“Do you know who gave Simon his orders?”
She nodded. “It was the Citizen Procureur Chaumette.”
“Very well,” said Roger. “The Citizen Chaumette is dead; so he cannot help us; but no doubt Simon can be persuaded of the wisdom of answering our questions, and if he does I will deal leniently with him. Where is he?”
Her eyes grew round and her mouth opened as if to emit a scream. With an effort she checked it and whimpered, “Do you not know, Citizen? He . . . he has always been a patriot. He . . . lived only for his duty. He was at the Commune last night when Robespierre was taken. They are going to . . . to guillotine him this afternoon with the others.”
Throwing her apron over her head she again burst into tears. Roger, electrified by her words, ran from the room, shouted to her friends who were lurking outside the door to go in to her, and dashed out of the building to reclaim his horse.
As he mounted and turned its head northwards, his thoughts were chaotic. Simon was no terrorist, except in that he fully subscribed to the principles that had led to the Terror, but he had been the confidant of Hébert and Chaumette, and had for so long represented the Commune as chief jailer of the Royal Family that his name was known to everyone; so it was not surprising that he had been selected as one of the Commissars whose death was designed to signalise the downfall of the Red Municipality of Paris. That he deserved death there was no question; for the way in which he had warped, poisoned and befouled the little King’s mind, Roger would have sent Simon to die without the least qualm. But if he died within the next half hour he would carry with him to the grave the secret of where he had taken little Capet.
Roger realised that in order to save Simon he would have to disclose to Barras all that he had so far found out about the substitution; but what was the alternative if he refrained? The boy might be living in a slum of some provincial town or on an isolated farm; his present keepers might not have been trusted with the secret of his identity, and might regard as childish romanticising his statements that he was the King of France. Even if they knew who he was, fear of consequences might restrain them from ever acknowledging it; and as the years passed his memories of the days when he had worn a little sword and been addressed as Monseigneur, and even of the Temple, would fade until he came to believe them no more than dreams. So, if Simon died without disclosing what he knew, all trace of Louis XVII might be lost for ever.
As Roger urged his mount forward, he decided that rather than risk that he must make Barras a present of the result of his investigations. If he played his cards well Barras might commission him to recover little Capet. At least he would share in hearing Simon’s disclosures; so would stand a good chance of carrying off the hundred-thousand-pound prize before anyone else could reach it. But would he be in time to save Simon?
He had spent less than ten minutes at the Convent; so there were still twenty minutes to go before the hour of execution. At any moment, though, the tumbrels would be leaving the Conciergerie. The streets on the south side of the river were now almost empty, but from several turnings trickles of people converged at the entrance to the Pont Neuf. The crowd grew thicker as he crossed the bridge. On the Quai de Louvre it was dense. In vain he shouted at the people to make way for him. They were too numerous to fear that he would ride them down, and angrily threatened to pull him from his horse. A quarter of an hour had gone before he came abreast of the Tuileries, and there he became finally stuck. He could move neither forward nor backward, and knew that all hope of saving Simon was gone.
His mount was a docile animal, and stood quietly in the midst of a sea of people. Over their heads, in the distance, he could see the guillotine. On all sides the crowd stretched away as far as the eye could reach; every window in sight and every roof for a mile around was packed. All Paris had turned out to witness the end of the men who had held the city under a pall of terror for so long. Waves of cheering were pierced by hoarse cries of execration as the tumbrels advanced. Down the faces of many people tears of joy were falling at the thought that by this day’s work their friends and relatives in the prisons were being reprieved from certain death. Never had twenty-one men been brought to die in the face of such universal hatred and condemnation.
Couthon, Saint-Just, Hanriot, Dumas, Simon and the rest ascended the scaffold one by one. As each head fell the roar of cheering was like the thunder of a heavy sea. Robespierre was kept until last. To free his neck for the knife the executioner tore away the bandage round his head. His broken lower jaw fell forward on his chest, and he let out a scream so piercing that it could be heard a mile away. Next moment he was thrown upon the plank, the slanting blade flashed down, the executioner stooped towards he basket, then held the gaping, gory head aloft for all to see.
It was the end of the Terror. Men like Tallien and Fouché might consider its continuation on modified lines necessary as a policy, but as Roger looked about him he felt certain that they would no longer dare to press it in the face of this overwhelming demonstration; for to do so now would be to risk their own necks. The people had gone crazy with excitement; weeping, cheering, embracing, shouting, they called aloud on God to witness their joy, and fell on their knees to thank Him for their deliverance.
The press continued to be so great that it took Roger over an hour to get back to the Temple. The Commissioners reported all well and that no one of importance had called; so Roger had good hopes that Barras would never learn that during the afternoon he had absented himself from his post. Having thrice since dawn that day believed himself to be within an ace of securing the little King, and having thrice been cheated of his expectations, he felt grievously ill-used by Fate; but it was not in his nature to give up so long as he was capable of making a further effort, and on his slow progress back from the Place de la Revolution a new idea had occurred to him.
In the Commissioners’ room on the ground floor of the tower a great book was kept. From the first day of the imprisonment of the Royal Family every circumstance connected with their captivity had been entered in it. Every Commissioner signed it on coming on duty and, having entered his personal report in it, signed it again before going off. In it were registered the engagement and dismissal of all members of the permanent staff, and every visit made to the prisoners by doctors, seamstresses, tradesmen and officials. By going carefully through the entries for the last months of 1793 Roger thought there was just a chance of his coming on some clue which might give him a lead to where little Capet had been taken. Having carried the book up to the second floor, he sat down at a table in the ante-room to study it.
After an hour’s reading he was struck by one thing. From mid-September onwards there appeared to have been a deliberate movement to get rid of all the servants who had been there for a year or more. Le Baron, the turnkey; Cailleux, the administrator; Mauduit, the treasurer; Mathey, the steward; the three waiters, the two pantry-men and the two wood carriers; all had been sacked.
It was just before the beginning of this purge that the Commune had issued a decree, at Hébert’s instigation, ordering a reduction of the Temple staff on the grounds of economy; but that did not explain the matter entirely as, although a reduction had been made, nearly half the dismissed men had been replaced by others. It occurred to Roger that possibly the walling-up of a child had not been part of the original substitution plan. Perhaps the purge had been initiated with a view to getting rid of all the servants who had come to know little Capet well by sight, so that if a boy resembling him could be found the substitution could be effected without the newcomers noticing the difference; and that only when the plotters had failed to find a child sufficiently like him had walling-up been resorted to.
On checking through the list of the original employees Roger found that one of them, Citizen Tison, had not been dismissed but imprisoned, at Simon’s order, on the vague charge of “being too familiar with the prisoners”. That seemed most curious in view of Tison’s history, as Roger knew it.
In Augus
t, ’92, a few days after the Royal Family had been brought to the Temple, the King had asked that a couple should be engaged to spare his valets the rough work of the household. The Commune had nominated the Tisons for this task. They were middle-aged and were proved Revolutionaries—the man acrimonious by disposition and the woman a sloven. On the removal of the Royal Family from the Little to the Big Tower in October, the Tisons had been installed in a room on the Queen’s floor, where they were well situated to spy on her. The following April, Tison had laid information that certain of the Commissars were plotting with the Queen, and had made his wife give evidence that the loyal waiter, Turgy, was holding secret communication with the prisoners. It was this which nad led to Turgy’s dismissal, and the suspension of Toulan and Lepître from further duty at the Temple, thus rendering abortive one of the numerous attempts at rescue that had been planned. Madame Tison’s part in the denunciation had so preyed on her mind that she believed herself to be responsible for the decision to remove little Capet from his mother, and that this was to be followed by their deaths. By the end of June her brooding had become a mania, followed by complete madness and violence, so that it had taken eight men to remove her to the Hôtel Dieu. But Tison had remained on, and, since he had so plainly demonstrated his loyalty to the Commune, it seemed quite extraordinary that in September he should have been imprisoned for “being too familiar with the prisoners”. More extraordinary still, he had not been removed to one of the ordinary prisons, but confined in the Little Tower of the Temple itself.
Feeling certain that he had noticed a later entry about Tison, Roger flicked through the huge book until he came to December. Apparently a Commissar named Godard had raised the question of this mysterious prisoner, and proposed that since there was no proper charge or evidence against him he should be liberated; but this had resulted only in an official order that Tison was to remain where he was, and continue to be debarred from communicating with anyone.
That was the last entry about Tison; so it appeared that for many months past there had been not one, but two, prisoners walled up in the Temple. What could the wretched man have done, or heard, or seen, to receive such treatment? It could not be because he had witnessed the substitution of the child, as that had not occurred until three months after his own incarceration. But the date of his imprisonment tallied with the beginning of the dismissals of the other old employees, which suggested that preparations for the substitution were already under way, so he might know something of the plot. Trembling with excitement, Roger closed the book and went downstairs to the little room occupied by the turnkey
On the man’s confirming that Tison was still imprisoned in the Little Tower, Roger demanded his keys, then went up to the second story. There he found that Tison was confined in the east bedroom, adjacent to the water-closet. Its old door had been removed and a new one of stout oak substituted, in which was a revolving wicket, similar to that used for the child up in the Big Tower, by which food could be passed in without the jailer being able to see the prisoner. Unlocking the door, Roger went in.
Tison was sitting on his bed in a dejected attitude. His hair and beard had grown so long that he had the appearance of a shaggy animal. As Roger entered he came to his feet, stumbled forward and cried in a hoarse voice, “Let me out! Let me out! Why do you keep me here?”
Roger waved him back and said kindly, “Easy, man; it is about your release I have come. I think you may expect it soon if you answer my questions properly. What did you do to cause them to lock you up?”
“Nothing, Citizen, nothing! I have always been a good Revolutionary; I swear it. All was well one day, and I was locked in here the next. It has near driven me mad wondering why I should have been kept here all these months. For God’s sake take pity on me!”
“Come; there must have been some reason. You quarrelled with Simon, did you not? Well, you need have no more fear of him, for he was guillotined this afternoon.”
“Simon guillotined! Sacré bleu, for what?”
“That is no concern of yours. Answer my question!”
Tison shook his shaggy head. “I had no quarrel with Simon. I did always as I was told. I am a good patriot; I proved it by denouncing the widow Capet for her plots.”
“I am aware of that; but what else did you find out besides her plots? Did you know aught of one to remove the little Capet and substitute another child for him?”
“No, Citizen, no! How should I? The boy was always in Simon’s care, and on the floor below me. I scarcely saw him.”
“But you might have heard Simon talking with someone about such a project.”
“I did not, Citizen; I swear it.”
“Listen,” Roger said patiently. “I am convinced that Simon had you locked up because he believed that you had stumbled upon some secret that might prove dangerous to him. Try to remember anything unusual that happened to you on the day before they confined you here.”
For a few moments Tison remained silent, then he shook his head again. “It is useless, Citizen; I can think of nothing. I carried out my duties as on any other day.”
It seemed that they had reached an impasse, and as Roger looked at the hairy, dishevelled figure in front of him, it flashed through his mind that he might well have been participating in a scene enacted in the bad old days of the Bastille. Here, under the vaunted reign of “Liberty, Equality and Fraternity”, was a poor wretch who had been imprisoned and denied all communication with the outside world for nearly a year, without trial, or without even having the faintest idea of what he was accused. After a moment he tried another line.
“Do you recall any special visitors coming to the Temple on that day? Citizens Hébert or Chaumette, for example?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Tison. “Citizen Chaumette came, and had a talk with Simon.”.
Roger’s blue eyes lit up. “Did you hear any part of their conversation?”
“Yes; they stood for a few moments in the doorway of Cléry’s old bedroom while I was cleaning out the lavatory at the end of the passage. I did not see them, but recognised them by their voices, and it is possible that they did not realise I was there. But they spoke of nothing of importance. Citizen Chaumette said that he had heard from his cousin with the farm at Divonne, and that he could do with someone to look after the pigs. At that they both laughed and Chaumette added, ‘He must wait, though, until we can find someone suitable to play the other rôle.’ ”
Striving to keep the excitement out of his voice, Roger asked, “And then? What else? What else did they say?”
“I don’t remember,” replied Tison with a sigh; “I wasn’t listening particularly. That bit stuck in my memory because my old woman came from the Jura and I’ve heard her talk of a village there called Divonne; but their talk of farms and pigs meant nothing to me.”
To Roger it meant everything. Obviously, too, Simon must have later seen the cleaner come out of the lavatory, and, believing that he had overheard enough to understand the whole plot, had him locked up as the best means of making certain that he did not betray it. To Tison he said:
“Now I will give you a piece of news and some sound advice. Today Robespierre was executed, and the Terror is over. The robbery, imprisonment and murder of innocent people under the guise of ‘patriotism’ is no longer in fashion; so if you are wise you will not boast too much about your deeds when you are next questioned. Observe caution about that and I think you will soon be released. If I have the opportunity I will put in a word for you.”
“Don’t go, Citizen! Don’t lock me up again!” pleaded Tison, stumbling forward. But Roger pushed him back, pulled open the door, slipped outside, then slammed and locked it.
On the lower floor the good library of M. Barthélemy, who had been dispossessed overnight to provide accommodation for the Royal Family, remained undisturbed; so Roger went straight to it and took out an atlas. He had no difficulty in locating Divonne, and a rough calculation showed that it lay about two hundred and ninety miles by
road from Paris. In winter a coach would not average much more than twenty-five miles a day, and at that rate the journey there and back would have taken twenty-four days. That tallied perfectly with Madame Simon’s “well above three weeks”, and relieved Roger of the apprehension that Chaumette might have been referring to some other village elsewhere with a similar name.
Its situation, too, could not have been better suited to Chaumette’s plan, for it lay almost in sight of Lake Geneva and only a few miles from the frontier. He would have had only to go there and take little Capet over into Switzerland to hold a truly Royal Flush. From Geneva he could have bartered with any of the Allies for protection and a fortune, or, if Revolutionary France had proved willing to give him an amnesty and a greater sum, sold the boy back into captivity. As it was, both he and Simon had been caught napping by overnight arrest, and had evidently decided that talking at the last moment would not save them from their treacherous enemies; so it was better to die silent and enjoy the revenge of having deprived them of the stolen prize.
Slamming the atlas shut, Roger gave its cover a triumphant smack with the flat of his hand. He had, after all, succeeded in solving the riddle of where little Capet had been taken. In addition, as though to make up to him for the many blows dealt him during the day, Fortune had decreed that the boy should be hidden within an hour’s ride of the frontier, thus saving him from having to solve the awful problem of how to get that wilful, vicious, unpredictable child half-way across France without being detected.
It was now close on eight o’clock; so he went downstairs and ordered supper to be sent up for himself and his captive. While it was being prepared he went in to the boy, washed him, combed his hair, and made him as comfortable as possible; then when the food arrived, he fed him on tit-bits.
Having locked the prisoner’s door again, he sat down to his own supper in the ante-room. As he ate it he joyfully made his plans. It was most unlikely that anyone else would get on little Capet’s track for a considerable time to come; so he felt that he had secured a first-class lead and now had no need to hurry. For that he was profoundly thankful, as he had had only three hours’ sleep in the past thirty-eight. He would get in a good long night, then in the morning send a message to Barras asking to be relieved. According to when his relief arrived he would disappear from Paris either the next afternoon or the following morning. Four days later, unless he was the most unlucky of men, he would collect from the world’s lottery his ticket for one hundred thousand pounds.
The Man who Killed the King Page 67