Then he turned his attention to Henriette who made futile little efforts like a tiny mother wren.

"You are also under arrest, Citizeness," said the captain harshly, "for the crime of sheltering a returned aristocrat."

"She cannot be blamed," interrupted de Vaudrey. "I entered this place, uninvited."

"Silence!" roared the Captain. "Your plea, if any, must be made to the Revolutionary Tribunal."

CHAPTER XXIII

BEFORE THE DREAD TRIBUNAL

That awful Tribunal sat daily. During the height of the Terror, no time was allowed to prisoners for the preparation of their cases--no interval elapsed between the prisoners' arrest and their arraignment.

Dispatch--_dispatch_--DISPATCH was the essence of the b.l.o.o.d.y business, the purpose being to strike terror upon all that opposed the little fanatical minority then in power.

Therefore the guard brought Henriette and Maurice directly from their arrest to their trial, and they gazed upon a sight for G.o.ds and men--a travesty on the sacred name of justice. Such scenes would seem unbelievable to us but for the recent events of the Russian Revolution, which prove that in our age also a proletarian dictatorship can be senselessly wicked and cruel.

The trials--beside their Terror function of upholding a minority government--were great public shows for the howling rabble and leering sansculottes, the hoodlums of Paris whom even the masters dared not offend. The riff-raff acted exactly as at any of their own celebrations and feastings.

Along the side benches and up on the "Mountain," flirtation and sweethearting went on, of a rough-and-ready order. Some spectators coolly munched their dinners. Others, having brought along their bottles, indulged in drinking bouts. Everyone's ideas of a good time cannot be the same. There was our eccentric acquaintance the Jolly Baker, for instance. The height of bliss for him, at one of these capital trials, was to lean far, far back with open mouth whilst a tilted bottle, held by a ministering Hebe, spilled ecstatic drops of damp and ruby "happiness" upon his "open-face" physiognomy.

Another misfit of the grotesque crowds was Picard, foolishly trying to discover what 'twas all about, gazing soulful-eyed into hoodlum "mugs"

that gave him the merry "ha! ha!" or sickened him with the likeness of the First Murderer. But "crime," in one instance at least, was followed by "punishment," for as the murderous citizen suddenly thrust out his roaring raucous mouth, Picard inadvertently leaned back.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LOUISE AND LA FROCHARD TRYING TO KEEP PIERRE, THE CRIPPLE, FROM FIGHTING HIS BROTHER JACQUES.]

The huge sansculotte, to his own surprise, was eating the bushy horse-hair pigtail of Picard's bobbing queue! The ex-valet made a quick duck. His murderous-looking neighbor, with a full swing, walloped the countenance of the sansculotte beyond....

On this day of our characters' trial, the side benches and balconies of the great hall quickly fill with the howling, leering mobs--the fierce and grotesque chorus of the grim tragedy.

Interspersed with the rabid Jacobins are other--less partisan--spectators, and among the hurrying throngs a close observer might have noticed the luckless Pierre Frochard and the blind girl Louise entering. They found seats on a front bench.

"The judges are taking their places now," said Pierre. "You will soon hear the trials. Over on their right sits Robespierre, the dictator of France!"

The judges, so-called, are five villainous individuals, wearing dirty-looking plumed hats, black jerkins and breeches, and tall jack boots. The s.h.a.ggy-haired Jacques-Forget-Not presides.

A frowsy public prosecutor--red, white and blue c.o.c.kade affixed to his tousled hat plume--calls the names of the accused and presents the charge. From the background, the stripe-panted soldiery are bringing the victims up.

"They are arraigning them in batches," says Pierre. "The judges make quick work!" Louise shudders, lays hold of his arm.

There is something horrible in the sound of the advancing footsteps; the harsh accusations and weak replies, oft drowned by the sansculottes'

roar; the sentences of doom, and the final scuffling of feet as the soldiers seize their prey and bear it off.

Innocence and guilt often go up together.

Unfortunate women of the street are arraigned next high-bred aristocrats, or moderates whose only crime has been to denounce such horrors. A gallant gentleman pleads vainly to the judges who are also the jury: "We have had no trial!" The mob howls "Guillotine!" and "Guillotine!" is Jacques-Forget-Not's brief sentence !

A young Corsican lieutenant of artillery looks on meditatively. His silent thought is sensed by a bystander who remarks: "I suppose, Napoleon, you think you could manage things better!" The man grins.

But Napoleon Bonaparte--he who snuffed out Revolution later by whiff of grapeshot--nods gravely yes.

As the prisoners from the faubourg are brought in, Henriette sees the loved and long lost face of her dreams among the front row of the sansculottes.

Stupefied, unbelieving, she looks again and again. Yes, it is she--none other! Her own peril and that of Maurice are unthought of.

Protective love of the blind one tides back in resistless strength.

She is trying now to escape from the guards, run to her sister--even to pantomime her love, gesticulate it with funny little motions and confidential fingers on lips--forgetting that the other cannot see!

And then her wild, excited cry rings through the great hall:

"LOUISE! LOUISE!"

Louise jumps to her feet, groping wildly towards the cry. Her blind features are strained in agonized expectancy. Pierre has located the frenzied Henriette. He guides the groping blind girl from the benches to her sister.

In this council chamber of hates and cruelty, rulers and attendants alike are steeled against shrieks of suffering or the outbursts of the accused. A fence of locked bayonets stops each advancing sister.

Paying rather less heed to the incident than if it were a request for a drink of water, the soldiery push back Pierre and Louise to the seats and make ready to obey the prosecutor's call.

"Citizen de Vaudrey and Henriette Girard to the bar!"

The Chevalier faces the dread quintet. The prosecutor reads the charge, demands the death penalty on the returned aristocrat. Poor Henriette is divided between her frenzied wish to clasp her sister and her horror about Maurice.

The young man defends himself.

"An emigre, yes!" he acknowledges, "but not an enemy of the people."

Many a spectator of the scenes--even the wicked judges--could bear witness (did not prejudice blind!) to his kindness for the afflicted and fallen. Is there an undercurrent of sympathy for him even amongst hard sansculottes?

But this is Jacques-Forget-Not's great moment.

Vengeance's hour has struck.

The wickedness of the old de Vaudreys is to be expiated at last!

CHAPTER XXIV

VENGEANCE COME TO JUDGMENT

"I myself accuse you, Citizen de Vaudrey!" says the Judge, rising and pointing to the culprit.

"I accuse your family and all aristocrats of oppression and murder through countless generations!"

A yell of approval--the savage howl of the Mob Beast--resounds from the rabble whose pa.s.sion is played upon. It is followed by the general roar:

"Guillotine! _Guillotine!_ GUILLOTINE!"