Nay, within these very walls had been conspiracy within conspiracy—massacres planned—the killing beginning at these demure white doors.
Here, on that August day that the Monarchy fell, had sat Madame Roland and Lucille Desmoulins, the sweet and beautiful and rich mate of famed Camille, together with Madame Danton, their ears athrob with ringing of bells and roar of cannon—the shadow of the guillotine not flung as yet their way, unsuspected, their eyes as yet not seeing, their white necks not feeling, that harsh doom either for themselves or their lords.
Hence one day a genial, dreamy, kindly young officer of artillery they called Napoleon Buonaparte, that lived at a small lodging in a street hard by, walked out bare-headed, leaving his cocked hat as security for his reckoning, having forgotten his purse. Here, in days not so long past, Gambetta fumed and raved and swore and dreamed and spouted, holding the Republic together as best he could, a Republic broken with a dozen warring internecine strifes and petty interests.
Here, the old café having fallen on more peaceful days and slow decay in its neglected thoroughfare, the poor dirty shabby genius that was called Paul Verlaine sat at the dead Voltaire’s table, and wrote on scraps of paper his now world-famous lyrics.
The greatest of these had been mighty workers, men of iron toil. These had not been content to thrum little five-fingered echoes of the great music of the drama of life—these had created their own music, their own methods, their own art. No man shall come to greatness through juggling with echoes. These had made their own style to express themselves—had no need of the elaborate polishing of the tricks and ornaments of the mediocrities who, having nothing to express, filch little movements and sounds from the vasty music of the masters to cover their own little insignificance—who in toil to polish phrases miss the statement. Nay, these men had not been content with praise of mediocrities—had scorned even their approval.
When, an hour before midnight, Betty, going homewards, passed the house where Moll Davenant lived, she became aware of hoarse whispers; looking up the dark side street as she crossed the road, she saw a man standing on another’s shoulder peering into the lighted room within—the widow Snacheur’s room. The fellow leaped down, and the pair of them calmly sauntered down the alley.
Betty hurried on, vaguely wondering. She reached the house where she lodged, and found the great gates shut. It came to her that it was the first time she had felt a certain shrinking from ringing the bell in the concierge’s den—the first time she had felt alone; the first time she had tried to find an excuse for being alone.
She rang—the postern opened with a clank—she stepped in, shut it, called her name as she passed the concierge’s window, and climbed her stairs wearily.
It was very late, yet she had no fear that Noll had returned to find no welcome.
She laughed sadly.