“Stop!” Roger shouted. “This is no traitor or enemy. I know this man. He is from my own town, an honest man, and pressed against his will into the Capet’s service. People,” her cried, turning around, “this is a mistake! Will you see one of you own slaughtered?”
The agents of the commune turned, batons raised, toward Roger. Another leap carried the young man between two of them, almost into Roger’s arms. Roaring, the mob surged forward.
Chapter Thirteen
What had seemed the first step toward a painful, bloody end was actually a move of rescue. Instead of tearing them apart, the surge of the mob enveloped Roger, Leonie and the erstwhile victim. The agents of the commune and the pike-wielders fell back before the wave of movement, recognizing by the laughter and cheers that there had been a new verdict handed down, far more powerful and binding than that of the revolutionary tribunal that had originally tried this case. “The people” who an instant before would have cheered at his death were now, with the wild irrationality of the mob, cheering the prisoner’s escape.
To thwart that many-headed monster was death. The batons of the agents of the commune were only a mark of their office, no defense against the mob. Even the pikes and sabers of those paid to butcher the prisoners would have little effect if the mob disapproved of what was happening. They shrugged and laughed and turned away. Encircled by their “rescuers”, Roger embraced the young man with one arm and Leonie with the other and grinned as broadly as he could force his lips apart.
The three clung together, weak from reaction, all wondering how they would be able to get away before the mood of the mob changed again. Questions—not angry, merely interested and congratulatory—were already being called. No one was yet suspicious, but Roger could not answer any question. No matter what town he claimed for his origin, it was not impossible that someone in the crowd near them would know that he did not speak the proper patois. Moreover, the instant the young man was forced to open his mouth, it would be plain to all that he and Roger could not be countrymen.
The near miraculous rescue and the fact that she could no longer see the shambles of the steps restored Leonie to rationality. She had heard enough people comment on Roger’s accent on the trip to Paris so that she understood the problem at once. Her difficulty, of course, was almost as bad. Not only the Côte d’Or was in her speech but also the mark of the aristocracy. Still, she should be able to say one single word without betraying herself.
“Ami,” she cried, as if she had been shocked and had only just realized whom Roger held in his other arm. Then she twisted past Roger and hung herself on the young soldier’s neck, kissing his cheeks. “Your name?” she hissed into his ear.
“Journiac de St. Méard,” he hissed back.
“Journiac!” Leonie cried. “Cher Journiac.”
Those about them beamed, and then mercifully, the front ranks bellowed as another victim came through the door. In the instant, Roger, Leonie and Journiac were forgotten. As those around them pushed in front to see better, they were able—both men pressed together to shield Leonie—to move back a little way. Another effort, which permitted those farther back to move into the space they left and therefore, come closer to the bloody acts taking place, gained another decimeter or two.
How long it took, none of them could remember. Every move, which drew curses from those they pushed or tread upon, was a fearful chance. At any moment someone might ask why they were moving back rather than forward where “the traitors” were receiving their “just deserts”. Any moment someone might suddenly take it into his head that they, or Journiac, were “escaping”. When they finally pushed their way through the stragglers on the periphery, Leonie and Journiac were near fainting and Roger, although he managed to drag them along, was not much better off. He got them around another corner and then sank gasping into a doorway.
“Thank you. Thank you,” the young man whispered, shaking like a leaf now that he was safe. “Why? Why did you do it? I have never seen you before in my life.”
The accent was refined, the voice steadying already. Roger took another deep breath and sat with his head on his knees, numbly thanking God that he and Leonie were still alive. He made no answer. What could he say? There was no rational reason for what he had done.
“It is a habit with him,” Leonie replied, giddy with relief, her voice trembling between terror and laughter. “I did not know him either, but he came and plucked me out of a riot and saved my life also—and now we are married.”
Journiac looked utterly blank, as well he might. He then noticed the rope around Leonie’s waist and bit his lip. Very likely they were both mad and had acted without any reason, but what was he to do now? Mad or not, they had saved his life. Could he simply walk away and abandon them, perhaps leaving them in their madness to be hurt or killed? Yet, if he stayed, what could he do for them?
At this point in the poor bewildered man’s thoughts, Roger lifted his head. “Forgive my wife,” he said. “She is nearly hysterical. Naturally I do not make a habit of saving people in the middle of riots.”
“How many riots have you been in that you can say it is not a habit” Leonie interjected mischievously. “You have done it in the only two you have been in, as far as I know.”
“Leonie!” Roger protested. “Do you want Monsieur de St. Méard to think we are insane?”
“Oh, he thinks so already.” Leonie laughed. “He has been looking at the way you have me leashed. I am afraid he does not think that it is just the thing for a wife to wear when taking an evening stroll on the boulevard with her husband.”
“You are not Marseillais!” Journiac exclaimed as Leonie’s accent finally penetrated from his ear to his brain.
“No,” Roger agreed, and explained briefly how they had been caught up in the mob. “Have you someplace to go?” he asked finally. “I don’t think it is too wise to be out in the streets.”
“Yes, of course—” Journiac started, and then broke off abruptly. “Perhaps I had better not go back. I do not know whether it would be wise to go to my friends.”
“Come with us,” Roger said. “I know the Aunays have another bed, because there was another guest. They are good people. They will let you stay the night, what is left of it. Tomorrow will be soon enough to think what to do.”
Although Roger did not untie Leonie for fear they should come across and be swept up into another mob, they reached the Café Breton without further incident. All along the Capucines they gathered up discarded drinking mugs, Leonie making a sack from the front of her skirt. The café door was open, as it had been left when they had been hustled out, but the place did not seem to have been much damaged. One table and two benches were broken others overturned, and the few bottles of watered wine that had remained were gone, a few smashed on the floor. However, the table that had been drawn across the cellar door was still in place, Roger noted with relief. There was no sign of the Aunays.
They were all exhausted, yet they knew that sleep was out of the question. Leonie first ran up to their room and found Fifi safe, asleep under the bed, which she had learned was her place. She brought the little dog down and then went back into the kitchen. That had been invaded also, but not completely stripped. She found bread and cheese, not fresh but still edible. Roger and Journiac meanwhile had set the room to rights, and Journiac had explained how he had come to be in prison. There were so many reasons, or no reasons, for a gentlemen to be imprisoned these days that she was not even curious.
When she rejoined the men, Roger was saying, “I could not believe it. Why did you all walk out of there, right into the hands of those butchers, as if you were going to freedom?”
“We thought we were,” Journiac replied bitterly. “At least, most of them thought that, or that they were to be transferred to another prison. The reason I am alive—in addition to your courage and generosity, Monsieur Saintaire—is that I had been near a window when a deputation came from the assembly to stop those mani
acs from murdering us.”
“This was not ordered by the assembly?” Leonie asked.
“No!” Journiac exclaimed. “How could you think so? They are not bloodthirsty murderers. That is, only Marat and Danton, and perhaps Robespierre— Well, perhaps the whole group from the Cordeliers Club. I know it is not the assembly’s will. Deputy Dessaulz and Deputy Bazaire came and tried to reason with the crowd, but they were driven away.”
“It is worse than I thought,” Roger muttered. “It is bad enough when a government orders its citizens to be slaughtered to achieve some purpose, but this—this is real anarchy. A bad law can be changed, but when there is no law…”
“Then each man must fend for himself,” Journiac sad.
Roger shook his head but did not reply. Pierre’s anarchist ideas and behavior within the confines of a stable society were somewhat amusing. To contemplate the results of each man fending for himself when all control had broken down… Roger saw again the heaps of bodies, the blood running down the steps, and shuddered.
“But if it was not the assembly, who judged you? Why did you think you were being released?” Leonie asked curiously.
She had not Roger’s well-trained, legalistic horror of anarchy or the lack of a clear legal right and wrong. Her world had collapsed and fallen apart long before. She had come to terms with a society gone mad and agreed wholeheartedly with Journiac. Leonie was not beyond being horrified by suffering and death, but when they were over she shook them off. She had suffered so much herself, had lost so much, that to dwell on such things could lead to a total breakdown of her own mind and will. Her stability was now Roger. This last episode, starting with his suggestions to the Aunays and ending with Journiac’s rescue and their own present relative safety, had reinforced the conviction she already had that Roger could do anything.
“Who judged us I cannot say, except that two were renegade priests—their tonsured hair was still growing in—and one other was apparently a shoemaker. They called themselves a revolutionary tribunal. As for why the prisoners thought they were to be released—that was the verdict that tribunal handed down. ‘Release Citizen So-and so.’ For some, who were obviously guilty of some crime, they said ‘La Force’ or ‘La Châtelet’ which implied the prisoners were to be transferred to another prison. There seemed to be nothing to fear.”
He paused, and his eyes grew distant with remembered horror. “Most of us knew we were not traitors, knew we had done no wrong,” he continued. “That we might be snatched up among others by mistake—that was frightening but within reason. But that we should be killed after no more than a minute or two of questioning—without witnesses or counsel… Even the king did not do that. It was inconceivable! It was easier to believe that such a tribunal had indeed been convened to release all those obviously innocent and remand for real trial before proper judges those who might be guilty.”
“What made you suspicious?”
“Mostly that the deputies had not been allowed to speak more than a few words. I was not really suspicious of the tribunal. What I thought was that they either did not know or did not care that the mob outside was ugly. I was thinking of running and dodging, of how to escape the mob, so when I heard the roar… Thank you again, m’sieu, and you also madame.”
Roger gestured away the thanks, frowning over his own unhappy thoughts. There was, however, a gleam of hope in them. If total anarchy came to the city, the watch at the gates might well fail. Perhaps he and Leonie could escape.
This, however, was not the case, Roger found the next day. The Aunays had returned soon after dawn. In their joy at finding the café virtually intact—even many of the cheap mugs back in place—they made nothing of Roger having invited a guest without their approval. They would have consented to his remaining, but Journiac decided he would see if he could contact his friends secretly and left about midmorning. Soon after, Roger took a walk to the nearest gate. Here he asked anxiously for a mythical friend who was supposed to have come into the city a week before.
The guards were civil enough. There had been only three days when the gates were shut to entry, they informed him, so his friend should have come in without difficulty.
“But we have moved and I am afraid my letter with my new direction did not get to him in time. Perhaps someone remembers him going out?”
The guard shook his head firmly. “Not out of this gate, unless he had a special pass. Those names are written on a register and the names of those who passed them out also.”
“Ah, would it be possible for me to look for his name? I do not know whether to write him again or begin to search the city for him.”
“I will ask the captain.”
They would not allow Roger to look at the register, which did not surprise him, but obligingly looked up the common name Roger offered as the name of his friend. It did not happen to be there, which was another disappointment. Roger would have liked to know who was able to sign passes out of the city. A greater disappointment, however, came when Roger asked how long it was likely that the restrictions on leaving would last. He put the question in positive terms—as being a benefit to him by giving him a greater chance to find his friend.
There was no suspicion in the guard’s face, but he shrugged his shoulders. “Ask the Prussians. When they are driven back, we shall be free to come and go as we please.”
Roger had to smile and did so, adding some platitude about how that would not be long because the revolutionary army would cut them to ribbons. He did not get back to the café until late afternoon, where he met more discomforting news that he had to greet as if it were the dearest wish of his heart. Lefranc had been in again—the helpful devil—with word that he had heard of excellent premises where Roger could set up business.
“Shall we go and look, Roger?” Leonie asked eagerly.
There was nothing else she could do, Roger knew, and they set out, Fifi frisking at their heels. When they were alone in the street, he told her what he had learned and said he was sorry.
“Sorry for what?” Leonie asked.
“I do not seem to be very good at keeping my promises to you. I said I would get you safely to England. Instead, we seem to be trapped here where God alone knows what will happen next.”
Leonie looked at him for a moment and then smiled. “But the truth is that I don’t mind a bit. I am even looking forward to setting up a business. Will you let me help serve in the shop, Roger?”
“Serve in the shop?” he said in a horrified voice. “The heiress of Stour serve in a shop?”
“But what will I do?” Leonie asked reasonably. “I will go demented if I must sit in one small room all day. After all, you will be serving in a shop.”
“A man is in a different situation,” Roger replied reprovingly. “Your reputation, if someone—” As he said it, he realized how ridiculous it was and began to laugh. “Habits die hard,” he gasped. “Neither you nor I will have a shred of reputation left if any of this gets out. Of course you may serve in the shop, my dear, if you wish to do so.”
She hugged his arm in appreciation, and when they had obtained the direction of the place from Lefranc and found it, she examined both the shop and the rooms above with great interest. There was even a garden at the back. Roger allowed that the place would be suitable, particularly as it seemed to be furnished, but he was frowning and to Leonie’s questions replied that he did not see how he could afford to pay the rent for a whole house. He could see Leonie was disappointed and years of unhappy memories of the result of refusing a woman anything made him cold. Leonie, however, only shrugged.
“Oh well, perhaps the Aunays will permit you to work in our chamber. We will manage somehow.”
Roger had been about to say that what they needed to find was a way out of Paris, not a place for him to work, but he was so grateful that Leonie neither made a furious scene nor whined nor wept that instead he determined she should have what she wanted. If he had to, he would go Fouch�
� again. He said nothing to Leonie, however, not wishing that she should be disappointed again if he could not contrive to rent the place. Her slightly dejected appearance served a good purpose. Lefranc clucked his tongue after one look at her.
“It seems the place is not suitable to you, Saintaire?” he asked.
“It is suitable, but I am afraid you overestimate my resources, Citizen Lefranc. I cannot see how it would be possible for me to pay the rent on a whole house. It will take time to build up custom—no one knows me here in Paris.”
“No, no.” Lefranc waved such matters away. “We have no gunsmith in the Section, and wish to keep you here. If the club recommends you, you will have business enough. Also, the premises belong to the Section. The fool of a tailor who held them before was a conspiring royalist.” He said the words as if he had been reporting that the tradesman murdered small children and drank their blood. “He will be executed and the property confiscated. I am sure Citizen Brissot would make a special arrangement for so ardent a patriot as you, who gave up his stock in trade for the good of the nation and came himself to serve her in her hour of peril.”
“I would not like to accept special favors for what I did,” Roger said stiffly.
It was very distasteful to him to benefit from the deceptions in which he had engaged. It was one thing to do and say what was necessary to save Leonie’s life and his own. It was an entirely different thing to reap material benefit from such lies. Roger did not stop to realize that such seemingly noble behavior would only confirm Lefranc’s mistaken conviction that he was a passionate republican, but that was the effect his statement had. Lefranc again assured Roger that all matters would be arranged to suit him, perhaps a rental scaled upward so that he would have time to establish himself and the financial burden would match his income. Roger was about to protest again when Leonie tugged at him.
“Roger,” she said sharply, slurring her words to hide her accent, “don’t be a fool. The place is perfect. If you feel you owe the Section something, you can always pay more than the rent when you can afford it. Meanwhile, you can begin to work, and I am sure France needs gunsmiths now.”
The English Heiress Page 22