The Gods Are Athirst — Chapter 21

Chapter 21 of 29 · Review of The Gods Are Athirst

Meanwhile Julie Gamelin, dressed in her bottle-green carrick coat, went every day to the Luxembourg gardens and there, on a bench at the end of a path, waited for the moment when her lover would appear at one of the palace dormer windows. They made signs to each other and exchanged their thoughts in a silent language of their own devising. By this means she learned that the prisoner occupied a tolerably good room, enjoyed agreeable company, needed a blanket and a hot-water bottle, and dearly loved his mistress.

She was not alone in watching for a beloved face in that palace turned prison. Beside her, a young mother kept her eyes fixed upon a closed window and, as soon as she saw it open, lifted her little child in her arms above her head. An elderly lady, veiled in lace, would sit motionless for long hours on a folding stool, hoping in vain for a glimpse of her son, who, for fear of yielding to tenderness, played quoits in the prison courtyard until the gardens were closed.

During these long vigils beneath a grey or blue sky, a man of mature years, rather stout and very neat, would sit on a neighbouring bench, playing with his snuffbox and watch-charms and unfolding a newspaper that he never read. He was dressed in the old bourgeois fashion, with a gold-laced tricorne, a reddish-violet coat, and a blue waistcoat embroidered in silver. He had an honest look; he was a musician, to judge by the end of a flute protruding from his pocket. Not for a moment did he take his eyes from the counterfeit young man; he smiled at him continually and, when he saw him rise, rose in turn and followed at a distance. In her distress and loneliness, Julie was touched by the discreet sympathy shown her by this good man.

One day, as she was leaving the gardens and rain began to fall, the good man approached her, opened his vast red umbrella, and asked leave to shelter her beneath it. She answered gently, in her clear voice, that she was willing. But at the sound of that voice, and warned perhaps by some subtle scent of womanhood, he drew sharply away, leaving the young woman exposed to the pelting rain. Julie understood and, despite her troubles, could not help smiling.

Julie lodged in a garret in the Rue du Cherche-Midi and passed herself off as a draper’s clerk seeking employment. Citizen Widow Gamelin, convinced at last that nowhere was her daughter in such great danger as near herself, had sent her away from the Place de Thionville and the Pont-Neuf Section, and supplied her with food and linen as best she could. Julie did a little cooking, went to the Luxembourg to see her dear lover, and returned to her hovel; the monotony of this routine soothed her sorrows, and, being young and strong, she slept soundly all night. Bold by nature, accustomed to adventures, and perhaps emboldened by the clothes she wore, she sometimes went at night to a drinking-house in the Rue du Four, under the sign of the Red Cross, frequented by people of every kind and by women of easy virtue. There she read the newspapers and played trictrac with some shop assistant or soldier, who smoked his pipe under her nose. People drank, gambled, and made love there, and brawls were frequent. One evening, hearing horsemen clatter over the cobbles at the crossroads, a drinker lifted the curtain and, recognizing the commander-in-chief of the National Guard, Citizen Hanriot, galloping past with his staff, muttered between his teeth:

“There goes Robespierre’s jackass!”

At these words Julie burst into loud laughter.

But a moustachioed patriot sharply rebuked the remark:

“The man who speaks so,” he cried, “is a f— aristocrat, whom I should be glad to see sneeze into Samson’s basket. Know that General Hanriot is a good patriot who, should the need arise, will know how to defend Paris and the Convention. That is what the royalists cannot forgive him.”

And the moustachioed patriot, glaring at Julie, who had not ceased laughing, said:

“You, you beardless brat, take care I don’t plant my foot in your backside and teach you to respect patriots.”

Meanwhile voices were raised:

“Hanriot is a drunkard and a fool!”

“Hanriot is a good Jacobin! Long live Hanriot!”

Two factions formed. They closed with one another; fists came down upon battered hats, tables overturned, glasses flew to pieces, the oil lamps went out, and the women shrieked. Set upon by several patriots, Julie seized a bench as a weapon, was thrown to the floor, and clawed and bit her assailants. Her heaving breasts broke free of her open carrick coat and torn shirt-frill. A patrol came running at the noise, and the young aristocrat escaped between the gendarmes’ legs.

Every day, the carts were filled with condemned prisoners.

“I cannot simply let my lover die!” Julie said to her mother.

She resolved to petition, to make every possible approach, to visit committees and offices, representatives and magistrates—wherever she must. She had no dress. Her mother borrowed a striped gown, a kerchief, and a lace cap from Citizen Blaise; and Julie, dressed as a woman and a patriot, went to see Judge Renaudin in a damp, gloomy house in the Rue Mazarine.

Trembling, she climbed the staircase of wood and tile and was received by the judge in his wretched study, furnished with a deal table and two rush-bottomed chairs. The wallpaper hung in shreds. Renaudin, with his black, slicked-down hair, sombre eyes, curled lips, and jutting chin, motioned to her to speak and listened in silence.

She told him that she was the sister of Citizen Chassagne, a prisoner in the Luxembourg; she explained as skilfully as she could the circumstances in which he had been arrested, portrayed him as innocent and unfortunate, and pressed her plea.

He remained hard and unmoved.

She fell pleading at his feet and wept.

As soon as he saw her tears, his face changed: his reddish-black pupils took fire, and his enormous blue-shadowed jaws worked as though to draw saliva into his dry throat.

“Citizen, what is necessary shall be done. Do not trouble yourself.”

And, opening a door, he thrust the petitioner into a little pink drawing room, furnished with painted pier panels, groups of unglazed porcelain, a wall clock and gilded candelabra, deep armchairs, and a tapestry-covered sofa adorned with a pastoral scene by Boucher. Julie was prepared for anything to save her lover.

Renaudin was brutal and quick. When she rose and put Citizen Élodie’s fine dress in order, she met the man’s cruel, mocking gaze; at once she knew that her sacrifice had been useless.

“You promised me my brother’s freedom,” she said.

He sneered.

“I told you, Citizen, that what was necessary would be done—that is, that the law would be applied, nothing more and nothing less. I told you not to trouble yourself, and why should you? The Revolutionary Tribunal is always just.”

She thought of hurling herself upon him, biting him, tearing out his eyes. But, realizing that she would thereby complete Fortuné Chassagne’s ruin, she fled and ran to her garret to strip off Élodie’s defiled dress. There, alone, she howled all night with rage and anguish.

The next day, when she returned to the Luxembourg, she found the gardens occupied by gendarmes who were driving out the women and children. Sentries posted along the paths prevented passers-by from communicating with the prisoners. The young mother who came each day carrying her child in her arms told Julie that there was talk of a conspiracy in the prisons, and that the women were accused of gathering in the gardens to stir the people’s sympathies on behalf of aristocrats and traitors.