The sun was sinking, and all the fields lay golden in the glory, but she was too weary to heed. Her feet were bare and bleeding, her garments torn and scanty, and on her breast lay a little moaning babe. It stretched slow, groping hands to her and wailed for food, and her heart grew heavier and darker with every step she took. Suddenly Dangeau stood by her side. He was angry, his voice thundered, his look was flame, and in loud, terrible tones he cried, “You have starved my child, and it is dead!” Then she thought he took the baby from her arms, and an angel with a flaming sword flew out of the sun, and drew her down—down—down….
She woke terrified, bathed in tears. What a dream! “Holy Mary, Mother and Virgin, shield me!” she prayed, as she crouched breathless in the gloom. “The powers of darkness—the powers of evil! Let dreams be far and phantoms of the night—bind thou the foe. His look, his fearful look, and his deep threatening voice like the trump of the Angel of Judgment! Mary, Virgin, save!”
Thoughts wild and incoherent; prayers softening to a sob, sobs melting again into a prayer! Loneliness and the midnight had their way with her, and it was not until the tranquillising moon shot a silver ray into the small dark room that the haunting agony was calmed, and she sank into a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER IX
THE OLD IDEAL AND THE NEW
IT WAS REALLY ONLY on four evenings of the week that Dangeau was able to avail himself of Mlle de Rochambeau’s services.
On Sundays she took a holiday both from embroidery and copying, and on Mondays and Thursdays he spent the evening at the Cordeliers’ Club.
It was on a Saturday that Dangeau had stormed, proffered friendship, and kissed Mademoiselle’s hand, so that during the two days that followed both had time to calm down, to experience a slight revulsion of feeling, and finally to feel some embarrassment at the thought of their next meeting.
On Tuesday Dangeau was in his room all the afternoon. He had some important papers to read through, and when he had finished them, felt restless, yet disinclined to go out again.
It was still light, but the winter dark would fall in half an hour, and the evening promised to be wet and stormy. A gust of wind beat upon the window now and again, leaving it sprayed with moisture. Dangeau stood awhile looking out, his mood grey as the weather. Some one not far off was singing, and he opened his window, and leaned idly out to see if the singer were visible. The sound at once grew faint, almost to extinction, and latching the casement he fell to pacing his room. By the door he paused, for the sound was surely clearer. He turned the handle and stood listening, for Mademoiselle’s door was ajar, and from within her voice came sweetly and low. He had an instant vision of how she would look, sitting close to the dull window, grey twilight on the shining head bent over the fine white work as she sang to keep the silence and the loneliness from her heart. The song was one of those soft interminable cradle songs which mothers sing in every country place, rocking the full cradle with patient rhythmic foot, the while they spin or knit, and every word came clear to a lilting air:
“She sat beneath the wayside tree,
Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la—
She heard the birds sing wide and free,
Hail Mary, full of grace!
“She had no shelter for her head,
Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la,
Except the leaves that God had spread—
Hail Mary, full of grace!
“Down flew the Angel Gabriel,
Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la,
He said, ‘Maid Mary, greet thee well!’
Hail Mary, full of grace!”
The song was interrupted for a moment, but he heard her hum the tune. To the lonely man came a swift, holy thought of what it would be to see her rock a child to that soft air in a happy twilight, no longer solitary. He heard her move her chair and sigh a little as she sat down again. The daylight died as if with gasps for breath palpably withdrawn:
“She laid her Son in the oxen’s stall,
Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la—
Herself she did not rest at all,
Hail Mary, full of grace!”
Another pause, another sigh, and then the sound of steps moving about the room. Then the door was shut, and with a little smile half tender, half impatient, Dangeau turned to his work again.
When the evening was come, and Mademoiselle was in her place, he asked her suddenly:
“What do you do with yourself on Sunday?”
“I take a holiday, Citizen,” she answered demurely, and without looking up.
“But what do you do with your holiday, Citoyenne,” said Dangeau, persistent.
Mademoiselle smiled a little and blushed a little, smile and blush alike reproving his curiosity, but after a slight hesitation she said:
“I go to one of the great churches.”
“And when you are there?”
“Is it the Catechism?” ventured Mademoiselle, and then went on hastily, “I say my prayers, Citizen.”
“And could you not say them at home?”
“Why, yes, and I do, Citizen, but I go to hear the Mass; and then the church is so solemn, and big, and beautiful. Others are praying round me, and I feel my prayers are heard.”
Dangeau frowned and then broke out impatiently:
“That idea of prayer—it is so selfish—each one asking, asking, asking. I do not find that ennobling!”
“Is it so selfish to ask for patience and courage, then, Citizen?”
“And is that what you pray for?” he asked, arrested by something in her tone.
Aline’s colour rose high under his softened look, and she inclined her head without speaking.
“That might pass,” said Dangeau reflectively. “I do not believe in priests, or an organised religion, but I have my own creed. I believe in one Supreme Being from whom flows that tide which we call Life when it rises in us, and Death when it ebbs again to Him. If the creature could, by straining towards the Creator, draw the life-tide more strongly into his own soul, that would be worthy prayer; but to most men, what is religion?—a mere ignoble system of reward or punishment, fit perhaps for children, or slaves, but no free man’s creed.”
“What would you give them instead, Citizen?” asked Mademoiselle seriously.
“Reason,” cried Dangeau; “pure reason. Teach man to reason, and you lift him above such degrading considerations. Even the child should not be punished, it should be reasoned with; but there—” He paused, for Mademoiselle was laughing a soft, irrepressible laugh, that filled the small, low room.
“Oh, Citizen, forgive me,” she cried; “but you reminded me of something that happened when I was a child. I do not quite know whether the story fits your theory or mine, but I will tell it you, if you like.”
“If it fits my theory, I shall annex it unscrupulously, of that I give you fair warning,” said Dangeau, laughing. “But tell it to me first, and we will dispute about it afterwards.”
Aline leaned back in her upright chair, and a little remembering smile came into her eyes.
“Well, Citizen, you must know that I was only nine years old when I went to the Convent, and I was a spoilt child, and gave the good nuns a great deal of trouble, I am afraid.
“The sister in charge of us was Sister Marie Josèphe, and we were very fond of her; but when we were naughty, out came a birch rod, and we were soundly punished.
“Now Sister Marie Josèphe was not strong; she suffered much from pain in her head, and sometimes it was so bad that she was obliged to be alone, and in the dark. When this happened, Sister Géneviève took her place, and Sister Géneviève was like you, Citizen; she believed in the efficacy of pure reason! If under her regime there was a crime to be punished, then there was no birch rod forthcoming, but instead, a very long, dreary sermon—an hour by the clock, at least—and at the end a very limp, discouraged sinner, usually in tears. But, Citizen, it was ennuyant, most terrible ennuyant, and much, much worse than being whipped; for that only lasted a minute, a
nd then there were tears, kisses, promises of amendment, and a grand reconciliation. Well, I must tell you that I had a great desire to see the moon rise over the hill behind us. Our windows looked the other way, and as it was winter time we were all locked in very early. Adèle de Matignon dared me to get out. I declared I would, and I watched my time. I am sure Sister Marie Josèphe must have been very much surprised by my frequent and tender inquiries after her health at that time.
“‘Always a little suffering, my child,’ she would say, and then I would whisper to Adèle, ‘We must wait.’
“At last, however, a day came when the good sister answered, ‘Ah, it goes better, thanks to the Virgin,’ and I told Adèle that it would be for that evening. Well, I got out. I climbed through a window, and down a pear tree. I scratched my hands, and fell into some bushes, and after all there was no moon! The night was cloudy and presently it began to rain. I assure you, Citizen, I was very well punished before I came up for judgment. Of course I was discovered, and, to my horror, found myself in the hands of Sister Géneviève. ‘But where is Sister Marie Josèphe?’ I sobbed. ‘Ah, my child!’ said Sister Géneviève mildly, ‘this wickedness of yours has brought on one of her worst attacks, and she is suffering too much to come to you.’ I cried dreadfully, for I was very much discouraged, and felt that one of Sister Géneviève’s sermons would remove my last hope in this world. She did not know what to make of me, I am sure, but I had to listen to more pure reason than I had ever done before, and I assure you, Citizen, that it gave me a headache almost as bad as poor Sister Marie Josèphe’s.”
Mademoiselle laughed again as she finished her tale, and looked at Dangeau with arch, malicious eyes. He joined her laughter, but would have the last word; for,
“See, Citoyenne,” he said, “see how your tale supports my theory, and how fine a deterrent was the pure reason of Sister Géneviève as compared with the birch rod of Sister Marie Josèphe!”
“But if it is a punishment, then your theory falls to the ground, since you were to do away with all reward and punishment!” objected Aline.
Dangeau’s eyes twinkled.
“You are too quick,” he said in mock surrender.
Mademoiselle took up her pen.
“I am very slow over my work,” she answered, smiling. “See how I waste my time! You should scold me, Citizen.”
They wrote for awhile, but Dangeau’s pen halted, the merriment died out of his face, leaving it stern and gloomy. These were no times to foster even an innocent gaiety. Abruptly he began to speak again.
“You see only flowers and innocence upon your altars, but I have seen them served by cruelty, blood, and lust.”
Aline looked up, startled.
“I could not tell you the tales I know—they are not fit.” His brow clouded. “My mother was a good woman, good and religious. I have still a reverence for what she reverenced; I can still worship the spirit of her worship, though I have travelled far enough since she taught me at her knee. I have seen too many crimes committed in the name of Religion,” and he broke off, leaning his head upon his hand.
Mlle de Rochambeau’s eyes flashed.
“And in the name of Liberty, none?” she asked with a sudden ring in her voice.
A vision of blood and horror swept between them. Dangeau saw in memory the gutters of Paris awash with the crimson of massacre. Dead, violet eyes in a severed head pike-lifted stared at him from the gloom, and under his gaze he thought they changed, turned greyer, darker, and took the form and hue of those which Aline raised to his. He shuddered violently, and answered in a voice scarcely audible:
“Yes, there have been crimes.”
Then he looked up again, snatching his thoughts back to control.
“Liberty is only a name, as yet,” he said; “we have taken away the visible chain which manacled the body, but an invisible one lies deep, and corroded, fettering the heart and will, and as it rusts into decay it breeds a deadly poison there. The work of healing cannot be done in a day. There can be no true liberty until our children are cradled in it, educated in it, taught to hold it as the air, without which they cannot breathe. That time is to come, but first there will be much bitterness, much suffering, much that is to be deplored. You may well pray for strength and patience,” he continued, after a momentary pause, “for we shall all need them in the times that are coming.”
Slowly, but surely, the spirit of the two great Republican Clubs was turning to violence and lust of power. Hébert, Marat, and Fouquier Tinville were rising into prominence—fatal, evil stars, driven on an orbit of mad passion.
Robespierre’s name still stood for moderation, but there was, at times, an expression on his livid face, a spark in his haggard eyes, which left a more ominous impression than Marat’s flood of vituperation or Tinville’s calculating cruelty.
Dangeau’s heart was very heavy. The splendid dawn was here—the dawn longed for, looked for, hoped for through so many hours of blackest night—and behold, it came up redly threatening, precursor, not of the full, still day of peace, but of some Armageddon of wrath and fury. The day of peace would come, must come, but who could say that he would live to see it? There were times when it seemed unutterably far away.
A dark mood was upon him. He could not write, but stared gloomily before him. That anxiety, that quickened sense of all life’s sadness and dangers which comes over us at times when we love, possessed him now. How long would this young life, which meant he was afraid to gauge how much to him, be safe in the midst of this fermenting city? Her innocence stabbed his soul, her delicate pride caught at his heart-strings. How long could the one endure? How soon might not the other be dragged in the dust? Rosalie he knew only too well. She would not betray the girl, but neither would she go out of her own safe way to protect her; and she was venal, narrow, and hard.
He did not kiss Mademoiselle’s hand to-night, but he took it for a moment as she passed, and stood looking down at it as he said:
“If God is, He will bless you.”
Mademoiselle’s heart beat violently.
“And you too, Citizen,” she murmured, with an involuntary catch of the breath.
“Do you pray for me?” he asked, filled with a new emotion.
“Yes, Citizen,” she said, in a very low voice.
Dangeau was about to speak again—to say he knew not what—but with her last words she drew her hand gently away, and was gone. He stood where she had left him, breathing deeply. Suddenly the gloom that lay upon him became shot with light, and hope rose trembling in his heart. He felt himself strong—a giant. What harm could touch her under the shield of his love? Who would dare threaten what he would cherish to the death? In this new exultation he flung the window wide, and leaned out. A little snow had fallen, and the heaviness of the air was relieved. Now it came crisp and vigorous against his cheek. Far above, the clouds made a wide ring about the moon. Serenely tranquil she floated in the space of clear, dark sky, and all the night was irradiated as if by thoughts of peace.
CHAPTER X
THE FATE OF A KING
DECEMBER WAS A MONTH of turmoil and raging dissensions. Faction fought faction, party abused party, and all was confusion and clamour. In the great Hall of the Convention, speaker succeeded speaker, Deputy after Deputy rose, and thundered, rose, and declaimed, rose, and vituperated. Nothing was done, and in every department of the State there reigned a chaos indescribable. “Moderation and delay,” clamoured the Girondins, smooth, narrow Roland at their head, mouthpiece, as rumour had it, of that beautiful philosopher, his wife. “To work and have done with it,” shouted the men of the Mountain, driving their words home with sharp accusations of lack of patriotism and a desire to favour Monarchy.
On the 11th of the month, the Hall had echoed to the Nation’s indictment of Louis Capet, sometime King of France.
On the 26th, Louis, still King in his own eyes, made answer to the Nation’s accusation by the mouth of his advocate, the young Désèze.
For
three hours that brave man spoke, manfully striving against the inevitable, and, having finished a most eloquent speech, threw his whole energies into obtaining what was the best hope of the King’s friends—delay, delay, delay, and yet again delay.
The matter dragged on and on. Every mouthing Deputy had his epoch-making remarks to make, and would make them, though distracted Departments waited until the Citizen Deputies should have finished judging their King, and have time to spare for the business of doing the work they had taken out of his hands; whilst outside, a carefully stage-managed crowd howled all day for bread, and for the Traitor Veto’s head, which they somehow imagined, or were led to imagine, would do as well.
The Mountain languished a little without its leader, who was absent on a mission to the Low Countries, and, Danton’s tremendous personality removed, it tended to froth of accusation and counter-accusation, by which matters were not at all advanced. At the head of his Jacobins sat Robespierre, as yet coldly inscrutable, but amongst the Cordeliers there was none to replace Danton.
In the early days of January, the Netherlands gave him back again, and the Mountain met in conclave—its two parties blended by the only man who could so blend them. The long Committee-room was dark, and though it was not late, the lamps had been lighted for some time. Under one of them a man sat writing. His straight, unnaturally sleek hair was brushed carefully back from a forehead of spectral pallor. His narrow lips pressed each other closely, and he wrote with an absorbed concentration which was somehow not agreeable to witness.
Every now and then he glanced up, and there was a hinted gleam of red—a mere spark not yet fanned into flame—behind the shallows of his eyes. The lamp-light showed every detail of his almost foppish dress, which was in marked contrast to his unpleasing features, and to the custom of his company; for those were days when careful attire was the aristocrat’s prerogative, and clean linen rendered a patriot gravely suspect.
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