The Greatest Historical Novels. Rafael Sabatini
vulnerable point in the position of the Mountain. It arose out of Desmoulins's alliance with Danton that he, too, kept an eye on the future, and worked for the time when Danton, having disposed of Hébert, should come to measure himself against the Robespierrists. In the course of this he made certain attacks upon Saint-Just. They were playful as yet, aiming at no more than to raise a laugh or two at Saint-Just's expense. But one of them had stung the young representative into a wickedly menacing retort.
'He regards his head,' Desmoulins had written, 'as the cornerstone of the Republic, and he carries it on his shoulders with the reverence due to the Saint Sacrament.'
A few days after this, early one morning in November, Desmoulins broke in upon the labours of André-Louis. He was excited. His fine eyes were a little wild, and the brown hair was tumbled about a face that might have been noble but for the pock-marks and the pouting lips. The aggravation of his habitual stutter was a further index of the young man's perturbation.
'This fellow Saint-Just takes himself a thought too seriously. Regards himself as a cross between Brutus and Saint Aloysius of Gonzaga. But there's more of Cassius in him than of either of those.'
'You imagine that you bring me news,' said André-Louis, surprised only by the outburst. He rose from his table as he spoke, and went to throw some fir-cones on the dwindling fire, for there was a fog abroad and the morning was chill and damp.
'Ah, but do you know what he is saying? That whilst I have written of him that he carries his head like a Saint Sacrament, he will see to it that I shall carry mine like a Saint Denis. What do you think of that?'
As Saint Denis carries his head in the crook of his arm there was only one thing to think of it.
'It's a pretty retort.'
'Pretty! It drips blood. A nice threat to be putting about! He'll have me guillotined, will he? He'll make me lose my head for a jest. I think he must have lost his own already, since he dares to threaten a man openly in such terms.'
'It's imprudent,' André-Louis agreed soberly.
'More imprudent than he reckons, or than you suspect, my friend. I am not the man to scuttle before menaces. If this is a declaration of war, I am ready for it.' He lugged a paper from his breast. 'Here's a windfall. Read this. It should strip the mask from this hypocrite. He won't look so much like Saint Aloysius then.'
It proved to be a letter from a man named Thorin who wrote from Blérancourt in bitter denunciation of Saint-Just, whom he styled, obviously of malice aforethought, the ci-devant Chevalier de Saint-Just. It charged Saint-Just with having debauched Thorin's young wife and carried her off to Paris, where he kept her secretly as his mistress; and this at a time when, as all the world knew, Saint-Just had just become affianced in marriage to the sister of the Deputy Lebas.
'He is true,' wrote the indignant husband, 'to the dissolute aristocratic stock from which he springs. This ci-devant Chevalier de Saint-Just, who postures in Paris as a reformer, has yet to reform himself. The ci-devant Chevalier de Saint-Just is a thief and a scoundrel, as I am in a position to prove. They tell me that in the Convention he is an advocate of purity in private as in public life. Let his own advocacy be applied to him. Let him be purified. The guillotine is the great national purifier.'
The writer went on to say that he addressed himself to Desmoulins because from certain phrases in the Vieux Cordelier he conceived that Desmoulins at least had begun to suspect the real nature of this debauched hypocrite. He desired not only to avenge the outrage he had suffered, but also to protect the unfortunate woman whom Saint-Just was no doubt upon the point of casting out to die upon the streets.
André-Louis took a deep breath. This came so opportunely to his needs that he could hardly believe in so much good fortune. If these accusations could be established, Saint-Just would lie at their mercy. Here, indeed, was the vulnerable point André-Louis had been seeking.
In ordinary circumstances and despite the cant of purity to which the conventionals were becoming so addicted, the matter of carrying off another man's wife would have been none too seriously viewed. But the circumstances dressed up the event into a monstrosity. The fact that Saint-Just had just betrothed himself to the sister of Lebas, discounted the possibility of any condoning genuine affection towards Madame Thorin, made her just the victim of his reckless lust.
The capital to be made of it was enormous. It would have been enormous, following upon the India Company swindle, whatever member of the Mountain had been concerned. But that it should be Saint-Just, the popular idol, the first of Robespierre's supporters, the very man who had denounced the corruption of Chabot, and by faith in himself restored faith in his party, rendered incalculable the consequences of exposure, transcended the wildest hopes that André-Louis could have entertained.
But there was no need for haste. First let Danton send the Hébertists the way of the Girondins. Then, when the arena was cleared for the final inevitable struggle between Danton and Robespierre, would be the time to strike a blow with this which in its consequences must destroy the Robespierrists and the revolution with them.
André-Louis returned the letter.
'Yes,' he said slowly, 'if you act cautiously, you have him. That's a good phrase about the ci-devant Chevalier de Saint-Just. You might remember it, and use it presently. There's a world of prejudice packed into it for patriotic minds. It's a good phrase, too, about his being true to the dissolute aristocratic stock from which he springs. I shall remember it. This Thorin seems an alert fellow. You must send for him. Bring him up to Paris. Have him under your hand when the time comes. He may be able to reveal other things. He says there that Saint-Just is a thief as well as a scoundrel. He may allude to other thefts besides that of his wife. Lose no time, Camille. But remember to be cautious.'
Desmoulins remembered everything but that. It was something he had never learned. He talked freely, forgetting that Saint-Just was still a popular idol; more than ever a popular idol since the late disillusion occasioned by the disclosures of the Chabot scandal. His dark hints were reported to Saint-Just, and evidently understood by him, for some ten days later Desmoulins came again in quest of André-Louis, and this time he was in a condition of dismay.
'The scoundrel has checkmated us. Thorin has come to Paris. But he has come under arrest. He's lodged in the Conciergerie.'
André-Louis was grave for a moment. Then he laughed. 'That's not checkmate, unless it's checkmate to himself. He has magnificently deepened the extent of his turpitude.'
But Desmoulins, white-faced, shook his head. 'You suppose him a fool. You're wrong. Thorin has been arrested for participation in a royalist conspiracy. If it were not for that, Danton could smash Saint-Just to pulp this moment from the tribune of the Convention. Two questions would accomplish it. But to those questions that astute devil has his answers. Thorin is a royalist conspirator. The tale of his wife, an unsupported lie. She does not live with Saint-Just. He is too clever for that. He keeps her in concealment. I have been investigating, and without Thorin's evidence there is nothing to connect her with him.'
'Damn your investigations,' said André-Louis. 'That is what has put Saint-Just on the alert. And then this fool Thorin ... To conspire ...' He checked suddenly. 'What do you know of the conspiracy?'
'Oh, that! A trumped-up business I should say. Easy enough in these days.'
'Yes. Easy enough. Easier for a man in Saint-Just's position to issue a letter of cachet than ever it was for any King Louis. This is what these villains make of liberty.'
'Say that again!' cried Desmoulins, and seized a pencil and a scrap of paper from the writing-table.
'I'll say it again; but you must not use it until the time comes.'
'When will that be?'
'After I have been to Blérancourt.'
'What?' Desmoulins straightened himself to look at him in wonder.
'That is where the truth will lie. I'll go and see if I can extract it. But while I am absent, not a word, not a single word of the business, and, above all, not a line about Saint-Just in the Vieux Cordelier.