Kilgorman Part 22

"Meanwhile, comrades, let us drink long life to the Republic, and down with the Girondists."

So to drink they fell, but were hardly settled when a loud summons came at the outer door, and a shout of, "Open, in the name of the Republic One and Indivisible!"

Then did mine host quake in his shoes, and his comrades turned pale.

"To bed!" whispered my host with trembling voice. "Go up and sleep."

They were not long in obeying, and that night the bed that was meant for me held three of the soundest sleepers in all France.

The knocking continued, and mine host, feigning a great yawn, took down his key and asked who was there.

"Citoyen Picquot, open to the National Guard."

The door opened, and half-a-dozen soldiers trooped into the shop.

"Produce your lodgers," demanded the soldier in command.

"I have but three, citizen soldier. Follow me, they shall be at your service."

The officer followed my host upstairs; the others remained below.

Presently I heard a loud outcry and scuffling of feet above, and a shouted word of command. The soldiers instantly rushed up the stairs.

But no speed of theirs could equal that with which I darted from my hiding-place and out at the open door into the street, thanking Heaven that whatever rats might be caught that night in the Rue d'Agnes I was not one of them.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"VIVE LA GUILLOTINE!"

It was midnight when I got clear of the Auberge "a l'Irlandois" in the Rue d'Agnes, and being a fine, warm autumn night I was by no means the only occupant of the street. This was fortunate for me, for the guards posted at either end would have been more inquisitive as to a solitary stranger than one of a company of noisy idlers.

That night there had been a great performance in one of the theatres in Paris, which had lasted far into the night, and was only lately over.

Those I overheard speak of it said it had been a great patriotic spectacle, in the course of which National Guards and cadets had marched across the stage, unfurling the banner of the Republic, and taking the oath of the people amid scenes of wild enthusiasm and shouting. To add to the enthusiasm of the occasion a party of real volunteers had appeared, and after receiving the three-coloured c.o.c.kade from their sweethearts, had shouldered their guns and marched, singing the Ma.r.s.eillaise, straight from the theatre to the road for La Vendue, where they were going to shed their blood for their country.

The audience had risen, waving hats and handkerchiefs to bid them G.o.d- speed, and then poured forth into the streets, shouting the chorus, and cheering till they were hoa.r.s.e and tired.

It was into a party of such loyal revellers that I found myself sucked before I was half-way out of the Rue d'Agnes; and yelling and shouting at the top of my voice I pa.s.sed safely the guards, and reached the broad Rue Saint Honore. Here the crowd gradually dispersed, some one way, some another, while a few, with cries of "_A la Place_," held on in company. With these I joined myself, and presently came to a great open square, where on a high platform stood a grim and terrible looking object. "_Vive la guillotine_!" shouted the crowd as they caught sight of it.

It was strangely lit up with the glare of the torches of some workmen who were evidently busy upon it. I could see the fatal knife being raised once or twice and let fall with a crash by way of experiment.

And each time the crowd cheered and laughed, and invited one of their number to ascend the platform and put his head in the empty collar. It made me sick to watch it, yet for safety's sake I had to shout "_Vive la guillotine_!" with the rest of them, and laugh with the loudest.

Presently some one near noticed me and caught me by the arm.

"Here is one that will do, Citoyen Samson. Lift him up, comrades. Let us see if the knife is sharp enough."

At the touch of his hand I broke into a cold sweat, and clung to his knees amid shouts of laughter. It was all very well for them, who were used to such jests. I was new to it, and fell a victim to a panic such as I have never known since. A herculean strength seemed to possess me.

I flung my tormentors right and left, and darted away from them into the dark recesses of the surrounding gardens. They began by giving chase, but in the end let me go, and returned to their more congenial spectacle, and presently, tired even of that, went home to bed.

It was an hour before I durst look out from my hiding-place in the midst of a clump of thick bushes. I could still see the guillotine looming in the moonlight; but the workmen, like the sightseers, had gone. The only living persons were a few women, who had seated themselves on one of the benches in front of the instrument, evidently determined on a good view of to-morrow's spectacle.

I retreated to my hiding-place with a shudder, glad I was too far away to overhear their talk.

But if I heard not theirs, I heard, oddly enough, another conversation, so near that had it been intended for my ears it could not have taken place in a better spot.

One of the speakers, by his voice, was an Englishman, of more than middle age; the other, a woman, who also spoke English, but with a foreign accent.

This is what I heard, and you may guess how much of it I comprehended:--

"No news yet?" said the old man anxiously.

"None. I expected to hear before this."

"Who is the messenger?"

"A trusty servant of madame's, and an Irishman."

"So much the worse if he is caught."

There was a pause. Then the old man inquired,--

"What hope is there for Sillery?"

"Absolutely none. He is as good as guillotined already."

"Has Edward no influence then?"

"Not now. Duport is no longer a man, but a machine--deadly, mysterious, as yonder guillotine. He would denounce me, his wife, if the Republic demanded it."

"G.o.d forbid! for you are our last friend."

Then there was another pause, and the man spoke again. He was evidently broken-down by terror, and engrossed in his own safety.

"My fear _now_ is," he said, "that, if Sillery is doomed, the messenger should deliver Edward's letter to Duport at all. It will only make matters worse for us."

"Very true. It is no time for appeals to mercy," said Madame Duport.

"But you said you expected a letter for yourself."

"Ay; money to escape with. That's all I live for."

"Money from Edward?"

"No. From my kinswoman, Alice Gorman.--Hush! what was that?" he cried, breaking into a whisper.

"Only a falling leaf.--How was she to reach you?"

"She was to send it to Edward, and he would forward it by the same messenger that carried his letter to Duport."

"Pray Heaven that be lost too," said the lady. "You are safer in Paris.