In the Name of Liberty: A Story of the Terror Read online

  II

  A RESCUE FROM ARISTOCRATS

  After a moment of vain expectation, Barabant withdrew to the inspectionof his new possessions. In one corner stood a bed that bore the marksof many restorations. Each leg was of a different shape, rudelyfastened to the main body, which, despite threatening fissures, hadstill survived by the aid of several hitches of stout rope thatencouraged the joints. One pillow and two coverings, one chair anda chest of drawers, that answered to much tugging, completed theinstallation. The floor was of tiles; the ceiling, responding to thesagging of the roof, bulged and cracked, while in one spot it had evenreceded so far that a ray of the sun squeezed through and fell in adusty flight to the floor.

  Barabant's survey was completed in an instant. Returning to the bed, hepaused doubtfully and cautiously tried its strength with a shake. Thenhe seated himself and slowly drew up both legs. The bed still remainingintact, he turned over, threw the covers over him, and, worn out withthe journey, fell asleep.

  It was almost ten when he stirred, and the August sun was pouringthrough the gabled window. A mouse scampered hurriedly home as hestarted up; a couple of sparrows, hovering undecidedly on the sill,fluttered off. He sat up, rubbing his eyes with the confusion of onewho awakens at an unaccustomed hour, and then sprang to the floor soimpetuously that the bed protested with a warning creak. His firstmovement was to the window, where an eager glance showed the oppositeroom vacant. More leisurely he turned to a survey of his horizon, wherein the distance the roofs, of an equal height, rolled away in high,sloping billows of brown tile dotted with flashes of green or the whitefleck of linen. The air was warm, but still alive with the freshnessof the morning, inviting him to be out and seeing. He left his bundlecarelessly on the chair, brushed his clothes, arranged his neck-clothby means of a pocket-mirror, preparing himself with solicitude for hisappearance in the streets.

  He descended the stairs alertly, listening for any sound of hisneighbors; but the stairways, as well as the courts, were silent andempty, for at that period all Paris hastened daily to the streets,expectant of great events.

  Through the ugly, tortuous streets of the Faubourg St. Antoine Barabantplunged eagerly to the boulevard, where the crowd, circulating slowly,lingered from corner to corner, drifting to every knot of discussion,avaricious for every crumb of rumor. Hawkers of ballads and pamphletssought to slip their wares into the young fellow's hand with a show ofmystery and fear of detection. One whispered his "Midnight Diversionsof the Austrian Veto"; another showed him furtively the title, "CapetExposed by his Valet."

  Refusing all these, Barabant halted at every shop-window, beforenumberless engravings representing the Fall of the Bastille, the Oathin the Tennis-court, and the Section-halls.

  The gloomy, disheveled figures of the Marseillais were abroad, stalkingmelodramatically through the crowds or filling the cafes to thunderout their denunciations of tyrants and aristocrats. Fishwives andwasherwomen retailed to all comers the latest alarms.

  "The aristocrats are burning the grain-fields!"

  "A plot has been unearthed to exterminate the patriots by grindingglass in their flour."

  "The Faubourg St. Antoine is to be destroyed by fire."

  Venders of relics offered the manacles of the Bastille and therope-ladder of Latude; fortune-tellers prophesied, for a consideration,the fall of Capet and the advent of the Republic; an exhibitor oftrick-dogs advertised a burlesque on the return of the royal familyfrom Versailles. At a marionette theater the dolls represented publicpersonages, and the king and the queen (Veto and the Austrian) werebattered and humiliated to the applause of the crowds.

  At points on Barabant's progress he listened to young fellows fromtables or chairs reading to the illiterate from the newspapers,quoting from witty Camille Desmoulins or sullen, headlong Marat.Barabant was amazed at the response from the audience, at their suddenmovements to laughter or anger. Swayed by the infection, his lips movedinvoluntarily with a hundred impetuous thoughts. In this era thatpromised so much to youth, which demanded its ardor, its enthusiasm,and its faith, he longed to emerge from obscurity. For youth is theperiod of large resolutions, ardent convictions, and the championshipof desperate causes. In that season, when the world is new, the mind,fascinated by its unfolding strength, leaps over decisions, doubtsnothing, nor hesitates. In revolutions it is the generation that daresthat leads.

  From the young and daring Faubourg St. Antoine Barabant emerged,inspired, elated, and meditative. Barabant, disciple of the Revolutionof Ideas, was bewildered by the might of this torrent. It excitedhis vision, but it terrified him. It was immense, but it might eruptthrough a dozen forced openings.

  In the Rue St. Honore, where the discussions grew more abstract, he wasstartled at the contrast. Great events were struggling to the surface,yet here in the cafes men discussed charmingly on theory and principle;nor could he fancy, fresh from the vigor of the people, the sacredRevolution among these gay colors, immaculate wigs, and well-fed andthirsty orators.

  But this first impression, acute with the shock of contrast, was soonsucceeded by a feeling of stimulation. Attracted, as is natural inyouth, by the beautiful and the luxurious, and led by his imaginationand his ambition, he forgot his emotions. Whereas in the mob he hadfelt himself equal to the martyr, he now breathed an air that arousedhis powers. They discussed the freedom of the individual, the libertyof the press, and the abolishment of the penalty of death, with graceand with unfailing, agile wit, and debated the Republic with the airsof the court.

  Barabant, who wished to see everything at once, made a rapid excursionto the Tuileries, to the Place de la Greve, the Place de laRevolution, the Markets, and the famous Hall of the Jacobins.

  Toward evening, as the dusk invaded the streets, and the lanterns, fromtheir brackets on the walls, set up their empire over the fleetingday, an indefinable melancholy descended over him: the melancholy ofthe city that affects the young and the stranger. Barabant's spirits,quick to soar, momentarily succumbed to that feeling of loneliness andaloofness that attacks the individual in the solitudes of nature and inthat wilderness of men, the city.

  He was leaning against a pillar in the Rue St. Honore, in thisruminative mood watching the unfamiliar crowd, when his glance wasstopped by the figure of a flower-girl. She was tall, dark, and lithe,and, though without any particular charm of form, she had such anunusual grace in her movements that he fell curiously to speculating onher face. But the turning proving a disappointment, he laughed at hishaste, and his glance wandered elsewhere.

  "Citoyen, buy my cockade?"

  Barabant turned quickly; the flower-girl was at his side, smilingmischievously up at him. He was conscious of a sudden embarrassment--asolicitude for his bearing before the frank amusement of the girl.This time he did not turn away so carelessly. The face was attractivedespite its irregularity, full of force in the free span of theforehead and of sudden passions in the high, starting eyebrows. Theeyes alone seemed cold and sardonic, without emotion or change.

  "Come, citoyen, a cockade."

  Barabant shrugged his shoulders, and diving into his purse, at lengthproduced a few coppers.

  "A patriot's dinner is more my need, citoyenne, than a cockade."

  The girl, who had been watching with amusement this search after theelusive coins, ignoring his answer, asked curiously:

  "From the provinces?"

  Barabant, resenting the patronizing tone, said stiffly:

  "No."

  "But not quite Parisian," the flower-girl returned, with a smile, andher glance traveled inquiringly over the incongruous make-up.

  Barabant laughed. "Parisian by a day only."

  The girl smiled again, and, suddenly fastening a cockade on his lapel,said: "You are a good-looking chap; keep your sous; when your purse isfuller, remember me." And thrusting back his proffered money, she tookup her basket and nodded gaily to him. "Good luck to you, citoyen. Vivela jeunesse!"

  The acc
idental meeting quite restored him to his eager zest again. Theone greeting converted the wilderness into a familiar land. He startedon his walk, seeking a humble bill of fare within the range of hismodest resources. He chose one where the dinner consisted of a thicksoup the filling qualities of which he knew--a puree of beans and apiece of cheese. It was still somewhat earlier than the dinner-hour,and he finished his meal silently watched by the waiter with suspiciouseyes. Thence he wandered through brighter streets, pausing at times onthe skirts of the crowd that invaded the cafes, which now began to grownoisy with impromptu oratory.

  The Palais Royal with its flaring halls drew him to its tumultuouslife. He wandered through the gambling-rooms, through fakers'exhibitions, heedless of siren voices, watching the play of pickpocketsand dupes, until suddenly in the crowd a figure of unusual odditycaught his attention: a tall, military man with a cocked hat, shiftedvery much over one ear, and a nose thrown back so far that it seemedto be scouting in the air, fearful lest its owner should miss a singlerumor.

  Without purpose in his wanderings, Barabant unconsciously fell tofollowing this new character. The body was lank, the legs long,--outof all proportion, and so thin that they seemed rather a pair ofpliable stilts,--while the arms hung or moved in loose jerks as thoughdependent from the joints of a manikin.

  Oblivious to the banter and the scrutiny of the throng, the wandererpursued his inquisitive way. From time to time he stopped, craning hisneck and remaining absorbed in the contemplation of a chance display oftricolor or a group of shrill orators sounding their eloquence to theeager mass. The inspection ended, a guttural exclamation or a whistleescaping the lips showed that the impression had been registered behindthe keen, laughing countenance. Gradually the crowd, inclined at firstto jeer, perceiving him utterly unconscious of their interest, turnedto banter; but there too they were met with the utmost complacency.

  "Hey, Daddy Long-legs!"

  "Beware you keep out of their reach, my friend."

  "Citizen Scissors!"

  "Citizen Stilts!"

  "Citizen Pique la bise!"

  At this last allusion to the manner in which his nose might be said tocut the breeze, he opened wide a gaping mouth and roared "Touche!" soheartily that the crowd, who never laugh long at those who laugh withthem, returned to their occupation with grunts of approval. Still thereremained to be revealed the complexion of his political belief: whetherit was a patriot that thus paraded the steadfast Palais Royal, or ahireling of a tyrant aristocracy.

  Here again the visitor puzzled all conjectures. Arrived opposite thecafe, "To the Fall of the Bastille," his glance no sooner seized theinscription than he snatched off his hat with so hearty a "Bravo!"that his neighbors echoed the infectious acclamation; but at the verynext turn, perceiving a mountebank's counter presided over by a prettycitizeness, he paused and repeated the salute with equal vigor. Now,though the tribute to a pretty face could not justly distinguishthe parties, yet the inspiration and the manner had the taint ofaristocracy. So that those who had listened looked dubious, thenscratched their heads, and finally retired, laughing over their ownmystification.

  With a gluttonous chuckle the stranger turned suddenly into aneighboring passage. Barabant followed, in time to see the lean figuremount a chance staircase, ascending which on the humor of the moment,he emerged in turn into a cafe of unusual magnificence.

  Having no money with which to pay a _consommation_ at the tables,Barabant remained among the spectators. The tall stranger had joined agroup in the middle of the room, whence a florid Chevalier de St. Louiscried bombastically:

  "Citizen Bottle-opener, send me the Citizen Table-wiper!"

  "And bring the Citizen Broom," took up another, "to expel this CitizenDog!"

  "Let the Citizen Crier," added another, with careless scorn, "call theCitizen My Carriage!"

  Amid this persiflage Barabant remained, chafing and angry, realizingthat he had stumbled into that abomination of patriots, a den ofaristocrats.

  The purport of all table-to-table addresses was the incompetency of theNational Assembly and the state of anarchy existing since the royalpower had been defied. Although the cafe was not accessible to the mob,and was evidently of a certain clientele, there was a smattering ofunaccustomed guests, who manifested their disapproval of these remarksby grumbling and even threats.

  Barabant at length, losing control of his temper, sprang upon a chair.

  "A government," he cried--"yes, a government is what we need. Let usbe frank: the present condition of affairs is an anomaly. It cannotexist. The Revolution is to-day a farce."

  "Anarchy!" "Chaos!" "Bravo!" "Continue!"

  "And why?" he went on. "Because it has not gone far enough. Either kingor revolution: the two cannot exist. What we need is the Republic, theRepublic, the Republic!"

  The words fell on the room like offal thrown in the midst of ravenouswolves. A hideous upheaval, a hoarse shout, a multitude of scramblingforms, and the listeners who had mistaken the drift of his first wordsrose in fury. Some one pulled the table from under him. There wereshouts and blows, a confusion of bodies before his eyes, and babel letloose. In the midst of it he felt himself suddenly enveloped in a pairof wiry arms and dragged through the melee. He struggled, but the gripthat held him was not to be shaken. Leaving behind the shouting, theypassed out into the turning of a corridor, then through another intoquiet and a garden. There his captor, setting him on his feet, drewback with a smile. Barabant, glancing up, beheld the lank militaryfigure of an hour before, with his nose tipped in the air in impudentenjoyment.

  "Well, my knight-errant," he said quizzically, "the next time youpreach the Republic, select a Sans-Culotte audience and not a Royalistcafe, or there may not be a Dossonville to rescue you."

  Barabant smoothed out his clothes, crestfallen, but resumed his dignity.

  "From the country!" his rescuer continued, and the amusement gaveplace to one of reflectiveness. "Dame! are they already crying for theRepublic outside of Paris?"

  "They are. That is," Barabant added, "the masses are done with theking. The Girondins are not so radical."

  "H'm!" Dossonville said for all answer. He stood silent a moment,wrapped in his own thoughts, before he again questioned him: "And theRevolution: do you hear such opinions as you heard to-night in theprovinces? Is there no sign of a reaction?"

  "No; everything is for more radical measures."

  With this answer, Dossonville seemed to dismiss the matter from hismind. He looked him over again, and a twinkle showing in his eyes, heasked:

  "More enthusiasm than friends, hey?"

  Barabant laughed. "True."

  "And what are you counting upon doing?"

  Barabant remained silent.

  "Good--discretion!"

  Barabant, determined to shift the inquiry, demanded point-blank:

  "What were you doing in a cafe of aristocrats?"

  "What were you?" Dossonville retorted. "There are many ways to servethe Revolution besides proclaiming it from the tops of tables. Leave memy ways. Do you think if I were an aristocrat I'd have taken the painsto save you? Come, young man, don't turn your back on opportunities.Swallow your pride and confess that there are not many more meals insight."

  "I am but a day in Paris," Barabant answered; and then, lest he shouldseem to have relented: "there are a hundred ways to find a living."

  "Can you write? Have you written pamphlets?" Dossonville persisted."What would you say to a chance to see that fine eloquence caught inblack and white and circulating in the streets?"

  Barabant's face flushed with such a sudden delight that the otherlaughingly drew his arm into his and exclaimed:

  "Come, I see how it is. Camille Desmoulins is only twenty-nine. It isthe age for the youngsters. Only--" He stopped suddenly. "There aremany degrees of Republicans nowadays. Does your eloquence run in theline of our valiant radical Marat, or Danton and Desmoulins, or are weof the school of Condorcet and Roland?"

  "I am Girondin," Barabant a
nswered.

  "Good." He reflected a moment. "Just the place!"

  He started on, and then suddenly stopped, as by habit of caution. "No,not to-night. Where do you live?"

  "Eugene Barabant, Rue Maugout, No. 38." He drew out two letters. "Ihave a word of introduction to Roland."

  "And the other?"

  "To Marat."

  "Ah, Marat," Dossonville said, with a sudden cooling. "A strong manthat, and very patriotic."

  "I do not intend to present it," Barabant said, seeing the change. Hehesitated a moment, as though to reveal a confidence, while a smilestruggled to his lips. But in the end, resisting the desire, he saidevasively, "It is a measure of protection, in case of danger."

  Dossonville scrutinized him sharply, and then, as though reassured bythe frank visage, he said: "Very well; I'll be around to-morrow night.Try your hand at a polemic or two. Have you a knack of poetry? Satiresare more powerful than arguments. A laugh can trip up a colossus."

  "I have done a little verse."

  "Who hasn't?" He paused. "You will be discreet? Au revoir!"

  He turned on his heel, but immediately returned.

  "I forgot. One word of advice."

  "Well?"

  "Revolutions strike only among the steeples. Take my advice: renouncepublicity and remain obscure."

  "But I had rather die in this age than live through another."

  "Well, my duty's done," Dossonville answered, shrugging his shoulders.Then repeating to himself Barabant's last response, he added, "Thatsounds well; food for the mob; put it down."

  And without more ado, he left him as delighted as though he had justbeen elected to the National Convention.