  (From a manuscript dated September 15th, 1792.) IAs I entered, Pauline de Luzy held out her hand to me. Then for a moment we remained silent. Her scarf and straw hat were thrown carelessly on an arm-chair. The prayer from Orpheus was open on the spinet. Going towards the window, she watched the sun sinking to the blood-red horizon. “Madame,” I said at length, “do you remember the words you said two years ago this very day, at the foot of that hill on the bank of the river towards which at this moment your eyes are turned? “Do you remember how, with your hand waving in a prophetic gesture, you called up before me, as in a vision, the coming days of trial, of crime and terror? On my very lips you arrested my confession of love, and bade me live and labour for justice and liberty. Madame, since your hand, which I She stopped me with a motion of her hand, and made a sign to me to listen. Then we heard borne across the scented spaces of the garden, where birds were warbling, distant cries of “Death!” “To the gallows with the aristocrat!” “Set his head on a pike!” Pale and motionless she held a finger to her lips. “It is,” I said, “some unhappy wretch being pursued. They are making domiciliary visits and effecting arrests in Paris night and day. It is possible they may force an entrance here. I ought to withdraw for fear of compromising you. Although I am but little known in this neighbourhood, I am, as times go, a dangerous guest.” “Stay!” she adjured me. For the second time cries rent the calm evening air. They were mingled now with the tramp of feet and the noise of fire-arms. They came nearer; Madame de Luzy seemed to grow calmer in proportion to the increasing nearness of the danger. “Let us go up to the second floor,” she said; “we shall be able to see through the sunblinds what is going on outside.” But scarcely had we opened the door when, on the landing, we beheld a half-dressed fugitive, his face blanched with terror, his teeth chattering and his knees knocking together. This apparition murmured in a strangled voice— “Save me! Hide me! They are there.... They burst open my gate—overran my garden. They are coming....” IIMadame de Luzy, recognizing Planchonnet, the old philosopher who occupied the neighbouring house, asked him in a whisper—“Has my cook caught sight of you? She is a Jacobin!” “Nobody has set eyes on me.” “God be praised, neighbour!” She led him into her bedroom, whither I followed them. A consultation was necessary. Some hiding-place must be hit upon where she could keep Planchonnet concealed for several days, or at least for several hours, whatever time it might take to deceive and tire out the search party. It was agreed that I should keep the approaches under observation, and that when I gave the signal, the unfortunate man should make his escape by the little garden gate. Whilst he waited, he was unable to remain standing. He was completely paralysed with terror. He endeavoured to make us understand that he was being hounded down for having conspired with Monsieur de Cazotte against the Constitution, As he uttered the name in strangled tones, he was persuaded that he actually saw Lubin, and hid his face in his hands. And of a truth there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Madame de Luzy shot the bolts and pushed the old man behind a screen. There was a hammering at the door, and Pauline recognized the voice of her cook, who called out to her to open, that the municipal officers were at the gate with the National Guard, and that they had come to make an inspection of the premises. “They say,” the woman added, “that Planchonnet is in the house. I know very well that it is not so, of course. I know you would never harbour a scoundrel of that sort; but they won’t believe my word.” “Well, well, let them come up,” replied Madame de Luzy through the door. “Let them go all over the house, from cellar to garret.” “My friend,” the young woman whispered to her old neighbour, “trust in me. Remember that women are resourceful.” Then, calmly, as though she had been engaged in some daily domestic duty, she drew her bedstead a little out from its alcove, took off the bedclothes, and with my assistance so arranged the three mattresses as to contrive a space next the wall between the highest and the lowest of them. Whilst she was making these arrangements, a loud noise of shoes, sabots, gunstocks, and raucous voices broke out on the staircase. This was for all three of us a terrible moment; but the noise ascended by little and little to the floor above our heads. We realized that the searchers, under the guidance of the Jacobin cook, were ransacking the garrets first. The ceiling cracked; threats and coarse laughter were audible, and the sound of kicks and bayonet-thrusts against the wainscot. We breathed again, but there was not a second to lose. I helped Planchonnet to slip into the space contrived for him between the mattresses. As she watched our efforts, Madame de Luzy She endeavoured to give it a finishing touch; but in vain, she could not make it look natural. “I shall have to go to bed myself,” she said. She looked at the clock; it was exactly seven, and she felt that it would look extraordinary for her to be in bed so early. As to feigning illness, it was useless to think of it: the Jacobin cook would detect the ruse. She remained thoughtful for some seconds; then calmly, simply, with royal unconcern, she undressed before me, got into bed, and ordered me to take off my shoes, my coat, and my cravat. “There is nothing for it but for you to be my lover, and for them to surprise us together. When they arrive you will not have had time to re-arrange your disordered clothes. You will open the door to them in your vest, 21. The vest was worn under the coat. It was a sort of waistcoat, longer than ours, and provided with sleeves of full length. (Author.) All our arrangements were made when the search party, with many exclamations of “SacrÉ!” and “Peste!” descended from the garrets. The unfortunate Planchonnet was seized with such a paroxysm of trembling that he shook the whole bed. “It’s a pity,” murmured Madame de Luzy. “I was so satisfied with my little artifice. But never mind; we won’t despair. May God be our aid!” A heavy fist shook the door. “Who knocks?” Pauline inquired. “The representatives of the Nation.” “Can’t you wait a minute?” “Open, or we shall break the door down!” “Go and open the door, my friend.” Suddenly, by a sort of miracle, Planchonnet ceased to tremble and gasp. IIILubin was the first to enter. He had his scarf round him, and was followed by a dozen men armed with pikes. Casting his eyes first on Madame de Luzy and then on me—“Peste!” he exclaimed. “It seems we are disturbing a pair of lovers. Excuse us, pretty one!” Then turning to his followers, he remarked— “The sans-culottes are the only folks who know how to behave.” But despite his theories this He sat down on the bed, and raising the chin of the lovely high-bred woman, said— “It is plain that that pretty mouth wasn’t made to mumble paternosters day and night. It would have been a pity if it were. But the Republic before all things. We are seeking the traitor, Planchonnet. He is here, I’m certain of it. I must have him. I shall get him guillotined. It will make my fortune.” They looked under the chairs and tables, in the cupboards, thrust their pikes under the bed, and probed the mattresses with their bayonets. Lubin scratched his ear and looked at me slily. Madame de Luzy, dreading that I might be subjected to an embarrassing catechism, said— “Dear friend, you know the house as well as I do myself. Take the keys and show Monsieur Lubin all over it. I am sure you will be delighted to act as guide to such patriots.” I led them to the cellars, where they turned over the piles of faggots, and drank a fairly large number of bottles of wine; after which Lubin staved in the full casks with the butt end of his gun, and leaving the cellar flooded with wine, gave the signal of departure. I conducted them out as far as the gate, which I shut on their very heels, and then ran back to let Madame de Luzy know that we were out of danger. When she heard this, she bent her head over the side of the bed next the wall, and called— “Monsieur Planchonnet! Monsieur Planchonnet!” A faint sigh was the response. “God be praised!” she exclaimed. “Monsieur Planchonnet, you occasioned me the most appalling fear. I thought you were dead.” “My poor friend, you used to take so much delight in declaring, from time to time, that you loved me; you will never tell me so again!” THE BOON OF DEATH BESTOWEDWhen he had for a long while tramped through the deserted streets, AndrÉ at last went and sat down on the bank of the Seine and watched the water lapping the base of the hill where, in the vanished days of joy and hope, Lucie, his dear mistress, had her home. For long enough he had not felt so restful. At eight o’clock he took a bath. Then he strolled into a restaurant in the Palais Royal, and glanced through the newspapers whilst his meal was preparing. In the Courier of Equality he read the list of the condemned prisoners who had been executed on the Place de la RÉvolution on the 24th of FlorÉal. He ate his breakfast heartily. Then he rose, looked in a glass to make sure that he was presentably dressed, and that his colour was not likely to betray him, and set out at an easy pace to the other side of the river towards the low house at the corner of the Rue de Seine and the Rue Mazarine. Here were the quarters of Citizen Lardillon, deputy He rang, and after an interval of some few minutes, a figure appeared behind a grating commanding the entrance, and Citizen Lardillon, having prudently satisfied himself as to the appearance and name of his visitor, at length threw open the door. His face was broad, his colour high, his eyes glittering, his lips moist, and his ears red. He looked a jovial but worried man. He led AndrÉ into his ante-chamber. There, on a small round table, a meal for two was set out. There was a chicken, a pie, a ham, a terrine of foie-gras and various cold meats in aspic. On the floor six bottles were cooling in a pail. A pineapple, cheese of various kinds, and preserved fruits occupied the mantelpiece, and flasks of liqueurs were deposited on a desk littered with papers. Through the half-open door of the adjoining room a large bed was visible, not yet made. “Citizen Lardillon,” began AndrÉ, “I have come to beg a favour of you.” “I am quite ready to grant it, citizen, provided it involves no risk to the security of the Republic.” AndrÉ smilingly replied— At a sign from Lardillon, AndrÉ sat down. “Citizen deputy,” he said, “you are aware that for the last two years I have been conspiring against your friends, and that I am the author of the pamphlet entitled, The Altars of Fear. You will not be doing me a favour in having me arrested. You will only be doing your duty. Moreover, that is not the service I ask at your hands. But listen: my mistress, to whom I am devoted, is in prison.” Lardillon nodded his head to indicate that he approved of the devotion AndrÉ confessed to. “I am sure that you are not unfeeling, Citizen Lardillon. I beg you to procure my reunion with the woman I love, and to have me conveyed to Port Libre as speedily as may be.” “Come, come,” said Lardillon, and a smile played upon his lips, which were both delicate and firm, “it is a greater boon than life that you demand of me. You require me to bestow happiness on you, citizen!” He stretched out the arm nearest to the bedroom, and called— “Epicharis! Epicharis!” A big, dark woman entered, her arms and throat still bare, for she had only got as far with her “Nymph of mine,” said Lardillon as he drew her on to his knees, “look upon the face of this citizen, and never forget it! Like us, Epicharis, he is tender-hearted; like us, he realizes that the greatest of ills is to be separated from the beloved one. He wishes to go to prison—ay, to the guillotine—with his mistress, Epicharis. Can I withhold this boon from him?” “No!” answered the girl, as she tapped the cheeks of the carmagnole-clad monk. “You are right, my goddess. We shall be earning the gratitude of two devoted lovers. Citizen Germain, give me your address, and this very night you shall sleep in the Bourbe.” “That is agreed?” said AndrÉ. “That is agreed,” replied Lardillon as he offered him his hand. “Go and find your fair friend, and tell her how you saw Epicharis in Lardillon’s embrace. I trust that that recollection may stir your hearts to joyous measures.” AndrÉ replied that possibly they would be able to call up even more affecting memories, but that he was none the less grateful to Lardillon, and that he only regretted that it was not likely to be in his power to be of service to him in return. Then he rose, and clasping Epicharis to his heart, said— “Who knows when our own turn may come?” Omnes eodem cogimur: omnium Versatur urna; serius ocius Sors exitura, et nos in Æternum “In the meanwhile, let us drink! Citizen, will you join us at table?” Epicharis said it would only be polite of him, and made to seize him by the arm. But he tore himself away, relying on the promise the deputy public prosecutor had made. 22. We all must tread the paths of Fate, And ever shakes the mortal Urn, Whose Lot embarks us, soon or late, On Charon’s Boat, ah! never to return. Francis’s Horace. FLORÉAL IN THE YEAR II |
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