TOURNAY'S VISITOR
For three days Tournay and St. Hilaire worked away persistently at the bars of their window. They only dared work between the hours of one and four in the morning. Not only secrecy but great ingenuity was called for, as it was necessary that the bars should preserve in the daytime their usual appearance of solidity.
To do this, all the filings were kept, and at the termination of each night's work, this dust, moistened by saliva into a paste, was smeared into the fissure they had made. Their intention was to cut each bar nearly through, leaving it standing, but so weakened that it could be torn out by a sudden wrench.
On the morning which terminated their third night's labor, just as the first gray streak in the east announced the early coming of the long, hot summer day, the third bar had been cut halfway through. The two prisoners looked into each other's eyes. Both realized that they must work rapidly in order to complete their task in time.
"At all hazards we must begin earlier to-night," whispered St. Hilaire significantly. Tournay nodded. "There is still a good deal of work to be done, although a thin man might squeeze through," he said.
"Not a man of your breadth, colonel," replied St. Hilaire, carefully rubbing the dampened filings into the crevice. "We shall have to cut through all of them, and even then it will be a narrow passageway for your shoulders."
"Now for a little rest," he continued, descending from the table as quietly as a cat, and putting it in another part of the cell.
Tired out by their work and the attendant excitement, the two men threw themselves, fully dressed, upon their beds and slept until late in the morning. Their slumber might have continued until past noon had they not been rather unceremoniously awakened by the appearance of the turnkey and a couple of gendarmes by their bedside.
"What is wanted?" exclaimed Tournay sleepily.
"You are to be transferred to the conciergerie, citizen colonel, that is all," was the reply, although the tone implied a deeper meaning.
Tournay sprang from the bed, wide enough awake now, and with a sickening feeling at his heart. He looked at St. Hilaire, who was lying upon his own pallet outwardly indifferent to the announcement, but whose fingers silently stole under the mattress and closed upon the file that had been placed there the night before. St. Hilaire continued to lie there motionless, feigning sleep; but his alert brain was busy with the problem as to where it would be possible for him to deftly and successfully hide the useful little tool in case the guards had also come to search their cell.
"Are you ready, citizen colonel?"
Tournay gave a quick glance at their window. St. Hilaire rose to a sitting posture.
"Citizen colonel," he said, "will you take my hand at parting?"
Tournay stepped to his bedside. Outwardly calm, the two prisoners clasped hands. Tournay felt the hard substance of steel against his palm.
Giving no sign of his surprise, he shook his head sadly. "It is useless," he said.
"Good-by, citizen colonel," said St. Hilaire carelessly, as one might bid adieu to a chance acquaintance. "I am thinner than you, and I may grow still more so if they keep me here many days longer." He gave an imperceptible glance of the eye in the direction of the window.
The colonel turned away while the file slid up his coat sleeve.
"I am ready, citizen officers," he said.
The two gendarmes preceded him into the corridor. As he stepped over the threshold, Gendarme Pierre caught him quickly by the wrist and the next instant had the file in his own possession.
It was done so adroitly and quickly that Tournay could have offered no resistance even had he been so inclined. The other gendarme was not even aware of what took place.
"I like a clever trick," said Pierre with a chuckle.
"You are quite a magician," was Tournay's rejoinder.
The tall gendarme gave his grim chuckle. "I am called Pierre the prestidigitateur," he said, "though you are yourself fairly adept at palming. What have you been doing with this little plaything?" he continued, as they walked down the corridor.
"You mean 'What did I intend to do with it?' do you not?"
The gendarme examined the file carefully.
"No, I mean what have you been using it on," he said.
Tournay was silent.
"Oh, you need not hesitate to speak; it will be found out."
Tournay shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply.
"Well, you are right," said the gendarme. "It is for us to find out." And he relapsed into a silence that was not broken until they reached the conciergerie.
"You will hardly escape from this place though you had a whole workshop of tools," he said grimly at parting.
Tournay realized the truth of this statement, for he was now in the most dreaded of all the prisons of Paris, and he knew well what his transfer foreshadowed.
Tournay had no certain means of knowing whether their attempt to cut their way out of the Luxembourg had been discovered; and he still cherished the slight hope that St. Hilaire might be able to escape from the Luxembourg with the assistance of Gaillard.
Had they both escaped, St. Hilaire and he had formed a daring plan to rescue the Republic from the hands of those who were destroying it. And now, even though it was frustrated, he could not help going over all the details in his mind, although the thought of their complete failure added to his misery.
The news of the arrest of General Hoche had reached Tournay's ears some time before, and although it had caused him great pain to learn of the misfortune that had befallen his chief, he felt that the event would embitter the army, and that they would the more readily give their support to any plan that would of necessity liberate Hoche.
This plan had been made for Tournay to reach the army and enlist the officers in his support; then return to Paris with a sufficient force at his back to destroy the tyrants and overawe that part of the Commune that still idolized them. That would give an opportunity for the cooler and more moderate heads in the convention to come to the front, restore order, and form a stable government based upon the constitution.
St. Hilaire, meanwhile, was to remain in hiding; but the first approach of the national troops and the first blast of the counter-revolution was to be the signal for him to appear in the faubourgs, supported by all the followers he could muster, armed with all the eloquence he could command, to move the people to action, and fan to white heat the flame of opposition to the Terrorists which was already smouldering on every side.
But now all the fabric of the carefully spun scheme had been blown roughly aside by one puff of adverse wind.
Once in the conciergerie, a prisoner was not kept in uncertainty for any length of time. The next day after his transfer Tournay was summoned for trial. At first he attempted to defend himself with all the eloquence which the justice of his case called forth. All the fire of his nature was aroused, and as he spoke the attention of the crowded court room was held as if by a spell. Murmurs of applause rose from the multitude, even among those who had come in the hope of seeing him judged guilty.
But upon his judges he made no visible effect. They refused to call his witnesses. They suppressed the applause, and cutting short his defense hastened to conclude his trial. Tournay saw the futility of his defense. He read the verdict in the eyes of the judges, and sat down.
After the verdict had been given he was taken back to the conciergerie, "sentenced to die within eight and forty hours."
"Oh, for a month of freedom!" he cried inwardly, as he reëntered the prison. "For one short month of liberty! After that time had passed I would submit to any death uncomplainingly."
Withdrawing to the further end of the corridor where he was permitted to walk for a short time, he sat down by a rough table where some of the lighter-hearted prisoners had, in earlier days, beguiled the time at cards. Here he rested his head upon his arm and sat motionless.
Then his thoughts returned to Edmé, or rather continued to dwell upon her, for no matter what he did or spoke or thought, no matter how absorbing the occupation of the hour, she was always in his mind, the consciousness of her presence was ever in his heart.
"Oh, for one little month of liberty," he cried aloud, "to make one attempt to rescue France, and to see you, Edmé, once again!" He rose from his seat with a gesture of despair, and turning, saw her standing there before him. He stood in silence, looking at her as if she were the creation of his fancy, stepped for a moment from the shadow of the gray walls to melt into nothingness, should he, by speaking, break the spell.
She came toward him, putting her finger to her lips as a sign of caution. "Speak low," she whispered, "lest they hear you!"
"Mademoiselle de Rochefort," he replied in a low voice, "is this really you? In God's name tell me how you come to be here?"
"I have come to you," she answered simply, putting her hands in his. "When I heard that you had been arrested and put in prison, I knew that I should come and find you. You see all France was not wide enough to keep me from you."
"Then you are not a prisoner?" he exclaimed joyfully.
"No, I came in of my own free will. No one suspects who I am."
"Merciful God, do you know the risk you run? Why have you done this?"
"Have you not risked your life more than once for my sake? Did you think that Edmé de Rochefort would do less for you?"
"Edmé!"
For a moment the prison walls vanished. His shattered plans were forgotten. The redemption of the Republic became as nothing; he only knew that Edmé de Rochefort had proved beyond all human doubt her love for him, and that it was her loyal, loving heart he could feel throbbing, as he pressed her to his breast.
Only for a moment, then the full realization of the terrible risk she ran smote him with redoubled force. He turned pale. She had never seen him so deadly white before, and it frightened her.
"Hush," he whispered before she could speak, and stepping cautiously to the grated door he peered out between the bars. As far as the elbow of the corridor, he could see no one. With a sigh of relief he came back to her. His fears for her safety restored the activity of his mind.
"It is dangerous for you to go about the city. The merest accident, the slightest inquiry in regard to you might lead to your detection."
"I will be very careful," she replied submissively.
"Ah, Edmé," he said, "who am I to deserve such a love as yours? The thought of the risk you incur almost drives me mad. The knowledge of your love will make my last hours the happiest of my life."
"Do not speak of dying, Robert," she said. "There must still be hope. They dare not condemn you."
The words, "You do not know," sprang to his lips, but the look upon her face told him that she was as yet in ignorance of his sentence. He lacked the courage to tell her.
"It must come, Edmé; we should not be blind to that. I would gladly live, if only long enough to see France freed from the talons that rend it, and the true Republic rise from under the tyranny that is crushing it to death. I would gladly live for your love, a love I never dared to hope for either on earth or in heaven. Surely I ought to be the happiest of men to have tasted such bliss even for a moment; and to die with the firm belief that we shall meet beyond the grave."
She did not answer. The quick heaving of her bosom and the quiet sobbing she struggled to suppress went to his heart.
"Do not grieve for me so much," he whispered, drawing her to him; "after all, it will only be for a little while."
"For you who go the time may seem short," she answered mournfully; "but each year that I live without you will seem an eternity. I cannot bear it."
"Courage, dear one, I beseech you; do not grieve for me. Why, I might have met death any day within the past years. I have come to regard it with indifference. Not that I despise life," he added quickly. "Life with you would be more than heaven, but the very nature of a soldier's life makes him look upon his own sudden death as almost a probability. It is but a pang, and all is over."
"I will not grieve for you, Robert," she replied with firmness, "not while there is something to be done. Something that I can do. They shall not murder you."
"What are you going to do?" he asked quickly, fearing that some rash undertaking had suggested itself to her mind.
"This Robespierre rules through the fear he has inspired, but he is hated," replied Edmé. "The people accept his decrees like sheep, but they obey sullenly. They do not criticise him, but that bodes him the greater ill. It needs but one blast to make the whole nation turn against him. There must be men in the convention who are ready to rebel against him," she continued, talking rapidly. "I shall go to them."
"No, Edmé, you shall not. It would be"—
"Listen to what I have to say," she said, interrupting him with an imperative gesture. "I shall find them out; I shall go to their houses. It needs but a little fire; I will kindle it. I will plead with them. If they have any regard for their Republic they will listen to me. Your name, Robert, shall not be mentioned, but it will be my love for you that shall speak to them. In the name of the Republic I shall plead with them, but it will be only to save you. If they have any courage or manhood left, they will accept now."
Robert Tournay looked at her with wonder and admiration as, with a flush of excitement on her cheek, she outlined clearly and rapidly a plan strikingly similar to that evolved by St. Hilaire and himself,—similar, but more daring, more impossible; one that could not fail to be disastrous to her, whatever the ultimate result.
For a moment he feared to speak, knowing the inflexibility of her will. "I pray you, Edmé, abandon your design. It will only drag you into the net and will not avail me."
"Robert, my mind is fixed; my action may result in saving you, but if not, your fate shall be mine also."
"Edmé! Do not speak thus. The thought of you standing on that scaffold, the terrible knife menacing your beautiful neck, will drive me mad. Oh, the horror of it!" and he put his hand before his eyes and trembled.
"Promise me that you will not do this," he continued pleadingly. "Robespierre's power will come to an end, but the time is not yet ripe. Do not try to save my life. Do not even try to see me again." He took her head between his hands. "Let this be our last adieu," he pleaded. "Listen! the turnkey is advancing down the passageway. I touch your lips; the memory of it shall dwell in my soul forever."
She threw her arms about his neck for a moment, then before the heavy turnkey entered the inclosure she had passed quickly along the dark corridor through the wicket gate into the Tribunal Hall.
The chamber was dimly lighted by two smoky oil lamps, one on each side of the room; but they gave out enough light to enable her to see the way between the desks and chairs toward the door through which she had first entered from the street.
Edmé turned the handle of the door but could not open it. It had been locked on the outside. She ran to one of the front windows. By the faint light in the Rue Barillerie, she could discern an occasional passer-by. With an effort she raised the heavy sash and leaned out. It was between eight and nine o'clock, and the small street was very quiet. The few pedestrians were already out of hearing, and had they been nearer she would have feared to call out to them. She looked down at the pavement. The height was twenty feet; she closed the window with a shudder. Looking about the room she saw, what had before escaped her notice, a ray of light coming through the crack of a door into an adjoining room.
A number of voices in conversation was audible. She resolved to play again the part of Citizeness Privat. Whoever might be there, when he learned that she had been accidentally locked in while at work, would show her the way out.
The door opened wider, and a man came forth. Edmé, who had hastily taken up the same broom she had before used, pretended to be at work, while she summoned her self-possession. The man gave her no more than a casual glance as he went to a table, took out from a drawer a bundle of papers, and proceeded to look them over.
Edmé looked at him closely, sweeping all the while. Her first apprehension was quieted when she saw he was a very young man with rosy cheeks and a pen behind his ear. He was evidently one of the government clerks, staying late at the office to finish some piece of work.
She breathed more freely every moment notwithstanding the amount of dust she raised. The clerk put the bundle of papers under his arm with a gesture of annoyance, and went back to the other room.
Edmé waited a few minutes, put the broom under her arm, and approached the door which the clerk had left ajar. She could not help starting as she read the large letters on the panel of the door. The room which contained the apple-faced and harmless looking little scribe was designated "Chamber of Death Warrants."
"Here's a pretty state of affairs, Clément," she heard a voice exclaim in a tone of annoyance. "The list of warrants for 'La Force' to-morrow consists of thirty-seven names while I have only thirty-six documents."
"Count them again, Hanneton; you know at school you were always slow at figures."
"I have compared the warrants with the list of names twice most carefully. I assure you one warrant is missing. See for yourself, 'Bonnefoi, Charles de, ex-noble' is on the list, but there is not a single Bonnefoi among to-morrow's pile of warrants."
"Have you looked through those of day after to-morrow?"
"I have, both of the day after to-morrow and the day following that. In fact, I have gone over all the warrants for all the prisoners, but still no Bonnefoi, Charles de, ex-noble."
"Lucky for Bonnefoi!"
"But unlucky for me. I shall be discharged if I let these go out this way."
"I tell you what to do," said Clément, "take one from the day after to-morrow. They are in too great a hurry in the office these days to compare the lists; they just see if the number tallies, and send off the warrants to the keepers of the various prisons."
"But if I do that I shall still be one short, day after to-morrow."
"No you will not," replied the facile Clément; "you just take one from the day following that, and so on and so forth. You merely keep the thing going. Your lists and warrants will agree as to number every day. No question arises, and the only result is that some fellow gets shoved along under the national razor just twenty-four hours earlier than he would have, had not some one,—I won't say named Hanneton,—but some one who shall be nameless, made a little blunder."
"I rather dislike to do such a thing, Clément."
"Oh, Hanneton, my boy, I always said you were slow. What's twenty-four hours to a man who has got to die anyway? and then think of Bonnefoi; he'll be overlooked for a long time. Some of those fellows among the aristocracy have been in prison two or three years already. They get to like it and lead quite a jolly life there. I am told they have fine times in some of the prisons. Bonnefoi will be wondering why they don't come to shave him, but he won't say anything. Bonnefoi won't peep. You can count on his silence."
"But my friend Clément, it will be discovered some day."
"Well, I can't look ahead so far as that. If you are found out you can say you made a mistake. They can't any more than discharge a man for making a mistake."
"I'll do it, Clément. Here goes—good luck to Bonnefoi."
"And good luck to the fellow you shove ahead in his place; we'll drink an extra glass to him when we finish work to-night. Let's see what may his name be."
"'Tournay, Robert, former Colonel!' Hello, what's that?" cried Clément, interrupting him.
"I did not hear anything," replied Hanneton.
"The sound seemed to come from the next room."
"Oh, it's only that woman who is cleaning the place. She has knocked over a table or a chair. Come. Let's go out and get something to eat. I'm famished. We can return later, and finish our work."