For several years now, the routines of planting and harvesting across much of France had been neglected, and the distribution of food had been disrupted, while armed peasants and other workers gathered to exchange inflammatory ideas, fears, hopes, and plans.
Lying athwart the travelers’ most direct route to Paris were certain towns and villages around which Melanie thought it wise to detour, whole districts she preferred to avoid because of their reputation for fanatical enforcement of Revolutionary decrees upon strangers. The American deferred to her judgment in such matters. In one place, the sentry was asleep in his box, no doubt risking a grisly execution if his new masters should discover him thus. The travelers quietly rode on through the unguarded checkpoint.
A day or two later the trio, with Old Jules praying continuously to the Virgin, were forced to outrace in their carriage a motley band of unidentifiable pursuers—whether some self-constituted Committee of Public Safety or simple robbers was hard to say. More than once they saw in the distance, on town gates and walls, heads mounted on pikes, in provincial imitation of the now well-established Parisian custom.
It was the first time Philip had seen such a display, and he stared in sickly fascination. The idea that the heads were artificial would not leave him, though he could see all too clearly that they were not.
“You seem upset,” Melanie commented.
“I have seen hanged men, of course.” The great majority of the citizens of America, as well as Europe, were no stranger to that sight. “But beheading…” Radcliffe shook his head. That’s something even more…”
Melanie appeared to be more thoughtful than shocked. “Yes, it is terrible. Though they say it is humane, more merciful than any of the older ways.”
The travelers spent several days working their way through a countryside punctuated by the smoke of burning houses and barns. Enthusiasm for the Revolution was far from universal in the countryside. Black columns made ominous warning signals, visible for miles, at points spaced erratically around the horizon. When one fire died away, another sprang up somewhere else.
At night, the three travelers rested when and how they could. One midnight, on the verge of falling asleep in a haystack, Philip thought back to his recent stop in London, and told his traveling companions about his adventures there, where he had paused on his way from America to France. He told them also about his rough crossing of the Channel in a smuggler’s small boat. England and France had been at war with each other for a year, but the secret commerce in goods and people was still thriving.
* * *
In a few days, after a journey that had afforded them no reassurance regarding the fate of France, Philip, Melanie, and Old Jules reached Paris. It bothered Radcliffe that conditions seemed no saner or quieter as they approached the capital.
Now Old Jules was rendered all but mute by unfamiliar wonders; and Melanie treated Philip like a visitor who had never seen Paris before. Indeed, his childhood memories of the great city were fragmentary and jumbled.
Of course the travelers’ documents were examined at the barrier before they were permitted to enter the city.
“Our capital, dear American, has been for many centuries the model for all Europe, the guide in all matters of taste and fashion.
“Here on the right, we now have the Faubourg Montmartre, and also the Temple; straight ahead is Faubourg Saint-Antoine.”
Radcliffe turned to look where his guide had pointed. “And the address where I can reach you through your cousin—her name is Marie, right?”
“Marie Grosholtz.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “And the address, should something happen to separate us, is Twenty, Boulevard du Temple.”
“That is correct—and over in that direction, across the Seine, we would find the Faubourgs Saint-Germain, Saint-Marcel, and Saint-Michel—all, of course, according to the old nomenclature. All names and titles connected with religion, particularly districts, have of course been changed. That was done by order of the National Convention, in 1792. But I’m afraid many people are like me, and keep using the old names, which no doubt is enough to get one arrested these days.”
“But then one could just as likely be arrested for nothing at all.”
“Very true. So be careful. Look, over there you can see the towers of Notre Dame. Of course now it too is supposed to be called something else, I forget what.”
He gazed at the upper parts of the cathedral, visible above green summer trees and lesser buildings. “That I do remember.” Here and there were a few such sights. Another was l’Hotel Royal des Invalides, one of the largest buildings in Paris, a retirement home and hospital for veterans. On the high ground of Montmartre was a profusion of windmills.
Entering the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, one of the original hotbeds of revolutionary fervor, Radcliffe observed no great improvement. The streets were narrow and filthy, the dwellings wretched, the people dressed in rags.
* * * * * *
The journeying couple—Jules, unless reminded, tended to tag along behind them, playing the servant’s role in dangerously, conspicuously reactionary fashion—paused briefly to look at the Bastille. Or rather they stopped to survey the pile of ruins, inhabited by a few slow-moving workmen, that were now all that remained of that once forbidding fortress.
“So, this is where your Revolution had its beginning.”
“Don’t call it mine!”
“Sorry.”
Melanie thought it over. She looked tired. “Yes, the thing began here, as much as anywhere. The nation, the government, all turned upside down. And it seemed necessary, and for a time I thought that we might really find a better way to live—as you did in America, without aristocrats or an established church. But soon…” Her voice trailed off, and she gave an expressive shrug.
“But what will they do with all the stones?” Philip gestured; the piles of disassembled masonry were impressive both in height and in extent. “There are certainly enough to do a lot of building. Schools? Better houses for the poor?”
Melanie shrugged. “No one knows. People argue about it. Construction is not one of the things that the new regime seems particularly good at. I have heard that the engineers in charge of demolition have sold many as souvenirs, and made a tidy profit.”
Watching people coming and going on the city streets, Radcliffe observed that men generally wore red workers’ caps, or tricorn hats with Revolutionary cockades of red, white, and blue paper pinned on them. Radcliffe was reminded that the carmagnole was a workman’s jacket as well as a song, and the jacket had become part of the Revolutionary uniform.
In some ways the city showed itself about as Radcliffe had expected; in others it presented great surprises. Fascinating of course, but disappointingly unstable. On some streets people appeared to be going on with their lives, buying and selling, laughing and arguing and bargaining, as if things were normal after all. In other neighborhoods it was obvious that life had deviated a long way from its regular course. The slogans, and the scent of fear, were everywhere.
* * *
Melanie now guided Philip Radcliffe to the Jacobin club, a political organization so called because it met in a former Jacobin convent. Paine, whom they were hoping to encounter, was not there.
Philip was still puzzled. “Jacobin convent? I don’t remember hearing of any such religious order.”
“It is what the Dominicans are called in Paris,” Melanie explained.
Radcliffe gazed around the large room furnished with desks and tables, and half-filled with men of a variety of ages and backgrounds—there were a few women present, seemingly as spectators—engaged in arguing pairs and groups.
Radcliffe overheard some fond whispers recalling Danton, who had so recently been guillotined. He had been loud, gross, and blustery, the very opposite of Robespierre in many ways. When Danton was holding forth, they said, one would require a very unusual voice to make oneself heard.
And then the voices cut off suddenly. Robespierre himself was approaching.
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“It is Citizeness Romain. And how are you, my child?” The Incorruptible, his power now at its zenith, was holding a little nosegay of flowers. Not least among his achievements was the fact that he had been president of the Jacobin club since 1791. In that same year Robespierre had proposed that the death penalty be abolished. Since then he had changed his opinion, on that subject at least.
Melanie introduced her companion as the natural son of Benjamin Franklin, and an acquaintance of Tom Paine.
Radcliffe found himself face to face with a man of modest stature, thirty-six years old, wearing impeccably neat, jarringly aristocratic clothing, complete with powdered wig. Maximilien de Robespierre had a small and somewhat catlike face with greenish eyes. Green-tinted spectacles added a tint of that color to his sallow skin.
Robespierre’s pair of bodyguards, armed with oaken cudgels, were large, fierce men, rudely dressed and with huge mustaches, seeming in every way a contrast to the man they served so loyally.
Radcliffe wondered if Robespierre was the only man in Paris who still wore the powdered wig and the fine clothes of a gentleman. The point of his doing so seemed to be that this individual stood serenely above all need to demonstrate where his sympathies lay.
In Paris the Incorruptible now maintained lodgings of becoming modesty, at 366 Rue St. Honore, in the house of Duplay the carpenter and cabinetmaker.
Melanie said: “My father’s life is dearer to me than almost anything else in the world.”
Robespierre responded piously: “Nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the Republic.” The words were spoken with a terrible sincerity.
Standing beside the Incorruptible was a man introduced to Radcliffe as Louis-Antoine-Léon de Saint-Just. He was younger and taller than Robespierre, and classically handsome; Radcliffe had already heard him referred to in whispers as the Angel of Death.
Another man, eager and excited, broke into the conversation, challenging Saint-Just on the definition of a republic, and Radcliffe caught his reply: That which constitutes a republic is the destruction of everything that opposes it!”
Meanwhile Melanie was doing her best to plead for her father, both with Saint-Just and his more powerful companion. She reminded them how Dr. Romain had always treated the poor in his district, whether or not they were able to pay.
The leaders looked momentarily sympathetic, but could not have been much impressed, because they promised nothing and offered no hope. Their response was restricted to a few more platitudes of Revolutionary morality.
“One moment.” The Angel was holding up a pale hand. “I have seen that name…” Turning aside, he scattered papers on a table, then held up the one he had been looking for. “I am sorry to tell you, citizeness, that Citizen Romain, your father, deserved the full penalty for his crimes—and he paid that penalty this morning.”
* * *
Five minutes later, when he and his disconsolate companion were back outside, Philip was muttering between clenched teeth: “I wanted to hit that man. I very nearly did.”
Melanie, the tough young woman, had come near fainting at the news so brutally delivered, and Philip had to support her to the door. Her father’s body—in two pieces—would now be in one of those anonymous mass graves inside the cemetery of the Church of the Madeleine…
Radcliffe embraced her like a brother, did what he could to comfort her. The scoundrels! I am so sorry…” People walking in the street turned their heads toward him when his words fell clearly in the air. Well, he didn’t care.
In an effort to divert her even slightly from the raw fact of death, he commented: “And so that is the famous Robespierre. He seems to make no effort to avoid dressing like an aristocrat … or behaving like one, either. I had no idea you knew the man.”
“I have been present at a dinner or two where he was entertained, that’s all.” Melanie wiped her eyes. “But I don’t suppose it would make any difference if I, or my father, had saved his life. Oh, Philip, it is horrible to think … of the grave.”
“Of course it is.”
“You will tell me my father died by accident? That someone was in a hurry and made a mistake?”
“No, I won’t try to tell you that. Mistake or not, it’s a damned outrage!”
“But one must go on.” She wiped her eyes. “It is necessary to live for…” Her words trailed away.
“Yes, there will be a future for you someday. And for France. What will you do now? And what about your cousin here in Paris? Are there any other relatives?”
“My cousin, yes,” she murmured in a dazed voice. “Marie Grosholtz.”
“I wonder if she has heard the news?”
Melanie made an effort to pull herself together. “Yes, I had better go and see my cousin.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No! That is, I think it will be better if you don’t come just now. Besides, you still have important business that you must be about.”
“You will be all right?”
“Yes!” And it seemed that, with a great effort, she had pulled herself together. She sounded almost normal. “I am sure.”
The comment about his business was true enough. His meeting with Paine could be of some importance, and ought not to be postponed, even though Radcliffe had arrived too late to exert any influence on behalf of the Romain family.
Radcliffe reluctantly agreed to the temporary separation. But he insisted on arranging a rendezvous with Melanie, at the address she had already given him.
“Yes. Very well. We will meet there, and we will have … things to talk about, you and I. That is where my cousin is employed. Even if I should not be there, the people at that house will know where to reach me.”
* * *
After being passed from one government official to another, most of whose names and functions he failed to remember, Philip told the last committee that he saw (whose title he never quite managed to find out) that, since housing seemed so difficult to obtain, he would appeal to his old acquaintance Thomas Paine, where he could be sure to obtain lodging for a few days at least. That seemed to solve the problem.
Meanwhile, Old Jules had kept tagging along with Philip. The old man was carrying his own identification paper, provided by the Committee of his own district, but he might as well have left it at home. With an American to question, a new set of foreign opinions to be sounded, none of the authorities seemed much interested in one more aged provincial.
Having given up on housing for the moment, Radcliffe set out to locate Tom Paine.
Again and again, as he sought to find his way to Paine’s lodgings, Radcliffe’s papers were checked by heavily armed and mustached men in workingmen’s coats, with tricolor cockades on their red caps, who looked at the documents, and at him, suspiciously. He thought several of them were probably unable to read.
In fluent French he declaimed, so often that it began to seem like part of a ritual: “As an American, I am fully in sympathy with your wish to be rid of kings and queens.”
Absent this almost regular interference, Paine would not have been hard to find. He was at his house. Paine during much of his stay in Paris occupied a rented mansion at No. 63, Rue de Faubourg St. Denis. While still technically within the city, the area had a rural character, and seemed far removed from Parisian street life.
The house was separated from the street by walls and gates, and, isolated in a grove of maple trees, reminded Radcliffe of a farmhouse. Indeed the courtyard was like a farmyard, with geese and chickens scratching and waddling about.
* * *
Paine was a red-nosed man in his late fifties, a couple of inches under six feet tall, very nearly Philip’s own height. When Philip caught up with him, standing in his courtyard, feeding his domestic fowl with handfuls of grain, Paine was dressed like many of the other Revolutionary officials Radcliffe had seen thus far in France: a blue coat over a red waistcoat, long hair pulled back and tied without wig or powder. And of course the ubiquitous tricolor cockade.
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“I thought perhaps that I would find you at the Convention, sir,” Radcliffe said in English. “Are you still a member?”
“Only nominally, I am afraid. I go but little to the Convention, and then only to make my appearance; because I find it impossible to join in their tremendous decrees, and useless and dangerous to oppose them.”
The older American, having observed over a period of months and years how the situation was deteriorating, said he was half-expecting to be taken into custody himself at any time.
“Really, sir!”
Paine’s smile was wan. “Really.”
Not knowing how to respond to that, Philip got out his oilskin packet and handed over the confidential letter he was carrying.
Philip hadn’t seen the letter open until now, and had only a general idea of its contents. Paine now enlightened him by reading the last part of the message aloud:
… your presence on this side of the ocean may remind Congress of your past services to this country; and if it is in my power to impress them, command my best exertions with freedom, as they will he rendered cheerfully by one, who entertains a lively sense of the importance of your works, and who, with much pleasure, subscribes himself,
Your sincere friend,
G. Washington
“That is very welcome,” Paine mused aloud, refolding the paper. “It seems that I—”
And then he suddenly fell silent.
An armed party of soldiers had appeared.
Their sergeant approached, grim-faced. “Philip Radcliffe?”
“Yes.” But this is some mistake…
In the name of the people, you are under arrest.”
Philip was stunned. When a pair of men moved to seize his arms he fought back instinctively. Before the brief struggle was over, one of the soldiers had a bleeding lip, and the American had suffered a slight wound on the crown of his head. Meanwhile the voice of Thomas Paine was raised in crude and clumsy French, arguing with the soldiers to no purpose.
A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) Page 18