A Marriage Under the Terror

by Patricia Wentworth

  Dangeau did not speak, and Danton’s eye rested on him with a certain impatience.

  “Sentiment will serve neither France nor us at this juncture,” he said on a deep note, rough with irritation. “He has conspired with Austria, and would bring in foreign troops upon us without a single scruple. What is one man’s life? He must die.”

  Dangeau looked down.

  “Yes, he must die,” he said in a low, grave voice, and there was a momentary silence. He stared into the fire, and saw the falling embers totter like a mimic throne, and fall into the sea of flame below. A cloud of sparks flew up, and were lost in blackness.

  “Life is like that,” he said, half to himself.

  Danton walked away, his big head bent, the veins of his throat swollen.

  CHAPTER XI

  THE IRREVOCABLE VOTE

  DANTON RETURNED WAS DANTON in action. Force possessed the party once more and drove it resistless to its goal. Permanent Session was moved, and carried—permanent Session of the National Convention—until its near five hundred members had voted one by one on the three all-important questions: Louis Capet, is he guilty, or not guilty? Shall the Convention judge him, or shall there be a further delay, an appeal to the people of France? If the Convention judges, what is its judgment—imprisonment, banishment, or death?

  Forthwith began the days of the Three Votings, stirring and dramatic days seen through the mist of years and the dust-clouds raised by groping historians. What must they have been to live through?

  It was Wednesday evening, January 16, and lamps were lit in the Hall of the Convention, but their glow shone chiefly on the tribune, and beyond there crowded the shadows, densely mysterious. Vergniaud, the President, wore a haggard face—his eyes were hot and weary, for he was of the Gironde, and the Gironde began to know that the day was lost. He called the names sonorously, with a voice that had found its pitch and kept it in spite of fatigue; and as he called, the long procession of members rose, passed for an instant to the lighted tribune, and voted audibly in the hearing of the whole Convention. Each man voted, and passed again into the shadow. So we see them—between the dark past and the dark future—caught for an instant by that one flash which brands them on history’s film for ever.

  Loud Jacobin voices boomed “Death,” and ranted of treason; epigrams were made to the applause of the packed galleries. For the people of Paris had crowded in, and every available inch of room was packed. Here were the tricoteuses—those knitting women of the Revolution, whose steel needles were to flash before the eyes of so many of the guillotine’s waiting victims, before the eyes indeed of many and many an honourable Deputy voting here to-night. Here were swart men of St. Antoine’s quarter—brewers, bakers, oilmen, butchers, all the trades—whispering, listening, leaning over the rail, now applauding to the echo, now hissing indignantly, as the vote pleased or displeased them. Death demanded with a spice of wit pleased the most—a voice faltering on a timorous recommendation to mercy evoked the loudest jeers.

  Dangeau sat in his place and heard the long, reverberating roll of names, until his own struck strangely on his ear. He rose and mounted into the smoky, yellow glare of the lamps that swung above the tribune. Vergniaud faced him, dignified and calm.

  “Your vote, Citizen?” and Dangeau, in clear, grave reply:

  “Death, Citizen President.”

  Here there was nothing to tickle the waiting ears above, and he passed down the steps again in silence, whilst another succeeded him, and to that other another yet. All that long night, and all the next long day, the voices never ceased. Now they rang loud and full, now low and hesitating; and after each vote came the people’s comment of applause, dissent, or silence.

  Dangeau passed into one of the lower galleries reserved for members and their friends. His limbs were cramped with the long session, and his throat was parched and dry; coffee was to be had, he knew, and he was in quest of it. As he got clear of the thronged entrance, a strange sight met his eye, for the gallery resembled a box at the opera, infinitely extended.

  Bare-necked women flashed their diamonds and their wit, chattering, laughing, and exchanging sallies with their friends.

  Refreshments were being passed round, and Deputies who were at leisure bowed, and smiled, and did the honours, as if it were a place of amusement, and not a hall of judgment.

  A bold, brown-faced woman, with magnificent black eyes, her full figure much accentuated by a flaring tricolour sash, swept to the front of the gallery, and looked down. In her wake came a sleepy, white-fleshed blonde, mincing as she walked. She too wore the tricolour, and Dangeau’s lips curled at the desecration.

  “Philippe is voting,” cried the brown woman loudly. “See, Jeanne, there he comes!”

  Dangeau looked down, and saw Philippe Égalité, sometime Philippe d’Orleans, prince of the blood and cousin of the King, pass up the tribune steps. Under the lamps his face showed red and blotched, his eyes unsteady; but he walked jauntily, twisting a seal at his fob. His attire bespoke the dandy, his manner the poseur. Opposite to Vergniaud he bowed with elegance, and cried in a voice of loud effrontery, “I vote for Death.”

  Through the Assembly ran a shudder of recoil. Natural feeling was not yet brayed to dust in the mortar of the Revolution, and it thrilled and quickened to the spectacle of kinsman rising against kinsman, and the old blood royal of France turning from its ruined head publicly, and in the sight of all men.

  “It is good that Louis should die, but it is not good that Philippe should vote for his death. Has the man no decency?” growled Danton at Dangeau’s ear.

  Long after, when his own hour was striking, Philippe d’Orleans protested that he had voted upon his soul and conscience—the soul whose existence he denied, and the conscience whose voice he had stifled for forty years. Be that between him and that soul and conscience, but, as he descended the tribune steps, Girondin, Jacobin, and Cordelier alike drew back from him, and men who would have cried death to the King’s cousin, cried none the less, “Shame on Égalité!”

  Only the bold brown woman and her companion laughed. The former even leaned across the bar and kissed her hand, waving, and beckoning him.

  Dangeau’s gaze, half sardonically curious, half disgusted, rested upon the scene.

  “All posterity will gaze upon what is done this day,” he said in a low voice to Danton—“and they will see this.”

  “The grapes are trodden, the wine ferments, and the scum rises,” returned Danton on a deep, growling note.

  “Such scum as this?”

  “Just such scum as this!”

  Below, one of the Girondins voted for imprisonment, and the upper galleries hissed and rocked.

  “Death, death, death!” cried the next in order.

  “Death, and not so much talk about it!”

  “Death, by all means death!”

  The blonde woman, Jeanne Fresnay, was pricking off the votes on a card.

  “Ah—at last!” she laughed. “I thought I should never get the hundred. Now we have one for banishment, ten for imprisonment, and a hundred for death.”

  The brown Marguerite Didier produced her own card—a dainty trifle tied with a narrow tricolour ribbon.

  “You are wrong,” she said—“it is but eight for imprisonment. You give him two more chances of life than there is any need to.”

  “That’s because I love him so well. Is he not Philippe’s cousin?” drawled the other, making the correction.

  Philippe himself leaned suddenly between them.

  “I should be jealous, it appears,” he said smoothly. “Who is it that you love so much?”

  The bare white shoulders were lifted a little farther out of their very scanty drapery.

  “Eh—that charming cousin Veto of yours. Since you love him so well, I am sure I may love him too. May I not?”

  Philippe’s laugh was a little hoarse, though ready enough.

  “But certainly, chère amie,” he said. “Have I not just proved my affecti
on to the whole world?”

  Mademoiselle Didier laughed noisily and caught him by the arm.

  “There, let him go,” she said with impatience. “At the last he bores one, your good cousin. We want more bonbons, and I should like coffee. It is cold enough to freeze one, with so much coming and going.”

  Again Dangeau turned to his companion.

  “An edifying spectacle, is it not?” he asked.

  Danton shrugged his great shoulders.

  “Mere scum and froth,” he said. “Let it pass. I want to speak to you. You are to be sent on mission.”

  “On mission?”

  “Why, yes. You can be useful, or I am much mistaken. It is this way. The South is unsatisfactory. There is a regular campaign of newspaper calumny going on, and something must be done, or we shall have trouble. I thought of sending you and Bonnet. You are to make a tour of the cities, see the principal men, hold public meetings, explain our aims, our motives. It is work which should suit you, and more important than any you could do in Paris at present.”

  Dangeau’s eyes sparkled; a longing for action flared suddenly up in him.

  “I will do my best,” he said in a new, eager voice.

  “You should start as soon as this business is over.” Danton’s heavy brow clouded. “Faugh! It stops us at every turn. I have a thousand things to do, and Louis blocks the way to every one. Wait till my hands are free, and you shall see what we will make of France!”

  “I will be ready,” said Dangeau.

  Danton had called for coffee, and stood gulping it as he talked. Now, as he set the cup down, he laid his hand on Dangeau’s shoulder a moment, and then moved off muttering to himself:

  “This place is stifling—the scent, the rouge. What do women do in an affair of State?”

  In Dangeau’s mind rose a vision of Aline de Rochambeau, cool, delicate, and virginal, and the air of the gallery became intolerable. As he went out in Danton’s wake, he passed a handsome, dark-eyed girl who stared at him with an inviting smile. Lost in thought, he bowed very slightly and was gone. His mind was all at once obsessed with the vision he had evoked. It came upon him very poignantly and sweetly, and yet—yet—that vote of his, that irrevocable vote. What would she say to that?

  Duty led men by strange ways in those strange days. Only of one thing could a man take heed—that he should be faithful to his ideals, and constant in the path which he had chosen, even though across it lay the shadows of disillusion and bitterness darkening to the final abyss. There could be no turning back.

  The dark girl flushed and bit an angrily twitching lip as she stared after Dangeau’s retreating figure. When Hébert joined her, she turned her shoulder on him, and threw him a black look.

  “Why did you leave me?” she cried hotly. “Am I to stand here alone, for any beast to insult?”

  “Poor, fluttered dove,” said Hébert, sneering. He slid an easy arm about her waist. “Come then, Thérèse, no sulks. Look over and watch that fool Girondin yonder. He’s dying, they say, but must needs be carried here to vote for mercy.”

  As he spoke he drew her forward, and still with a dark glow upon her cheeks she yielded.

  CHAPTER XII

  SEPARATION

  ROSALIE LEBOEUF SAT BEHIND her counter knitting. Even on this cold January day the exertion seemed to heat her. She paused at intervals, and waved the huge, half-completed stocking before her face, to produce a current of air. Swinging her legs from the counter, and munching an apple noisily, was a handsome, heavy-browed young woman, whose fine high colour and bold black eyes were sufficiently well known and admired amongst a certain set. An atmosphere of vigour and perfect health appeared to surround her, and she had that pose and air which come from superb vitality and complete self-satisfaction. If the strait-laced drew their skirts aside and stuck virtuous noses in the air when Thérèse Marcel was mentioned, it was very little that that young woman cared.

  She and Rosalie were first cousins, and the respectable widow Leboeuf winked at Thérèse’s escapades, in consideration of the excellent and spicy gossip which she could often retail.

  Rosalie was nothing if not curious; and just now there was a very savoury subject to hand, for Paris had seen her King strip to the headsman, and his blood flow in the midst of his capital town.

  “You should have been there, ma cousine,” said Thérèse between two bites of her apple.

  “I?” said Rosalie in her thick, drawling way. “I am no longer young enough, nor slim enough, to push and struggle for a place. But tell me then, Thérèse, was he pale?”

  Thérèse threw away the apple core, and showed all her splendid teeth in a curious feline mixture of laugh and yawn.

  “Well, so-so,” she said lazily; “but he was calm enough. I have heard it said that he was all of a sweat and a tremble on the tenth of August, but he did n’t show it yesterday. I was well in front,—Heaven be praised, I have good friends,—and his face did not even twitch when he saw the steel. He looked at it for a moment or two,—one would have said he was curious,—and then he began to speak.”

  Rosalie gave a little shudder, but her face was full of enjoyment.

  “Ah,” she breathed, leaning forward a little.

  “He declared that he died innocent, and wishing France—nobody knows what; for Santerre ordered the drums to be beaten, and we could not hear the rest. I owe him a grudge, that Santerre, for cutting the spectacle short. What, I ask you, does he imagine one goes to the play in order to miss the finest part, and I with a front place, too! But they say he was afraid there would be a rescue. I could have told him better. We are not fools!”

  “And then——?”

  “Well, thanks to the drums, you couldn’t hear; but there was a whispering with the Abbé, and Sanson hesitating and shivering like a cat with a wet paw and the gutter to cross. Everything was ready, but it seems he had qualms—that Sanson. The National Guards were muttering, and the good Mère Garnet next to me began to shout, ‘Death to the Tyrant,’ only no one heard her because of Santerre’s drums, when suddenly he bellowed, ‘Executioner, do your duty!’ and Citizen Sanson seemed to wake up. It was all over in a flash then; the Abbé whispered once, called out loudly, and pchtt! down came the knife, and off came the head. Rose Lacour fainted just at my elbow, the silly baggage; but for me, I found it exciting—more exciting than the theatre. I should have liked to clap and call ‘Encore!’”

  Rosalie leaned back, fanning, her broad face a shade paler, whilst the girl went on:

  “His eyes were still open when Sanson held up the head, and the blood went drip, drip, drip. We were all so quiet then that you could hear it. I tell you that gave one a sensation, my cousin!”

  “Blood—ouf!” said Rosalie; “I do not like to see blood. I cannot digest my food after it.”

  “For me, I am a better patriot than you,” laughed Thérèse; “and if it is a tyrant’s blood that I see, it warms my heart and does it good.”

  A shudder ran through Rosalie’s fat mass. She lifted her bulky knitting and fanned assiduously with it.

  Her companion burst into a loud laugh.

  “Eh, ma cousine, if you could see yourself!” she cried.

  “It is true,” said Rosalie, with composure, “I grow stouter; but at your age, Thérèse, I was slighter than you. It is the same with us all—at twenty we are thin, at thirty we are plump, and at forty—” She waved a fat hand over her expansive form and shrugged an explanatory shoulder, whilst her small eyes dwelt with a malicious expression on Thérèse’s frowning face.

  The girl lifted the handsomest shoulders in Paris. “I am not a stick,” she observed, with that ready flush of hers; “it is these thin girls, whom one cannot see if one looks at them sideways, who grow so stout later on. I shall stay as I am, or maybe get scraggy—quel horreur!”—and she shuddered a little—“but it will not be yet awhile.”

  Rosalie nodded.

  “You are not thirty yet,” she said comfortably, “and you are a fine figure o
f a woman. ’Tis a pity Citizen Dangeau cannot be made to see it!”

  Up went Thérèse’s head in a trice, and her bold colour mounted.

  “Hé!”—she snorted contemptuously—“is he the world? Others are not so blind.”

  There was a pause. Rosalie knitted, smiling broadly, whilst Thérèse caught a second apple from a piled basket, and began to play with it.

  “He is going away,” said Rosalie abruptly, and Thérèse dropped the apple, which rolled away into a corner.

  “Tctt, tctt,” clicked Rosalie, “you have an open hand with other folk’s goods, my girl! Yes, certainly Citizen Dangeau is going away, and why not? There is nothing to keep him here that I know of.”

  “For how long?” asked Thérèse, staring out of the window.

  “One month, two, three—how do I know, my cabbage? It is business of the State, and in such matters, you should know more than I.”

  “When does he go?”

  “To-morrow,” said Rosalie cheerfully, for to torment Thérèse was a most exhilarating employment, and one that she much enjoyed. It vindicated her own virtue, and at the same time indulged her taste for gossip.

  Thérèse sprang up, and paced the small shop with something wild in her gait.

  “Why does he go?” she asked excitedly. “He used to smile at me, to look when he passed, and now he goes another way; he turns his head, he elbows me aside. Does he think I am one of those tame milk-and-water misses, who can be taken up one minute and dropped the next? If he thinks that, he is very much mistaken. Who has taken him from me? I insist on knowing; I insist that you tell me!”

  “Chut,” said Rosalie, with placid pleasure, “he never was yours to take, and that you know as well as I.”

  “He looked at me,” and Thérèse’s coarse contralto thrilled tragically over the words.

  “Half Paris does that.” Rosalie paused and counted her stitches. “One, two, three, four, knit two together. Why not? you are good to look at. No one has denied it that I know of.”