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CHAPTER V. A RECEPTION AT MADAME ROLAND’S
If it be matter of wonderment that at such a time as we now speak of De Noe should have opened his heart thus freely to one he had never met before, the simple explanation lies in the fact that periods of “espionage” are precisely those when men make the rashest confederacies. Wearied and worn out, as it were, by everlasting chicanery and trick, they seize with avidity on the first occasion that presents itself to relieve the weight of an overburdened heart. To feel a sense of trust is sufficient to make them reveal their most secret feelings; and it was thus that De Noe no sooner found himself alone with Gerald than he told him the whole story of his love.
Gerald not only read his motives aright, but saw also something of the man himself. He perceived in him a type of a class by no means unfrequent at the time – royalists by birth and instinct, and yet so stripped of all the prestige of their once condition, and so destitute of hope, that they really lived on the contingency of each day, not knowing by what stratagem the morrow was to be met, nor to what straits future fate might subject them. Besides this, he saw how the supporters of the ‘cause’ had gradually degenerated from the great names and nobles of France to men of ruined hopes and blasted fortunes, whose intrigues were conceived in the lowest places, and carried on by the meanest associates. The more he reflected on these things, the more was he convinced that Mirabeau was right when he said the ‘Revolution was a fire that must burn out.’
‘And how long will the flames last,’ cried he to himself; ‘they will not assuredly be extinguished in my time. The great convulsions of nations will bear proportion to the vast materials they deal with. France will not rally from this shock for half a century to come; and ere that I shall have passed away.’
When doubt or despondency weighed upon his mind, all the crafty reasoning of Mirabeau and all the sensual teachings of Rousseau came freshly to his memory. They told him of a world of conflict and struggle, but also a world of voluptuous pleasure and abandonment. They sneered at the ideal pretexts men called loyalty and fidelity, and they counselled the enjoyment of the present as the only true philosophy. ‘Tell me you are sure of being alone to-morrow,’ said Diderot, ‘and I will listen to how you mean to spend it.’ like evil spirits that love the night, these dark thoughts were sure to seek him in his hours of gloomy depression.
There was, with all this, a sense of pique as he compared his own position with that which Marietta had already won for herself. ‘We started together in the race, thought he, ‘and see where she has distanced me! That poor friendless girl is already a social influence and a power, while I am a mere hanger-on of men, who use me in dangers that show how little they regard me. What rare abilities must she possess! What a marvellous insight into the human heart and all its varied workings! How ingeniously, too, has she contrived to interweave with her dramatic power the stranger and more mysterious workings of a supernatural influence! How far is she the dupe of her own deceptions?’ This was a thought not easily solved, knowing her well as he did, and knowing how often she was the slave of her own passionate impulses. ‘I will see her to-night with my own eyes, and mayhap be able to read her aright.’
The receptions of Madame Roland were among the ‘events’ of the day. They were the rendezvous of all that was most advanced and extravagant in republicanism. Thoroughly true-hearted and single-minded herself, she was rapidly attracted to those men who declaimed against courts and courtly vices, and sincerely believed that virtue only resided beneath lowly roofs and among narrow fortunes. Her sincere enthusiasm – the genuine ardour of a character that had no duplicity in it – added to considerable personal charms, gave her a vast influence in the society wherein she moved. She was not strictly handsome, but her features were of extreme delicacy, and capable of expression the most refined and captivating; but her voice was the spell which, it is said, never failed to fascinate those who heard it.
In the management of this marvellous instrument of captivation was, perhaps, the solitary evidence of anything like study or artifice about her. She knew how to attune and modulate it to perfection; and even they who pronounced her conversational powers as inferior to Madame de Stael’s, were ready to confess that the melody and softness of her utterance gave her an unquestionable advantage. Married to a man more than double her age, she exercised a complete independence in all the arrangements of her household, inviting whom she pleased, bringing together in her salons ingredients the most dissimilar, and representatives of classes the widest apart.
Gerald had more than once heard of these receptions, and was curious to witness them; he wished, besides, to see some of the men whom the popular will declared to be the great leaders of party, and whose legislative ability was regarded as the hope of France.
‘Do not flatter yourself that you are about to be struck by any intellectual display,’ whispered De Noe, as he led him up the stairs. ‘For the most part, you will hear nothing but violent tirades against royalty, and coarse abuse of a society of which the speaker knows nothing.’
The salons, which were small, were crammed with company, so that for some time Gerald had little other occupation than to scrutinise the appearance of the guests, and the strange extravagances of that costume which they had come to assume distinctively.
‘Look yonder,’ whispered De Noe, ‘at the tall, dark man, like a Spaniard, with his long hair combed back and falling on his neck. That is Lanthenas, l’ami de la maison; he lives here. Were she any one else, people would call him her lover; but “La Manon,” as they style her, has no heart to bestow on such emotion; she is with her whole soul in politics, and only cares for humanity when counted by millions.’
‘Who is the pert-looking, conceited fellow he is talking to?’ asked Gerald.
‘That is Louvet, the great literary hero of the day. Seven editions of an indecent novel, sold in as many weeks, have made him rich as well as famous; and the author of Faublas is now courted and sought after on all sides.’
As the crowd thickened, De Noe could but just tell the names of the more remarkable characters without time for more. There was Pelleport, a marquis by birth, but now a spy, and libelist of the lowest class, side by side with Condorcet, the optimist philosopher, and Brissot, the wildest enunciator of republicanism. Carsu, with a dozen penal sentences over his head, was talking familiarly with old Monsieur Roland himself, a simple-hearted old egotist, vain, harmless, and conceited. Yonder, entertaining a group of ladies by the last scandals of the day, told as none but himself could tell them, was Gaudet, a young lawyer from Lyons, his dress the exaggeration of all that constituted the republican mode; while looking on, and with air at once rebuking and amused, stood Dumont, his staid features and simple attire the modest contrast to the other’s finery.
‘A young friend of mine, just come from Italy, Madame, said De Noe, suddenly perceiving Madame Roland’s eyes fixed on Fitzgerald.
‘And “of us”?’ said she significantly.
‘Assuredly, Madame, or I had not dared to present him,’ said De Noe, bowing.
‘You must not say so, sir. Do you know,’ said she, addressing Gerald, ‘that it was only last week he brought a bishop here, Monseigneur de Blois.’
‘Ah! but be just, Madame; he had been degraded for immorality,’ broke in De Noe, laughing.
‘You should have shared his penalty, Monsieur De Noe,’ said she, half coldly, and moved on.
‘Come, Gerald, let me present you to some of my illustrious friends. Whom will you know? That choleric old lady there, a dismissed court lady, and the sworn enemy of the queen; or her daughter, the pretty widow, playing trictrac with Fabre d’Êglantine? Or shall I introduce you to that dark-eyed beauty, whose foot you are not the first man that ever admired? She is, or was, La Comtesse de Ratignolles, but calls herself Julie Servan on her books.
‘Why don’t you answer me? What are you thinking of? Ah, parbleu! I see well enough. It is the Gabrielle; and the tall, pale man she leans upon is Talma. Is not that enough of homage, mon cher? See how they rise to let her pass. We have been courtiers in our day, Gerald, but did you ever see a more queenly presence than that?’
It was truly, as De Noe described, like the passage of royalty. Marietta swept by, bowing slightly to either side, and by an easy gesture of her hand seeming half to decline, half accept, the honours that were paid her. Refusing with a sort of haughty indifference the seat prepared for her at the end of the room, she moved on toward a small boudoir, and was lost to Gerald’s view. Indeed, his attention was rapidly directed elsewhere, as a small, dark-eyed man in the centre of the room proceeded to entertain the company with an account of Mirabeau’s last moments. It was the Doctor Cabanis, who had tended his sickbed with such devotional affection, and whose real attachment had soothed the last sufferings of his patient. If there was something in Gerald’s estimation more than questionable in this exposure of all that might be deemed most sacred and private, the narrative was full of little details that interested him.
The dreadful mockery by which Mirabeau endeavoured to cheat death of his terrors, as, dressed, perfumed, and essenced, he lay upon his last bed, all surrounded with flowers, was told with a thrilling minuteness. Through all the assumed calm, through all the acted philosophy, there crept out the agonising eagerness for life, that even his dissimulation could not smother. His incessant questioning as to this symptom or that, whether it indicated good or evil; the intense anxiety with which he scrutinised the faces around his bed, to read the thoughts their words belied, were all related; and, strangely enough, assumed to imply that they were the last desires of a patriot who only longed for life to serve his country. Of those who listened, many doubted the honesty and good faith of his character; some thought him a royalist in disguise; some deemed him a lukewarm patriot; some even regarded him as so destitute of principle, that his professions were good for nothing; and yet amid all these disparaging estimates, they regarded this deathbed, where no consolations of religion were breathed, where no murmur of prayer was heard, nor one supplication for mercy raised, as a glorious triumph! It was to their eyes the dawning of that transcendent brightness which was to succeed the long night of priestcraft and superstition; and however ready to cavil at his doctrines or dispute his theories, there was but one voice – to honour him who with his last breath had defied the Church.
‘Ah, que c’est beau!’ ‘Ah que c’est magnifique!’ were the mutterings on every side. One only circumstance detracted in any way from the effect of these revelations; it was, that he who made them momentarily gave vent to his feelings and shed tears. This homage to human frailty jarred upon the classic instincts of the assembly. It was an ignoble weakness, unworthy of such a theme; and in a tone of stern rebuke, Fabre d’Églantine interrupted the speaker, and said —
‘Your grief is unbecoming, sir; such sorrow insults the memory you mean to hallow! If you would learn how the death of Mirabeau should be accepted, go yonder, and you will see.’ He pointed as he spoke toward the boudoir, and thither with a common impulse the crowd now moved.
A warning gesture from Talma, as he stood in the doorway, and with uplifted hand motioned silence, arrested their steps, and, awestruck by the imposing attitude of one whose slightest gesture was eloquent, they halted. Mixed in the throng, Gerald could barely catch a glimpse of the scene beyond. He could, however, perceive that Marietta was lying in a sort of trance; a crown of ‘immortelles’ that she had been weaving had fallen from her hand, and lay at her feet; her hair, too, had burst its bands, and fell in large waving masses over her neck and arms; the faintest trace of colour marked her cheeks, and sufficed to show that she had not fainted.
Lanthenas laid his finger softly on her wrist, and in a cautious whisper said, ‘The pulse is intermittent, the “accès” will be brief.’
‘We were talking of the death of Cæsar,’ said Talma, ‘when the attack came on. She would not have it that Brutus was a patriot. She tried to show that in such natures – stern, cold, and self-denying – patriotism can no more take root than love. I asked her then if Gabriel Riquetti were such a man – ’
‘Hush! she is about to speak,’ broke in Madame Roland.
A few soft murmuring sounds escaped Marietta’s lips, and her fingers moved convulsively.
‘What is it she says,’ cried Louvet, ‘of crime and poison?’
‘Hush! listen.’
‘Examine Comps,’ muttered she; ‘he knows all.’
‘It is Mirabeau’s secretary she speaks of,’ said Louvet, ‘he committed suicide last night.’
‘No; he is not dead, though his wound may prove fatal,’ said Cabanis.
‘He will live,’ said Marietta solemnly, and then seemed to sink into a deep stupor.
‘Yes, trust me, I will tell him,’ cried she suddenly, with a voice as assured and an accent as firm as though awake. ‘Come here and let me whisper it.’
One after another bent down beside the couch, but she repulsed them sharply, and with a half-angry gesture motioned them away.
Madame Roland knelt down and took her hand, but with the same abrupt movement the other pushed her away, muttering, ‘No, not you – not you.’
Again and again did they who knew her best present themselves, but with the same ill success. Some she drove rudely back, to others she made a sign to retire.
‘Mayhap the person is not present that you wish for,’ said Madame Roland softly.
‘He is here,’ said she gently.
Name after name of those around did Madame Roland whisper, but all without avail. At last, as Langrés presented himself, Marietta turned with a sort of aversion from him and said —
‘I am in search of a prince, and you bring me a butcher.’
This insulting speech was not heard without a smile by some who knew this man’s origin, and detested the coarse ruffianism of his address.
‘Parbleau, Madame! if you want princes you must go and seek them at the Français,’ said Langrés angrily, as he dropped back into the crowd.
Meanwhile, impelled by a strong desire to test the reality of her vision, Gerald made his way through the throng, and dropping on one knee, took her hand in his own.
A start and a faint exclamation – half surprise, half joy – broke from her as she felt his touch. She passed her hand over his face, and through his long hair, and then bending down kissed him on the forehead. She whispered a few words rapidly in his ear, and sank back exhausted.
‘She has fainted! Bring water quickly,’ cried Lanthenas.
For a few minutes every attention was directed toward her; and it was only as she showed signs of recovery, some one asked —
‘What has become of De Noe and his friend?’
They were gone.
CHAPTER VI. ‘LA GRUE’
When Gerald gained the street, it was to find it crammed with a dense mob, whose wild cries and screams filled the air. No sooner was he perceived by some of the multitude than a hundred yells saluted him, with shouts of ‘Down with the aristocrat; down with the tyrant, who insults the friend of the people.’ It was a mob who, in fervour of enthusiasm for Mirabeau’s memory, had closed each of the theatres in succession, dispersed all meetings of public festivity, and even invaded the precincts of private houses, to dictate a more becoming observance toward the illustrious dead. Few men could bear such prescription less patiently than Fitzgerald. The very thought of being ruled and directed by the ‘canaille’ was insupportably offensive, and he drove back those who rudely pressed upon him, and answered with contempt their words of insult and outrage.
‘Who is it that insults the majesty of the people?’ cried one; ‘let us hear his name.’
‘It is Louvet’ – ‘It is Plessard’ – ‘It is Lestocq’ – ‘It is that miserable Custine ‘ – shouted several together.
‘You are all wrong. I am a stranger, whose name not one of you has ever heard – ’
‘A spy! an emissary of Pitt and Cobourg!’
‘I am a foreigner, with whose sentiments you have no concern. I do not obtrude my opinions upon you.’
‘What do we care for that?’ shouted a deep voice. ‘You have dared to offend the most sacred sentiments of a nation, and to riot in a festive orgie while we weep over the deathbed of a patriot.’
‘A la Grue! à la Grue!’ screamed the wild mass in a yell of passion.
Now the Grue was an immense crane – used in some repairs of the Pont Neuf – which still held its place at the approach to the bridge. It was here that a sort of public tribunal held its nightly sittings by the light of a gigantic lantern, suspended from the crane; and which, report alleged, had more than once given way to a very different pendant. It is certain that two men, taken in the act of robbery, had been hanged by the sentence of this self-constituted tribunal, which, in open defiance of the authorities, continued to assemble there. The cry, ‘A la Grue! à la Grue!’ had, therefore, a dreadful significance; and there was a terrible import in the savage roar of the mob as they ratified the proposal.
‘We will try him fairly. He shall be judged deliberately, and be allowed to speak in his own defence,’ said several, who believed that their words were those of moderation and equity:
Powerless against the overwhelming mass, and too indignant to proffer one single word of palliation, Gerald was hurried along towards the quay.
There was something singularly solemn in the measured tread of that vast multitude, as, in a mockery of justice, they marched along. At first not a word was spoken; but suddenly a deep voice in the front rank began one of the popular chants of the day, the whole dense mass joining in the refrain. Nothing could be ruder than the verses, save the accents that intoned them; but there was in the very roar and resonance a depth that imparted a sense of force and power.
We offer a rough version of the unpolished chant —
‘The Cour Royale has a princely hall,
And many come there to sue;
But I love the sight of a stilly night,
And the crowd beneath the Grue.
No lawyer clown, with his cap and gown,
Has complex work to do;
For the horny hand and the face that’s tanned
Are the judges beneath the Grue.
At best, this life is a fleeting strife,
For me as well as for you;
But our work is brief with a rogue or thief
When he stands beneath the Grue.
No bribes resort to our humble court,
All is open and plain to view;
And the people’s voice and the people’s choice
Are the law beneath the Grue.
The Grue! the Grue! the Grue!
I ween there are but few
Who have hearts for hope as they see the rope
That dangles beneath the Grue.’
As they sang a number of voices in front of them took up the strain, till the crowd seemed to make the very air ring with their hoarse chant. In this way they reached the Seine, over whose dark and rapid flood the fatal crane seemed to droop sadly. Several hundred people were assembled here, a confused murmur showing that they were engaged in conversing rather than in that judicial function it was their pride to discharge.
‘A rebel against the majesty of the people and the fame of its greatest martyr,’ said a deep voice, as he announced the crime of Fitzgerald, and pushed him forward to the place reserved for the accused. ‘While a nation humbles itself in sorrow, this man chooses the hour for riotous dissipation and excess. We met him as he issued forth from the woman Roland’s house, so that he cannot deny the charge.’
‘Accused, stand forward,’ said a coarse-looking man, in a mechanic’s dress, but whose manner was not devoid of a certain dignity. ‘You are here before the French people, who will judge you fairly.’
‘Were I even conscious of a crime, I would deny your right to try me.’
‘Young man, you do but injury to yourself in insulting us, was the grave rebuke, delivered with a calm decorum which seemed to have its influence on Fitzgerald.
‘Who accuses him?’ asked the judge aloud.
‘I’ – ‘and I ‘ – ‘and I’ – ‘all of us,’ shouted a number together, followed by a burst of, ‘Let Lamarc do it; let Lamarc speak’; and a pale, very young man, of gentle look and slight figure, came forward at the call.
With the ease of one thoroughly accustomed to address public assemblies, and with an eloquence evidently cultivated in very different spheres, the young man pronounced a glowing panegyric on Mirabeau. It was really a fine and scarce exaggerated appreciation of that great man. Haughtily disclaiming the right of any less illustrious than Riquetti himself to sit in judgment upon the excesses of his turbulent youth, the orator even declared that it was in the passionate commotion of such temperaments that grand ideas were fostered, just as preternatural fertility is the gift of countries where earthquakes and volcanoes have convulsed them.
‘Deplore, if you will,’ cried he, ‘his faults, for his own sake; sorrow over the terrible necessities of a nature whose excitements must be sought for even in crime; mourn over one whose mysterious being demanded for mere sustenance the poisoned draughts of intemperance; but for yourselves and for your own sakes, rejoice that the age has given you Gabriel Riquetti de Mirabeau.’
‘Who is it dares to say such words as these, cried a hoarse, discordant voice, as forcing his way through the dense mass, a small, misshapen figure stood forward. Though bespeaking in his appearance a condition considerably above those around him, his dress was disordered, his cravat awry, and his features trembling with recent excitement. As the strong light fell upon him, Gerald could mark a countenance whose features once seen were never forgotten. The forehead was high, but retreating, and the eyes so sunk within their sockets that their colour could not be known, and their only expression a look of wolfish ferocity; to this, too, a haggard cheek and long, lean jaw contributed. All these signs of a harsh and cruel nature were greatly heightened by his mode of speaking, for his mouth opened wide, exposing two immense rows of teeth, a display which they who knew him well said he was inordinately vain of.
‘Is it to men and Frenchmen that any dares to speak thus?’ yelled he, in a voice that overtopped the others, and was heard far and wide through the crowd. ‘Listen to me, people,’ screamed he again, as, ascending the sort of bench on which the judge was seated, he waved his hand to enforce silence. ‘Kneel down and thank the gods that your direst enemy is dead!’
A low murmur – it was almost like the growl of a wild beast – ran through the assembly; but such was the courage of the speaker that he waited till it had subsided, and then in accents shriller than before repeated the same words. The hum of the multitude was now reduced to a mere murmuring sound, and he went on. It was soon evident how inferior the polished eloquence of the other must prove before such an audience to the stormy passion of this man’s speech. Like the voice of a destroying angel scattering ruin and destruction, he poured out over the memory of Mirabeau the flood of his invective. He reproduced the vices of his youth to account for the crimes of his age, and saw the treason to his party explained in his falsehood to his friends. There was in his words and in all he said the force of a mad mountain torrent, bounding wildly from crag to crag, sweeping all before it as it went, and yet ever pouring its flood deeper, fuller, and stronger. From a narrative of Riquetti’s early life, with every incident of which he was familiar, he turned suddenly to show how such a man must, in the very nature of his being, be an enemy to the people. A noble by birth, an aristocrat in all his instincts, he could never have frankly lent himself to the cause of liberty. It was only a traitor he was, then, within their camp; he was there to learn their strength and their weakness, to delude them by mock concessions. It was, as he expressed it, by the heat of their own passions that he welded the fetters for their own limbs.
‘If you ask who should mourn this man, the answer is, His own order; and it is they, and they alone, who sorrow over the lost leader. Not you, nor I, nor that youth yonder, whom you pretend to arraign; but whom you should honour with words of praise and encouragement. Is it not brave of him, in this hour of bastard grief, that he should stand forth to tell you how mean and dastardly ye are! I tell you, once more, that he who dares to stem the false sentiments of misguided enthusiasm has a courage grander than his who storms a breach. My friendship is his own from this hour,’ and as he said, he descended from the bench, and flung his arms around Fitzgerald.
Shouts of ‘Well done, Marat, bravely spoken!’ rent the air, and a hundred voices told how the current of public favour had changed its course.
‘Let us not tarry here, young man,’ said Marat. ‘Come along with me; there is much to be done yet.’
While Gerald was not sorry to be relieved from a position of difficulty and danger, he was also eager to undeceive his new ally, and avow that he had no sympathy with the opinions attributed to him. It was no time, however, for explanations, nor was the temper of the mob to be long trusted. He therefore suffered himself to be led along by the friends of Marat, who, speedily making way for their chief, issued into the open street.
‘Whither now!’ cried one aloud.
‘To the Bureau – to the Bureau!’ said another.
‘Be it so,’ said Marat. ‘The Ami du Peuple– so was his journal called – ’ must render an account of this night to its readers. I have addressed seven assemblies since eleven o’clock, and save that one in the Rue de Grenelle, all successfully. By the way, who is our friend? What is he called? Fitzgerald – a foreign name – all the better; we can turn this incident to good account. Are Frenchmen to be taught the path to liberty by a stranger, eh, Favart? That’s the keynote for your overture!’
‘The article is written – it is half-printed already,’ said Favart. ‘It begins better – “The impostor is dead: the juggler who gathered your liberties into a bundle and gave them back to you as fetters, is no more! “’
‘Ah, que c’est beau, that phrase!’ cried two or three together.
‘I will not have it,’ said Marat impetuously; ‘these are not moments for grotesque imagery. Open thus: “Who are the men that have constituted themselves the judges of immortality? Who are these, clad in shame and cloaked in ignominy, who assume to dispense the glory of a nation? Are these mean tricksters – these fawners on a corrupted court – these slaves of the basest tyranny that ever defaced a nation’s image, to be guardians at the gate of civic honours?”
‘Ah! there it is. It was Marat himself spoke there,’ said one.
‘That was the clink of the true metal,’ said Chaptal.
And now, in the wildest vein of rhapsody, Marat continued to pour forth a strange confused flood of savage invective. For the most part the language was coarse and ill-chosen and the reasoning faulty in the expression, but here and there would pierce through a phrase or an image so graphic or so true as actually to startle and amaze. It was these improvisations, caught up and reproduced by his followers, which constituted the leading articles of his journal. Too much immersed in the active career of his demagogue life to spare time for writing, he gave himself the habit of this high-flown and exaggerated style, which wore, so to say, a mock air of composition.
Pointing to the immense quantity of this sort of matter which his journal contained, Marat would boast to the people of his unceasing labours in their cause, his days of hard toil, his nights of unbroken exertion. He artfully contrasted a life thus spent with the luxurious existence of the pampered ‘rich.’ Such were the first steps of one who journeyed afterward far in crime – such the initial teachings of one who subsequently helped mainly to corrupt a whole people.
A strange impulse of curiosity to see something of these men of whom he had heard so much, influenced Gerald, while he was also in part swayed by the marvellous force of that torrent which never ceased to flow from Marat’s lips. It was a sort of fascination, not the less strong that it imparted a sense of pain.
‘I will see this night’s adventure to the end,’ said he to himself, and he went along with them.
