Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune. Lever Charles James
said I hastily. ‘Go, go.’
There was, indeed, no more time to lose. The muster of the prisoners was forming at one end of the chamber, while the ‘Marmitons’ were gathering up their plates and dishes, previous to departure, at the other; and it was only by the decisive step of laying myself down within the recesses of the window, in the attitude of one overcome by sleep, that I could force him to obey my direction. I could feel his presence as he bent over me, and muttered something that must have been a prayer. I could know, without seeing, that he still lingered near me, but as I never stirred, he seemed to feel that my resolve was not to be shaken, and at last he moved slowly away.
At first the noise and clamour sounded like the crash of some desperate conflict, but by degrees this subsided, and I could hear the names called aloud and the responses of the prisoners, as they were ‘told off’ in parties from the different parts of the prison. Tender leave-takings and affectionate farewells from many who never expected to meet again, accompanied these, and the low sobs of anguish were mingled with the terrible chaos of voices; and at last I heard the name of ‘Michel Delannois’: I felt as if my death-summons was in the words ‘Michel Delannois,’
‘That crazy priest can neither hear nor see, I believe,’ said the gaoler savagely. ‘Will no one answer for him?’
‘He is asleep yonder in the window,’ replied a voice from the crowd.
‘Let him sleep then,’ said the turnkey; ‘when awake he gives us no peace with his prayers and exhortations.’
‘He has eaten nothing for three days,’ observed another; ‘he is, perhaps, overcome by weakness more than by sleep.’
‘Be it so! if he only lie quiet, I care not,’ rejoined the gaoler, and proceeded to the next name on the list.
The monotonous roll-call, the heat, the attitude in which I was lying, all conspired to make me drowsy: even the very press of sensations that crowded to my brain lent their aid, and at last I slept as soundly as ever I had done in my bed at night. I was dreaming of the dark alleys in the wood of Belleville, where so often I had strolled of an evening with Père Michel: I was fancying that we were gathering the fresh violets beneath the old trees, when a rude hand shook my shoulder, and I awoke. One of the turnkeys and Boivin stood over me, and I saw at once that my plan had worked well.
‘Is this the fellow?’ said the turnkey, pushing me rudely with his foot.
‘Yes,’ replied Boivin, white with fear; ‘this is the boy; his name is Tristan.’ The latter words were accompanied with a look of great significance towards me.
‘What care we how he is called! let us hear in what manner he came here.’
‘I can tell you little,’ said I, staring and looking wildly around; ‘I must have been asleep, and dreaming, too.’
‘The letter,’ whispered Boivin to the turnkey – ‘the letter says that he was made to inhale some poisonous drug, and that while insensible – ’
‘Bah,’ said the other derisively, ‘this will not gain credit here; there has been complicity in the affair, Master Boivin. The commissaire is not the man to believe a trumped-up tale of the sort; besides, you are well aware that you are responsible for these “rats” of yours. It is a private arrangement between you and the commissaire, and it is not very probable that he’ll get himself into a scrape for you.’
‘Then what are we to do?’ cried Boivin passionately, as he wrung his hands in despair.
‘I know what I should, in a like case,’ was the dry reply.
‘And that is? – ’
‘Laisser aller! was the curt rejoinder. ‘The young rogue has passed for a curé for the last afternoon; I’d even let him keep up the disguise a little longer, and it will be all the same by this time to-morrow.’
‘You’d send me to the guillotine for another?’ said I boldly; ‘thanks for the good intention, my friend; but Boivin knows better than to follow your counsel. Hear me one moment,’ said I, addressing the latter, and drawing him to one side – ‘if you don’t liberate me within a quarter of an hour, I’ll denounce you and yours to the commissary. I know well enough what goes on at the “Scélérat,” – you understand me well. If a priest has really made his escape from the prison, you are not clean-handed enough to meet the accusation; see to it then, Boivin, that I may be free at once.’
‘Imp of Satan,’ exclaimed Boivin, grinding his teeth, ‘I have never enjoyed ease or quietness since the first hour I saw you.’
‘It may cost a couple of thousand francs, Boivin,’ said I calmly; ‘but what then? Better that than take your seat along with us to-morrow in the Charrette Rouge.’
‘Maybe he’s right, after all,’ muttered the turnkey in a half-whisper; ‘speak to the commissary.’
‘Yes,’ said I, affecting an air of great innocence and simplicity – ‘tell him that a poor orphan boy, without friends or home, claims his pity.’
‘Scélérat infâme!’ cried Boivin, as he shook his fist at me, and then followed the turnkey to the commissary’s apartment.
In less time than I could have believed possible, Boivin returned with one of the upper gaolers, and told me, in a few dry words, that I was free. ‘But, mark me,’ added he, ‘we part here – come what may, you never shall plant foot within my doors again.’
‘Agreed,’ said I gaily; ‘the world has other dupes as easy to play upon, and I was getting well nigh weary of you.’
‘Listen to the scoundrel!’ muttered Boivin; ‘what will he say next?’
‘Simply this,’ rejoined I – ‘that as these are not becoming garments for me to wear – for I’m neither père nor frère– I must have others ere I quit this.’
If the insolence of my demand occasioned some surprise at first, a little cool persistence on my part showed that compliance would be the better policy; and, after conferring together for a few minutes, during which I heard the sound of money, the turnkey retired, and came back speedily with a jacket and cap belonging to one of the drummers of the Republican Guard – a gaudy, tasteless affair enough, but, as a disguise, nothing could have been more perfect.
‘Have you not a drum to give him?’ said Boivin, with a most malignant sneer at my equipment.
‘He ‘ll make a noise in the world without that,’ muttered the gaoler, half soliloquising; and the words fell upon my heart with a strange significance.
‘Your blessing, Boivin,’ said I, ‘and we part.’ ‘Le te– ’
‘No, no; don’t curse the boy,’ interposed the gaoler good-humouredly.
‘Then, move off, youngster; I’ve lost too much time with you already.’
The next moment I was in the Place; a light misty rain was falling, and the night was dark and starless. The ‘Scélérat’ was brilliant with lamps and candles, and crowds were passing in and out; but it was no longer a home for me, so I passed on, and continued my way towards the Boulevard.
CHAPTER IV. ‘THE NIGHT OF THE NINTH THERMIDOR’
I had agreed with the Père Michel to rendezvous at the garden of the little chapel of St. Blois, and thitherward I now turned my steps.
The success which followed this my first enterprise in life had already worked a wondrous change in all my feelings. Instead of looking up to the poor curé for advice and guidance, I felt as though our parts were exchanged, and that it was I who was now the protector of the other. The oft-repeated sneers at les bons Prêtres, who were good for nothing, must have had a share in this new estimate of my friend, but a certain self-reliance just then springing up in my heart effectually completed the change.
The period was essentially one of action and not of reflection. Events seemed to fashion themselves at the will of him who had daring and courage to confront them, and they alone appeared weak and