For a couple of days they had been making fun of a M. Saw, who, like M. Florent, was arrested for sending to the most advanced newspapers violent diatribes adorned with all the figures of speech peculiar to the montagnards of the Convention. Like so many others, M. Saw fell in love with Sonia and told her so.
“Alas, madam, my love-affairs are not dangerous,” he at once added, for he was a gentleman. “Having passed all my life among books, they are purely literary. In this way I have loved Madame Rolande, la belle Lucille, Thérèse and their circle, just as I love you who resemble them in mind and heart and surpass them in beauty.”
Tiffoni, Luciene Drice, Yolande Théry clapped their hands. M. Saw rose to the occasion and addressed them with equally flattering compliments derived from his reading.
“Amuse yourselves,” he said, “you will never amuse yourselves as much as those historic Frenchwomen. If only I had with me the Memoirs of Mme Eliot you would see what fun they had at Carmes Prison, the Conciergerie Prison and other places, and,” he added with a touch of mischief, “it would perhaps fire you with more audacity and incite you to play other games than hot-cockles, puss in the corner and blind man’s buff.”
M. Saw was straightway called an old scamp, which was enough to induce him to apply for permission to lend Sonia certain volumes in his possession at home. He made a request for his warder to be authorized to go to his housekeeper for them in his spare time. The request was transmitted in due form to M. Talbot, who at once communicated with the Commissioner-Inspector.
“I find something most suspicious in this request,” said M. Hilaire, frowning. “Does not this anxiety to read at a time when M. Saw and Sonia Liskinne are about to appear before their judges conceal some hidden purpose? I will fetch the books myself and find out what it all means.”
M. Talbot agreed with M. Hilaire, and thus next morning M. Florent saw the Governor and M. Hilaire enter the courtyard. M. Hilaire passed quite close, but did not appear to notice his old friend. He was carrying under his arm a volume which at once attracted the retired bookseller’s attention. At the sight of this worn, soiled, nut-brown binding with its special tooling on the edge, designed by himself, M. Florent turned deadly pale.
M. Hilaire was now carrying the book in his hand, and M. Florent craned his neck in an effort to perceive on it the red label which had been his pride for over twenty years and bore the words: “Francs Bourgeois Library.” But he failed to see the label, doubtless because it had been scraped off.
If only he could be certain that this book had been stolen he would perhaps have the consolation of learning before he died the name of the wretched creature who for years on end had been plundering his circulating library without rousing his suspicion and poisoning the last years of his association with trade and letters. When he reached this point in his anxiety and doubt his heart sank on perceiving his old customer M. Saw enter the courtyard, bowing to the ladies.
M. Talbot called M. Saw and told him that the Commissioner-Inspector had himself visited his home and examined his library, which showed deplorable taste and should by rights be confiscated. All the same, he had had the kindness to bring back one of the volumes, which he had glanced through and found unobjectionable. M. Saw could therefore lend it to the ladies for their amusement.
While the Governor was talking and M. Saw listening, M. Hilaire, wearing as usual his splendid red sash, went up to Sonia and, bowing, handed the book to her:
“You see, madame, we are not monsters. Amuse yourself while you may, and read the book quickly, for neither you nor I can tell what the future may hold for us.”
“Thank you for the warning,” returned Sonia, smiling. “I promise not to waste any time.”
She at once opened the book and read aloud in a voice that she strove to render firm but which trembled slightly: “Memoirs of the French Revolution by Mme Eliot, translated from the English by the Comte de Bâillon, with a Preface by Saint Beuve.”
Obviously it was not the title that made her voice tremble, but rather that which she could read underneath: “Letters from the counter-revolutionary committees of Lyons, Bordeaux, Toulon, Marseilles, Lille, Nancy and Tours to Major Jacques, a prisoner in the hand of the enemies of the nation.”
Not one of them, save Lavobourg and d’Askof observed her agitation.
M. Hilaire had drawn M. Talbot and M. Saw away with him to the far end of the courtyard and was holding forth on a subject that must have been extremely interesting but that history has failed to inscribe on its records.
As to M. Florent, he was less engrossed by the reader than the binding. He received a fresh shock on hearing the title, and no longer doubted that this book of “Memoirs,” which had appeared in his library, was his property. If only he could get the book in his hands, even for a moment.
Slowly he stole towards the group of prisoners holding court round Sonia, but it so happened that Baron d’Askof left the party and strode up to him with a great show of friendship. He shook his hand.
“Is it really you, M. Florent — my dear companion in misfortune? How is it you made up your mind to venture out?”
M. Florent endeavored to withstand the Baron, who, while making him dizzy with his flow of language, led him into a corridor. He would not leave him. At last M. Florent said:
“Look here, all this does not interest me, but that book...”
“Oh, really. You are interested in some book. But what book?”
“Why, the book which the Commissioner-Inspector brought here from Saw’s house at the request of that somewhat unscrupulous person.”
“So you know M. Saw?”
“I should think I did know him! For over twenty years he was a subscriber to my circulating library, and I can see that a number of volumes are no longer in circulation.”
“M. Florent, you have your wits about you.”
“I don’t know if I have my wits about me, but I should like to have my book. If Mlle Liskinne will lend it to me for a moment I will soon show her that these ‘Memoirs’ belong to me.”
“If you really have your wits about you, M. Florent,” said d’Askof, sharply, in a peculiar tone, “you will understand that you must not persist in asking for that book.”
“Why not?” ask M. Florent, nonplussed. “Because I have no liking for police spies,” returned the Baron, taking M. Florent by the shoulder and glaring fiercely at him.
Feeling sure that he had made a considerable impression on M. Florent, the Baron turned on his heel and rejoined Sonia and her little group of friends seated in the middle of the courtyard while the other prisoners walked about near them.
Sonia quickly skimmed the pages of the letters to Major Jacques, which began: “Major! You are the one hope of France, and yet we learn that you have refused to take advantage of the only means of escape which will save us. You are not entitled to...”
Just then a certain uproar and the confused sound of voices came from the other end of the courtyard and attracted general attention. Sonia turned her eyes towards the tumult and beheld approaching her amid the throng of prisoners hastening up for a better view — Subdamoun himself.
His face was of a deadly pallor. It was as though another Lazarus had risen from the tomb. But under his funereal aspect he retained those wonderful lineaments which are the mark of a resolute and noble character. Alas, his one desire must have been to conceal from the vulgar eye the despair of a soul crushed by a too relentless fate. It was in vain that M. Talbot, leaning against a pillar in the corridor, and hidden by its shadows, looked for some passing sign of weakness on the part of his distinguished prisoner.
That morning at breakfast time Subdamoun had found in a piece of bread a scrap of paper bearing a few words which had decided his conduct. He could not doubt that the message was an attempt to induce him to go back on his refusal to countenance any plan of escape, but out of respect for his mother he submitted to her wishes.
Sonia stood up when she saw him, and her excitement was so
intense that for once she was as pale as he. His first sad smile was for her. Their eyes met, and reawakened love brought the color to the cheeks of the beautiful captive.
She could not restrain the impulse to throw herself forward almost in his arms. At that moment he was conscious of feeling something more than a guilty passion for her, and he admitted to himself that he was committing a crime in loving her. Poor Lydia! Did he therefore no longer love Lydia? Who could tell, or at least who could be sure of such a thing?
We trench here on one of those unfathomable mysteries of the human heart when it is assailed by two equally attractive but entirely different objects; and we may perhaps, especially in times of revolution, grant some indulgence to a man who would fain appreciate the virtue of one but lacks the courage to reject the allurements of the other.
In their embarrassment they did not know what to say to each other, and a child might have guessed their secret from their obvious agitation.
Fortunately, Baron d’Askof was there to save the position. He declared with noisy gaiety that they were all pleased to see Subdamoun once more. He asserted that from the first day only his presence was needed to enable them to fancy themselves at one of Sonia’s private parties in the Boulevard Pereire, parties which lost nothing of their charm for being held “on the threshold of the scaffold.”
“The scaffold,” repeated Jacques. “That’s true. My poor friends, will you ever forgive me?”
“We thank you,” cried one of the old aristocracy. “We thank you, since it was impossible to live in these abominable days.”
“It is not you who should ask forgiveness,” interrupted Sonia, and she added in an undertone: “I have already forgiven in your name those who needed forgiveness.”
While speaking she pointed to the hapless Lavobourg, looking a pitiable sight in his corner.
Subdamoun did not hesitate. He went up to him and offered his hand. Lavobourg accepted the friendly gesture without enthusiasm, for he had readily forgotten the horror of his own political treachery to remember only the deception of the man who was willing to forgive him.
“Come, Lavobourg, we are all going to die. We are all going to appear before the one great Judge. Forgive me as I forgive you.”
Lavobourg made an affirmative motion of his head.
Sonia asked Jacques to sit down beside her, and, convinced that no word that passed between them would escape the ears of M. Talbot’s secret police, she was careful to tell him with an airy and affected light-heartedness how she had employed her time during her long hours of imprisonment.
“We are reading Mme Eliot’s Memoirs. They are very dreadful, but delightful. Look here, Major, it’s your turn to read.... I am rather tired....”
She handed him the volume with a speaking look that at once put him on the alert. He saw that he held in his hand the key to the mystery that had pursued him since the morning.
He carelessly opened the book and betrayed no surprise when his eyes fell upon these lines: “Major, you are the one hope of France, and yet we learn that you have refused to take advantage of the only means of escape which will save us. You are not entitled to...”
“Farther on,” said Sonia. “I have already read that.”
And bending over him so that he was conscious of her warm breath, her bare arm lightly touching him, she turned over the pages, and his eyes fell on these lines:
“If you set your mind on it, Major, nothing is lost. You may still save France.... You have no right to refuse.... You have no right to seek in death a means of shunning your duty.”
The more he read the more perplexed he grew, and the more he felt his resolution falter.
Then at last he realized that it would be an act of veritable cowardice to shrink from the decisive struggle.
Sonia rivetted him with her eager eyes, in which Lavobourg and d’Askof read but love for him. But whereas Lavobourg betrayed only his dejection, d’Askof felt rising within him a wave of hatred and unspeakable jealousy. This brother, whom he detested, was robbing him of her smiles and the look in her eyes on the very steps of the scaffold. At the moment when he was certain of having won her completely, Jacques had but to show himself and she slipped from his grasp again.
Jacques closed the book and offered it to her, and she took the book and his hand and held them both in hers.
“Well, what do you say?” she asked with a meaning look.
D’Askof could see nothing but those hands, those clasped hands, and, mad with rage, losing his self-control, he was about to throw himself on the book and snatch it from them when he was forestalled by the unexpected intervention of a prisoner of whom, of a surety, no one was thinking.
It was M. Florent, who was impelled by the rights of property and the justice of his case to go so far, and, having seized the book, he shouted in a hoarse voice:
“This book belongs to me. I shall keep it.”
The entire company, taken aback and not unnaturally shocked, stood up, but those who, like Sonia and Subdamoun and M. Hilaire, knew the value of the book quivered with dismay.
M. Hilaire hastened up on the heels of M. Talbot who, at a loss, at once demanded an explanation.
M. Florent did not hesitate to give it:
“This book is mine and I will prove it. It belonged to my circulating library. I have been hunting for it for years, and I can understand finding it here as I see my old customer M. Saw in the courtyard.”
By this time M. Saw was face to face with M. Florent and tried to wrest the book from him.
“I bought it,” exclaimed M. Saw with the boundless indignation of insincerity. “I bought it with my own money, and I will not allow you to call me a thief.”
“I will prove it,” stormed M. Florent. “There was a coffee stain in this book, and I will show it to you.”
M. Florent was about to open the Memoirs before them all and, as the saying goes, “the fat would have been in the fire,” when M. Hilaire thrust out his arm and in his turn secured the volume.
“I brought the book here and I will take it away,” he said, more agitated than he wished to appear.
As to Sonia, she was almost fainting, and she had to sit down when she saw the book slip from the outstretched hands of M. Hilaire to fall into those of M. Talbot.
It was M. Florent who had pulled off that stroke.
“See — see for yourself if there isn’t a coffee stain on it,” he said to the Governor.
And this time he opened the book and eagerly turned over the pages.
M. Hilaire was as white as a sheet. Subdamoun stood with folded arms, prepared to receive this new blow of fate. D’Askof gave a leer. The few persons who, bending over the reader’s shoulder, had been able to see or guess some part of the mystery, felt an anguished clutch at the heart. In another moment the trick would be discovered.
Suddenly a door slammed and a stentorian voice shouted in the courtyard: “Roll-call of prisoners to appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal,” and the first name proclaimed was M. Florent’s.
“Serves him right,” said M. Saw, but M. Saw’s name rang out immediately after, and M. Saw staggered in his turn and was obliged to clutch M. Talbot to prevent himself from falling. To rid himself of M. Saw, M. Talbot handed the book to M. Hilaire, who put it in his pocket.
No further attention was paid to the book. The Governor himself forgot about it. He busied himself after frantically shaking off M. Saw, who would not let go his hold, in ordering a bucket of cold water to be thrown over the apoplectic countenance of M. Florent, and then in lining up the wretched prisoners about to be taken before the Tribunal.
The douche brought M. Florent to himself. In the end he was picked up somewhat roughly, and while the poor prisoners intended for the scaffold were being taken willy-nilly before the Tribunal the ex-librarian strove to explain to the warders and civic guards that he was the victim of a most grievous error. Though he was told to hold his tongue, he refused to listen to reason. In the end he was shouting at
the top of his voice, in spite of blows from the butt-end of a musket, on the pretext that later on he would be unable to say a word before his judges owing to his timidity.
Sonia, in the courtyard, was herself again after her agitation, and, conscious that she was no longer under the eyes of Talbot, whom Hilaire was leading away, went up to Subdamoun and said:
“You see, dear, your duty is clear, and I am amazed that you should have waited until to-day to understand that.”
“I thought everything was lost,” he returned, “and I did not wish to desert you after bringing you to such a pass.”
“Don’t worry about me, I implore you,” she said, stealthily pressing his hand.
“I shall not leave this place without you,” he declared.
“I should look upon you as a child if you allowed such a consideration to stand in your way.”
“It is because I love you.”
“Great heavens,” she murmured, and paused for a moment, for her heart seemed to have ceased to beat. He had never told her so before. “Hush!” she went on. “Are you not afraid of committing a sacrilege?”
I am telling you the truth, Sonia. It is you I love.”
“The scaffold has no further terrors for me,” she said, closing her eyes.
“The scaffold!” he said. “Let the executioner come and we will die together.”
“Leave the prison,” she urged. “Things cannot continue as they are, and you can put an end to them if you wish. Be a free man, Jacques. Promise — swear that you will.”
“Yes, I promise.... I will be a free man so as to release you.”
CHAPTER XXIX
IN WHICH M. FLORENT BEGINS TO REALIZE THAT SO FAR HE HAD NOT GRASPED THE IDEA OF THE SECOND FRENCH REVOLUTION
M. FLORENT MIGHT perhaps have continued the same conduct before the Revolutionary Tribunal, which would have been unworthy of him in his adversity, had he not on entering the room into which the civic guards had driven him with the butt-ends of their rifles recognized in the chief figure on the judicial bench M. Barkimel himself.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 229