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“Not at this point in time, at least.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I mean that your head isn’t worth an obole.1 If I were an agent of the Committee of Public Safety, for instance, you’d be guillotined tomorrow.”

The clerk turned around so swifty the dog started barking at him. He was as pale as a corpse.

“Don’t turn around and don’t look as though you’re going to pass out,” said the patriot. “Just quietly finish your soup. I am not an agent provocateur, my friend. Get me into the Conciergerie, set me up as your replacement, give me the keys, and tomorrow I’ll count you out fifty thousand livres in gold.”

“You’re for real at least?”

“Oh! You’ve got pretty good security! You’re holding my head in your hands.”

The clerk thought about it for a few seconds.

“Come,” said the patriot, who could see him in the mirror. “Come, don’t give in to bad thoughts; if you denounce me, you’ll only have done your duty and the Republic won’t give you a brass razoo. If, on the other hand, you work with me, you won’t have done your duty, and because it’s unjust to do something for nothing in this world, I’ll give you the fifty thousand livres.”

“Oh, I get it all right,” said the clerk. “I stand to gain by doing what you want me to do; but I’m afraid of the consequences.…”

“The consequences! … What is it you have to fear? Come on, it’s not me who’s going to denounce you, on the contrary.”

“I guess so.”

“The day after I’m in place, you do a round at the Conciergerie. I’ll count you out twenty-five rolls of two thousand francs each; the twenty-five rolls will easily fit in your pocket. With the money, I’ll give you a pass for getting out of France. Wherever you go, even if you’re not rich, you’ll be independent.”

“Well then, you’ve got a deal, monsieur, come what may. I’m just a poor devil, I am, a nonentity; I don’t get mixed up in politics. France has always done all right without me and it won’t die if I’m not here. If you’re up to no good, too bad for you.”

“In any case,” said the patriot, “I don’t think I can do any worse than what they’re doing now.”

“Monsieur will permit me not to judge the politics of the National Convention.”

“I admire your philosophical bent and your insouciance, my good man. Now, let’s see, when will you introduce me to old man Richard?”

“Tonight, if you like.”

“Yes, certainly. Who am I?”

“My cousin Mardoche.”

“Mardoche, so be it; I like the name. What do I do for a living?”

“Tailor.”

“From tanner to tailor, it’s just a flick of the wrist.”

“Are you a tanner?”

“I could be.”

“True.”

“What time tonight?”

“In half an hour, if you like.”

“Nine o’clock, then.”

“When will I get the money?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Does that mean you’re filthy rich?”

“I’m well off.”

“An ex-aristo, right?”

“What do you care!”

“To have money and then give your money away running the risk of getting the chop, ex-aristos must be pretty thick!”

“You can’t have everything! The sans culottes are so smart there’s just not enough to go around!”

“Quiet! Here’s my wine.”

“See you later tonight, outside the Conciergerie.”

“Yes.”

The patriot paid his bill and left. You could hear him call out in a thundering voice from the doorway:

“Hurry it up, citizeness! The chops with gherkins! My cousin Gracchus is dying of hunger.”

“Good old Mardoche!” said the clerk, sipping the glass of Burgundy the cabaret owner had just poured him, gazing upon him tenderly.

41

THE CLERK FROM THE WAR MINISTRY

The patriot had walked out, but he had not gone far. Through the smoky windows he watched the clerk to make sure he didn’t enter into communication with any agents of the republican police, one of the most effective forces that ever existed, for half of society was spying on the other half, not so much for the greater glory of the government as for the greater security of one’s own head.

But nothing the patriot feared occurred, and at a few minutes before nine the clerk got up, chucked the cabaret owner’s chin, and left. The patriot joined him at the quai de la Conciergerie and they went into the prison together. That