On recognizing among the new prisoners Baron d’Askof, whom he had met at the beautiful Sonia’s house, young Cazo did not conceal his opinion of Subdamoun and his adventure nor his delight that it had turned out a failure since it had been attempted in the absence of his King.
D’Askof, in sullen mood and concerned mainly with his own affairs, made no answer and lay down as though to sleep, turning his face to the wall. The furious youth rounded on poor M. Florent.
“What are you doing here?” he asked roughly.
“Upon my word, I am going to ask the judges that,” returned M. Florent in a low voice. “I have never conspired against anyone. I support Liberty and the Rights of Man.”
The precious youth burst out laughing.
“Well, old man, it’s all up with you,” he said, “and you deserve it.”
“What do I deserve?” asked M. Florent, gasping. “Explain yourself. Your laugh frightens me. Do you think there is any chance of escaping execution?”
“Not the slightest,” roared Cazo. “Not the slightest, my dear sir.”
“I have never done any harm to anyone.”
“A man always does harm if he is not a royalist.”
“To whom?”
“To France.”
M. Florent bent his head. To be imprisoned with this young maniac filling the cell with his dangerously compromising rant was the last straw! Imitating Baron d’Askof’s example, he turned his face to the wall and made a pretense to go to sleep.
A few minutes later, when the warders brought in some indifferent soup and a jug of water for the prisoners, the precious youth Cazo resumed his speechifying and continued well into the night. M. Florent suffered agonies. And when the door of the cell was opened with a violence that made him start, he really believed that his last moment had come.
In the gloomy darkness of the prison, dimly lit by a flickering light, a tall, slim form appeared wearing a red sash, followed by a bent, thick-set figure, from whose mouth the words “Commissioner-Inspector” fell at every moment. It was M. Talbot, the Governor, showing M. Hilaire over the prison. M. Hilaire, in the exercise of his new powers, had caused M. Talbot to be awakened so that he should accompany him on his nocturnal round.
M. Hilaire explained that having been warned by the Committee of the Town Hall of a plan of escape designed to save the lives of Subdamoun and Baron d’Askof, he was anxious to reassure the Committee that very night.
M. Florent shivered as though it were the depth of winter. He raised his trembling body with difficulty, while Baron d’Askof, still stretched on his pallet, looked round to see the Commissioner-Inspector, who was munching peanuts and carelessly dropped three on the Baron’s face.
Three peanuts in the language of the King of Convicts meant, “All goes well.”
D’Askof, having learnt something, and all the same not a little surprised to find Chéri-Bibi acting with such absolute confidence and audacity, again turned his face to the wall after declaring in answer to a question that M. Cazo’s speechifying in no way disturbed him personally but on the contrary amused him, all the more so as “he has an extremely attractive voice.”
M. Florent’s teeth chattered, and when questioned in his turn was unable to speak.
“This man has fever,” said M. Hilaire.
On hearing that voice M. Florent gave a jump and went down on his knees. He recognized M. Hilaire. He clung to his coat like a drowning man clinging to a straw.
“Hullo, M. Florent! What are you doing here?”
M. Florent lifted his hands above his shaking head in a gesture of supplication.
“M. Hilaire, you know me. You know I am incapable of doing anything that is not perfectly honest, and it is not for writing in the Gazette des Clubs that the Rights of Man...”
M. Florent was unable to get out any more. The Governor had already dragged M. Hilaire away.
“He is off his head,” said Talbot, closing the door of the cell. “Men are like that when they have the guillotine on the brain.”
CHAPTER XXVII
IN SUBDAMOUN’S CELL
ON LEAVING D’ASKOF’S cell, Commissioner-Inspector Hilaire asked to see Subdamoun. Thereupon Talbot, still accompanied by his turnkeys, walked with Hilaire to the cell occupied by Major Jacques. He dismissed the twenty-five civic guards keeping watch in the corridor bristling with a number of new iron gates.
A table and a chair had been placed at Subdamoun’s disposal. He remained for hours and hours together seated in this chair with his arms on the table in an attitude of inscrutable meditation.
He did not even look up when his visitors entered.
They stood for some moments gazing at this absence of all movement. What were this man’s thoughts? What was he expecting? Had he lost all hope? Was not his mind paralyzed by the terrible collapse of the structure built up upon such flimsy foundations? Was he thinking only that he was about to die? In the course of the inquiry, long drawn out for the purpose of presenting the revolutionary mob with the gift of the finest heads in the Republican, Agrarian and Nationalist reaction, he had uttered a few words that bespoke his complete detachment from it all.
Having once attempted to exonerate his accomplices and take the entire blame on his own shoulders, and observed that his effort would lead to no serious result, he said: “In the circumstances, take my head as soon as may be and ask me no more questions....”
“I want to speak to the prisoner so that nobody may overhear us,” said M. Hilaire to Talbot in an undertone.
“Against the regulations,” returned the Governor.
M. Hilaire handed the Governor a document bearing the Committee’s official stamp and Coudry’s signature underneath the words: “Officials employed in the administration of prisons are instructed to carry out such orders as M. Hilaire, Commissioner of the Arsenal Division and Inspector of Prisons, may deem it necessary to make for the safety of the prisoners and the well-being of the State.”
Talbot reflected for a moment and said:
“Have you to speak to the prisoner on behalf of the Committee?”
“If you are asked that question,” returned M. Hilaire, “I should advise you to answer that you don’t know. But between ourselves, as I am aware that you are devoted to the Committee, I will say: Yes. A secret mission connected with Hérisson, who is said to have been sounded by Subdamoun and perhaps Pagés — do you follow me? I know that you and I have the same enemies, and I have confidence in you. But mum’s the word if you value your head.”
“Still, I shall make my report to-morrow.”
“Of course.”
“I can’t allow you to speak to him without recording the fact.”
“You will record it.”
“I must tell you that there is one order,” went on the Governor, still on his guard, “which I cannot overlook for it is peremptory, and the document you have shown me does not cancel it.”
“What is it?”
“The order that my men must never allow Subdamoun out of their sight day and night.”
“Have I asked you to infringe that order? I have something to say to Subdamoun. As long as I am not overheard, that is all I ask. You have your, responsibilities, I have mine.”
The conversation passed quickly in a whisper in the doorway. Subdamoun, in fact, was to be kept continuously under the eye of his warders.
Talbot ordered the five civic guards to withdraw to the far end of the cell and stood with them. He made a sign to M. Hilaire that he could approach the prisoner.
Talbot, who was determined not to miss any movement of the two men, saw the Commissioner-Inspector bend over the prisoner and murmur a few words that seemed to produce some effect. Subdamoun looked up quickly, stared at his visitor, threw a glance at the Governor and the civic guards at the other end of the cell, and said aloud:
“Ah, it’s you, M. Hilaire, Commissioner of the Arsenal Division.”
“I am here in my capacity as Inspector-General of Prisons,” returne
d M. Hilaire in a distinct voice.
“My congratulations,” said Subdamoun. “The Republic is a good job as far as you are concerned.”
“They don’t seem to be very great friends,” M. Talbot said to himself. “Their talk begins badly. Let’s hear the sequel. He will be very clever if he gets anything out of him.”
Nevertheless, M. Hilaire was by no means put out of countenance by the somewhat negative result of his first effort. He went on in a voice that M. Talbot could hear:
“From the beginning of the Inquiry you have acted in such a way as to inflict the greatest harm on yourself and friends. You are free to ruin yourself, but remember that if in this matter you were a little more amenable to reason those who are dear to you would be grateful to you. I am here on behalf of the Committee of...”
M. Talbot could hear on more. M. Hilaire, however, went on talking in a whisper:
“Major, I am here to save your life. I only accepted my present office to be of service to you and yours.... You have heard that the Marchioness and Mlle Lydia are in a safe place. They are in my house, in my cellar. I have a letter on me from the Marchioness and hoped to give it to you myself. That is impossible to-night, but I shall find some means of letting you have it to-morrow.
“You will see from this letter that the Marchioness and Mlle Lydia are quite well, and they implore you to have complete confidence in me and to do whatever I ask you. In that case in three days’ time you will be free. The plan of your escape has been maturely thought out. It is quite simple. M. Talbot has decided to bring about the escape of Garot and Manol, two ordinary criminals whom we have won over to our side, and who will get away some other time. You will change places and clothes with them, and the Governor himself will see you to the door. Be prepared, therefore, at the least move, the least sign from me....”
Apparently M. Hilaire’s remarks had at last roused Subdamoun, for M. Talbot saw him suddenly abandon the attitude of indifference hitherto adopted, take his hands from his pale face, and move his lips.
So Subdamoun was speaking! M. Hilaire had succeeded in entering into conversation with him. That was no mean feat! Subdamoun had answered him. Still, the reply did not seem to be to M. Hilaire’s liking.
“What you say is all very fine, but I do not intend to escape.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you given a thought to the many friends whom I prevailed upon to join me at Versailles and who followed me here? Can I save them too?”
“Well, that would be impossible, you know.”
“You see, therefore, that I cannot escape. How could you suppose that after leading them to defeat I should desert them when they are about to die? I thank you for what you have done for my mother and fiancée. Continue to look after them. God will reward you. Tell them I shall think of them to my last moment, and strive on the scaffold to be worthy of the name of de Touchais. Tell my mother and fiancée all this. They will mourn for me, but they will understand and forgive me.”
“It will kill them,” said M. Hilaire, his eyes filled with tears.
“Would it kill them any the less if I behaved like a coward?” asked Subdamoun in a husky voice, placing his elbows on the table and his hands before his face.
M. Hilaire had no alternative but to leave the cell.
“Well, are you satisfied?” asked M. Talbot, accompanying him to the main gate.
“Upon my word, no,” confessed M. Hilaire, “and I don’t believe that those who sent me will have any reason to be satisfied either. This Subdamoun is more obstinate than one would have imagined.”
When M. Hilaire found himself once more on the Quay de l’Horloge he looked about him. It was a dark, dismal, wet night. He made his way to the deserted front of a café. He had not been there five minutes when a poor old peanut dealer came up to him and asked him humbly to buy some peanuts. M. Hilaire, doubtless out of pity, bought a bag for a few sous.
“Well?” whispered Chéri-Bibi.
“Well — nothing doing. He refuses to escape. He doesn’t wish to be considered a coward. He will die with his comrades. He has asked me to tell his mother and fiancée so.”
The poor old fellow must have certainly been extremely ill, for he had barely handed the bag of peanuts to his customer when he sank to the ground in an inert mass. The customer darted forward and lifted him with difficulty, seemingly not without emotion. He whispered in his ear words that caused the hapless man to open his eyes at the moment when a well-dressed gentleman, protected from the shower by an umbrella, was passing. The gentleman stopped and asked in a compassionate voice why the poor peanut dealer had fallen to the pavement.
“It must be starvation,” returned M. Hilaire.
The passer-by felt in his pocket and drew from his purse a ten-franc note, which he handed to M. Hilaire.
“Let him get something hot that will do him good,” said the gentleman, and walked away.
Then Chéri-Bibi came to himself and exclaimed:
“Thank you, M. Dimier. God bless you!”
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE COURTYARD OF THE CONCIERGERIE PRISON
THE NUMBER OF political prisoners in the Conciergerie Prison increased to such an extent that only a few of them could be accommodated in separate cells.
After a time Subdamoun was the one prisoner with a cell to himself. The other prisoners were quartered together, and during the day showed themselves and met almost freely in the courtyard, which was to some extent in the center of the political cells.
M. Florent was singularly impressed by this courtyard, suggestive of a cloister, with its walls yellow with age and its stone table and fountain, round which a bevy of beautiful women with bare heads sat on straw-bottomed chairs and held court with the heroic charm of the long ago, while civic guards paced up and down with loaded rifles and fixed bayonets.
At this time the prisoners were allowed to join the ladies, thus men and women mingled together at the hour set aside for exercise. The artful ones at first expressed surprise at this agreeable indulgence, but in the end drew the conclusion that it was an artifice to stimulate conversation. They were convinced, in fact, that they were being watched, and that every word would be reported by spies to the infamous M. Talbot.
For the first few days, therefore, each and everyone remained on his guard, staring every stranger in the face, and suspicious of even a friendly word; but this constraint soon became unendurable to them all, and it was the beautiful Sonia herself who encouraged her “lady and gentlemen guests” to chat among themselves as freely at her “receptions in the Conciergerie Prison” as in her drawing-room in the Boulevard Pereire.
M. Florent had been a week in prison when he first set foot in this “select circle.” A high fever had chained him to his wretched bed. D’Askof was a constant visitor, and regaled him with the latest gossip, which was not reassuring.
It was in vain that the Committee of Public Safety, whose President, M. Pagès, had resigned his office, sought to urge counsels of moderation on the Vigilance Committee; it was in vain that the remnants of the National Assembly, endeavoring to recover itself and react against this flood of revengeful fury, implored Coudry and his men “not to repeat the errors of the past.” Coudry, applauded by every Division, seemed likely to become the master of Paris, and Paris was already antagonistic to Versailles.
Finally, to put the finishing touches to this ominous picture, the Baron told M. Florent in confidence that the Government of the Commune, as it was already called, would in all probability, in order to calm public opinion, imitate the famous September massacres.
“Oh, good Lord,” mumbled M. Florent, “the September massacres! Is it possible?”
“Pah!” said the Baron in a tone of philosophy, “whether you die from a blow on the head with a pike or the guillotine it comes to the same thing, believe me. The annoying part is to die when you are not tired of life.”
M. Florent was not tired of life, and Baron d’Askof also found some de
gree of charm in it, especially since he had met the beautiful Sonia again in circumstances in which his love for that exquisite creature had assumed almost heroic proportions.
D’Askof was surprised at being kept in prison and seeing nothing more of Chéri-Bibi’s messenger, the Commissioner-Inspector, to whose appointment he had so strangely contributed by his own arrest. The Baron ardently longed to be free in order to work for the release of his beautiful friend who, moreover, had received him with the most affectionate welcome.
Sonia knew nothing of the part played by him in the common catastrophe, but had she been aware of it she would have forgiven him all the same. Had she not forgiven Lavobourg who had betrayed them all?
“You committed a crime, dear,” she said to Lavobourg, “but it was for love of me.... You may kiss my hand.”
Lavobourg grasped her hand with sadness. D’Askof kissed it with passion.
When M. Florent entered the courtyard a brilliant crowd was assembled. The ladies and their cavaliers were playing a game of hot-cockles — an old game in which a person is blindfolded, and, being struck, guesses who strikes him.
Mme Tiffoni, Mlles Luciene Drice, Yolande Théry, whose lovers had already appeared before the Revolutionary Tribunal or were about to lose their heads on the scaffold — all these beautiful women of the Republic while waiting their turn to display their courage in public were striving to show in private their cheerful indifference to the fate that lay in store for them.
At that moment it was Lavobourg who was on his knees before Sonia, his head hidden in her lap, one open hand held out behind his back. And while the ladies made merry by giving Lavobourg, thus blindfolded, a sharp slap on the hand, Baron D’Askof, bending over the beautiful Sonia’s shoulder, seemed less to be whispering to her than kissing her behind the ear.
Half the prisoners were in love with Sonia, and before being summoned by the Tribunal, from which they rarely returned, addressed love-letters to her which were read by all in common and helped to pass an agreeable hour or two.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 228
