At the Sign of the Guillotine

Front matter

a BY HAROLD SPENDER % o n & o n T. FISHER UNWIN [All rights reserved.] TO MY MOTHER LILY SPENDER WHO TO ALL HER CHILDREN- WAS THE TRUEST GUIDE AND DEAREST FRIEND FOR THIRTY yEARS 5 ©e&icate THIS BOOK WHICH SHE READ BEFORE HER DEATH ON 4TH MAY 1895. CONTENTS PAGE CHAP. I. — Flying from the Terror. II. —A Return. I 17 III. — A Meeting. 23 IV. — Through a Half-Open Door. V. — Robespierre. 3' 39 VI. — Arrested. 44 VII. — Behind Prison Doors. VIII. — A Bolt from the Blue. 53 65 IX. — A Dream. 7" X. — A Fateful Promise. XI. — Released. . 87 98 XII. — A Discom.k-i. XIII. — An Ordeal. XIV.— The Exiles. XV. — Edmund Burke. XVI. — The Jacobins. XVII. — An Escapadf. XVIII.— A Rescue. . 102 "3 I24 •3° 141 149 '54 XIX. — 'Ripæ Ulterioris Amok.' XX.— Fear. i63 CONTENTS CHAK PAGE XXI.— Omens. . '75 XXII.— The First Blow. . . .180 XXIII.— A Fall. .... 187 XXIV.— New Schemes. ... .196 XXV- At Bay. .... .206 XXVI. -A Lull. ... 217 XXVII.— A Vain Appeal. . .226 XXVIII.— Like Lucifer. ... 233 XXIX.— A Fated Parting. . 238 XXX.— Touching Zero. .250 XXXI.— A Meeting. . . • .258 XXXII.— Twilight. . . . .269 XXXIII.— Dawn. . . . . . .284 £cr\y Aft-^'V the Guillotine

Chapter I Flying From The Terror

It was the afternoon of a March day in the year 1794 — bright, but cold. The sun was sinking into a great bank of heavy storm cloud, boding little but evil for the following morning, when a big, un wieldy coach lumbered heavily along a muddy road in the district of the Vendee, in western France. The two horses were being driven at their topmost speed, and every now and then a young man, clean-shaven and sharp-visaged, thrust his head out of the window on the left side, and incited the old coachman in no measured terms to quicken his pace. The wheels were richly plastered with mud ; the horses were covered with sweat and foam ; and the great springless vehicle jolted and A AT THE SIGN OF TIIE GUILLOTINE 2 jarred in every rut of the primitive track that served for a road. Besides the restless young man, the coach contained one other occupant — old, deeply-lined and white-haired.

His years could not be less than three-score and ten, and his face was stamped with an indefinable air of ecclesi asticism. Not that the wildest surmise could have found in the clothing or external outfit of either passenger a trace of anything removed from the secular. Their long riding-coats were cut in the latest fashion of Revolutionary Paris. Their American beavers, the mark of orthodox Jacobinism, were adorned with the brightest tricolour cockades ; their necks were enswathed in red mufflers, and they had already replaced the old - fashioned knee - breeches with the latest Republican trouser ; their hair was destitute of powder, and cut short, close to the head, in the manner affected only by the most rigid patriots. Such travellers, in such costume, you might have seen in many parts of France at this moment.

But their movements soon began to indicate that these were very far from being ordinary, com monplace travellers. The young man suddenly pushed his head yet further out of the window, and, shading his eyes, peered forward into the far dis tance. His glance travelled over long stretches of bare country, covered here and there with a sparse FLYING FROM THE TERROR 3 undergrowth, ending suddenly in thick wood. From that point great waves of trees went rolling down dale and up hill, until the horizon closed with the blue distances of a mighty forest. On the far left there rose into the still air a heavy, thick column of smoke, eloquent of devastation and war — the smoke of a burning village. But he was not looking at the view. His whole attention was caught and fixed by a small knot of figures which could be seen moving at the distance of about two miles, standing out against the brushwood.

They, too, seemed to catch sight of the advancing coach, for they suddenly disappeared. The observer withdrew his head quickly, and turned to his companion. ' There's no time to be wasted,' he said. ' The Vendean outposts are in sight. We must get out of this costume, or we are lost.' Without stopping to argue the matter, he groped underneath the seat and produced a bundle of clothing, which he proceeded to undo. Their brilliant cockades, their American hats, their long riding-coats — in short, the entire Revolutionary outfit — all was divested in the twinkling of an eye. As each garment was taken off, it was dropped from the window of the hurrying coach, and left by the roadside. When the process was finished, the elder man emerged in the costume of a French Catholic Abbe, and the younger man was revealed AT THE SIGN OF TIIE GUILLOTINE in the wig, knee-breeches, three-cornered hat, and elegant coat and waistcoat of a nobleman of the old school.

Each had a blue cockade in his hat, and a third had been handed out to the coachman. The plain became gradually less bare, and the underwood grew thicker and thicker, as the stubble on a man's cheek gradually passes into a beard. The coach laboured more heavily, and the horses showed clearer and clearer signs of exhaustion. It was impossible that such a pace could be kept up much longer. All around, silence lay heavily on the woods, and in the west the angry sunset now flamed like fire. And yet, in spite of that mighty blaze, the sun's loss was already felt, and a thin veil seemed to fall over all surrounding objects. Suddenly, from the womb of this profound twilight silence, there burst an appalling uproar. In a moment the forest seemed alive with men, and what had appeared a desert bristled with defiant life.

From every bush there stepped great burly, thick-set giants, dressed in rough peasant costume, with open jackets, trousers and large beaver hats — all browned and hardened with ex posure. Some of them were indescribably ragged and dirty, and many had the look of a wild animal in their great eyes. They were armed with every possible weapon, from a pitchfork to a musket of the latest pattern. Fierce enough foes as they FLYING FROM THE TERROR 5 looked — these men who had sprung from the dragon's teeth sown by the Revolution — and though they had been subjected to little common discipline, they seemed to have an intuitive faculty for acting together, born of some tribal instinct. They advanced on the carriage with loud cries. Meanwhile, the young man had looked out again, with a curious lack of surprise at these strange events.

This time he leant forward and loudly shouted out to the coachman to stop. Frightened out of his wits by the noise and the clamour, and expecting every moment to be his last, the old man tugged at the reins and did his utmost to check the horses. But by this time the animals were quite beyond control with fear. They dashed off into a thundering gallop, and the great vehicle behind them lurched and rolled in such a manner that the two occupants were thrown against one another like passengers in a modern railway collision. But this headlong career was brought to a sudden stop. At any moment it had seemed as if the crowd of heated men around the carriage might break out into a promiscuous fusillade indiscrimin ately directed on the driver and occupants of the carriage. The men inside were dimly conscious of the great danger, and as soon as they had secured themselves to the sides of the carriage had leant back from the windows to avoid any stray bullets.

THE GUILLOTINE 6 But this issue was averted by the act of a prompt Vendean marksman. Dropping on to one knee, he discharged his piece at one of the galloping horses. Struck full in the heart, the poor beast leapt high into the air and crashed down in utter collapse — stone dead. The pace of the other was so great that for a few moments the dead partner was literally dragged along the ground, still attached to the traces. But this could not last long, and after several impotent struggles, in which the coach was all but upset, the second horse stopped also, trembling in every limb. In a few minutes the carriage was surrounded, the traces were cut, and threatening faces appeared at either window. It was not a very pleasant position for the occu pants of the coach. With suspicion raging like a disease through the length and breadth of France, it was scarcely probable that they would be accepted on the mere strength of appearances, or that the passport of a cockade would suffice to reassure their captors.

Danger was written on the threatening faces of the peasants as they crowded to the doors of the coach. A happy inspiration came to the younger man — he would adopt the offended part. Opening the door of the coach before it could be touched by their assailants, he stepped out and looked round on their faces with a fine assumption of anger. With the traditional reverence for a FLYING FROM THE TERROR 7 seigneur strong upon them, the Bretons fell back at sight of his costume, and left him standing alone in the centre, where all could see him — a fine aristocratic figure, with an air of inherited power. He hastened to take advantage of the impression. ' A fine way to treat your friends, my men ! Here in the Vendee, at least, we expected to find some refuge from the accursed rebels who have made a reproach and a shame of France !

And this is how we are treated ! Are you, then, also traitors to your King and your God ? ' The words were well chosen, and a confused murmur, betokening doubt and indecision — still further increased by the appearance of the priest — went through the crowd. ' Who are you ? ' shouted one. ' Whence do you come ? ' ' Does not our dress tell its own tale — to you who still have reverence and loyalty in your hearts ? ' There was another murmur ; but he went on rapidly, — ' Barely escaped from the jaws of yonder tigers, we have driven for bare life, thinking that here, at least, we should get relief and safety ! And this is our reception ! Show me your captain — let me speak to him — and he will understand.' The proposal found favour. ' Yes, send for the captain,' cried one. ' The TIIE GUILLOTINE 8 seigneur is right,' cried another. ' This is a matter for the captain.' The captain, or leader, as it would be more accu rate to call one of those to whose discipline the peasants of the Vendee submitted during those terrible years, was not far off.

He had not taken part in the wild rush on the carriage. It was not a business that required much leadership. He was one of the young provincial nobles who had long faithfully administered his estate, and, now that war had broken out, found himself rewarded with the trust and devotion of his tenants. He had taken a command in the army of the Vendee, and for the last two years had been engaged in a conflict where there was little or no quarter shown on either side. The young man in the coach quickly and in stinctively recognised one of his own order, and might have been observed by a close onlooker to draw himself up with a curious motion as the captain came near, with a touch of that class tribal feeling which prevents men from shaming themselves before their equals in rank. But except in a certain dignity of deportment, and one or two remnants of gold lace on his dress, there were few traces of noble birth left on the Vendean officer.

A man who has fought in some twenty pitched battles has struck soil that lies deeper than class distinction. In his eye and on FL YING FROM THE TERROR 9 his haggard face there was stamped the experience of a man who has grown very familiar with death. He scanned the two travellers with a somewhat weary look. His voice was harsh, and he spoke abruptly and almost rudely. ' You are perhaps not aware, messieurs, that we are accustomed to regard with suspicion arrivals that come from that direction,' and he pointed towards the enemy. ' Your clothes do you credit, but I should like to see them more travel-stained.' The young man bowed, though he plainly re sented the tone. ' Let me be perfectly frank with you,' he said. ' The clothes we have travelled in lie by the side of that road. These we have put on out of de ference to the feelings of your admirable followers, and as a sign and symbol of our rank.' The captain listened politely, but it was impos sible to judge from his impassive face whether he believed this account.

There was, perhaps, a lingering touch of sarcasm in his reply. ' It flatters me that you should have dressed so elegantly before coming into our company.' The refugee replied, rather sharply, — ' Our reason, sir, should not be very difficult for you to discover. We knew that the methods of warfare in this part of the world were somewhat short and summary, and we feared that you might not have the leisure to go behind appearances Besides, we had imagined that here, at least, our rank and office would be treated otherwise than as a disgrace.' 'And that rank is—?' ' Perhaps not unknown to you. I have the misfortune to be the Due de Lemours.' He uttered a name known to those who opposed the Revolution at that moment as a devoted cham pion of the Old Order. For years a price had been on his head, and yet, from within the dominions of the Republic, he had carried on a ceaseless war against the faith and practice that he loathed.

As he spoke, the peasants instinctively fell back, and took up a more respectful attitude, while their leader's manner visibly changed. ' Then, may I ask by what strange chance we meet at this spot ? ' 'I am engaged,' he replied, 'in saving a holy priest of God from outrage and death ; ' and, turning towards the priest at his side, he bared his head and bowed. The Vendeans were thrilled by this action, and many of them bared their heads also. The captain bowed stiffly, but was otherwise unmoved. ' And his name ? ' he said. ' The Abbe Lemaitre, of the District of Arras.' ' A praiseworthy service,' said the soldier, shortly. The refugee raised his head. ' No praise to me,' he said, haughtily : ' it is the FL YINC FROM THE TERROR 11 merest humanity. I found this old man hunted like a beast — hiding in the slums of great cities and the recesses of forests — daily on the giddy precipice of death and torture — should I be human if I had not helped him ?

But alone I could have done little. I was aided by one who, though a Republican, is still a man — aided with passports and secret allies.' The old Abbe started and turned, as if he heard something for the first time. The captain interrupted, — ' However aided, it was no mean venture,' he said, still with the same stiff courtesy. The refugee fell into the tone. ' Yes, but a venture that would still have been impossible but for you.' And then, with quick emphasis and graphic power, he told the story of their escape ; how they had arrived at Nantes disguised as commercial travellers ; how, by the help of passports and secret assistance, they had made their way to the rear of the Republican army in the field, and driven a roaring trade in camp-utensils — but how, for a long time, further advance seemed impos sible, and they almost laid aside hope of passing the tract of blood and fire which separated their customers, an ' infernal column ' of the worst de scription, from their friends.

But their chance at last came. The ' infernal column ' suffered a bloody reverse at the hands of the despairing Vendeans, maddened with the cruel devastation of a brutal and stupid revenge. For tunately the Vendeans left the ' Reds ' to fall back unpursued. In the confusion of the ensuing re treat these two lagged behind, seized an old coach lying in the inn of a village through which they passed, secured a coachman by lavish bribes, and then struck across country towards the Vendeans. Most of the Republican stragglers whom they had met dismissed them for mad travellers braver than themselves. It had been a rush of a few hours, but it was not until the end that they could safely change their costume and appear in their true colours. The narrative carried conviction. Its details corresponded exactly with the facts as known to the listeners.

The speaker had an air of sincerity which banished scepticism. A deep murmur of approval passed through the throng of peasants as he finished, and they looked anxiously towards their captain to see if he were satisfied. Accustomed to rapid decision, and now con vinced that his doubts were groundless, the Ven dean leader changed his attitude without wasting time on regrets that he did not feel. ' Gentlemen,' he said, ' I am satisfied. You have trusted in our hospitality, and you may be sure that you will not be deceived. I presume that FL YING FROM THE TERROR 13 y your aim, M. le Due, is to see that this priest arrives safely in England ? ' The Duke bowed. ' That is my desire. A friend — the Marquis de Saens — waits for him there.' ' We will do our best.' He gave his orders rapidly, picking out three trustworthy men from his force, and sending the refugees back to the main camp with that escort.

The dusk was fast falling when they left the outpost, and it was quite dark when they reached the Vendean camp. Their way lay through the thickest part of the forest, penetrated by no road, and scarcely a path worthy of the name — hidden from the ken of all but the native. Suddenly they came out on a vast assemblage of tents, massed together, without apparent order, in a large clearing of the forest. As they picked their way among a confused litter of tent-ropes, camp-fires, cooking utensils, accoutrements and ammunition, they seemed to be passing through the settlement of some wandering tribe rather than the camp of an army. The darkness was lit up with numberless fires, and round them were grouped motley throngs of men, women and children — whole families together — a nation in arms. Some of these groups were engaged in prayer, others were eating their evening meal, others were cleaning their muskets or preparing for rest.

Everywhere were children — children running to and fro on their bare feet, children playing, children bunched in drowsy bundles on their mothers' laps. They halted before a larger tent than the rest, and, after a hurried consultation, one of the escort went within. A few minutes afterwards he returned. ' The General,' he said, ' will see you now.' They lifted the tent door and entered. The interior was barely furnished — a small deal table in the centre, and a camp bed in the corner. Two candles guttered on the table, low in the bottles which served to hold them. A large-limbed man was sitting at the table, poring over a map. As they entered he looked up, and they were almost startled by the great shaggy, lion-like visage, as he looked at them with large, calm, observant eyes. There was a big scar across his forehead, and his dress was that of a peasant of the Vendee. ' You are welcome,' he said, laconically. ' What can we do for you ? ' ' What we want is lodging for to-night, and to-morrow some guidance on our way to the coast.' ' It shall be done.

You can sleep in the tent of my lieutenant, who was killed yesterday. You shall have an escort to the coast to-morrow.' Ft YING FROM THE TERROR 15 Calling a member of the escort, he gave a series of rapid instructions. In a few minutes they found themselves comfortably housed in one of the largest tents of the camp. The Due de Lemours was well satisfied with his venture. The affair had gone without a hitch, and in a few days he would be able to return to that double life of the sham Republican and Royalist intriguer, with the satisfaction that he had baulked his political enemies of one more victim. But his companion already felt the cold shadow of coming exile. The Abbe had only left Nantes by compulsion, after running a hundred risks — snatched from the very jaws of death by the urgency of his friends, and at the present moment he had a special cause for unrest.

He knew that he had been helped by many true men, and he felt a proper gratitude to his allies. But the Duke had dropped a phrase which troubled and puzzled him, and yet aroused a vague hope which he hardly dared to cherish. For who was this ' Republican friend ' that had helped him with money and passports ? Could it be one who had walked with him in youth, but had since gone far off into the darkness — the dark ness of separation and division ? No ! it was a mere foolish fancy. Why open that wound afresh ? But the thought recurred. He must know before he could sleep. There could be no TIIE GUILLOTLNE reason for secrecy. The Duke's reticence was probably a mere act of carelessness. He would ask. ' Tell me,' he said, speaking very low, turning on his bed of straw, ' tell me who is this Re publican friend ?

Who can be risking the guillotine to help me ?' ' Why, don't you know ?' cried the Duke, in his brisk, cheerful way. ' It is the Deputy Louvier. He is a terrible Red, but has a strange affection for you.' And there was joy in the heart of an old man that evening, such as the father felt when he saw the prodigal son return over the brow of the hill, mindful of his early home.

Chapter II

A RETURN 'YES, the jury got impatient, and I heard one say that the prisoners were, at any rate, conspiring against his stomach. They were all condemned, and I suppose they are on their way at the present moment.' ' All condemned ? Father, mother, children — all for one offence ? ' ' What would you have ? One can't be too nice in a revolution. Justice is a virtue for quiet times.' ' That was not how you used to talk.' ' Ah ! but I have grown out of all that. I used to think we could do it all so easily — now I am in a hurry. There is no end to it. What we want is file-firing.' ' But these are men and women — some of them innocent. By such confusion you make martyrs of criminals ! ' ' Bah ! I am tired of such talk ! Let us have vigour — vigour — vigour ! You call this Anarchy — well, Anarchy is just what is required.' The scene was Paris — the Tuileries Gardens, B the ioth of April 1794.

The two speakers were seated in front of an open-air cafe. The fiercer of the two — keen-eyed, restless, nervous — spoke rapidly and intensely, throwing off his words with a sort of jerk, as if the motive-power came from the senses rather than the brain. There was a curious impulsive abandon about his utteiance, and the face gave the key to a strong, emotional, dis ordered nature, perpetually bordering on hysteria. His name was Collot d'Herbois, one of the chief administrators of the Terror — a member of the Great Dread Committee, the Committee of Public Safety. The milder speaker stood out in strong contrast. His face bespoke an earnest, scrupulous nature, crossed with waves of doubt — a curious mixture of strength and weakness. He seemed like a man who was treading a dark, difficult road, driven on by duty, and yet away from duty — plodding along with eyes on the goal, but without any joy by the way.

This was the Deputy Bertrand Louvier. He had been away from Paris during the past year in the country of the Cevennes as a ' Deputy on Mission ' — a sort of provincial governor in a difficult and troublesome part of France. He had governed firmly but mildly, and had been, perhaps for that reason, abruptly recalled to Paris. He had arrived on the previous day. A RETURN 19 Crossing the Tuileries Gardens in his first walk through Paris after a year's absence, he had met Collot returning from one of the trials before the Revolutionary Tribunal. In the old days they had been close friends, for Louvier was a fervent Jacobin, and voted for the execution of the King and against the Girondists. But now he felt out of his bearings. Everyone in Paris seemed to have changed, and Collot with the rest. Their conversation was suddenly invaded.

On the broad walk that ran in front of the cafe, in the bright spring sunshine of a fresh April after noon, the gay world of Paris, unappalled and undeterred by any troubles, was flaunting its finery, modelled on every age and style, and free from all reverence for any mode. But on the pleasant, laughing, restless murmur of the promenaders there broke the sound of an approach ing tumult, and round the corner of the great walk there swept a promiscuous mob, turbulent and noisy. The promenaders fell back to right and left, the young girls daintily gathering up the skirts of their dresses, and the young swells nonchalantly eyeing the crowd through their lorgnettes. From long habit, a sort of order within confusion seemed to have sprung up, and there were few who evinced either disgust or surprise.

On the contrary, as the crowd came nearer the swells began enthusiastically clapping their hands, and the girls waved their handkerchiefs. For in the centre of a fringe of canaille — dirty, unkempt, fierce - faced, men and women and ruffianly youths, with bloodshot, hungry, eager eyes— marched a company of young soldiers, in cross-belts, large hats and blue uniforms, setting out for the war — recruits to fill up the gaps in some hard-hit regiment. Their passage touched a chord in the hearts of all. Intrigues had become wearisome, executions had become tedious, but thc war — every Parisian could understand the war ! The volunteers were well pleased. One of them, more excited than the rest, struck up the ' Marseillaise.' Immediately it spread like a fire through the whole company, and was caught up by the onlookers.

Men and women sang it with a sort of frenzy — canaille and fashionables joining together. The song did not cease till the soldiers passed round the corner and were out of sight. The two companions at the table of the cafe had seen too many of such sights to express any wonder or to utter any comment. Stopped in their talk, they looked listlessly at the passing crowd — their thoughts far away. As soon as it had passed they resumed. ' Ah ! my Louvier,' said Collot, ' you never were really one of us ! You have too much A RETURN 21 scruple ; you think that it is necessary to be good in order to reform the world.' ' Whereas,' answered Louvier, laughing, 'you have martyred all your virtues in order to do your work better ! ' ' Yes,' replied the other, with pretended gaiety, though he frowned slightly at the sarcasm. ' And a most self-sacrificing act, too.

But tell me,' he went on, suddenly turning on his friend, ' how is it you ever became one of us ? Because, you know, really at heart you're an aristocrat.' Deputy Louvier was not apt to wear the secrets of his life on his sleeve, and he knew that Collot d'Herbois had no friendly intent in this inquiry. Besides, the question went home. It was the very problem that his conscience had been asking him ever since he had returned to Paris — ever since he left the distant countryside where he had ruled so quietly, loved by a people who daily blessed the Revolution, and rode with his jingling escort from the sunny country outside into this great gloomy city, darkened at mid-day by the black shadow of the Terror. As he came through the city from Saint Antoine he had met a tumbril faring to the guillotine.

On it he had seen two deputies famed but a year ago for their Revolutionary sentiments — close co-workers with himself in the Convention! From that moment his heart sank within him. Yes — why ? How did he come to be identified with such men and such acts as these ? Why had he turned his back on all the sweet influences of his youth ? How did he find himself responsible for crowded prisons and daily massacres? How was it that when he walked the streets of Paris with his Deputy's badge men turned away from him with averted gaze ? He felt a sort of vertigo at the issue. But ah ! — he knew why. There came back to him yet once again that early passion of pity for the oppressed and downcast — that hatred of misused power, awakened by the contrasts of the Old Order. ' Because,' he answered, lowering his voice, ' because I loved the poor.' ' And so do we all,' answered Collot. ' Do you remember what St Just says : " War to the palace and peace to the cottage !