Part 2 — IX AS DID CHARLOTTE CORDAY

Behind Dossonville the riot and the tumult fell to a whisper; the titanic upheaval ended with the walls. Above, the night was solemn and gentle, and the Seine, toward which he bore Nicole, unconscious of the revolt, flowed with the serenity of ages. Depositing the girl on a bench, he busied himself with recalling her to the quiet world.

When consciousness returned, it was by flashes where the incoherent words, jumbled and wild, showed she was still in the saturnalia, preparing to spring at the hated figure of the Marseillais. Fearing that her cries would attract a crowd, Dossonville shook her. She opened her eyes, saw him, and sat up, seeking to assemble her thoughts. Then a groan escaped her as memory returned.

"Ah, my friend," she said pitifully, "why did you stop me? It was the moment."

She put down her feet, smoothed her dress, and stood up, while Dossonville, rising, said peremptorily:

"Where are you going now?"

"Home. Give me your arm. You were too strong; I am tired."

"Nicole," Dossonville began, in the hope of diverting her mood, "let us reason a little. That is not the Revolution: that is the scum. Judge it not by that."

"You say that," she answered wearily—"you?"

"Aye, the Revolution has proved too immense, and the leaders too weak. It has rolled over them; but the world is its path, and time will right it."

But Nicole, despite all his artifices, refused to say another word until in the Rue Maugout he cried sternly:

"Nicole, what do you intend to do?"

"Is that so difficult to guess?"

"Nicole! You are not going to take your life!"

"My life?" she answered, shaking her head. "That is all that is left to me to use."

"Javogues's?"

She took his hands, smiling, and said:

"To-night I was mad and you could stop me; now I am calm and you can do nothing. Good night. Forgive me if I have endangered your life. Good night, my friend, good night."

From the profound sleep of exhaustion Nicole, the next morning, struggled to open her eyes with the echo of Goursac's name sounding in her ears.

"Nicole! Hé, Citoyenne Nicole!"

She rushed to the window, and, leaning far out, beheld below in the misty court the abhorrent figures of the three Tapedures. At her appearance they sent up the exultant shout: "Goursac dies to-day!"

"To-day," she repeated dully, watching their departure without emotion.

It was still early, and the weak sun, filtering through the fogs of the November morning, cast yellow shadows where shadows showed at all. Silent and calm, the girl withdrew and began to dress. Within her soul the torment of the last days had given place to quiet. What she had recoiled from doing as an individual now appeared easy to her as the instrument of a high vengeance. In her now were the revolt of womanhood, the anger of the Christian, and the resolution of a Charlotte Corday, which is the resolution of a people.

Slowly and with great care she dressed, examining herself often, selecting her best attire, and as she dressed she began to sing, wondering the while that she could feel so light-hearted. From the bureau she took her dagger and a ring that Barabant had left, slipping it on her finger, saying wistfully:

"Poor Barabant. I might have betrayed you. Ah, I shall make reparation."

In the elevation of her soul he seemed very distant, and the room of her happiness, as she paused meditatively, unreal and no more a part of her life. She went to the bed and knelt, closing her eyes and stretching up her clasped hands. Suddenly she took the dagger from her breast and placed it as a cross before her, fastening her eyes upon it as her lips repeated her prayers.

She rose, passed out of the room, and without a tremor descended the stairs. But at Goursac's landing the sound of voices below compelled her to halt and withdraw into the room. In the turning her skirt caught on a splinter and was torn.

"Ah, what a misfortune!" she said to herself, unconscious of the incongruity of her words. "My best skirt, too."

Her mind, before the immense decision, took refuge in trifles. She sought a pin and occupied herself with hiding the rent, while from time to time she exclaimed impatiently:

"They are taking a long time!"

Unable to remain still, she passed out to the landing, whence, fancying that she had detected the name of Barabant, she stole down the steps as far as the turn would permit, shrinking against the dark walls. Almost immediately the door opened and the voice of Javogues said:

"He shall not escape, I promise it! Within three days Barabant shall look through the little window of Mother Guillotine!"

"But how'll you find him?" replied the querulous voice of la Mère Corniche. "Some one has transferred him from the Luxembourg."

"Never fear. I'll search the prisons and drag him out, in spite of all the Dossonvilles in Paris."

"But when?"

"This morning. There, will that satisfy you, old patriot?"

A grunt came for all reply, and the next moment the ascending flight creaked with the weight of the concierge.

Nicole, thus threatened with immediate discovery, seized her dagger in a desperate resolve, but the advance stopped and the voice of la Mère Corniche whispered:

"Nicole has gone out, hasn't she?"

"No, she is above."

"Then it is better to wait."

To the inexpressible relief of the trembling girl, the old woman turned and descended. Left in security, Nicole resumed her composure. Without fear of failure, without once debating the means she should employ, confident that all that was essential was to be in the presence of the tyrant, she descended, entering the room so softly that Javogues turned with a startled:

"Who's that?"

"Nicole."

"What are you stealing in like a cat for?"

"I have come to speak with you."

"Speak."

"Why do you persecute Barabant?"

"He is a traitor!"

"But he said he was not a Girondin."

"He lied."

"But what is his offense?"

"He would show mercy to the aristocrats."

"Mercy!" she cried. "Have you forgotten to whom you owe your life? You did not scorn his mercy!"

Instead of the expected explosion, Javogues, without resentment, replied:

"Because I remembered that I did not listen when they told me Barabant was contre-révolutionnaire. I have done a great wrong: I considered myself instead of the Nation." He rose with the glance of the fanatic. "Yes, I am guilty—I, Javogues! But I will denounce myself. If the Nation decides that I must be punished, let my head warn others against moderation!"

"Javogues," cried Nicole, recoiling, "have you not a drop of human blood in you? Have you pity for nothing? Does not the sight of all the blood spilled on the guillotine satisfy you?"

"Satisfy me?" he laughed. He elevated his arms, repeating it with a clap of laughter. "That little pool of blood satisfy me? Only an inundation can purify France. Twenty executions a day would not satisfy me. The guillotine is too merciful for traitors. I would drown them by hundreds—these aristocrats—these rich—these Moderates who have crushed us for ages. If those we smite are not guilty, their fathers were! We must be revenged on the ages."

Then addressing Nicole furiously, he cried: "See here, my girl; if you talk of moderation, you'll go, too!"

There was a moment's silence. Then suddenly, from below, she heard the voice of Dossonville calling:

"Nicole! Ho, Nicole!"

Without was life; within the dim room, martyrdom.

"Then you think," she said, looking down, "that Barabant is guilty?"

"He shall die!"

She was smiling with a deceitful smile as she answered:

"You are perhaps right. Moderation is wrong. We have suffered much."

"Well said!" Javogues cried. "There speaks the patriot."

"Nicole! Nicole, come down!" cried the voice without.

"It is that traitor Dossonville," Nicole said, still smiling. "He does not know that Goursac is to die to-day. Call it down to him. That will enrage him."

With a gleam of joy, Javogues turned to the window; but before he had made two steps, Nicole, bounding forward, buried her dagger between the vast shoulders. The hands went frantically into the air, a hideous sound choked in the throat, and, spinning around, the great bulk tottered and collapsed at her feet. A moment before was martyrdom, now nothing but horror.

Hysterical, panic-stricken, holding out her hand before her,—the hand that bore the curse of blood,—the girl fled from the room, shrieking:

"I have killed him!"

At each flight, shivering as though the specter pursued, she repeated:

"I have killed him! I have killed him!"

She rushed from the doorway into the court, haggard, stretching away the accusing hand, and streaked across the court into the arms of Dossonville, screaming always:

"I have killed him!"

Above, the face of Javogues, purple and choking, appeared a moment at the window, and fell back, crying:

"Help! Help!"

From the four walls the windows put forth frightened heads. Two or three half-dressed figures came tumbling into the court. But Dossonville, seizing the maddened girl, rushed her away through the passage and up the street before the startled lodgers could divine what had happened.