He was there at the house of the liquor licensee—who, in this case, was a woman—sitting at the back of a room made sooty and smoky by tobacco and candles, pretending to devour a dish of fish in black butter sauce.
The room he was eating in was just about deserted; only two or three regulars had stayed behind, enjoying the privilege their daily visit to the establishment gave them. Most of the tables were empty; but it must be said in honor of the Puits-de-Noé that the tablecloths, which were red going on purplish blue, revealed the passage of a gratifying number of satisfied customers.
The last three customers filed out one after the other, and at around a quarter to eight the patriot found himself on his own. At that point he pushed away, with the most aristocratic disgust, the coarse dish he had appeared to be so greatly relishing just a moment before and pulled from his pocket a bar of Spanish chocolate, which he consumed slowly and with a very different expression from the one we have tried to lend his physiognomy.
From time to time, as he continued munching his Spanish chocolate together with his black bread, he glanced anxiously and impatiently at the glass door, which was covered with a red and white checked curtain. At times he pricked up his ears, interrupting his frugal meal so absentmindedly that the mistress of the house, seated at her counter quite close to the door on which the patriot’s gaze was riveted, began to think, without too much vanity, that she was the object of his interest.
At last the doorbell rang, and so loudly as to give our man quite a jolt. He went back to his fish without the mistress of the house noticing that he threw half of it to a poor skinny dog that had been staring at him with its tongue hanging out and the other half to a cat who aimed a delicate but deadly paw at the dog.
The door with the red and white checked curtain opened and a man came in dressed more or less like the patriot with the exception of the fur cap, for which he had substituted the ubiquitous red cap. An enormous bunch of keys hung from the man’s belt, as did a large infantry sword with a copper scabbard.
“My soup! My booze!” the man called out, stepping into the common room without touching his red cap or doing more than giving a nod to the mistress of the establishment. Then, with a sigh of weariness, he plopped down at the table next to the one where our patriot was having his supper.
In deference to the priority she gave the newcomer, the mistress of the house got up and placed the order herself.
The two men turned their backs to each other, one of them looking out into the street, the other toward the back of the room. Not a word was spoken between them until the mistress of the cabaret had completely disappeared.
When the door was shut behind her and when, by the light of a single candle suspended by a length of wire in such a cunning way that the light could be shared by both tables, the man with the fur cap at last could see, thanks to the mirror facing him, that the room was perfectly deserted, he spoke.
“Good evening,” he said to his companion without looking round.
“Good evening, monsieur,” said the newcomer.
“Well then,” the patriot asked, affecting the same indifference, “where are we?”
“Well then, we’re done.”
“What’s done?”
“As we agreed, I picked a fight with old man Richard over my duties, I said I was hard of hearing and had my dizzy spells, and I keeled over in the middle of the office.”
“Good stuff; and then?”
“And then old man Richard called his wife and his wife rubbed my temples with vinegar, which brought me around.”
“Good! After that?”
“After that, as we agreed between ourselves, I said it was the lack of air that gave me these dizzy spells, given my sanguine temperament, and that the work at the Conciergerie, where there are four hundred inmates at the moment, was killing me.”
“What did they say?”
“Mother Richard felt sorry for me.”
“And old man Richard?”
“He showed me the door.”
“But it’s not enough that he showed you the door
Wait a second: then Mother Richard, who’s a good woman, balled him out for having no heart, seeing as I’ve got a family to feed.”
“And what did he say to that?”
“He said she was right, but that the first requirement for being a wicket clerk was to remain in the prison to which he was attached; that the Republic meant business; and that it cut the heads off anyone who had dizzy spells in the exercise of their duties.”
“Lord!” exclaimed the patriot.
“And he was not wrong, old man Richard; since the Austrian woman’s been there, surveillance has gotten out of hand. The fellows in there would look twice at their own fathers.”
The patriot gave his plate to the dog to lick, and the dog got bitten by the cat.
“Get on with it,” he said.
“To make a long story short, monsieur, I started moaning and groaning, which means I was really sick. I asked for the nurse and assured them my children would die of starvation if my pay was stopped.”
“And old man Richard?”
“Old man Richard said that when you are a wicket clerk, you don’t make babies.”
“But Mother Richard was on your side, I suppose?”
“Luckily! She kicked up quite a stink and attacked him for having no heart, and old man Richard ended up saying to me: ‘Well then, citizen Gracchus, see if you can make a deal with one of your pals who can give you something as a guarantee; send him to me as your replacement and I promise you I’ll see he’s accepted.’ At that I left, saying: ‘Say no more, old man Richard, I’ll find someone.’ ”
“And did you find someone, my brave boy?”
At that moment the mistress of the establishment returned with citizen Gracchus’s soup and pot of rotgut. Neither Gracchus nor the patriot took any notice; but they were not done yet.
“Citizeness,” said the clerk, “I got a small bonus from old man Richard today, so I can afford the pork chop with gherkins and the bottle of Burgundy. Send your servant out to the butcher’s for the chop and go and get me the wine from your cellar, will you?”
The hostess immediately gave the command; a servant slipped out the door into the street, and the hostess through the door to the cellar.
“All right,” said the patriot. “You’re a smart boy.”
“So smart that I’m not fooling myself what’s in store for both of us, whatever you like to promise me. Do you have any idea what we’re risking?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“Our necks are both on the block!”
“Don’t you worry about mine.”
“It’s not your neck, monsieur, I have to admit, that’s giving me the most worry.”
“It’s your own?”
“Yes.”
“But if I’m paying twice what it’s worth …”
“Steady on, monsieur! A neck is a very precious thing—and so’s the head that’s on it.”
“Yours is not.”
“What! Mine isn’t precious?”
“Not at this point in time, at least.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I mean that your head isn’t worth an obole.1 If I were an agent of the Committee of Public Safety, for instance, you’d be guillotined tomorrow.”
The clerk turned around so swifty the dog started barking at him. He was as pale as a corpse.
“Don’t turn around and don’t look as though you’re going to pass out,” said the patriot. “Just quietly finish your soup. I am not an agent provocateur, my friend. Get me into the Conciergerie, set me up as your replacement, give me the keys, and tomorrow I’ll count you out fifty thousand livres in gold.”
“You’re for real at least?”
“Oh! You’ve got pretty good security! You’re holding my head in your hands.”
The clerk thought about it for a few seconds.
“Come,” said the patriot, who could see him in the m
irror. “Come, don’t give in to bad thoughts; if you denounce me, you’ll only have done your duty and the Republic won’t give you a brass razoo. If, on the other hand, you work with me, you won’t have done your duty, and because it’s unjust to do something for nothing in this world, I’ll give you the fifty thousand livres.”
“Oh, I get it all right,” said the clerk. “I stand to gain by doing what you want me to do; but I’m afraid of the consequences.…”
“The consequences! … What is it you have to fear? Come on, it’s not me who’s going to denounce you, on the contrary.”
“I guess so.”
“The day after I’m in place, you do a round at the Conciergerie. I’ll count you out twenty-five rolls of two thousand francs each; the twenty-five rolls will easily fit in your pocket. With the money, I’ll give you a pass for getting out of France. Wherever you go, even if you’re not rich, you’ll be independent.”
“Well then, you’ve got a deal, monsieur, come what may. I’m just a poor devil, I am, a nonentity; I don’t get mixed up in politics. France has always done all right without me and it won’t die if I’m not here. If you’re up to no good, too bad for you.”
“In any case,” said the patriot, “I don’t think I can do any worse than what they’re doing now.”
“Monsieur will permit me not to judge the politics of the National Convention.”
“I admire your philosophical bent and your insouciance, my good man. Now, let’s see, when will you introduce me to old man Richard?”
“Tonight, if you like.”
“Yes, certainly. Who am I?”
“My cousin Mardoche.”
“Mardoche, so be it; I like the name. What do I do for a living?”
“Tailor.”
“From tanner to tailor, it’s just a flick of the wrist.”
“Are you a tanner?”
“I could be.”
“True.”
“What time tonight?”
“In half an hour, if you like.”
“Nine o’clock, then.”
“When will I get the money?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Does that mean you’re filthy rich?”
“I’m well off.”
“An ex-aristo, right?”
“What do you care!”
“To have money and then give your money away running the risk of getting the chop, ex-aristos must be pretty thick!”
“You can’t have everything! The sans culottes are so smart there’s just not enough to go around!”
“Quiet! Here’s my wine.”
“See you later tonight, outside the Conciergerie.”
“Yes.”
The patriot paid his bill and left. You could hear him call out in a thundering voice from the doorway:
“Hurry it up, citizeness! The chops with gherkins! My cousin Gracchus is dying of hunger.”
“Good old Mardoche!” said the clerk, sipping the glass of Burgundy the cabaret owner had just poured him, gazing upon him tenderly.
41
THE CLERK FROM THE WAR MINISTRY
The patriot had walked out, but he had not gone far. Through the smoky windows he watched the clerk to make sure he didn’t enter into communication with any agents of the republican police, one of the most effective forces that ever existed, for half of society was spying on the other half, not so much for the greater glory of the government as for the greater security of one’s own head.
But nothing the patriot feared occurred, and at a few minutes before nine the clerk got up, chucked the cabaret owner’s chin, and left. The patriot joined him at the quai de la Conciergerie and they went into the prison together. That very night the deal was sealed: old man Richard accepted Mardoche as a replacement clerk, filling in for Gracchus.
But two hours before the deal was clinched in the jail, something happened in another part of the prison that, although without apparent interest, was no less crucial for the principal characters of this story.
The Conciergerie registrar, tired after a long day, was about to put his books away and go home when a man turned up at his office, led by citizeness Richard.
“Citizen registrar,” she said, “this is your colleague from the War Ministry, who comes on behalf of the citizen minister to remove some nuts and bolts the army needs.”
“Ah, citizen,” said the registrar, “you’re a bit late. I was just closing up shop.”
“Dear colleague, forgive me,” replied the newcomer, “but we have so much to do we can hardly get through all our chores except in our spare time, and our spare time, let me tell you, is almost always when others are eating or sleeping.”
“If that’s how it is, do what you have to, my dear colleague; but hurry it up, won’t you, for as you say, it’s time to eat and I’m hungry. Have you got your authorization?”
“Here it is,” said the clerk from the War Ministry, flashing a wallet that his colleague, in a hurry though he was, nonetheless examined scrupulously.
“It all seems to be in order,” said Mother Richard. “My husband has already given it a thorough going-over.”
“Never mind that,” said the registrar, continuing his inspection.
The clerk from the War Ministry waited patiently, like a man used to the strict accomplishment of formalities.
“Marvelous!” said the registrar of the Conciergerie. “You may now begin whenever you like. Do you have many nuts to take out?”
“About a hundred.”
“Then you’ll be at it for several days?”
“Yes, and so, dear colleague, I’d like to set myself up properly here, if you don’t mind, of course.”
“What do you mean?” asked the registrar of the Conciergerie.
“I’ll explain it all to you when I take you to dine at my place this evening; you said you were hungry.”
“And I won’t unsay it.”
“Well then, you can meet my wife—she’s quite a good cook, and you’ll get to know me—I’m not a bad sort.”
“Indeed, yes, that’s the way you strike me; but, dear colleague …”
“Oh, why don’t you just accept without further ado! I’ll buy the oysters at the place du Châtelet on the way and we’ll pick up a chicken from our rôtisseur; we’ll also have two or three little dishes Madame Durand makes to perfection.”
“You’re making my mouth water, dear colleague,” said the registrar of the Conciergerie, dazzled by the kind of menu a registrar in the pay of the Revolutionary Tribunal at the rate of two livres in assignats was not accustomed to, those two livres being in reality scarcely worth two francs.
“So you accept?”
“I accept.”
“In that case, the work can wait till tomorrow. That’s enough for this evening; let’s go.”
“Right you are.”
“Are you coming?”
“One second; just let me go and alert the gendarmes guarding the Austrian woman.”
“Why do you need to alert them?”
“So they know I’m going out and therefore there is no one in the office; they can keep an ear out for any suspect noise.”
“Ah, of course! Excellent precaution, I must say!”
“You understand, don’t you?”
“Perfectly. Off you go.”
The registrar of the Conciergerie did indeed go off and hammer at the wicket door, which one of the gendarmes opened.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“Me! The registrar, you know. I’m off. Good night, citizen Gilbert.”
“Good night, citizen registrar.”
And the wicket closed again.
The clerk from the War Ministry had followed the whole scene with the closest attention, and when the door to the Queen’s cell was open, his gaze had rapidly plunged into the depths of the first compartment. He had seen the gendarme Duchesne at the table, and had assured himself that the Queen had, in fact, only two guards.
It goes without saying that when the regis
trar of the Conciergerie returned, his colleague once more looked as blank as he could possibly get his physiognomy to look.
As they were leaving the Conciergerie, two men were making their way in. These two men were citizen Gracchus and his cousin Mardoche. Cousin Mardoche and the clerk from the War Ministry, each with a movement that seemed to arise from a similar feeling, pushed their respective headgear down over their eyes the moment they saw each other—the one his fur cap, the other his broad-brimmed hat.
“Who are those men?” asked the clerk from the War Ministry.
“I only know one of them: he’s a wicket clerk name of Gracchus.”
“Ah!” said the other man with affected indifference. “So wicket clerks can leave the Conciergerie?”
“They have their day off.”
The investigation was left there as the two new pals took the pont-au-Change. At the corner of the place du Châtelet the clerk from the War Ministry, as he had said he would, bought a bucket of twelve dozen oysters. Then they went on their merry way along the quai de Gesvres.
The War Ministry clerk’s home was very simple: citizen Durand lived in a three-room apartment on the place de Grève in a house without a porter. Each tenant had a key to the alley, and it was agreed that they would alert one another if one of them accidentally locked themselves out by knocking once, twice, or three times with a hammer, according to which floor they lived on: whoever was expecting someone and recognized the signal would then come down and open the door. But citizen Durand had his key in his pocket and didn’t need to knock.
The Palais registrar found Madame Durand very much to his liking. She was, in fact, a charming woman, whose face was made powerfully attractive at a glance by an expression of deep sadness that suffused her entire physiognomy. It is a known fact that sadness is one of the surest means of seduction available to good-looking women; sadness makes all men amorous, without exception—even registrars, for, whatever they say, registrars are men, and no matter how fiercely proud or hardhearted a man is, there isn’t one who doesn’t hope to console a pretty woman so afflicted and turn the white roses of a pallid complexion into gaily blushing roses, as the citizen poet Dorat would say.
The Knight of Maison-Rouge Page 35
