Knight of Maison-Rouge

  With that, citizen Théodore resolutely applied his pliers to the join between the two flagstones.

  At that very instant, a bright light slid like a streak of molten gold across the flagstones and a noise ricocheting around the echoing vaults made the conspirator’s head whip around; in a single bound, he was crouching down again in the scribe’s stall.

  Voices, made faint by distance and by the emotions that all men feel at night in a cavernous building, soon reached Théodore’s ears. He hunkered down further and peered through a slit; first he saw a man in military garb whose huge sword, ringing on the flagstones, was one of the noises that had first caught his attention. Then came a man in a pistachio green suit, holding a ruler in his hand and rolls of paper under his arm; then a third man, in a big ratiné jacket and fur cap; then, finally, a fourth man, wearing a carmagnole and sabots1 on his feet.

  The Haberdashers’ Gate screeched on its noisy hinges and slammed against the iron chain that held the gate open in the day.

  The four men entered.

  “A round,” Théodore murmured. “Praise be to God! Ten minutes later and I’d have been a goner.”

  Focusing intently, he tried to work out who the men were who thus composed the round. Indeed, he recognized three of them. The one in the lead, dressed as a general, was Santerre; the man in the ratiné jacket and fur cap was Richard, the concierge; the man with the carmagnole and clogs was probably the wicket clerk.

  But he had never before seen the man decked out in pistachio green with a ruler in hand and scrolls under his arm. Who could this man be, and what were the general of the Commune, the warden of the Conciergerie, a wicket clerk, and this unknown man doing together at ten o’clock at night in the Hall of Lost Footsteps?

  Citizen Théodore leaned on one knee, holding his pistol cocked with one hand and with the other arranging his cap on his hair, which in his haste he had messed up much too much for the wig to look natural.

  Until then the four nocturnal visitors had remained silent, or at least the words they had spoken had not reached the ears of the conspirator other than as ambient noise. But suddenly Santerre spoke, only ten feet away from his cubbyhole, and the general’s voice reached citizen Théodore distinctly.

  “Let’s see,” said Santerre, “we’re in the Hall of Lost Footsteps now. It’s up to you to guide us after this, citizen architect, and make sure above all that your great revelation isn’t a piece of poppycock. For, you see, the Revolution has been through all this nonsense before, and we don’t believe in underground tunnels any more now than we believe in ghosts. What do you say, citizen Richard?” Santerre added as an afterthought, turning to the man in the fur cap and ratiné jacket.

  “I’ve never said there is no underground passage under the Conciergerie,” Richard replied. “Gracchus2 here, he’s been a wicket clerk for ten years, and so he knows the Conciergerie like the back of his hand, but he’s never heard of this underground passage citizen Giraud’s talking about. But, since citizen Giraud is a city architect, he’d have to know more about it than we do … since that’s his job.”

  Théodore shivered from head to toe on hearing these words.

  “Luckily,” he murmured, “the hall is huge; they’ll be looking for two days at least before they find what they’re looking for.”

  But the architect unrolled his great scroll, put on his glasses, and knelt in front of a map, which he examined by the flickering light of the lantern Gracchus was holding.

  “I’m afraid,” said Santerre, “that citizen Giraud has been dreaming.”

  “You’ll see, citizen general,” the architect shot back, “you’ll see if I’m a dreamer. Just wait.”

  “I am waiting,” said Santerre.

  “Fine,” said the architect as he started measuring. “Twelve and four are sixteen,” he said. “And eight is twenty-four, which, divided by six, is four; after that we still have half over; that’s it, I’ve got my bearings, and if I’m off by a foot, tell me I’m an ignoramus.”

  The architect pronounced these words with such assurance that citizen Théodore froze in terror. Santerre looked at the map with a kind of respect; you could see he admired it all the more because it didn’t make the slightest sense.

  “Listen carefully to what I’m about to say.”

  “Where do we look?” asked Santerre.

  “At the map I’ve made, for pity’s sake! Are you with me? Thirteen feet from the wall, there’s a loose flagstone. I’ve marked it. You see it?”

  “I see an A, of course,” said Santerre. “Do you think I can’t read?”

  “Underneath this flagstone there’s a staircase,” the architect continued unperturbed. “See, I’ve marked it with a B.”

  “B,” Santerre repeated. “I can see a B, but I can’t see the staircase.” The general guffawed at his joke.

  “Once we’ve taken up the flagstone, once we’ve got our feet on the last step,” the architect went on, “count out fifty paces three feet long and look around; you’ll find yourself right at the registrar’s office, where the tunnel will come up after passing under the Queen’s cell.”

  “The Widow Capet’s, you mean, citizen Giraud,” said Santerre, frowning sternly.

  “Ah, yes! The Widow Capet’s.”

  “It’s just that you said the Queen’s.”

  “Old habit.”

  “And you reckon we’ll be under the office?” asked Richard.

  “Not only under the office, but I can tell you what part of the office we’ll be under: we’ll be under the stove.”

  “Wait a minute, that’s odd!” said Gracchus. “Every time I drop a log at that spot the stone reverberates!”

  “In all honesty, if we find what you say we’ll find, citizen architect, I’ll have to admit that geometry is a beautiful thing.”

  “Well then, admit it, citizen Santerre, because I’m about to take you to the spot marked with the letter A.”

  Citizen Théodore dug his nails into his flesh.

  “When I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” said Santerre. “I’m a bit like Saint Thomas, a bit of a doubting Thomas, I am.”

  “Ha! Saint Thomas, you say?”

  “Cripes, yes, just like you said the Queen, out of habit; but no one’s going to accuse me of plotting to save Saint Thomas.”

  “Or me the Queen.”

  With that retort, the architect delicately took his ruler, did his sums, and, when he stopped, after having carefully measured all the distances, he tapped on a flagstone.

  It was exactly the same flagstone citizen Théodore had tapped during his little performance of wild rage.

  “This is it, citizen general!” said the architect.

  “You think so, citizen Giraud?”

  Still kneeling in the scribe’s booth, the patriot forgot himself to the point of violently whacking his thigh with his closed fist and giving out a low groan.

  “I’m sure of it,” Giraud said. “With your expertise and my report, we’ll prove to the Convention that I am not mistaken. Yes, citizen general,” the architect said with heavy emphasis, “this flagstone opens onto a tunnel that ends in the office after passing under the cell of the Widow Capet. Let’s take up the stone. Come down into the tunnel with me and I’ll prove to you that two men, or even one man on his own, could lift the Queen out overnight without anyone suspecting a thing.”

  A murmur of fright and admiration excited by the architect’s words rippled through the group and died in citizen Théodore’s ear. He sat transfixed as though turned to stone.

  “That is the risk we are running,” Giraud went on. “So now, with a gate that I’ll put inside the tunnel and which will cut it in half before it gets to the Widow Capet’s cell, I will save our nation.”

  “Oh!” uttered Santerre. “Citizen Giraud, that’s a stroke of genius you’ve had there.”

  “May you rot in hell, you moron,” growled the patriot with a surge of rage.

  “Now, lift up the flagstone,” said the ar
chitect to citizen Gracchus, who was carrying pliers as well as his lantern.

  Citizen Gracchus got to work and the stone was raised in no time. The tunnel appeared, a gaping hole with stairs that went down into its depths out of sight, and a cloud of moldy air escaped, thick as smoke.

  “Yet another attempt thwarted!” murmured citizen Théodore. “Oh! Heaven can’t want her to escape, then, and her cause is cursed!”

  37

  CITIZEN GRACCHUS

  For a moment the men stood as though rooted to the spot at the mouth of the tunnel as the wicket clerk plunged his lantern into the opening; the light didn’t go far, the tunnel was so deep and dark. The triumphant architect lorded it over his three companions from the height of his genius.

  “Well then,” he said after a while.

  “I’ll be buggered!” replied Santerre. “There really is a tunnel, it’s incontestable. But it remains to be seen where it goes.”

  “Yes,” echoed Richard, “that remains to be seen.”

  “Well then, down you go, citizen Richard, and see for yourself if what I said is true.”

  “I’ve got a better idea than going down there,” said the concierge. “Why don’t we go back with you and the general to the Conciergerie and then you can pull up the flagstone where the stove is and we’ll see.”

  “Very good!” said Santerre. “Off we go.”

  “But take care,” said the architect. “If we don’t put the stone back properly, it might give someone ideas.”

  “Who the hell do you think’s going to turn up here at this hour?” asked Santerre.

  “Anyway,” Richard added, “the hall’s deserted; if we leave Gracchus here, that’ll be good enough. Stay here, citizen Gracchus, and we’ll come back to you from the other end of the tunnel.”

  “As you wish,” said Gracchus.

  “Are you armed?” asked Santerre.

  “I have my sword and these pliers, citizen general.”

  “Marvelous! Keep your eyes peeled. We’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  With that, all three shut the gate and went back to the Conciergerie through the Haberdashers’ Gallery.

  The wicket clerk watched them go and followed them with his eyes as far as he could see them; he listened to them as long as he could hear them; and when at last everything went silent and he was on his own, he put his lantern on the ground, sat at the edge of the hole with his legs dangling into the darkness of the tunnel, and began to dream.

  Wicket clerks do dream sometimes like the rest of us. Only, usually no one goes to the trouble of finding out what they dream about.

  Suddenly, and while he was in the depths of his daydream, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned around, saw an unknown face, and made to cry out in alarm. But at that very instant a pistol pressed its cold muzzle into his forehead. His voice died in his throat, his arms fell inert, his eyes took on the most imploring expression they could muster.

  “Not a word,” said the newcomer, “or you’re dead.”

  “What do you want, monsieur?” stuttered the wicket clerk.

  Even in ’93 there were, as you see, moments when people addressed each other formally and forgot to call each other citizen.

  “I want you to let me down there,” said citizen Théodore.

  “What for?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  The clerk looked at the man who had made this request with sheer astonishment. But there was a spark of real intelligence in that look as well, or so the object of his astonishment felt. He lowered his gun.

  “Would you turn down the chance to make your fortune?”

  “I don’t know; no one’s ever made me a proposition on the subject.”

  “Well then, let me be the first.”

  “You’re offering to make my fortune?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you mean by fortune?”

  “Fifty thousand livres in gold, say: money is thin on the ground, and fifty thousand livres in gold is worth a million today. So I’m offering you fifty thousand livres.”

  “To let you go down there?”

  “Yes—but on condition that you come with me and help me do what I have to do there.”

  “But what will you do there? In five minutes, the tunnel will be packed with soldiers who’ll arrest you.”

  Citizen Théodore was struck by the gravity of his words.

  “Can you stop the soldiers from going down?”

  “I don’t know how; I can’t think, I’m trying to think of a way, but I can’t.”

  And it was clear the clerk was bringing all his perspicacity to bear on a problem that was worth fifty thousand livres to him to solve.

  “What about tomorrow?” asked citizen Théodore. “Can we get down there then?”

  “Yes, no doubt; but before that they’re going to put an iron gate in the tunnel—one that’ll go all the way across, and for greater security it’s been decided that the gate will go all the way to the roof, and it will be solid and it won’t have a door.”

  “Then we need to find some other way,” said citizen Théodore.

  “Yes, we need to find some other way,” said the clerk. “Let’s think.”

  As you can see from the collective pronoun with which citizen Gracchus expressed himself, there was already an alliance between him and citizen Théodore.

  “That’s my problem,” said Théodore. “What is it you do at the Conciergerie?”

  “I’m a wicket clerk.”

  “Which means?”

  “That I open doors and shut them.”

  “Do you sleep there?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “You eat there?”

  “Not always. I have time off.”

  “And then?”

  “I make use of it.”

  “How?”

  “To court the lady who runs the cabaret, the Puits-de-Noé—she’s promised to marry me when I have twelve hundred francs.”

  “Where is this Puits-de-Noé located?”

  “Near the rue de la Vieille-Draperie.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Quiet, monsieur!”

  The patriot strained to hear.

  “Ah! Ah!” he said. “Do you hear?”

  “Yes … footsteps.”

  “They’re coming back. You can see we wouldn’t have had time.” That we was becoming more and more conclusive.

  “True. You’re a brave lad, citizen; I’ve got the feeling you’re predestined for great things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Being rich one day.”

  “May God hear you!”

  “So you believe in God?”

  “Sometimes, now and again. Today, for instance …”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d gladly believe.”

  “Then believe,” said citizen Théodore, popping ten louis in the clerk’s hand.

  “Christ!” said the clerk, staring at the gold by the light of his lantern. “So it’s serious?”

  “It doesn’t get more serious.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Be at the Puits-de-Noé tomorrow, I’ll tell you what I need you to do then. What’s your name?”

  “Gracchus.”

  “Well then, citizen Gracchus, between now and tomorrow, get yourself fired by Richard the concierge.”

  “Fired? What about my job?”

  “Do you count on remaining a clerk once you’ve got fifty thousand francs to yourself?”

  “No, but at least as a clerk and a poor man, I’m pretty sure of not being guillotined.”

  “Sure?”

  “As good as; whereas if I’m rich and free …”

  “You’ll hide your money and go and court a tricoteuse instead of the woman who runs the Puits-de-Noé.”

  “Well then, enough said.”

  “Tomorrow, at the cabaret.”

  “What time?”

  “Six o’clock in the evening.”

  “You’d bette
r fly, quick, here they come.… I say fly, since I suppose you came down from the roof.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Théodore repeated before making good his escape.

  It was, indeed, just in the nick of time. The sound of feet and voices was getting closer. You could see that the dark tunnel was already bright with the light of approaching lamps. Théodore ran to the door pointed out to him by the scribe whose hut he had borrowed. He popped the lock with his pliers, reached the window he’d been told about, opened it, slipped down to the ground, and found himself on the cobblestones of the republican street.

  But before leaving the Hall of Lost Footsteps, he managed to catch citizen Gracchus questioning Richard and the concierge’s answer:

  “The citizen architect was perfectly right: the tunnel goes under Widow Capet’s room; it was dangerous.”

  “I should think so!” said Gracchus, who was conscious of uttering the simple truth.

  Santerre appeared at the mouth of the stairs.

  “What about your workers, citizen architect?” he asked Giraud.

  “They’ll be here before the break of day and they’ll put the gate in place without further ado,” answered a voice that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth.

  “And you will have saved our nation!” Santerre said, half mockingly, half seriously.

  “You don’t know how right you are, citizen general,” muttered Gracchus.

  38

  THE ROYAL CHILD

  Meanwhile, the case for the Queen’s trial had begun to be prepared for judgment, as we saw in the preceding chapter.

  Already it was anticipated that only the sacrifice of her illustrious head would satisfy the popular hate that had been so long brewing. Reasons for causing her head to fall were hardly lacking, and yet that deadly prosecutor, Fouquier-Tinville, determined to leave no stone unturned, decided to investigate the new avenue of accusation Simon had promised to open up for him.