by William Sage
CHAPTER IV
THE "BON PATRIOT"
Colonel Robert Tournay of the Republican army sat over his coffee in thecafe of the "Bon Patriot" one December morning in the year 1793 of theGregorian Calendar, and the year 2 of the French Republic.
The four years that had passed since the July afternoon, when he firstentered Paris through the southern gate, had been full of stirringevents in which Tournay had taken such an active part as to make thetime equal to many years of an ordinary lifetime,--years which had drawnlines upon his forehead that are not usual upon the brow of twenty-six.His figure was considerably heavier, but even more elastic and muscular,telling of a life of constant bodily exercise.
Shortly after his return to Paris from Versailles on the eventful daywhen the Demoiselle de la Liberte, accompanied by her forty thousand,brought the baker and his family back to their people, Tournay hadenrolled himself in the National Guard to protect Paris and the countryagainst foreign invasion.
From Paris to the army at the front was the next step, where he servedwith such bravery as to gain promotion to his present rank. Promotionswere rapid in those days, and men rose from the lowest social ranks tothe highest military positions, if they proved their fitness by valorand ability.
By the winter of '93 Tournay had won the shoulder-straps of a colonel,and had now been sent to Paris by General Hoche with dispatches to theNational Convention. His dispatches had been delivered and he waswaiting impatiently for the reply which he was to take back to thefront. More than eighteen months had passed since he had been in Paris,and the scenes in the city streets had a new charm for him. It was witha feeling of pride that he looked out from the windows of the "BonPatriot" and saw the active, bustling crowds on the boulevards andrealized that the Republic was an accomplished fact and that he had donehis part toward creating it. And yet there was some sadness mingled withhis pride. Although an ardent Republican he could not sympathize in allthe horrors of the Revolution,--indeed he had been greatly shocked bythem. Yet his long absence from Paris had prevented him from witnessingthe worst phases of the reign of terror, and thus he could not fullyrealize them. He was, moreover, first of all, a man of the people. Hehad resented from childhood the cruelty and oppressions under which theyhad suffered, and his joy at the abolition of unjust laws, his pride inthe assertion of equality for all men, overweighed his regret for thebloodshed that had accompanied the triumph of their cause and thegaining of the Republic.
Sitting over his coffee, he recalled his early life at La Thierry. Sincethe day of his flight, he had never returned there, and with theexception of an annual letter from his father, who although a Royalistcould not quite make up his mind to cast off his only son, he had nocommunication with the inhabitants of the chateau. From these occasionaland brief epistles he had learned that the Baron de Rochefort had goneto England almost at the outbreak of the Revolution. In a moreroundabout way he learned the cause of the baron's departure to be asecret mission to the Court of St. James on behalf of the totteringFrench monarchy. The mission had come to naught; the baron had fallenill in London and died there a few months after his arrival.
Edme, his only child, was therefore left at La Thierry, where she livedin great seclusion, with Matthieu Tournay still in faithful attendance.The marriage with the Marquis de Lacheville had never taken place. Asthe Revolution progressed and the de Rochefort fortune dwindled, themarquis's ardor, never at glowing heat, cooled perceptibly, and duringthe past two years nothing had been heard of him at the chateau. It wasthought that he had either gone abroad or was living in seclusion inParis.
Tournay had sometimes felt a little anxious as to the safety ofMademoiselle Edme and his father, but the letters he received from oldMatthieu were reassuring, and as the place was a secluded one and thefamily not known to have shared actively in the royalist cause, hisanxieties had for some time been allayed and he thought of them now aslikely to escape suspicion and to remain there in quiet obscurity.
Tournay was roused from his reverie by the conversation of two men at anadjoining table, or, more strictly speaking, a man and a boy, for theyounger was not over seventeen years of age. His face was quite innocentof any beard. On his yellow curls he wore the red nightcap of theJacobins and his belt was an arsenal of knives and pistols. Taking up aglass of beer he blew off the froth with a quick puff of the lips.
"Thus would I blow off the heads of all kings," he said in a voice thatcourted attention; "I give you a toast, comrade: death to every tyrantin Europe."
"I'll drink that toast willingly," answered the other, a big fellow, whodespite his swagger and insolent manner, had a face bearing considerabletraces of good looks. "But I should prefer to drink confusion to each ina separate glass, seeing that you are standing treat for the day," andhe laughed at his own wit.
"The Revolution does not march quick enough to suit my fancy," he wenton, turning his glass upside down to indicate that it neededreplenishing, and then wiping the froth from the ends of his droopingbrown mustache. "The convention is too slow in its work of purging thenation. Were it not for Robespierre we should make no progress. Why arethere still aristocrats walking in the broad light of day?"
"Very few come out in the daylight, citizen," remarked the boy. "Theycreep out at night generally."
"Well, why are they allowed to live at all, young friend?" said theelder man, striking the table with his fist.
"Be patient, good Citizen Gonflou; the Committee of Public Safety hassent out a good batch of arrests within the last twenty-four hours,"said the lad knowingly. "I have it from my brother, who has been chargedwith the execution of one."
"Your brother, Bernard Gardin?" inquired the other as he drained hisglass. "Who is it now?"
"Bernard has gone down to our old home in the village of La Thierry toarrest a young aristocrat by the name of Edme de Rochefort," replied theboy.
"Oh, oh, a woman!" laughed Gonflou. "Well, I'm glad I've not got yourbrother's work. I'm too tender-hearted when it comes to be a question ofwomen."
Tournay uttered an exclamation of surprise. The next instant he tippedover his coffee-cup with a clatter to cover up the betrayal of interestin the conversation, and in replacing it, managed to draw his chairnearer to the two men.
"When did he start?" was the inquiry of Gonflou.
"This morning at six. He will return in four days."
Recovered from the first shock, Tournay's resolution was immediate. Edmede Rochefort must be saved from arrest--and from the death that wasalmost certain to follow.
He was a man of action, accustomed to think quickly, and he began atonce to devise means to save her. His first thought was of Danton. Onthis man's friendship he felt sure he could rely. His ability andwillingness to assist him he resolved to test immediately.
The conversation between the two men at the adjoining table took anotherturn and he saw he was likely to hear no more on this subject, so herose from his seat and hurried from the cafe. Ten minutes later heclimbed the dark stairway that led to Danton's lodging. Here he foundthe Republican giant in his shirtsleeves,--a short pipe between hislips, bending over his writing table. He did not look up as Tournay tooka chair at his elbow, but a nod from the massive head showed that he wasaware of his presence.
"Jacques," asked Tournay abruptly, "was an order for the arrest of acertain Citizeness Edme de Rochefort signed by the committee lastnight?"
Danton looked at him for a moment while he stroked his chinthoughtfully.
"Hum--de Rochefort? A daughter of the Baron Honore who went to Englandas emissary from the late monarchy? Yes, I believe the woman is to bearrested," was the reply.
"If I furnish you with abundant reason for it will you have the orderrescinded at once?"
"I cannot," was the answer.
"Is there any other charge against the Citizeness de Rochefort exceptthat she is the daughter of her father?"
"None that I know of."
"Why arrest a young woman merely because her father went to Englan
d asan emissary of Louis Capet more than three years ago?"
Danton shrugged his shoulders. Tournay continued.
"In view of the length of time which has elapsed, in view of theabsolute lack of result from the baron's mission, in view of the youthand innocence of this girl, will you not endeavor to have this orderrescinded?"
"Why do you desire it so strongly?" demanded Danton, laying down his penfor the first time.
"Because I have known her from a child. I was born on the de Rochefortestate," was the prompt reply.
"Is that all?" asked Danton.
"No, it is not the only reason. I abhor this dragging of the weak andinnocent into the political whirlpool. We do not need to make war uponwomen. I have protested against this before now, and I tell you againthat we are disgracing the Republic by the crimes committed in its name.You are all-powerful with the masses, Jacques, your voice is alwayslistened to,--why do you not put an end to the atrocities, which insteadof decreasing, are growing worse daily? Where is your eloquence? Whereis your power? How can you sit passively by and see these horrors? Arethey done with your sanction? Can it be that a man with your strengthcan take a pleasure in crushing the weak and defenseless?"
"Would to God that I had the power to stop it," cried Danton. "Do youthink that I take pleasure in the arrest of innocent young women? Do youthink that it is with delight that I see our prisons crowded withthousands whose only crime is to have been born among the aristocrats?"He rose and paced the floor savagely. "You talk of my power with thepeople. You say they listen to my voice. To keep that power I mustremain in advance. If once I lag behind it is gone forever. We havegiven life to this terrible creature the Revolution, and we must marchbefore it. If we falter it will crush us too."
"Let it crush us then," cried Tournay, springing to his feet. "I will nolonger be driven by it."
Danton looked at him a moment with kindly eyes, then shook his head andsaid mournfully: "And France, what would she do without me? All I havedone has been done for her sake. And I do not regret what has beendone," he continued, resuming his former manner. "No, when I see what wehave done I regret nothing. That the innocent have perished, I know, andI deplore it. That the innocent must still perish is inevitable. Butwhat is the blood of a few thousand to wash out the cruelty of ages?What are the cries of a few compared with the groans of millionsthroughout the centuries! Even now the allied armies of all Europe arethundering at the doors of France. We cannot pause now. They have daredus to the combat, and in return, as gage of battle, we have hurled themdown the bleeding head of a king. We must go on."
Then sinking into his seat, he said quietly, "No, Robert, my friend, letRobespierre and his followers have their way in these small matters fora little while longer. What are the lives of a few peachy-cheeked girlsweighed against the destiny of a nation?" And he took up his pen.
Tournay sat in silent thought for a few minutes. He saw that it would beuseless to say more. After Danton's pen had labored heavily over a fewpages, he exclaimed, "Jacques!"
"Well?"
"Will you procure me a passport from the Committee of Public Safetywhich will take me to the German frontier?"
"Are you going to run away?" asked Danton, still busy over his work.
"Whatever happens, I shall never leave France," replied Tournay quietly.
"Very well," said Danton, ringing a bell. "I never shall suspect yourpatriotism, but there are those who might if you talked to them as youhave to me."
As his secretary appeared in answer to the summons, he took up a sheetof paper to write the order.
"Make it for Colonel Robert Tournay and wife," said Tournay carelessly,leaning over his shoulder.
Danton looked up at him suddenly. "I did not know you were married," hesaid.
Tournay made no reply.
Danton wrote a few lines rapidly. "Take this to the secretary of theCommittee of Public Safety," he said to his clerk, "and return with ananswer in half an hour."
In less than that time the man returned with the information that thesecretary was away and would not return until two o'clock thatafternoon.
"Will that do?" asked Danton, turning to Tournay.
"And it is now ten," said Tournay rather impatiently. "It will have todo, I am afraid."
"I will send it to your lodgings the moment it comes in," said Danton,resuming his work.
"Very well, do so, and many thanks. If I am not there have it left withthe friend who shares my lodgings." Tournay quitted the office andhastened home, stopping on the way at a stable where his horse wasquartered, to give instructions that the animal be saddled and broughtto his door without delay.
Reaching his house, he ran up the four flights of stairs that led to thelittle suite of rooms which he was sharing with his friend Gaillard.
Gaillard was a versatile fellow; he had been a poet, an actor, and ajournalist. Sometimes the one and sometimes the other, as inclinationprompted or destiny decreed.
Shortly after Tournay's first arrival at Paris, he had met Gaillard, whowas then a journalist, at a public meeting. The chance acquaintance ledto friendship. He had found the young writer in some financial straitsand had rendered him such assistance as his own slender purse couldafford.
Gaillard, who never forgot the favor, was devoted to his friend. Hewatched his career as a soldier with interest and pride, and now thatTournay had come to Paris for a few days, Gaillard had insisted that hissmall chambers should have the honor of sheltering the gallant officerof the Republic.
Gaillard was at present amusing crowds nightly at the Theatre of theRepublic, where he was playing a series of comedy roles.
It was with satisfaction that Tournay, as he ascended the stairs, heardGaillard's voice in the room, repeating the lines of his part for thatevening's performance.
"Well, my brave colonel, how goes the convention to-day?" said Gaillard,as Tournay entered the room. "Has the Tribunal done me the honor torequest that I be shaved by the guillotine?"
"I have not been to the convention to-day. Other business hasprevented," replied Tournay, going into his bedroom and taking a pair ofpistols from his wardrobe.
"No? then I must wait until I get to the club before I learn the exactnumber of the nobility who are to patronize the national razor to-day."
"Are you in the piece for to-night, Gaillard?" asked Tournay, hardlyhearing what his friend was saying.
"I am."
"That's unfortunate, for I wanted to ask a great service of you," saidTournay, as he proceeded to clean and load the weapon.
"Tell me what it is; I may be able to help you."
"I am going at once to La Thierry."
"La Thierry?" inquired Gaillard.
"Yes. It is my birthplace. I am going there on an important errand. Imust start instantly. I cannot even wait for a paper which is to be sentto me here by Danton. I am perfectly willing to let you know that it isa passport to the frontier, for myself and one other. The paper will notarrive until two o'clock, several hours after I am on the way. I musthave a swift messenger follow with it and join me at the inn in thevillage of La Thierry."
"I will see that this is done," replied Gaillard. "Is that all?"
"That is all," said Tournay, hurrying from the room. On the threshold heturned. "Are you positive that you will be able to find a trustworthymessenger? Failure would be fatal."
"I swear to you to have it there," cried Gaillard, lifting up his armand striking a dramatic attitude.
Tournay knew that, despite his apparent frivolity, Gaillard possessednot only a loyal heart, but a clear head, and he felt that he couldtrust him thoroughly. Much relieved in mind, he descended the stairwayand sprang upon his horse at the door. Since leaving Danton he had beenthinking out a plan which he hoped would successfully save MademoiselleEdme de Rochefort, but to carry it into effect he must reach La Thierrybefore Gardin. So putting spurs to his horse, he dashed through thestreets at a pace which threatened the lives of a number of the goodcitizens. In a short time he w
as out of the gates, galloping along theroad toward La Thierry at a tremendous pace. Then suddenly recollectingthat the road to be traveled was a long one, he drew a tighter rein onhis horse and slackened his speed.
"Thou must restrain thy ardor," he said, leaning forward and strokingthe sleek neck of the animal affectionately; "thou hast a long journeybefore thee and must not break down under it."
At ten o'clock that night he drew up before the inn at Vallieres, justhalf the distance to La Thierry. He reluctantly saw that his horse hadentirely given out. As for himself, he would have gone on if he couldhave obtained a fresh beast. He looked critically at those in the stableof the inn, and realized that with four hours' rest his own horse wouldbring him to his journey's end more readily than any of the sorryanimals the landlord had to offer. Having come to this decision he threwhimself fully dressed on a bed for a short sleep. He slept until two inthe morning. Then, after a hasty cup of coffee, he was again in thesaddle and continuing his journey.
He rode steadily on with the advancing day, passing some travelers, noneof whom he recognized. At noon he entered the village of Amand. Thencethere were two roads to La Thierry. One, the more direct, led to theright over the hill; the other, to the left and along the river, was thelonger but the better road. If his horse had been fresh, Tournay wouldhave taken the short-cut, going over hill and dale at a gallop, but histired beast decided him to choose the river road.
Toward the end of the afternoon he saw in the distance the spire of thechurch of La Thierry. He felt positive by this time that Gardin musthave taken the upper road or he should have overtaken him before this,so rapidly had he traveled.
Every step of the way was familiar to him. Every bend in the river,every stone by the wayside was associated with his boyhood. Just beforehe came to the village of La Thierry, he left the main road and turningto the right followed a lane that made a short cut to the chateau deRochefort. It was about two miles long and in summer was an archway ofshaded trees and full of refreshment. Now the branches were bare, andthe flying feet of his steed sank to the fetlocks in the carpet of damp,dead leaves.
As he approached the chateau on the right he heard a sound that causedhim to draw rein in consternation. Springing from his horse he fastenedhim to a sapling by the wayside, seized his pistols from his holsters,and hurried forward on foot. At every step he took the sounds grewlouder. There was no mistaking their meaning.
The lane terminated about a hundred yards from the house. Tournay threwhimself flat upon the earth and working his way to a place where he wassheltered by the overhanging branches of some hemlock trees, lookedcautiously out toward the chateau.
An attack was being made on the chateau at the front. Half a score ofmen armed with clubs and various other weapons were endeavoring to breakdown the iron-studded oaken door. A gigantic figure with shirt open tothe waist, whom Tournay recognized as the blacksmith of La Thierry, wasdealing blow after blow in rapid succession with a huge sledge-hammer.The door, which had been built to resist a siege during the religiouswars of the sixteenth century, groaned and trembled under the blows ofthe mighty Vulcan, but still held fast to the hinges. A man, standing alittle apart from the others and directing their movements, Tournay knewto be Gardin. Seeing that they were making little headway, the latterordered his men to desist, evidently to form a more definite plan ofattack. In the mean time Tournay was working along the line of thehemlocks towards the rear of the house. Suddenly three or four mendetached themselves from the attacking party and approached him. Fearingthat he had been discovered, he lay perfectly quiet. He soon saw thatthey were making for the trunk of a sturdy ash-tree which had beenrecently felled by a stroke of lightning. This they soon stripped of itsbranches, and hewing off about thirty feet of the trunk they bore itback on their shoulders with shouts of triumph. Here was a battering-ramwhich would clear a way for them.
Seeing them again occupied with the assault, Tournay continued to crawlcautiously along the edge of the grove until he was in a line with therear buildings. Here were the servants' rooms, the business offices ofthe estate, and at one corner the office and the rooms occupied byMatthieu Tournay, the steward. This, the oldest part of the building,was covered thick with old ivy, by whose gnarled and twisted roots hehad climbed often, when a boy, to the little chamber in the roof whichhad been his own. From this he knew well how to reach the apartments inthe main building. The repeated blows of the ash-tree against the doorswarned him that they could not resist the attack much longer. He climbedquickly up until he reached the well-known little window under theeaves. Dashing it open with his fist he swung himself into theattic-room which he had known so well in his boyhood.
