V
The
Wood-Sawyer
One
year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never sure, from hour to
hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her husband's head next day.
Every day, through the stony streets, the tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled
with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright women, brown-haired, black-haired, and
grey; youths; stalwart men and old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine
for La Guillotine, all daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the
loathsome prisons, and carried to her through the streets to slake her
devouring thirst.
If
the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time, had
stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle despair, it
would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from the hour when she
had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in the garret of Saint
Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was truest to them in the season
of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good will always be.
As
soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father had
entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little household as
exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had its appointed place
and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught, as regularly, as if they had
all been united in their English home. The slight devices with which she
cheated herself into the show of a belief that they would soon be reunited--
the little preparations for his speedy return, the setting aside of his chair
and his books--these, and the solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner
especially, among the many unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were
almost the only outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
She
did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to mourning
dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well attended to as
the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour, and the old and intent
expression was a constant, not an occasional, thing; otherwise, she remained
very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at night on kissing her father, she would
burst into the grief she had repressed all day, and would say that her sole
reliance, under Heaven, was on him. He always resolutely answered:
"Nothing can happen to him without my knowledge, and I know that I can
save him, Lucie."
They
had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her father said
to her, on coming home one evening:
"My
dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can sometimes
gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to it--which depends on
many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you in the street, he thinks, if
you stood in a certain place that I can show you. But you will not be able to
see him, my poor child, and even if you could, it would be unsafe for you to
make a sign of recognition."
"O
show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day."
From
that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the clock struck
two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away. When it was not too
wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they went together; at other
times she was alone; but, she never missed a single day.
It
was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel of a cutter
of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that end; all else was
wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed her.
"Good
day, citizeness."
"Good
day, citizen."
This
mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been established
voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots; but, was now law
for everybody.
"Walking
here again, citizeness?"
"You
see me, citizen!"
The
wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he had once
been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed at the prison,
and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent bars, peeped through
them jocosely.
"But
it's not my business," said he. And went on sawing his wood.
Next
day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she appeared.
"What?
Walking here again, citizeness?"
"Yes,
citizen."
"Ah!
A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?"
"Do
I say yes, mamma?" whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
"Yes,
dearest."
"Yes,
citizen."
"Ah!
But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I call it my
Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head comes!"
The
billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
"I
call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again! Loo, loo,
loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off HER head comes! Now, a child. Tickle, tickle;
Pickle, pickle! And off ITS head comes. All the family!"
Lucie
shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was impossible
to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in his sight.
Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him first, and often
gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
He
was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten him in
gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart up to her
husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her, with his knee on
his bench and his saw stopped in its work. "But it's not my
business!" he would generally say at those times, and would briskly fall
to his sawing again.
In
all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of spring,
in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again in the snow
and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at this place; and
every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall. Her husband saw her (so
she learned from her father) it might be once in five or six times: it might be
twice or thrice running: it might be, not for a week or a fortnight together.
It was enough that he could and did see her when the chances served, and on
that possibility she would have waited out the day, seven days a week.
These
occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her father walked among
the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing afternoon she arrived at
the usual corner. It was a day of some wild rejoicing, and a festival. She had
seen the houses, as she came along, decorated with little pikes, and with
little red caps stuck upon them; also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the
standard inscription (tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and
Indivisible.
The
miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole surface
furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got somebody to scrawl
it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in with most inappropriate
difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike and cap, as a good citizen
must, and in a window he had stationed his saw inscribed as his "Little
Sainte Guillotine"-- for the great sharp female was by that time popularly
canonised. His shop was shut and he was not there, which was a relief to Lucie,
and left her quite alone.
But,
he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement and a shouting
coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment afterwards, and a throng of
people came pouring round the corner by the prison wall, in the midst of whom
was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with The Vengeance. There could not be fewer
than five hundred people, and they were dancing like five thousand demons.
There was no other music than their own singing. They danced to the popular
Revolution song, keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in
unison. Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a mere storm
of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they filled the place, and
stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly apparition of a dance-figure gone
raving mad arose among them. They advanced, retreated, struck at one another's
hands, clutched at one another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another
and spun round in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the
rest linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke, and
in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they all stopped
at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then reversed the spin,
and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped again, paused, struck out
the time afresh, formed into lines the width of the public way, and, with their
heads low down and their hands high up, swooped screaming off. No fight could
have been half so terrible as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen
sport--a something, once innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy
pastime changed into a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and
steeling the heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier,
showing how warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The
maidenly bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted,
the delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of the
disjointed time.
This
was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and bewildered in
the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow fell as quietly and
lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
"O
my father!" for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she had
momentarily darkened with her hand; "such a cruel, bad sight."
"I
know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be frightened! Not one
of them would harm you."
"I
am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my husband, and
the mercies of these people--"
"We
will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to the window, and
I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may kiss your hand towards
that highest shelving roof."
"I
do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!"
"You
cannot see him, my poor dear?"
"No,
father," said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
"no."
A
footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. "I salute you, citizeness,"
from the Doctor. "I salute you, citizen." This in passing. Nothing
more. Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
"Give
me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness and courage,
for his sake. That was well done;" they had left the spot; "it shall
not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow."
"For
to-morrow!"
"There
is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions to be taken,
that could not be taken until he was actually summoned before the Tribunal. He
has not received the notice yet, but I know that he will presently be summoned
for to-morrow, and removed to the Conciergerie; I have timely information. You
are not afraid?"
She
could scarcely answer, "I trust in you."
"Do
so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall be restored
to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every protection. I must
see Lorry."
He
stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They both knew
too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring away with their
dread loads over the hushing snow.
"I
must see Lorry," the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
The
staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He and his
books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated and made
national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No better man living to
hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to hold his peace.
A
murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the
Who
could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the chair--who
must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out, agitated and
surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did he appear to repeat
her faltering words, when, raising his voice and turning his head towards the
door of the room from which he had issued, he said: "Removed to the
Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?"