VI
Revolution
The night was blusterous with sudden squalls and gusts of rain, and intervals when the full moon rode serene among scurrying clouds. It being past midnight, Paris slept, but slept lightly, for the period was that of the autumn of 1793. Few wayfarers were to be seen, and those who were about moved both quickly and warily as though engaged on business of danger and despatch.
At a corner of the Rue S. Michael two men, coming from opposite directions, were caught by the full force of an eddying blast, and in a moment two hats were careering along the street with their owners in angry pursuit. Each man seized the first that came to hand, crammed it upon his head more firmly than before, and sought the nearest doorway to regain breath and composure before continuing his journey. Then, as they had taken refuge beneath the same arch, each began to regard the other, as men mostly did in those days, a little suspiciously at first.
"A stormy night, citizen," remarked the more sociable of the two.
"Stormy times altogether," replied the other. "But surely, citizen, your voice is somehow familiar to me. Bless my soul, it cannot be?"
"Philippe Buton, citizen. And you?"
"Dumont—your old friend of the office in the Place du Temple—Louis Dumont. Surely you have not forgotten?"
"Forgotten! I should think not. And is it really you, Dumont, after all these years? A strange chance that brings us thus together!"
"Strange indeed! And wearing each other's hat, it would appear. At least, this one feels uncommonly tight to me."
"I believe you are right, Louis. There is an unusual roominess in the one that I have on" They laughed and exchanged hats, and Buton resumed, "Since we must exchange hats, we may as well exchange confidences. What brings you here at this hour?"
"Agreed," responded Dumont. "All the same, you are about the only man to whom I would care to confide the nature of my errand. Briefly, it is a matter of the public good and of private vengeance."
"Vengeance?"
"Just retribution, let us rather say. In the years since we lost sight of one another, Philippe, I have become married"
"I congratulate you!"
"You have small reason to do so. I do not speak of it more than is necessary. You understand? The man on whom I would be avenged is an aristocrat. At his hands I have suffered a wrong which nothing but his death can satisfy. And I have justice on my side, Philippe; justice and morality and the public welfare. Already this beggarly marquis has been condemned by the Committee, and his execution is only a matter of bringing him to trial. But he fled, and for six months has been abroad. Now, by the merest chance, I have heard something from which I gather that he has secretly returned and at this moment is in Paris."
"I see," interrupted Buton. "And you would seek out the scoundrel and settle accounts with him before the guillotine robs you of that satisfaction."
"Not so fast," replied Dumont dryly. "Why should I take the risk? And ten to one he would decline to cross swords with me. No, Buton, so long as he dies it is not a great matter how. Indeed, an end at the hands of the public executioner is the more ignominious and therefore the better way. Once I am certain of his presence I have only to convey a word and the thing is done."
It was now Buton's turn to explain his errand. He, also, would have spoken with reserve, but Dumont's confidence and the trust which he reposed in his former friend encouraged him to be no less open.
"What you tell me makes our meeting all the more curious," he remarked, "for I too am on my way to find a proscribed aristocrat. There is this difference, however, that whereas you very justly would destroy a worthless libertine, my errand is to give timely warning to a virtuous nobleman whose chivalrous protection of my family, even at the risk of his own life, has placed me under an everlasting obligation."
"A dangerous business in these times," remarked Dumont significantly.
"Otherwise there would be little merit in it. However, Dumont, I am as good a citizen as you at heart, and to prove it I will accompany you and take part in whatever risk your adventure may entail."
"Good. And to show you that I am no less broad-minded, Philippe, I will also join forces with you in your enterprise, and back you up if it should be necessary."
They had walked along as they conversed, and by this time had reached the end of the street, where they paused, each waiting for the other to indicate the direction he would take.
"I go by the Rue des Murailles," said Dumont, "but perhaps you?"
"Not at all," replied Buton. "That is my way also."
A little farther on Dumont stopped at the corner of a narrow by-way.
"This leads through to the Place de Chaumont, where my fox has gone to earth," he said. "Shall we get on with my affair first as it lies nearest?"
"Certainly," assented his companion. "But it is to the Place de Chaumont that my errand also takes us."
"The house opposite the lead fountain"
"The same."
"I mean that that is where the Marquis de Salais hides."
"Quite so," agreed Buton, with his mind full of his own affair. "As we are so near we may as well take my business first and warn him."
"Warn? Damnation! He is the man whom we have come to deliver up!"
For a moment the two adventurers stared at one another in a common emotion of dismay.
"Well," exclaimed Buton, "here's a pretty kettle of fish!"
"It's plain that we can't both succeed," assented Dumont.
"And our plan for mutual support would seem to present difficulties."
"I confess I don't see what we are to do. If de Salais is capable of the exalted behaviour with which you credit him"
"But if, on the other hand, he is really the depraved voluptuary that you have reason to"
"What's all the row about?" growled a rough voice from behind. "Can't you go somewhere else than on a man's own doorstep to quarrel over him?"
Half unconsciously they had been proceeding on their mutual way and they now stood, without up to that time being aware of it, by the house opposite the lead fountain. The door was open and a citizen of burly aspect lounged within the shadow.
"This—this is where M. le Marquis—Citizen Salais, that is to say, lodges then?" stammered Dumont.
"So I am now told. But citizen or marquis he's flown—cleared off for le Mans six hours ago."
"Le Mans!" shrieked Dumont. "Why, my wife is at le Mans. I sent her there for safety!"
"But, good heavens! Mascot, who knows him well by sight, went to le Mans only yesterday," faltered Buton. "He has walked straight into the lion's mouth."
"He really has gone?" demanded Dumont of the doorkeeper, with an excess of suspicion.
The burly individual stood aside.
"Oh, go up and see for yourselves," he suggested caustically. "First chamber to the front. Don't stand on any ceremony, honest citizens; everyone in Paris goes in and out everywhere, just as he pleases, nowadays. Step up, and don't forget to look up the chimney while you're about it."
Under his sardonic insistence the two friends found themselves making their way into de Salais's deserted room. Dumont picked up a lamp from a bracket on the stairs and held it aloft. Plainly the marquis was gone, and by the evidence around he had left hurriedly, for many of his gay belongings lay flung about the room.
"Upon my word, these aristocrats were a set of peacocks," exclaimed Dumont, in half-envious contempt. "Look at this pearl silk waistcoat, and this blue satin coat, and this hat! I fancy myself in this get-up, Philippe. Let's see how it suits."
He slipped off his own upper garments and drew on those that had taken his fancy. Not to seem to stand aloof Buton followed his example, and tried the effect of a canary-coloured coat, with elaborate lace frillings. As they were thus engaged there was an irregular tramp of feet in the square outside. Then a "Halt!"
The half-intoxicated officer in charge of the handful of undisciplined rascality lurched across to the doorway opposite the lead fountain.
"The so-called Marquis de Salais—which is his room, citizen?" he demanded.
"First to the front," replied the doorkeeper stolidly.
"There's something going on out there," said Dumont, as the "Halt!" reached them. Then he opened the window and stepped out on to the balcony.
"Prepare—fire!" commanded the officer.
"Good God!” exclaimed Buton. "They're mistaking him" Then he too stepped through the window to shout a warning.
"Diable, another marquis!" exclaimed the officer in vinous bewilderment. "Squad—fire again!"
The squad fired again, and Buton fell lifeless across the figure in the blue satin coat.
Hastings, 1915.