Robert Tournay: A Romance of the French Revolution

by William Sage

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE LUXEMBOURG

  Robert Tournay breathed easier after having sent the message to Gaillardby La Liberte. Gaillard at least was not likely to become implicated;and the anonymous communication once destroyed, nothing of anincriminating nature would be found, should their lodging be visited.Nevertheless, he could not repress a feeling of disquiet as the irondoor of the Luxembourg clanked behind him and he found himself aprisoner.

  The cell into which he was conducted was absolutely dark.

  "It will not be so bad during the day," volunteered the jailer. "Thereis a small window that looks out on the courtyard." Tournay drew a sighof thankfulness on hearing this.

  "Your bed is near the door. Can you see it?" asked the jailer.

  "I can feel for it," replied Tournay. "Yes, here it is."

  "Very well, I will now lock you up safely. Pleasant dreams in your newquarters, citizen colonel." And with this parting salute the cheerfuljailer went jingling down the corridor, leaving Tournay in the darkness,seated on the edge of his narrow bed, with elbows on knees and his chinresting in the palms of his hands.

  Suddenly he sat up straight and listened attentively. The sound ofregular breathing told him that he was not the sole occupant of thecell. "Whoever he may be, he sleeps contentedly," thought Tournay; "Imay as well follow his good example." In a very few minutes a quietconcert of long-drawn breaths told of two men sleeping peacefully in thecell on the upper tier of the Luxembourg prison.

  The little daylight that could struggle through the bars of the tinywindow near the ceiling had long since made its appearance, when RobertTournay opened his eyes next morning.

  His fellow prisoner was already astir; and without moving, Tournay layand watched him at his toilet. He was most particular in this regard.Despite the diminutive ewer and hand basin, his ablutions were theoccasion of a great amount of energetic scrubbing and rubbing,accompanied by a gentle puffing as if he were enjoying the luxury of arefreshing bath. After washing, he wiped his face and hands carefully ona napkin correspondingly small. He proceeded with the rest of his toiletin the same thorough manner, as leisurely as if he had been in the mostluxurious dressing-room. A wound in his neck, that was not entirelyhealed, gave him some trouble; but he dressed it carefully, and finallyhid it entirely from sight by a clean white neckerchief which he tookfrom a little packet in a corner of the room near the head of his bed.Having adjusted the neckcloth to his satisfaction, he put on awell-brushed coat, and, sitting carelessly upon the edge of thetable,--the room contained no chair,--he began to polish his nails witha little set of manicure articles which were also drawn forth from hissmall treasury of personal effects.

  ADJUSTED THE NECKCLOTH TO HIS SATISFACTION]

  The light from the slit of a window above his head fell on his face. Itwas thin and haggard, like that of a man who had undergone a severeillness, but, despite this fact, it was an attractive face, and thelonger Tournay looked at it, the more it seemed to be familiar to him,recalling to his mind some one he had once known.

  Suddenly the colonel sprung to his feet. "St. Hilaire!" he exclaimedaloud, answering his own mental inquiry.

  St. Hilaire rose from his seat on the table and saluted Tournaygraciously.

  "I am what is left of St. Hilaire," he replied lightly. "And youare--For the life of me I cannot recall your name at the moment. ThoughI am fully aware that I have seen you more than once before this."

  "My name is Robert Tournay."

  "Of course. I should have remembered it. You must pardon my poormemory." Then, looking at him closely, he continued: "You wear theuniform of a colonel. You have won distinction, and yet I see you herein prison."

  "It matters not how loyal a soldier or citizen one may be if one incursthe enmity or suspicion of Robespierre," was the answer.

  "What you say is true, Colonel Tournay," said St. Hilaire.

  "Do you also owe your arrest to him?" asked the colonel.

  "No," replied St. Hilaire, resuming his former seat. "I became involvedin a slight dispute with some of the gendarmerie about a certainquestion of--of etiquette. The altercation became somewhat spirited.They lost their tempers. I nearly lost my life. When I regainedconsciousness I discovered what remained of myself here, and I amrecovering as fast as could be expected, in view of the rather limitedamount of fresh air and sunlight in my chamber."

  Tournay thought of the brilliant and dashing Marquis Raphael de St.Hilaire as he had seen him in his boyhood, and looked with deep interestat the figure sitting easily on the edge of the table in apparentcontentment, cheerfully accepting misfortune with a smile, and parryingthe arrows of adversity with the best of his wit, like the brave andsprightly gentleman he was.

  "The resources here are somewhat limited," St. Hilaire continued. "Butby placing the table against the wall and mounting upon it one cansqueeze his nose between the bars of the window and get a glimpse of thecourtyard beneath. Occasionally the jailer has taken me for a promenadethere. It seems that we prisoners on the second tier are considered ofmore importance, or else it is feared that we are more likely to attemptto escape, for we are kept in closer confinement than those who are onthe main floor. Although this may be construed as a compliment, it isnevertheless very tedious. But I am keeping you from your toilet by mygossip. I have left you half of the water in the pitcher. Pardon thesmall quantity. We will try to prevail upon our jailer to bring us adouble supply in future. He is an obliging fellow, particularly if yougrease his palm with a little silver."

  Tournay accepted his share of the water with alacrity grateful for thecourtesy that divides with another even a few litres of indifferentlyclean water in a prison cell.

  After this toilet, and a breakfast of rolls and coffee, partakentogether from the rough deal table, the two prisoners felt as if theyhad known each other for years.

  The lines of their lives had frequently run near together during theyears of the Revolution, yet in all that whirl of events had nevercrossed till now, since the summer day in the woods of La Thierry, whenthe Marquis de St. Hilaire had placed his hand upon the boy's shoulderand bade him save his life by flight.

  By some common understanding, subtler than words, no reference to pastevents was made by either of them. They began their acquaintance thenand there; the officer in the republican army, and the Citizen St.Hilaire; fellow prisoners, who in spite of any misfortune that mightovertake them would never falter in their devotion and loyalty to theirbeloved country, France, and who recognized each in the other a man ofcourage and a gentleman.

  So the day passed in discussing the victories of the armies, theoppression and tyranny practiced by the committee, and the prospects ofthe future.

  A few days after Tournay's incarceration the turnkey came towardnightfall to give them a short time for recreation in the courtyard.This, though far from satisfying, was hailed with pleasure by theprisoners, and especially by Tournay, who, accustomed to the violentexertion of the camp and field, chafed for want of exercise.

  They were escorted along the upper corridor, whence they could look downinto the main hall on the first floor of the Luxembourg. Here, thoseprisoners who were happy enough not to be confined under special orders,had the privilege of congregating during the hours of the day and earlyevening. Looking down upon this scene shortly after the supper hour,Tournay drew a breath of surprise. He felt for a moment as if he weretransported back to the days before the Revolution and was looking upona reception in the crowded salons of the chateau de Rochefort where thebaron entertained as became a grand seigneur. The republican colonelturned a look of inquiry toward St. Hilaire. The latter gave a slightshrug as he answered:--

  "The ladies dress three times a day and appear in the evening in fulltoilet. As for the men, they also wear the best they have. You will seethat many wear suits which in better days would have been thrown totheir lackeys. Now they are mended and remended during the day, thatthey may make their appearance at night, and defy the shadows of thegray stone walls and
the imperfect candlelight quite bravely." And St.Hilaire himself pulled a spotless ruffle below the sleeves of hiswell-worn coat.

  "And so," mused Tournay, "they can find the heart to wear a gay exteriorin such a place as this?"

  "No revolution is great enough to change the feelings and passions ofhuman nature," replied St. Hilaire. "They only adapt themselves to newconditions. Here, within these walls, under the shadow of theguillotine, Generosity, Envy, Love, and Vanity play the same parts theydo in the outer world. Affairs of the heart refuse to be locked out by ajailer's key, and these darkened recesses nightly resound with tenderaccents and the sighs of lovers. Bright eyes kindle sparks that onlydeath can quench. Jealousy, also, is sometimes aroused, and I am toldthat even affairs of honor have taken place here."

  "I should never have dreamed it possible," said the soldier, lookingwith renewed interest upon the moving picture at his feet; from which asound of vivacious conversation arose like the multiplied hum of manyswarms of bees.

  St. Hilaire leaned idly with one arm on the gallery rail, while heflecked from his coat a few grains of dust with a cambric handkerchief.Suddenly he straightened himself and grasped the railing tightly withboth hands.

  "Good God! can it be possible?" he exclaimed to himself.

  Tournay looked at him, surprised by his sudden change of manner. St.Hilaire did not notice him, but looked intently at some one in the hallbelow.

  Tournay followed the direction of his companion's eyes and saw a youngwoman, with childish countenance, standing by the elbow of a woman whowas seated in a chair occupied with some needlework.

  "Countess d'Arlincourt," St. Hilaire continued sadly, speaking tohimself. "I hoped that I had saved her."

  The woman glanced upward, and her large blue eyes met St. Hilaire'sgaze. After the first start of surprise her look expressed the deepestgratitude, while his denoted interest and pity.

  Then he turned away. "Come citizen jailer," he said, addressing theattendant, "lead us back to our cell."

  As Tournay was about to follow St. Hilaire, he saw, to his amazement,the figure of de Lacheville standing apart from the rest, in the shadowof the wall, as if he preferred the gloomy companionship of his ownthoughts to the society of his fellow beings in adversity.

  "Do you see that man skulking in the shadow by the wall?" asked Tournay,pointing de Lacheville out to the jailer. "When did he come here?"

  "A few days ago. Either the same evening you were brought in, or theday following," was the reply.

  "The same evening!" exclaimed Tournay to himself as he followed St.Hilaire to their cell. "Robespierre has indeed been consistent in thatpoor devil's case."

  The Countess d'Arlincourt drew up a little stool and placed herself atthe feet of her friend, Madame de Remur. The latter was still a woman inthe full flush of beauty. She was dressed in black velvet which seemedbut little worn, and which set off a complexion so brilliant that itneeded no rouge even to counteract the pallor of a prison.

  The countess leaned her head against the knees of her friend, allowingthe velvet of the dress to touch her own soft cheek caressingly.

  "Do not grieve, my child," said Madame de Remur, laying down herembroidery and placing one hand upon the blonde head in her lap. "Grievenot too much for your husband; there is not one person in this room whohas not to mourn the loss of some near friend or relative, and yet forthe sake of those who are living they continue to wear cheerful faces. Ionly regret that you, who were at that time safe, should havesurrendered yourself after the count was taken. It has availed nothing,and has sacrificed two lives instead of one."

  "Hush, Diane; a wife should not measure her duty by the result. He was aprisoner. He was ill. It was my duty to come to his side."

  "Your pardon, dear child. You, with your baby face and gentle manner,have more real courage than I. I hardly think I could do that for anyman in the world."

  "You always underrate yourself, dear Diane, you who are the noblest andmost generous of women!" exclaimed the countess, rising. "Now I am goingto speak to that poor little Mademoiselle de Choiseul. It was onlyyesterday that they took her father." And Madame d'Arlincourt movedquietly across the room.

  "I cannot understand the courage and devotion of that child," saidMadame de Remur, addressing the old Chevalier de Creux who stood behindher chair. "I might possibly be willing to share any fate, even theguillotine, with a man if I loved him madly; but"--and Madame de Remurfinished the sentence with a shrug of her shoulders.

  "Perhaps the countess loved her husband," suggested the youngMademoiselle de Belloeil who sat near the table, bending over somecrochet work, but at the same time lending an ear to the conversation.

  "How could she?" said Diane, "he was so cold, so austere, and sodreadfully uninteresting, and then I happen to know she did not,because"--

  "Because she loved another gentleman," said the chevalier, completingthe sentence with a laugh. "Under the circumstances I do not knowwhether I admire the countess's loyalty in following her husband toprison, or condemn her cruelty in leaving a lover to pine outside itswalls."

  "She was always a faithful wife, I would have you understand, you wickedold Chevalier de Creux!" exclaimed Madame de Remur, looking up at him ashe leaned over the back of her chair.

  "Perhaps the lover may be confined in the prison also," suggested thephilosopher, who had also been a silent listener to the dialogue.

  "More than likely," assented the chevalier dryly.

  "Whether he were here or not," said madame decidedly, "she would havedone the same."

  "Here is the Count de Blois," said the chevalier; "let us put the casebefore him."

  "Oh, you men," laughed Madame de Remur. "I will not accept the verdictof the best of you. But the count is accompanied by the poet; let us gethim to recite us some verses." And she tossed her fancywork upon thetable at her side.

  Monsieur de Blois, with his arm through the poet's, bowed low beforethem. The count had been in the prison for over a year, and the poorgentleman's wardrobe had begun to show the effect of long service.

  "They have evidently forgotten my existence entirely," he had saidpathetically one morning to a friend who found him washing his only fineshirt in the prison-yard fountain. "When this shirt is worn out, I shallmake a demand to be sent to the guillotine from very modesty."

  A few days later he had received a couple of shirts and a note by thehand of the jailer.

  "Dear de Blois," the letter had read. "I am called, and shall not need these. If they prevent you from carrying out your threat of the other morning, I shall go with a lighter heart.

  "Yours, V. de K."

  "De Blois!" said the chevalier, drawing the count away from the table ofMademoiselle de Belloeil, "you are called to decide a point of thegreatest delicacy."

  The count put his glass to his eye as if to look at the chevalier andthe philosopher, but in reality he only saw Mademoiselle de Belloeilbending over her embroidery.

  "If a lady," continued the chevalier, his bright eyes twinkling,"voluntarily puts herself into a prison where are confined both herhusband and her lover, what credit does she deserve for her action? Canit be called self-sacrifice?"

  Before replying, the count looked attentively at the group before him:at the philosopher's impenetrable countenance; at the chevalier'squizzical and wrinkled brown physiognomy; then at Madame de Remur'shandsome face, and lastly and most tenderly at the drooping eyelids ofthe delicate Mademoiselle de Belloeil.

  "She would be twice revered," replied de Blois.

  Mademoiselle de Belloeil's needle stopped in its click-click.

  "Why so, monsieur le comte?" inquired the philosopher. "If she has adouble motive for the sacrifice, should not the honor of it be only halfas great?"

  "She should receive credit for her loyalty to the husband whom she hadsworn to obey, and homage for her devotion to the lover on whom bynature she has placed her affections," replied the count, bowing toMadame de Remur, while he noted with a certain
satisfaction the smile ofapproval on the lips of Mademoiselle de Belloeil.

  "And no one has said that she has a lover," declared Madame de Remurwarmly.

  "Did you not imply as much, dear madame?" asked the old chevalier slyly.

  "I intimated that she might have had one--if--let us change the subject.I move that the poet read us his latest verses. I am dying for someamusement."

  "Ladies and gentlemen," cried the old chevalier, clapping his handstogether to attract the attention of all those in the room, "thisbrilliant young author and poet, who needs no introduction to you, hasconsented to read his latest production. Will you kindly take places?"

  There was some polite applause. "The poem! let us hear the poem," buzzedupon all sides, and the throng began to settle down around the poet, theladies occupying the chairs, and the gentlemen either leaning againstthe walls or seated upon stools by the side of those ladies in whoseeyes they found particular favor.

  In a few moments a hush of expectancy fell upon an audience delighted atthe prospect of being entertained.

  "This is a play in verse," began the poet, taking a roll of manuscriptfrom his pocket.

  "A play! how charming," said Mademoiselle de Belloeil.

  "It is in three acts," continued the author. "Act first, in the prisonof the Luxembourg, where the young people first meet and fall deeply inlove."

  A rustle of approval ran through his audience.

  "Act second is in the prison yard where they are separated, she beingset at liberty and he conducted to the guillotine."

  "Oh, how terrible!" murmured the young damsel.

  "One moment, monsieur le poete," said Madame de Remur. "How does it end?I warn you that I shall not like your play if it ends unhappily."

  "You shall judge of that in a moment, madame," replied the poet, bowingto her graciously.

  "In the third act," he continued, "the lovers are brought together underthe shadow of the guillotine, whither she has followed him. The knifefalls upon both of them in quick succession, and their souls are unitedin the next world, never to be separated more."

  "What a beautiful ending," cried Mademoiselle de Belloeil, and theexclamation on the part of the audience showed that her sentiment wasechoed generally.

  "Continue," said Madame de Remur. "I was afraid it was going to endunhappily."

  The chevalier took a pinch of snuff and settled himself back in thearm-chair which was accorded to him as a tribute to his advanced age;and the poet unfolded his manuscript and began to read.

  It was an intensely appreciative audience that listened to the dramaticwork of the poet. They followed with breathless interest the meeting ofthe young lovers in the hall of the Luxembourg; assisted smilingly attheir rendezvous in the corridors and shadowy corners of the old prison;and sighed gently during the most tender passages. At the scene ofseparation, tears of regret flowed freely, and in the meeting in thelast act, tears of joy and sorrow mingled together in sympatheticunison.

  As the young poet ended he folded up his manuscript and bowed hisblushing acknowledgments to the storm of applause that greeted him.

  The wave of approbation had not ceased to resound through the room whenthe outer door opened, and the jailer and some half a dozen gendarmesentered abruptly.

  Instantly the hum of conversation stopped, and an icy chill fell uponthe assemblage. Faces that the moment before were wreathed in smiles nowbecame pale and marked with fear.

  "The call of to-morrow's list to the guillotine," rang out through theroom in harsh notes.

  Amid the silence of death, a captain of gendarmerie took a slip of paperfrom his pocket, while a comrade held a lantern under his nose. Some ofthose who listened wiped the clammy perspiration from their foreheads,others trembled and sat down. Some affected an air of indifference, andbegan a forced conversation with their neighbors; but all ears werestrained. Each dreaded lest his own name or that of some loved oneshould be called out by that monotonous, relentless voice.

  "Bertrand de Chalons."

  An old man stepped forward.

  "Annette Duclos."

  There was a pause after each name, during which the suspense wasintensified.

  "Diane de Remur."

  Madame de Remur laid aside her work and rose.

  "Diane! Diane! I cannot bear it!" cried the Countess d'Arlincourt,throwing her arms about her friend's neck. "Oh, sirs, have pity!"

  "Hush, my dear," replied Madame de Remur soothingly. "Chevalier, look tothe poor child; she is hysterical." The chevalier gently drew thecountess aside, then took Madame de Remur's hand and silently bendingover it, put it to his lips.

  "Take your place in the line, citizeness," called out a gendarme, andMadame de Remur stood with the others.

  "Andre de Blois!"

  As de Blois' name was called, a shrill cry echoed through the room, andMademoiselle de Belloeil fell back into the chair from which she hadjust risen. She did not swoon, but sat like one in a dream, staring withwide-open eyes.

  The count stepped to her side.

  "Adele," he said, bending down and speaking in a low voice, "give me oneof those roses you are wearing on your breast." Mechanically she tookthe flower from her bosom and put it in his hand. He placed it over hisheart. "It shall be here to the last," he said softly; "now farewell;"and he pressed a kiss upon her cold lips.

  "Maurice de Lacheville."

  A man crouched down behind a group of prisoners, and all heads wereturned in his direction.

  "Maurice de Lacheville, you are called," said a gendarme, going up tohim and seizing him by the arm with no gentle grasp.

  "There is some mistake," cried de Lacheville pitiably.

  "There is no mistake, your name is here."

  "I say, there must be some mistake. My arrest was a mistake. I waspromised"--

  "Into the line with you," was the gruff interruption. "Many would claimthere was a mistake if it would avail them to say so."

  "But in my case it is true," pleaded de Lacheville. "Send word toRobespierre; he promised"--

  "Into the line, I tell you!" cried the exasperated gendarme. "There isno mistake; your name is written here. You go with the rest."

  "One moment, one little moment," implored the wretched marquis in anagony of fear. "Oh, messieurs the gendarmes, if you will but hear me, Ihave an important communication to make." All this time he was fightingdesperately as the two officers of the law dragged him toward the door.

  "Silence, idiot!" yelled the angry captain, "or I will have you boundand gagged. Take example from these women who put you to shame."

  "Idiot that I was," cried de Lacheville, "why did I ever return from aplace of safety? None but a fool would have trusted the word ofRobespierre."

  "Bind him," ordered the captain.

  With a strength no one would have believed that he possessed, deLacheville threw off those who held him.

  "Stand back!" he shouted wildly, as the officers endeavored to seizehim. He drew an object quickly from his pocket.

  "Take care, Jean. He has a weapon," cried one.

  There was a report of a pistol, and the marquis fell forward to thefloor.

  A murmur of horror filled the prison hall. Women fainted, and men turnedaway their heads. The gendarmes hastened to bend over him.

  "I believe he is dead, captain," said one after a brief examination.

  "Carry him out with the others just the same," ordered the captain."Pierre, continue with the list."

  "Bertrand de Tourin."

  "Here."

  "Adele de Belloeil."

  There was a cry of joy in the answer:--

  "I am here. The Blessed Virgin has heard my prayer;" and Mademoiselle deBelloeil stepped forward. "Andre, I come with you; we shall gotogether where they can never separate us." And she threw herself intothe arms of her lover.

  "About face--fall in--forward! march." The heavy door closed, and thosewho had been called were led away, while those remaining in the prisonwent quietly to their cells, to recommence th
e same life on the morrowuntil the next roll-call.

  "The nobility of France," said the chevalier to the philosopher, "maynot have known how to live, but it knows how to die."

  "Except the Marquis de Lacheville," was the reply.

  "Bah. He was always one of the canaille at heart; he only proves myassertion," and the chevalier took an extra large pinch of snuff andlimped off to his mattress of straw.