The Devil’s Laughter

by Frank Yerby

  “When I am freed,” he said pleasantly, “and you, Sergeant, have become Marshal of France—will you give me a place as your orderly?”

  Lampe stopped, his face becoming beet-red in the sun.

  “Don’t bait me, Nez Cassé,” he growled, “or I’ll take a gun-butt to you!”

  Jean smiled steadily at the sergeant. They both knew how much chance Lampe had of becoming even a captain. All the commands in the army from that rank on up were reserved for the noblesse. Lampe would be a sergeant until he died.

  “Forgive me, mon Sergent,” Jean laughed; “I did not mean to put you into a temper. ‘Tis far too hot to fly into a temper. The brain boils, and sunstroke comes easily enough without that. Come, sit, and join our magnificent repast. Some red wine, and breast of pheasant, perhaps? Or does mon Sergent prefer Cole de Veau, sauté en Madêre?”

  Sly grins showed on the faces of the other convicts. The food the guards ate was distinguished only in quantity from the abomination the forçats were wolfing noisily down at the moment.

  “Damn your eyes. Nez Cassé,” Lampe roared, “I’ll—”

  “Wait,” Jean Paul said pleasantly; “I was about to tell these lords and gentlemen of His Majesty’s most justly celebrated summer resort—”

  The roar of the convicts’ laughter drowned his words. Jean held up his hands for silence. “A story. Or rather, a parable. You, mon Sergent, would do well to listen. ‘Tis a most instructive parable—beneficial even to mighty warriors . . .”

  And before the bemused sergeant could stop him, he began:

  “In a far country,” he said slowly, watching Lampe’s eyes, “there were two tribes of asses. And one of these tribes had blue coats”—a warning gesture stopped the convicts’ sniggers— “and the other had grey coats, brown coats, black coats, any kind of coats except blue. But the peculiarity of the second tribe’s coats was that, whatever colour they were, they looked like rags. . . .”

  “What damnable tomfoolery is this?” Lampe began; but Jean smiled at him.

  “Wisdom, Sergeant,” he laughed, “horse-sense, or rather, ass-sense. Listen! Now in all other things but colour, the asses were alike. They brayed like asses, they ate like asses, they even smelt like asses. . . .”

  No gesture of his could stop the convicts’ laughter now. Lampe himself smiled grimly.

  “Go on,” he said; “we’ll see if this earns you a taste of the cat.”

  Jean Paul bowed.

  “I think not,” he said. “Later, when the sergeant has had time to think about these things, he may even thank me. But the strangest thing about these long-eared ones was that, being asses, they didn’t know that they were asses. But the lords of the land set grievous burdens upon the ragged asses, and with great cleverness set the blue asses to guarding them while they worked.”

  A light of comprehension showed in Lampe’s eyes.

  “Naturally, this pleased the blue asses, because it made them feel important. But they were fed no better than the ragged ones, and guarding their less fortunate brothers kept them prisoners, too; though they did not realise this. Of course, the lords of the land showed them some kindnesses; for instance, instead of beating them with whips, their masters only used the flat of the sword.”

  Despite himself, Sergeant Lampe gave a bitter nod.

  I have him now! Jean exulted, then went on: “Into this land there came a philosopher. He saw the fate of the asses, the blue, and the ragged, how their lords loaded them with burdens, beat them, starved them, took away even their bread and their salt. . . .”

  Nothing could stop the roar of the prisoners at the word ‘salt’. Nothing in France was more hated than the tax on salt. Even Lampe shared their grim pleasure, for he was a peasant, too.

  “So he resolved to help the asses, and being Physiocrat, and having all knowledge at his finger-tips, he began by opening their eyes. And all the asses saw that they were asses, and great was their consternation. The blue asses remembered how they were recruited into service: ‘Come, boys, soup, fish, meat and salad is what you get to eat in the regiment,’ ” and Jean’s voice took on the false heartiness of the recruiting agent: “ ‘I don’t deceive you—pie and Arbois wine are the extras.’ And the ragged ones remembered their colts, dying of swollen bellies from eating mashed whole bran and water, there being nothing else.”

  Jean smiled full into the sergeant’s eyes.

  “Then,” he said quietly, “all the asses took counsel together. And each ass brayed out his cahier des plaintes et doléances—” He paused deliberately, waiting for the bitter laughter, for the King had already promised to summon the States-General for the first time since 1614, and had asked all three Estates, Clergy, Nobles, and Commons, to submit a list of their grievances under the high-sounding title that Jean Paul had just pronounced. The laughter, when it came, was a thunderclap. Sergeant Lampe joined in it.

  “As,” Jean repeated, smiling, “each ass brayed out his list of complaints and grievances, their anger mounted like the whirlwind. They remembered that their hoofs were hard and sharp, their muscles strong. Then—” again he stopped.

  “Go on,” Lampe prodded, “what happened then?”

  “I don’t know,” Jean said simply. “How can I, or any of us here know, mon Sergent—since it is agreed that we are not asses, but men?”

  Lampe stared at him, his heavy face working.

  “Get back to work, you devils!” he roared; “and you, Nez Cassé, I’ll deal with you!”

  But as he walked away, he heard, clear above the clatter of the sledge-hammers against the rocks, the soaring boom of Jean’s laughter.

  But three days later, he called Jean aside.

  “Listen, Nez,” he growled; “I’ve done some thinking about the things you said. And damn my eyes if they ain’t true! Told that story of yours the other night at mess—and you should have heard the boys roar.”

  Jean waited, smiling his perpetual, satanic smile.

  “There was some talk,” the sergeant went on, eyeing Jean narrowly, “of exchanging views with other regiments with an eye to getting our just deserts. But, damn it, man! we’re from the same stock as these poor devils inside the walls, and learning is the thing we lack. . . . Of course, some of the corporals, and most of the sergeants can read a bit, and even write a fairish hand . . . but we ain’t got the words, Nez—not the fine and proper words like you were using the other day; ‘tis known that you’re an educated man, a lawyer, some say, so I thought about you. Said to myself: It’s been a long time since Nez Cassé gave us any trouble. Settled down a bit, kind of found himself—”

  “Thank you, mon Sergent,” Jean smiled; “that’s very true.”

  “ ‘S all right. Wondered if you wouldn’t listen to some of the boys’ ideas and set them down in good style . . . Might be able to do you a favour, ease up on your work a bit, say—not too much, though, because that would cause complaints from the others.”

  Jean Paul made him a deep bow.

  “Sergeant,” he laughed, “I’d be only too honoured!”

  “Good! Tonight I’m going to smuggle you into the barracks. There’ll be a table set up, and writing materials . . . then the boys will have their say. You set it all down, proper like. We’ll see that it gets into the right hands.”

  Into the right hands—or into the wrong ones; I have no way of knowing, Jean Paul thought often enough in the next six months. It’s like duelling in the dark against a foe I cannot see—who evades me with marvellous agility, but gives me back no blows, knowing that in the end I must exhaust myself.

  But he kept trying, from the last days of the August heat until the mistral went crying along the land and the nights took on a chill like iron.

  “How’s it going, Nez?” the convicts asked. They understood what he was doing.

  “Well enough, I think,” Jean said; but he didn’t really know. Not all of it, at least. Not entirely.

  “Three more of the guards went over the hill last night—” th
e words moved along from bearded mouth to crusted ear down the long line until they reached him. “Keep it up, Nez—you’re getting to them. Stick ‘em where it hurts!”

  “I’ll keep it up all right,” Jean said. “But you’re giving me too much credit. These pig slops they have to eat along with us are enough to make a man desert, not to mention the beatings they get from their officers. . . .”

  A warning shove from the next man in line stopped him. Looking up, he saw Sergeant Lampe coming towards him. With the sergeant was a small man in a spotless, flawlessly pressed uniform, resplendent with gold braid.

  “The King’s Lieutenant!” the convict next to him hissed. “Now what the devil—?”

  Jean studied the face of M. Joseph Gaspard, Marquis de Coteau, Lieutenant Criminel to His Most Puissant Majesty, and Superintendent in charge of the prison.

  Sergeant Lampe pointed Jean Paul out.

  “That’s him,” he said. “That’s the one, there. . . .”

  Lieutenant Gaspard stared at Jean with frank curiosity. “This villainous brute?” he said.

  “He’s the one, all right,” Sergeant Lampe said.

  “The name is Marin, I believe.” Sergeant Lampe nodded.

  “Marin,” the Lieutenant said, “come here!”

  Jean Paul put his pick down slowly and walked over to the King’s Lieutenant. There was an unholy joy in his black eyes and the crooked smile on his face was more pronounced than ever.

  M. Gaspard found himself at a disadvantage. The pomp and circumstance of his high office weren’t helped by the fact that he had to look upward to see into Jean Paul’s eyes. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, especially since this muscular young brute with the broken face persisted in smiling at him.

  “What the devil are you grinning at?” he snapped.

  Jean’s smile widened.

  “A thousand pardons, my lord,” he said; “but the smile I cannot help. ‘Tis a fixture of my face, inscribed there by the loving hands of those who captured me.”

  “I see,” M. Gaspard said. But he was conscious that unaccountably his dignity had suffered. He twisted his face into his sternest, most official frown.

  “You’re wondering, doubtless,” he said, “about the purpose of this visit.”

  “I never wonder,” Jean smiled. “ ‘Tis a bootless business. But if his Lordship cares to divulge the reasons for this unexpected honour . . .”

  “Damn it, man—stop talking like a book!” M. Gaspard roared. “Use the speech natural to you. Such airs don’t impress me!”

  “That,” Lampe said, “is the way he always talks, my lord.”

  “Who,” M. Gaspard demanded, “taught a baseborn villain like you to talk like a gentleman?”

  “My mother,” Jean said, “who was gently bred. And after her, the professors of the Lycée at Lyons, then, subsequently, those at the University of Paris, where I read for the law. I fear his Lordship must bear with the pedantry of my speech, since I know no other way of expressing myself.”

  M. Gaspard glanced at Sergeant Lampe.

  “Explains a lot, doesn’t it?” he growled. “Those villagers at Saint Jule were not quite the fools I thought them—”

  “Hardly, my lord,” Sergeant Lampe said.

  The Lieutenant eyed Jean Paul for some moments.

  “I had this morning,” he said, “a long letter signed by a literary rascal who calls himself Pierre du Pain. . . .”

  Jean’s eyes kindled.

  “I see that you know him,” M. Gaspard said.

  “Yes, my lord,” Jean murmured.

  “It seems that the villagers of Saint Jule have paid you the singular honour of electing you as their representative to the States-General. I see now that you’re not ill fitted for the post. But whatever intent His Majesty had in calling up that archaic body, he certainly didn’t dream that peasant fools would try to send up a branded forçat to sit in deliberation over matters of state.”

  “Why not, my lord,” Jean said easily; “if, as you yourself have admitted, the branded convict is not ill fitted for the post?”

  “Damn my eyes!” the Lieutenant swore. “I didn’t come here to engage in legal debates, Marin I came out of curiosity to see what manner of man could command so much attention from behind the bars of a jail. But I’d better warn you, I think. You’re going to be more closely watched than any other man in this prison. Any attempt to escape will be dealt with promptly and severely. Mon Dieu! What has France come to?”

  “Shall I attempt to tell you, my lord?” Jean Paul smiled.

  M. Gaspard stared at him. Then a glint appeared in his little blue eyes.

  “Why yes, Marin,” he said dryly, “do. ‘Twould be most instructive to learn what’s wrong with France—from your lips.”

  Jean Paul ignored the perceptible sneer in the Lieutenant’s voice. He looked past M. Gaspard—through him.

  “The mistral,” he said softly, “that strange wind that talks darkly inside a man’s heart, my lord. It’s been blowing over France a long time, and it’s growing. ‘Twill be a whirlwind soon. . . .”

  “You’re mad!” M. Gaspard spat.

  “There are voices in it,” Jean went on; “the voices of the men who gather together all over France now, using words they would have been hanged for two short years ago. The voices of the peasants meeting in their little towns—like Saint Jule, my lord, while provincial lawyers like myself listen and write down the endless lists of their bitter griefs. And being thus set down in words, the words take fire, and the wind of discontent snatches them up and sends them like sparks throughout the land—”

  He paused, smiling at the King’s Lieutenant. But M. Gaspard made no move to stop him.

  “The wind grows, my lord—becomes a gale. Provincial Assemblies, unheard-of in most places for centuries, sit. The people hear the facts, see the mountains of their burdens added up in cold figures. They learn now that they, living in actual starvation, pay the taxes of the whole nation while noble and priest escape—they, who in every bad winter these past sixty years have come to eat the bark of trees, the fodder painfully scraped together for their animals, who accept in dumb misery that one child out of every three will die in his tender years of a multitude of ills—all of which, my lord, can be lumped under a single heading: hunger.”

  Within the range of his voice, the picks and shovels had come to a halt; but neither Sergeant Lampe nor M. Gaspard noticed it. They were staring at Jean Paul Marin, listening to the torrent of words that poured from his broken mouth.

  “There is muttering in that wind now,” he went on, “anger in that gale. The King, poor, foolish statesman, has breached his own defences by his very invitation to complain. The cahiers des doléances make mountains of paper, and the rising wind of the people’s anger catches them now, my lord, so that they cover all of France like snow.

  “Paris is full of deserters from the army—I’m told that my lord’s own Corps de Garde has contributed to that number. There are riots in Marseilles; Jacqueries in scattered places. And here and there a lordly château burns. This is France today, M’sieur le Marquis. And all that is wrong with her is that the people have had their fill of wrongs, and will bear them no longer.”

  He smiled crookedly at the King’s Lieutenant.

  “Even among my lord’s own class, this is so,” he said; “for certainly brave men like my lord must be tired of having their just rewards for the honourable scars they suffered on the King’s behalf intercepted by some perfumed idler at Versailles. . . .”

  M. Gaspard whirled to face Sergeant Lampe.

  “Put this madman in solitary!” he roared; then he turned upon his heel and strode away.

  It was night. Jean Paul could tell that. Now he could no longer see his fingers, no matter how close he held them before his eyes. During the day he could see the outlines of things. A little light filtered around the edges of the cover of the ‘Hole’. He thought that he had been in solitary for two days and part of a third. This wa
s certainly the beginning of the third night. But it was hard to count the passage of time. Men kept in the hole long enough always lost count. And those kept there too long lost their minds.

  That wasn’t going to happen to him if he could help it. He had spent many hours the first day thinking about his past: about Lucienne; about Nicole. Then it came to him that thinking about Nicole, remembering her, was scarcely the best way to keep a grip upon his sanity. So he proceeded to make elaborate plans for his political future.

  A newspaper—that was the idea. Once in Paris, with Pierre with him, he would be able to mould the minds of the masses—sway them as easily as he had swayed Sergeant Lampe and the guard. An easy boot-strap to power. And once he was established, then—Nicole. God in Heaven! La Moyte may have married her off by now—or shut her up in a convent. She may have forgotten me. Women do forget. Their minds and hearts are essentially fickle. Take Lucienne, for instance. . . .

  Devil take Lucienne! he thought. Then he threw back his head and laughed aloud.

  It was the sound of his laughter that made him notice the difference. It soared upward, freely, no longer echoing against the iron cover in the top that was the only way into or out of the hole. A minute later he felt the cold night air on his face.

  He stood up, sweating. He heard the scrape of the iron cover moving. Then, far off and faint, he saw the blessed twinkle of a star.

  “Nez!”

  “Here!” he laughed. “Did you think I’d gone for a walk?”

  “Rope,” the voice from above whispered. “Sending it down now. Feel for it!”

  He groped endlessly in the pitch blackness. Then, suddenly, startlingly, it brushed against his face. He caught it, gave it a tug. Then he was being hauled upward. Rough hands seized him, pulled him over the edge.

  “Here’s a sack,” they told him. “There’s bread in it, and cheese. A bottle of wine, too. Present from Sergeant Lampe. . . .”

  “Lampe!” Jean gasped.

  “Yes. How do you think we got the rope and the food? The guards left them where we could find them. Sack’s half full of papers they want you to put before the States.”