'Twixt Dog and Wolf (Valancourt Classics) Read online

  The next morning, and the next, and the next, Raynaud was in his old place beside the scaffolding of the guillotine. Each day he encountered his friend of the first occasion; sometimes these two walked part of the way home together. The acute-faced one was full of statistics: of how many could be executed by one ‘machinist’ in a single day; of what work had been done by a rival machine in the Champ de Mars; of work that was being done in the provinces. One evening, after a modest dinner together, he took Raynaud into another church he had never been in before. It too was in the neighbourhood of Mont de Geneviève. It was a huge church this, not like that of St. Étienne de Grès disused and empty, but crammed with—worshippers shall we say!—yes, worshippers of a sort. The same wild feeling of exultation that he had felt first in St. Étienne and again by the guillotine, seized the student now, as he came among these cloisters and looked along the sea of red caps and dark unwashed faces which the place contained. Many were smoking; a hot thick atmosphere rose from the standing throng, and behind it danced a sea of faces which crowded the amphitheatre of benches in the nave and reached almost to the roof of the church. Raynaud had seen long since a print from some picture by an Italian master in which tiers and tiers of angels, all bearing instruments of music in their hands, rose one above the other as to the roof of heaven. These were not the faces of angels; nor was it like sweet music the sound which came from their throats when the speaker in a high tribune paused in his oration. This place was the debating-hall of the Société des Amis de la Liberté; and the church was the church of the Convent of the Jacobins.

  As his friend spoke to this man and that, helping him forward, Raynaud felt the last traces of his old dulness and indifference fall off him like a cast garment. The whole assembly was but an instrument to be played upon—and a vision of the rat-riddled organ of St. Étienne flashed through his mind; he would make it sound what tune he chose. He was not therefore the least surprised to find himself presently in the tribune. The motion before the society was not of much importance, merely one for the expulsion of one Legrand who, his enemies pointed out, had been once the signatory of an arrêt in favour of the ‘traitor’ Lafayette. Such an act of expulsion would have been of course only the first stage on the road to the guillotine; but in the case of a single individual, of what consequence was that? What Raynaud said upon the motion was, like most of the other speeches, pretty wide of the subject in hand. But his peroration stirred the audience to frenzy. ‘Our duty,’ he cried, and it was as if a sonorous voice not his own had been lodged within him, ‘our duty, the duty of France, is to purify the whole world; and that can only be done by blood, and more blood, by blood ever and always!’ And when he ended, the human organ round him swelled into such a diapason of rough-throated applause as had never been heard in that church before.

  Raynaud became a celebrity. He was placed upon the Revolutionary Committee, and the work of that body went forward ever more rapidly under the inspiration of his zeal. He seemed to require no rest nor food, and whenever he was not occupied upon the tribunal he was sure to be seen in a cart by the guillotine, or on the scaffold itself, superintending the execution of its victims. In those days he carried a motion that the sittings of his tribunal should not begin till the afternoon, but should be prolonged, if needful, into the night; for the work of Samson and his colleagues was generally over before four. Great was the increase in the rapidity of work at the tribunals, and the growth of the fournées,—the batches of men who wended daily to the Place. It was through the motion of Raynaud that eventually a third guillotine was set up at the edge of the Faubourg St. Marcel, on his side of the river, nearer still to that site of the old grove of sacrifice where now stood St. Étienne des Grès.

  But there were days of pause. On the decadis, for example, the present substitutes for Sunday, no work was done; no prisoners were executed on that day. And on such days Raynaud would sit quietly at home over his books, the gentlest citizen in Paris. He would allow no suitors to him on that day, for his readings were deep. He had found his old volume of John of Menz, and read much in him in those days. On one of these decadis (it happened to be a Sunday also, if such things had been taken account of) he was sitting thus occupied in his old room when a messenger did gain admittance, bringing a note. Raynaud gave a start of pleasure as he read it. It was signed ‘Sommarel,’ and it asked him to go and see the writer, who, it seemed, was in the prison of La Force. A pleasant air of ancient days seemed to breathe round Raynaud as he read the old handwriting and saw the familiar name. He put down his book and followed the messenger at once.

  Sommarel came to meet him, white and trembling, very dirty too, though his clothes were better than those which the citizens of Paris thought it wise to wear. He had an ugly cut upon his cheek, which showed purple against his dead white skin.

  ‘I never knew anything about it when I bought the property,’ he began at once, almost before Raynaud had had time to greet him, and his voice trembled miserably. ‘God is my witness, monsieur, that I never knew! I was preparing to write to monsieur, to the illustrious citizen, and tell him—Ah, mon Dieu, citizen, my old friend, save me, save me! I have a wife and—’ and here his trembling voice broke into sobs.

  ‘Dieu de Dieu, what does he mean?’ said Raynaud, in his gentle voice. ‘What is it, my old comrade? You are beside yourself.’

  ‘What? The money, the treasure that I found,—was I not arrested because of that?’ Sommarel checked himself in his explanation. His voice trembled less.

  ‘Money? Treasure? I know nothing of it,’ Raynaud said dreamily, passing his hand before his face. ‘Treasure? Ah, at Les Colombiers? I heard something of that,—long ago,’ he added, as if plunged in a deep reverie.

  Sommarel stared. He had only completed the purchase of Les Colombiers two months previously, and it was only a week since he had discovered under an old apple tree an iron box containing three thousand pieces of twenty livres,—sixty thousand livres in gold, besides jewels. He had thought of making some communication to Raynaud, who was too powerful a person to be left unpropitiated; but had taken no steps toward doing so till three days before he had been arrested and carried up to Paris. If he had only waited and not been so unnerved by fear! He tried now to put a good face upon it. ‘Ah, then my arrest had been no doubt a pure mistake. How fortunate that you, my old friend, should have the power of releasing me so easily! You will order me to be set at liberty at once, n’est-ce pas?’

  Raynaud’s face darkened. It was as if some subject totally foreign to his present thoughts had been forced upon him. ‘I have not the power,’ he said briefly; and while that dark look was on his face Sommarel dared not press the point.

  Presently his face cleared, and he and his old comrade exchanged information about their lives since the day when they parted close upon six years ago.

  Sommarel had prospered moderately (he was careful to say only moderately) as a lawyer in Tours, had taken to himself a wife, and had two children. He looked piteously up at Raynaud as he told him these last details. But the other only went on to ask about Tourret and Gavaudun. Tourret, it seemed, had not gone to Switzerland. His father-in-law, the ci-devant, was dead. Tourret and his wife had still a moderate income, and lived quietly in Auvergne. During all the talk Sommarel watched (as a dog watches) the face of his friend. He had, Sommarel saw, the same mild dreamy eyes which the young student had in days of yore, the same gentle voice. At last Raynaud got up to go.

  ‘Ah! mon Dieu, Geoffroi, thou wilt not leave me here. Consider the danger! Have pity, have pity; think of my wife, my children!’ Again his voice was choked with fear and grief.

  Once more the dark look came into Raynaud’s face. ‘I have not the power,’ he said, and hurried out.

  Sommarel was in one of the early batches that came up for trial. But as a matter of fact his arrest had been a mistake, and there really appeared to be nothing against him. The Tribunal how
ever hesitated to acquit; acquitting was an act which seemed almost contrary to nature. Besides this lawyer of Tours wore a better coat and finer linen than seemed compatible with the best citizenship,—always excepting the case of Robespierre, who was allowed by public opinion to wear silk stockings and gilt buckles. Still you could not precisely condemn a man for wearing good clothes. ‘What do you think?’ one member whispered to Raynaud. ‘Must one acquit?’ Raynaud made no answer; he only stepped from his seat on the rostrum to the body of the hall.

  ‘I denounce the citizen,’ he said. ‘I have known him long, and I know him a proper subject for the guillotine.’

  ‘Geoffroi, my friend, have pity on me!’ was all that Sommarel could say.

  ‘Ah,’ said the other members, ‘he acknowledges the old acquaintanceship. Citizen Raynaud has acted the part of a good patriot!’ And Sommarel was removed.

  VII

  Everybody spoke of this act of patriotism on the part of Raynaud. It had its imitators; and before long it came to be a distinguishing note of Roman virtue to denounce some relative or friend. In such a case denunciation meant death as a matter of course. It was argued that only under the pressure of the most ardent patriotism had private feelings been so far sacrificed. To question therefore the knowledge of one who had been wrought to such a step was clearly absurd.

  To Raynaud it only meant that the batches grew larger day by day. There was a question of dividing the Revolutionary Tribunal that the work of trial might be more expeditious, and Raynaud warmly advocated the scheme. Robespierre advocated it too. There were found some who said the gentle-eyed author of the saying, Il faut du sang, et encore du sang, et toujours du sang, was a better patriot than Robespierre himself; so Robespierre coldly advocated the scheme for division of the Tribunals and it was carried.

  On the other hand the friends of Robespierre remarked that though it was Raynaud who had set the fashion of ‘denouncings,’ and though it was he who had finally introduced the practice of accepting these denouncings in the place of evidence, no more of his own friends or relations ever appeared before the Tribunals. The discontent which these hints began to arouse went so far that at last one of the denounced ones was acquitted by Raynaud’s own Tribunal against his earnest pleadings. Of late, moreover, Samson had once been hissed and not cheered when he mounted the guillotine in the Place de la Révolution, and the tumbrils were no longer cursed so loudly as they rolled through the streets. No crowds preceded them dancing the carmagnole and singing; on the contrary, the crowd sometimes stood silent, some women were even heard to use words of pity. Raynaud himself witnessed this scene; he went home and took to his bed. Robespierre was said to have declared that he was going too far and demoralizing the guillotine.

  Should he denounce his brother Gilbert and so vindicate his position once more? There was Tourret too living in Auvergne. Yes, he decided on both these; anything must be done rather than that the daily sacrifice should grow less. Meantime a piece of good fortune happened. Gavaudun, teaching French literature and law in Prague, had heard that Raynaud had risen to a position of importance without hearing of the details. He wrote to his former comrade asking for some help in a matter of private interest. Raynaud replied and succeeded at length in enticing Gavaudun to an interview with a supposed notary and notary’s clerk upon the Swiss frontier. Gavaudun was seized and carried to Paris, denounced and executed. Raynaud’s influence rose again: the batch of condamnés next day increased from thirty-nine to sixty-three; and once more the blood seemed to course through his veins.

  But alas! next day came the news that Gilbert Raynaud had escaped. Only his father-in-law, old Plaidoyer, was seized. And people began to murmur against Raynaud again. But then Tourret had been taken; so came the news the day following; and he in due course was brought up to Paris.

  It was said that seldom had a prisoner pleaded more eloquently than Tourret did. His speech was delivered as though addressed personally to Raynaud and to him alone, though in fact the latter was not holding the position of a judge but of a witness. Tourret spoke of their old comradeship, of pleasures and hardships shared in common, of this act of kindness on the part of Raynaud, of that return by himself. Then he went on to plead the innocence of his life since, buried as he had been down in the country,—‘simple-minded and avoiding State affairs,’ as he said, quoting in Greek; for he and Raynaud had read Aristophanes together in the old days. A momentary smile flitted across Raynaud’s unexpressive face as he heard these words; for he knew that if there had been any disposition to acquit upon the part of the judges, this display of learning would probably just turn the scale. Tourret went on to speak of his father-in-law lately dead, of his wife and one child, and his voice faltered a little—not overmuch. He spoke like a born orator; even the judges were moved; and Citizen Fourmisson whispered, looking at Raynaud’s impassive countenance, ‘That man has a heart of stone.’ But then Citizen Fourmisson had always been of the party secretly opposed to the Aristides of the Tribunal. Aristides himself was as one who only listened for form’s sake. When the speech was over he raised his head with that peculiar light in his eyes which seemed almost to mesmerize his fellow-judges and to call forth the word he expected. Condamné! came from all mouths at once, and the prisoner was removed to make way for the next.

  VIII

  Of the next day’s batch to the guillotine in the Faubourg St. Marcel Tourret was the first name on the list. Raynaud was, as usual, upon the platform. Robespierre too had come that day to assist at the executions, jealous of the other’s growing reputation for patriotism of an exalted kind. There were one or two other citizens of some note there. But these two stood before the rest, the observed of all observers; Robespierre at any rate was, for he was not often seen in that remote south-east region. He had on an elegant drab coat, black breeches, and white stockings. Raynaud was in his usual coarse black coat and breeches and red cap of liberty; and out of these rough habiliments the singular delicacy of his features, the singular long white hands, showed only the more conspicuous.

  He watched the cart as it drew up to the scaffold, watched the victims while they answered to their names, watched the first of them, Tourret, as he was brought upon the platform bound,—yet not as if he had ever seen him before, though his comrade cast upon him a glance which might have awed a Judas,—watched him as he was led forward and placed with his head upon the block.

  There was, it has been said, always a momentary pause and hush before the fall of the first head. The details of the performance this day were the same as on the previous one. The swift-checked hiss, a dull,—a very dull thud.

  Then a woman screamed as never woman had screamed before. The sound sent a thrill of horror through even that crowd, used as it was to horrors of many kinds. Those who were a little way off set the woman down as the wife of the condemned. But those who were close to her saw that she had not even been looking at the victim, that her eyes had been fixed upon Robespierre and his com—

  But there was nobody standing beside Robespierre!

  The woman was foaming at the mouth. ‘Mon Dieu, c’était le diable!’ she moaned. Samson had hold of the head; he turned to display it first to the two great men. Robespierre on his part turned round to speak to his neighbour, and then his face grew white to the lips. There was no Raynaud beside him! Others had seen the same sight that the woman had seen. ‘It was Robespierre’s familiar spirit,’ they said; and in the talk which grew out of what they had to tell lay the germ of Thermidor.[4]

  But one acute-faced man close to the scaffolding was heard to murmur, ‘The mystic chain is broken—Catena mystica rupta est!’

  [1]sabots: wooden clogs, associated with the lower classes.

  [2]ci-devant: nobility refusing to acknowledge the post-revolutionary social system (literally ‘from before’).

  [3]fillet: a circlet or headband.


  [4]Thermidor: the eleventh month in the Republican calendar. 9 Thermidor Year II (27 July 1794) saw the downfall of Robespierre and the end of the Reign of Terror.

  PHANTASIES

  I—The Alp Wanderer

  The fir-trees pointed their heads to heaven, funereal giants and, to me, a mortal seemed to touch the stars. From above, other fir-trees looked down upon their summits, which from that height were flattened upon the lower branches, and altogether appeared spread out like fungi or lichens upon the earth. Above the highest of the high trees the bare rock began to climb, until it was hidden by the feet of the glacier. But the glacier’s head pillowed and lost itself upon eternal snows. From these snows the glacier, the rocks, the fir-crowned hills, the dark valley beneath, which murmured with innumerable waters, were as nought, terrene things of no account to those eternal witnesses.

  The snow-fields were swept by the skirts of the cloud, rainbow-tinted at the edges, and between these looked on them the face of the moon as the face of a friend.

  Below on earth mortal men praised her and appeased her with nameless sacrifices. She moved unheeding, girt round by sombre night, spreading awful shadows through the midnight wood. The mandrake felt the touch of her beams and half unloosed its clinging root beneath the soil; dark hellebore matted itself in the thicket and gave forth its deadly odour. And Penthesilea, with fearful incantations, moved, now in the light, now in the blackness, gathering the herbs which were to serve her in her obscene rites while holy mortals slept.