Robert Tournay: A Romance of the French Revolution

by William Sage

  CHAPTER XXIII

  TOURNAY'S VISITOR

  For three days Tournay and St. Hilaire worked away persistently at thebars of their window. They only dared work between the hours of one andfour in the morning. Not only secrecy but great ingenuity was calledfor, as it was necessary that the bars should preserve in the daytimetheir usual appearance of solidity.

  To do this, all the filings were kept, and at the termination of eachnight's work, this dust, moistened by saliva into a paste, was smearedinto the fissure they had made. Their intention was to cut each barnearly through, leaving it standing, but so weakened that it could betorn out by a sudden wrench.

  On the morning which terminated their third night's labor, just as thefirst gray streak in the east announced the early coming of the long,hot summer day, the third bar had been cut halfway through. The twoprisoners looked into each other's eyes. Both realized that they mustwork rapidly in order to complete their task in time.

  "At all hazards we must begin earlier to-night," whispered St. Hilairesignificantly. Tournay nodded. "There is still a good deal of work tobe done, although a thin man might squeeze through," he said.

  "Not a man of your breadth, colonel," replied St. Hilaire, carefullyrubbing the dampened filings into the crevice. "We shall have to cutthrough all of them, and even then it will be a narrow passageway foryour shoulders."

  "Now for a little rest," he continued, descending from the table asquietly as a cat, and putting it in another part of the cell.

  Tired out by their work and the attendant excitement, the two men threwthemselves, fully dressed, upon their beds and slept until late in themorning. Their slumber might have continued until past noon had they notbeen rather unceremoniously awakened by the appearance of the turnkeyand a couple of gendarmes by their bedside.

  "What is wanted?" exclaimed Tournay sleepily.

  "You are to be transferred to the conciergerie, citizen colonel, that isall," was the reply, although the tone implied a deeper meaning.

  Tournay sprang from the bed, wide enough awake now, and with a sickeningfeeling at his heart. He looked at St. Hilaire, who was lying upon hisown pallet outwardly indifferent to the announcement, but whose fingerssilently stole under the mattress and closed upon the file that had beenplaced there the night before. St. Hilaire continued to lie theremotionless, feigning sleep; but his alert brain was busy with theproblem as to where it would be possible for him to deftly andsuccessfully hide the useful little tool in case the guards had alsocome to search their cell.

  "Are you ready, citizen colonel?"

  Tournay gave a quick glance at their window. St. Hilaire rose to asitting posture.

  "Citizen colonel," he said, "will you take my hand at parting?"

  Tournay stepped to his bedside. Outwardly calm, the two prisonersclasped hands. Tournay felt the hard substance of steel against hispalm.

  Giving no sign of his surprise, he shook his head sadly. "It isuseless," he said.

  "Good-by, citizen colonel," said St. Hilaire carelessly, as one mightbid adieu to a chance acquaintance. "I am thinner than you, and I maygrow still more so if they keep me here many days longer." He gave animperceptible glance of the eye in the direction of the window.

  The colonel turned away while the file slid up his coat sleeve.

  "I am ready, citizen officers," he said.

  The two gendarmes preceded him into the corridor. As he stepped over thethreshold, Gendarme Pierre caught him quickly by the wrist and the nextinstant had the file in his own possession.

  It was done so adroitly and quickly that Tournay could have offered noresistance even had he been so inclined. The other gendarme was not evenaware of what took place.

  "I like a clever trick," said Pierre with a chuckle.

  "You are quite a magician," was Tournay's rejoinder.

  The tall gendarme gave his grim chuckle. "I am called Pierre theprestidigitateur," he said, "though you are yourself fairly adept atpalming. What have you been doing with this little plaything?" hecontinued, as they walked down the corridor.

  "You mean 'What did I intend to do with it?' do you not?"

  The gendarme examined the file carefully.

  "No, I mean what have you been using it on," he said.

  Tournay was silent.

  "Oh, you need not hesitate to speak; it will be found out."

  Tournay shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply.

  "Well, you are right," said the gendarme. "It is for us to find out."And he relapsed into a silence that was not broken until they reachedthe conciergerie.

  "You will hardly escape from this place though you had a whole workshopof tools," he said grimly at parting.

  Tournay realized the truth of this statement, for he was now in the mostdreaded of all the prisons of Paris, and he knew well what his transferforeshadowed.

  Tournay had no certain means of knowing whether their attempt to cuttheir way out of the Luxembourg had been discovered; and he stillcherished the slight hope that St. Hilaire might be able to escape fromthe Luxembourg with the assistance of Gaillard.

  Had they both escaped, St. Hilaire and he had formed a daring plan torescue the Republic from the hands of those who were destroying it. Andnow, even though it was frustrated, he could not help going over all thedetails in his mind, although the thought of their complete failureadded to his misery.

  The news of the arrest of General Hoche had reached Tournay's ears sometime before, and although it had caused him great pain to learn of themisfortune that had befallen his chief, he felt that the event wouldembitter the army, and that they would the more readily give theirsupport to any plan that would of necessity liberate Hoche.

  This plan had been made for Tournay to reach the army and enlist theofficers in his support; then return to Paris with a sufficient force athis back to destroy the tyrants and overawe that part of the Communethat still idolized them. That would give an opportunity for the coolerand more moderate heads in the convention to come to the front, restoreorder, and form a stable government based upon the constitution.

  St. Hilaire, meanwhile, was to remain in hiding; but the first approachof the national troops and the first blast of the counter-revolution wasto be the signal for him to appear in the faubourgs, supported by allthe followers he could muster, armed with all the eloquence he couldcommand, to move the people to action, and fan to white heat the flameof opposition to the Terrorists which was already smouldering on everyside.

  But now all the fabric of the carefully spun scheme had been blownroughly aside by one puff of adverse wind.

  Once in the conciergerie, a prisoner was not kept in uncertainty for anylength of time. The next day after his transfer Tournay was summoned fortrial. At first he attempted to defend himself with all the eloquencewhich the justice of his case called forth. All the fire of his naturewas aroused, and as he spoke the attention of the crowded court room washeld as if by a spell. Murmurs of applause rose from the multitude, evenamong those who had come in the hope of seeing him judged guilty.

  But upon his judges he made no visible effect. They refused to call hiswitnesses. They suppressed the applause, and cutting short his defensehastened to conclude his trial. Tournay saw the futility of his defense.He read the verdict in the eyes of the judges, and sat down.

  After the verdict had been given he was taken back to the conciergerie,"sentenced to die within eight and forty hours."

  "Oh, for a month of freedom!" he cried inwardly, as he reentered theprison. "For one short month of liberty! After that time had passed Iwould submit to any death uncomplainingly."

  Withdrawing to the further end of the corridor where he was permittedto walk for a short time, he sat down by a rough table where some of thelighter-hearted prisoners had, in earlier days, beguiled the time atcards. Here he rested his head upon his arm and sat motionless.

  Then his thoughts returned to Edme, or rather continued to dwell uponher, for no matter what he did or spoke or thought, no matter howabsorbing the
occupation of the hour, she was always in his mind, theconsciousness of her presence was ever in his heart.

  "Oh, for one little month of liberty," he cried aloud, "to make oneattempt to rescue France, and to see you, Edme, once again!" He rosefrom his seat with a gesture of despair, and turning, saw her standingthere before him. He stood in silence, looking at her as if she were thecreation of his fancy, stepped for a moment from the shadow of the graywalls to melt into nothingness, should he, by speaking, break the spell.

  She came toward him, putting her finger to her lips as a sign ofcaution. "Speak low," she whispered, "lest they hear you!"

  "Mademoiselle de Rochefort," he replied in a low voice, "is this reallyyou? In God's name tell me how you come to be here?"

  "I have come to you," she answered simply, putting her hands in his."When I heard that you had been arrested and put in prison, I knew thatI should come and find you. You see all France was not wide enough tokeep me from you."

  "Then you are not a prisoner?" he exclaimed joyfully.

  "No, I came in of my own free will. No one suspects who I am."

  "Merciful God, do you know the risk you run? Why have you done this?"

  "Have you not risked your life more than once for my sake? Did you thinkthat Edme de Rochefort would do less for you?"

  "Edme!"

  For a moment the prison walls vanished. His shattered plans wereforgotten. The redemption of the Republic became as nothing; he onlyknew that Edme de Rochefort had proved beyond all human doubt her lovefor him, and that it was her loyal, loving heart he could feelthrobbing, as he pressed her to his breast.

  Only for a moment, then the full realization of the terrible risk sheran smote him with redoubled force. He turned pale. She had never seenhim so deadly white before, and it frightened her.

  "Hush," he whispered before she could speak, and stepping cautiously tothe grated door he peered out between the bars. As far as the elbow ofthe corridor, he could see no one. With a sigh of relief he came back toher. His fears for her safety restored the activity of his mind.

  "It is dangerous for you to go about the city. The merest accident, theslightest inquiry in regard to you might lead to your detection."

  "I will be very careful," she replied submissively.

  "Ah, Edme," he said, "who am I to deserve such a love as yours? Thethought of the risk you incur almost drives me mad. The knowledge ofyour love will make my last hours the happiest of my life."

  "Do not speak of dying, Robert," she said. "There must still be hope.They dare not condemn you."

  The words, "You do not know," sprang to his lips, but the look upon herface told him that she was as yet in ignorance of his sentence. Helacked the courage to tell her.

  "It must come, Edme; we should not be blind to that. I would gladlylive, if only long enough to see France freed from the talons that rendit, and the true Republic rise from under the tyranny that is crushingit to death. I would gladly live for your love, a love I never dared tohope for either on earth or in heaven. Surely I ought to be the happiestof men to have tasted such bliss even for a moment; and to die with thefirm belief that we shall meet beyond the grave."

  She did not answer. The quick heaving of her bosom and the quiet sobbingshe struggled to suppress went to his heart.

  "Do not grieve for me so much," he whispered, drawing her to him; "afterall, it will only be for a little while."

  "For you who go the time may seem short," she answered mournfully; "buteach year that I live without you will seem an eternity. I cannot bearit."

  "Courage, dear one, I beseech you; do not grieve for me. Why, I mighthave met death any day within the past years. I have come to regard itwith indifference. Not that I despise life," he added quickly. "Lifewith you would be more than heaven, but the very nature of a soldier'slife makes him look upon his own sudden death as almost a probability.It is but a pang, and all is over."

  "I will not grieve for you, Robert," she replied with firmness, "notwhile there is something to be done. Something that I can do. They shallnot murder you."

  "What are you going to do?" he asked quickly, fearing that some rashundertaking had suggested itself to her mind.

  "This Robespierre rules through the fear he has inspired, but he ishated," replied Edme. "The people accept his decrees like sheep, butthey obey sullenly. They do not criticise him, but that bodes him thegreater ill. It needs but one blast to make the whole nation turnagainst him. There must be men in the convention who are ready to rebelagainst him," she continued, talking rapidly. "I shall go to them."

  "No, Edme, you shall not. It would be"--

  "Listen to what I have to say," she said, interrupting him with animperative gesture. "I shall find them out; I shall go to their houses.It needs but a little fire; I will kindle it. I will plead with them. Ifthey have any regard for their Republic they will listen to me. Yourname, Robert, shall not be mentioned, but it will be my love for youthat shall speak to them. In the name of the Republic I shall plead withthem, but it will be only to save you. If they have any courage ormanhood left, they will accept now."

  Robert Tournay looked at her with wonder and admiration as, with a flushof excitement on her cheek, she outlined clearly and rapidly a planstrikingly similar to that evolved by St. Hilaire and himself,--similar,but more daring, more impossible; one that could not fail to bedisastrous to her, whatever the ultimate result.

  For a moment he feared to speak, knowing the inflexibility of her will."I pray you, Edme, abandon your design. It will only drag you into thenet and will not avail me."

  "Robert, my mind is fixed; my action may result in saving you, but ifnot, your fate shall be mine also."

  "Edme! Do not speak thus. The thought of you standing on that scaffold,the terrible knife menacing your beautiful neck, will drive me mad. Oh,the horror of it!" and he put his hand before his eyes and trembled.

  "Promise me that you will not do this," he continued pleadingly."Robespierre's power will come to an end, but the time is not yet ripe.Do not try to save my life. Do not even try to see me again." He tookher head between his hands. "Let this be our last adieu," he pleaded."Listen! the turnkey is advancing down the passageway. I touch yourlips; the memory of it shall dwell in my soul forever."

  She threw her arms about his neck for a moment, then before the heavyturnkey entered the inclosure she had passed quickly along the darkcorridor through the wicket gate into the Tribunal Hall.

  The chamber was dimly lighted by two smoky oil lamps, one on each sideof the room; but they gave out enough light to enable her to see the waybetween the desks and chairs toward the door through which she had firstentered from the street.

  Edme turned the handle of the door but could not open it. It had beenlocked on the outside. She ran to one of the front windows. By the faintlight in the Rue Barillerie, she could discern an occasional passer-by.With an effort she raised the heavy sash and leaned out. It was betweeneight and nine o'clock, and the small street was very quiet. The fewpedestrians were already out of hearing, and had they been nearer shewould have feared to call out to them. She looked down at the pavement.The height was twenty feet; she closed the window with a shudder.Looking about the room she saw, what had before escaped her notice, aray of light coming through the crack of a door into an adjoining room.

  A number of voices in conversation was audible. She resolved to playagain the part of Citizeness Privat. Whoever might be there, when helearned that she had been accidentally locked in while at work, wouldshow her the way out.

  The door opened wider, and a man came forth. Edme, who had hastily takenup the same broom she had before used, pretended to be at work, whileshe summoned her self-possession. The man gave her no more than a casualglance as he went to a table, took out from a drawer a bundle of papers,and proceeded to look them over.

  Edme looked at him closely, sweeping all the while. Her firstapprehension was quieted when she saw he was a very young man with rosycheeks and a pen behind his ear. He was evidently one
of the governmentclerks, staying late at the office to finish some piece of work.

  She breathed more freely every moment notwithstanding the amount of dustshe raised. The clerk put the bundle of papers under his arm with agesture of annoyance, and went back to the other room.

  Edme waited a few minutes, put the broom under her arm, and approachedthe door which the clerk had left ajar. She could not help starting asshe read the large letters on the panel of the door. The room whichcontained the apple-faced and harmless looking little scribe wasdesignated "Chamber of Death Warrants."

  "Here's a pretty state of affairs, Clement," she heard a voice exclaimin a tone of annoyance. "The list of warrants for 'La Force' to-morrowconsists of thirty-seven names while I have only thirty-six documents."

  "Count them again, Hanneton; you know at school you were always slow atfigures."

  "I have compared the warrants with the list of names twice mostcarefully. I assure you one warrant is missing. See for yourself,'_Bonnefoi, Charles de, ex-noble_' is on the list, but there is not asingle Bonnefoi among to-morrow's pile of warrants."

  "Have you looked through those of day after to-morrow?"

  "I have, both of the day after to-morrow and the day following that. Infact, I have gone over all the warrants for all the prisoners, but stillno _Bonnefoi, Charles de, ex-noble_."

  "Lucky for Bonnefoi!"

  "But unlucky for me. I shall be discharged if I let these go out thisway."

  "I tell you what to do," said Clement, "take one from the day afterto-morrow. They are in too great a hurry in the office these days tocompare the lists; they just see if the number tallies, and send off thewarrants to the keepers of the various prisons."

  "But if I do that I shall still be one short, day after to-morrow."

  "No you will not," replied the facile Clement; "you just take one fromthe day following that, and so on and so forth. You merely keep thething going. Your lists and warrants will agree as to number every day.No question arises, and the only result is that some fellow gets shovedalong under the national razor just twenty-four hours earlier than hewould have, had not some one,--I won't say named Hanneton,--but some onewho shall be nameless, made a little blunder."

  "I rather dislike to do such a thing, Clement."

  "Oh, Hanneton, my boy, I always said you were slow. What's twenty-fourhours to a man who has got to die anyway? and then think of Bonnefoi;he'll be overlooked for a long time. Some of those fellows among thearistocracy have been in prison two or three years already. They get tolike it and lead quite a jolly life there. I am told they have finetimes in some of the prisons. Bonnefoi will be wondering why they don'tcome to shave him, but he won't say anything. Bonnefoi won't peep. Youcan count on his silence."

  "But my friend Clement, it will be discovered some day."

  "Well, I can't look ahead so far as that. If you are found out you cansay you made a mistake. They can't any more than discharge a man formaking a mistake."

  "I'll do it, Clement. Here goes--good luck to Bonnefoi."

  "And good luck to the fellow you shove ahead in his place; we'll drinkan extra glass to him when we finish work to-night. Let's see what mayhis name be."

  "'_Tournay, Robert, former Colonel!_' Hello, what's that?" criedClement, interrupting him.

  "I did not hear anything," replied Hanneton.

  "The sound seemed to come from the next room."

  "Oh, it's only that woman who is cleaning the place. She has knockedover a table or a chair. Come. Let's go out and get something to eat.I'm famished. We can return later, and finish our work."