal. The death-call lay before him. He ran over it with shuddering haste.
“Dieu! we are not there. But, mon ami, here is the marquis!” His was the last name at the foot of the first page. François sat still, his face in his hands. At any moment he might be caught. He did not heed.
“I must do it,” he said. He saw, as it were before him, the appealing face of the dead woman, and felt in remembrance the hand the great seigneur had given him on the stair. He had a glad memory of a moment which had lifted him on to the higher levels of self-esteem and manhood.
“I will do it, Toto; ’t is to be risked; and, mon Dieu! the rest—the rest of them!” Some he knew well. Some had been kind to him. One had given him clothes when these were greatly needed. He was profoundly moved.
“If I burn it, ’t is but to give them a day, and no more—if I burn it!”
He took scissors from the table, and carefully cut off the half-inch at the foot of the paper. It was now without the name “Ste. Luce, ci-devant marquis.” He tore up the strip of paper, and put the fragments in the fireplace, behind the unkindled logs.
Next he casually turned the page. “Ciel! this calls for eleven. I have left but ten. They will think it a blunder. One will be wanting; that is all.”
He used a little melted wax under the large seal, replaced the warrant in the outer cover, and returned the document to the pigeonhole whence he had taken it. This done, he sat down again, and began to write his report.
He found nothing to say, except that those he would have spoken of had been already disposed of; and now he thought again that he would burn the fatal paper. He rose resolute, but at this moment the head keeper came back.
François was sorry, but he was not used to writing, and made excuses until at last the man said impatiently:
“Well, thou must settle all that with Amar and Grégoire. I gave thee time enough.” Could he have another chance? He was told that he should have it; but now it was supper-time; better not to be missing. He went out and up-stairs to his place at table.
He had lost his gaiety. Here and there at the table were the doomed men and women. He could not eat, and at last left the room to wander in the corridors. Pierre soon found him. He was eager, anxious, and full of strange news.
“When will that brute marquis be sent for? I was to go out to-day. They have forgotten. There is trouble in the Great Committee. I hear of it from Vaubertrand. Robespierre and Vadier think things go not fast enough; and the rest—the rest, except little cripple Couthon and Saint-Just, are opposing our great Robespierre.”
François began to be interested, and to ask questions. The gazettes were no longer allowed in the prisons. The outer world was a blank to all within their walls.
Despard, flushed and eager, told him how daily the exit of the prisoners for trial was met by a mob clamorous for blood. Then he began to exhibit alarm. Did François think that he, Pierre, might by chance miss the execution of the marquis? He would speak to Grégoire, who was coming next morning. They should learn not to trifle with a friend of Robespierre. When François left him he was gesticulating, and, as he walked up and down the deserted corridor, was cracking his knuckles or gnawing his nails.
After supper the varied groups collected in the salon. The women embroidered. A clever artist was busy sketching the head of a girl of twenty for those she loved, who were to see her living face no more. Some played at cards. Here and there a man sat alone, waiting, stunned by the sure approach of death. The marquis was in gay chat with the Vicomte de Beauséjour.
“Ah, here is my mysterious gentleman!” cried Ste. Luce. “They have bets on you. Tell these gentlemen who you really are. They are puzzled.”
François smiled. He was pleased to do or say anything which would take his thoughts off the near approach of the messenger of doom. He said:
“M. le Marquis knows that I am under an oath.”
“Pardie! true, true; I have heard as much.”
“The bets stand over,” said a gray old man, M. de l’Antilhac. “We knew you as a juggler.”
“Yes, and a fencing-master,” said Du Pin.
“You are both right. These times and the king’s service set a man to strange trades. Well, gentlemen, I am not to be questioned. Tales lose heads.”
They laughed. “Pardon me,” said a younger man. “The marquis was about to tell us of the delightful encounter you had on his staircase. ’T is like a legend of the days of Henri IV of blessed memory.”
“Tell them,” said Ste. Luce.
“The marquis does me much—Dieu!” François cried, and fell back into a chair, weak as a child. The turnkey went by him with the fatal missives.
“Art thou ill?” said De l’Antilhac. “What is it?”
“Yes,” said François. “Excuse me. He—he—” And, as it were fascinated, he rose and went after the keeper.
Vaubertrand paused behind a gentleman who was playing piquet.
“Citizen Ste. Michel,” he said, and passed on, as he laid the summons before the player.
“At last!” said the man thus interrupted. “Quatre to the king—four aces. Let it wait.”
Vaubertrand moved on. François followed him.
The calls to trial and death were distributed. A man rolled up the fatal paper without a word, and lighted his pipe with it. One of those who sat apart took his summons, and fell fainting on the floor.
“Nothing for me?” said the marquis.
“Not yet, citizen.”
“I was never before so neglected.”
The game went on. Here and there a woman dropped her embroidery and sat back, thinking of the world to come, as she rolled the deadly call to trial in her wet fingers, and took refuge in the strength of prayer.
François felt as if it were he who had condemned these people. He went to his cell, and tossed about all night, sleepless. Rising early, he went out into the garden. After breakfast the keeper said to him:
“Thou shouldst have had thy report ready. Grégoire is coming to-day. He is before his time. If he is drunk, as usual, there will be trouble. That fool Despard is wild to-day. He will be sure to stir up some mischief. All the mouchards will be called.”
“Despard is an idiot. He is raving one day, and fit to kill himself the next. Get him out of this.”
“Dame! I should be well pleased. He swears I keep him here. He will—ah, mon Dieu! the things he threatens. I am losing my wits. My good François, I have been kind to thee, and I talk rashly. I wish I had done with it all.”
“And I too, citizen; but thou art safe with me.”
As the jailer spoke, he looked over his list of those summoned. “Sacré bleu! here is a list which calls for eleven, and there are only ten names!”
“Some one has made a mistake.”
“No doubt. But Grégoire never listens. Pray God he be sober. Be in the corridor at nine; Grégoire will want to see thee.”
François would be on hand. As to the report, he should wish to ask how to draw it up. He found a quiet corner in the courtyard, and began to think about the man with the wart—the man of whom he knew so little, and whom he feared as he had never before feared a man. The every-day horror and disturbance of the morning had begun. Officers were coming and going; names were called; there were adieus, quiet or heartrending. The marquis was tranquilly conversing, undisturbed by the scene, which was too common to trouble those who had no near friend or relation in the batch of prisoners called for trial. François had seen it all, day after day. It always moved him, but never as now.
He stood looking at a young woman who was sitting with the order in her lap, her eyes turned heavenward as if in dumb appeal. Now and then she looked from one man to another, as if help must come.
François glanced at the marquis; he was the center of a laughing group, chatting unconcerned.
“Ciel! has the man no heart?” he murmured. “Why did I save him even for a day? The good God knows. It must make life easy to be like him.” The marquis would have been amazed to know that the memory of a white, sad woman’s face, and of one heroic hour, had given him a new lease of life.
“Ah, Toto,” said the thief to himself, “we held that stair together, he and I.” The thought of an uplifting moment overcame him. A sudden reflection that he might have been other than he was flushed his face.
“Ah, my friend Toto, we could have been something; we missed our chance in the world. Well, thou dost think we had better make a fight for it. Life is agreeable, but not here. Let us think. There is one little card to play. Art thou up to it? Yes! I must go now. Thou wilt wait here, and thou wilt not move. In an hour I shall be with thee; and, meanwhile, behold a fine bone. No, not yet, but when I come. Attention, now!”
He turned his back to the prison, took off a shoe, and extracted a paper, which he folded so as to be small and flat. Then he produced a bit of a kid glove he had asked from Mme. Cerise of the Comédie Française. In it he laid the paper, and put the little packet, thus protected, in the dog’s mouth. “Keep it,” he said. “It is death—it is life.” The dog lay down, his sharp black nose on his paws, shut his eyes, and seemed to be asleep. He had done the thing before.
When François entered the corridor he found the keeper.
“Come,” said Vaubertrand. “The commissioner is in a bad way, and drunk, too. He is troubled, I think, and the citizens who are outside reproach him that the supply for the guillotine is small, and the prisons full. What have I done to be thus tormented? There will be a massacre. Ciel! I talk too much. I have favored thee. Take care—and thou canst laugh yet.” Whereupon François laughed anew, and went after him.
The large hall on the first floor was unusually full. There was much confusion. The great street door, as it was opened wide and shut again in haste, gave a not reassuring glimpse of men in red bonnets roaring the Ça ira. Over all rose the shrill tongues of the women of the markets. A new batch of prisoners was pushed in, the keeper declaring he had no room. Officers of the Committee of Safety untied the hands of the newcomers, and ranged them on stone benches to the left. On the right were those who were called to trial. François stood aside, watchful.
Pierre Despard was waiting, flushed and anxious. As a spy, he had leave from Vaubertrand to descend in order to state his case to Grégoire. He went hither and thither, noisy, foolish, gesticulating. He was now in his alternate mood of excitement, and soon began to elbow his way toward the office.
“Citizen La Vaque is summoned.”
A tall man answered from the bench. Then another and another was called. The officers went down the line, and, paper in hand, verified the prisoners. They were taken, one by one, into a side room by a second officer, and their hands secured behind their backs.
At last the first officer said: “Here are but ten, Citizen Vaubertrand, and the list calls for eleven. The keeper must see the commissioner.” The officer in charge reproached Vaubertrand for neglect. The man with the wart came out from the office.
“Silence!” he cried. “What is this?”
The matter was explained, or was being set forth, when the door opened, and another half-dozen unfortunates were rudely thrust in, while the crowd made a furious effort to enter. Grégoire turned pale.
“Thou shalt answer for this. Find another. I shall hear of it, and thou, too.”
Meanwhile, Despard, too insane to observe Grégoire’s condition, and lost to all sense of anything but his own sudden wish to escape, was frantically pulling the furious commissioner by the arm.
“Citizen,” he cried, “I must be heard! Dost hear? Thou wilt repent. I am the friend of Robespierre.”
Grégoire paid no attention; he was half drunk, and raging at poor Vaubertrand.
“I will report thee,” cried Despard. “I denounce thee!”
Grégoire turned upon him in a rage.
“Who is this?” he cried.
“I am Despard of the fourth section. I will let thee know who I am.” In his madness he caught Grégoire by the collar and shook him.
Grégoire called out: “Take away this fool! What! threaten me—me—Grégoire! All, thou art the rascal who plunders châteaux. I know thee. Thou dost threaten an officer of the Committee of Safety. Tie this fellow; he will do for the eleventh. Quick, quick!”
There was no hesitation. The officers seized their prey, and Grégoire, growling, went again into the office.
Pierre fought like the madman he was, but in a minute was brought back screaming and added to the corvée. It was complete. He was carried out raving, amid the yells and reproaches of the mob, which broke up and went along with the wagons.
Again there was quiet in the hall, where the thief stood in wonder, horror-stricken. “It is I that have killed him—he who did long to see another die. And for him to die in the place of the marquis—dame! it is strange.”
“Ciel!” cried Vaubertrand, wiping the sweat from his brow. “This is the second they took this way to make up for some one’s blunder. Come, and have a care what you say. He is half drunk.”
François entered the office.
“Who is this?” said Grégoire, facing him, with his large, meaningless face still flushed and angry.
Vaubertrand pushed forward the reluctant François. “It is one of the reporters, citizen commissioner.”
“Ahem! One of Citizen Amar’s appointments,” said Grégoire. “Thou canst go, Citizen Vaubertrand”; and he looked up as he sat at the table.
“Thy name?”
“François,” said the thief.
“Thy occupation?”
“Juggler.”
The citizen commissioner was on the uncertain line between appearance of sobriety obtained by effort and ebriety past control. As he interrogated François his head dropped forward. He recovered himself with a sharp jerk, and cried sharply:
“Why dost thou not answer? I said, How didst thou get here, and who gave thee thy order to report?”
“Citizen Amar; he is a friend of mine.”
“Is he? Well, where is thy sacré report?”
“I should like to tell the citizen commissioner what I have to say. I—I did not know just how to frame it.”
Meanwhile Grégoire was considering him with unsteady eyes. “Ah, now I have it; now I remember thee. Thou art an ex-émigré. I shall attend to thee. It was thou who stole my wallet of papers; and thou couldst laugh, too. Ciel! what a laugh! Try it now.”
François replied that he was no émigré; as to the rest, he could explain; and leaning over, he said quietly:
“You will do well to hear what I have to say.”
“‘You will do well’! Idiot! Why dost thou say ‘you, you’? Cursed aristocrat that thou art! Say ‘thou’ when thou dost address me, or I shall—where is that report?”
“If the citizen will listen. There was in that wallet a little paper addressed to Citizen de la Vicomterie. Dame! it was good reading, and I have it still.”
“Thou hast it? Thou wilt not have it long.”
Grégoire was not over-intelligent, and had now the short temper of drink. The prisoner tried to get a moment in which to explain that another held the document.
Grégoire was past hearing reason. “Officers, here! here!” he cried. “Search this man! Search him. Strip him. Here! here!”
François did not stir. “When thou hast done we can talk.”
“Hold thy tongue! Search him.”
“Ma foi, marquis,” said the thief, later, “they did it well. They even chopped up the heels of my shoes. And my coat! Sacre! The good keeper gave me another. In our cell, as I learned, they went through the beds and Heaven knows what else. I was well pleased, I can tell thee, when it was all over.”
The commissioner had now cooled down. “Put on thy clothes,” said Grégoire, and himself shut the door. It was François’s turn.
“Citizen,” he said, “didst thou think me fool enough to leave within reach that little letter of thine to the good citizen of the committee—to—ah, yes, La Vicomterie is his name. I am not an émigré, only a poor devil of a thief and a juggler. I do not love Citizen Robespierre any better than some others love him—some I could name. But one must live, and the day I go out to thy infernal tribunal, Robespierre will have thy letter. A friend will go himself and lay it before the committee.”
Grégoire grew deadly pale, all but the wart, which remained red. “I am betrayed!”
“Wait a little. Thou art not quite lost, but thou wilt be unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless thou wilt open that door and set me free. I have no grudge against thee. I will arrange to have for thee the letter, and must receive from thee a new carte de sûreté, and a good passport on business of the Committee of Safety.”
The commissioner was partly sobered. “How shall I know that thou wilt keep thy word?”
“Thou wilt not know until I do. Why should I not?”
“But the letter may be lost.”
“Well, what then? Thou wilt be safe, and have one less life to answer for to the devil when he gets thee.”
“Talk business. There is no devil.”
“I don’t agree with thee. His name is Robespierre. The mischief is that it is I who do not trust thee. Thou hast a wart, citizen. Men who have warts are unlucky to meet. But take care, because I am a desperate man, and most extremely value my head. If thou shouldst fail to—”
“No, no; I promise.”
“Good, then.”
“Wait; I will write out the papers.”
“I shall not hurry thee. I must pack up. I will be back in half an hour. Be so kind as to arrange that I may return without hindrance.”
François went at once to the garden, and called Toto. Then he hastened to his cachot, or cell, and, finding himself alone, shut the door, took the little packet from Toto’s mouth, and gave him the promised bone. He placed the paper inside his stocking, and secured it with a pin. Next he gathered up his small effects, left his mangled coat on the bed of a fellow-prisoner, and descended thoughtfully to the office.
He was glad to see that the man of the wart was sitting apparently inattentive to the piles of accounts before him. “Clearly, the citizen is worried,” said François to himself.
“I have thy papers. One had to be sent out for a signature. Here is thy card of safety, and reapproved as that of a citizen who has denounced an ex-émigré. Also, behold a passport, and an order from the Committee of Safety to leave Paris on business of the republic. All are in the name of Citizen François, juggler.”
“The citizen has been thoughtful.”
“Sacré! I never do things by halves; I am thorough. And now, as to the paper?”
“It will be best for thee to come, at twelve to-day, to No. 33 bis Rue Perpignan. There I will take thee to my old room, or another, and make good my side of the bargain. After that, I have the agreeable hope never to meet thee again.”
“I will be there at noon.”
François’s watchful ear detected a certain emphasis on the “I” of this phrase, which made him suspicious. He said quietly:
“Citizen, thou hast sold me my head. I shall give thee thine. Afterward I shall be in thy power.”
“Yes, yes; that might be so with Amar or Couthon, but not with André Grégoire.”
“Tiens!” said the thief, “what is this? ‘André’? This order is signed ‘Alphonse Grégoire.’ The citizen must have been absent-minded. Look!”
Grégoire flushed. “True, true. I will write a second. I was troubled.”
François stood still, received the second order, and, saying, “Au revoir, citizen,” was about to leave, when a thought seemed to strike him. He paused. “There is here a ci-devant marquis you may recall—Ste. Luce.”
“Well?”
“Put his name at the foot of the file of the accused and keep it there. Get a clerk to do it. The citizen is aware that it is done every day.”
“Impossible! Art thou insane? I run risk enough with thy order and passport. But this I dare not do. There are limits.”
“Do it, or I throw up my bargain. By Heaven, I am in earnest! Come, what will it cost? Will one hundred louis d’or do the business?”
Grégoire reflected. What more simple than to say yes, pocket the money, and let things take their course?
“I will do it for that—I mean I can have it done.”
“Then give me ten minutes.”
“I will wait.”
The rich throughout these evil days were allowed to have in prison as much money as they could get from without. About March of this sad year they were told that they must feed the poorer captives, and were regularly assessed. François was aware that the marquis was well provided. He found him in the garden, and asked him to step aside.
“I am free, monsieur,” he said. “No matter how. And I have bargained for your own head.” He briefly related so much of his talk with Grégoire as concerned the marquis.
Ste. Luce looked at him. “Pardie! You are an unusual type of thief—or man. I would thank you if I considered my head worth much. But, after all, it is a natural attachment one’s body has for one’s head, or one’s head for one’s body, to put it correctly. Will it be wasted money, my admirable thief, or will the rascal keep his word?”
“Yes; he will keep his word—after we get through with the affair.”
“You are a great man, François, but I have not the money. I lost it last night to Delavigne. I will get the loan of it. Rather a new idea to borrow one’s head! Wait a little.” He came back in a few minutes. “It pretty well cleaned out two of them. Good luck to you; and if ever we are out of this hole, we must fence a little. By the way, I hear they took that poor devil Despard to-day. It is a relief. He bored me atrociously.”
“Yes; they took him in your place, monsieur. It was to have been to-day—”
“To-day! In my place? Tiens! that is droll.”
“Yes.”
“But how—why?”
“No matter now. I will tell monsieur some day.”
“Are you a magician, Master François?”
“I was. But I did not desire this man’s death.”
“And the guillotine will have him, and he will not be on hand to see me scared. Ciel! but it is strange. Alas! the disappointments of this mortal life! Good luck to you, and au revoir. I thank you.”
A few minutes later, Grégoire, having carefully disposed of the gold about his ample person, escorted Citizen François to the outer door. The look with which the commissioner with the wart regarded the retreating back and the big ears of François was unfriendly, to say the least.