Part 13 (1/2)
”I don't know any such person,” the hag lies, with ready effrontery.
”You must be mistaken!”
But Henriette's eyes are gazing at the Frochard's neck, sensing something or other vaguely familiar. The old woman, who has been drinking, has unloosened her nondescript rig. The girl's gaze sees a well-remembered object.
”My sister's shawl!”
The blue eyes are gleaming now in astonishment--with a hint of coming fury. She s.n.a.t.c.hes the shawl from La Frochard's shoulders, fondles and caresses it. Then like a small tigress robbed of whelp she advances on the beggar, shaking her in paroxysmal rage.
It would have been a comical sight if not so very serious a one; the tiny Henrietta shaking a woman twice her size, pummeling her, brow-beating her till La Frochard sinks to her knees and begs for mercy.
”You have been lying, and that shawl proves it,” cries Henriette.
”Where is she?”
The old woman gets up. She changes her tone to a whine, and tries to pat Henriette in pretended sympathy. ”Well, if you must know the truth--”
”Yes, yes,” cries Henriette, ”go on!”
”--she _was_ with us, but alas!--poor thing--with the hard life we have to lead--she--she died!”
The searcher for Louise reels as if about to faint.
She collects herself with difficulty, and stares at La Frochard. A distraught look is on the girl's face.
It is a look of utter misery, compounded with mistrustfulness of the deceiving hag.
She leaves the cellar, fully resolved to invoke the Law--if Law--in this wild time--there can be found...
A bundle of rags, on which Henrietta has almost stepped in pa.s.sing, moves very slightly.
CHAPTER XVIII
”THERE IS NO LAW--”
The wild and drunken madness of the triumphant people expended itself in many strange forms, of which none was stranger, more awesome, more ludicrous and yet more tragic than the Carmagnole.
This was a dance that seized whole mult.i.tudes in its rhythmic, swaying clutch. The tune was ”Ca Ira!” that mad measure of the sansculottes, meaning roughly--
”Here it goes--
”And there it goes!”
--and go forever it did till all the world of Paris seemed a heaving, throbbing vortex of werewolves and witches, things lower than animals in their topsyturvydom, drunken frenzy and frequent obscenity.
The throng through which Henriette now directed her steps was verging on this madness, though not yet at the pitch of it.
Henriette managed to find her way to two sansculotte troopers stationed in the centre of the Place, to whom she told her story.
Reasonable fellows they seemed, offering to conduct her presently to the new authorities and get a search warrant for the Frochard clan.
But the madder swirl of the Carmagnole came along, and presto!