Open Mic: Le Bateleur (Part 1) by Darby Nugent

In the city of Paris, on the cobbled streets just outside “Place de la Révolution”, a certain street performer was to be found entertaining a crowd of melancholy Citizens of the Republic. He was such a regular part of the scenery that he had become a public fixture, and the local citizens of Paris, who had grown fond of watching his antics, had named him simply, “le Bateleur”, or street performer. He was a comical figure in his tattered but brightly colored clothing. On his grimy head, he wore the bright red cap of the Republic, but he had sewn on strips of red fabric with little bells attached at the ends that jingled noisily over the bustle of the square. He tumbled around and cartwheeled back and forth, singing and dancing in an odd manner and generally behaving like a madman, as many took him to be. Then, in a shrill, papery voice, he asked for three apples, which were promptly brought forward by a citizen of the Republic. With an exaggerated bow towards the man, the Bateleur stood back and began juggling the fruits high into the air, sometimes tossing them behind his back or under one of his legs, but never letting them drop. Then, with a final grand gesture, the performer tossed all three apples in the air and caught them in his bright red cap.  Cheers erupted from the crowd, and the Bateleur bowed comically low. He then held out his cap for donations, in hopes that some of the wealthier citizens might contribute, but the crowd largely ignored his request, being all quite poor themselves. The crowd began to disperse quickly. However, a few people came forward and tossed a coin or two in his cap, including the man who had first made eye contact with him. He came forward, never meeting the Bateleur’s gaze, and tossed something into the hat. The Bateleur grinned in expectation and looked down to see a crumpled piece of parchment lying in his cap.

Glancing around the now vacant square, the performer could tell that except for the occasional group of filthy people huddled around a pile of burning trash, there were few people in the immediate area. Snatching up one of the apples from his hat and biting pleasurably into it, the wild man hurried off towards the far end of the street, jogging his way over the rough cobblestones. After he had gone a little way, the street performer stepped aside from the main road at the place where a dark, narrow alley intersected it, and stealthily he made his way to the back of the alley. Piles of crates and other miscellaneous items lay strewn about, including a long thin rapier and a cloak blacker than a chimney sweep’s broom. With a satisfied smile, the Bateleur plopped down onto a pile of straw and pulled out the note that lay in his cap. It was crumpled and fragile, but he opened it carefully and read its message.

The Marquis, Conciergerie, Midnight. The plan is all set.

The Bateleur smiled and folded the note back up. On the back side of the paper, the emblem of a large, black eagle in flight could be discerned, and below it was written the words: “La Ligue de le Bateleur”.

“Well, men,” he said quietly to himself in a deep, strong voice, “It looks like the Black Eagle will soar tonight.”

Removing his bright red cap and tucking it inside his garments, the Bateleur donned his black cloak, bearing the same emblem of an eagle on the right shoulder, and a black mask wrapped around his face. Then, lifting his rapier, he sheathed it and secured it to his leather belt.

Night was quickly descending upon the city, so the man waited a while longer before setting out. It was a cloudy, starless night, and few lanterns or torches burned in the streets. Rather than travel on the ground where he might be seen by the wandering homeless, the Bateleur scaled the side of a building and leaped from rooftop to rooftop, a burglar stealing through the night. From his vantage point, the Bateleur could see his target, the prison located in the old Conciergerie on Île de la Cité, an island in the middle of the Seine River.

Silent as the night that surrounded him, the Bateleur moved onward, descending like a ghost from the rooftops and alighting gently on the cobbled street a block away from the bridge that crossed the river and connected to the island. Pulling his hat down over his face, the Bateleur made his way over to the narrow bridge where a single guard was stationed. As he approached, the guard stepped forward and prepared to stop him. However, before he could, the Bateleur swiftly leaped over towards him and landed a hard blow on his face with the pummel of his sword, which had flashed out of its sheath in a mere fraction of a second.

“My apologies dear fellow,” he said quietly to himself as the guard crumpled to the ground, “but I didn’t see you there. I hope you are quite all right. No? Well then, since you can no longer perform your duties, I shall.”

With a chuckle, the Bateleur cast aside his black cloak and replaced it with the soldier’s uniform. He also removed his mask and traded them it for the mask that the fallen soldier had worn. To further his disguise, he stole the soldier’s hat, tucking his own into his cloak. Then, re-sheathing his sword, he removed it and placed it on the ground, taking instead the musket of the soldier.

“I’ll be needing my cloak back when I return,” said the Bateleur, “But for now I must borrow yours.”

With that, he snatched up a torch and hurried to the center of the bridge. Pausing for a moment he waved it around, then, he dropped it into the dark waters of the Seine. For a moment silence reigned, buta few seconds later, the splash of an oar in the water signaled that his message had been received, and he hurried on.

Once he had nearly crossed the bridge, he paused and looked toward the large building that lay immediately before him. In a small cobblestone street directly before the entrance, a group of soldiers was sitting around a blazing fire that illuminated the space between the Bateleur and the entrance. Here, he simply waited for a moment. It was only eleven thirty, but the Bateleur had planned this precisely to the minute.

After a moment, the doors of the Conciergerie swung open, and a man in full uniform stepped out, marching along with a rather self important air about him. The man was the captain of the prison guard, and as he came along towards the bridge, the Bateleur’s eyes were riveted on his figure. As his eyes passed over the man’s waist, he grinned and began to advance, keeping his head down. There was no turning back from his plan now. He had set it in motion, and to abort it now would result in disaster.

Picture Credit: Darby Nugent