A Marriage Under the Terror

by Patricia Wentworth

  “It must be a young child, under seven years old.”

  “But why?”

  “The eyes, Madame, must be clear. With conscious sin, with the first touch of sorrow, the first breath of passion, there comes a mist, and the visions are read no longer.”

  “Well, there are children enough,” she answered with a shrug. “I have seen a little girl of about five,—Marie, I think she is called: we will ask for her.”

  Almost as she spoke the door was thrown open and the gaoler entered. He brought another prisoner to share the already crowded room. If Paris streets were silent and empty, her prisons were full enough. This was a pale slip of a girl, with a pitiful hacking cough. She entered listlessly, and sank down in a corner as if she had not strength to stand.

  “The end of the journey,” said Aristide under his breath, but Mme de Labédoyère was by the gaoler’s side talking volubly.

  “It is only for an hour,—and see—” here something slipped from her hand to his. “It will be a diversion for the child, and for us, mon Dieu, it may save our lives! How would you feel if you were to find us all dead one morning just from sheer ennui?”

  “I don’t know that I should fret,” said the man with a grin, and Mme de Labédoyère bit her lip.

  “But you will lend us Marie,” she said insistently.

  “Oh, if you like, and if she will come. It is nothing to me, and she is not of an age to have her principles corrupted,” said the man, laughing at his own wit.

  He went out with a jingle of keys, and in a few minutes the door opened once more, and a serious-eyed person of about five years old staggered in, carrying a very fat, heavy baby, whose sleepy head nodded across her shoulder.

  She hesitated a moment and then came in, closed the door, and finally sat down between Aline and Mlle Ange, disposing the baby upon her diminutive lap.

  “This is Mutius Scaevola,” she volunteered; “my mother washes and I am in charge. He is very sleepy, but one is never sure. He is a wicked baby. Sometimes he roars so that the roof comes off one’s head. Then my mother says it is my fault, and slaps me.”

  “Give him to me,” said Mlle Ange suddenly.

  The serious Marie regarded her for a moment, and then allowed her charge to be transferred to the stranger’s lap, where he promptly fell fast asleep.

  “Come here, my child,” said the old gentleman in the corner, and Marie went to him obediently.

  He had poured ink into his palm, and now held it under her eyes, putting his other arm gently round the child.

  “Look now, little one. Look and tell us what you see, and you, Madame,” he said, beckoning to Mme de Labédoyère, “come nearer and put your hand upon her head.”

  “Do you see anything, child?”

  “I see ink,” said Marie sedately. “It will make your hand very dirty, sir. Once I got some on my frock, and it never came out. I was beaten for that.”

  “Hush, then, little one, and look into the ink. Presently there will be pictures there. Then you may speak and tell us what you see.”

  Silence fell on the small hot room. Ange Desaix rocked softly with the sleeping child. She was the only one who never even glanced at the astrologer and his pupil.

  Presently Marie said:

  “Monsieur, there is a picture.”

  “What then, say?”

  “A boy, with a broom, sweeping.”

  He nodded gravely.

  “Yes, yes. Watch well; the pictures come.”

  “He has made a clean place,” said the child, “and on the clean place there is a shadow. Ah, now it turns into a lady—into this lady whose hand is on my head. She stands and looks at me, and a man comes and catches her by the neck and cuts off her hair. That is a pity, for her hair is very long and fine. Why does he cut it?”

  “Mon Dieu!” said Mme de Labédoyère with a sob. She released the child and sat down by the wall, leaning against it, her eyes wide with fear.

  “You asked to see the future, Madame,” said the old man impassively.

  “Can you show the past?” asked Mme de Vieuxmesnil, half hesitatingly.

  “Assuredly. You must touch the child, and think of what you wish to see.”

  She came forward and put out her hand, but drew it quickly back again.

  “No,” she murmured; “it is perhaps a sin. I am too near the end for that, and when one cannot even confess.”

  “As you will,” said the old man.

  “And you, Madame,” he turned to Aline, “is there nothing you would know; no one for whose welfare you are anxious?”

  She started, for he had read her thoughts, which were full of Dangeau. It was months now since any word had come from him, and she longed inexpressibly for tidings. Lawful or unlawful, she would try this way, since there was no other. She laid her hand lightly on the little girl’s head, and once more the child looked into the dark pool.

  “There are so many people,” she said at last. “They run to and fro, and wave their arms. That makes one’s head ache.”

  “Go on looking,” said Aristide.

  “There is a lady there now. It is this lady. She looks very frightened. Some one has put a red cap on her head. Ah—now a gentleman comes. He takes her hand and puts a ring on it. Now he kisses her.”

  Aline drew away. The clamour and the crowd, the hasty wedding, the cold first kiss, all swam together in her mind.

  “That is the past,” she said in a low, strained voice. “Tell me where he is now. Is he alive? Where is he? Shall I see him again?”

  She had forgotten her surroundings, the listeners, Mme de Breteuil’s sharp eyes. She only looked eagerly at Aristide, and he nodded once or twice, and laid her hand again on the child’s head.

  “She shall look,” he said, but Marie lifted weary eyes.

  “Monsieur, I am tired,” she said.

  “Just this once more, little one. Then you shall sleep,” and she turned obediently and bent again over his hand.

  “I do not like this picture,” she said fretfully.

  “What is it?”

  “I do not know. There is a platform, with a ladder that goes up. I cannot see the top. Ah—there is the lady again. She goes up the ladder. Her hair is cut off, close to the head. That is not at all pretty, but it is the same lady, and the gentleman is there too.”

  “What gentleman?” asked Aline, in a clear voice.

  “The same who was in the other picture, who put the ring upon your finger and kissed your forehead. It is he, a tall monsieur with blue eyes. He has no hat on, and his arms are tied behind him. Oh, I do not like this picture. Need I look any more?” and her voice took a wailing sound.

  “No, it is enough,” said Aline gently.

  She drew the child away and sat down by Mlle Ange, who still rocked the sleeping baby. Marie leaned her head beside her brother’s and shut her eyes. Ange Desaix put an arm about her too, and she slept.

  But Aristide was still looking at Aline.

  “I do not understand,” he said under his breath. “You have none of the signs, none of them. Now she,”—he indicated Mme de Labédoyère, “one can see it at a glance. A short life, and a death of violence, but with you it is different. Give me your hand.”

  He was within reach, and she put it out half mechanically. He looked at it long, and then laid it back in her lap.

  “You have a long life still,” he said, “a long, prosperous life. The child was tired, she read amiss. The sign was not for you.”

  Aline shook her head. It did not seem to matter very much now. She was so tired. What was death? At least, if the vision were true, she would see her husband again. They would forgive one another, and she would be able to forget his bitter farewell look.

  Meanwhile Dangeau waited for death in La Force. His cell contained only one inmate, a man who seemed to have sustained some serious injury to the head, since he lay swathed in bandages and moaned continually.

  “Who is he?” he asked Defarge, the gaoler, and the man shrugged his s
houlders.

  “One there is enough coil about for ten,” he grumbled. “One pays that he should have a cell to himself, and another sends him milk. It seems he is wanted to live, since this morning I get orders to admit a surgeon to him. Bah! If he knew when he was well off, he would make haste and die. For me, I would prefer that to sneezing into Sanson’s basket; but what would you? No one is ever contented.”

  That afternoon the surgeon came, a brisk, round-bodied person with a light roving hazel eye, and quick, clever hands. He fell to his work, and after loitering a moment Defarge went out, leaving the door open, and passing occasionally, when he would pop his head in, grumble a little, and pass on again.

  Dangeau watched idly. Something in the little man’s appearance seemed familiar, but for the moment he could not place him. Suddenly, however, the busy hands ceased their work for a moment, and the surgeon glanced sharply over his shoulder. “Here, can you hold this for me?” and as Dangeau knelt opposite to him and put his finger to steady the bandage, he said:

  “I know your face. Where have I seen you, eh?”

  “And I know yours. My name is Dangeau.”

  “Aha—I thought so. You were Edmond’s friend. Poor Edmond! But what would you? He was too imprudent.”

  “Yes, I was Edmond Cléry’s friend,” said Dangeau; “and you are his uncle. I met you with him once. Citizen Goyot, is it not?”

  “At your service. There, that’s finished.”

  “Who is he; will he live?” asked Dangeau, as the patient twitched and groaned.

  Goyot shrugged.

  “He has friends who want him to live, and enemies who are almost as anxious that he should n’t die.”

  “A riddle, Citizen?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You may conceive, if you will, that his friends desire his assistance, and that his enemies desire him to compromise his friends.”

  “Ah, it is that way?”

  “I did not say so,” said Goyot. “Good-day, Citizen,” and he departed, leaving Dangeau something to think about, and a new interest in his fellow-prisoner.

  Next day behold Goyot back again. He enlisted Dangeau’s services at once, and Defarge having left them, shutting the door this time, he observed with a keen look:

  “I’ve been refreshing my memory about you, Citizen Dangeau.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Yes; you still have a friend or two. Who says the days of miracles are over? You have been away a year and are not quite forgotten.”

  “And what did my friends say?” asked Dangeau, smiling a little.

  “They said you were an honest man. I said there were n’t two in Paris. They declared you were one of them.”

  “Ciel, Citizen, you are a pessimist.”

  “Optimists lose their heads these days,” said Goyot with a grimace. “But after all one must trust some one, or one gets no further.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, we want to get further, that is all.”

  “Your meaning, Citizen?”

  “Mon Dieu, must I dot all the i’s?”

  “Well, one or two perhaps.”

  “I have a patient sicker than this,” said Goyot abruptly.

  “Yes?”

  “France,” he said in a low voice.

  Dangeau gave a deep sigh.

  “You are right,” he said.

  “Of course, it’s my trade. The patient is very ill. Too much blood-letting—you understand? There’s a gangrene which is eating away the flesh, poisoning the whole body. It must be cut out.”

  “Robespierre.”

  “Mon Dieu, Citizen, no names! Though, to be sure, that one’s in the air. A queer thing human nature. I knew him well years ago. You’d have said he could n’t hurt a fly; would turn pale at the mention of an execution; and now,—well, they say the appetite comes with eating, and life is a queer comedy.”

  “Comedy?” said Dangeau bitterly. “It’s tragedy that fills the boards for most of us to-day.”

  “Ah! that depends on how you take it. Keep an eye on the ridiculous: foster it, play for it, and you have farce. Take things lightly, with a turn of wit and a playful way, and it is comedy. Tragedy demands less effort, I’ll admit, but for me—Vive la Comédie. We are discussing the ethics of the drama,” he explained to Defarge, who poked his head in at this juncture.

  “Will that mend his head?” inquired the gaoler with a scowl.

  “Ah, my dear Defarge, that, I fear, is past praying for; but I have better hopes of my other patient.”

  “Who’s that?” asked the man, staring.

  “A lady, my friend, in whom Citizen Dangeau is interested. A surgical case—but I have great hopes, great hopes of curing her,” and with that he went out, smiling and talking all the way down the corridor.

  Dangeau grew to look for his coming. Sometimes he merely got through his work as quickly as possible, but occasionally he would drop some hint of a plot,—of plans to overthrow Robespierre.

  “The patient’s friends are willing now,” he said one day. “It is a matter of seizing the favourable moment. Meanwhile one must have patience.”

  Dangeau smiled a trifle grimly. Patience, when one’s head is under the axe, may be a desirable, but it is not an easily cultivated, virtue.

  Life had begun to look sweet to him once more. The mood in which he had suddenly flung defiance at Robespierre was past, and if the old, vivid dreams came back no more, yet the dark horizon began to show a sober gleam of hope.

  Every sign proclaimed the approaching fall of Robespierre, and Dangeau looked past the Nation’s temporary delirium to a time of convalescence, when the State, restored to sanity, might be built up, if not towards perfection, at least in the direction of sober statesmanship and peaceful government.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THROUGH DARKNESS TO LIGHT

  SO DAWNED THE MORNING of the twenty-seventh of July, the 9th Thermidor in the new Calendar of the Revolution. A very hot, still day, with a veiled sky dreaming of thunder. Dangeau had passed a very disturbed night, for his fellow-prisoner was worse. The long unconsciousness yielded at last, and slid through vague mutterings into a high delirium, which tasked his utmost strength to control. Goyot was to come early, since this development was not entirely unexpected; but the morning passed, and still he did not appear. By two o’clock the patient was in a stupour again, and visibly within an hour or two of the end. No skill could avail him now.

  Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Dangeau heard himself summoned.

  “Your time at last,” said Defarge, and he followed the man without a word. In the corridor they met Goyot, his hair much rumpled, his eyes bright and restless with excitement.

  “You? Where are you going?” he panted.

  “Where does one go nowadays?” returned Dangeau, with a slight shrug.

  “No, no,” exclaimed Goyot. “It’s not possible. We had arranged—your name was to be kept back.”

  “Bah,” said Defarge, spitting on the ground. “You need not look at me like that, Citizen. It is not my fault. You know that well enough. Orders come, and must be obeyed. I’m neither blind nor deaf. Things are changing out there, I’m told, but orders are orders, and a plain man looks no further.”

  Goyot caught at Dangeau’s arm.

  “We’ll save you yet,” he said. “Robespierre is down. Accused this morning in Convention. They’re all at his throat now. Keep a good heart, my friend; his time has come at last.”

  “And mine,” returned Dangeau.

  “No, no,—I tell you there is hope. It is only a matter of hours.”

  “Just so.”

  Defarge interposed.

  “Ciel, Citizens, are we to stand here all day? Citizen Goyot, your patient is dying, and you had better see to him. This citizen and I have an engagement,—yes, and a pressing one.”

  An hour later Dangeau passed in to take his trial. His predecessor’s case had taken a scant five minutes, so simple a matter had the death penalty become.

/>   Fouquier Tinville seated himself, his sharp features more like the fox’s mask than ever, only now it was the fox who hears the hounds so close upon his heels that he dares not look behind to see how close they are. Fear does not improve the temper, and he nodded maliciously at his former colleague.

  “Name,” he rapped out, voice and eye alike vicious.

  With smooth indifference Dangeau repeated his names, and added with a touch of amusement:

  “You know me and my names well enough, or did once, my good Tinville.”

  The thin lips lifted in a snarl.

  “That, my friend, was when you were higher in the world than you are now. Place of abode?”

  Dangeau’s gaze went past him. He shrugged his shoulders with a faintly whimsical effect.

  “Shall we say the edges of the world?” he suggested.

  Fouquier Tinville spat on the floor and leaned over the table with a yellow glitter in his eyes.

  “How does it feel?” he sneered. “The edges of the world. Ma foi, how does it feel to look over them into annihilation?”

  Dangeau returned his look with composure.

  “I imagine you may soon have an opportunity of judging,” he observed.

  At Tinville’s right hand a man sat drumming on the table. Now he looked up sharply, exhibiting a dead white face, where the lips hung loose, and the eyes showed wildly bloodshot.

  “But if one could know first,” he said in a shaking voice. “When one is so close and looks over, one should see more than others. I have asked so many what they saw. I asked Danton. He said ‘The void.’ Do you think it is that? As man to man now, Dangeau, do you think there is anything beyond or not?”

  Dangeau recognised him with a movement of half-contemptuous pity. It was Duval, the actor who had taken to politics and drink, and sold his soul for a bribe of Robespierre’s.

  Tinville plucked him down with a curse.

  “Tiens, Duval, you grow too mad,” he said angrily. “You and your beyond. What should there be?”

  “If there were,—Hell,” muttered Duval, with shaking lips. Tinville banged the table.

  “Am I to have all the Salpêtrière here?” he shouted. “Have n’t we cut off enough priests’ heads yet? I tell you we have abolished Heaven, and Purgatory, and Hell, and all the rest of those child’s tales.”