The Devil’s Laughter

by Frank Yerby

  “If it works,” Jean said dryly; “they’ve never tried it before, remember. Besides, all pain is not physical. I should think that just the knowing that at a certain exact second you were going to die—the business of being led from the cell, marching up to the platform of this new kind of fiendishness, seeing everything in readiness to stop for ever your dreams, your hopes, even your simplest enjoyments like sitting in the sun—what are these things but a refinement of cruelty, Renoir? No, thanks, they can test the infernal machine of the so very humane Doctor Guillotin without me!”

  “Alors, you have much right, as usual,” Gerade sighed; “but I just remembered something: Madame Roland, the wife of the Minister of the Interior, charged me with the task of bringing you to their next grand soirée, the first Friday in May. At the time I didn’t know you had a wife; but I’m sure that Manon Roland would be charmed with your Fleurette. I’ll be there, of course; I never miss Manon’s soirees.”

  “So,” Jean smiled; “the fair Madame Roland has captured even you, Renoir? How does it feel to rub shoulders with Robespierre, Danton, Desmoulins, Pétion—even Marat, I’m told?”

  “They are but noises in the crowd,” Gerade said. “All shades of political opinion meet at the Rolands’, and Manon, by God, makes them keep peace with one another. She, I think, favours the far Left; but she’s so infernally clever one can never be sure. But I, too, have a reason for begging you to accept this invitation: Manon Roland’s influence is far too great upon the young politicians who love her, even upon the old ones like Sieyès, who respect her. And her intelligence, great as it is, has one dangerous female flaw: she hates the Queen with a passion that is absolutely bottomless—which would be unimportant if Manon Roland were unimportant; but she is not.”

  “I’m told,” Jean said, “that she’s the most powerful figure in France.”

  “That, mon vieux, is scarcely an understatement. The men around her are but puppets dancing upon the wires that she pulls, and how she knows to make them dance! Her ancient, pedantic fool of a husband adores her, and is consumed with jealousy of the younger men around her—particularly of Barbaroux, in which idea he is mistaken, for ‘tis Leonard Buzot who truly catches her eyes. . . . Ma foi! What an old gossip I’ve become! Where was I?”

  “You want me, I think,” Jean said, “to dissuade this Madame Roland from continually attacking the crown through her political henchmen. ‘Tis for this, I think, that you got me an invitation to her famous soirée.”

  “Not I,” Gerade swore; “I merely thought of taking advantage of matters after she had asked me. You’re not unknown in Paris, Jean Marin; and even if you were, your clothes, your manners, your obvious wealth, and that romantic scar of yours would not let you remain so, long.”

  “Thank you,” Jean laughed. “Tell Madame Roland that I accept with pleasure—but only if the invitation includes my bride. Find out about that and let me know.”

  “I will,” Gerade said, and put out his hand. “Au ‘voir, Jean. . . .”

  Fleurette was still in the petit salon when Jean came back. She was frowning. My little angel, Jean thought with secret amusement, has quite a temper. . . .

  “What kept you so long, Jean Marin?” she snapped at him. “I don’t think I like that man, for all his gruff, honest-sounding voice. I think he’s a faker—and that he’s arranging some scheme to take you away from me!”

  “How you’ve changed,” Jean laughed; “before we were married you scarcely ever spoke above a whisper; now listen to you! How long is it going to take you to start throwing things—like Marianne?”

  “Not very long,” Fleurette said, “if all the raffish characters out of your past life continue to turn up; I tell you, Jean Marin. . . .”

  “That,” Jean said with mock severity, “is the second time you’ve called me Jean Marin, and in precisely the same tone of voice. For that I claim a forfeit—” And without another word he gathered Fleurette into his arms and kissed her hard.

  For a moment she remained rigid in his arms, then the stiffness went out of her limbs and her mouth clung softly to his. She brought her small hands up and wound her fingers into his coarse black hair.

  “Forgive me, love,” she whispered; “it’s just that I become so afraid sometimes. . . . I remember the beggar waif I was when you found me, and when I remember, it seems so impossible that you should love me. You must be patient with me, Jean—I have so very much to learn. . . .”

  “And so have I,” Jean sighed; “but we’ll learn together. As for Renoir, he risked his life to let me escape from a prison camp that he commanded, has remained my faithful friend up to this hour, and admires you deeply. He has got us an invitation to visit the famous Madame Roland.”

  “Oh, Jean—I couldn’t!” Fleurette wailed; “I wouldn’t know what to say, or how to act, on anything! I’m not even sure of my grammar, and I might fall over things, and. . . .”

  “You,” Jean said gravely, “will enter upon my arm. I shan’t lead you into tables and vases, I assure you. You speak beautifully—and you’re extravagantly lovely—more now than ever before, for which I claim full credit.”

  “Braggart!” Fleurette laughed, and kissed him once more. “But it’s true, I believe. If happiness makes one beautiful, why then I am the most beautiful woman in all the world!”

  “You are,” Jean said.

  These are the times, Jean Paul thought, a few days later that first week in May, when the news of the disasters of April 29 reached Paris, when no man can count his life his own. The choices I have should be simple, but no choices are simple any more. Paris is intolerable—even to remain in it is to give silent consent to abominations. . . . And now that Renoir has offered me an honourable avenue of escape, I cannot take it because of Fleurette. To go to war, to fight in defence of one’s country, takes courage, but that kind of courage I have.

  ‘Tis this other thing that I cannot bear: to know that they plot new murders, new riots, new assaults upon that poor, harmless idiot who wears the crown, that they will never desist until they gain their heart’s desire—his death, and more especially that of the Queen. . . . Dear God, no drunkenness is worse than that which comes from the wine of power! Nothing touches them, nothing stops them. They hurl us into war, unprepared, bankrupt, our most skilled officers fled, our soldiery a canaille in arms, willing to sacrifice the country itself to their mad dreams and madder ambitions.

  Fleurette came up behind his chair and let her arms rest lightly upon his shoulders, listening to the newsvendors crying in the street below.

  “What are they shouting about, Jean?” she said.

  “Dillon and Brion,” Jean said, “two of Rochambeau’s lieutenants, met the Austrians a few days ago near Tournai and Mons. Their troops threw down their arms and baggage and ran like sheep. Dillon tried to stop his men. They killed him. The Austrians have crossed the frontier and taken Quievrain.”

  “This is grave,” Fleurette said. “Jean—”

  “Yes, love?”

  “That’s what the captain was here to see you about, wasn’t it? To get you to join the army, I mean?”

  “Yes, Fleurette,” Jean said.

  “Why didn’t you, Jean? Because of me?”

  “Yes, Fleurette,” Jean said.

  She came slowly round in front of the chair and faced him.

  “Tell me a few things, my husband,” she said; “as your wife, I have a right to know. What effect will this war have upon your business?”

  “If England comes in—as nearly everyone is sure she will, my business will be finished. Bad as the morale in the army is, it’s worse in the fleet. We can’t hope to cope with the British Navy. French merchant shipping will be swept from the seas within six months. But don’t trouble yourself about that. We can live, and well, from the rents from my houses. I’ve bought more—at Marseilles, Calais, Toulon, Bordeaux—largely because I didn’t want to concentrate my capital in any one place where it would be vulnerable to mad politicians and rioters.
”

  “Then, it’s not the business, but me alone that keeps you from the fighting?”

  “Yes, love,” Jean smiled; “I consider you the best of all possible reasons.”

  “You are not afraid, I know that,” Fleurette said slowly; “you’re braver than a lion. Listen, my heart—you know how stubborn and bad I was about the priests and the marriage? Well, I have another faith, almost as strong—and that faith is France. I should die almost of terror and loneliness if you left me, but I should hate you, I think, and myself, if you would not go.”

  “Fleurette!” Jean said.

  “Hear me out. Not now—the country is not truly in any great danger, despite all their shouting. These men were but lieutenants, therefore they commanded at best a few hundred men. A small battle, Jean, that these newsvendors exaggerate, as they puff up everything. But if it becomes serious—if France is truly in danger, I should despise a man who put his business, his personal safety, even his love for his wife, above his country.

  “We’ve done bad things in France, but the ideas that you fought for, my Jean, were good; ‘twas not you and your friends who corrupted them. It’s only here that the common man has a chance now—here and perhaps in America. The Austrians and the Prussians want to turn back the clock; the world grows too old now for kings.”

  Jean stared at her. That she was intelligent he had always known; but he was astonished at her penetration.

  “You’re amazing!” he whispered; “I think this Madame Roland has found her match in you.”

  “We go there tonight, don’t we?” Fleurette said. “I’m glad—I’m not afraid any more. No one will dare despise your wife, even if she is blind.”

  “No one would ever dream of it, Fleurette,” Jean said; “that is the worst of your blindness, that you cannot realise how utterly lovely you are.”

  “Thank you, M’sieur my husband!” Fleurette laughed, and kissed him. “But please, Jean—if ever you feel you must go, do it! The God who blessed me with your love will never be so unkind as to take you away from me. You will come back again, covered with honour, and we will live in a new France where all men will appreciate your greatness and respect you—as I do.”

  “If the need arises,” Jean said slowly, “I will go, love. I’m glad you told me this—it has lifted a burden from my mind. But I am less hopeful than you; I think we shall be old, and perhaps even die, before France is peaceful again. I’ll tell you what I thought of: Once, when I was a stripling, my father took me on a voyage to the Antilles. You have no idea how beautiful Martinique and Guadeloupe are. Haiti, Saint Dominique are finished; the negroes have burned every plantation to the ground.”

  “I cannot blame them,” Fleurette said; “if any man tried to buy and sell me like a horse . . .”

  “Nor I,” Jean sighed; “but the point is this: my father owned land on both islands. By his will it was divided among Bertrand, Thérèse and me. When the worst of this is over, we can go there and live out our lives in peace. I would go now, but I would not forgive myself if France needed all her sons to defend her, and I had fled.”

  “Anywhere on earth or under it, my Jean,” Fleurette whispered; “as long as it is with you. . . .”

  The salon of the Rolands, in the great house formerly occupied by Necker, was magnificent. Great mirrors glittered everywhere, so that the number of guests seemed doubled or trebled by the reflection. Manon Roland, clad in the white she nearly always wore, greeted them herself. Jean found her disappointing: in the first place she was too plump to suit his taste; in the second, while she was indisputably pretty, her beauty had a certain coarseness about it that repelled him. It was not until she began to talk that he realised the depth of her charm. Her voice was low, beautifully modulated; and her French was a joy to hear. She used speech like a rapier, flashingly brilliant, so that Jean almost expected to see the flash of a phrase hanging blindingly in mid-air. But she detached herself quickly from young Barbaroux, late town clerk at Marseilles, now becoming in his early twenties a power in France, and returned at once to Fleurette.

  “Sit down, my dear,” she said; “you don’t know what a pleasure it is to have a lovely creature like you as my guest. My parties overflow with men who seldom bring their wives.”

  “I think it is because,” Fleurette said clearly, “their wives would make jealous scenes over you once they were home again.”

  “You little flatterer!” Manon Roland laughed. “But you, I think, have nothing to fear in that department; any man who does not adore you to the exclusion of all else is simply a fool.”

  “But then,” Fleurette countered, “men are often fools, are they not, Madame?”

  “She has wit, too!” Madame Roland said; “my felicitations, Citizen Marin, upon your choice.”

  “Thank you, Madame,” Jean said. “I hope I caused no derangement by bringing my wife. I seem to be the only man here who did; but you understand, Madame Roland, that I have not yet grown so tired of her that I would leave her willingly for any length of time.”

  Fleurette groped for his hand until she found it, and pressed it softly against her cheek.

  “A pretty speech, Citizen,” Manon Roland said; “and an even more charming tableau! You are fortunate—such true love is rare in our day. But don’t be troubled, there are three or four other wives here. They’re upstairs repairing their beauty. And there’s another couple here you must meet . . . the Bethunes. . . . He’s a provincial business man, cultured and rather handsome, too; but she! She’s a doll of Dresden china, quite as lovely as your wife, but a complementary opposite, you understand. I’m sure you’ll adore her.”

  “I have no doubt I shall,” Fleurette smiled; “that is, as long as Jean doesn’t too much. Then I might be tempted to pull out some of her hair. . . .”

  “They’re somewhere about,” Manon said. “Wait here and I’ll find them.”

  “There’ll be time,” Jean said. “We’ll meet your friends; but I’d like to wander about a bit, with your and Fleurette’s permission, and catch the drift of the political wind. . . . You’ll excuse me?”

  He moved off, joining first one group, then another, listening to the fierce debates being waged for or against the war. Big Georges Danton thrust a thumb into his ribs.

  “Damn my soul, Marin!” he rumbled; “but that wife of yours is a pretty wench! Convenient, too—I have no doubt; at least you can pinch the maid’s bottom without causing a scene. My wife raises hell!”

  Jean smiled. He had long since become accustomed to Danton’s healthy vulgarity.

  He started to frame a jesting reply, but it never came out. Danton stared at him curiously, seeing his face drained of colour, his lips moving, shaping words, but no sound coming out of them, no sound at all.

  “Now what the devil ails you, Marin?” Danton roared.

  “I,” Jean whispered, “have just seen a ghost . . . you’ll excuse me, Citizen Danton?”

  Then he marched away, straight towards the small girl with the silvery blonde hair who had just entered the room on the arm of a tall, distinguished man in his late fifties.

  When he was close he stopped before her, his face dark and terrible.

  “Nicole!” he croaked.

  She stared at him, her blue eyes widening in amazement. “That is my name, M’sieur,” she said quietly; “but how did you know it, pray? To the best of my knowledge, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  Jean hung there, staring from her small, well-known, achingly beloved face to the dark countenance of the tall man. The man’s brown eyes were troubled.

  “My wife is telling the truth, Citizen,” the man said dryly; “you must be aware of that.”

  “I am,” Jean said slowly; “and I confess it frightens me, M’sieur—?”

  “Bethune—Claude Bethune of Marseilles. Why should it frighten you, Citizen? It is, after all, a simple mistake—people often do resemble one another, you know.”

  “Because, Citizen,” Jean said, “it makes me
doubt my own sanity. This is not a resemblance, but a miracle. Unless your—your wife has a twin sister, born the same instant of the same mother—and then there is that matter of the name. . . .”

  “Darling,” Nicole whispered to Bethune, “perhaps he did know me! Perhaps he could tell us. . . .”

  “Hush, child,” Bethune said. “Perhaps, Citizen, you would be so kind as to conduct us to our hostess; we have yet to pay our respects.”

  “Gladly,” Jean said; “but permit me to introduce myself: I am Jean Paul Marin, late of Marseilles and Saint Jule.”

  “Marin, eh?” Claude Bethune smiled, and put out his hand; “I knew your late father well, Citizen Marin. I’ve even done business with him, in a small way. I am honoured.”

  Jean shook Bethune’s hand. Nicole stared at him and clutched at her new husband’s sleeve.

  “Claude—” she begged.

  “Later, my love,” Bethune said firmly. “First we must mind our manners.”

  Jean led them over to Manon Roland.

  “So you’ve met,” she said; “I’m glad, I did so want you to. Citizen Marin and his wife are ideally designed for a friendship with you two. You’re from the same part of France, have much the same ideals, and I do believe that you two men have captured the two loveliest women in all France.”

  At the mention of the word “wife”, Jean could see a look of relief come into Claude Bethune’s eyes.

  “We should be delighted to meet the Citizeness Marin,” Nicole smiled; “is she here, Citizen?”

  “Come,” Jean said, “I’ll present you. But I must warn you of one thing: my wife is completely—blind.”

  He saw the quick stab of pity show in Nicole’s eyes. She has not changed, he thought; she is still good and kind and lovely. But why this denial of me? And a new husband—dear God! A fine man so far as I can judge, devoted to her, as any man would be. I must write Bertrand. It has been a year or more since he mentioned Julien Lamont; but if Lamont was alive a year ago, there shouldn’t be any reason for his having died since. Lamont is my age, no—younger; and as long as he remains in Austria he cannot be in any physical danger. . . .