Kilgorman Part 21

"Who is your master?" demanded the officer.

"Citoyen Lestrange," said I boldly, "an Irishman resident in Paris."

"Where have you been?"

"To Dublin, to see my master's agent, Mr Patten."

"Is this Monsieur Patten's letter?"

"That to my master is his. That to the Citoyen Duport is from a French gentleman in Dublin whose name I do not know."

It hurt me to tell so many lies in one breath. But I must needs have some story to tell, and prayed Heaven to forgive me for this.

To my relief the officer seemed satisfied, and I gathered that the Citoyen Duport must be a man of consequence in Paris.

"Pa.s.s, John Ca.s.sidy," said he, handing me back my papers.

The same ceremony awaited me at each halting-place, and I realised before I was half-way to Paris that it was no easy matter for a stranger to travel in France in those days. What would have become of me but for the accident in the wood near Morlaix it were hard to say.

But though I had much to congratulate myself on, I confess that as I drew near to the capital I had much to perturb me. At every halting- place on the way there were some who shrugged their shoulders when they heard I was going to Paris. Paris, I heard it whispered, was no safe place just then even for a Frenchman, still less for a stranger. The streets were flowing with the blood of those whose only crime was that they were suspected of not being the friends of the people. As to my pa.s.sport, it would be of little use to me unless I could give a fit account of myself and my masters. As for Citoyen Duport, if I once put my head in his jaws I need not expect to see it on again. And as for my letter to Citoyen Lestrange, I had better carry it in the sole of my stocking, and let no one know I bore a missive to any Englishman or Irishman in Paris. My wisest course, so one frank official at Alencon told me, was to know no French, to have no errand but my letter to Citoyen Duport; that delivered, he thought I should save trouble if I shot myself through the head.

All this was very alarming; and I began to doubt, when at last I caught sight of the towers and domes of Paris in the distance, whether I should not have been better off after all hiding in the caves under Fanad, or dangling on the gallows beside Brest harbour.

At the barrier, however, things fell out easier for me than I had feared. For, just as I arrived, a common cart on the way out had been stopped and searched, and in it, hidden in a wood packing-case, had been unearthed some notorious enemy of the people, over whose detection there was great rejoicing, and the promise of a famous execution in the morning. For all these reasons the soldiers and officials into whose hands I fell were in high good-humour, and after scanning my pa.s.sport and the letter to the deputy let me go by.

I had followed the advice of my late counsellor, and forgotten all the little French I knew, and had hidden the letter to Citoyen Lestrange in my stocking. Whether I was to carry out the rest of his advice remained to be seen.

The officer at the barrier retained my pa.s.sport, saying it was done with, from which I concluded that now I was in Paris there was little hope of getting out of it again. So, feeling like a mouse in a trap, I parted company with my horse, my pa.s.sport, and even my pistol (of which I was also relieved), and walked forward into the noisy city, wis.h.i.+ng I only knew where to go next.

Presently I came into a long narrow street, where the houses overhead slanted towards one another and nearly shut out the light of heaven.

Poles stuck out from the windows, on which hung clothes or signs or legends; the sight of which, swaying in the wind, mingled with the foul odour and the noise and the jostling crowd, fairly dazed a country boy like me. How, in such a place as this, was I to find what I wanted-- namely, a meal and a night's lodging?

At last, in front of me, there swung a flaunting sign--"A l'Irlandois"-- at which I cheered up. Here, at any rate, in the midst of this noisome babel, seemed to come a whiff from the old country, and I felt like a castaway in sight of land.

But before I had time to reach the place the whole street seemed suddenly to go mad. First there was a yell and a roll of drums at the end by which I had entered. Then every window seemed alive with people, straining forward with howls and execrations and clenched fists. From every door below poured forth a crowd, who fought with one another for a place next the roadway, waved their red caps, and shouted in a wild sort of chant some French song. In the rush stalls and barrows were overturned, but there was no one to heed; children were trampled on, but no one heard their cries; pockets were picked, but there was no one to miss their loss; windows were smashed, but there was no one to feel a draught. To my wondering fancy, all Paris had suddenly turned into this narrow Rue d'Agnes and there run mad.

I noticed that the one thing all were agreed upon, was to keep a clear s.p.a.ce in the roadway, and strain their necks impatiently in the direction of the drums; and soon enough the reason of all this excitement became clear. Drawn by a single horse, and escorted by a troop of National Guards, came a low open cart, in which sat two persons, deadly white, gazing in a dazed vacant way at the scene around them, and sometimes casting a reproachful glance at the slowly plodding horse. One of the two was an old man, of fine, aristocratic presence, which the coa.r.s.e clothes he wore could not disguise. The other was a low ruffian, with swollen face and bleared eyes, in the dress of a butcher. Between the two, except that they were on their way to death, there was nothing in common. Till to-day they had never met, and after to-day they would never meet again. The crime of one, so I heard, was that he was related to an aristocrat; that of the other, that he had murdered his own daughter. For both offences the law of France just then had but one penalty. And of the two, he who was most execrated and howled at and spat upon was the gentleman.

In less time than it takes to write it the show had pa.s.sed. A few of the crowd followed to see the end of the business. The rest, for the most part, returned to their callings, and before the drums were out of hearing the Rue d'Agnes was once more a plain, dirty, ordinary Paris street.

With a heart a good deal weighted by what I had seen, I turned into the Cabaret "a l'Irlandois." If I had expected to find anything there to remind me of my own country, I was sorely disappointed. A few blouse- clad idlers sat at a table, smoking and drinking sugar and water, and discussing the news of the day with their host, a surly-looking fellow, who, whatever his inn might be, was himself a common type of Frenchman.

"Now?" demanded he as I approached. "Monsieur," said I in English, "I desire a bed and some food."

"Speak French," said he in English. "I speak no French," replied I in French. Whereupon one of the idlers was summoned as interpreter. I knew French enough to hear in the words that pa.s.sed between him and mine host the two expressions "spy" and "money," and I wished I had never come into the place. But it was not easy to get out now without confirming the suspicion, and I deemed it wise to appear indifferent.

"If monsieur can give me a bed, I will put up with him," said I to the interpreter; "if not--"

"Citizen Picquot sees his money before he sells his wares," said the other.

I laid a gold piece on the table. "Citizen Picquot is a wise man," said I.

Then followed a cross-examination of me, prompted by the cautious Picquot and interpreted by his ally.

"Who was I? Where did I come from? Why did I seek a lodging at his house of all others? How long was I going to stay? What was my occupation in Paris? How much more money had I got?" and so on.

To all of which I answered my best; and when I produced my letter to the Depute Duport they treated me more ceremoniously. I was shown to a room, the like of which for filth I had never slept in before, and shall never, I hope, sleep in again. It was a large chamber, the boards of which were furred with mildew, and the valance on the bed was dropping off with rottenness. Generations of cats had haunted it and slept on the coverlet. The dungeon at Brest was fresh and sweet compared to it.

Yet Citizen Picquot smilingly demanded two francs a night and the price of my candle.

"Monsieur is safe here," said he, forgetting, as did I, that I knew no French. "I had a guest, a week ago, who was found by the Guards and taken before the Tribunal and guillotined. He would have been safe too, but we had a difference about money, and I denounced him. It was only a week ago. They will not search my house again for a month to come.

Monsieur will be quite safe; but if, alas, he perish (and who is quite safe in these days?), I will myself protect his effects, and see his letter to the depute duly forwarded."

All this was vastly consoling.

"Apropos," said I, "cannot I deliver my letter this evening?"

"This evening," said my host with a shrug; "it is death to approach a depute a la Convention Nationale after the seance is closed. The last who did it was Mademoiselle Corday, and she-- In the morning, monsieur, when the Convention sits, you shall deliver your letter; till then, peace and sound repose." And he bowed himself out.

I knew not much of the world, but I knew enough to wish myself out of this rat-trap. To try to escape just now would, I saw, be futile. Yet to spend the night there meant, if not murder, at least robbery and pestilence. A brave face was the only thing to put upon the business, and I followed Citizen Picquot downstairs and called for food and drink, in which I invited not him only but his gossips to join me.

I noticed that the door was carefully locked when any one came in or went out, and that any chance motion of mine in that direction was quickly intercepted. So the evening wore on, and presently the lights of the cabaret were extinguished, and my host pa.s.sed me my candle and again bade me good-night.

I went up by no means gaily. Three other men, I observed, were still in the house, and would in all probability join in the attack upon me. I had parted with my pistol. The door was without a lock. The window was shuttered from the outside. My only arms were a small pocket-knife and my belt.

I took the precaution to secrete my letter to the deputy, along with that to Mr Lestrange, in my boot, and the little money I had left I tied up in the tail of my s.h.i.+rt. Then I considered that the only safe place for me that night was to sit on the floor with my back against the door and my heels against the foot of the bed, which chanced to stand at just the required length. In this posture, even if I fell asleep, any attempt to force the door would arouse me; and if the door was reasonably sound I could reckon, with my back and feet, on keeping it fast against the four, at any rate for a while.

I had a long time to wait. They evidently meant to give me time to fall asleep, and themselves, perhaps, time to consume some more of the cognac which my money had provided. I was indeed almost dozing when my ears caught the sound of an unsteady footstep on the stairs and a whispering of voices below. Then the footstep stopped outside my door, and a hand cautiously turned the handle.

"The young dog smells a rat," muttered my landlord, with a hickup which gave me some hope.

"True for you, monsieur," replied I, in as good French as I could muster. "I can shoot rats as well as smell them." And I made the blade of my knife give a click that sounded for all the world like the c.o.c.king of a pistol.

"Armed!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the tipsy scoundrel. "G.o.d have mercy! Pardon, monsieur, I came to see if you were comfortable."

"Monsieur citoyen is too good. I am most comfortable, and beg to be waked at c.o.c.k-crow. _Bonsoir_."

I knew of course that was not the end of him, but while he stumbled downstairs to take counsel with his comrades I had at least time to breathe. I peeped out of the door. All was dark, and there was no sound but the ticking of the great Dutch clock in the shop below.

The clock! I had noticed it that evening--a great unwieldy structure like a coffin on end, and a dial above. If I could but get down to it, while my a.s.sailants were up despatching me, I might yet have a chance of eluding them. I could hear them discussing together at the foot of the stairs, and presently advance once more to the charge, not this time with my host as an advance-guard, but all together. I slipped out into the pa.s.sage, and hid in a dark corner at the head of the stairs, so close, indeed, that they all but brushed against me in pa.s.sing.

"_Alors, il dort_," said my host, listening for a moment. "No; he moves. All together now."

And with one accord they hurled themselves against the door, which of course offered no resistance, and admitted them toppling one over the other into the room.

I waited no longer, but slipped down the stairs and into the clock. I had to displace the pendulum to do it, but trusted to the muddled condition of the enemy not to miss the ticking.

After a while they came down in a towering rage, blaming one another for what had happened. They were just in the humour to be quarrelsome, and as I stood motionless in my narrow sentry-box I heard as pretty a battle of words as it has ever been my lot to listen to.

Their one comfort was that I could not be far away. Either I had gone out by the window, in which case I had undoubtedly broken my neck; or I was down in the cellar, in which case I would keep till morning.