It was that same vile editorial which began: “The party of order having a fancy for disorder, the National Guard brought them to their senses.”
Since the nineteenth of March the “Père Duchêne,” a vulgar parody on Hebert’s journal, had reappeared. Its language was incredibly obscene, even for such creatures as Vermesch, Humbert, and Villaume, the editors of this ignoble sheet.
It is hardly necessary to say that when the news of the butchery became known in Paris, the city was thrown into a panic. A citizen, decorated with the legion of honor, accompanied by an officer of the National Guard and a captain of Franchetti’s Scouts, carried the tri-color through the Boulevards crying, “To arms! to arms!” A great throng of citizens and loyal National Guards crowded the Place de la Bourse. Everywhere stores and cafés closed their shutters, groups formed, and orators denounced the insurgents. In these excited gatherings people told each other that it was useless to parley with banditti who carried on systematized assassination. There was but one way: meet violence with violence. The news reached Versailles and produced a profound impression. The government was urged to act. Even at that late date, a sudden coup-de-main on the part of Thiers could have saved the city. The road from Versailles to Paris was still open, it was easy to seize the secteurs between Saint-Denis and the gate of Auteuil with the 10,000 men available, for now that the city was aroused Thiers could count on all good citizens and on 15,000 of the loyal National Guards for active aid.
Even the Latin Quarter had risen and 6,000 students offered their services. The École Polytechnique, faithful to its honorable traditions, marched in a body to the mayor’s office and enrolled for active service.
Time passed, but no word came from Thiers Paris was one great camp, half occupied by the party of order, half held by the insurgents of the Commune. Wearied at last with waiting for Thiers, the party of order began negotiations with the Hôtel de Ville. These negotiations lasted until the evening of the twenty-fifth, and on that night, news was proclaimed that a day had been agreed upon for the elections. They were fixed for the twenty-sixth of March, Sunday, and the party of order, quieted by the assurance and pledges given by the Commune, retired, sent the students back to their schools, the Polytechnique battalion to its college, and disbanded the loyal battalions of the National Guard.
It had been solemnly agreed that as soon as the results of the elections were known, the Central Committee would evacuate the Hôtel de Ville. The good people who composed the party of order believed this, and went to bed on Saturday night with light hearts, determined to do their duty as citizens at the polls next morning.
At the Hôtel de Ville, however, things were different that night. The Central Committee was making merry, and wine flowed in rivers.
“What fools these bourgeois!” said Assi to Billioray, who smiled in reply.
Raoul Rigault, very drunk, staggered to his feet and pointing at Bergeret cried: “There is the man who filled them full of good lead and steel, and I tell you that I, when my time comes, will not be behind him!”
The fun grew fast and furious, the echoes of the revelry reached the street where the hideous Hussars of Death were on guard at the gates, and the citizens, passing with affrighted glances, heard these fantastic birds of ill-omen croaking to each other like ravens before a battle.
CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW OF TERROR.
IN the studio the days succeeded each other quietly. Three times a week Joseph passed and repassed the barricade on his journey to the St. Germain market, but he was never molested by the new battalion which occupied the rue Notre Dame. The battalion was certainly a strange one. The troops wore the pale-blue uniform and red fez of the Turco infantry, cut like the zouave uniform and resembling it in all but color. The many-buttoned gaiters were white, the body scarf crimson, and the arabesques and facings on the turquoise blue cloth were clear canary color.
It was known as the “First Battalion of Paris Turcos,” and Philip learned from Joseph that its colonel was an individual named Sarre, “a merry, rosy, round little fellow,” he said, “whose laugh makes one’s flesh creep.”
But Sarre never bothered the faithful concierge, nor for that matter did any of the First Turcos. His pass was in order, his mission not at all suspicious, and the sentinels gossiped with him, cracked lurid jokes at his expense, and gave him information which he brought back each day to Philip.
Paris was quiet, — with the quiet of a victim awaiting death. The army at Versailles made no visible movement, but it was asserted in Paris that intrenchments and parallels were being pushed in the direction of the fort of Issy.
There were rumors of an intended sortie in force to crush the army of Thiers before it could be strengthened by the prisoners who were arriving from Germany.
Bergeret talked loudly and added several ounces of gold braid to his tunic; Flourens, brave, shifty, and probably a little insane, stalked about in company with the sinister, sneering Billioray; Duval worked night and day with Eudes and Cluseret to perfect the scheme of defense, and the Central Committee bickered, accusing each other and everybody they knew of being “suspects,” until denunciations, midnight visits, and sudden silent arrests terrified the revolutionists themselves. Nobody was safe; nobody, not even the generals of the Commune, not even the members of the Central Committee, dared face an accusation until they could defend themselves by a counter accusation. Denunciations were at a premium. He who accused most violently was the greatest patriot. The prisons were filling, and Raoul Rigault raged everywhere, urging, forcing, driving his creatures to spy, shadow, denounce, and arrest. People trembled when he passed; even his own friends, even the members of the Commune themselves, would avoid meeting him in the street if possible. All day long he sat in his official den, surrounded by his satellites, inquiring, examining, reproaching the unfortunate citizens brought before him.
With terrible threats, or still more terrible laughter, he would bellow, “Fiche moi ça dedans!” and the prisoner would be seized and driven with taunts and blows through the streets to one of the prisons.
When evening came this bloodthirsty young man doffed his scarf of office, dusted his clothes, and went home. Here, “business” finished, he affected the airs of a dandy; perfumed and gloved, he and his familiars dined extravagantly at some fashionable restaurant, and then, crossing the river to the Latin Quarter, they spent the evening drinking with degraded women in front of the cafés on the Boulevard St. Michel.
Joseph, bringing to Philip as usual the gossip of the barricade, related, under his breath, how Raoul Rigault, drinking with his creatures on the terrace of the Café Cardinal the night before, had cried with an oath: “I need a bouquet of 30,000 heads before I can clean out the traitors!” The café was crowded with students and citizens who heard, and the next day the city knew and cowered lower than ever.
Of the rumors brought in by Joseph, Landes did not prevent many from reaching Jeanne. It was best she should know the truth, and he had unbounded confidence in her spirit and judgment. He pondered all sorts of plans for communicating with the American Minister, but they came to nothing, and he tried in vain to get messages to Jack Ellice and de Carette. He had nobody to trust except Joseph and he dared not draw suspicion upon him, because on Joseph’s freedom to traverse the barricade rested their only chance for food.
So the days passed very quietly in the studio. Tcherka’s tail was still too gaudy to suit her mistress’ taste, and the puppy dug more than enough holes in the garden. The warm breath of the coming spring started the pink buds on the almond trees, the lilac leaves uncoiled in delicate green, the goldfish almost became animated, and the blackbird was wooing his mate, a soft-eyed wild creature which had come into the garden from Heaven knows where, and sat all day on the tip of the almond tree. Such songs as the blackbird sang! What wonder that the shy new-comer listened! Then one day Jeanne came in, radiant, and led Philip out to the almond tree. High on a safe, slender branch nestled the rudiments of a nest. The blackbird, prou
d and happy, balanced himself above it and held a bit of straw in his bright yellow bill. The lover had turned architect. It is true that he occasionally forgot, and let the straw or twig fall while he sang a little, but his mate never found fault and the building of their little home continued. Tcherka licked her whiskers and blinked at it. It was too safe.
The rue Notre Dame was constantly patrolled by the sentinels of the First Turcos.
Philip never went near the outer wicket, but from the entrance to the ivy-covered alley he could see them without being seen. Once, when a group of officers passed, he imagined he recognized Sarre in a fat little wretch who wore the baggy scarlet trousers of the Turco officers, with the triple blue stripe, the gold-embroidered képi, and the pale blue jacket. However, the officers passed without a glance at the wicket, and his nervousness gradually wore off.
Jeanne posed for him every day, sometimes sitting on the edge of the stone fountain, sometimes lying in a hammock which he had swung for her between the almond trees.
When showers fell she posed in the studio, and it was there that he began and finished the beautiful portrait called “Youth,” which has since been acquired by the French government.
Jeanne never wearied of watching Philip while he painted. He had a habit of biting his under lip when he worked which gave a peculiarly serious expression to his youthful face. This impressed Jeanne. From the first she had no doubt that, if Philip was not already one of the greatest of artists, his becoming so was merely a question of time. Her admiration and her delight in his color were genuine. Her enthusiasm stirred him profoundly, and, perhaps, but for that the portrait of “Youth” might never have been finished.
Until now he had never taken himself seriously. Although his respect for his work had been great at all times, his self-confidence was incrusted with cynicism, and he never could understand why he continued to study his profession.
Sometimes for weeks together he did not touch a brush; it is true that he was always staring at the sunlight or the blue tracery of shadows. Pure notes of glowing color thrilled him with pleasure. Unlike many of his comrades, he never saw in nature anything unhealthy or colorless, nor, when he walked under blue skies, did nature transpose itself into human nature.
He read the poets who compared the interlacing of forest trees to human embraces, who sang of innocent flowers and attributed to them the passions of human beings, and it nauseated him. He never could see that a splendid snow peak resembled a woman’s breast. It always looked like a snow peak to him. The murmur of the sea had for him nothing of human desire. He loved nature for herself.
Jeanne and he exchanged few words on the subject, but each was sure of the other’s sympathy and understanding.
A sunbeam searching the depths of the brown water in the fountain, a shadow trembling on the white wall, a breeze whispering among the lilacs, — then a glance, the flutter of the lashes, a faint smile, and their hearts were at ease, for each had read and loved the other’s thoughts.
When Philip’s hand faltered and the light was shifty, when the sun became overcast and the surface of his canvas changed color like a chameleon, Jeanne would rise from her seat and say: “Come, Philip, I wish to walk in the garden.” Then with pretty ceremony she would accept his arm, and they would stroll gravely over the gravel as if they were sauntering through a portion of some vast estate.
On one of these limited tours they stopped to watch a mottled garden toad making his way toward a hole in the wall. His gait and personality were obtrusive and vulgar and Jeanne turned up her nose.
“Oh, he’s an old acquaintance,” said Philip, “he comes out every spring.”
“He is very common,” said Jeanne; “I never imagined any little creature of God could look so underbred.”
“He’s not graceful,” said Phillip, smiling; “you should see him jumping after gnats on a summer evening. I call him ‘ Monsieur Prudhomme.’”
“What a name for a toad!”
“It suits him. See! he has just given one of his graceful leaps.”
Jeanne threw back her pretty head and laughed. Monsieur Prudhomme squatted in the tender spring grass, unconcerned, callous, emotionless. He had swallowed a giddy young beetle and was digesting it. Toodles came along and nearly barked himself out of his skin at the sight of Monsieur Prudhomme, but kept at a safe distance, describing eccentric circles round him until Philip, gently but unceremoniously, shoved Monsieur Prudhomme through a hole in the garden wall.
“Do you wish to paint any more?” inquired Jeanne.
“No,” he replied, “I feel lazy. How warm the sunshine is. I believe those lilacs are budding.”
“Oh, I knew that yesterday,” she said. “There is a violet already out in that bed over there. I saw it this morning from my hammock.”
He started for the violet bed, but she called to him: “You are not to pick it you know.” He came back smiling.
“Won’t you have it for a souvenir of our garden?”
She shook her head and sang softly:
“Le souvenir, present celeste,
Ombre des biens que l’on n’ a plus,
Est encore un plaisir qui reste,
Après tous ceux qu’on a perdus.”
“I don’t want a souvenir now, and I shall not need one then.”
“I suppose a shade is all that will remain of these days in a little while,” said Philip. She glanced at him wistfully without replying. As for him he was looking another way.
“Well,” she said at last, “if all the rest is lost will it not be good to have even the shade?”
“But that will soon go too, Jeanne.”
“No, I shall keep it as long as I live. And that will be a long time,” she added lightly, shaking off her seriousness. “I mean to be a very old lady, if you please, Monsieur, I intend to live a great while and be very happy—”
A violent ringing at the gate interrupted her. She turned white and looked at Philip with wide startled eyes.
“Now who can that be?” he muttered. “Jeanne, go back to the studio quickly.”
“I shall remain here,” she said, with a little catch in her breath. “Oh, Philip, can it be the Commune has found you?”
“Me? It is you they are after.”
“They can’t harm me, but you — oh, Philip!”
“Do as I ask you, Jeanne, go to your room at once.” She refused to move and looked at him imploringly.
“Can you get over the wall?” she whispered. —
“Quick! I’m sure you can. I will meet them — I can detain them. Oh! go, Philip!”
He looked down into her face. “Won’t you please go into the studio?”
She refused with a slight shake of her head. The gate creaked, steps sounded along the alley.
“They are coming!” gasped Jeanne, and threw both arms around his neck.
Before Jeanne could take her arms away again a man in a long blue blouse flung his cap on the ground and rushed at Philip who stared at him and shouted, “Ellice!” and while they were hugging each other like two Frenchmen she had time to realize that the man’s companion, who wore the dress of a market woman of the Hailes, was Mademoiselle de St. Brieuc.
“Jack!” cried Landes. “Are you all right?”
“I am — and you?”
“Oh, I’m all right. Where is Alain de Carette?”
“At Versailles.”
“How did you pass the barricade?”
Jack sat down on the edge of the fountain, drew a large red bandanna handkerchief from the recesses of his blouse, wiped his face with it, looked after Mademoiselle de St. Brieuc who was disappearing with Jeanne through the studio door, and laughed.
“We ‘re beauties, — what do you think, Philip? We sell vegetables now. Our baskets are in Joseph’s lodge at the gate. Did you think of buying a few cabbages?”
“Tell me how you got here,” repeated Philip. “Well, I hardly know myself. You’ve got a nasty barricade on the corner, haven’t you?”
“Well — we decided that we must get to you somehow or other; — yesterday we sold your rascally Turcos artichokes and musty turnips, but they wouldn’t let us through the lines, and we tried again to-day.. Just now, as we reached the barricade, the street suddenly went mad. A commissary’s wagon which was bringing in a lot of live poultry struck a cannon and tipped over. You ought to have seen those hens and turkeys scratching gravel to get away, and those thieving Turcos after them. A fat rooster ran between my legs and the Turco in chase knocked me flat in his hurry to grab the fowl. When I got up they both were running and squawking down the street. The officers couldn’t do anything with the men. The barricade was empty in no time, everybody chasing turkeys. Mademoiselle de St. Brieuc and I saw our chance, and we simply walked through an opening in the barricade, and before anyone could detect us we were hidden by the corner of the street above the convent. There was a sentry up by the rue Bara but I suppose he thought it was all right — as long as we had passed the barricade. When he wasn’t looking we pulled the bell — and here we are.”
“If you knew how welcome! Come in and be comfortable!” cried Landes, and he led the way to the studio.
“Joseph,” said he, dragging a lounge into the bedroom, “will make up a bed on this for one of us, and there is my bed for the other. Mademoiselle de St. Brieuc will share the room of Mademoiselle de Brassac of course—”
“Oh, I won’t stay. You can’t put up four in a place only meant for two. Mademoiselle de St. Brieuc is glad to be with another woman, of course, but — after I’ve seen you a little while I’ll go and shift for myself.”
“Oh! will you? How will you pass the barricade?”
“Bluff it.”
“And do you know the penalty for bluffing it?”
“No, what’s the penalty?”
“Shooting on the spot without court-martial.” Jack looked blank. “What’s the sense of looking that way?” said Philip.
“But I didn’t mean—”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 35
