Next morning he bought himself a new uniform, feathered hat and sash, then repaired to the Hôtel de Ville. His fellow Commissioners of the Commune were amazed to see him; but a number of them gave him a hearty welcome, and, on learning the particulars of his escape, congratulated him upon it. It was no more than he had expected from Goret, Daujon, Oysé and several others whom he knew to be decent fellows at heart, but he was somewhat surprised when Hébert and Chaumette, the two terrorists who dominated the Commune and with whom he had never been at all intimate, hurried up to shake him by the hand.
There proved to be no more trouble about his resuming his seat than if he had left only the previous day, as no general election of the Paris Municipality had been held during his absence, and in the event of the death of a member it was not the practice to hold a by-election. The same principle was followed in the Convention, to which in September ’92 750 members had been elected. Since then, owing to death, imprisonment, proscription and fear, attendance there, even on special occasions, had fallen to less than 250; but the Comité had this rump so well in hand that it would never have agreed to any measure for the replacement of members who had fallen by the wayside, and the same ideas governed the policy of Hébert and his friends with regard to the Commune.
Early in the afternoon Roger accompanied Oysé back to the Cushion and Keys. He had a long talk there with the shrewd, dark little Provençal on the affairs of the Section, and on political developments in Paris during his three months’ absence. Afterwards, he no longer wondered why both Robespierre and the two principal officials of the Commune should have received him so affably. Unknown to the general public, a desperate three-cornered fight for power was now taking place, and each faction was bidding for the support of every man in Paris who had any influence or personality. The leaders of these factions were Danton, Hébert and Robespierre.
Danton’s return from his prolonged honeymoon with his seventeen-year-old bride, late in the previous autumn, had shortly been followed by the triumph of the Revolutionary armies on all fronts. Therefore, with the coming of the New Year, he had urged that as the Revolution was no longer in danger it was unnecessary to continue to intimidate the nation by terror, and that a greater degree of support for the Central Government could be obtained by granting amnesties in the revolted districts, by reducing the powers of the Revolutionary Tribunals, and by restoring the security of property to its owners.
Hébert was directly opposed to this policy of clemency. He was a pervert and sadist by nature, and his paper, Le Père Duchesne, pandered to the basest instincts of the sans-culottes. It was on their shoulders that he had risen to power, and to remain there it was essential that he should protect the licence they now enjoyed all over France to plunder, desecrate and massacre. He knew that if Danton had his way law and order would soon be restored, socialism would be substituted for communism, and he and his associates would be in grave danger of being sent to the guillotine on account of the excesses they had sponsored.
Robespierre stood half-way between them, swinging like the pendulum of a clock, first to one side, then to the other. He was completely ruthless, utterly indifferent to human misery, and governed only by a determination not to be caught on the losing side. He was not religious, but was strongly superstitious, and was therefore opposed to the outright atheism of the Hébertists; he also feared that if he lost Danton’s support these ultra-terrorists of the Commune might overthrow the Comité and himself. On the other hand, his ice-cold nature kept him immune from all fleshly lusts. He lived very simply, and used women only to feed his vanity, as by occasionally having a pretty prisoner brought to him for the pleasure of witnessing her tears and pleas for mercy before sending her to die; so his own inhibitions provoked in him a jealous hatred of the Dantonists, with their wholesale plundering for enjoyment’s sake and full-blooded debaucheries. Yet he feared them, too, for he knew how strongly they resented his strictures on their venality, and, if he sided with them, they might turn upon him, the “Incorruptible”, once they had overcome the Hébertists, and use the excuse of one of his many treacheries to rid themselves of him.
After the fall of the Monarchy, the government of the country had become vested in the National Convention; but the Commune of Paris, dominated by Hébert, had consistently terrorised it and frequently usurped its powers. It was to protect the national authority from the weakness it displayed under these attacks that Danton had concentrated the strength of the Convention in the first Committee of Public Safety. For a time the Commune had lost ground; but, on the reconstruction of the Committee, Robespierre had forced Danton off it and had shortly afterwards eliminated his influence in it altogether, although only at the price of replacing Danton’s remaining friends on the Committee by the two Hébertists, Collot d’Herbois and Billaud-Varennes.
Robespierre had then realised that the price he had paid to get rid of Danton had been too high; so he had re-allied himself with his old colleague in an attack on the Hébertists. Danton had pushed a measure through the Convention placing all local authorities under the control of the Committee, thus seriously curtailing the powers of the Commune. Their next step had been to encourage Danton’s principal lieutenant, Camille Desmoulins, to attack the extremists. With their approval the famous journalist had begun the publication of a new paper called the Vieux Cordelier, in which he had denounced the Tribunals as having become mere organs of butchery that disgraced the Revolution. His appeals for a restoration of justice and mercy had met with wide approval, but had also aroused a storm of menaces from the Commune. A few of the minor Hébertists had been arrested, then Robespierre had become too frightened to go any further. Collot, fresh from the massacres in Lyons, had at that juncture returned to Paris, and his influence had proved decisive. Robespierre had agreed to a continuation of the Terror, and publicly recanted in the Jacobin Club by apologising for his “weakness” in approving Desmoulins’s pleas for moderation.
Yet the two warring factions still continued to be fairly evenly matched, as Collot and Billaud had recently tended to draw away from Hébert, not from any lessening in their appetite for terror, but because they wished to see all power concentrated in the hands of the Committee, of which they were members. So the Committee now formed a solid bloc behind Robespierre; frightened, but alert, dangerous, and terribly aware that to preserve itself it might soon be compelled to give battle to one or both of these powerful groups that regarded it with equal hate, distrust and envy.
Roger listened to all this with great interest and carefully-concealed pleasure. It seemed that just such a situation was developing as he had envisaged when suggesting to Mr. Pitt that an end to anarchy in France might be hastened if the terrorists could be induced to cut one another’s throats.
Had the choice lain with him, he would have selected Robespierre as the first victim of this internecine strife, then left the others to fight it out between themselves until only a rump of the Dantonists was left, with his old friend, the hotheaded but honest Camille Desmoulins, to restore order. But he did not think things would go that way. The cold, calculating ruthlessness, which made Robespierre the most evil of them all, would protect him from both the excitable, venomous attacks of the snakelike Hébert and the thunderous charges of the bull-like Danton.
Between the prospects of the last two there seemed little to choose. Although Danton had lost much of his former power, he was still a tremendous figure in the eyes of the nation. Many of the early terrorists, men such as Fabre d’Églantine, Chabot and Philippeaux, as well as Desmoulins, still adhered to him; and obviously every decent person in France must now pin their hopes upon the triumph of his Party. But, unfortunately, decent people were like blades of grass, innumerable but voiceless. Hébert controlled the Commune, and with it the sans-culottes—that awful raucous monster that screamed incessantly for blood and death, and was capable of overawing a thousand times its own numbers.
On leaving Oysé, Roger went to the office of the Comité and co
llected his authority as Citizen Representative en mission to Boulogne; then he returned to La Belle Étoile. All through the evening and far into the night he and Athénaïs talked of their doings during the months they had been separated, and endeavoured to make up for them a little by the fervour of their caresses. She was terribly distressed at having to lose him again so soon, but would have been the last to suggest that he should postpone his enquiries about their good friend Dan. He was, too, able to assure her that he was not going into any danger, and promised to be back in Paris within a week. In the morning they took a passionate farewell of each other, and by nine o’clock he was on the road north with an escort of Hussars clattering behind him.
At midday on the 6th he entered Boulogne, and, going straight to the Mairie, presented his papers. The local “patriots” received him with all the nervous servility to which he had long been accustomed. Coldly acknowledging their protests of loyalty to the Convention, he sent at once for the Commandant of the garrison and the chief turnkey of the prison. With the first he arranged a full inspection for the following day; to the second, he said:
“You either have, or had, in your keeping a Citizen Izzard, who was taken in an affray with some English on a beach near here last November. What has become of him?”
“We have him still, Citizen Representative,” replied the man to Roger’s great relief; “he was badly wounded, and is still not properly recovered, otherwise he would have been taken before the Tribunal ere this. I fear his case must have slipped the Public Prosecutor’s memory, but at a word from you he can soon be dealt with.”
“On the contrary.” Roger shook his head. “I am glad no steps against him have yet been taken, as I know the man and have a special use for him. He is an ex-smuggler and speaks English. Set a thief to catch a thief, eh? I’ve not a doubt that as the price of his freedom he’ll prove willing enough to serve us at a place along the coast that I have in mind. I bid you bring him to me, and if he agrees I will give you an order for his release.”
An hour later Dan was brought to Roger at the hostelry where he had taken up his quarters, and, dismissing the escort, he took his old friend into a small room looking out on the stable yard, where they could be alone.
Poor Dan was in a sad state; he had been shot through the ribs and only his fine constitution had saved his life. The cold and squalor of the prison had nearly finished him, but a stoic determination to live, and a positive conviction that sooner or later Roger would learn of his plight and come to his rescue, had pulled him through. He was bent, thin as a lath, lice-ridden, and shivering from jail fever; yet as soon as they were alone his fine teeth flashed in their old jovial smile.
Roger quickly explained how it was that he had learned of his capture only nine days ago, then asked anxiously about the despatch.
“ ’E need fear naught on that score,” Dan grinned. “The big packet were weighty enough for I to throw in the boat. T’others bein’ too light, I scooped a hole in sand and buried they afore I were collared. ’Twere at low tide when they caught we, an’ I were lying well below tide mark. They two letters o’ yourn be washed out to sea come mornin’.”
“You dear old rascal!” Roger grinned back. “I might have known you’d find some way of keeping them from falling into the hands of the enemy. Thank God, too, the big packet reached Lord Edward safely. There is a thousand pounds in the bank for you at home, Dan, so you can retire now, if you wish; but I hope you’ll stay on at Richmond. The immediate question is, though, do you know a way of getting back, and if so do you feel strong enough to make the journey on your own?”
At first Dan protested that he would soon be fit enough to take up his old work in Paris; but Roger would not hear of it. He insisted that if Dan’s health were not to be wrecked for good, he must spend six months at home, where he could be properly looked after. With a sigh Dan agreed; then he said that after a few days’ rest and decent food at an inn he would be able to get about quite well, and that he knew several places down the coast where old friends of his still put in with illicit cargoes; so he would have no difficulty in getting back to England.
When they had talked together for an hour Roger said that, in view of the excuse he had used to get Dan out of prison, it would not look right if they remained longer together; then he gave him ample money for his journey, and, with great reluctance, watched him walk slowly out into the street.
Soon after dawn next day Roger began his inspection of the garrison and defences of Boulogne. Actually he thought them adequate, and had an attack on the port really been contemplated he would have left matters as they were, but as it was not he could afford to display his Revolutionary zeal. That evening he addressed the senior officers, ordered longer parade hours with intensive training, surprise calls to arms at night at least twice a week, and the calling up of all National Guards in the area up to the age of sixty. By midday on the 11th of March he was back in Paris, and in the afternoon made his report to Carnot, who was well pleased by the speed and efficiency with which he had executed his self-appointed mission.
Athénaïs received him with open arms, doubly relieved to have him safely back and to learn that Dan, although shockingly ill, was alive and now on his way to England. Later that evening she told Roger casually of a brush she had had during his absence with Citizen Candalous. Two nights previously he had knocked on her door at a late hour on the plea that he was ill and needed assistance; on her opening to him it had soon transpired that he was only pretending. After sitting in a chair holding his head for a few minutes, he had declared himself better, then said that since they were already neighbours how much nicer it would be if they could live together. Apparently he had found out that during the previous autumn although Roger had been in Paris he had lived apart from his wife, coming to see her only occasionally, so supposed that, after his recent two nights’ visit, he had again left her for an indefinite period. Athénaïs had disabused him of that idea, and assured him that her differences with her husband were made up. He had nevertheless endeavoured to kiss her, and she had only succeeded in frightening him off by jabbing a hatpin through his arm, then telling him that if he paid her any more midnight visits she would ask Roger to stick a sword through his middle.
The manner in which Athénaïs related the episode made it sound amusing, but Roger was none the less annoyed that she had been molested, and he at once decided to take steps to prevent a recurrence of the incident should he have to leave her again.
Next day he had the offending deputy pointed out to him in the coffee-room, and walked purposefully up to his table. At his approach Candalous stood up. He was a tallish man of about forty and not bad-looking, except for a rather fleshy nose and lips.
“Citizen,” said Roger, “I am told that you are interested in politics.”
“Why, er—yes, Citizen,” replied the ex-schoolmaster rather warily; “naturally so, as I am a deputy.”
“Exactly!” Roger’s blue eyes were icy. “Would it not, therefore, be a good thing if you found yourself a lodging nearer to the Convention?”
“I . . . I don’t quite understand. . . .”
“Then let me be more explicit. On my return tonight, should I find you in the room upstairs opposite to that occupied by my wife it is my intention to throw you out of the window.”
Having delivered this ultimatum, Roger turned his back and stalked away. Duels were no longer considered to be the inevitable outcome of a quarrel in Revolutionary Paris, as many of the most prominent personalities were incapable of handling a sword or of shooting straight with a pistol; but evidently the deputy from Mayenne was not prepared to risk a rough handling, as by evening he was gone, bag and baggage.
Athénaïs enjoyed a hearty laugh over his discomfiture, and the prompt way in which Roger had dealt with the matter brought her special pleasure, as it gave colour, more than anything else could have done, to the illusion she persisted in building up in her mind that she really was his wife. Now, too, that the first g
lorious excitement of their reunion had had time to die down a little, they entered on a period of wonderful joy and contentment in one another. During the day they went about their work in a half-famished city, drab from lack of paint, and populated by furtive, frightened people; but, although they were often unable to meet until late at night, when they did they would not have exchanged their room for a palace, luxury and safety, had that meant separation. There, they shut out fear, gloom and dread forebodings, drawing from each embrace fresh strength to meet the uncertainties of the morrow.
Roger was soon back in the swing of things, and learnt that the guillotine had claimed many of his old acquaintances while he had been away—among them Barnave, Dupont and Rabaut, all of whom had been dragged from retirement to execution although they had championed the People’s cause in the days of the Third Estate. The Revolution, too, had proved equally ruthless towards the first Generals to lead its armies; Custine, Luckner, Houchard and the Duc de Biron had all paid the price of failure or suspicion on the scaffold.
For the last of these Roger felt no shadow of pity. The Duc de Lausun, as Biron had been before inheriting the senior title, had in the old days been the handsomest man at Court. Rich, gay, beloved of all the women, he had graced the Queen’s intimate circle at Trianon and Versailles. She had showered favours upon him, and, while still a girl, risked scandal by openly displaying a tender, if innocent, passion in response to his advances; yet he had proved base enough to serve the Revolution.
The Man who Killed the King Page 59