XXII Wherein Is Told How François Baits a Crab-Trap With the Man of the Wart
François understood the risks of his position. For a time he was safe. After he gave up that precious paper he would be at Grégoire’s mercy. “More or less,” muttered the thief, with a laugh which set Toto to capering. He went toward the Seine, looked in the shop-windows, and had a bite and a good bottle of wine, for the marquis had insisted on giving him ten louis for his own use. About half-past eleven he turned into the Rue Perpignan, and rang the bell at No. 33 bis.
“Come, Toto,” he said, as he went in. “We owe Mme. Quatre Pattes a little debt. Let us be honest and pay.” He closed the door behind him, and heard the sharp voice of the concierge: “Who goes there? Speak, or I will be after thee.” He drew back, and looked in through the glassed door of the Crab’s room. He knew she would not sally out. Why should she? Her house was only a hive of thieves and low women, who were driven away when they could not pay, and who rarely plundered one another.
He had never before so carefully inspected his landlady. She was seated at a table, about to drink a cup of cocoa. The room, the table, the little well-swept hearth, were all as clean as care and work could keep them. The woman herself was no less neat than her surroundings, yet she seemed one who belonged to the sties of the Cité’s lowest life. There was something strangely feline in the combination of animal appearance with the notable cleanliness of her patched clothes, her person, and her abode. Her back, bent forward from the waist, and rigid, forced her to turn her head up and to one side to attain a view of the face of man. The same need kept her red eyes wide open. The malady which caused this distortion had ceased to be active. It had scarcely affected her general health. Like many of those who have suffered from the more common forms of the disease which makes the hunchback, she possessed amazing strength.
Now, as François stood hesitating, watchful, she sat at table before him, intent on her meal, looking here or there for bread or salt, her head swaying from side to side.
“If she were to bite a man, he would be as good as dead,” murmured the thief. “What is it she is like? Ah, ’t is the vipers in the wood of Fontainebleau. Bonjour, maman,” he cried gaily, as he went in.
Taken by a sharp surprise, she gripped at her two sticks on the table, but missed them. They fell clattering, and her shaky hands dropped on her lap. She lacked not courage. As she sat crouched, the bald head, red-eyed and vigilant, was held back to watch this enemy.
Toto ran in, and fawned at her feet.
“Enchanted to see you, maman.” By this time she had her wits about her, and, hearing no accusing charges, felt more at ease.
“Come back again, art thou, my fine thief-bird? Did he fly to his nest? Ha! he knows who will take care of him. That sacré shoemaker it was who denounced thee. Didst thou think it was thy little maman? Thou didst scold me. But how didst thou get out?”
“Ah, no matter now,” said François. “I have work on hand for thee. If I mistrusted thee, it is not here I should have come. Sometime we will have a little eau-de-vie and a pipe, maman, and I will tell thee all about it. Wouldst thou serve the republic, and be well paid for it? Here, take thy sticks; thou art fit for anything only when thou hast all thy four legs. Listen, now; and, to begin, thou canst read a little—enough to understand this passport, and this order from the Great Committee of Safety?”
She looked eagerly over the papers. “Yes, yes.”
“And thou canst read this still better.” He let a gold louis drop on the table. She put out a claw, and, failing through tremor to pick it up, drew it to the edge, and for a moment held it under her eyes; then she put it into her mouth, and, apparently satisfied, chewed on it, moving her lower jaw from side to side.
“A good purse, maman. It would be a bold man or a blind would steal thy head for the gold. Heads always lose in our France to-day; thy own is none too sure, maman.”
“If thou art thinking to scare Quatre Pattes, it won’t do. Ha! it won’t pay.” She looked as if it would not.
François saw that he had made a misplay. He laughed his best. “Nom de diable! thou didst like a joke once. No matter. My time is short. I expect a citizen in a few minutes. Is my old room empty?”
“Yes, and half the rest. I tell thee, mon fils, I have missed thee.”
“Give me the key, and pen, ink, and paper. These will do. Thy ink is dry. A little water—so. I shall come down in a minute or two, and take the citizen up with me. After that I shall come down alone. The citizen will be locked up.”
“Good. Will he be alive? I will have no tricks; they get one into trouble.”
“Alive! Yes; he will howl.”
“Ah, he will howl. What shall I get?”
“He will pay to get out.”
“He will pay—how much?”
“One—two—three hundred francs.”
“Pshaw! Paper?”
“No; gold. At four to-morrow—no later, no sooner—at four to-morrow thou wilt let him out; and, mind thee, Dame Quatre Pattes, this is business of the republic. What happens to him after he is let out is of no moment. He may very likely make a fuss; he is bad-tempered. Wilt thou take the risk?”
“I—Quatre Pattes? Three hundred francs! I?”
“If I return not to give further orders before twelve, thou mayst ask the municipals to be here at four. That will save trouble. He will then be in no way to swear thou hast his money. That may be the best plan. I have no mind to get thee into trouble. Now, hold thy tongue; and remember, it will be the little cripple Couthon who will reckon with thee if in this business thou dost fail.”
“This is all very well if thou dost not return; but who will pay me if thou art of a mind to come and take him away thyself?”
“’T is a sharp old Crab,” laughed François. “If I come for him, I promise thee he shall pay thee full rent; and here is his denier à Dieu, maman.” He cast another louis in her lap. “If I come not by noon, get all you can, and denounce him as a suspect; but remember—not till four.”
“Queue du diable! ’T is a fine transaction,” cried the Crab, and knocked her sticks together for emphasis. “We will bleed him like a doctor; we will send in the bill under the door; and then—we will have some nice municipals for sextons. Ha! ha! It is well to have the credit on one’s little carte de sûreté.”
François assured her that the plan was good. At this point, however, she became suddenly suspicious. She stood crouching over her sticks, the snake-like head slowly moving from side to side, her eyes searching the thief’s smiling face. “Why is the man to be kept? What is it?”
He expected this. “Ask Couthon the palsied that, thou imbecile. I will take him elsewhere. There are a dozen houses where they ask no questions. Yes or no?”
“Yes, yes!” Caution was put to sleep by greed; or, more truly, by want, which was nearing its extremity.
He felt secure. “If he should ring before I get down-stairs, let him wait. Now, the ink and key.”
“Is he to make his will? Thou wilt not be long?”
“No; I want something that I left.”
“Ah! thou didst leave something?”
“Yes, and thou didst not find it, maman. Fie, fie, for a clever woman! Well, if thou didst not find it, few could. Wait, now.”
He went swiftly up-stairs with Toto, and unlocked the door, leaving the key outside in the lock. He put the writing-materials on a table. In the chimney, just within reach of his farthest touch, he found his pistol. It was not loaded, and he had no powder to recharge it. He laughed as, putting it behind him in his waist-belt, under his cloak, he descended the stair.
“All is right. Cordon, if you please,” he cried from the hall. He had not waited outside five minutes when Grégoire appeared, in ordinary dress, without the official feathered hat or the scarf of a functionary. He was now sober enough, but uneasy, and looked about him as if fearing recognition.
“Come,” said François. They mounted the ill-smelling stairway to the attic. Neither spoke. Once they were within the room, François said: “Sit down.” He took a stool, placing himself between Grégoire and the door. “To business,” he said, and slipped out the famous letter from Grégoire to De la Vicomterie. He glanced at it, laughing. “There are three or more heads in this,” he said. “Robespierre would pay well for it, or Saint-Just. One might put it up at auction. There would be high bidding.”
Grégoire said: “I have paid for it. Give it to me—give it to me!”
“No hurry, commissioner.” The thief enjoyed the situation. “Let us talk a little. Let us make things a trifle safer. Have the kindness to write a receipt for one hundred louis d’or accepted by thee as security for the head of one Louis de Ste. Luce, ci-devant marquis.”
“Not I!” cried Grégoire, starting up.
“Ah, I think thou wilt”; and, with this, François drew his quite harmless pistol, and cocked it.
“Dost thou mean to murder me? Help! help! Murder!”
François seized him by the throat and thrust him down on to the chair.
“The devil! Fat fool! must I really kill thee? Hold thy tongue. Toto,” he said, “just look at this gentleman. He is afraid, a coward—he who has killed so many—so many brave men and women, who died and showed no fear. Keep the door, Toto. There, now, citizen; write it, and quick, too, or—”
“But it is my death.”
“What do I care? It is certain death unless thou dost keep faith. Once the marquis is free, and I am secure, I will burn it. That is all. Thou art forced to trust me. The situation is simple, and rather different from what it was at nine this morning. Thou art trapped.”
It was true, and Grégoire knew it. He drew his chair to the table, and wrote a few lines as the thief dictated. François added a request for a date. “Thou art not clever with a pen,” he said; “thy hand shakes.”
“I am a lost man!”
“No; by no means. But look out for my marquis. He ought to be very precious to thee, because—because if there should be any accident to him or to me, my friend will promptly place this harmless receipt in the hands of Saint-Just; and then—”
Grégoire sat in a cold sweat, saying at intervals: “I am lost. Let me go.”
“Not quite yet. Give me ten louis.”
“I—I can’t. I left the money at home.”
“Thou art lying. I heard it rattle when I shook thee. I might take it all. I am generous, just, like the incorruptible man with the green around his eyes, one Robespierre. Come, now.”
Grégoire, reluctant, counted out the gold. “Let me go,” he said. There were scarce left in him the dregs of a man. He rose, pale and tottering.
“Not quite yet, my friend. Thou wilt wait here a little while. Then a citizen hag will come up and let thee out. But be careful; no noise. The gentlemen who inhabit this mansion like not to be disturbed in their devotions. Moreover, they are curious, and generally inquisitive as to purses. Thou hast a few hours for reflection on thy sins. Pray understand that this little paper will be put in the hands of a friend of the marquis; I shall not keep it. The trap will be well set. Am I clear?”
The commissioner made no reply.
“I forgot,” said Francis. “Here is thy letter. I keep my word. The receipt is enough.”
The compromising document lay on the table, unnoticed by Grégoire. He fell back, limp and cowed, gripping the seat with both hands to save himself from slipping ont of the chair. The sweat ran down his face. When François, calling to the poodle, left him alone, he made no motion; he was like a beaten cur.
“Come, Toto,” said François, as he locked the door. “That for his wart! It is not as big as it used to be, and it is not in the middle of his nose.” He went down to the room of the concierge, and threw the key of his room in her lap.
“He is very quiet, thy patient up-stairs; he hath a chill.”
Quatre Pattes, standing by, nodded, and looked up. “Is he alive? No lies, young man.”
“Alive? Not quite; only well scared. Imagine thyself one day on the red stair, and the basket all ready, and so neat,—thou art fond of neatness,—all as clean as thy room; and the knife—”
“Shut up that big jaw! I am Quatre Pattes. Dost thou want to frighten me?”
“I? By St. Fiacre, no! I only want to let thee understand how the citizen on the fourth floor feels.”
“He will bleed the better, my dear.” She rattled the sticks, and looked up at François, her head swaying as the head of the cobra sways. She was still in some doubt as to this too ready pupil, whom she had taught so much. “Art thou trying to fool Mother Quatre Pattes?”
“Oh, stuff! Go up and speak to the man. But take care; this is no light matter to put thy claws into. The man will rage; but a day without diet will quiet him a good bit. Then thou canst begin to make thy little commercial arrangement.”
“Two hundred—three hundred. No rags, no assignats.”
“Might get four hundred, Mother Crabby. There will be two sides to the question.”
The old woman laughed a laugh shrill and virulent.
“Two sides? I see—inside and outside. All right.”
François stood in the doorway as she spoke.
“By-by, maman; and don’t frighten him too much. Thy style of beauty is not to the taste of all men. Folks are really afraid of thee, maman. Don’t make it a part of the bargain that he marry thee.”
“Good idea, that! And when shall I see thee?”
“Possibly to-morrow; certainly within a week or so. I may have a few days’ work for the committee in Villefranche—dirty country, filthy inns, not like thy room”; and he glanced at it. “I always do like to see how neat it is, and how clean. It would please Sanson. He is so particular; keeps things clean and ready—always ready.”
“’T is true,” said Quatre Pattes, and clattered away up the hall.
François heard her sticks on the stair, and her shrill laughter. “Thy cheese is poisoned, old rat,” he said.
Once secure of the absence of his too observant landlady, François called to Toto and went out of the house. It was now about half-past one. No suspicious persons were visible. He had doubted this Grégoire. He had no mind to leave Paris, but when asking a passport he meant that Grégoire should think he had done so. He moved away, with the dog at his heels, and presently stood awhile in deep thought, at the end of the street. Grégoire was safe; he could harm no one for a day, and after that would be the last man in Paris to trouble François. Amar was to be feared, but that was to be left to chance and cautious care. Quatre Pattes? He smiled. “’T is as fine as a play, Toto. Here comes the last act. Can we go away and not see it?” He looked back. The shoemaker whom the Crab had wished him to denounce, with a view to the eternal settlement of her debts, was standing at his door in the sun, just opposite to No. 33 bis. It was a good little man, lame of a leg, hard-working and timid.
“It is not to be resisted, Toto. Come, my boy.” He went back, and pulled the bell at No. 33 bis. No one answered. He rang three times, and became sure that, as he had anticipated, the Crab had at once gone up to see how much of truth there was in his statement.
Thus assured, he looked about him. He saw no one he had need to fear. He crossed the street, and spoke to the cobbler.
“Come into thy shop; I want to speak to thee.” When within, he said: “I have been arrested, and let out—praise be to the saints! I have just now seen the old Crab. She owes thee money?”
“Not much.”
“No matter. She has asked me to denounce thee, my poor friend. I came to warn thee.”
The cobbler gasped. “Dieu! and my little ones! I have done nothing—I assure thee, nothing.”
“Nor I, my friend. Now, listen. I am lucky enough to be in a little employment for the Great Committee. I mean to save thee.”
“And canst thou do that?”
“Yes, yes. Something will happen to-morrow, about four o’clock; and after that no fear of the hag. I must see it; it is my business. Can I stay a day—I mean until then—in the little room here above thy shop?”
“Why not? The children are with my sister. They shall stay till to-morrow night.”
He followed the overjoyed cobbler up to the room above his shop, sent him out to buy food and wine, and sat down to await events. The cobbler came back with a supply of diet and the gazettes. François sat behind the slats of the green window-shades, and laughed, or talked to Toto, or read, while at intervals he watched No. 33 bis. He read of how Charleroi had been taken, and of the recovery of Fleurus. It interested him but little.
“They have cut off the head of the devil, and got a new god, my good poodle. Tenes! Hold! Attention!” He saw Quatre Pattes clatter out. It was about 4 P.M. She had no market-net. She was decisively bent on some errand, and moved with unusual celerity, her back bent, her head strained upward to get a sufficient horizon.
“It is altogether pleasant, ami. She will not wait till twelve to-morrow. She has gone to denounce him. Get up. Here is a nice bite for thee. She is shrewd, our snake. If she plunders M. Grégoire,—and she will, too,—she knows what he will do when he is out. He will denounce her. The play is good, Toto. The money she will have, if we know her. But, mm ami, if he makes her believe through the door that he is the great Grégoire of the wart, and she lets him out, and is scared, and asks no pay, Toto, ’t is nevertheless a scotched snake she will be. The Wart will want to be revenged for low diet and loss of the republic’s time. Mordieu! Toto, let us bet on it.”
He read his gazettes, and waited. At six that afternoon the Crab came home. At nine François went to bed. Twice he awakened, laughing; he was thinking about Grégoire. The cobbler came in at six with breakfast, and François warned him to be careful.
At ten in the morning Quatre Pattes appeared at her door, and chatted with one or two dames of the fish-market. She rattled her sticks, and talked volubly. She was in the best of humors.
No new thing took place till three o’clock, when two municipal guards paused at her door. She came forth, spoke to them, and went in, leaving the door open. A third joined them. They loitered about. Ten minutes went by. François grew more and more eager as he watched.
“Ho, ho, Toto,” he exclaimed, “there was a noise! The fool! she has gone up alone to let him out.”
It was true. Grégoire had yielded in all some three hundred francs, and, as ordered, had slipped the money under the door, piece by piece, while Quatre Pattes sat and counted it with eyes of greed. She came down and hid the last of it. Now she went up again, rather liking the errand. She was absolutely fearless. She opened the door, and stood aside. “Come out,” she said, “little man.”
Grégoire was past restraining his rage. “She-devil!” he cried, and struck at her in a fury of passion. He ran past her down the stairs, the terrible woman after him. She was wonderfully quick, but the man’s fear was quicker. At the last stairway she found him beyond her reach, and, cursing him in fluent slang of the quarter, she threw one of her sticks at him. It caught him on the back of the neck, and he fell headlong into the hallway. In an instant he was up and staggering into the street. As he came forth two guards seized him. “In the name of the law!” Quatre Pattes came swiftly after him, screaming out: “Take him! I denounce him! He is an aristocrat!”
What she and François saw was unpleasant for her.
“Nom de Ciel! ’t is the Citizen Grégoire!” cried the third guard.
Grégoire was for an instant speechless and breathless. The guards fell back.
“Arrest me?—me, Grégoire! Have you an order to arrest me?” He was not quite at ease.
“No, no, citizen. It is clearly a mistake. We were to arrest a ci-devant.”
Quatre Pattes stood up, pallid.
“Take this woman!” cried Grégoire. “I will send an order. The Châtelet, and quick!”
“The little trap did work,” cried François, behind his screen. “How she squeals—like a pig, a pig! She will give up the money. The citizens and she disappear within.”
“This woman stole it!” roared the great man, as they came out. “Take her away.”
When they came to lay final hands on her, she was like a cat in a corner.
“Chien de mon âme! ’t is a fine scrimmage,” cried François, “and the street full.”
The sticks rattled; and when they were torn from her, she used tooth and claw, to the joy of a crowd appreciative of personal prowess. At last she was carried away, screaming, and exhausted as to all but her tongue.
The commissioner with the wart readjusted his garments and his dignity. The crowd cried: “Vive Grégoire!” and the hungry Jacobin went his way, furious, in search of dietetic consolation.
“The show is over, Toto,” said François, as he sat down.
Presently came the cobbler, curious, and much relieved.
“Ask no questions,” said François. “Here is a little money.”
“But, citizen, it is a gold louis.”
“The show was worth the price of admission. Thou art welcome. Hold thy tongue, if thou art wise. At dusk I shall slip out. Thou art safe. The Crab will denounce no more of her neighbors.”
“Two she hath sent to the knife,” said the cobbler.
“Dieu! how the tricoteuses will grin!”