IN THE NAME OF LIBERTY
BARABANT SURPRISES NICOLE]
IN THE NAME OF LIBERTY
A Story of the Terror
by
OWEN JOHNSON
Author of "Arrows of the Almighty"
O Liberty! Liberty! how many crimes are committed in thy name! _Madame Roland_
New YorkThe Century Co.1905
Copyright, 1905, byThe Century Co.
Published January, 1905
The Devinne Press
TO MY FATHER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I IN SEARCH OF THE REVOLUTION 3
II A RESCUE FROM ARISTOCRATS 14
III CITOYENNE NICOLE 30
IV BREWINGS OF THE STORM 54
V THE TAKING OF THE TUILERIES 74
VI THE HEART OF A WOMAN 92
VII THE FEAR OF HAPPINESS 104
VIII THE MOTHER OF LOUISON 116
IX THE TURN OF JAVOGUES 127
X A TRIUMPH OF INSTINCT 140
XI THE MAN WITH THE LANTERN 155
XII THE MASSACRE OF THE PRISONS 165
XIII DOSSONVILLE IN PERIL 176
XIV GOURSAC AS ACCUSER 188
XV LOVE, LIFE, AND DEATH 200
PART II
(One Year Later)
I FAMINE 211
II DOSSONVILLE EARNS A KISS 224
III WAITING FOR BREAD 235
IV SIMON LAJOIE 250
V CRAMOISIN PLOTS AGAINST NICOLE 266
VI BARABANT HESITATES 277
VII THE MADNESS OF JEALOUSY 290
VIII LA FETE DE LA RAISON 301
IX AS DID CHARLOTTE CORDAY 314
X UNRELENTING IN DEATH 323
XI NICOLE FORGOES THE SACRIFICE 332
XII THE FATHER OF LOUISON 346
XIII DAUGHTER OF THE GUILLOTINE 357
XIV THE LAST ON THE LIST 369
XV THE FALL OF THE TERROR 386
EPILOGUE 402
IN THE NAME OF LIBERTY
I
IN SEARCH OF THE REVOLUTION
In the month of August of the year 1792 the Rue Maugout was a distortedcleft in the gray mass of the Faubourg St. Antoine, apart from theceaseless cry of life of the thoroughfare, but animated by a sprinklingof shops and taverns. No. 38, like its neighbors, was a twisted,settled mass of stone and timber that had somehow held together fromthe time of Henry II. The entrance was low, pinched, and dank. On oneside a twisted staircase zig-zagged into the gloom. On the other asquat door with a grating in the center, like a blind eye, led intothe cellar which la Mere Corniche, the concierge, let out at two sousa night to travelers in search of an economical resting-place. Beyondthis rat-hole a murky glass served as a peep-hole, whence her flattenednose and little eyes could dimly be distinguished at all hours of theday. This tenebrous entrance, after plunging onward some forty feet,fell against a wall of gray light, where the visitor, making an abruptangle, passed into the purer air of a narrow court. Opposite, thepassage took up its interrupted way to a farther court, more spacious,where a dirt-colored maple offered a ragged shelter and a few parchedvines gripped the yellow walls. The tiled roofs were shrunk, the ridgeswarped, the walls cracking and bulging about the distorted windows.Along the roofs the dust and dirt had gradually accumulated and givenbirth to a few blades of gray-green plants. Nature had slipped inand assimilated the work of man, until the building, yielding to theweight of time and the elements, appeared as a hollow sunk in fantasticcliffs, where, from narrow, misshapen slits, the dwellers peered forth.About the maple swarmed a troop of children, grimy, bare, and voluble.In the branches and in the ivy a horde of sparrows shrilled and fought,keeping warily out of reach of the lank cats that slunk in ambush.
In front of No. 38, each morning, prompt as the sun, which she oftenanticipated, la Mere Corniche appeared with her broom. She was one ofthose strange old women in whom the appearances of youth and age areincongruously blended. Seen from behind, her short, erect stature (shewas an equal four feet), her skirt stopping half-way below the kneesto reveal a pair of man's boots, gave the effect of a child of twelve.When she turned, the shock of the empty gums, the skin hanging inpockets on the cheeks, the eyes showing from their pouches like coldlanterns, caused her to seem like a being who had never known youth.
She had thrown open the doors on this August morning and was conductinga resolute campaign with her broom when she perceived a young man, whoeven at that early hour, from the evidence of dust, had just completedan arduous journey. A bulging handkerchief swinging from a staff acrosshis shoulder evidently contained all his baggage, and proclaimed thedefinite purpose of the immigrant. The concierge regarded him withsome curiosity. He was too old to be a truant scholar, and too much atease to be of the far provinces. Besides, his dress showed familiaritywith the city modes. He seemed rather the young adventurer running toParis in the first flush of that enthusiasm and attraction which theRevolution in its influx had awakened.
The dress itself proclaimed, not without a touch of humor, thepreparation of the zealous devotee approaching the Mecca of hisambitions. His cocked hat, of a largeness which suggested anotherowner, was new and worn jauntily, with the gay assurance of youth inits destiny. A brilliant red neck-cloth was arranged with the abandonof pardonable vanity. A clear blue redingote, a cloth-of-gold vest,and a pair of drab knickerbockers completed a costume that had drawnmany a smile. For while the coat was so long that the sleeves hid thewrist, the vest was bursting its buttons, and though the knickerbockerspinched, the hat continued to wobble in dumb accusation; so that twogenerations at least must have contributed to the wardrobe of the youngbuccaneer.
At the moment the concierge discovered the youthful adventurer, he wasengrossed in the task of slapping the dust from his garments, while hiseyes, wandering along the streets, were searching to some purpose.
Curiosity being stronger than need, it was la Mere Corniche who put thefirst question.
"Well, citoyen, you seek some one in this street?"
"The answer should be apparent," the young fellow answered frankly. "Iseek a lodging. Have you a room to let?"
"H'm!" La Mere Corniche eyed him unfavorably. "Maybe I have, and maybeI haven't; I take no aristocrats."
The young man, seeing that his clothes were in disfavor, began to laugh.
"In as far, citoyenne," he said, with a sweep of his hand, "as itconcerns these, I plead guilty: my clothes are aristocrats. But hearme," as his listener began to scowl. "They were; but aristocrats beingtraitors, I confiscated them; and," he added slyly, "I come to deliverthem to the State."
"And to denounce the traitors, citoyen," the
concierge exclaimedfiercely, "even were they your father and mother."
"Even that--if I had a family," he added cautiously. "And now,citoyenne, what can you do for me?"
With this direct question, the fanatic light in her face died away.The little woman withdrew a step and ran her eyes over the prospectivetenant. She made him repeat the question, and finally said, with asigh, as though regretting the price she had fixed in her mind, "Howlong?"
"A year--two years--indefinitely."
"There are two rooms and a parlor on the second," she began tentatively.
"That suits me."
"The price will be for you--" la Mere Corniche hastened to increase thesum, "thirty francs a month."
"Good."
"Payable in advance."
The young fellow shrugged his shoulders, and with a comical grin turnedhis pockets inside out.
"What!" la Mere Corniche shrieked in her astonishment. "You swindler!You have taken an apartment at thirty francs a month without a sou inyour pocket."
"At present."
"Get off, you, who'd rob a poor old woman."
"We'll renounce the apartment, then," he cried, with a laugh. "Oneroom, citoyenne; give me one room if you are a patriot."
"Patriot--robber! Be off or I'll denounce you!"
The young fellow, seeing his case hopeless, prepared to depart.
"Good-by, then, mother," he said. "And thanks for your patrioticreception. Only direct me to the house of Marat and I'm done with you."
"What have you to do with the Citoyen Marat?" cried the old woman,startled into speech at that name.
"That is my affair."
"You know him?"
"I have a letter to him."
La Mere Corniche looked at him in indecision. An emissary to Marat wasa very different matter. She struggled silently between her avariceand the one adoration of her life, until her listener, mistaking hersilence, turned impatiently on his heel.
"Here, come back," the concierge cried, thus brought to decision. "Letme see your letter."
The young fellow shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly and produced alarge envelope, on which the curious eye of his listener beheld themagic words, "To Jean Paul Marat." But if she had hoped to find on itsome clue to its sender, she was disappointed. She turned the letterover and handed it reluctantly back.
"Private business, hey?"
"Particularly private," he said. Then, seeing his advantage andfollowing up his good fortune, he added: "Now, citoyenne, don't youthink you could tuck me away somewhere until I make a fortune?"
The old woman hesitated a moment longer, whereupon he fell to scanningpensively the address, and mumbling over "Jean Paul Marat, a great manthat."
"Damn, I'll do it!" la Mere Corniche suddenly cried, and with a crookof her thumb she bade him follow her. But immediately she halted andasked:
"Citoyen--?"
"Citoyen Barabant--Eugene Armand Barabant."
"Of--?"
"Of 38 Rue Maugout," he said laconically, then, with a smile, modifiedhis step to follow the painful progress of his guide.
At the dark entrance a raven came hopping to meet them, filling thegloom with his raucous cry. Barabant halted.
"It's only Jean Paul," explained the old woman. "He brings good luck."
She placed him, flapping his wings, on her shoulder and continued. Atthe first court, by the stairs that led to the vacant apartment onthe second floor, she hesitated, but the indecision was momentary.Into the second court Barabant followed with an air of interest thatshowed that, though perhaps familiar with the streets of Paris, hehad never delved into its secret places. Twice more la Mere Cornichehalted before possible lodgings, until at last, having vanquished eachtemptation, she began to clamber up the shaky flights that led to theattic.
Barabant had perceived each mental struggle with great enjoyment. Hewas young, adventurous, entering life through strange gates. So when atlength they reached the end of their climb, and his guide, after muchtugging, accompanied by occasional kicks, had forced open the reluctantdoor, the dingy attic appeared to him a haven of splendor.
La Mere Corniche watched him curiously from the doorway, rubbing herchin. "Eh, Citoyen Barabant? Well, does it suit you?"
"Perfect."
He cast a careless glance at the impoverished room and craned out ofthe window. In his survey of the court, his eye rested a moment on thewindow below, where, through the careless folds of a half-curtain, hehad caught the gleam of a white arm.
"And what is the price of this?" he asked; but his thoughts wereelsewhere.
"Nothing."
La Mere Corniche sighed heroically, and hastened on as thoughdistrusting her generosity. "Only, when you see Citoyen Marat, tell himthat I, Citoyenne Corniche, have done this to one who is his friend."
Barabant remained one moment motionless, as though confounded at thisremnant of human feeling in the sibyl. But the door had hardly closedwhen, without a glance at his new quarters, he was again at the window.The truth was that, without hesitating to reflect on the insufficiencyof the evidence, he had already built a romance on the sight of a whitearm seen two stories below through the folds of a curtain. So whenhe returned eagerly to his scrutiny, what was his disenchantment toperceive below a very buxom matron, who was regarding him with equalattentiveness.
Barabant, with a laugh at his own discomfiture, began to search morecautiously. And as one deception in youth is sufficient to make askeptic for an hour, when in turn he began to explore the windowopposite he received, with indifference, the view of another arm,though it was equally white and well modeled.
But this time, as though Fate were determined to rebuke him forscorning her gifts, there appeared at the window the figure of ayoung girl, whose early toilet allowed to be seen a throat and arm ofsufficient whiteness to dazzle the young romanticist.
Youth and natural coquetry fortunately are stronger than theindifference of poverty. Had Barabant been fifty the girl would havecontinued her inspection undisturbed; but perceiving him to be in thetwenties, and with a certain air of distinction, she hastily withdrew,covering her throat with an instinctive motion of her hand, and leavingBarabant, forgetful of his first disenchantment, to gallop through thedelightful fields of a new romance.