by Frank Yerby
Then she slammed the door in his face and shot the bolts home. Nor would she open it, not even to his thunderous barrage of knocking.
“God in heaven!” Jean swore. “Who on earth would ever have thought of this!”
Then he turned and went out of the building, walking like a man very tired and very old.
16
HE knew where to find her; that was not the difficult part. The clothing business that she and Marianne and Pierre had founded could weather the storm produced by the absurd measures introduced by the Hébertists and the Montagnards, so Fleurette was not faced with the drastic necessity of becoming once more a flower-seller in the streets. Her wants were few; and even with the reduced earnings of the firm that autumn of 1793 and winter of 1794, Fleurette was adequately provided for. That she would take refuge with the du Pains he had known at once; what he had not known was that no protestations on his part, no pleas, would change her icy resolve.
And this I gave her, he thought bitterly, this iron pride in herself. Yet I would not have it otherwise. I transformed her from a beggar-maid into a woman, nay, more, into a princess; and though this transformation now defeats me utterly, it is still a fine thing, and a true one.
It came to him, finally, as he walked back towards his lonely flat after his fifth or sixth attempt to see her, that this situation had its value: there was nothing like depriving a man of a thing to make him appreciate it. He knew now with absolute certainty that he loved Fleurette, that this love had nothing to do with pity, or his desire to protect her, or her blindness, or any of a half-dozen irrelevancies. She is a woman now, he thought; she has mastered her blindness; more than that, she has mastered life. For what one refuses to submit to is the measure of one’s conquest of living, and Fleurette from the beginning with simple firmness has refused to bow to anything that she holds wrong. . . . She is braver than I. She would have given me up or died before saying her vows before a constitutional priest. She loves me still, I think; but she will give me up rather than submit to the profanation of our love, or take another woman’s leavings. . . . I could go to Nicole and make her tell Fleurette the truth; but what good would that do? Fleurette would believe her, I think, even less than she believes me. ‘Tis a thing too difficult to explain, and I am caught up in a truth that nobody, not even Pierre, will believe—that I walked the streets all night because I was confused and troubled and wanted to be alone.
He gave vent to a burst of bitter laughter, thinking how much better a facile lie would have served. But about this thing he would not lie; he had seen too often how a noble end had been dirtied by the means used to attain it. He could live; he had his few rents and, hidden still, a large part of the money his father had left him, though that he could not use since the coinage had been changed. To melt the gold down was likewise impossible; in a world of teeming suspicions the mere possession of gold was enough to condemn a man. But he was prepared to keep his peace and live quietly, abstaining from all politics until the day that he and his kind could strike. In all things, then, his life consisted of waiting.
He even grew accustomed to it finally and took a dark pleasure in his loneliness, knowing that he could end it any time he wished by paying a simple call upon Nicole. That he did not pay this call was a source of pride to him. When there is nothing else to be done, he told himself, man endures. He beguiled the tedium of his waiting by attending the daily executions, for the Terror was in full swing by now. They horrified him, but the dualism of his nature took hold of him, and the endless creaking parade of death had its fascination. There was, he told himself, a certain connection between what a man was and the way he died. Only those with a certain residue of honour, he saw, were able to quit life honourably. On the morning of November 10, 1793, Manon Roland proved that to him beyond all doubting.
She came to the foot of the guillotine holding the hand of ancient Lamarche, the old man quaking with fear, but she, proud, serene, comforting him in the tumbril, asking the authorities for pen and paper to write down the strange thoughts arising in her, having her request refused, making one more: that the old man be permitted to die first, that the sight of her blood should not unnerve him. Then, still proud and beautiful, she mounted with firm step, condemned for nonsense, upon trumped-up charges, for, in reality, being the heart and soul of the dead Girondists, for being her husband’s wife, and standing there, facing the ugly, crumbling plaster monster that they called Liberty, she said in a clear, firm voice that carried over the Place de la Revolution:
“Oh, Liberty, what crimes are committed in thy name!”
Thus, after Marie Antoinette, the second woman of all France died; for the Revolution had commenced the natural diet of revolutions everywhere in all times and all places, its own children. . . .
Coming away from the Place, turning it over in his mind, Jean saw a surging crowd of mummers, dressed in cope and mitre, in priestly vestments, all drunk as lords, laughing and singing, leading along the members of the Convention captive in their train.
“There is this about idleness,” he mocked himself, “it encourages meddling in other people’s affairs; but this is a rare sight, and a curious one, and what better thing have I to do?”
He fell in with the throng. They surged across the bridge to the Ile Saint Louis, and Jean saw that it was to Notre-Dame that they were going. To Notre-Dame, a church no longer, bearing over the doorway the curious inscription: “The Temple of Reason.” Inside, the ancient church was even more changed, the hoary saints tumbled from their niches, busts of Marat and other revolutionary “heroes” set up in their places, the crucifixes torn down, removed, the host destroyed, and high upon the altar itself Demoiselle Candeille of the Opéra, swathed in wisps of transparent material, presiding as the Goddess of Reason. At her side were other members of the troupe, in even more complete demi-nudity; their ballet skirts covering their bodies from mid-thigh to waist, and above that nothing but whatever charms with which nature had endowed them.
Jean studied them with cool mockery, thinking to himself that the invention of clothing was one of civilisation’s real advances, for among all the rarities of life nothing is more rare than a body sufficiently lovely to be paraded naked before the eyes of men.
His mocking gaze was arrested finally by the sole form which could bear such scrutiny, a willow-slim, tall girl whose breasts were perfect, high, conical, up-thrusting, and his natural curiosity caused him to lift his eyes to her face to see if it matched the perfection of the rest of her. It did—and more. It froze him there like one transfixed, his breath stopping in his throat from pure astonishment, his lips moving, shaping her name.
“Lucienne!” he breathed. Then very quietly he began to laugh. He was careful not to laugh too loudly, so she could not have heard him. But something about the very intensity of his gaze caught her, and her hazel eyes met his, their pupils dilating in pure terror. He stood there, staring at her, his face distorted with that unholy laughter of his, which was all the more terrible because she could not hear him.
They were singing now the hymn that Marie-Joseph Chenier had written to music by Gossec:
Descend, O Liberty, daughter of Nature;
The people have reconquered their immortal power;
Upon the pompous debris of ancient imposture,
Their hands raise your holy bower. . . .
After that the chief Hébertists rose one after another and gave their harangues announcing the closing of the churches, the necessity for atheism, the splendour of the new return to pure reason. Jean did not listen to the puerile nonsense they spouted; he kept his gaze fixed upon Lucienne Talbot, torturing her with his eyes.
The ceremony grew wilder—the holy chalices were passed back and forth in profane mockery of the Holy Eucharist, drunken howls burst from the spectators. From the side aisles, curtained off from the rest of the cathedral, other sounds came over to Jean; Hébert, Chaumette and their fellows had seen no incongruity in introducing a form of worship more ancient
than the worship of reason, that dated back to the devotees of Astarte of Nineveh, and beyond.
Temple prostitutes; Jean laughed silently, but his laughter was bitter with contempt. Morbleu! Is there no obscenity beyond these filthy pigs?
Half an hour later even his rhetorical question was answered; nothing was beyond the degeneracy of the Hébertists—absolutely nothing at all. High priests and goddesses of the new religion joined the worshippers in dancing the Carmagnole, there within the sacred walls of Notre Dame de Paris, the half-nude dancers from the Opéra rapidly became wholly so under the clutching fingers of the male rabble of Paris, and what had begun as a dance became something else, too, degenerating into an orgy of such complete bestiality that even Jean’s mockery deserted him. He wanted to vomit, to spew up the bottomless disgust churning at the bottom of his stomach.
He turned, stepping over the writhing, close-coupled bodies upon the floor, closing his ears against the animal moans, the muttered obscenities, but before he reached the door a slim hand gripped his arm hard. He half turned, raising his heavy stick to strike, holding it there, lifted, then bringing it down again, staring into those hazel eyes in mockery, in contempt, the half-smile upon his broken mouth deepening, becoming crueller than death itself.
“Jean,” she breathed, “please, Jeannot—take me out of here!”
“Why?” he laughed; “I should think you’d find your surroundings most congenial.”
“Oh, Jean, Jean—I didn’t know! Believe me, I didn’t! They told me it was only a fête. . . .”
“And for this mere fête,” he mocked, lifting his iron-shod cane so that its point grazed lightly across her bare breasts, “you attired yourself—thus!”
“I didn’t know!” she wept. “We were to be an—an artistic spectacle. For God’s love, Jeannot—get me out of here!”
Jean smiled into her eyes, and made no effort to help her into the cloak she had brought with her. Then he took her arm and started towards the doors; but the saturnalia within had boiled over into the street, mobs of half-naked savages danced the Farandole and Carmagnole, singing verses composed wholly of words which could not be printed in any language upon earth, and repeating in full daylight all those acts which mankind has always cloaked in the utmost privacy.
Jean did not bother to look for the fiacre; since the revolt of the devoutly religious people of the Vendée and the rebellions at Marseilles and Lyons, so many horses had been requisitioned for the army, fighting now foes both within and without, that any form of public transportation had ceased to exist. He walked along, and Lucienne, clinging to his arm, studied him with concern. He had grown older, she could see that; there was more white in his hair than black now. But it became him. His lean face was but little more lined than before; still almost a year short of his thirtieth birthday, he looked much older; but his hair and face were marked by care and sorrow, not by age. His body was still splendid; and he had something new about him, an air of calm, of dignity, serene and Olympian and complete—an appearance of quiet mastery that she found oddly exciting. . . .
“You’ve been hurt,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said shortly. “The war. There is a war, you know.”
“I know,” Lucienne said. “Is it—bad?” He turned his great black eyes upon her.
“Nothing—a flea-bite. I was born to be guillotined,” he said.
At the word guillotined, her smile froze. He had only to say a word, and she, too, would “sneeze into the sack” or be “shortened”, as they put it in the irreverent slang of the day. I, she thought, am become his prisoner—his slave. He can do what he likes with me, and I have no means of escape. Thank God I’ve kept my figure; I intoxicated him once—and I can again. I know his weakness in that regard. ‘Tis fortunate that nature made men such sensual beasts, or else we women could never control them.
But when they had reached her small, poor room, she was subtle. She made supper for him and gave him wine, and only after he had eaten and drunk did she sit on the arm of his chair and begin to stroke his coarse hair, running her slim fingers through it, whispering:
“Jeannot—you do not know how good it is to be home again. . . .”
“Is it?” he said coolly.
“I know—you think me false; and I was. It wasn’t until I reached Austria that I saw how wrong I was. Those silly, posturing idiots; there is not a man among them! No one at all like you, my Jeannot.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“After all, I did no real harm. All the things I told them about have been undone here in France; and they know not now what to do. There is nothing they can do—they are lost. All the Kings are lost; tomorrow belongs to the common man.”
“You bore me,” Jean said; “I’ve heard enough false rhetoric to last me a lifetime.”
He reached for his stick, and terror flared in her eyes.
“Don’t go!” she begged; “stay here with me tonight, Jeannot—tonight, and all the other nights. I—I’m so lonely. . . .”
Jean looked at her and smiled.
“Liar,” he said.
She came close to him, veiling her hazel eyes with her marvellous lashes, putting her mouth inches from his own.
“I want you,” she crooned; “I’ve never known another man like you. You make my whole body sing with desire, and afterwards I purr with contentment. . . . Come, Jeannot, forget the past. Love me like you used to. I shall never leave you again— never, never, never!”
Jean pushed his weight down upon his stick and stood up.
“You,” he said, “are fantastic—really fantastic, Lucienne.”
“Jean,” she screamed at him, her voice hoarse with terror; “don’t go! Please don’t go!”
“Rest tranquil,” he said gently; “I shan’t betray you to the authorities. It is a matter of indifference to me whether you live or die; but I shall not betray you. Not for your sake, Lucienne, but for mine. You see, my dear, there are some things that are beneath me.”
Then he put his hat on his head and went very quietly through the door.
But within the next two weeks the lonely peace of his life was twice broken. The first time it was Nicole, her blue eyes big with terror, who flew into his room where he sat huddled before his fire.
“Jean!” she cried; “you must save me! This man, this madman, is giving me no peace! He swears I am married to him, not to Claude. He says we had children! Oh, Jean, make him leave me alone—make him go away. . . .”
Jean looked at her.
“I’ll do my best,” he said tiredly; “but it would be better, I think, if you went away. If you were to rejoin Claude in Marseilles
Fire-points showed in her eyes.
“You think me mad,” she whispered, “don’t you? You want to be rid of me. . . .”
“I know you’re ill,” Jean said gently. “Look, Nicole—I bear the scars of my wounds upon my body, where they can be seen; yours are deeper than that; they’re upon your soul. What happened to you, your mind refuses to remember; if that be madness, why then I approve of it. I agree with whatever there is within you that refuses to recall these things. They are better not recalled.”
A look of cunning stole across her lovely, childlike face. Had he been better versed in such things, he would have recognised it for what it was, the cunning of near-madness.
“I—I have no money,” she said; “else I would go. . . .”
“I’ll give you the money,” Jean said, and rose.
“Thank you,” Nicole said; then: “Jean—where is Fleurette?”
“Visiting Marianne for the afternoon,” he lied. This, too, he thought, my poor sick one, is a thing you’re better off not knowing.
He crossed the room and got her the money. She took it and hugged it to her bosom.
“Thank you, Jean,” she said, “you’re very kind. . . .”
He thought it odd that she did not mention their last meeting; but he was relieved that she did not. It was better like this. A
nd when she was gone, he could resume his lonely vigil. One day, perhaps, Fleurette would come back again. One day there would be love between them again, and joy.
After Nicole had gone, he questioned in his mind the ethics of sending her to join a man she was not married to, rather than the man to whom she was. But nothing in life was as simple as it appeared; to send her to Julien was to join her life to that of a man she did not remember, drive her back into a terrible past. That way lay madness. Worse, it was to link her with a man proscribed, to deliver her surely to the whistling blade of the guillotine, in all her mad innocence, condemn her, in fact, to die for a way of life she had never truly sanctioned or been a part of, and which she did not, could not, remember.
Goodness, justice, virtue, truth, he mused bitterly, are all poor creatures of circumstance. I am myself a murderer a hundred times over, and men count it a virtue because I killed not for myself, but in defence of my country. At least this way she lives, and I have done what I could.
But he was conscious several times in the next weeks of being followed; light, dainty footsteps would sound behind him for a space, but no matter how quickly he looked, there was no one there. He dismissed the idea finally, putting it down to nerves. The climate of Paris today, he mused, is enough to drive any man mad.
Life went on. On November 24, the Convention closed every church in Paris; within twenty days, 2,446 churches throughout France were converted into profane “Temples of Reason”. Roland de la Platniène stabbed himself to death upon learning of his wife’s execution. Claviêre took poison. The death-carts creaked endlessly through the streets of Paris. Danton was in Paris once more, having returned on November 21 from his month-long self-exile at Ancis. The lion had mellowed, Jean knew; how much, he was to learn. . . .
On December 1, he learned first-hand of the astonishing change in Danton; for on that day he had a visitor. Opening upon slim, wonderfully handsome Camille Desmoulins, Jean Paul could not conceal his astonishment.