“None, as yet. I reached Paris again only this morning after a two years’ absence.”
“What part do you come from?”
“I am from Strasbourg.” The reply was that which Roger had always made to such a question when passing as a Frenchman, since to claim that he hailed from the German-speaking province accounted for any slight fault in his accent. After a moment he went on, “I first came to Paris when I heard of the taking of the Bastille, and I was in the march on Versailles that October. When we brought the fat Baker and his wife, and the little apprentice, back to Paris as prisoners I thought that the Revolution was accomplished, so I went home again. But recently it has seemed to me that you people in Paris have got slack, and have failed to carry matters to their logical conclusion.”
“Citizen, you are right!” exclaimed Santerre. “The people of Paris have got slack. Look how they let us down today. But there are still some of us who are determined to see matters through.”
“So I was told in our local Jacobin club, and it was with the idea of lending the real patriots a hand that I returned here. I want to see France a Republic, like they have in America.”
“You may not have so long to wait for that as appearances suggest. What is your name, Citizen?”
“Breuc,” replied Roger.
“And where are you lodging?”
“I’ve had no time to find a place as yet.”
“Then go to Citizen Jereau at the sign of the Axe and Fasces. It is in the Section de Montreuil and only a step from what’s left of the Bastille. Mention my name and he’ll fix you up with a bed. We’ll meet tomorrow and I’ll find you plenty of work to your taste.”
While they were talking they had reached the quay, and there a group of roughs, all armed with pikes, who formed Santerre’s personal bodyguard, were awaiting their leader; so, having thanked him and shaken hands, Roger turned in the other direction.
He was elated at having fallen in so quickly with one of the most dangerous revolutionaries in Paris, but he had no intention as yet of using the introduction to Citizen Jereau; neither did he mean to return to Madame de Flahaut’s apartment now, as he had intended before his brief conversation with Santerre. One sentence that the brewer had used rang like an alarm bell in his mind—“The King got the best of us today . . . we’ll come back and settle his hash tomorrow.”
Roger had been on his feet for over ten hours, and had passed the greater part of them in most exhausting circumstances. More over, he had had nothing to eat all day. He would have given anything to clean himself up, reclaim his own clothes, and give to M. de Talleyrand’s beautiful mistress an account of the attack on the Palace, while eating the good supper with which he felt sure she would willingly provide him. But he knew that such a pleasant ending to this eventful day was not to be his portion. If Santerre meant to lead his ragged legions against the Tuileries again next day there was still work to be done, and work of a most urgent nature.
It was reasonable to assume that the conspirators would profit by the lessons learnt in the failure of their first attack and organise the next one better. When Roger had left the Cour Royale he had noticed that, in their frenzy, the mob had torn from its hinges the half of the gate that had not been opened to them, and many of the doors in the Palace had been battered down. As repairs could not be executed overnight, it would now be much easier to reach the royal apartments. A massed attack by a great mob was no longer necessary; with the complaisance of the treacherous Pétion’s officials a small band of determined men would be sufficient to penetrate to them. The King could be counted on to adhere to his policy of non-resistance. It had saved him today by the astonishment it had caused in the ordinary criminals and viragos who had burst in on him without premeditation. It would not have that effect tomorrow, and his attackers would be picked men spurred on by the promise of a big reward if they could succeed in killing him. Clearly, if this new menace were to be averted, drastic steps must be taken, but what steps Roger had very little idea at the moment.
On reaching the Tuileries gardens he turned into them. It was not yet nine o’clock so still half light, and quite a number of people were walking there or standing about describing to one another the parts they had played in the great riot that was only just over. Sitting down on a bench, he began to try to think things out.
At the other end of the bench a middle-aged man was sitting. His hands were resting on a stout cane; he was wearing a high-crowned beaver hat and a well-worn cloak that had once been of good, thick material. His appearance suggested that he was a small tradesman enjoying the cool of the summer evening after the long hot day. Having cogitated for some ten minutes, Roger felt he had the nucleus of a plan, and turning to his neighbour he asked:
“Do you live near here, Citizen?”
The man nodded, so he went on, “I suppose you will soon be going home?”
Again the man nodded. “Yes, Citizen, but why do you ask?”
“Because I am far from home myself, and circumstances compel me to spend the night in the streets. The shops are shut and it is getting chilly. I was wondering if I could persuade you to sell me your hat and cloak for a couple of louis”
The man gave him a suspicious but not unfriendly glance; then after a moment he said, “From your voice I judge you to be some gentleman who has got into trouble with the authorities; but in these days it is safer not to ask too many questions. I would like to oblige you and two louis is a good price for these old things I am wearing, but times are hard and I can ill afford to part with them. Have you really got the money?”
His speculations and attitude were just what Roger had hoped they would be when he had spoken in a voice that belied the shoddy garments he was wearing. With a smile of thanks he produced his purse and took out two gold pieces.
As they made the exchange the man said softly, “These are evil days for honest folk, Monsieur, and my heart bleeds for that poor King of ours. But these villains who say they represent us have got us in their power now, and there seems nought that we can do about it.”
“Yes, we can only hope for better times,” Roger nodded, as he tucked his wispy fringe under the beaver and pulled its brim well down to hide his black eye. Then, having thanked the man again, he set off across the gardens towards the riding-school, as he felt sure that at such a time of crisis the Assembly would still be sitting, and it would be the best place to learn where he was most likely to contact a man whom he had decided he must see.
As its galleries were open to the public and always contained a high proportion of sans-culottes—who were paid by the extremists to jeer at and intimidate the more moderate speakers—he could quite well have gone there without attempting to hide his disreputable clothes. But he was now both extremely hungry and acutely conscious that he had no time to lose; so he wanted his man to sup with him while they talked, and felt that his invitation would be accepted more readily if he could make himself look a little more respectable.
The man that Roger wanted to see was Antoine Barnave, an old acquaintance of his who had played a great part in the first Revolution. Although only twenty-eight, he had been selected by his native province of Dauphiné to go to Versailles as a deputy of the Third Estate, and had soon made a name for himself by his extreme radicalism. With the single exception of Mirabeau, he had proved the most powerful orator in the National Assembly, and in collaboration with Robespierre, Pétion and other extremists he had founded the Jacobin Glub. But Roger knew him to be an honest man, and was aware that he had been one of the first real radicals to appreciate that the Revolution looked like being carried too far. It was, as Roger had learned from Talleyrand, the powerful triumvirate of Barnave, Duport and Alexandre Lameth who had led the secession from the Jacobin Club and founded the Feuillants in opposition to it.
That had occurred over a year ago and Barnave had since, like many of the other leaders of the first Revolution, suffered a partial eclipse as a public figure. This was because Robespierre, the dry, v
enomous little lawyer from Arras, had, at the dissolution of the old National Assembly, proposed the cunning measure that none of its members should be eligible for re-election to the new Legislative Assembly that was to succeed it.
Too late the moderate members realised the trap into which, by their agreement, their desire not to seem self-seeking had led the nation. Its representatives’ experience of parliamentary government had been absolutely nil when they had met in ’89, but in two and a half years of intensive application they had learned a great deal. Now, all that was thrown overboard and a fresh set of entirely inexperienced people had to learn from the beginning, while the nation paid the price of their blunders. Worse still, between May ’89 and October ’91 liberal desire for reform had been replaced by a Utopian madness that called for the abolition of the whole existing social order, so that through this ill-considered measure, as Robespierre had foreseen, the deputies elected to the new Assembly proved, on the average, far more radical than their predecessors, with the result that his party increased from a handful of supporters to well over a hundred.
True, he was no longer able to sit himself, and had unseated his ally, Pétion, that waspish monarchy-hater the Abbé Sieyès, the smug Roland, and other Leftist sympathisers; but he had also got rid of the most vigorous Royalist leaders, Cazales and the Abbé Maury; of Bailly, Malouet, Lafayette, Lally-Tollendal, Talleyrand, Clermont-Tonnerre and a score of others who had been the first to advocate liberal reforms; and even of Barnave, Duport and the Lameths, who desired only to retain the Monarchy in a strictly limited form. So the subtle apostle of anarchy had won hands down on points. At one stroke he had deprived all his opponents of the right to speak any further as the elected representatives of the French people.
The practical effects of the law had proved curious, as it had brought about a situation in which France was no longer governed either by a King or by the elected representatives of her people, but by the outcome of a succession of intrigues and incredibly bitter feuds carried on by a few little cliques of private individuals. Naturally the new deputies of all parties, in their ignorance of how best to handle affairs, turned for advice to the old party leaders; the latter, being much more knowledgeable and gifted, had soon dominated both their thoughts and actions. The extreme Left of the Assembly now took its orders from Robespierre at the Cordeliers Club, the Girondins from Madame Roland’s salon and what remained of the Right from the Feuillants.
Roger thus had no measure by which to gauge Barnave’s present influence on political affairs. But at the moment he was much more concerned with the brilliant young orator’s personal relationships, for he felt convinced that he was better situated than anyone else in Paris to cope effectively with the danger in which the Royal Family stood.
On reaching the Assembly Hall, Roger made his enquiry of one of the doorkeepers. The man’s reply came as a most unexpected and bitter blow.
“Citizen Barnave?” he said with a shake of his head. “You’ll have to go a long way to find him, Citizen. When the King made Citizen Roland his first minister this spring, Barnave declared that he had had a bellyful of politics, and took himself off to his home at Grenoble to grow cabbages.”
For a moment Roger stood there uncertain and dejected, as he did not know sufficiently intimately any other suitable politician whom he could approach with the idea he had in mind. But quite unexpectedly he was rescued from his dilemma. An officer of the National Guard, who was standing near by, turned to the doorkeeper and said:
“You are right about his going into retirement, Citizen, but he has come back to Paris; I saw him myself yesterday.” With a glance at Roger he added, “The most likely place to find him is the Feuillants Club.”
The Club was situated in the ex-convent just round the corner. With a relief corresponding to his previous disappointment, Roger thanked the officer, then walked down the narrow passage in which he had struggled as one of the tightly jammed crowd six hours earlier. To his still greater satisfaction he learned from the porter on the door of the Club that Citizen Barnave was inside; so he asked for a piece of paper, wrote on it I arrived from England only yesterday, and pray you to spare me a few moments on a most urgent matter, signed it, and sent it in to the ex-deputy.
Two minutes later Barnave came out into the hall. He was a thin-faced, slightly built man, with a high forehead, fine eyes and a long, sharply-pointed nose. As he looked round his glance passed right through his visitor without recognition, but Roger stepped up to him and said in a low voice:
“Ask me no questions now, I beg, but get your hat and take me to some place where we can sup quietly.”
Barnave hesitated a moment. “We are in the middle of a most important debate, and——”
“No debate can be as important as what I have to say to you,” Roger cut in quickly.
His urgency prevailed, and shortly afterwards the two old acquaintances left the Club together. It was only then that Roger found himself momentarily at a loss. He had had very little time in which to think out a plan and none at all in which to consider the delicate matter of gaining Barnave’s assistance in it. Unlike de Talleyrand, the ex-deputy did not know Roger’s true history, and the affair was complicated by the fact that when they had last met he had been posing as a wealthy young Englishman who dabbled in journalism and held extremely revolutionary views. However, they had gone only a few steps when his companion gave him a lead by remarking:
“I never expected to see the elegant Chevalier de Breuc with his hair chopped short and his feet in gaping shoes. Did I hazard a guess, I would say your present attire was prompted by a journalistic urge to be an eye-witness at the happenings in the Tuileries this afternoon.”
“In part you are right,” Roger nodded. “I donned these rags to gain entry into the Palace with the mob, but my motive was very different from that which you suggest. By chance, I learned in London of a plot to overthrow the Monarchy, and was so concerned that I came over here in the hope of helping to avert it. This afternoon I was among those who aided in protecting the Queen.”
Barnave looked at him in surprise. “Then your opinions have undergone a great change since I saw you last. You were then a most furious revolutionary. I well remember your declaring yourself from the rostrum of the Jacobin Club to be the bitter enemy of Monarchy in all its forms.”
“True! But I was then striving to avert a war—a war in which the French Sovereigns would have felt themselves in honour bound to engage had not popular opinion been roused to put a check upon them. In yourself, and in other Jacobins who wished to prevent war, lay my one hope of securing action. Therefore, to win the goodwill of such an assembly, I had to pretend extremist opinions.”
“I appreciate the point of what you tell me. But that apart, our private conversations never led me to suppose that you were particularly concerned for the Monarchy.”
“Nor was I, in its absolute form; but I am now convinced that everything possible should be done to save it from abolition, and I have been given to understand that you had reached that point of view even earlier.”
“I reached it this time last year, and for some months did my best to advise the Sovereigns privately.”
“But, unfortunately, without success, I gather?”
“The King proved too cowardly to accept my advice,” replied Barnave bitterly, “and when he decided to entrust himself to that hypocrite Roland, I retired to the country.”
“So I learned only ten minutes ago. But your return to Paris suggests that you found yourself unable to remain indifferent to the future?”
“That is true. Yet news of this new crisis brought me back against my better judgment, for I greatly doubt whether I can do any good here.”
“You can do much,” declared Roger firmly, “and since we find ourselves once more of the same mind we must again combine our efforts. First though I must eat, as I am starving. Do you know of some place near by where my present filthy state will not disgrace you too greatly?”
/> Barnave gave a cynical laugh. “Oh, but it is you who are in the fashion, not I. Only the law proclaims us all equals. In practice the canailles are now the masters—or they soon will be. Anyway, today’s events deprived me also of my dinner, so I should be glad of a meal. Let us go to Minchin’s. It is non-political and caters for people of all sorts.”
They had already turned into the Rue St. Honoré and gone some distance along it. As they walked on and then down a side turning, Roger explained his long absence from France by speaking of his marriage, and gave it as one of the reasons for his changed political outlook that he had been much influenced by his wife and her relations.
“I too,” admitted Barnave, “changed my convictions only partially as the result of pure political thinking. It was getting to know the Queen personally that started my conversion.”
Roger was already aware of that, but he made no comment as they had just reached the restaurant. It turned out to be a long, low room divided down the middle by a walk-way, on either side of which were tables fixed between pairs of wooden benches with five-feet-high backs, so that each set of diners had what almost amounted to a private compartment to themselves. When they had made a choice of food and wine, Roger said:
“I saw from the news sheets that you were one of the Commissioners appointed to bring the Royal Family back after their abortive attempt to escape to the frontier last year. Was it then that you became subject to the change of heart to which you referred a few moments ago?”
CHAPTER VI
THE CHANGING OF A HEART
Barnave nodded. “Yes, and it was a most extraordinary experience.”
“While we are being served, tell me of it,” Roger begged. “It would be safer not to broach the matter I have sought you out upon until we are less likely to be interrupted. Why in the world, having safely escaped from Paris, did they ever allow themselves to be halted?”
The Man who Killed the King Page 11