CHAPTER I. IN THE THEATRE NATIONAL
And yet people found the opportunity to amuse themselves, to dance andto go to the theatre, to enjoy music and open-air cafes and promenadesin the Palais Royal.
New fashions in dress made their appearance, milliners produced fresh"creations," and jewellers were not idle. A grim sense of humour, bornof the very intensity of ever-present danger, had dubbed the cut ofcertain tunics "tete tranche," or a favourite ragout was called "a laguillotine."
On three evenings only during the past memorable four and a half yearsdid the theatres close their doors, and these evenings were the onesimmediately following that terrible 2nd of September the day of thebutchery outside the Abbaye prison, when Paris herself was aghast withhorror, and the cries of the massacred might have drowned the calls ofthe audience whose hands upraised for plaudits would still be drippingwith blood.
On all other evenings of these same four and a half years the theatresin the Rue de Richelieu, in the Palais Royal, the Luxembourg, andothers, had raised their curtains and taken money at their doors.The same audience that earlier in the day had whiled away the timeby witnessing the ever-recurrent dramas of the Place de la Revolutionassembled here in the evenings and filled stalls, boxes, and tiers,laughing over the satires of Voltaire or weeping over the sentimentaltragedies of persecuted Romeos and innocent Juliets.
Death knocked at so many doors these days! He was so constant a guest inthe houses of relatives and friends that those who had merely shaken himby the hand, those on whom he had smiled, and whom he, still smiling,had passed indulgently by, looked on him with that subtle contempt bornof familiarity, shrugged their shoulders at his passage, and envisagedhis probable visit on the morrow with lighthearted indifference.
Paris--despite the horrors that had stained her walls had remained acity of pleasure, and the knife of the guillotine did scarce descendmore often than did the drop-scenes on the stage.
On this bitterly cold evening of the 27th Nivose, in the second year ofthe Republic--or, as we of the old style still persist in calling it,the 16th of January, 1794--the auditorium of the Theatre National wasfilled with a very brilliant company.
The appearance of a favourite actress in the part of one of Moliere'svolatile heroines had brought pleasure-loving Paris to witness thisrevival of "Le Misanthrope," with new scenery, dresses, and theaforesaid charming actress to add piquancy to the master's mordant wit.
The Moniteur, which so impartially chronicles the events of those times,tells us under that date that the Assembly of the Convention voted onthat same day a new law giving fuller power to its spies, enabling themto effect domiciliary searches at their discretion without previousreference to the Committee of General Security, authorising them toproceed against all enemies of public happiness, to send them to prisonat their own discretion, and assuring them the sum of thirty-five livres"for every piece of game thus beaten up for the guillotine." Under thatsame date the Moniteur also puts it on record that the Theatre Nationalwas filled to its utmost capacity for the revival of the late citoyenMoliere's comedy.
The Assembly of the Convention having voted the new law which placed thelives of thousands at the mercy of a few human bloodhounds, adjournedits sitting and proceeded to the Rue de Richelieu.
Already the house was full when the fathers of the people made their wayto the seats which had been reserved for them. An awed hush descendedon the throng as one by one the men whose very names inspired horror anddread filed in through the narrow gangways of the stalls or took theirplaces in the tiny boxes around.
Citizen Robespierre's neatly bewigged head soon appeared in one ofthese; his bosom friend St. Just was with him, and also his sisterCharlotte. Danton, like a big, shaggy-coated lion, elbowed his way intothe stalls, whilst Sauterre, the handsome butcher and idol of the peopleof Paris, was loudly acclaimed as his huge frame, gorgeously clad in theuniform of the National Guard, was sighted on one of the tiers above.
The public in the parterre and in the galleries whispered excitedly; theawe-inspiring names flew about hither and thither on the wings of theoverheated air. Women craned their necks to catch sight of heads whichmayhap on the morrow would roll into the gruesome basket at the foot ofthe guillotine.
In one of the tiny avant-scene boxes two men had taken their seats longbefore the bulk of the audience had begun to assemble in the house. Theinside of the box was in complete darkness, and the narrow opening whichallowed but a sorry view of one side of the stage helped to concealrather than display the occupants.
The younger one of these two men appeared to be something of a strangerin Paris, for as the public men and the well-known members of theGovernment began to arrive he often turned to his companion forinformation regarding these notorious personalities.
"Tell me, de Batz," he said, calling the other's attention to a groupof men who had just entered the house, "that creature there in the greencoat--with his hand up to his face now--who is he?"
"Where? Which do you mean?"
"There! He looks this way now, and he has a playbill in his hand. Theman with the protruding chin and the convex forehead, a face like amarmoset, and eyes like a jackal. What?"
The other leaned over the edge of the box, and his small, restless eyeswandered over the now closely-packed auditorium.
"Oh!" he said as soon as he recognised the face which his friend hadpointed out to him, "that is citizen Foucquier-Tinville."
"The Public Prosecutor?"
"Himself. And Heron is the man next to him."
"Heron?" said the younger man interrogatively.
"Yes. He is chief agent to the Committee of General Security now."
"What does that mean?"
Both leaned back in their chairs, and their sombrely-clad figures wereonce more merged in the gloom of the narrow box. Instinctively, sincethe name of the Public Prosecutor had been mentioned between them, theyhad allowed their voices to sink to a whisper.
The older man--a stoutish, florid-looking individual, with small, keeneyes, and skin pitted with small-pox--shrugged his shoulders athis friend's question, and then said with an air of contemptuousindifference:
"It means, my good St. Just, that these two men whom you see downthere, calmly conning the programme of this evening's entertainment, andpreparing to enjoy themselves to-night in the company of the late M. deMoliere, are two hell-hounds as powerful as they are cunning."
"Yes, yes," said St. Just, and much against his will a slight shudderran through his slim figure as he spoke. "Foucquier-Tinville I know; Iknow his cunning, and I know his power--but the other?"
"The other?" retorted de Batz lightly. "Heron? Let me tell you, myfriend, that even the might and lust of that damned Public Prosecutorpale before the power of Heron!"
"But how? I do not understand."
"Ah! you have been in England so long, you lucky dog, and though nodoubt the main plot of our hideous tragedy has reached your ken, youhave no cognisance of the actors who play the principal parts on thisarena flooded with blood and carpeted with hate. They come and go, theseactors, my good St. Just--they come and go. Marat is already the manof yesterday, Robespierre is the man of to-morrow. To-day we still haveDanton and Foucquier-Tinville; we still have Pere Duchesne, and yourown good cousin Antoine St. Just, but Heron and his like are with usalways."
"Spies, of course?"
"Spies," assented the other. "And what spies! Were you present at thesitting of the Assembly to-day?"
"I was. I heard the new decree which already has passed into law. Ah! Itell you, friend, that we do not let the grass grow under our feet thesedays. Robespierre wakes up one morning with a whim; by the afternoonthat whim has become law, passed by a servile body of men too terrifiedto run counter to his will, fearful lest they be accused of moderationor of humanity--the greatest crimes that can be committed nowadays."
"But Danton?"
"Ah! Danton? He would wish to stem the tide that his own passionshave let loose; to muzzle the raging beasts
whose fangs he himself hassharpened. I told you that Danton is still the man of to-day; to-morrowhe will be accused of moderation. Danton and moderation!--ye gods!Eh? Danton, who thought the guillotine too slow in its work, and armedthirty soldiers with swords, so that thirty heads might fall at oneand the same time. Danton, friend, will perish to-morrow accused oftreachery against the Revolution, of moderation towards her enemies;and curs like Heron will feast on the blood of lions like Danton and hiscrowd."
He paused a moment, for he dared not raise his voice, and his whisperswere being drowned by the noise in the auditorium. The curtain, timedto be raised at eight o'clock, was still down, though it was close onhalf-past, and the public was growing impatient. There was loud stampingof feet, and a few shrill whistles of disapproval proceeded from thegallery.
"If Heron gets impatient," said de Batz lightly, when the noise hadmomentarily subsided, "the manager of this theatre and mayhap his leadingactor and actress will spend an unpleasant day to-morrow."
"Always Heron!" said St. Just, with a contemptuous smile.
"Yes, my friend," rejoined the other imperturbably, "always Heron. Andhe has even obtained a longer lease of existence this afternoon."
"By the new decree?"
"Yes. The new decree. The agents of the Committee of General Security,of whom Heron is the chief, have from to-day powers of domiciliarysearch; they have full powers to proceed against all enemies ofpublic welfare. Isn't that beautifully vague? And they have absolutediscretion; every one may become an enemy of public welfare, either byspending too much money or by spending too little, by laughing to-dayor crying to-morrow, by mourning for one dead relative or rejoicing overthe execution of another. He may be a bad example to the public bythe cleanliness of his person or by the filth upon his clothes, he mayoffend by walking to-day and by riding in a carriage next week; theagents of the Committee of General Security shall alone decide whatconstitutes enmity against public welfare. All prisons are to be openedat their bidding to receive those whom they choose to denounce; theyhave henceforth the right to examine prisoners privately and withoutwitnesses, and to send them to trial without further warrants; theirduty is clear--they must 'beat up game for the guillotine.' Thus is thedecree worded; they must furnish the Public Prosecutor with work to do,the tribunals with victims to condemn, the Place de la Revolutionwith death-scenes to amuse the people, and for their work they willbe rewarded thirty-five livres for every head that falls under theguillotine Ah! if Heron and his like and his myrmidons work hard andwell they can make a comfortable income of four or five thousand livresa week. We are getting on, friend St. Just--we are getting on."
He had not raised his voice while he spoke, nor in the recounting ofsuch inhuman monstrosity, such vile and bloodthirsty conspiracy againstthe liberty, the dignity, the very life of an entire nation, did heappear to feel the slightest indignation; rather did a tone of amusementand even of triumph strike through his speech; and now he laughedgood-humouredly like an indulgent parent who is watching the naturallycruel antics of a spoilt boy.
"Then from this hell let loose upon earth," exclaimed St. Just hotly,"must we rescue those who refuse to ride upon this tide of blood."
His cheeks were glowing, his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. He lookedvery young and very eager. Armand St. Just, the brother of LadyBlakeney, had something of the refined beauty of his lovely sister, butthe features though manly--had not the latent strength expressed inthem which characterised every line of Marguerite's exquisite face. Theforehead suggested a dreamer rather than a thinker, the blue-grey eyeswere those of an idealist rather than of a man of action.
De Batz's keen piercing eyes had no doubt noted this, even whilsthe gazed at his young friend with that same look of good-humouredindulgence which seemed habitual to him.
"We have to think of the future, my good St. Just," he said after aslight pause, and speaking slowly and decisively, like a father rebukinga hot-headed child, "not of the present. What are a few lives worthbeside the great principles which we have at stake?"
"The restoration of the monarchy--I know," retorted St. Just, stillunsobered, "but, in the meanwhile--"
"In the meanwhile," rejoined de Batz earnestly, "every victim tothe lust of these men is a step towards the restoration of law andorder--that is to say, of the monarchy. It is only through these violentexcesses perpetrated in its name that the nation will realise how it isbeing fooled by a set of men who have only their own power and their ownadvancement in view, and who imagine that the only way to that power isover the dead bodies of those who stand in their way. Once the nation issickened by these orgies of ambition and of hate, it will turn againstthese savage brutes, and gladly acclaim the restoration of all thatthey are striving to destroy. This is our only hope for the future, and,believe me, friend, that every head snatched from the guillotine byyour romantic hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel, is a stone laid for theconsolidation of this infamous Republic."
"I'll not believe it," protested St. Just emphatically.
De Batz, with a gesture of contempt indicative also of completeself-satisfaction and unalterable self-belief, shrugged his broadshoulders. His short fat fingers, covered with rings, beat a tattoo uponthe ledge of the box.
Obviously, he was ready with a retort. His young friend's attitudeirritated even more than it amused him. But he said nothing for themoment, waiting while the traditional three knocks on the floor of thestage proclaimed the rise of the curtain. The growing impatience of theaudience subsided as if by magic at the welcome call; everybody settleddown again comfortably in their seats, they gave up the contemplation ofthe fathers of the people, and turned their full attention to the actorson the boards.