M. Talon rose from his stool and strode fiercely up to M. Florent, who shrank back.
“The Commune was not a Government!”
He brandished on high his leather pricker as though it were a sword. M. Florent retreated, and with a trembling hand drew from his purse a twenty-franc note. He placed it on Talon’s table.
“Couldn’t you yourself obtain for me my card of good citizenship, M. Talon? You have known me for a very long time. You can answer for me.”
“No, you have the reputation hereabouts of being a reactionary. I don’t want to compromise myself,” returned M. Talon, pocketing the twenty-franc note.
“All right. I’ll go and see my friend M. Hilaire, the secretary of the Club, who knows my real opinions. No ill-feeling, I hope, M. Talon, and you can keep the twenty francs all the same.”
He mounted the five floors to his flat, his limbs unsteady and his mind in a whirl.
“Reputation of being a reactionary!”... He had brought it on himself. Ah, M. Barkimel had been cleverer than he! He had never scoffed at the New Revolution. He had never turned it into ridicule. He had always lived in a respectful fear of the Extreme Left, so much so that when the Revolution broke out he who had always taken it seriously was quite ready to enrol himself among its warmest supporters.
M. Florent would never dare go for his card of good citizenship. Where would he find the necessary references? He was certain to encounter M. Barkimel’s enmity, nor could he answer for M. Hilaire’s friendship, for M. Hilaire must be greatly taken up in defending himself from the suspicion of members of the Club and the secret denunciations of the hateful Barkimel.... Oh, that man Barkimel — he would go to any length to get himself appointed an Officer d’Académie!
Next morning M. Florent succeeded in coming to an understanding with M. Talon, who brought him the newspapers. M. Talon received one thousand francs in consideration of which he pledged himself to declare that “he had not seen M. Florent.” And so M. Florent would be missing. No one would have seen him.... Meantime he would live quietly in his flat on preserved food and cold water. That would last as long as it would last!
Our man lived in comparative safety for a fortnight. We say “comparative” because though physically he lived in safety, mentally he lived in mortal terror. From time to time M. Talon slipped a newspaper under the door and the news in it threw him into wild consternation.
The news from the Town Hall, the decrees of the Committee of Public Safety, the sentences of the Central Vigilance Committee, Coudry’s proclamations in the Gazette des Clubs — all these things staggered him.
“This Coudry — why, it’s a repetition of Hebert and the newspaper Père Duchesne!” he said to himself.... “What did I say — we cannot begin the Revolution all over again.... Why, we are in the middle of it.”
His knowledge of the history of the Great Revolution, knowledge of which he was so proud, enabled him to glimpse a thousand scenes, each more terrible than the other.
One morning he read an article which made him spring from his bed. The article was headed: “Men of Paris — Arise!” and it began: “Bloodshed, citizens, let there be bloodshed. We must amputate a limb to save the body....” The article was signed “Saw.”
“Saw!” gasped M. Florent. “That’s the good-mannered man who used to borrow books from my library, and who reminded me the other day ‘there were no lamp-posts now’ — such a quiet and respectable gentleman.... Why, that’s the limit....
“After all,” he went on a few minutes later when he had wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “After all, he is quite right. He does not worry about his past opinions. His present opinions are the only things that matter, seeing that they are the only ones that are of any use. One must know how to adapt oneself to circumstances. There are many people who begin as revolutionaries and end as reactionaries. Hang it all, one may very well begin as a reactionary and end as a revolutionary. Why should I be a bigger ass than Saw?”
And he conceived the idea of himself writing articles under a pseudonym and sending them to the Gazette des Clubs, wherein he would show himself a doughty lover of liberty animated by the true spirit of the great French Revolution with which he was so familiar.
As it happened he had kept some half-dozen volumes from his circulating library containing speeches by the chief orators of that period, and he unblushingly drew upon this sacred source. As was said by one of them — Danton: “Audacity, audacity, and for ever audacity!”
M. Florent displayed more audacity in his secret hiding-place than can be imagined, and doomed to the scaffold all those who could not at sight enumerate the Rights of Man, the catechism of every good citizen in every country.
His plan was to send in a few articles of this nature and, after he had become famous and safe, to introduce himself to the staff of Coudry’s paper and disclose his identity.
The startling success of M. Barkimel’s new politics, revealed in the public press, spurred him on, and he hoped to surpass his old friend in the uncompromising nature of his devotion to the cause.
And indeed what could M. Barkimel, with his inferior intelligence, have done to get himself nominated and elected by the Arsenal Club division as a member of the Revolutionary Tribunal?
M. Barkimel was a judge now! And M. Hilaire, the grocer, Commissioner for his division!
M. Florent’s articles, carefully sealed, were delivered by M. Talon himself, who had received a second thousand-franc note and was more than ever convinced that a Reign of Terror was a good thing.
With what anxiety M. Florent every morning opened the Gazette des Clubs to see if his lucubrations were in it. But alas! he looked in vain for his masterpieces and his signature: The Old Cordelier.
Three articles had been delivered, and he had handed a fourth to Talon a quarter of an hour before, when a great tumult and the sound made by butt-ends of rifles filled the Rue des Francs Bourgeois. It was seven o’clock in the evening. M. Florent occupied the top floor, and ventured to put his nose out of the dormer window.
He descried below him M. Talon, accompanied by civilians, wearing their official red sashes, and an armed force. He no longer entertained any doubt that Talon, whom he had imprudently told on giving him the second thousand francs that he had no more money left, had informed against him in order to receive a reward.
Even now he could hear the tramp of heavy footsteps on the stairs and the voices of officers shouting their orders. M. Florent did not hesitate to creep like a cat over the tiles and, under cover of the gathering twilight, to steal from roof to roof. He all but fell and broke his neck a dozen times, but, reaching the open window of an attic, he entered and threw himself on his knees on the off chance. But the room was empty. M. Florent rose to his feet, opened the door and descended the stairs with as much composure as he could muster.
Fortune still favored him until he reached the ground floor, when he found himself in a narrow yard dimly lit by the lamps of a small cabaret, which he knew well, and in which he and M. Barkimel had been wont to treat themselves to tripe in the Caen manner, washed down by sparkling cider.
He would have to cross the yard to get away, and the window of the tavern, as it happened, was open. The room was full of diners, who were noisily drinking to the “success of the Municipality over the National Assembly.”
M. Florent caught sight of M. Barkimel — of M. Barkimel, triumphant, wearing the insignia of his office; of M. Barkimel playing the part of leader, eating, drinking; of M. Barkimel treating the leading men of his division as though he were a great lord; of M. Barkimel who when he spoke was listened to!...
CHAPTER XXIII
SEQUEL TO M. FLORENT’S ADVENTURE
AT THAT MOMENT a great commotion arose in the cabaret. Loud cheers greeted a newcomer. M. Florent recognized M. Hilaire, who likewise wore round his waist a handsome red silk sash with gold tassels — the sash of the Commissioner for the division.
“What do you think has happened?” exclaimed M
. Hilaire, hanging his sword and plumed cocked hat on a peg.
“Tell us, Commissioner.”
“First, here’s good health all round. I must tell you, my dear Barkimel, that it has to do with your friend Florent.”
“Florent was never a friend of mine,” cried Barkimel indignantly. “I won’t have you, my dear Commissioner, give the sweet name of friend to a bad citizen who ran away like the meanest coward after joining with Subdamoun in trying to overthrow the Republic, and was always an infamous reactionary....”
“Just think, M. Florent is at his old tricks again,” went on M. Hilaire. “As you know, we had a meeting of Divisional Commissioners at the Town Hall — a very important meeting. Under Coudry’s auspices we wanted to form an assembly of Commissioners of the Municipality from the united divisions with full power, to save the Republic if the Committee of the Municipality so ordered. You will readily understand how far-reaching that might be. But we must go to great lengths unless we wish to be swallowed by the Communists, who look upon us as rotten tradesmen. Coudry came in at the end of the meeting, which was very lively, and when it was all over, asked in a loud voice: ‘Who is the Commissioner for the Division?’ I stepped forward....
“‘Citizen Commissioner,’ he said, ‘I want you to make a search of some importance. We have just discovered the burrow of a dangerous reactionary who, under the cloak of anonymity, sends the Gazette des Clubs horrible indictments of our Revolution. These infamous libels are signed: “The Old Cordelier,” and reach us by post. I have, for that matter, had them set up in type so as to have several copies on hand which can be read in the clubs, or before the Revolutionary Tribunal, as evidence of the audacity with which our enemies dream of making us turn to the dark deeds of the past....
“‘M. Verdier, one of my editors, at length discovered that the Old Cordelier’s articles were posted at the Town Hall.... We had this box kept under observation, and so we were able to lay hands on the man who posted the article, a man named Talon, a concierge in the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, and he at once confessed from whom he received it. It is the work of one of his tenants, M. Florent. In these circumstances we detained the man Talon, and I rely on you, Mr. Commissioner, to arrest Florent.’”
On hearing the story narrated by M. Hilaire, M. Florent, we need not say, nearly died with horror in the retreat in which he had taken refuge. His hair stood on end. How came the unfortunate mistake, of which he was about to be the victim, to arise?
“Well, he contrived to escape,” went on M. Hilaire, filling his plate, “and let me tell you, between ourselves, I should much prefer someone else to arrest him rather than me, for after all he was a good customer, and amused me with his old-fashioned ideas.”
“Ah, there’s a decent, honest, good-hearted fellow for you,” sighed M. Florent, and it occurred to him that something was to be done in this direction.
“As for me, nobody knows what I am capable of doing when it’s a question of the public weal,” declared Barkimel. And then, as if exhausted by his heroic efforts, he made his excuses and took his leave. Moreover, it was late, and the clubs and divisions claimed their leaders.
By a lucky chance M. Hilaire, who, it is true, was late in coming, was the last to go. He was taking down his sword from the peg with a martial clatter of steel when a vague shadow leapt nimbly through the window from the yard and ran over and locked the door. M. Hilaire recognized M. Florent in spite of his parlous state. Therefore, instead of making a scene, he quickly closed the window.
“You!” he exclaimed. “Be careful. They are still searching for you in the quarter, and if they ever heard that I saw you and failed to arrest you I should be done for.”
Florent made no answer. He dropped into a seat and uttered inarticulate moans.
“Poor fellow,” murmured M. Hilaire. As we know, M. Hilaire was educated in the school of Chéri-Bibi and was full of noble and generous sentiments. “Poor fellow. What a state you are in. Eat and drink. Afterwards we’ll see.”
M. Florent did not wait to be asked a second time. When he had eaten his fill he said:
“You have a good heart, and I know you won’t hand me over. You are not a knave like Barkimel, whom I advise you to be on your guard against.”
“We have no time to speak ill of M. Barkimel,” returned M. Hilaire. “Let’s think about you.”
“Before you help me to get away from here I want to safeguard you by warning you that Barkimel was ordered by the Arsenal Club to spy on you. He can ruin you — so take care. He suggested that I should keep a watch on you, but I told him that I refused to turn informer. That’s why we fell out.”
“You needn’t worry yourself,” returned M. Hilaire. “It is to him I owe the splendid position in which you see me to-day.”
“How do you mean?” asked M. Florent, amazed.
“Why, it’s very simple. Ordered by the Club to spy on me, as you say, he returned to the Club on the night of the coup d’état and made such an enthusiastic report on the manner in which I had acted during that difficult day, arresting with my own hands Lavobourg, the beautiful Sonia and their accomplices — acting, in short, as a true friend of the people — that the Club could find no better means of rewarding me than by appointing me Commissioner of the Division and presenting me with a sword of honor....
“As far as he was personally concerned he managed also to present matters in such a favorable light that as he had apparently shared my risks and proved that he could take responsibility, it seemed to everyone that he deserved the congratulations of the Committee, and a few days later they nominated him a judge of the Revolutionary Tribunal.”
“Oh! say, this is a bit too thick,” exclaimed M. Florent, almost choking, “for he was only too willing to give you away. But he saw how he could turn your friendship to account, and that is why all of a sudden he showed such generosity. And here he is raised to the greatest dignity, while I, who had no ulterior motive in refusing to work secretly against you, am done for.”
“No, you are not altogether done for,” declared M. Hilaire positively.
“Thank you, M. Hilaire. My life is in your hands. I want you to find me some hiding-place until the unfortunate misunderstanding which has led Coudry to prosecute me is cleared up, for I have never written any anti-revolutionary libels, I assure you.”
“Do you know where I can hide you?”
“In your house.”
“Never as long as I live,” returned M. Hilaire with a grimace. “At my place people are for ever coming in and out — a hundred people call at my shop every day.”
“Where do you suggest, M. Hilaire?”
“In Barkimel’s flat.”
M. Florent at first thought his ears were misleading him, but M. Hilaire explained that he was speaking seriously, and in the end M. Florent found the suggestion extremely attractive.
“Oh, very well,” he said. “That will be all right. It’s a very good joke. It serves him right. No one will look for me in a flat owned by a judge of the Revolutionary Tribunal, and I know his place well enough to be able to hide without his suspecting my presence.”
“All the more so as he is rarely at home — a few hours at night only. He tidies his rooms himself in the morning and then sets out for the Law Courts.”
“Have you the key of his place?” asked M. Florent.
“He gave it to me so that I could send him in some mineral water. I will execute this order myself, adding to it some preserved food for your use. You must open the door to me, for you will have to go there at once with the key. I will be off now, but you mustn’t leave here until you hear me whistle twice. M. Barkimel’s place is only a few steps away. I’ll talk to the concierge while you creep upstairs.”
“What terrible times we live in!” gasped the ill-starred M. Florent. “But you are Providence itself for me. May I ask how Mme Hilaire is?”
“I believe,” returned M. Hilaire, making ready to go, and passing his sword-belt under his sash, “I believe th
at I shall never again have occasion to feel angry with Mme Hilaire.”
“Good Lord, is Mme Hilaire dead?” groaned M. Florent.
M. Hilaire did not wait to reply. He judged the moment opportune to slip into the street and begin to carry out the program which was to insure M. Florent’s safety by secreting him in M. Barkimel’s flat.
All went well, and thus at two o’clock in the morning M. Florent, hiding at the back of M. Barkimel’s wardrobe, heard his old friend come in. M. Barkimel had no sooner closed his door than M. Florent, watching his movements through a little chink that he contrived to make in the partition, saw him with a weary gesture lay his candlestick on his bedside table and then sink into a reclining arm-chair with a deep moan.
He was no longer the proud M. Barkimel of a little while ago, the club orator, the implacable judge. He lacked the energy to pose before the mirror in his wardrobe. He was his natural self in the dreary privacy of his own room. He looked mean and cowardly again. He was once more the timid tradesman.
Suddenly he seemed to come to life again. He raised his head with a look of irritation, struck his Louis Philippe table a resounding blow with his fist and yelped fiercely:
“Am I to blame because they would not sentence this Daniel to death? I warned the jury. I said: “You’ll see, that if you refuse Flottard this man’s head he will never forgive us.’ But they wouldn’t listen to me. They sent Daniel before the Military Court.”
And he began to shout at the top of his voice:
“Guillotine them all!”
He must have been heard from top to bottom of the house, and the tenants, aroused from their sleep, would certainly be shivering in terror under the bedclothes. M. Florent’s teeth chattered.
“Well, how easy it is to be mistaken! He is a wild beast,” he thought.
He watched M. Barkimel, seemingly choking with rage and revolutionary fervor, make for his bedroom window, open it, and shout into the murky darkness of the street:
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 224
