The Gods Are Athirst — Chapter 17

Chapter 17 of 29 · Review of The Gods Are Athirst

On 24 Frimaire, at ten in the morning, beneath a bright pink sky that was melting the night's ice, Citizens Guénot and Delourmel, delegates of the Committee of General Security, went to the Barnabites and had themselves conducted to the Section's Surveillance Committee, in the chapter house, where Citizen Beauvisage was then thrusting logs into the fireplace. At first, however, they did not see him, owing to his short, thickset stature.

In the cracked voice peculiar to hunchbacks, Citizen Beauvisage invited the delegates to sit down and placed himself entirely at their service.

Guénot asked whether he knew a former nobleman named des Ilettes, who lived near the Pont-Neuf.

“He is an individual,” he added, “whom I have orders to arrest.”

And he produced the warrant issued by the Committee of General Security.

After searching his memory for some time, Beauvisage replied that he knew no individual named des Ilettes; that the suspect so designated might not live within the Section, since parts of the Museum, Unity, and Marat-and-Marseilles Sections also lay near the Pont-Neuf; that, if he did live within the Section, it must be under a name other than the one appearing on the Committee's warrant; but that they would nevertheless soon discover him.

“Let us lose no time!” said Guénot. “He was brought to our attention by a letter from one of his accomplices, which was intercepted and handed to the Committee a full fortnight ago, but which Citizen Lacroix did not examine until last night. We are overwhelmed; denunciations reach us from every quarter in such abundance that we do not know which way to turn.”

“Denunciations,” Beauvisage replied proudly, “are also pouring into the Section's Surveillance Committee. Some bring their revelations out of civic zeal; others, lured by a hundred-sol note. Many children denounce their parents because they covet their inheritance.”

“This letter,” Guénot continued, “comes from a former Madame de Rochemaure, a courtesan at whose house biribi was played, and bears the name of a Citizen Rauline on its address; but it is actually intended for an émigré in Pitt's service. I brought it with me so that I might communicate to you the part concerning the individual des Ilettes.”

He drew the letter from his pocket.

“It begins with lengthy particulars concerning those members of the Convention who, according to this woman, might be won over by the offer of a sum of money or the promise of high office under a new government, more stable than the present one. Then comes this passage:”

I have just left M. Des Ilettes, who lives near the Pont-Neuf in an attic which one must be either cat or devil to find; to earn his living, he has been reduced to making Punch dolls. He is a man of judgement: I therefore send you, monsieur, the substance of his conversation. He does not believe that the present state of affairs will last long. He does not foresee its ending through a victory by the coalition; and events seem to bear him out, for you know, monsieur, that the news from the war has lately been bad. He is more inclined to expect a rising among the humble folk and the women of the people, who remain deeply attached to their religion. He considers that the general terror inspired by the Revolutionary Tribunal will soon unite the whole of France against the Jacobins. “This tribunal,” he said in jest, “which tries the Queen of France and a woman who carries bread, resembles that William Shakespeare whom the English so greatly admire, etc.…” He does not think it impossible that Robespierre may marry Madame Royale and have himself appointed protector of the kingdom.

I should be grateful, monsieur, if you would have the sums owed to me sent by the customary channel, namely one thousand pounds sterling; but take great care not to write to M. Morhardt: he has just been arrested and imprisoned, etc., etc.

“The Sieur des Ilettes makes Punch dolls,” said Beauvisage. “There is a valuable clue… although the Section contains many little trades of that sort.”

“That reminds me,” said Delourmel, “that I promised to bring a doll home to my younger daughter Nathalie, who is ill with scarlet fever. The spots appeared yesterday. That fever is not greatly to be feared, but it calls for care. And Nathalie, who is very advanced for her age and remarkably intelligent, has delicate health.”

“As for me,” said Guénot, “I have only a boy. He rolls hoops made from barrel hoops and makes little Montgolfier balloons by blowing into bags.”

“Very often,” Beauvisage observed, “children play best with things that are not toys. My nephew Émile, a highly intelligent little fellow of seven, spends the whole day amusing himself with small wooden squares, which he uses to make buildings… Do you take snuff?”

And Beauvisage held out his open snuffbox to the two delegates.

“Now we must collar our scoundrel,” said Delourmel, who wore long moustaches and rolled his great eyes. “This morning I have an appetite for aristocrat's pluck, washed down with a glass of white wine.”

Beauvisage suggested that the delegates should go to the shop of his colleague Dupont the elder, on the Place Dauphine, who was sure to know the individual des Ilettes.

They made their way through the brisk air, followed by four grenadiers from the Section.

“Have you seen The Last Judgement of Kings?” Delourmel asked his companions. “The play is worth seeing. The author shows all the kings of Europe taking refuge on a desert island, at the foot of a volcano that swallows them up. It is a patriotic work.”

At the corner of the Rue du Harlay, Delourmel noticed a little barrow, gleaming like a chapel, which was being pushed by an old woman who wore an oilskin hat over her cap.

“What does that old woman sell?” he asked.

The old woman answered for herself:

“Look, gentlemen, take your choice. I have chaplets and rosaries, crosses, images of Saint Anthony, holy shrouds, handkerchiefs of Saint Veronica, Ecce Homos, Agnus Deis, Saint Hubert's horns and rings, and every kind of devotional object.”

“It is the arsenal of fanaticism!” cried Delourmel.

And he proceeded to subject the pedlar to a summary interrogation, to every question of which she replied:

“My son, I have been selling devotional objects for forty years.”

One of the delegates of the Committee of General Security, spying a man in a blue coat as he passed, ordered him to conduct the astonished old woman to the Conciergerie.

Citizen Beauvisage pointed out to Delourmel that it would more properly have fallen to the Surveillance Committee to arrest the woman and take her to the Section; that, moreover, no one now knew what course to adopt toward the former worship if one wished to act in accordance with the government's intentions, nor whether everything should be permitted or everything forbidden.

As the delegates and the commissioner approached the carpenter's shop, they heard angry shouts mingling with the screech of the saw and the rasping of the plane. A quarrel had arisen between the carpenter Dupont the elder and his neighbour, the porter Remacle, on account of Citizen Remacle, whom an irresistible attraction continually drew to the back of the workshop, whence she returned to the lodge covered in shavings and sawdust. The offended porter kicked Mouton, the carpenter's dog, at the very moment when his own daughter, little Joséphine, was holding the animal tenderly in her arms. Joséphine, indignant, poured curses upon her father; and the carpenter shouted wrathfully:

“You wretch! I forbid you to beat my dog.”

“And I,” retorted the porter, raising his broom, “forbid you to…”

He did not finish: the carpenter's jointer plane had grazed his head.

The moment he caught sight of Citizen Beauvisage approaching with the delegates, he ran to him and said:

“Citizen Commissioner, you are my witness that this villain has just murdered me.”

Citizen Beauvisage, wearing the red cap that was the badge of his office, spread his long arms in a pacifying gesture and addressed the porter and the carpenter:

“One hundred sols,” he said, “to whichever of you tells us where to find a suspect wanted by the Committee of General Security—the former nobleman des Ilettes, maker of Punch dolls.”

The porter and the carpenter both pointed at once to Brotteaux's lodging, and now quarrelled only over the hundred-sol assignat promised to the informer.

Delourmel, Guénot, and Beauvisage, followed by the four grenadiers, the porter Remacle, the carpenter Dupont, and a dozen little urchins from the neighbourhood, filed up the staircase, which shook beneath their tread, and then climbed the steep ladder stairs.

In his attic, Brotteaux was cutting out jointed puppets while Père Longuemare, seated opposite him, fastened their scattered limbs together with threads; and he smiled as he saw rhythm and harmony thus coming to life beneath his fingers.

At the sound of musket-butts on the landing, the friar started in every limb—not that he possessed less courage than Brotteaux, who remained impassive, but concern for worldly appearances had not accustomed him to compose his countenance. From Citizen Delourmel's questions Brotteaux understood where the blow had come from, and realised, a little late, that it is a mistake to confide in women. Invited to accompany the Citizen Commissioner, he took his Lucretius and his three shirts.

“The citizen,” he said, indicating Père Longuemare, “is an assistant I engaged to help make my puppets. He is registered as living here.”

But the friar, being unable to produce a certificate of civic virtue, was placed under arrest with Brotteaux.

When the procession passed the porter's lodge, Citizen Remacle, leaning on her broom, regarded her tenant with the air of Virtue beholding Crime in the hands of the Law. Little Joséphine, proud and beautiful, held Mouton by his collar as he tried to caress the friend who had given him sugar. A crowd of onlookers filled the Place de Thionville.

At the foot of the stairs, Brotteaux met a young countrywoman who was preparing to climb the steps. Beneath her arm she carried a basket full of eggs, and in her hand a flat cake wrapped in a cloth. It was Athénaïs, who had come from Palaiseau to offer her saviour a token of her gratitude. When she realised that officials and four grenadiers were taking “Monsieur Maurice” away, she stood dumbfounded, asked whether it was true, approached the commissioner, and said gently:

“You are not taking him away? It cannot be… Why, you do not know him! He is as good as the good Lord.”

Citizen Delourmel thrust her aside and signalled to the grenadiers to move on. Then Athénaïs spewed the foulest abuse and the most obscene invective upon the officials and grenadiers, who fancied they could feel every chamber pot in the Palais-Royal and the Rue Fromenteau being emptied over their heads. Then, in a voice that filled the whole Place de Thionville and sent a shudder through the crowd of onlookers, she cried:

“Long live the King! Long live the King!”