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Book the Third: The Track of a Storm
Chapter 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.
Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--
the last, much the easiest to bestow, O
Guillotine!
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 *** 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
"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.
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
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 *** 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 Seine, denoted the approach
of darkness.
It was almost dark when they arrived at the
Bank.
The stately residence of Monseigneur was
altogether blighted and deserted.
Above a heap of dust and ashes in the
court, ran the letters: National Property.
Republic One and Indivisible.
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
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?"