THE "BON PATRIOT"
Colonel Robert Tournay of the Republican army sat over his coffee in the café of the "Bon Patriot" one December morning in the year 1793 of the Gregorian Calendar, and the year 2 of the French Republic.
The four years that had passed since the July afternoon, when he first entered Paris through the southern gate, had been full of stirring events in which Tournay had taken such an active part as to make the time equal to many years of an ordinary lifetime,—years which had drawn lines upon his forehead that are not usual upon the brow of twenty-six. His figure was considerably heavier, but even more elastic and muscular, telling of a life of constant bodily exercise.
Shortly after his return to Paris from Versailles on the eventful day when the Demoiselle de la Liberté, accompanied by her forty thousand, brought the baker and his family back to their people, Tournay had enrolled himself in the National Guard to protect Paris and the country against foreign invasion.
From Paris to the army at the front was the next step, where he served with such bravery as to gain promotion to his present rank. Promotions were rapid in those days, and men rose from the lowest social ranks to the highest military positions, if they proved their fitness by valor and ability.
By the winter of '93 Tournay had won the shoulder-straps of a colonel, and had now been sent to Paris by General Hoche with dispatches to the National Convention. His dispatches had been delivered and he was waiting impatiently for the reply which he was to take back to the front. More than eighteen months had passed since he had been in Paris, and the scenes in the city streets had a new charm for him. It was with a feeling of pride that he looked out from the windows of the "Bon Patriot" and saw the active, bustling crowds on the boulevards and realized that the Republic was an accomplished fact and that he had done his part toward creating it. And yet there was some sadness mingled with his pride. Although an ardent Republican he could not sympathize in all the horrors of the Revolution,—indeed he had been greatly shocked by them. Yet his long absence from Paris had prevented him from witnessing the worst phases of the reign of terror, and thus he could not fully realize them. He was, moreover, first of all, a man of the people. He had resented from childhood the cruelty and oppressions under which they had suffered, and his joy at the abolition of unjust laws, his pride in the assertion of equality for all men, overweighed his regret for the bloodshed that had accompanied the triumph of their cause and the gaining of the Republic.
Sitting over his coffee, he recalled his early life at La Thierry. Since the day of his flight, he had never returned there, and with the exception of an annual letter from his father, who although a Royalist could not quite make up his mind to cast off his only son, he had no communication with the inhabitants of the château. From these occasional and brief epistles he had learned that the Baron de Rochefort had gone to England almost at the outbreak of the Revolution. In a more roundabout way he learned the cause of the baron's departure to be a secret mission to the Court of St. James on behalf of the tottering French monarchy. The mission had come to naught; the baron had fallen ill in London and died there a few months after his arrival.
Edmé, his only child, was therefore left at La Thierry, where she lived in great seclusion, with Matthieu Tournay still in faithful attendance. The marriage with the Marquis de Lacheville had never taken place. As the Revolution progressed and the de Rochefort fortune dwindled, the marquis's ardor, never at glowing heat, cooled perceptibly, and during the past two years nothing had been heard of him at the château. It was thought that he had either gone abroad or was living in seclusion in Paris.
Tournay had sometimes felt a little anxious as to the safety of Mademoiselle Edmé and his father, but the letters he received from old Matthieu were reassuring, and as the place was a secluded one and the family not known to have shared actively in the royalist cause, his anxieties had for some time been allayed and he thought of them now as likely to escape suspicion and to remain there in quiet obscurity.
Tournay was roused from his reverie by the conversation of two men at an adjoining table, or, more strictly speaking, a man and a boy, for the younger was not over seventeen years of age. His face was quite innocent of any beard. On his yellow curls he wore the red nightcap of the Jacobins and his belt was an arsenal of knives and pistols. Taking up a glass of beer he blew off the froth with a quick puff of the lips.
"Thus would I blow off the heads of all kings," he said in a voice that courted attention; "I give you a toast, comrade: death to every tyrant in Europe."
"I'll drink that toast willingly," answered the other, a big fellow, who despite his swagger and insolent manner, had a face bearing considerable traces of good looks. "But I should prefer to drink confusion to each in a separate glass, seeing that you are standing treat for the day," and he laughed at his own wit.
"The Revolution does not march quick enough to suit my fancy," he went on, turning his glass upside down to indicate that it needed replenishing, and then wiping the froth from the ends of his drooping brown mustache. "The convention is too slow in its work of purging the nation. Were it not for Robespierre we should make no progress. Why are there still aristocrats walking in the broad light of day?"
"Very few come out in the daylight, citizen," remarked the boy. "They creep out at night generally."
"Well, why are they allowed to live at all, young friend?" said the elder man, striking the table with his fist.
"Be patient, good Citizen Gonflou; the Committee of Public Safety has sent out a good batch of arrests within the last twenty-four hours," said the lad knowingly. "I have it from my brother, who has been charged with the execution of one."
"Your brother, Bernard Gardin?" inquired the other as he drained his glass. "Who is it now?"
"Bernard has gone down to our old home in the village of La Thierry to arrest a young aristocrat by the name of Edmé de Rochefort," replied the boy.
"Oh, oh, a woman!" laughed Gonflou. "Well, I'm glad I've not got your brother's work. I'm too tender-hearted when it comes to be a question of women."
Tournay uttered an exclamation of surprise. The next instant he tipped over his coffee-cup with a clatter to cover up the betrayal of interest in the conversation, and in replacing it, managed to draw his chair nearer to the two men.
"When did he start?" was the inquiry of Gonflou.
"This morning at six. He will return in four days."
Recovered from the first shock, Tournay's resolution was immediate. Edmé de Rochefort must be saved from arrest—and from the death that was almost certain to follow.
He was a man of action, accustomed to think quickly, and he began at once to devise means to save her. His first thought was of Danton. On this man's friendship he felt sure he could rely. His ability and willingness to assist him he resolved to test immediately.
The conversation between the two men at the adjoining table took another turn and he saw he was likely to hear no more on this subject, so he rose from his seat and hurried from the café. Ten minutes later he climbed the dark stairway that led to Danton's lodging. Here he found the Republican giant in his shirtsleeves,—a short pipe between his lips, bending over his writing table. He did not look up as Tournay took a chair at his elbow, but a nod from the massive head showed that he was aware of his presence.
"Jacques," asked Tournay abruptly, "was an order for the arrest of a certain Citizeness Edmé de Rochefort signed by the committee last night?"
Danton looked at him for a moment while he stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"Hum—de Rochefort? A daughter of the Baron Honoré who went to England as emissary from the late monarchy? Yes, I believe the woman is to be arrested," was the reply.
"If I furnish you with abundant reason for it will you have the order rescinded at once?"
"I cannot," was the answer.
"Is there any other charge against the Citizeness de Rochefort except that she is the daughter of her father?"
"None that I know of."
"Why arrest a young woman merely because her father went to England as an emissary of Louis Capet more than three years ago?"
Danton shrugged his shoulders. Tournay continued.
"In view of the length of time which has elapsed, in view of the absolute lack of result from the baron's mission, in view of the youth and innocence of this girl, will you not endeavor to have this order rescinded?"
"Why do you desire it so strongly?" demanded Danton, laying down his pen for the first time.
"Because I have known her from a child. I was born on the de Rochefort estate," was the prompt reply.
"Is that all?" asked Danton.
"No, it is not the only reason. I abhor this dragging of the weak and innocent into the political whirlpool. We do not need to make war upon women. I have protested against this before now, and I tell you again that we are disgracing the Republic by the crimes committed in its name. You are all-powerful with the masses, Jacques, your voice is always listened to,—why do you not put an end to the atrocities, which instead of decreasing, are growing worse daily? Where is your eloquence? Where is your power? How can you sit passively by and see these horrors? Are they done with your sanction? Can it be that a man with your strength can take a pleasure in crushing the weak and defenseless?"
"Would to God that I had the power to stop it," cried Danton. "Do you think that I take pleasure in the arrest of innocent young women? Do you think that it is with delight that I see our prisons crowded with thousands whose only crime is to have been born among the aristocrats?" He rose and paced the floor savagely. "You talk of my power with the people. You say they listen to my voice. To keep that power I must remain in advance. If once I lag behind it is gone forever. We have given life to this terrible creature the Revolution, and we must march before it. If we falter it will crush us too."
"Let it crush us then," cried Tournay, springing to his feet. "I will no longer be driven by it."
Danton looked at him a moment with kindly eyes, then shook his head and said mournfully: "And France, what would she do without me? All I have done has been done for her sake. And I do not regret what has been done," he continued, resuming his former manner. "No, when I see what we have done I regret nothing. That the innocent have perished, I know, and I deplore it. That the innocent must still perish is inevitable. But what is the blood of a few thousand to wash out the cruelty of ages? What are the cries of a few compared with the groans of millions throughout the centuries! Even now the allied armies of all Europe are thundering at the doors of France. We cannot pause now. They have dared us to the combat, and in return, as gage of battle, we have hurled them down the bleeding head of a king. We must go on."
Then sinking into his seat, he said quietly, "No, Robert, my friend, let Robespierre and his followers have their way in these small matters for a little while longer. What are the lives of a few peachy-cheeked girls weighed against the destiny of a nation?" And he took up his pen.
Tournay sat in silent thought for a few minutes. He saw that it would be useless to say more. After Danton's pen had labored heavily over a few pages, he exclaimed, "Jacques!"
"Well?"
"Will you procure me a passport from the Committee of Public Safety which will take me to the German frontier?"
"Are you going to run away?" asked Danton, still busy over his work.
"Whatever happens, I shall never leave France," replied Tournay quietly.
"Very well," said Danton, ringing a bell. "I never shall suspect your patriotism, but there are those who might if you talked to them as you have to me."
As his secretary appeared in answer to the summons, he took up a sheet of paper to write the order.
"Make it for Colonel Robert Tournay and wife," said Tournay carelessly, leaning over his shoulder.
Danton looked up at him suddenly. "I did not know you were married," he said.
Tournay made no reply.
Danton wrote a few lines rapidly. "Take this to the secretary of the Committee of Public Safety," he said to his clerk, "and return with an answer in half an hour."
In less than that time the man returned with the information that the secretary was away and would not return until two o'clock that afternoon.
"Will that do?" asked Danton, turning to Tournay.
"And it is now ten," said Tournay rather impatiently. "It will have to do, I am afraid."
"I will send it to your lodgings the moment it comes in," said Danton, resuming his work.
"Very well, do so, and many thanks. If I am not there have it left with the friend who shares my lodgings." Tournay quitted the office and hastened home, stopping on the way at a stable where his horse was quartered, to give instructions that the animal be saddled and brought to his door without delay.
Reaching his house, he ran up the four flights of stairs that led to the little suite of rooms which he was sharing with his friend Gaillard.
Gaillard was a versatile fellow; he had been a poet, an actor, and a journalist. Sometimes the one and sometimes the other, as inclination prompted or destiny decreed.
Shortly after Tournay's first arrival at Paris, he had met Gaillard, who was then a journalist, at a public meeting. The chance acquaintance led to friendship. He had found the young writer in some financial straits and had rendered him such assistance as his own slender purse could afford.
Gaillard, who never forgot the favor, was devoted to his friend. He watched his career as a soldier with interest and pride, and now that Tournay had come to Paris for a few days, Gaillard had insisted that his small chambers should have the honor of sheltering the gallant officer of the Republic.
Gaillard was at present amusing crowds nightly at the Theatre of the Republic, where he was playing a series of comedy rôles.
It was with satisfaction that Tournay, as he ascended the stairs, heard Gaillard's voice in the room, repeating the lines of his part for that evening's performance.
"Well, my brave colonel, how goes the convention to-day?" said Gaillard, as Tournay entered the room. "Has the Tribunal done me the honor to request that I be shaved by the guillotine?"
"I have not been to the convention to-day. Other business has prevented," replied Tournay, going into his bedroom and taking a pair of pistols from his wardrobe.
"No? then I must wait until I get to the club before I learn the exact number of the nobility who are to patronize the national razor to-day."
"Are you in the piece for to-night, Gaillard?" asked Tournay, hardly hearing what his friend was saying.
"I am."
"That's unfortunate, for I wanted to ask a great service of you," said Tournay, as he proceeded to clean and load the weapon.
"Tell me what it is; I may be able to help you."
"I am going at once to La Thierry."
"La Thierry?" inquired Gaillard.
"Yes. It is my birthplace. I am going there on an important errand. I must start instantly. I cannot even wait for a paper which is to be sent to me here by Danton. I am perfectly willing to let you know that it is a passport to the frontier, for myself and one other. The paper will not arrive until two o'clock, several hours after I am on the way. I must have a swift messenger follow with it and join me at the inn in the village of La Thierry."
"I will see that this is done," replied Gaillard. "Is that all?"
"That is all," said Tournay, hurrying from the room. On the threshold he turned. "Are you positive that you will be able to find a trustworthy messenger? Failure would be fatal."
"I swear to you to have it there," cried Gaillard, lifting up his arm and striking a dramatic attitude.
Tournay knew that, despite his apparent frivolity, Gaillard possessed not only a loyal heart, but a clear head, and he felt that he could trust him thoroughly. Much relieved in mind, he descended the stairway and sprang upon his horse at the door. Since leaving Danton he had been thinking out a plan which he hoped would successfully save Mademoiselle Edmé de Rochefort, but to carry it into effect he must reach La Thierry before Gardin. So putting spurs to his horse, he dashed through the streets at a pace which threatened the lives of a number of the good citizens. In a short time he was out of the gates, galloping along the road toward La Thierry at a tremendous pace. Then suddenly recollecting that the road to be traveled was a long one, he drew a tighter rein on his horse and slackened his speed.
"Thou must restrain thy ardor," he said, leaning forward and stroking the sleek neck of the animal affectionately; "thou hast a long journey before thee and must not break down under it."
At ten o'clock that night he drew up before the inn at Vallières, just half the distance to La Thierry. He reluctantly saw that his horse had entirely given out. As for himself, he would have gone on if he could have obtained a fresh beast. He looked critically at those in the stable of the inn, and realized that with four hours' rest his own horse would bring him to his journey's end more readily than any of the sorry animals the landlord had to offer. Having come to this decision he threw himself fully dressed on a bed for a short sleep. He slept until two in the morning. Then, after a hasty cup of coffee, he was again in the saddle and continuing his journey.
He rode steadily on with the advancing day, passing some travelers, none of whom he recognized. At noon he entered the village of Amand. Thence there were two roads to La Thierry. One, the more direct, led to the right over the hill; the other, to the left and along the river, was the longer but the better road. If his horse had been fresh, Tournay would have taken the short-cut, going over hill and dale at a gallop, but his tired beast decided him to choose the river road.
Toward the end of the afternoon he saw in the distance the spire of the church of La Thierry. He felt positive by this time that Gardin must have taken the upper road or he should have overtaken him before this, so rapidly had he traveled.
Every step of the way was familiar to him. Every bend in the river, every stone by the wayside was associated with his boyhood. Just before he came to the village of La Thierry, he left the main road and turning to the right followed a lane that made a short cut to the château de Rochefort. It was about two miles long and in summer was an archway of shaded trees and full of refreshment. Now the branches were bare, and the flying feet of his steed sank to the fetlocks in the carpet of damp, dead leaves.
As he approached the château on the right he heard a sound that caused him to draw rein in consternation. Springing from his horse he fastened him to a sapling by the wayside, seized his pistols from his holsters, and hurried forward on foot. At every step he took the sounds grew louder. There was no mistaking their meaning.
The lane terminated about a hundred yards from the house. Tournay threw himself flat upon the earth and working his way to a place where he was sheltered by the overhanging branches of some hemlock trees, looked cautiously out toward the château.
An attack was being made on the château at the front. Half a score of men armed with clubs and various other weapons were endeavoring to break down the iron-studded oaken door. A gigantic figure with shirt open to the waist, whom Tournay recognized as the blacksmith of La Thierry, was dealing blow after blow in rapid succession with a huge sledge-hammer. The door, which had been built to resist a siege during the religious wars of the sixteenth century, groaned and trembled under the blows of the mighty Vulcan, but still held fast to the hinges. A man, standing a little apart from the others and directing their movements, Tournay knew to be Gardin. Seeing that they were making little headway, the latter ordered his men to desist, evidently to form a more definite plan of attack. In the mean time Tournay was working along the line of the hemlocks towards the rear of the house. Suddenly three or four men detached themselves from the attacking party and approached him. Fearing that he had been discovered, he lay perfectly quiet. He soon saw that they were making for the trunk of a sturdy ash-tree which had been recently felled by a stroke of lightning. This they soon stripped of its branches, and hewing off about thirty feet of the trunk they bore it back on their shoulders with shouts of triumph. Here was a battering-ram which would clear a way for them.
Seeing them again occupied with the assault, Tournay continued to crawl cautiously along the edge of the grove until he was in a line with the rear buildings. Here were the servants' rooms, the business offices of the estate, and at one corner the office and the rooms occupied by Matthieu Tournay, the steward. This, the oldest part of the building, was covered thick with old ivy, by whose gnarled and twisted roots he had climbed often, when a boy, to the little chamber in the roof which had been his own. From this he knew well how to reach the apartments in the main building. The repeated blows of the ash-tree against the doors warned him that they could not resist the attack much longer. He climbed quickly up until he reached the well-known little window under the eaves. Dashing it open with his fist he swung himself into the attic-room which he had known so well in his boyhood.