When a Cobbler Ruled the King

by Augusta Huiell Seaman

THE BLOW FALLS

On a night toward the end of October, 1793, Jean was walking slowly and thoughtfully home from the tavern to the Rue de Lille. His day's work was over and it was long past ten o'clock. He was in no special hurry, for he had many things to think over and he felt that he could do this better by himself and in the open. None of his thoughts were particularly happy. It was but a week since the Queen had given up her life on the guillotine, and his heart ached with pity and horror for her sorrowful end. The little King, doubtless all in ignorance of his loss, was constantly more and more cruelly treated by the cobbler, whose already evil temper was now thoroughly demoralised by his own enforced imprisonment.

Then too, the condition of Paris was appalling. The Terror was at its height, the prisons were overflowing with "suspects," and the guillotine claimed daily a sickening array of victims. Robespierre ruled the Convention with a hand of iron, and ruthlessly sacrificed to La Guillotine all who stood in his way.

Jean had heard no news from his friend Bonaparte except a brief note some time before, saying that he was in Marseilles with all his family (which had left Corsica forever), and that he was again in the army. And there was yet another problem weighing on the boy's mind. Tison, with whom he had established quite a friendship since the spy's strange conversion, had come to him two days before with a request. It seemed that the Queen, before she was taken to La Conciergerie, had entrusted to Tison a little book of prayers that she wished in some way to be conveyed to her son. Tison had promised faithfully to accomplish this mission if possible, but had as yet been unable to do so, as he was never admitted to Simon's room.

Then he bethought himself of Yvonne, and of how she came occasionally to play there, and he remembered that Jean had once confided to him the tale of her first admittance. Here then was the solution! He came to Jean and begged him to see that the book was in some way delivered, and had only that morning placed the precious parcel in the boy's keeping. This Jean felt to be a sacred trust, more so than ever now that the Queen was dead. He determined that Yvonne must take it on the morrow when she went with her mother and the laundry. Barelle would be on duty that day, and would very likely gain her entrance.

One more vague fear troubled him. La Souris had never, by word or sign, indicated that he concerned himself in the least about the boy, since the memorable night when the plot of the Baron de Batz had failed. But of late the man was constant in his hovering about the tavern, and the very fact that he seemed to avoid speaking to the boy purposely, made Jean most uneasy. It was as though a sword were suspended above his head, and might fall at any unexpected moment.

All these thoughts served to depress the spirits of this usually lively lad. He walked soberly, his head bent, looking neither to the right nor left, his hands jammed in his trousers pockets. The street he traversed was alive with people and bright with the lights from many shop-windows. But presently he turned into one that was quite deserted, and almost pitch dark by contrast. He had not proceeded far in this black lane before he became aware of stealthy steps following him. His first impulse was to take to his heels and run at top speed, but he wisely decided to do no such thing. Instead he stopped abruptly and demanded:

"Who is following me? What do you want?" The stealthy footfalls ceased for a moment, then out of the shadow stepped a huge figure.

"Do not be afraid!" a voice whispered, as the figure drew near. "I am Citizen Prevôt, the pikeman, who helped to search your house over a year ago!" Jean was astonished and not a little alarmed. He knew Prevôt to be an almost constant attendant of his enemy, La Souris, and he could not imagine whether to expect an attack from this giant or a friendly advance. Prevôt hastened to reassure him:

"I am following you with the friendliest intentions, believe me! I always liked you for your cleverness in teaching that little dog his trick, and I've news that will interest you to-night. I followed you from the tavern, but I dared not address you till we came to this dark street, for fear of—him! He's a born spy! It's the sole ambition of his life to get someone into trouble,—you know whom I mean!—and I hate him as I hate the devil! But I have to serve him,—that's my living and likewise the safety of my neck! Now, in the first place, let me ask you did your little dog ever get back to you?"