Sant’Angelo, like everyone in Paris, knew where Le Père Duchesne was published, and he waited outside for many hours, watching Hébert at a desk above the printing press, writing in full view of passersby. Page after page flew off his desk, written in the earthy, lewd voice of the titular character, depicted as an angry peasant with a pipe between his teeth. The marquis also caught glimpses of Jerome and Octave, setting type, cranking the press, reading proofs.
When the work was finally done, it was almost midnight, and they adjourned to celebrate at what was once the barracks of the Swiss Guard. But now that the entire Guard had been slaughtered in defense of the royal family, it was called the Tavern of the Guillotine, and it offered an unequaled view of the scaffold; on the back of the menu each day there was a list of the people to be executed.
The marquis, still wearing the garland, sat at a table outside, listening to their boisterous laughter as Hébert read aloud passages from the next day’s paper.
“When the widow Capet saw that she had traded a coach-and-four for a dung cart, she stamped her pretty little foot and demanded that someone answer for it.”
And then, “With the rudeness for which the bitch was widely known, she purposely trod on the foot of Monsieur Le Paris”—as the executioner was commonly known—“and would have thrown a proper fit if she’d only been able to keep her wits, and her head, about her.”
It went on like that for well over an hour, but the marquis used that time to stoke his anger and resolve. He rested the harpe, an exact duplicate of the sword he had fashioned for the hand of his Perseus, against the knee of his cassock.
And when the Chief of the Committee of Public Safety—and publisher of the scurrilous paper—emerged, again with his two accomplices, Sant’Angelo followed them. They were going, he soon realized, to the Conciergerie, perhaps to select some more victims for the next day. The streets were dark and grew damp as they approached the banks of the Seine. The lower level of the prison, where the pailleux were confined like cattle in a pen, looked out, through a grating of iron bars, onto a walkway that ran along the river. It was the only air that penetrated the dreadful caverns. But the path was narrow and at that hour no one was around, except for the prisoners who saw Hébert through the bars. Most of them were silent as he passed—many had been denounced and sentenced by this very man—but a few could not restrain themselves and reached out their arms to plead for mercy or beg for a chance to argue their innocence one last time. Their frightened faces, grimy with sweat and tears, glistened in the torchlight from within the cells.
The marquis would not get a better opportunity. Moving up swiftly behind the printer Jerome, he whispered in his ear, “Wouldn’t you like to wash that ink off your hands?”
The man whirled around and saw only the slick cobblestones shining in the moonlight. But he shouted, “Who’s there?” and Hébert and Octave, who was still sporting the bloodstained feather in his cap, turned around.
“What are you shouting about? Can’t you see that these people need their rest?” Hébert said with a laugh.
An elderly prisoner called out to him, “Citizen Hébert—a word, I beg you—just one word!”
“There was someone right here,” the printer insisted. “He just spoke to me.”
“And what did he say?” Octave asked, smirking.
“He asked … if I wanted to wash the ink off.”
And then, before Hébert or Octave could make some rejoinder, the marquis grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him, his boots scuffing wildly at the stones, to the stone parapet above the riverfront.
“Help me!” the printer screamed. “Help me!”
With a mighty shove, Sant’Angelo sent him toppling over the wall. There was a loud splash as he plunged into the Seine.
Octave and Hébert ran to the parapet, staring down into the swiftly flowing stream, but there was no sign of him. Octave drew a pistol from his belt, and Hébert pulled his rapier from its scabbard.
But they could see nothing, and no one, to fight.
The marquis slipped behind Octave. The sound of his boots was swallowed by the cries of the prisoners, many more of whom were now pressed against the bars, their hands clutching the grate, their eyes bulging with wonder. Whatever strange miracle was occurring outside their bars, they wholeheartedly approved.
“So, you like your souvenirs?” Sant’Angelo murmured as he ripped the bloody feather from Octave’s cap.
He made the feather bob and dance in the empty air, until Octave took a wild shot at it. The marquis felt the heat of the bullet as it passed below his arm. Then he raised his sword and, in one fell swoop, sliced the man’s hand off altogether.
Still clutching the pistol, the hand fell, and Octave didn’t seem to understand what had just happened. He stood stock-still, looking down at his own spurting wrist, before suddenly howling in pain, wedging the stump under his armpit and fleeing down the concourse.
The prisoners, delighted with the show so far, banged on the bars with tin spoons and closed fists.
The chief backed away, his sword probing the darkness in every direction.