The Tower of the Temple, where the unfortunate Royal Family of France were at this time confined, was to be reached only by traversing the Palace of the same name, and crossing the court and garden where the work of demolishing a mass of old houses, which encroached too nearly upon Capet's prison, was still proceeding. Patriotic ardour had seen a spy behind every window, a concealed courtier in every niche; so the buildings were doomed, and falling fast, whilst from the debris arose a strong enclosing wall pierced by a couple of guarded entries. Broken masonry lay everywhere, and Dangeau stumbled precariously as he made his way over the rubble. The workmen had been gone this half-hour, but as he halted and called out, a man with a lantern advanced and piloted him to the Tower.
The Commune was responsible for the prisoners of the Temple, and the actual guarding of them was delegated to eight of its Deputies. These were on duty for forty-eight hours at a stretch, and were relieved by fours every twenty-four hours.
As Dangeau entered the Council-room, those whose term of duty was finished were already leaving. The office of gaoler was an unpopular one, and most men, having once satisfied their curiosity about the prisoners, were very unwilling to approach them again. The sight of misfortune is only pleasing to a mind completely debased, and most of these Deputies were worthy men enough.
Dangeau was met almost on the threshold by a fair-haired, eager-looking youth, who hailed him warmly as Jacques, and, linking his arm in his, led him, unresisting, into the deep embrasure of the window.
"What is it, Edmond?" inquired Dangeau, an unusually attractive smile lighting up his rather grave features. It was plain that this young man roused in him an amused affection.
"Nothing," said Edmond aloud, "but it is so long since I saw you. Have you been dead, buried, or out of Paris?"
"Since the arm you pinched just now is reasonably solid flesh and blood, you may conclude that during the past fortnight Paris has been rendered inconsolable by my absence," said Dangeau, laughing a little.
Edmond Cléry threw an imperceptible glance at his fellow-Commissioners. Two being always with the prisoners, there remained four others, and of these a couple were playing cards at the wine-stained table, and two more lounged on the doorstep smoking a villanously rank tobacco and talking loudly.
Certainly no one was in the least interested in the conversation of Citizens Dangeau and Cléry. Yet for all that Edmond dropped his voice, not to a whisper, but to that smooth monotone which hardly carries a yard, and yet is distinctly audible to the person addressed. In this voice he asked:
"You have not been to the Club?"
Dangeau shook his head.
"Nor seen Hébert, Marat, Jules Dupuis?"
An expression of distaste lifted Dangeau's finely cut lip.
"I have existed without that felicity," he observed, with a slightly sarcastic inflexion.
"Then you have been told—have heard—nothing?"
"My dear Edmond, what mysteries are these?"
Edmond Cléry leaned a little closer, and dropped his voice until it was a mere tenuous thread.
"They have decided on a massacre," he said.
"A massacre?"
"Yes, of the prisoners."
"Just Heaven! No!"
"It is true. Things have fallen from Hébert once or twice. He and Marat have been closeted for hours—the devil's own alliance that—and the plan is of their hatching. Two days ago Hébert spoke at the Club. It was late, Danton was not there. They say—" Cléry hesitated, and stole a glance at his companion's set face—"they say he wishes to know nothing."
"A lie," said Dangeau very quietly.
"I don't know. There, Jacques, don't look at me like that! How can I tell? I tell you my brain reels at the thought of the thing."
"What did Hébert say? He spoke?"
"Yes; said the people must be fleshed—there was not sufficient enthusiasm. Paris as a whole was quiescent, apathetic. This must be changed, an elixir was needed. What? Blood—blood of traitors—blood of aristocrats—oppressors of the people. Bah!—you can fancy the rest well enough."
"Did any one else speak?"
"Marat said the Jacobins were with us."
"Robespierre?"
"In it, of course, but would n't dirty those white hands for the world," said Cléry, sneering.
"No one opposed it?"
"Oh, yes, but hooted down almost at once. You know Dupuis's bull voice? It did his friends a good turn, bellowing slackness, lack of patriotism, and so on. I wish you had been there."
Dangeau shook his head.
"I could have done nothing."
"Ah, but you could; there 's no one like you, Jacques. Danton thunders, and Marat spits out venom, and Hébert panders to the vile in us, but you really make us see an ideal, and wish to be more worthy of it. I said to Barrassin, 'If only Dangeau were here we should be spared this shame.'"
The boy's face flushed as he spoke, but Dangeau looked down moodily.
"I could have done nothing," he repeated. "If they spoke as openly as that it is because their plans are completed. Did you hear any more?"
Edmond looked a little confused.
"Not there—but—well, I was told—a friend told me—it was for to-morrow," and he looked up to find Dangeau's eyes fixed steadily on him.
"A friend, Edmond? Who? Thérèse?"
Cléry coloured hotly.
"Why not Thérèse, Jacques?"
"Oh, if you like to play with gunpowder it's no business of mine, Edmond; but the girl is Hébert's mistress, and as dangerous as the devil, that's all. And so she told you that?"
Cléry nodded, a trifle defiantly.
"To-morrow," said Dangeau slowly; "where?"
"At all the prisons. One or two of the gaolers are warned, but I do not believe they will be able to do anything."
Dangeau was thinking hard.
"They sent me away on purpose," he said at last.
"Curse them!" said Cléry in a shaking voice.
Dangeau did not swear, but he nodded his head as who should say Amen, and his face was bitter hard.
"Is anything intended here?" he asked sharply.
"No, not from head-quarters; but Heaven knows what may happen when the mob tastes blood."
Dangeau gave a short laugh.
"Why, Jacques?" said Cléry, surprised.
"Why, Edmond," repeated Dangeau sardonically, "I was thinking that it would be a queer turn for Fate to play if you and I were to die to-morrow, fighting in defence of Capet against the people."
"You would do that?" asked Edmond.
"But naturally, my friend, since we are responsible for him."
He had been leaning carelessly against the wall, but as he spoke he straightened himself.
"Our friends upstairs will be getting impatient," he said aloud. "Who takes the night duty with me?"
Cléry was about to speak, but received a warning pressure of the arm. He was silent, and Legros, one of the loungers, came forward.