Chapter VI: The Prison of La Bourse

Olivier found himself on the threshold of a vast courtyard enclosed by high walls, and by two enormous stone and brick buildings with cross-barred windows. The roof of these buildings was bordered by a spiked fence, in order, as it seemed, to make escape impossible. These were the very structures he had seen from the street. They were connected by a stone corridor with a terrace at the end, running parallel with it, where a sentinel patrolled with shouldered arms. The entrance to this corridor was secured by an enormous grating, which when opened put the courtyard in which Olivier now stood in communication with another open space planted with trees.

The young man advanced with some hesitation, for he saw some of the prisoners walking in the shade of an acacia, whose blossoms were bathed in the rosy light of the setting sun. A mound of grass surrounding the tree lent rustic freshness to the scene.

Olivier scanned these moving groups with beating heart, anxiously examining every one that passed him. There were men, women, and even children. But he had recognised no one. His mother and Thérèse apparently were not there.

He would have questioned some one but dared not, vaguely fearing to compromise his dear ones, forgetting that the people before him were also prisoners, and their companions in suffering and misfortune. Just then a young woman, pretty and graceful in her simple toilet, wearing a white cambric cap finely goffered, came briskly towards him.

"You are perhaps looking for some one?" she said in a sweet voice.

"My mother and my _fiancée_, the citoyennes Durand."

"Oh! they are still at table! Look, the young girl will not eat, and the elder lady is trying to persuade her."

In his hesitation to advance further Olivier had not perceived, on the other side of the acacia, a table laid with coarse earthenware, which was being cleared by several turnkeys and waiters, and at which a few prisoners still lingered.

Yes, it was they, his beloved ones, at last! Olivier remained dumb, divided between his longing to hold them in his arms and the fear of taking them too brusquely by surprise. His unknown ally seemed to divine his feelings, for she said--

"If you like, I will go first to them." Then, as if to reassure him, she introduced herself: "I am the Countess de Narbonne."

Olivier, deeply moved, thanked her in broken phrases, and followed his friendly guide at a distance. Soon she was whispering in Clarisse's ear, as if preparing her for the unexpected visit. Clarisse turned round, and seeing her son, grew deadly pale. She rose and fell into his arms.

"Arrested? You also, my son?"

He pressed her to him, reassuring her.

"Oh, no! ... I am free! ... Be at peace, mother ... I have had permission to see you."

He then kissed Thérèse, who, still trembling, asked--

"Is it really true, you are free?"

Olivier again reassured them. Clarisse wished to find a secluded spot where they could talk undisturbed, and Thérèse having espied an empty bench under another acacia, they took possession of it.

Olivier now anxiously questioned his mother, wanting to know every detail of her arrest, but Clarisse interrupted him. He must first tell them about himself. Was he really safe? How did he get to Paris? Where was he staying? Olivier was obliged to answer, telling them his adventures as quickly as possible, that he might return to their arrest. When he had satisfied them, he asked breathlessly--

"And you? Tell me everything. I must know all."

Clarisse then told him of their arrest, departure, and halt at Montmorency; of the long drive to Paris, their arrival in the prison more dead than alive, and how they gained heart on learning it was one of the least cruel in Paris. She had been able to judge for herself when she awoke in the morning, and was so cordially received by her fellow-prisoners, men and women who, as she discovered on their introducing themselves, belonged to her world.

She then pointed out to Olivier among those taking their after-dinner promenade Madame de Narbonne, so gentle, so compassionate, and her little girl, such a darling child! then the Count and Countess de Lavergne; the Marquise de Choiseul, who had taken such kind and delicate interest in Thérèse at breakfast; the whole family de Malussie; the Count de Broglie; the Chevalier de Bar; the Maréchal de Mouchy and his lady, whom Clarisse had met in her youth at Versailles; Mademoiselle de Béthisy, and the Marquis d'Avaux.

"Yes," she said, with a sad smile. "I have not found myself in such elegant company since we left Pontivy."

"That is easily explained," replied Olivier; "the prisons of the Republic are used only for the nobility."

"You are mistaken," Clarisse answered gently. "Among the prisoners there are, I can assure you, men and women of the lower middle-class, who have given proofs of the highest nobility of soul."

"That is exactly what I mean--they are eminent in virtue, as the others are in birth. And they are consequently not wanted. All that is wanted is equality.... Equality in infamy!"

"Hush! Be quiet, you may be heard!"

"Be quiet? I shall be quiet when they tell me of what you are accused; for, after all, why have you been arrested? What have you done?"

"That is just what we ask ourselves," answered Clarisse. And then she continued as if she were thinking aloud--

"At first I fancied that some one had denounced us, but I put that thought aside at once, for who could have done so?"

"Who?" exclaimed Olivier, astonished that his mother as yet knew nothing. Looking at her fixedly, he continued--

"What! Is it possible they have not told you?"

"Told me? Who could tell me? ... Then it was...?" she asked breathlessly.

"It was Robespierre!"

She bounded from her seat as if under an electric shock. Incredulous and stupefied, she protested in spite of herself.

"It is not true!" she exclaimed.

"How can it not be true? Leonard heard it from the driver who took you to Paris. Robespierre was a few yards off our house at the Carrefour de la Chèvre. It was from that very spot he set his agents upon you."

These details brought back the scene to Clarisse's memory. And she thought of Vaughan, undoubtedly arrested also.

Olivier recalled her to the present, continuing to speak.

"Yes, it was Robespierre, the infamous wretch!"

She threw herself on him.

"Oh no! Hush! I implore you!"

He struggled to continue, but she prevented him, trying to drown his words.

"I am sure you are mistaken.... Leonard is mistaken.... It is certain.... I should have known.... If it were he ... I should have known!"

"No! You could not have known. You yourself said so just now. Why should they account to you for their actions? It is he ... he and no other!"

And Olivier then gave her minutely every detail as the gardener had told it to him. How one of the agents had conferred with Robespierre after the arrest, at the Carrefour de la Chèvre, where he was enjoying a picnic.

Ah! Clarisse needed no such explanations. It was he, she knew it too well. But how was she to persuade Olivier to the contrary? How prevent the son from cursing his father?

She tried to excuse Robespierre, attributing to him other motives.

"You see," she said, "he doesn't know who we are.... He is mistaken.... His agents have misled him.... There could be so many misunderstandings...."

Olivier shrugged his shoulders.

"How credulous you are! Bah! he knows very well what he is doing! It is his thirst for blood. Oh! you don't half know what he is, that Rob...."

Clarisse, horror-stricken, put her fingers to his lips, to arrest the words.

"No! No! Don't pronounce that name in such a way!"

And seeing him look at her in bewilderment, she tried to give him plausible reasons.

"You might be heard, and you would be compromised."

"But how? Here? Where everybody holds his name in execration?"

"Yes; but then there are turnkeys coming and going at every moment. And what if there are spies among the prisoners...?"

And, as if clutching at a straw, she followed up the idea.

"Yes, spies--traitors? You must not betray your feelings before them."

"True! there is no lack of infamy among the populace!"

He then told his mother of the incidents of his wanderings in Paris, of his utter astonishment at the apathy of the crowd round that accursed scaffold which was being transported to the Place de la Bastille, amidst the preparations for the Festival of the Supreme Being.

And yet he knew that much of their indifference must be assumed. How many thought as he did! How many had the long-awaited cry of deliverance on their lips: "Down with the scaffold!" Only they dared not speak out! If but one had the courage to give utterance to that cry, there would be enough brave men found in the crowd to take it up and re-echo it, carrying the more timid along with them. When once a move is made the multitude will quickly follow.

Clarisse looked at him. A new thought had dawned on her mind, a horrible thought!

What if Robespierre should have Olivier arrested without knowing who he was?

She interrupted him.

"Is the house where you lodge quite safe?"

As Olivier replied in the affirmative, and was continuing the narrative of his adventures, she took up the thread of his thoughts. Suddenly a gleam of hope shone in her eyes, as if her mental speculations had assured her.

"Ah! I did well to write to him!" she thought.

To him, to Robespierre! For she had written to the Incorruptible that very morning.

She now turned this letter over in her mind, in which she had informed him of her imprisonment, telling him her fears about her son, whose age she particularly mentioned as nineteen years. It was a hint for Robespierre, who would understand, and perhaps be touched to pity, and set her and Marie Thérèse at liberty, and spare the lad who was her son and his own.

Clarisse had confided this letter to a prisoner set at liberty, whom she earnestly entreated to see it safely delivered.

"It will be the easiest thing in the world," the man had replied; "you can be quite at rest."

Clarisse did not suspect the irony of this reply, or that the supposed prisoner was one of the spies to whom she had unwittingly alluded a little while before. Ah, yes; she could be at rest, truly! The letter would reach Robespierre. But under what conditions? He, who received so many! Alas! It is in the wounded heart that most illusions take root! Clarisse did not dream that anything could interfere with her scheme, and began to speculate on the future, counting the hours, and saying to herself that in all probability the letter could reach Robespierre the next day.

The best she could do till then, she thought, was to moderate Olivier's zeal, by showing him that their prison-life was not so unbearable; and she imagined it would distract him if she presented him to some of her companions in misfortune. They had just taken away the tables, so making the courtyard appear larger, and leaving more room for the promenade. Olivier was now noticing more clearly the people in this little prison-world taking air and exercise in the open space to which the green acacia-trees gave some semblance of a garden.

The women, dressed simply in summer toilets, retained an air of elegance in spite of the plain ribbon band fastening their hair, and their fresh, newly ironed caps. The men were gay and smiling, polite and distinguished; they talked and played cards or chess together on the benches, exchanging courtesies as if they were in a drawing-room. "After you! ... I should not think of it! ..." And in and out the groups the concierge Haly came and went, giving his orders, accompanied by two bulldogs, with enormous spiked collars.

Just then a fair-haired, bright-eyed boy of fifteen knocked up against Olivier.

"Oh! pardon, monsieur!" said the lad, who was playing a game of fives and running after the ball.

"What a nice lad!" said Olivier.

"It's young de Maillé," said Thérèse. "Nobody knows why he has been arrested. His doom is settled, however, for they say he threw a rotten herring at the head of the concierge."

Here Clarisse stopped her.

"So they say, but it is not true, for the concierge is a fairly honest fellow."

And addressing a lady who was just passing, she continued, "Is it not so, madame? Haly is not a bad fellow, is he?"

"No, but a blockhead; a lamb, however, compared to the jailers of other prisons."

Clarisse thus presented Olivier: "My son--Madame la Marquise de Choiseul."

Olivier bowed courteously, and as Madame de Choiseul, struck by the distinguished air of the young workman, held out her hand, Olivier took it in his and kissed it. In this high-born company all the grace of his early education came back to him.

The marquise smiled and turned to Clarisse.

"Behold a son who betrays his mother! Your name is not Durand. You belong to us. I had thought as much."

And as Clarisse was about to reply, she added: "Hush! I am not asking your secrets."

She then assured the young man that his mother was right: the concierge Haly, though rough, was rather kind than otherwise, letting visitors enter, and even bring in provisions, sweets, and linen.

"And above all," she added, "he does us the great favour of letting us walk about and disport ourselves here until night time."

She then pointed out to Olivier the various games in which the men and children took part.

"As you see," she added, "they take full advantage of the permission."

Clarisse, well pleased with the tone of the conversation, tried to retain the marquise.

"Tell him, madame, how you pass your evenings."

"What! Have you not yet told him?" asked the marquise, who had been a silent spectator of the meeting between the mother and her son.

"You must not forget that I only arrived yesterday," said Clarisse. "I know nothing myself but what I have heard."

"Ah, true!" said Madame de Choiseul, who with a mother's heart now understood Clarisse's kindly motive.

At once she pointed out to Olivier the windows of one of the buildings.

"That is what we call our drawing-room--a large apartment in which we gather in the evening. There we play at guessing riddles, charades, and _bouts-rimés_. Some read verses, or recite to us, and we even have music. Look! Do you see that gentleman seated over there under an arch, turning the pages of an album? That is the Baron de Wyrbach, who plays some charming airs every evening on his _viola d'amoré_. He exhausts his ingenuity to find something new for us."

Olivier listened in astonishment, beginning to be really reassured.

"You see," continued the marquise, "we might imagine ourselves still at Versailles."

Then she added with a sad smile--

"And so we are in one sense, for all that remains of Versailles is now in prison."

And she mentioned many names, singling out among the prisoners those who belonged to the old Court: the Prince and Princess de Saint-Maurice, the Chevalier de Pons, and the Count d'Armaille, whose nephew, young d'Hauteville, had been a page to Louis XVI.

A group had formed round a young woman seated on the grassy knoll, her back against the acacia, fanning herself daintily.

"Look now! Would you not think it a court of love in one of the groves of Trianon? It is Madame de Méré receiving the homage of her admirers."

Madame de Méré rose at that moment to meet another lady who was coming towards her, pretty, neat, and natty in her spotless toilet; and Madame de Choiseul explained to Olivier who the newcomer was.

"That is Madame de Verneuil, who remains, though in prison, as coquettish and as fashionably dressed as she used to be at Court. She even finds time to make her usual change of toilet regularly three times a day, without the assistance of maid or hairdresser. Not only does she dress herself, and do her own hair, but she washes, dries, and gets up her own linen! And all this in such good-humour that it brings tears to one's eyes."

Olivier was now quite reassured with regard to the severity of the prison rules to which his mother and Thérèse were subjected. He was, nevertheless, astonished at the careless indifference which he saw around him. If the populace had revolted him on the Place de la Révolution, this aristocratic company in the prison dumfounded him. He could not hide his feelings, or refrain from expressing his surprise; but he did so respectfully, with tact, and in perfectly good taste.

Clarisse essayed to interrupt him; but Madame de Choiseul had already replied--

"You have just come from the country, perhaps, and have not mixed in the Parisian world for some time. What you take for indifference is in reality mere habit. You cannot change the French people. The moment they find a struggle useless, they gaily make the best of it. Believe me, their seeming frivolity only masks the resignation of a Stoic. There are still rebellious and desperate spirits to be found, but they are in a minority. The majority are heart-sick and ready to go, that is, to die; and they do die with a smile on their lips, French to the last!"

Voices and sounds of applause interrupted the marquise, and cries of "Bravo! Bravo! That was very good!" were heard. A young girl, her arms tied behind her back, was bowing from the top of a ladder on which she was standing, and to which she had mounted by the aid of chairs and stools placed upon tables and benches. As she tried to descend all arms proffered assistance, and when she had reached the ground another lady came forward, the Marquise d'Avaux, whom Madame de Choiseul named to Olivier, and began to climb the improvised ascent with faltering steps.

Clarisse, Thérèse, and Olivier watched this performance, understanding nothing of it. Madame de Choiseul looked at them to note their expression, and with one accord the three turned to question her--

"That is a new game, is it not?"

"Yes, and a rather gloomy one," answered Madame de Choiseul. Then she added solemnly, "Those ladies are learning how to walk to the scaffold."

She explained to them that the wooden steps which the condemned had to climb to reach the guillotine were difficult to ascend. The women encountered serious obstacles in mounting, being without the assistance of their hands, which were tied behind them. They stumbled and slipped, their dresses sometimes catching in the woodwork, to the great amusement of the rabble crowd.

"It is to avoid these accidents," she said, "and to be able to meet their martyrdom respected by the mob, that they rehearse the role which they may be called upon to play on the morrow, perhaps, in public."

Olivier was dumb with admiration before this contempt of the scaffold, the general resignation to the thought of death.

Presently peals of laughter were heard. The Marquise d'Avaux, just before reaching the last stool, caught her dress on the back of a chair. She laughed with the rest, and said gaily, showing her torn skirt--

"Some more work for this evening!"

"You see," continued Madame de Choiseul, "what the indifference which revolted you so much just now hides in reality. Many of those young women keep up the failing courage of the men at the scaffold, and offer to die first."

But Clarisse, whose curiosity was now satisfied, tried to turn attention from these gloomy subjects, her mother's heart telling her they would reawaken Olivier's apprehensions. She soon found a pretext. Madame de Narbonne passed them with her little girl, holding a basket of fruit, of which the child partook without restraint.

"What lovely cherries!" exclaimed Clarisse.

Madame de Narbonne stopped to offer her some, but Clarisse declined, and when pressed, said--

"Not for me, thanks; but my niece will perhaps taste them."

When Thérèse also asked to be excused, Olivier intervened.

"Only taste," he said, and as she still declined, "Will you allow me, mademoiselle?" he asked, taking a bunch from the basket which the child now carried. And he held one of the cherries up to his _fiancée's_ lips. "Won't you take one to please me?"

Clarisse could not help smiling. Olivier saw the smile. "And you, also, mamma!" he said.

Clarisse allowed herself to be persuaded, looking gratefully at the kind prisoner to whose good nature that little family scene was due, and Olivier was beginning to renew his playful persuasions to Thérèse, when a bell sounded from behind the big grating, tolling slowly.

Madame de Narbonne turned pale.

"The call!" she gasped.

All conversation now ceased; men and women fell into groups, or left each other abruptly, looking anxiously towards the iron gate, as if expecting some one to appear. Olivier felt the universal shudder of dread, and his fears were again awakened.

"The call! What call!" he asked.

But the Marquise de Choiseul had gone away with Madame de Narbonne, carrying the little child along with them, in great haste. Olivier, turning round, met only the supplicating look of his mother, who had perhaps understood.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, with an effort.

Thérèse clung tremblingly to Clarisse, feeling that something terrible was to happen, and Olivier going towards one of the prisoners to question him was soon joined by Clarisse and Thérèse.

"The call? Why, it is the summons to such of the prisoners as are destined to appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal. The bell had been rung to assemble all the prisoners to meet the Recorder, who, with list in hand, will read the names of those selected by the Revolutionary Tribunal for trial."

"You mean for condemnation!" interrupted Olivier, with indignation.

The prisoner nodded assent.

"So all those who are named..."

"Will be taken in a cart to the Conciergerie, and..."

"And?"

"Ascend the scaffold two days after," said the prisoner in conclusion, apparently resigned to his fate.

"Then it may be one of us, mamma?" asked Thérèse, bursting into tears.

Clarisse tried to master her emotion.

"No..." she said. "It's too soon ... isn't it? ... tell her..."

And she implored Olivier with a look.

"How can one know?" he said, driven to distraction.

"Oh no! ... I assure you! ... You will see.... It is impossible! ..."

And still she murmured brokenly: "You will see.... It is impossible! ..."

The Recorder of the Revolutionary Tribunal now passed the grating, accompanied by Haly, the concierge, and followed by turnkeys and gendarmes, who, on entering the courtyard, formed themselves in line. The Recorder was a little man, fat and full-blooded, his face twisted into a sly, ugly smile. He seemed highly amused at the spectacle, and seated himself under the acacia, talking to the concierge, who seemed surprised to see him, and said--

"I thought the Tribunal would not sit to-morrow on account of the Festival of the Supreme Being?"

"You are right! But they will sit the day after to-morrow. You understand, I want to be free to-morrow and to take part in the festival...."

And with a cynical laugh he called for a glass of wine, which he emptied at a draught.

"Attention! We must begin business!" he said; and with this he unfolded the paper, the terrible paper, wherein the fate of the victims had been decided in advance. But the day was near its close, the Recorder could not see, and had to ask for a lantern.

The courtyard was full now.

Prisoners from the neighbouring yards had assembled in answer to the call. All this little world was affected by various feelings; some were resigned, some hopeful, some indifferent or frightened as they looked at the messenger of death, who seemed quite unconscious of his ignominy.

What names would fall from his lips? There were some, worn out and weary, looking forward to death as a release, who would have willingly put theirs into his mouth. Others, more feeble, who were undergoing the full horrors of suspense, stood in breathless fear, almost choked with anguish. Oh! that horrible hope of hearing another's name called, rather than one's own! And yet...

The Recorder was becoming impatient.

"Where is that lantern!" he shouted. "Is every one asleep here?"

A few of the prisoners had refrained from joining the anxious crowd; either from habit or indifference, without disturbing themselves, they continued playing or conversing as before. Clarisse and Thérèse were seated at a little distance, their eyes fixed on the dread official, while Olivier, standing near, ready to defend them, watched the affecting scene with strained anxiety.

The Recorder was swearing now.

"Is that cursed lantern never coming? So much the worse! I shall commence without it."

And he rose and tried to decipher the names in the dark.

"The first name is Bour ... no, Lour..."

Here a voice interrupted him in indignant protest.

"Oh! don't read like that! You double their sufferings. It is horrible! too horrible!"

It was Olivier.

"Who dares to speak here?" thundered the Recorder.

Clarisse desperately pulled her son by the arm.

"I implore you! ... my child! ... I do implore you!"

At that moment some one appeared with a light.

"Ah! there's the lantern!" cried the concierge.

When the man had explained that he had not been able to find any matches, the Recorder began to read the paper--

"Sourdeval!" he cried out.

Other lanterns were now lighting up the courtyard and the distracted crowd, and every eye was turned in the direction of the prisoner who had been named.

"Here I am!" cried a voice.

And a man advanced, his head erect, calm and impassive, without casting a single glance on the spectators, knowing no one perhaps. He crossed the line of gendarmes, and disappeared behind the grating to fetch his belongings.

The Recorder proceeded with his grim and gloomy task, drawing tears from some, heart-rending cries from others, and interrupted by murmurs of pity or defiance.

The young de Maillé, who was called among the first, stopped playing with the children to go to his death. An old man, Monsieur de Mauclère, at the sound of his name fainted away, and was carried out. Madame de Narbonne, called also, confided her little daughter to Madame de Choiseul.

"Where are you going, mamma?" asked the child.

And Madame de Narbonne had the courage to reply--

"I shall be back in a moment, my darling."

"Don't go, mamma! ... don't go! ... I don't want you to go!"

Madame de Narbonne hurried away to hide her tears, then, breaking down entirely, leant on the grating and sobbed aloud.

The Maleyssie family, father, mother, and two young girls, threw themselves into each other's arms, thanking heaven they were not to be separated in this supreme hour, and would walk hand in hand to the scaffold. An old couple with white hair, the Maréchal and Maréchale de Mouchy, worn with age, each walking with the aid of a stick, were called together. At once she took his arm, and so they made their way with calm courage through the prisoners, who bared their heads in reverence before such sublime resignation. Another couple drew forth cries of admiration: the Comte and Comtesse de Lavergne. The Comte, alone named, was taking leave of his wife, who, after assuring herself she was not on the list, implored the Recorder to include her. On his replying that he had no orders to do so, she uttered the cry of sedition punishable by death: "Vive le Roi!" and was inscribed forthwith on the fatal list.

Olivier now held his mother pressed against him, while Marie Thérèse and Clarisse, nestling together, followed the terrible spectacle with joined hands. All hearts were moved to admiration or to pity, according to the acts of courage or faint-heartedness which were displayed. But brave deeds predominated. A Monsieur de Gournay, called out whilst engaged in filling his pipe on a bench, rose quietly and lit it at a turnkey's lantern, and went towards the gate without a word. The Comte de Broglie, interrupted in a game of chess with the Chevalier de Bar, as he rose pointed to the chess-board, and said--

"You see, you would have lost, chevalier. But cheer up! I shall let you have your revenge in the other world."

Then, calm and composed, taking leave of the chevalier, bowing to his acquaintances, kissing the hands of the Marquise d'Avaux and of Madame de Méré, he followed the gendarmes to his fate.

A discussion was taking place near to where Olivier was standing over a name which had just been called.

"Leguay!"

Two men were speaking to each other; one was of middle age, turning grey; the other quite young.

"Are you also Leguay?" asked the young man, who when his name was called was surprised to see his fellow-prisoner advancing with him.

"Yes," was the reply.

"Are you married, or a bachelor?"

"Married, and father of two children."

"I am a soldier, and have neither wife nor child.... Go no further."

The Recorder, who was growing impatient at the conversation of the two men, whom he took for relations taking leave of each other, shouted--

"Well! Leguay?"

"It is I," answered the young man.

Only Olivier, Clarisse, and Thérèse had witnessed this sublime self-devotion. Olivier made a movement as if to offer his hand to the young hero, but he had already crossed over to the gendarmes.

The Recorder now scribbled something on the list, and the people expected him to commence a new series. But he folded the paper, and after asking for another glass of wine, said--

"That is all for to-day."

At these words an immediate feeling of relief ran through the crowd, awakening them from that terrible nightmare.

"Thank God!" said Clarisse, with a sigh.

"And you told me you were quite safe!" exclaimed Olivier.

Again she had the courage to conceal the truth.

"Oh! my anxiety was for others, not for ourselves."

Olivier shook his head incredulously, and was about to reply, when the voice of Haly announcing the hour for the visitors to leave interrupted him.

"All visitors out! It is time to close!"

The Recorder by this time disappeared, preceded by gendarmes. The prancing of horses was heard in the neighbouring courtyard, amidst a confusion of orders and counter-orders. It was the men on duty who were putting the prisoners in the cart, now ready to start. Haly, posted at the grating of the gate by which Olivier had entered, received the cards of the visitors, examining them by the light of his lantern, which he suspiciously lifted to a level with their faces.

Olivier did not hurry his departure, in spite of the insistence of his mother, who was terrified at the thought that the gate might shut on him. But the concierge saw him.

"Hallo! You there! If you want to stay, you know, you have only to say so."

"He is coming!" cried the two women.

And kissing him quickly, they pushed him towards the gate.

Olivier, before leaving, had promised his mother not to try and see them for some days, but to rest satisfied with writing, without giving his address.

The two women glanced in spite of themselves at the neighbouring courtyard, whence came a noise of wheels and the tramp of horses. They stooped, and saw through the large grating the cart with its load of the condemned roll away by the light of torches held by the turnkeys, and driven by a coachman in a carmagnole and red bonnet. As the vehicle was disappearing the two women recognised Madame de Narbonne in tears, sending kisses to the prison, in which her little girl had now wept herself to sleep.

"Oh! it is horrible!" said Thérèse.

And she fell on Clarisse's shoulder, thoroughly broken by the terrible emotions of the day.

At this moment the cart reached the street, and passed close to Olivier, who commenced mechanically to follow it, while the people of the quarter, seated at their doors, and accustomed to this daily spectacle, looked on with indifference. But at a bend in the road Olivier let the cart go out of sight, lost in reflection. He walked straight on as a man in a dream, stopping on the quay to look down at the Seine. The cooling freshness of the water seemed to revive him. He breathed the air gratefully, and continued his walk along the river, feeling less depressed.

Suddenly from the heights of Port-Royal his eyes were dazzled by a rush of unusual light. Showers of golden fire trailed in the air over the Tuileries gardens. It was a trial of the fireworks to be let off the next day. Olivier crossed the bridge, and hastening his steps reached the Place de la Révolution, which at that hour was filled with loungers from the boulevards, curious to see the preparations for the _fête_. Under a sky studded with stars, the immense space lay extended before him, with its stands already decked with flowers; its masts connected by garlands of foliage and coloured glass; its flags, and plumes, and banners floating in the wind.

Here and there fiddlers, standing on chairs, taught to choirs of young girls and young men the new anthem by Gossec, to be sung at the _fête_, a hymn to the Supreme Being, composed specially for the occasion. Some, carried away by their enthusiasm, followed up the hymn with a waltz or a gavotte.

Olivier opened his eyes in astonishment, asking himself if all this was real, or if he was in an extravagant dream. On one side he saw but sorrow, on the other only joy! On one side, tears, despair, and the scaffold; on the other, laughter, revelry, and flowers! And the laughter and flowers were to honour and glorify the very one who was the cause of all this misery, who tore children relentlessly from the arms of their mothers as he sent them to death!

At this very moment the abhorred name fell on his ears: "Robespierre! ... There's Robespierre!" he heard the crowd whispering.

He turned round and saw some of them looking curiously at a man who was crossing the square, seemingly in great haste, with a woman leaning on his arm. Olivier understood that it was the Incorruptible who was passing within barely an arm's length of him! He watched him disappear in the crowd.

They were right; it was Robespierre, who had been enjoying a walk in the Champs-Elysées with Cornélie Duplay. Returning home to supper, at Duplay's house in the Rue Saint-Honoré, he could not resist crossing the square to have a foretaste of the rejoicings in honour of _his fête_, to contemplate behind the curtain the scene of his approaching triumph. Cornélie had just said to him in delight, indicating the dancing groups,--

"The people seem to be devoted to it, heart and soul."

This flattered Robespierre's pride, who rewarded her with a gentle pressure of the arm.

They continued their walk, deep in their own thoughts. Cornélie was wondering if her dress would be at home when she arrived, that beautiful dress for the _fête_, confided on this special occasion to a private dressmaker. Robespierre, always suspicious and alert, was asking himself if he had done well to listen to her, and thus cross the Place de la Révolution at the risk of suggesting to the Committee of Public Safety the idea, absurd in itself, that he had wished to attract the notice of the populace.

The couple now reached the door of the Duplays, in the Rue Saint-Honoré, and Robespierre stepped aside gallantly for Cornélie to pass in.

At the same moment Olivier, who had stopped in deep thought at the Place de la Révolution, retraced his steps homeward, fired with a sudden resolution for the morrow.

"I will be at that _fête_," he said.

And the dark night swallowed him.