Les Dieux ont soif. English

by Anatole France

  VII

  Employing a very old-fashioned locution, the _citoyenne_ Gamelin haddeclared: "that by dint of eating chestnuts they would be turning intochestnuts." As a matter of fact, on that day, the 13th July, she and herson had made their midday dinner on a basin of chestnut porridge. Asthey were finishing this austere repast, a lady pushed open the door andthe room was flooded in an instant with the splendour of her presenceand the fragrance of her perfumes. Evariste recognised the _citoyenne_Rochemaure. Thinking she had mistaken the door and meant her visit forthe _citoyen_ Brotteaux, her friend of other days, he was alreadypreparing to point her out the _ci-devant_ aristocrat's garret orperhaps summon Brotteaux and so spare an elegant woman the task ofscrambling up a mill-ladder; but she made it clear at once that the_citoyen_ Evariste Gamelin and no other was the person she had come tosee by announcing that she was happy to find him at home and was hisservant to command.

  They were not entirely strangers to each other, having met more thanonce in David's studio, in a box at the Assembly Hall, at the Jacobins,at Venua's restaurant. On these occasions she had been struck by hisgood looks and youth and interesting air.

  Wearing a hat beribboned like a fairing and plumed like the head-pieceof a Representative on mission, the _citoyenne_ Rochemaure was wigged,painted, patched and scented. But her complexion was young and freshbehind all these disguises; these extravagant artificialities of fashiononly betokened a frantic haste to enjoy life and the feverishness ofthese dreadful days when the morrow was so uncertain. Her corsage, withwide facings and enormous basques and all ablaze with huge steelbuttons, was blood-red, and it was hard to tell, so aristocratic and sorevolutionary at one and the same time was her array, whether it was thecolours of the victims or of the headsman that she sported. A youngofficer, a dragoon, accompanied her.

  Dandling her long cane by its handle of mother-o'-pearl, a tall, finewoman, of generous proportions and ample bosom, she made the circuit ofthe studio, and putting up to her grey eyes her double quizzing-glassesof gold, examined the painter's canvases with many smiles andexclamations of delight, admiring the handsome artist and flattering himin hopes of a return in kind.

  "What," asked the _citoyenne_, "is that picture--it is so noblyconceived, so touching--of a gentle, beautiful woman standing by a youngman lying sick?"

  Gamelin told her it was meant to represent _Orestes tended by his sisterElectra_, and that, had he been able to finish it, it might perhaps havebeen the least unsatisfactory of his works.

  "The subject," he went on to say, "is taken from the _Orestes_ ofEuripides. I had read, in a translation of this tragedy made years ago,a scene that filled me with admiration,--the one where the youngElectra, raising her brother on his bed of pain, wipes away the froththat gathers on his lips, puts aside the locks that blind his eyes andbeseeches the brother she loves to hearken to what she will tell himwhile the Furies are at peace for the moment.... As I read and re-readthis translation, I seemed to be aware of a kind of fog that shroudedthe forms of Greek perfection, a fog I could not drive away. I picturedthe original text to myself as more nervous and pitched in a differentaccent. Feeling a keen desire to get a precise idea of the thing, I wentto Monsieur Gail, who was the Professor of Greek at the College deFrance (this was in '91), and begged him to expound the scene to me wordby word. He did what I asked, and I then saw that the Ancients are muchmore simple and homely than people think. Thus, for instance, Electrasays to Orestes: 'Dear brother, what joy it gave me to see thee sleep!Shall I help thee to rise?' And Orestes answers: 'Yes, help me, take mein thy arms, and wipe away the spume that still clings about my mouthand eyes. Put thy bosom against mine and part from my brow my tangledhair, for it blinds my eyes....' My mind still full of this poetry, soyoung and vivid, ringing with these simple, strong phrases, I sketchedthe picture you see there, _citoyenne_."

  The painter, who, as a rule, spoke so sparingly of his works, waxedeloquent on the subject of this one. At an encouraging gesture from the_citoyenne_ Rochemaure, who lifted her quizzing-glasses in token ofattention, he continued:

  "Hennequin has depicted the madness of Orestes in masterly fashion. ButOrestes appeals to us still more poignantly in his sorrow than when heis distraught. What a fate was his! It was filial piety, obedience to asacred obligation, drove him to commit his dreadful deed,--a sin thegods cannot but pardon, but which men will never condone. To avengeoutraged justice, he has repudiated Nature, has made himself a monster,has torn out his own heart. But his spirit remains unbroken under theweight of his horrible, yet innocent crime.... That is what I would fainhave exhibited in my group of brother and sister." He stepped up to thecanvas and looked at it not without satisfaction.

  "Parts of the picture," he said, "are pretty nearly finished; the headand arm of Orestes, for instance."

  "It is an admirable composition.... And Orestes reminds me of you,_citoyen_ Gamelin."

  "You think he is like me?" exclaimed the painter, with a grave smile.

  She took the chair Gamelin offered her. The young dragoon stood besideher, his hand on the back of the chair on which she sat. Which showedplainly that the Revolution was an accomplished fact, for under theancien regime, no man would ever, in company, have touched so much aswith the tip of a finger, the seat occupied by a lady. In those days agentleman was trained and broken in to the laws of politeness, sometimespretty hard laws, and taught to understand that a scrupulousself-restraint in public places gives a peculiar zest to the sweetfamiliarity of the boudoir, and that to lose your respectful awe of awoman, you must first have that feeling.

  Louise Masche de Rochemaure, daughter of a Lieutenant of the King'sHunt, widow of a Procureur and, for twenty years, the faithful mistressof the financier Brotteaux des Ilettes, had fallen in with the newideas. She was to be seen, in July, 1790, digging the soil of the Champde Mars. Her strong inclination to side with the powers that be hadcarried her readily enough along a political path that started with theFeuillants and led by way of the Girondins to end on the summit of _theMountain_, while at the same time a spirit of compromise, a passion forconversion and a certain aptitude for intrigue still attached her to thearistocratic and anti-revolutionary party. She was to be meteverywhere,--at coffee houses and theatres, fashionable restaurants,gaming-saloons, drawing-rooms, newspaper offices and ante-chambers ofCommittees. The Revolution yielded her a hundred satisfactions,--noveltyand amusement, smiles and pleasures, business ventures and profitablespeculations. Combining political with amorous intrigue, playing theharp, drawing landscapes, singing ballads, dancing Greek dances, givingsupper parties, entertaining pretty women, such as the Comtesse deBeaufort and the actress Mademoiselle Descoings, presiding all nightlong over a _trente-et-un_ or _biribi_ table and an adept at _rouge etnoir_, she still found time to be charitable to her friends. Inquisitiveand interfering, giddy-pated and frivolous, she understood men but knewnothing of the masses; as indifferent to the creed she professed as tothe opinions she felt bound to repudiate, understanding nothing whateverof all that was happening in the country, she was enterprising,intrepid, and full of audacity from sheer ignorance of danger and anunbounded confidence in the efficacy of her charms.

  The soldier who escorted her was in the heyday of youth. A brazen helmetdecorated with a panther skin and the crest set off with a crimsoncock's-comb shaded his fresh young face and displayed a long andterrific mane that swept his back. His red jacket was cut short andsquare, barely reaching to the waist, the better to show off his elegantfigure. In his girdle he carried an enormous sabre, the hilt of whichwas a glittering eagle's beak. A pair of flapped breeches of sky bluemoulded the fine muscles of his legs and was braided in rich arabesquesof a darker blue on the thighs. He might have been a dancer dressed forsome warlike and dashing role, in _Achilles at Scyros_ or _Alexander'sWedding-feast_, in a costume designed by a pupil of David with the oneidea of accentuating every line of the shape.

  Gamelin had a vague recollection of having seen him before. He was, infact, the same young sold
ier he had come upon a fortnight previouslyharanguing the people from the arcades of the Theatre de la Nation.

  The _citoyenne_ Rochemaure introduced him by name:

  "The _citoyen_ Henry, Member of the Revolutionary Committee of theSection of the Rights of Man."

  She had him always at her heels,--a mirror of gallantry and a living andwalking guarantee of patriotism.

  The _citoyenne_ complimented Gamelin on his talents and asked him if hewould be willing to design a card for a protegee of hers, a fashionablemilliner. He would, of course, choose an appropriate _motif_,--a womantrying on a scarf before a cheval glass, for instance, or a youngworkwoman carrying a band-box on her arm.

  She had heard several artists mentioned as competent to execute a littlematter of the sort,--Fragonard _fils_, young Ducis, as well as a certainPrudhomme; but she would rather apply to the _citoyen_ EvaristeGamelin. However, she made no definite proposal on this head and it wasevident she had mentioned the commission merely by way of starting theconversation. In truth she had come for something quite different. Shewanted the _citoyen_ Gamelin to do her a favour; knowing he was a friendof the _citoyen_ Marat, she had come to ask him to introduce her to theFriend of the People, with whom she desired an interview.

  Gamelin replied that he was too insignificant an individual to presenther to Marat, besides which, she had no need of anyone to be hersponsor; Marat, albeit overwhelmed with business, was not theinaccessible person he was said to be,--and, added Gamelin:

  "He will receive you, _citoyenne_, if you are in distress; his greatheart makes him compassionate to all who suffer. He will likewisereceive you if you have any revelation to make concerning the publicweal; he has vowed his days to the unmasking of traitors."

  The _citoyenne_ Rochemaure answered that she would be happy to greet inMarat an illustrious citizen, who had rendered great services to hiscountry, who was capable of rendering greater still, and that she wasanxious to bring the legislator in question into relation with friendsof hers of good repute and good will, philanthropists favoured byfortune and competent to provide him with new means of satisfying hisardent affection for humanity.

  "It is very desirable," she concluded, "to make the rich co-operate insecuring public prosperity."

  In actual fact, the _citoyenne_ had promised the banker Morhardt toarrange a dinner where he and Marat should meet.

  Morhardt, a Swiss like the Friend of the People, had entered into acombination with several deputies of the Convention, Julien (ofToulouse), Delaunay (of Angers) and the ex-Capuchin Chabot, to speculatein the shares of the _Compagnie des Indes_. The game was verysimple,--to bring down the price of these shares to 650 livres byproposing motions pointing in the direction of confiscation, in order tobuy up the greatest possible number at this figure and then push them upto 4,000 or 5,000 livres by dint of proposals of a reassuring nature.But for Chabot, Julien, Delaunay, their little ways were too notorious,while suspicions were rife of Lacroix, Fabre d'Eglantine, and evenDanton. The arch-speculator, the Baron de Batz, was looking for newconfederates in the Convention and had advised Morhardt to sound Marat.

  This idea of the anti-revolutionary speculators was not so extravagantas might have been supposed at the first blush. It was always the way ofthese gentry to form alliance with those in power at the moment, and byvirtue of his popularity, his pen, his character, Marat was a power tobe reckoned with. The Girondists were near shipwreck; the Dantonists,battered by the hurricane, had lost their hold on the helm. Robespierre,the idol of the people, was a man jealous of his scrupulous honesty,full of suspicion, impossible to approach. The great thing was to getround Marat, to secure his good will against the day when he should bedictator--and everything pointed to this consummation,--his popularity,his ambition, his eagerness to recommend heroic measures. And it mightbe, after all, Marat would re-establish order, the finances, theprosperity of the country. More than once he had risen in revoltagainst the zealots who were for outbidding him in fanaticism; for sometime past he had been denouncing the demagogues as vehemently as themoderates. After inciting the people to sack the "cornerers'" shops andhang them over their own counters, he was now exhorting the citizens tobe calm and prudent. He was growing into an administrator.

  In spite of certain rumours disseminated against him as against all theother chiefs of the Revolution, these pirates of the money-market didnot believe he could be corrupted, but they did know him to be vain andcredulous, and they hoped to win him over by flattery and still more bya condescending friendliness which they looked upon as the mostseductive form of flattery from men like themselves. They counted,thanks to him, on blowing hot and cold on all the securities they mightwish to buy and sell, and making him serve their interests whilesupposing himself to be acting solely for the public good.

  Great as a go-between, albeit she was still of an age for amours on herown account, the _citoyenne_ Rochemaure had made it her mission to bringtogether the legislator-journalist and the banker, and in herextravagant imagination she already saw the man of the underworld, theman whose hands were yet red with the blood of the September massacres,a partner in the game of the financiers whose agent she was; shepictured him drawn by his very warmth of feeling and unsophisticatedcandour into the whirlpool of speculation, a recruit to the coterie sheloved of "corner" makers, contractors, foreign emissaries, gamblers, andwomen of gallantry.

  She insisted on the _citoyen_ Gamelin taking her to see the Friend ofthe People, who lived quite near, in the Rue des Cordeliers, near thechurch. After some little show of reluctance, the painter acceded to the_citoyenne's_ wishes.

  The dragoon Henry was invited to join them in the visit, but declined,declaring he meant to keep his liberty of action, even towards the_citoyen_ Marat, who, he felt no doubt, had rendered services to theRepublic, but was weakening nowadays; had he not, in his news sheet,counselled resignation as the proper thing for the people of Paris?

  And the young man, in a sweet voice, broken by long-drawn sighs,deplored the fate of the Republic, betrayed by the men in whom she hadput her trust,--Danton rejecting the notion of a tax on the rich,Robespierre opposing the permanence of the Sections, Marat, whosepusillanimous counsels were paralyzing the enthusiasm of the citizens.

  "Ah!" he cried, "how feeble such men appear beside Leclerc and JacquesRoux!... Roux! Leclerc! _ye_ are the true friends of the people!"

  Gamelin did not hear these remarks, which would have angered him; he hadgone into the next room to don his blue coat.

  "You may well be proud of your son," observed the _citoyenne_Rochemaure, addressing the _citoyenne_ Gamelin. "He is a great man;talent and character both make him so."

  In answer, the widow Gamelin gave a good account of her son, yet withoutmaking much boast of him before a lady of high station, for she had beentaught in her childhood that the first duty of the lowly is humilitytowards the great. She was of a complaining bent, having indeed only toogood cause and finding in such jeremiads a salve for her griefs. She wasgarrulous in her revelations of all the hardships she had to bear toany whom she supposed in a position to relieve them, and Madame deRochemaure seemed to belong to that class. She made the most, therefore,of this favourable opportunity and told a long and breathless story oftheir distresses,--how mother and son were both dying of slowstarvation. Pictures could not be sold any more; the Revolution hadkilled business dead. Victuals were scarce and too dear for words....

  The good dame poured out her lamentations with all the loose-lippedvolubility her halting tongue was capable of, so as to get them allfinished by the time her son, whose pride would not brook such whining,should reappear. She was bent on attaining her object in the shortestpossible time,--that of touching a lady whom she deemed rich andinfluential, and enlisting her sympathy in her boy's future. She feltsure that Evariste's good looks were an asset on her side to move theheart of a well-born lady. And so they were; the _citoyenne_ Rochemaureproved tender-hearted and was melted to think of Evariste's and hismother's sufferings. She made pl
ans to alleviate them; she had rich menamongst her friends and would get them to buy the artist's pictures.

  "The truth is," she added, with a smile, "there is still money inFrance, but it keeps in hiding."

  Better still, now Art was ruined, she would obtain Evariste a post inMorhardt's bank or with the Brothers Perregaux, or a place as clerk inthe office of an army contractor.

  Then she reflected that this was not what a man of his character needed;and, after a moment's thought, she nodded in sign that she had hit thenail on the head:

  "There are still several jurymen left to be appointed on theRevolutionary Tribunal. Juryman, magistrate, that is the thing to suityour son. I have friendly relations with the Committee of Public Safety.I know Robespierre the elder personally; his brother frequently sups atmy house. I will speak to them. I will get a word said to Montane,Dumas, Fouquier."

  The _citoyenne_ Gamelin, bursting with excitement and gratitude, put afinger to her lip; Evariste was coming back into the studio.

  He escorted the _citoyenne_ Rochemaure down the gloomy staircase, thesteps of which, whether of wood or tiled, were coated with an ancientlayer of dirt.

  On the Pont-Neuf, where the sun, now near its setting, threw alengthened shadow from the pedestal that had borne the Bronze Horse andwas now gay with the National colours, a crowd of men and women of thepeople gathered in little groups were listening to some tale that wasbeing told them. Consternation reigned and a heavy silence, broken atintervals by groans and fierce cries. Many were making off at a rapidpace in the direction of the Rue de Thionville, erstwhile Rue Dauphine;Gamelin joined one of these groups and heard the news--that Marat hadjust been assassinated.

  Little by little the tidings were confirmed and particulars becameknown; he had been murdered in his bath by a woman who had comeexpressly from Caen to commit the crime.

  Some thought she had escaped; but the majority declared she had beenarrested.

  There they stood like sheep without a shepherd, thinking sadly:

  "Marat, the tender-hearted, the humane, Marat our benefactor, is nolonger there to guide us, Marat who was never deceived, who saw throughevery subterfuge and never feared to reveal the truth!... What can wedo, what is to become of us? We have lost our adviser, our champion, ourfriend." They knew very well whence the blow had come, and who haddirected the woman's arm. They groaned aloud:

  "Marat has been struck down by the same criminal hands that are bent onour extermination. His death is the signal for the slaughter of all goodpatriots."

  Different reports were current, as to the circumstances of the tragicevent and the last words of the victim; endless questions were askedconcerning the assassin, all that anyone knew was that it was a youngwoman sent by those traitors, the federalists. Baring teeth and nails,the _citoyennes_ devoted the culprit to condign punishment; deeming theguillotine too merciful a death, they demanded this monster of iniquityshould be scourged, broken on the wheel, torn limb from limb, and rackedtheir brains to invent new tortures.

  An armed body of National Guards was haling to the Section headquartersa man of determined mien. His clothes were in tatters, and streams ofblood trickled down his white face. He had been overheard saying thatMarat had earned his fate by his constant incitements to pillage andmassacre, and it was only with great difficulty that the Guards hadsaved him from the fury of the populace. A hundred fingers pointed himout as the accomplice of the assassin, and threats of death followed himas he was led away.

  Gamelin was stunned by the blow. A few hot tears blistered his burningeyes. With the grief he felt as a disciple mingled solicitude for thepopular idol, and these combined feelings tore at his heart-strings. Hethought to himself:

  "After Le Peltier, after Bourdon, Marat!... I foresee the fate of thepatriots; massacred on the Champ de Mars, at Nancy, at Paris, they willperish one and all." And he thought of Wimpfen, the traitor, who only awhile before was marching on Paris, and who, had he not been stopped atVernon, by the gallant patriots, would have devoted the heroic city tofire and slaughter.

  And how many perils still remained, how many criminal designs, how manytreasonable plots, which only Marat's perspicacity and vigilance couldunravel and foil! Now he was dead, who was there to denounce Custineloitering in idleness in the Camp of Caesar and refusing to relieveValenciennes, Biron tarrying inactive in the Lower Vendee letting Saumurbe taken and Nantes blockaded, Dillon betraying the Fatherland in theArgonne?...

  Meantime, all about him, rose momentarily higher the sinister cry:

  "Marat is dead; the aristocrats have killed him!"

  As he was on his way, his heart bursting with grief and hate and love,to pay a last mark of respect to the martyr of liberty, an oldcountrywoman, wearing the coif of the Limousin peasantry, accosted himto ask if the Monsieur Marat who had been murdered was not Monsieur leCure Mara, of Saint-Pierre-de-Queyroix.