“We are two unhappy women, dear,” she said, holding Jeanne’s head against her breast. The girl sat on her bed, leaning on Marguerite.
“You, too?” murmured Jeanne.
“I am more miserable that you can be. First because it is my own fault, and then — ah! my little Jeanne, you are only a child. You think you know what it is to love, but you do not know yet.”
“Why is it your fault that you suffer?”
“Because I threw away love when it was mine.”
“How did you do that?”
“Listen! My name is not de St. Brieuc. That was my uncle’s name, and when Tribert called me by it, I did not take the trouble to correct him. I am married and I lost my husband through my own folly. We quarrelled one day and I would not be reconciled. The next thing I knew he had gone to the war.”
“Have you never seen him since?” said Jeanne, full of sympathy.
“Once — we — met. He treated me like a stranger.”
“But if you love him why did you not tell him so?”
“Ah, little Jeanne, because of shame and pride. He does not care for me, and I love him.”
After a long silence Jeanne spoke. “If Philip should die, as Victor did, as my father, my mother have done — I should not want to live any longer. If that is love or not — at least it is all I know. Life is too sad it seems to me—”
“Love is all there is in life worth having. Take it, Jeanne, when it is offered and keep it when it is yours.”
CHAPTER XVI. A NEW RECRUIT.
THE news of the arrest of the Archbishop of Paris and of his Vicar-General spread like wildfire through the city. The Faubourgs rejoiced, the Madeleine Quarter trembled, the Latin Quarter offered no protest, but cowered in dismay, listening for the tread of the platoon and the terrible summons: “In the name of the Commune!”
At the Hôtel de Ville the news was received with yells of delight.
“The old wolf is trapped, — now for the cubs!” cried Bergeret, and on the strength of this he added another band of gold to his glittering sleeves.
Billioray sneered openly. “What a fuss they make about one priest; if they would shoot more and talk less there wouldn’t be a priest in the department.”
“Then there would be nobody left to shoot,” objected Ferré.
“We can always shoot each other,” remarked Rochefort, cynically.
“What do you think Thiers will do?” asked Colonel Rossel, who did not join in the general rejoicing.
“What he has always done so energetically, — nothing!” replied Assi; then turning to Bergeret, who sat examining himself in a small hand-mirror, he cried: “Yes, there is one thing Thiers will do if we let him. He will talk. His chatter wearies me. I’ll stop it once for all!”
“How?” demanded Bergeret.
Without replying Assi sat down and wrote rapidly. Then he affixed the seals to the order and handed it to Bergeret. It read as follows:
“Hôtel de Ville, 4th April, 1871.
“Formal orders are given to cut instantly the telegraph wires between Paris and Versailles.
(Signed) “Assi, “Governor of the Hôtel de Ville, “Member of the Commune.”
“Very good,” said Bergeret, with a smirk; “now let me try my hand,” and he seized an order blank and wrote:
“General Headquarters, 4th April, 1871-
“MON COMMANDANT: Until further orders, the Commune has decided that all trains shall be prevented from leaving Paris for Versailles. Enclosed please find an order for the Chef de Gare of the Ouest-Ceinture.
“Le Général Commandant la Place.
(Signed)— “JULES BERGERET.”
Assi looked over his shoulder, nodding approval. Bergeret found another sheet of paper and continued:
“Order of the Central Committee.
“Stop all trains coming toward Paris at the Ouest-Ceinture. Place there an energetic man with troops, day and night. At the arrival of each train, unless the engineer stops at the signal, the orders require that the train be derailed!”
“Come here and sign this, Tribert,” cried Bergeret to an officer in the uniform of a Chef de Legion.
The man approached and, after writing “For the Committee,” signed his name, “Tribert, Commanding the Legion.”
“That will fix them,” chuckled Assi, rubbing his huge hands together and eying the barbarous order. It tickled him to think of the carnage which the derailing of a train would produce. The crushing and mangling of innocent passengers would be a spectacle worth seeing.
“It will be very droll,” he explained to Tribert; “imagine all those bourgeoises dumped out like snails in a pan!” Tribert also saw the exquisite humor of the thing and departed grinning, with his hands full of orders, which he consigned to a Hussar of Death at the gate below. The hussar dropped them into his pouch and struck spurs into his cadaverous horse, and Bergeret, watching him from a window, smiled to himself and dusted the gold bands on his sleeve.
As he sat picking at the gorgeous lace on his pelisse with the naïve delight of a savage, three officers in the full uniforms of Generals of the Commune entered the cabinet and sat down beside him with careless nods of recognition. The three were Eudes, Duval, and Gustave Flourens.
“Well, gentlemen!” burst out Flourens, in his eager, impetuous manner, “the thing is decided for to-morrow then!” He turned to Duval, a small, stern-featured man who had once been a worker in metals, had been made an officer of the National Guard during the siege, and, after the affair of the cannon on the 18th of March, found himself suddenly promoted to General. It savored, perhaps, of the “Grand-Duchesse de Gerolstein,” for Duval, like Fritz in the opera, was promoted in five minutes from a simple soldier to commander-in-chief. But, of the four Generals of the Commune, Duval was the only one who possessed military ability, except Flourens, and the latter ruined what ability he possessed by his fiery and headstrong impetuosity.
Eudes was hopelessly incompetent; and Bergeret, an ape with the vanity of a peacock and the ferocity of a tiger, had no more knowledge of military affairs than a volunteer colonel at Aldershot.
“Is it finally decided then for to-morrow?” repeated Flourens, eagerly.
“Yes,” snapped Duval, “to-morrow we move on Versailles, and the troops will take up their positions to-night, if possible. Bergeret, you have the plan?”
“Yes, General — my own plan,” replied Bergeret, with a self-conscious smirk. He drew some papers from the breast of his pelisse and spread them out on his knees. Then with an affected gesture he began to read:
“The Federal army will be divided into three divisions.
“The first, commanded by General Bergeret, will make an important demonstration on the Rueil road.
“The second, under the orders of General Duval, will advance through Bas-Meudon, Chaville, and Viroflay. The Fort of Issy and the Redoute des Moulineaux will protect them with their fire.
“The third, conducted by General Eudes, will operate along the Clamart road, traversing Villa-coublay and Velizy. This corps will be supported by the Fort of Vanves—”
“Where the devil do I come in?” exclaimed Flourens, angrily.
“You go with me,” replied Bergeret, and smiled complacently.
“Will there be fighting?” growled Flourens.
“Plenty, plenty,” said Eudes; “go on, General; what comes next?”
“Nothing more,” said Bergeret, folding the papers. “Isn’t that simple enough? The objective point is Versailles; the plan, without details, is this: First, a diversion toward Mont-Valérien; second, an attack at Clamart; third, flank movement by Bas-Meudon. Isn’t this simple, General Duval?”
“D — ned simple,” muttered Duval, between his teeth; “what if Mont-Valérien fires on your column?”
“It won’t,” replied Bergeret, with conviction; “it’s held by the marine artillery, and they are for us.”
“We’ll take it if it fires,” began Flourens, angrily but was silen
ced by a gesture from Duval.
“Hark! Was that a cannon-shot?”
They all rose and crowded out to the balcony below the window. Again there came a deep, distant boom, and the window panes vibrated. The four generals of the Commune listened to the cannonade with sparkling eyes. Paris, trembling before the Central Committee, listened also to the sound of the cannon, — a sound which for months had shaken the wretched city to its foundations. Was it to begin again? Where were they fighting? It was the Fort of Issy, some said, which was firing on the barricade at Meudon.
Behind the barricade which closed the rue Notre Dame at the corner of the rue Vavin, the soldiers of the 1st Paris Turcos were lounging over their steaming camp-kettles when the echoes of the first cannon-shot from the Fort of Issy floated into the city on the April breeze.
André Sarre, in the full uniform of a colonel of Turcos, was squatting on the top of the barricade scowling at a letter which he held in his pudgy hands. At the sound of the distant cannon-shot he raised his head and his features resumed their normal aspect, which, at first glance, seemed a merry one.
“Tiens!” he said, “Monsieur Thiers is beginning.” Then he looked at the letter in his hand and scowled again.
A Turco, strolling near, began to sing a little song.
“On dira, quand il sera mort,
Pour glorifier sa mémoire:
Ci-gît celui qui vient encore
De délivrer la territoire!”
This tickled Sarre, and he called the soldier to him.
“My friend,” he said, “where did you learn that touching song?”
“Mon Colonel,” replied the Turco, seriously, “everybody is singing it.”
“But Thiers isn’t dead yet.”
“He may be before long, mon Colonel.”
“That would be too much happiness,” said Sarre; “look out! your song will bring us bad luck. Good luck is like game, when you sight it too far off, you miss it. Don’t cherish illusions!”
“Illusions are the daily bread of the unhappy, mon Colonel.”
Sarre pretended to misunderstand him. “D — n it!” he cried, “don’t you get enough to eat?”
“Under the Commune we have food and liberty,” replied the soldier, with a grimace.
“Have you any complaint concerning the quality of either?” asked Sarre.
“The food is good,” said the soldier, musingly.
“And the liberty?”
The soldier shrugged his shoulders. “Liberty is the tyranny of the street with a Marseillaise accompaniment,” quoted the soldier.
“Upon my word,” sneered Sarre, “a private soldier and such a philosopher! Wonderful! Wonderful! Now, my friend, you can go and exercise your philosophy in splitting wood with the corvée. About! March!” The soldier saluted and turned quietly away to follow the corvée which was passing.
“I’ll fix you, my philosopher! I’ll fix you, my Plato!” —
“Fix whom?” enquired a captain, coming up and barely touching his cap in salute.
“See here, Weser,” said Sarre, turning on him with a disagreeable smile, “you ‘re getting too damned familiar. Don’t you know how to salute?”
Weser muttered an apology and stole a glance at his superior.
“I’m a bit out of humor, Isidor,” said Sarre with affected heartiness,—” don’t mind; you salute well enough. I’ve just got a letter from Raoul Rigault. He’s lost his head since he turned Policeman General. He’s too cursed overbearing and insolent.”
Weser saw through Sarre. “Oh,” he thought, “Sarre’s had a row with Rigault and can’t afford to quarrel with his subordinate officers.” Then he said with insolent familiarity, “what’s the trouble, André?”
Sarre let his eyes rest for one second on Weser’s oily face, but his smile was very guileless, as he held out the letter with a shrug.
Weser took it and read aloud:
“Order is given to the Citizen Colonel Sarre, temporarily commanding the First Battalion of Paris Turcos, to turn over to the Préfet of Police all moneys, jewelry, objects of art, religious emblems, and vestments, which were taken from churches, convents, and other buildings inhabited or frequented by priests, Jesuits, or nuns, and which were visited by the soldiers of the battalion commanded by Colonel Sarre. — (Signed) RAOUL RIGAULT, “Préfet of Police.”
Weser whistled, folded up the paper, handed it back to Sarre, and whistled again.
“What do you think of that?” demanded Sarre. His features looked very placid, but the end of his fat nose was white with rage, and his teeth clicked together.
“Are you going to do it?” asked Weser, softly. Sarre snorted furiously. “If you can afford to give up your share of course I can.”
“But I can’t,” said Weser, still more softly.
“Neither can I,” said Sarre.
They looked at each other.
“Well?”
“Well.”
“We can send a few things,” suggested Sarre.
“Yes — a few.”
“Everybody can contribute.”
“Yes; not too much.”
“No, not too much.”
“If we are questioned?”
“We hang together.”
“We hang together.”
“C’est entendu?” —
“Tope la!”
They shook hands warily.
“I’ll see the others,” observed Sarre; then bursting into uncontrollable rage; “why can’t he be satisfied with his own pickings? They ‘re rich enough! If he chooses he can loot the whole of the right bank of the Seine!”
“Including the Bank of France!” said Weser, with sparkling eyes.
Sarre grinned like a hyena. “We owe nothing to Raoul Rigault, — remember that!”
“I’ll remember,” said Weser, his black eyes glittering.
Sarre scrambled heavily down from the top of the barricade and stood irresolutely, his hands clasped behind his broad back.
“He’s thinking he’s said too much,” mused Weser. “He’s wrong, the fat fox! I can’t afford to give up my pile for the sake of pushing him to a wall. Then he spoke aloud: “What was the firing? Is Thiers beginning the music?”
“Probably,” said Sarre, carelessly.
“Then we will go to the front?”
“Probably,” yawned Sarre.
Weser, who had no stomach for fighting, fidgeted about until the heavy report of a cannon from the nearer fortifications aroused the whole garrison of the barricade. Weser turned a little pale and stood stock-still.
“Hey!” exclaimed Sarre, laughing, “that sounds like business!”
As he spoke, there came a furious clatter of hoofs from the rue Vavin, and a Hussar of Death whirled up the street and threw his horse back on his haunches before the barricade.
“Marching orders or I’m a Prussian!” cried Sarre, taking a packet from the hussar; “yes — we start at five — it’s half-past four now. I’m d — n glad of it! Weser, order them to sound the assembly! Tell Captain Pagot to remain with the third company as garrison. Where’s my ordnance? Tell the buglers to sound, Captain Weser.”
“Idiot,” muttered Weser, walking slowly toward the camp,”why couldn’t he let me stay with my company? Pagot always gets the plums. Sarre’s a fool, — bullets don’t scare him, the leather-headed turtle!”
He moved aside to allow a file of soldiers to pass, who, with fixed bayonets, were conducting some prisoners toward the barricade; then he resumed his course, cursing his luck and his colonel.
Sarre was in excellent humor again. The bugles were blowing from the camp, the drums crashed out along the rue Bara, and five hundred soldiers tumbled over each other in the hurry and excitement of departure. Sarre beamed, delighted, rubbing his fat hands together and smoking an expensive cigar. The file of soldiers who were conducting the prisoners passed him, and he called merrily to the corporal of the guard to halt.
“What pretty fish have we here?” he ask
ed, walking up to the little convoy.
“Prisoners,” replied the corporal, briefly, and saluted as an after-thought.
“Ah! Ah!” smiled Sarre, in great good-humor; “what is this woman here for?”
“Received secret letters from Versailles,” said the corporal.
“Bah! That’s Rigault’s affair, — let her go!” The prisoner, a thin-faced, white-haired woman, dressed in heavy mourning, bowed her thanks silently and hurried away through the rue Vavin.
“One on Rigault, the pig-headed ass!” thought Sarre, delighted at being able to disoblige the Préfet. Then he turned to the next prisoner, a young man, who returned his glance boldly.
“Who are you?”
“Alexandre Ouvrard.”
“What have you done?”
The young man looked at him without answering.
“Speak, you fool!”
“He deserted from Franchetti’s Scouts to Versailles,” said the corporal.
“Oh, you did, did you?” sneered Sarre, twirling his revolver over his thumb; isn’t the Commune good enough for you? Well, if you ‘re too fine for this world — get out!” and he levelled his revolver and fired twice at the deserter’s heart. “Take him away,” said Sarre, coolly, with a glance at the quivering, blood-spattered body which had tumbled under the wall of the barricade. Then he replaced his revolver in its holster and examined the other prisoners. There were two of them, both soldiers of the Line, and he smiled as he noted their uniform.
“How is my friend, Monsieur Thiers?” he asked them, with a cold smile.
“In excellent health, — to hang you when he’s ready,” replied one of the soldiers, contemptuously.
Sarre threw back his bullet head and laughed until the tears ran down his face. “He is delightful, that one there!” he cried; “only listen! Oh my! Oh my!”
The prisoner’s face darkened.
“Murderer!” he said between his teeth. Sarre burst into a fresh peal of laughter.
“Oh dear!” he gasped; “this piou-piou is so original. Take good care of him — very good care. Give him a nice large house to live in — let me see — I think Mazas would be large enough. The other one too — the little fellow who seems frightened, — give him a nice apartment in Mazas also. Don’t let them over-eat or over-exercise. Is that all?”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 39