The Devil’s Laughter

by Frank Yerby

  Jean felt the fury beat about his ears. I fought, he raged, to free France of the tyranny of the noblesse, but not, God help me, to turn her over to the worse tyranny of the canaille! Something must be done about this—and now!

  He strode up to the rostrum without signalling the President or awaiting his turn and stood up tall before them, his face dark mahogany with fury, the scar livid, and lifted his head to the gallery.

  “Silence, you claquedents!” he roared at them, his voice thunderous, Olympian. “Such behaviour is obscene!”

  Pure astonishment held them, all the claquedents, clatter-teeth, all the whores and their pimps, and army deserters, and the fishwives. For the first time in months the silence was profound.

  “We are here,” Jean said slowly, evenly, “as representatives of the people of France—all the people! Not solely of one faction of them, and most certainly not of the scourings of the dung-heaps of Paris!”

  Mirabeau gazed at his young colleague, his big face slack With admiration.

  “We will do what is best for France—after due consideration whether or not it really is best. It may please you—it may not! That makes nothing, and less than nothing, you comprehend. We threw off the yoke of slavery to the noblesse, and ye scum and ordure of vileness presume now to dictate to us! Tyranny is tyranny whatever its source! And I, for one, do not propose to bow to it!”

  “Nor I! Nor I!” half a hundred voices roared from the Right Centre and the Centre. The Jacobins and the Cordeliers of the Left kept silent, watching him with furious eyes.

  “I came here today,” Jean went on, “to submit my resignation. . . .”

  “Then resign, damn you!” Théroigne screamed. The others took up her cry: “Resign! Resign! Resign!”

  Jean looked at them, the perpetual half-smile on his face deepening into mockery, into an icy contempt that infuriated them all the more. Then, staring straight at Théroigne, he started to laugh. The great boom of his laughter smashed their outcries into silence—its eerie quality drove them back upon themselves, recoiling physically, as from a rain of blows.

  “Thou, Théroigne,” he laughed, “would You become Queen of France? ‘Tis a thing more difficult than reigning over the poules of Paris! As for the rest of you, keep still and listen! I said I came to resign; but now I will not. I will not be cowed by cowards and whores, nor surrender my will, my judgment, my sense of what should be—what must be—done, to claques who applaud or hiss at the drift of Philip of Orleans’ gold! I cannot be driven, mes pauvres—I can only do what I know to be right and just in the sight of God and mine own conscience—or die in the attempt.”

  He looked at them, his black eyes merciless.

  “And before,” he said quietly, “you count too hopefully upon that event—especially that son of stupidity who is now whispering my name for the list of the proscribed for the windy blood swillers of the Palais Royal—I propose to give a demonstration of how expensive a proposition it would be to purchase my death. Ye odious scum can only pay for it with your own lives—many of them. Alors, regardez!”

  He swung himself down from the rostrum in one great leap and strode through the corridor to the foot of the gallery; then up the stairs four at a time, his black eyes filled with completely murderous glee, into their very midst. They broke before him, armed though they were, many of them with pikes, sabres, pistols, unable to stand before this, this absolutely incomprehensible thing—one man against them all, facing them not only without fear, but with savage joy. And they opened before him until he came to the bully who had whispered his name, stoping there, throwing back his head and roaring with laughter.

  “Augustin! As I live and breathe! What extraordinary good luck!”

  “Don’t touch me, Jean Marin!” Augustin whined, his face white with terror; “by God’s love, don’t—”

  “The brotherhood of the broken faces, eh, Augustin?” Jean laughed; “on that, my friend, we are quits. But,” and his voice sank to an icy whisper, more penetrating than a shout, “for my four years lost from my life—for four years in hell, for that, dear Augustin, we are not quits, are we, hein? No, Augustin—not quits—not ever quits—”

  Then his two big hands shot out and caught the ex-coachman’s shirt-front. He spread his legs apart, the muscles of his arms bunched, and Augustin, a big man, heavy as Jean himself and almost as tall, came up from the floor, up, up, until Jean shifted his left hand and held Augustin crosswise above his head, and turned, until he was standing close to the balustrade, and then once more he loosed his laughter.

  “Citizen Deputies!” he laughed; “I give you a prize! Here, catch!”

  Then with all his force he hurled Augustin over the railing, while the deputies scurried for cover, the big man whirling downward, turning over and over to crash into the chairs below, splintering three of them, and lying there stunned a moment while Jean Paul marched back through the thoroughly cowed claque until he reached the head of the stairs.

  “As for the rest of you,” he said, “I’d suggest you return to your occupations of selling fish and other commodities of even less value and leave us to our business, which is governing France. I suggest this very patiently—but, as you have seen, my patience is remarkably short. . . .”

  Then he turned and went quietly down the stairs. Three minutes later the galleries of the Riding School were empty for the first time since the Assembly had met there. As for Augustin, hearing Jean’s footsteps on the stairs, he rose in great haste and fled the hall, dragging one leg behind him, making a quite remarkable speed for all that. . . .

  Jean stood on the floor of the Assembly and bowed to the president.

  “I think, M. le Président,” he said mockingly, “that we may resume our session, and rather more comfortably than before, n’est-ce pas?”

  Then, quietly, he took his seat. There was a spattering of applause, but most of the deputies turned eyes big with two things towards him. The two things, Jean saw, were: admiration—and terror.

  I have failed, he thought miserably; I have not freed them, and I have once more enslaved myself. I cannot leave Paris now, not even to search for my poor Nicole. And the longer I allow the business to remain dormant, the more difficult it will be to revive it. . . . All my theatrics of today went absolutely for nothing, except to endanger myself the more.

  He turned into the Rue de Sèvres and took a seat in the Café de la Victoire, where the fast dwindling numbers of the moderates always met. He went there from pure habit, and because he was French to the very core. Like all Frenchmen, he thought mockingly, I’d sooner be found dead than in a café where uncongenial ideas are noised about. . . . Yet this is folly, I think I should frequent Café Charpentier, with the Cordeliers or even take a glass from time to time with the Jacobins. Then I would know what their next move will be—there’s little to be gained by talking always with those who agree with you. . . . He turned in his chair.

  “Garçon,” he called, “a carafe of the best, if you please!”

  But, this evening, even the solace of wine failed him. He left the carafe half full and engaged a fiacre to take him back to his lodging in the Fauboung Saint-Antoine. But he did not go to his own flat.

  I faced the mob, he thought; but this is more difficult. Why is it that a man can have so much of one kind of courage and so little of another? Yet this kind, this moral courage, I seem to lack almost entirely. I’d almost rather die than face Pierre and Marianne now. And Fleurette—dear God!

  But it had to be done. He got down, paid the driver, and dismissed him. Then he mounted the stairs.

  “Come in, Jean,” Marianne said quietly.

  He did not offer Pierre his hand. He had the feeling that Pierre would have refused to take it. Pierre sat there, looking at him, his eyes blue ice. Then he stood up.

  “If,” he said slowly, “I were not a practical man and basically a peasant, I would show you my door, Jean Paul Marin. But I am both, and also a little of a coward, I think. The new business is a
lready launched. We’ve flooded Paris with posters announcing it. And not one hour passes but a swarm of people descends upon us, demanding the clothes of which we have so far only samples to show them. Good. It will go well. What you do about your private life is your own business, of course. Under ordinary circumstances, I would laugh and forget it; I’ve been no saint myself, as you well know. . . .”

  He paused, searching Jean’s face.

  “But now, knowing what you are doing, I find myself pitying you with all my heart, and hating you at the same time, for what you’ve done to Fleurette.”

  “She knows?” Jean breathed.

  “She guesses. Jean, Jean, we—Marianne and I have come to love that poor, gentle child as though she were our own! She weeps her heart out every night over you; she eats less than nothing. . . . She is with us now, in that chamber; when I have finished with this, you must go to her, comfort her it you can. But this one thing I must say: From the fruits of this business I will pay you every sou that you have advanced. Then you and I will be quits, our friendship at an end; for this is a kind of folly and cruelty I find insupportable. Alors, I have had my say. Perhaps I wrong you—perhaps there is some explanation. . . .”

  Jean heard the pleading tone creep into Pierre’s voice. His old friend, he knew, was searching for any basis upon which he could equate his sense of justice, his belief in right and wrong, with a friendship which was inexpressibly dear to him.

  “No,” Jean said flatly, “there is no explanation. May I see Fleurette now?”

  Pierre stared at him.

  “Very well,” he said, “go ahead. . . .“ And suddenly his voice was very tired and very old.

  Fleurette was lying face-down on the little bed. But she turned at his step, and he saw the tear streaks on her face, trailing downward from her marvellous, sightless eyes.

  “Jean?” she whispered.

  “Yes, Fleurette,” Jean said heavily; then: “Please don’t weep over me. I am not worth it.”

  “It is because you are worth it that I weep,” she said. “But don’t trouble yourself, my Jean—I—I’ll be all right. . . .”

  “I’m a beast!” Jean said, his voice bitter with self-contempt. “Look, Fleurette, I’ll never leave—”

  But she came up from the bed and laid her fingers across his mouth.

  “Don’t say that, my love!” she whispered. “Go to her! Go, and have your fill of that woman, whose voice, even—is evil! Then come back to me. You will, I know; because you are good. One day you will sicken of her to the core of your being, one day the sight of her face will make you retch—then you will come back. I shall be waiting, my Jean. But now I cannot permit you to stay against your will. I am a woman, Jean—entirely a woman, though you have never quite believed it. I am as capable of jealousy as any other. And when you are finally mine, you must be all mine. I would not share you with God or the Devil!”

  “Fleurette—” Jean began.

  “Hear me out! She has bewitched you, for in this one thing only are you weak. I know she must be lovely; and you, being a passionate man, have mistaken her corrupt passion of the body for something that is greater than it. One day I shall show you what passion really is—what love is; for I have it all; guarded in my heart, in all my body, entirely for you. . . . I think I could burn you to a cinder; I know I could! Whatever she is, whatever she has, will pale into insignificance beside what boils within my heart and runs scaldingly through all my veins each time you touch me. . . .”

  She stood there, staring at him with her sightless eyes, the great tears pencilling her cheeks.

  “You have never kissed me,” she whispered. “I want you to do that now. Yes, come here and kiss me—then go!”

  Jean bent down gently and took her in his arms. But her small hands swept up suddenly, convulsively, and locked themselves behind his neck, and going up on tiptoe she found his mouth, and clung to it endlessly, cherishing it in terror, and anguish, and tenderness, and finally in pure, undisguised passion that was like the flame at the core of life itself, so wholeheartedly given, so unashamed, so complete that nothing he had ever experienced in all his life, not even Nicole’s kiss, had been at all like this, until he was forced at the last to free himself and reel back away from her.

  “My God!” he whispered.

  “Go, Jean,” she said softly; then: “Oh, damn you—go!”

  He turned very quietly and went down the stairs.

  There was a fiacre waiting before his door. Lucienne sat in it, waiting.

  “Get in,” she said; “I took the liberty of breaking the lock and packing your things. They’re already in the carriage.”

  “You witch!” Jean swore.

  “Oh, don’t be tiresome,” Lucienne laughed; “up with you!”

  Jean Paul hesitated a long, long moment. Then he put up his hands and climbed up beside her. The driver cracked his whip and the horses moved off down the dim, lantern-lit street. The sound of the hoofs made a curious rhythm against the stones.

  “Lost,” they whispered against the stones, “lost, lost, lost. . . .”

  And Jean Paul Marin, hearing them, echoed the sound in his heart.

  11

  “YOU’RE going to see her, really going to see her—at last?” Lucienne breathed.

  “Yes,” Jean smiled.

  “Tonight? Oh, Jean! I think that’s the most perfectly thrilling thing in the world!”

  “Yes,” Jean said slowly, “I’m going to see Her Majesty tonight. And I’ll admit quite freely that I’m looking forward to the meeting with pleasure.”

  “I’m not so sure I like that remark,” Lucienne said.

  “Why?” Jean said.

  “Because I’m a jealous woman, darling!” Lucienne laughed. “I hate every moment of your life that’s spent away from me. Promise me you won’t spend too much time with her, Jeannot—I’ve seen her many times, and she’s lovely. Promise me, Jeannot!”

  “Perhaps,” Jean smiled. He looked at the calendar. February twenty-sixth, 1791. In a few more months it would be a year since he and Lucienne had been together again.

  “Sometimes,” he said dryly, “I almost believe you when you say things like that.”

  Lucienne danced over to him and kissed him hard.

  “I do mean it,” she whispered. “I never thought I would fall in love again—truly in love. But then I didn’t, really. I know now that I had never stopped loving you. Have I ever looked sideways at another man in all this time?”

  “Frequently,” Jean mocked.

  “Only looked, though. I don’t want anyone else. Every other man bores me quite to tears. It’s wonderful being with you, Jeannot. Everything about it is wonderful—having our coffee in bed together in the morning—the long, long talks about all your grave problems of State—— Oh, it all makes me feel like a queen myself!”

  “You are,” Jean said.

  “Thank you, darling—for that. Now run along like a good boy to your dreadful Assembly. I’m going to lie in bed another hour, then I must get up for rehearsals. Are you coming to the performance tonight? Oh, but you can’t, can you? That’s all right; this is one time I won’t mind. . . .”

  Jean kissed her and went down the stairs. A servant brought his horse. He rode off towards the Assembly, reflecting all the time on how groundless his fears about Lucienne had proved. She had been faithful, kind, generous, amusing, apparently deeply interested in his work from the intelligent questions she asked about it—and surprisingly frugal.

  I was wrong on all accounts, he mused; I thought she’d make me miserable, and instead.

  “Bonjour, Jean,” Pierre du Pain said quietly.

  “Ah, Pierre!” Jean said; “I’m glad to see you. Name of a name, how prosperous you look! Come, ride with me towards the Tuileries, and tell me about things. . . . Surely you don’t still bear a grudge against me.”

  “No,” Pierre smiled sadly; “a man must do what he must, I suppose. Yes, things go well with us. If the business keeps
up I shall become one of the richest men in Paris. Marianne has a hundred dresses now, and has gone on a régime in order to become fashionably slim.”

  “And Fleurette?” Jean murmured.

  Pierre hesitated.

  “She seems content,” he said slowly; “she has become a marvel with figures. And she is the heart and soul of the business; all the workers, men and women alike, adore her. . . .”

  “Is she happy?” Jean said.

  “Morbleu!” Pierre roared; “what is it to you, you great fool! Yes, yes, she is happy! So happy that she lives in a dream—an idiotic dream that you will one day come back to her! She believes you will, and lives in hope and expectancy for that day. But by heavens if that day ever comes, and you should come back, I hope she has sense enough to spit in your ugly face!”

  “Sorry, Pierre,” Jean said gently, “I didn’t mean to anger you.”

  “No,” Pierre said, shaking his head. “’Tis I who am sorry. I think I can only truly become enraged with those I am fond of. And when I see the two people I love best on earth caught up in this ugly, hopeless mess . . .”

  “The two people?” Jean said.

  “Fleurette—and you, my old one. I would rather see you in prison again than in the hands of Lucienne Talbot. Ah—don’t tell me! She is very lovely; she dances beautifully, better, I’ll wager, horizontally, than vertically; and I dread seeing what you’ll be like when she has finished with you! And when I reflect that you have the love of a veritable angel, I could weep. . . . Forgive me, Jean, but I was never good at holding my tongue.”

  “It’s all right,” Jean said, “only our truest friends tell us the truth. May I come and see you some time?”

  “No,” Pierre said; “I’ll meet you at one of the cafés instead. Marianne and I are both agreed that it would be bad to upset Fleurette now that she has gained some measure of peace.”

  “Very well,” Jean said; “I’m often at the Café de la Victoire.”

  “Good!” Pierre growled; “I’ll meet you there. A bientôt, Jean.”