CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH
Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening,nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St.Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours ata stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house,and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousnesscompletely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne.
He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heightsof Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne;it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than thisintolerable suspense.
He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired natureasserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like thesleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest.
It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintrymorning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumpedout of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt thatPercy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a merefriend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed.
The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had.They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, whichhe had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he wasdressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work.
He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, havingordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think.
It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends ofprisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out wherethe loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over fulljust now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all beenrequisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds ofso-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or atthe mere denunciation of an evil-wisher.
There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents ofthe Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, theSalpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course,the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners werebrought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whosecondemnation was practically assured.
Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes comeout of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of theguillotine.
Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The soonerhe could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger thebetter would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breakingsearch, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved.
If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hopethat she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand'sexcited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap theCommittee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up.
These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally andphysically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing thathis bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service toJeanne.
He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregularwalls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out themantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the squareclock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house ofJustice.
He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls andcorridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever thecourt was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usualcrowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had noother occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrorsand watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that wereenacted here with a kind of awful monotony.
Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anonmoved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly onindifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmenamongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted noattention.
Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken byspiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since hehad risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--inconnection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now thatname spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definitethoughts of his chief.
"Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merelyirrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designatedby the revolutionary party.
Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January.He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet,"had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference inBlakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was totake place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from theTemple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, andhe would be watching his opportunity.
Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept overhis soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the childin the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart withanxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatientof all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne topay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King.
But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wildexultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand couldstand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; itwas his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment didhe doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily acceptedin exchange for hers.
The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand wentwith the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the courtwould begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law,Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the houseof Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situatedabout the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisonerstook their daily exercise.
To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking theirrecreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights ofParis. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hitherfor entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and theprisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one wasenterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against theironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbareclothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce oflight-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectuallybelied.
All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while hejoined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up anddown the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part ofthe throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enactedwithin the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners broughtin, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, aquick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken byFoucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in allseriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows.
The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing atricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an Englishindustrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing themto depreciate rather suddenly in the market!
Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butcherythere would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonisedentreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from thebutt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences ofdeath--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and thehowls of derision from infamous jury and judge.
Oh! the mockery of it all--the a
wful, the hideous ignominy, the blotof shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand,sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of thismonstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne.Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he mightsuddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with hertears.
He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presenceof mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards thecorridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the longGalerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago deBatz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron.
On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond byheavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a numberof women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to himexplaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who wouldbe brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst atthe thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them.
He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himselfbeside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him thathe might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and hisevery sense was concentrated in that of sight.
At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongstthe crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hinderedhis view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the greymisty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones.
Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears,became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figuresthat looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now,women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, somereading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning apoor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting andlaughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--afew children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in andout amongst the columns.
And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yetfamiliar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand,wandered, majestic and sure.
Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sightof his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filteringthrough the darkness of his despair.
The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for hisintentness.
"Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "Youseem to be devouring them with your eyes."
Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy andstreaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in commonwith the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in thecourtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obviousamusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to acoarse jest.
"Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?"
"I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily.
"Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier.
The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with themaddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to thewind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a countrybumpkin in love as he could.
"I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire.My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some saythat she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has beenarrested."
"Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straightto La Tournelle; you know where it is?"
Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the airof the ignorant lout.
"Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other,pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find theguichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge forthe register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republichas the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed forsafeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half alivre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially,"you will find that the register will not be quite ready for yourinspection."
"Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end."How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?"
"Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcomethese hard times."
Armand took the hint, and as the crowd had drifted away momentarily toa further portion of the corridor, he contrived to press a few coppercoins into the hand of the obliging soldier.
Of course, he knew his way to La Tournelle, and he would have coveredthe distance that separated him from the guichet there with steps flyinglike the wind, but, commending himself for his own prudence, he walkedas slowly as he could along the interminable corridor, past the severalminor courts of justice, and skirting the courtyard where the maleprisoners took their exercise.
At last, having struck sharply to his left and ascended a short flightof stairs, he found himself in front of the guichet--a narrow woodenbox, wherein the clerk in charge of the prison registers sat nominallyat the disposal of the citizens of this free republic.
But to Armand's almost overwhelming chagrin he found the place entirelydeserted. The guichet was closed down; there was not a soul in sight.The disappointment was doubly keen, coming as it did in the wake ofhope that had refused to be gainsaid. Armand himself did not realisehow sanguine he had been until he discovered that he must wait and waitagain--wait for hours, all day mayhap, before he could get definite newsof Jeanne.
He wandered aimlessly in the vicinity of that silent, deserted, cruelspot, where a closed trapdoor seemed to shut off all his hopes of aspeedy sight of Jeanne. He inquired of the first sentinels whom he cameacross at what hour the clerk of the registers would be back athis post; the soldiers shrugged their shoulders and could give noinformation. Then began Armand's aimless wanderings round La Tournelle,his fruitless inquiries, his wild, excited search for the hide-boundofficial who was keeping from him the knowledge of Jeanne.
He went back to his sentinel well-wisher by the women's courtyard, butfound neither consolation nor encouragement there.
"It is not the hour--quoi?" the soldier remarked with laconicphilosophy.
It apparently was not the hour when the prison registers were placed atthe disposal of the public. After much fruitless inquiry, Armand at lastwas informed by a bon bourgeois, who was wandering about the house ofJustice and who seemed to know its multifarious rules, that the prisonregisters all over Paris could only be consulted by the public betweenthe hours of six and seven in the evening.
There was nothing for it but to wait. Armand, whose temples werethrobbing, who was footsore, hungry, and wretched, could gain nothing bycontinuing his aimless wanderings through the labyrinthine building.For close upon another hour he stood with his face glued against theironwork which separated him from the female prisoners' courtyard. Onceit seemed to him as if from its further end he caught the sound of thatexquisitely melodious voice which had rung forever in his ear since thatmemorable evening when Jeanne's dainty footsteps had first crossedthe path of his destiny. He strained his eyes to look in the directionwhence the voice had come, but the centre of the courtyard was plantedwith a small garden of shrubs, and Armand could not see across it. Atlast, driven forth like a wandering and lost soul, he turned back andout into the streets. The air was mild and damp. The sharp thaw hadpersisted through the day, and a thin, misty rain was falling andconverting the ill-paved roads into seas of mud.
But of this Armand was wholly unconscious. He walked along the quayholding his cap in his hand, so that the mild south wind should cool hisburning forehead.
How he contrived to kill those long, weary hours he could not aft
erwardshave said. Once he felt very hungry, and turned almost mechanicallyinto an eating-house, and tried to eat and drink. But most of the day hewandered through the streets, restlessly, unceasingly, feeling neitherchill nor fatigue. The hour before six o'clock found him on the Quaide l'Horloge in the shadow of the great towers of the Hall of Justice,listening for the clang of the clock that would sound the hour of hisdeliverance from this agonising torture of suspense.
He found his way to La Tournelle without any hesitation. There beforehim was the wooden box, with its guichet open at last, and two standsupon its ledge, on which were placed two huge leather-bound books.
Though Armand was nearly an hour before the appointed time, he saw whenhe arrived a number of people standing round the guichet. Two soldierswere there keeping guard and forcing the patient, long-sufferinginquirers to stand in a queue, each waiting his or her turn at thebooks.
It was a curious crowd that stood there, in single file, as if waitingat the door of the cheaper part of a theatre; men in substantial clothclothes, and others in ragged blouse and breeches; there were a fewwomen, too, with black shawls on their shoulders and kerchiefs roundtheir wan, tear-stained faces.
They were all silent and absorbed, submissive under the rough handlingof the soldiery, humble and deferential when anon the clerk of theregisters entered his box, and prepared to place those fateful books atthe disposal of those who had lost a loved one--father, brother, mother,or wife--and had come to search through those cruel pages.
From inside his box the clerk disputed every inquirer's right to consultthe books; he made as many difficulties as he could, demanding theproduction of certificates of safety, or permits from the section. Hewas as insolent as he dared, and Armand from where he stood could seethat a continuous if somewhat thin stream of coppers flowed from thehands of the inquirers into those of the official.
It was quite dark in the passage where the long queue continued to swellwith amazing rapidity. Only on the ledge in front of the guichet therewas a guttering tallow candle at the disposal of the inquirers.
Now it was Armand's turn at last. By this time his heart was beating sostrongly and so rapidly that he could not have trusted himself to speak.He fumbled in his pocket, and without unnecessary preliminaries heproduced a small piece of silver, and pushed it towards the clerk, thenhe seized on the register marked "Femmes" with voracious avidity.
The clerk had with stolid indifference pocketed the half-livre; helooked on Armand over a pair of large bone-rimmed spectacles, with theair of an old hawk that sees a helpless bird and yet is too satiated toeat. He was apparently vastly amused at Armand's trembling hands, andthe clumsy, aimless way with which he fingered the book and held up thetallow candle.
"What date?" he asked curtly in a piping voice.
"What date?" reiterated Armand vaguely.
"What day and hour was she arrested?" said the man, thrusting hisbeak-like nose closer to Armand's face. Evidently the piece of silverhad done its work well; he meant to be helpful to this country lout.
"On Friday evening," murmured the young man.
The clerk's hands did not in character gainsay the rest of hisappearance; they were long and thin, with nails that resembled thetalons of a hawk. Armand watched them fascinated as from above theyturned over rapidly the pages of the book; then one long, grimy fingerpointed to a row of names down a column.
"If she is here," said the man curtly, "her name should be amongstthese."
Armand's vision was blurred. He could scarcely see. The row of names wasdancing a wild dance in front of his eyes; perspiration stood out on hisforehead, and his breath came in quick, stertorous gasps.
He never knew afterwards whether he actually saw Jeanne's name there inthe book, or whether his fevered brain was playing his aching senses acruel and mocking trick. Certain it is that suddenly amongst a row ofindifferent names hers suddenly stood clearly on the page, and to him itseemed as if the letters were writ out in blood.
582. Belhomme, Louise, aged sixty. Discharged.
And just below, the other entry:
583. Lange, Jeanne, aged twenty, actress. Square du Roule No.5. Suspected of harbouring traitors and ci-devants. Transferred 29th Nivose to the Temple, cell 29.
He saw nothing more, for suddenly it seemed to him as if some one helda vivid scarlet veil in front of his eyes, whilst a hundred claw-likehands were tearing at his heart and at his throat.
"Clear out now! it is my turn--what? Are you going to stand there allnight?"
A rough voice seemed to be speaking these words; rough hands apparentlywere pushing him out of the way, and some one snatched the candle outof his hand; but nothing was real. He stumbled over a corner of a looseflagstone, and would have fallen, but something seemed to catch bold ofhim and to lead him away for a little distance, until a breath of coldair blew upon his face.
This brought him back to his senses.
Jeanne was a prisoner in the Temple; then his place was in the prison ofthe Temple, too. It could not be very difficult to run one's head intothe noose that caught so many necks these days. A few cries of "Vive leroi!" or "A bas la republique!" and more than one prison door would gapeinvitingly to receive another guest.
The hot blood had rushed into Armand's head. He did not see clearlybefore him, nor did he hear distinctly. There was a buzzing in his earsas of myriads of mocking birds' wings, and there was a veil in frontof his eyes--a veil through which he saw faces and forms flittingghost-like in the gloom, men and women jostling or being jostled,soldiers, sentinels; then long, interminable corridors, more crowd andmore soldiers, winding stairs, courtyards and gates; finally the openstreet, the quay, and the river beyond.
An incessant hammering went on in his temples, and that veil neverlifted from before his eyes. Now it was lurid and red, as if stainedwith blood; anon it was white like a shroud but it was always there.
Through it he saw the Pont-au-Change, which he crossed, then far downon the Quai de l'Ecole to the left the corner house behind St. Germainl'Auxerrois, where Blakeney lodged--Blakeney, who for the sake of astranger had forgotten all about his comrade and Jeanne.
Through it he saw the network of streets which separated him from theneighbourhood of the Temple, the gardens of ruined habitations, theclosely-shuttered and barred windows of ducal houses, then the meanstreets, the crowded drinking bars, the tumble-down shops with theirdilapidated awnings.
He saw with eyes that did not see, heard the tumult of daily life roundhim with ears that did not hear. Jeanne was in the Temple prison,and when its grim gates closed finally for the night, he--Armand, herchevalier, her lover, her defender--would be within its walls as near tocell No. 29 as bribery, entreaty, promises would help him to attain.
Ah! there at last loomed the great building, the pointed bastions cutthrough the surrounding gloom as with a sable knife.
Armand reached the gate; the sentinels challenged him; he replied:
"Vive le roi!" shouting wildly like one who is drunk.
He was hatless, and his clothes were saturated with moisture. He triedto pass, but crossed bayonets barred the way. Still he shouted:
"Vive le roi!" and "A bas la republique!"
"Allons! the fellow is drunk!" said one of the soldiers.
Armand fought like a madman; he wanted to reach that gate. He shouted,he laughed, and he cried, until one of the soldiers in a fit of ragestruck him heavily on the head.
Armand fell backwards, stunned by the blow; his foot slipped on the wetpavement. Was he indeed drunk, or was he dreaming? He put his hand up tohis forehead; it was wet, but whether with the rain or with blood hedid not know; but for the space of one second he tried to collect hisscattered wits.
"Citizen St. Just!" said a quiet voice at his elbow.
Then, as he looked round dazed, feeling a firm, pleasant grip on hisarm, the same quiet voice continued calmly:
"Perhaps you do not remember me, citizen St. Just. I had not the honourof the same close
friendship with you as I had with your charmingsister. My name is Chauvelin. Can I be of any service to you?"