A Romance of the French Revolution
BOOK I
THE ROBE
I. THE REPUBLICAN
II. THE ARISTOCRAT
III. THE ELOQUENCE OF M. DE VILMORIN
IV. THE HERITAGE
V. THE LORD OF GAVRILLAC
VI. THE WINDMILL
VII. THE WIND
VIII. OMNES OMNIBUS
IX. THE AFTERMATH
BOOK II
THE BUSKIN
I. THE TRESPASSERS
II. THE SERVICE OF THESPIS
III. THE COMIC MUSE
IV. EXIT MONSIEUR PARVISSIMUS
V. ENTER SCARAMOUCHE
VI. CLIMENE
VII. THE CONQUEST OF NANTES
VIII. THE DREAM
IX. THE AWAKENING
X. CONTRITION
XI. THE FRACAS AT THE THEATRE FEYDAU
BOOK III
THE SWORD
I. TRANSITION
II. QUOS DEUS VULT PERDERE
III. PRESIDENT LE CHAPELIER
IV. AT MEUDON
V. MADAME DE PLOUGASTEL
VI. POLITICIANS
VII. THE SPADASSINICIDES
VIII. THE PALADIN OF THE THIRD
IX. TORN PRIDE
X. THE RETURNING CARRIAGE
XI. INFERENCES
XII. THE OVERWHELMING REASON
XIII. SANCTUARY
XIV. THE BARRIER
XV. SAFE-CONDUCT
XVI. SUNRISE
He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.
And that was all his patrimony. His very paternity was obscure, although the
village of Gavrillac had long since dispelled the cloud of mystery that hung
about it. Those simple Brittany folk were not so simple as to be deceived by
a pretended relationship which did not even possess the virtue of
originality. When a nobleman, for no apparent reason, announces himself the
godfather of an infant fetched no man knew whence, and thereafter cares for
the lad's rearing and education, the most unsophisticated of country folk
perfectly understand the situation. And so the good people of Gavrillac
permitted themselves no illusions on the score of the real relationship
between Andre-Louis Moreau - as the lad had been named
- and Quintin de Kercadiou, Lord of Gavrillac, who dwelt in the big
grey house that dominated from its eminence the village clustering below.
Andre-Louis had learnt his letters at the village school, lodged the
while with old Rabouillet, the attorney, who in the capacity of fiscal
intendant, looked after the affairs of M. de Kercadiou. Thereafter, at the
age of fifteen, he had been packed off to Paris, to the Lycee of Louis Le
Grand, to study the law which he was now returned to practise in conjunction
with Rabouillet. All this at the charges of his godfather, M. de Kercadiou,
who by placing him once more under the tutelage of Rabouillet would seem
thereby quite clearly to be making provision for his future.
Andre-Louis, on his side, had made the most of his opportunities. You
behold him at the age of four-and-twenty stuffed with learning enough to
produce an intellectual indigestion in an ordinary mind. Out of his zestful
study of Man, from Thucydides to the Encyclopaedists, from Seneca to
Rousseau, he had confirmed into an unassailable conviction his earliest
conscious impressions of the general insanity of his own species. Nor can I
discover that anything in his eventful life ever afterwards caused him to
waver in that opinion.
In body he was a slight wisp of a fellow, scarcely above middle height,
with a lean, astute countenance, prominent of nose and cheek-bones, and with
lank, black hair that reached almost to his shoulders. His mouth was long,
thin-lipped, and humorous. He was only just redeemed from ugliness by the
splendour of a pair of ever-questing, luminous eyes, so dark as to be almost
black. Of the whimsical quality of his mind and his rare gift of graceful
expression, his writings - unfortunately but too scanty - and particularly
his Confessions, afford us very ample evidence. Of his gift of oratory he
was hardly conscious yet, although he had already achieved a certain fame
for it in the Literary Chamber of Rennes - one of those clubs by now
ubiquitous in the land, in which the intellectual youth of France
foregathered to study and discuss the new philosophies that were permeating
social life. But the fame he had acquired there was hardly enviable. He was
too impish, too caustic, too much disposed - so thought his colleagues - to
ridicule their sublime theories for the regeneration of mankind. himself he
protested that he merely held them up to the mirror of truth, and that it
was not his fault if when reflected there they looked ridiculous.
All that he achieved by this was to exasperate; and his expulsion from
a society grown mistrustful of him must already have followed but for his
friend, Philippe de Vilmorin, a divinity student of Rennes, who, himself,
was one of the most popular members of the Literary Chamber.
Coming to Gavrillac on a November morning, laden with news of the
political storms which were then gathering over France, Philippe found in
that sleepy Breton village matter to quicken his already lively indignation.
A peasant of Gavrillac, named Mabey, had been shot dead that morning in the
woods of Meupont, across the river, by a gamekeeper of the Marquis de La
Tour d'Azyr. The unfortunate fellow had been caught in the act of taking a
pheasant from a snare, and the gamekeeper had acted under explicit orders
from his master.
Infuriated by an act of tyranny so absolute and merciless, M. de
Vilmorin proposed to lay the matter before M. de Kercadiou. Mabey was a
vassal of Gavrillac, and Vilmorin hoped to move the Lord of Gavrillac to
demand at least some measure of reparation for the widow and the three
orphans which that brutal deed had made.
But because Andre-Louis was Philippe's dearest friend - indeed, his
almost brother - the young seminarist sought him out in the first instance.
He found him at breakfast alone in the long, low-ceilinged, white-panelled
dining-room at Rabouillet's - the only home that Andre-Louis had ever known
- and after embracing him, deafened him with his denunciation of M. de La
Tour d'Azyr.
"I have heard of it already," said Andre-Louis.
"You speak as if the thing had not surprised you," his friend
reproached him.
"Nothing beastly can surprise me when done by a beast. And La Tour
d'Azyr is a beast, as all the world knows. The more fool Mabey for stealing
his pheasants. He should have stolen somebody else's."
"Is that all you have to say about it?"
"What more is there to say? I've a practical mind, I hope."
"What more there is to say I propose to say to your godfather, M. de
Kercadiou. I shall appeal to him for justice."
"Against M. de La Tour d'azyr?" Andre-Louis raised his eyebrows.
"Why not?"
"My dear ingenuous Philippe, dog doesn't eat dog."
"You are unjust to your godfather. He is a humane man."
"Oh, as humane as you please. But this isn't a question of humanity.
It's a question of game-laws."
M. de Vilmorin tossed his long arms to Heaven in disgust. He was a
tall, slender young gentleman, a year or two younger than Andre-Louis. He
was very soberly dressed in black, as became a seminarist, with white bands
at wrists and throat and silver buckles to his shoes. His neatly clubbed
brown hair was innocent of powder.
"You talk like a lawyer," he exploded.
"Naturally. But don't waste anger on me on that account. Tell me what
you want me to do."
"I want you to come to M. de Kercadiou with me, and to use your
influence to obtain justice. I suppose I am asking too much."
"My dear Philippe, I exist to serve you. I warn you that it is a futile
quest; but give me leave to finish my breakfast, and I am at your orders."
M. de Vilmorin dropped into a winged armchair by the well-swept hearth,
on which a piled-up fire of pine logs was burning cheerily. And whilst he
waited now he gave his friend the latest news of the events in Rennes.
Young, ardent, enthusiastic, and inspired by Utopian ideals, he passionately
denounced the rebellious attitude of the privileged.
Andre-Louis, already fully aware of the trend of feeling in the ranks
of an order in whose deliberations he took part as the representative of a
nobleman, was not at all surprised by what he heard. M. de Vilmorin found it
exasperating that his friend should apparently decline to share his own
indignation.
"Don't you see what it means?" he cried. "The nobles, by disobeying the
King, are striking at the very foundations of the throne. Don't they
perceive that their very existence depends upon it; that if the throne falls
over, it is they who stand nearest to it who will be crushed? Don't they see
that?"
"Evidently not. They are just governing classes, and I never heard of
governing classes that had eyes for anything but their own profit."
"That is our grievance. That is what we are going to change."
"You are going to abolish governing classes? An interesting experiment.
I believe it was the original plan of creation, and it might have succeeded
but for Cain."
"What we are going to do," said M. de Vilmorin, curbing his
exasperation, "is to transfer the government to other hands."
"And you think that will make a difference?"
"I know it will."
"Ah! I take it that being now in minor orders, you already possess the
confidence of the Almighty. He will have confided to you His intention of
changing the pattern of mankind."
M. de Vilmorin's fine ascetic face grew overcast. "You are profane,
Andre," he reproved his friend.
"I assure you that I am quite serious. To do what you imply would
require nothing short of divine intervention. You must change man, not
systems. Can you and our vapouring friends of the Literary Chamber of
Rennes, or any other learned society of France, devise a system of
government that has never yet been tried? Surely not. And can they say of
any system tried that it proved other than a failure in the end? My dear
Philippe, the future is to be read with certainty only in the past. Ab actu
ad posse valet consecutio. Man never changes. He is always greedy, always
acquisitive, always vile. I am speaking of Man in the bulk."
"Do you pretend that it is impossible to ameliorate the lot of the
people?" M. de Vilmorin challenged him.
"When you say the people you mean, of course, the populace. Will you
abolish it? That is the only way to ameliorate its lot, for as long as it
remains populace its lot will be damnation."
"You argue, of course, for the side that employs you. That is natural,
I suppose." M. de Vilmorin spoke between sorrow and indignation.
"On the contrary, I seek to argue with absolute detachment. Let us test
these ideas of yours. To what form of government do you aspire? A republic,
it is to be inferred from what you have said. Well, you have it already.
France in reality is a republic to-day."
Philippe stared at him. "You are being paradoxical, I think. What of
the King?"
"The King? All the world knows there has been no king in France since
Louis XIV. There is an obese gentleman at Versailles who wears the crown,
but the very news you bring shows for how little he really counts. It is the
nobles and clergy who sit in the high places, with the people of France
harnessed under their feet, who are the real rulers. That is why I say that
France is a republic; she is a republic built on the best pattern - the
Roman pattern. Then, as now, there were great patrician families in luxury,
preserving for themselves power and wealth, and what else is accounted worth
possessing; and there was the populace crushed and groaning, sweating,
bleeding, starving, and perishing in the Roman kennels. That was a republic;
the mightiest we have seen."
Philippe strove with his impatience. "At least you will admit - you
have, in fact, admitted it - that we could not be worse governed than we
are?"
"That is not the point. The point is should we be better governed if we
replaced the present ruling class by another? Without some guarantee of that
I should be the last to lift a finger to effect a change. And what
guarantees can you give? What is the class that aims at government? I will
tell you. The bourgeoisie."
"What?"
"That startles you, eh? Truth is so often disconcerting. You hadn't
thought of it? Well, think of it now. Look well into this Nantes manifesto.
Who are the authors of it?"
"I can tell you who it was constrained the municipality of Nantes to
send it to the King. Some ten thousand workmen - shipwrights, weavers,
labourers, and artisans of every kind."
"Stimulated to it, driven to it, by their employers, the wealthy
traders and shipowners of that city," Andre-Louis replied. "I have a habit
of observing things at close quarters, which is why our colleagues of the
Literary Chamber dislike me so cordially in debate. Where I delve they but
skim. Behind those labourers and artisans of Nantes, counselling them,
urging on these poor, stupid, ignorant toilers to shed their blood in
pursuit of the will o' the wisp of freedom, are the sail-makers, the
spinners, the ship-owners and the slave-traders. The slave-traders! The men
who live and grow rich by a traffic in human flesh and blood in the
colonies, are conducting at home a campaign in the sacred name of liberty!
Don't you see that the whole movement is a movement of hucksters and traders
and peddling vassals swollen by wealth into envy of the power that lies in
birth alone? The money-changers in Paris who hold the bonds in the national
debt, seeing the parlous financial condition of the State, tremble at the
thought that it may lie in the power of a single man to cancel the debt by
bankruptcy. To secure themselves they are burrowing underground to overthrow
a state and build upon its ruins a new one in which they shall be the
masters. And to accomplish this they inflame the people. Already in Dauphiny
we have seen blood run like water - the blood of the populace, always the
blood of the populace. Now in Brittany we may see the like. And if in the
end the new ideas prevail? if the seigneurial rule is overthrown, what then?
You will have exchanged an aristocracy for a plutocracy. Is that worth
while? Do you 'think that under money-changers and slave-traders and men who
have waxed rich in other ways by the ignoble arts of buying and selling, the
lot of the people will be any better than under their priests and nobles?
Has it ever occurred to you, Philippe, what it is that makes the rule of the
nobles so intolerable? Acquisitiveness. Acquisitiveness is the curse of
mankind. And shall you expect less acquisitiveness in men who have built
themselves up by acquisitiveness? Oh, I am ready to admit that the present
government is execrable, unjust, tyrannical - what you will; but I beg you
to look ahead, and to see that the government for which it is aimed at
exchanging it may be infinitely worse."
Philippe sat thoughtful a moment. Then he returned to the attack.
"You do not speak of the abuses, the horrible, intolerable abuses of
power under which we labour at present."
"Where there is power there will always be the abuse of it."
"Not if the tenure of power is dependent upon its equitable
administration."
"The tenure of power is power. We cannot dictate to those who hold it."
"The people can - the people in its might."
"Again I ask you, when you say the people do you mean the populace? You
do. What power can the populace wield? It can run wild. It can burn and slay
for a time. But enduring power it cannot wield, because power demands
qualities which the populace does not possess, or it would not be populace.
The inevitable, tragic corollary of civilization is populace. For the rest,
abuses can be corrected by equity; and equity, if it is not found in the
enlightened, is not to be found at all. M. Necker is to set about correcting
abuses, and limiting privileges. That is decided. To that end the States
General are to assemble."
"And a promising beginning we have made in Brittany, as Heaven hears
me!" cried Philippe.
"Pooh! That is nothing. Naturally the nobles will not yield without a
struggle. It is a futile and ridiculous struggle - but then... it is human
nature, I suppose, to be futile and ridiculous."
M. de Vilmorin became witheringly sarcastic. "Probably you will also
qualify the shooting of Mabey as futile and ridiculous. I should even be
prepared to hear you argue in defence of the Marquis de La Tour d' Azyr that
his gamekeeper was merciful in shooting Mabey, since the alternative would
have been a life-sentence to the galleys."
Andre-Louis drank the remainder of his chocolate; set down his cup, and
pushed back his chair, his breakfast done.
"I confess that I have not your big charity, my dear Philippe. I am
touched by Mabey's fate. But, having conquered the shock of this news to my
emotions, I do not forget that, after all, Mabey was thieving when he met
his death."
M. de Vilmorin heaved himself up in his indignation.
"That is the point of view to be expected in one who is the assistant
fiscal intendant of a nobleman, and the delegate of a nobleman to the States
of Brittany."
"Philippe, is that just? You are angry with me!" he cried, in real
solicitude.
"I am hurt," Vilmorin admitted. "I am deeply hurt by your attitude. And
I am not alone in resenting your reactionary tendencies. Do you know that
the Literary Chamber is seriously considering your expulsion?"
Andre-Louis shrugged. "That neither surprises nor troubles me."
M. de Vilmorin swept on, passionately: "Sometimes I think that you have
no heart. With you it is always the law, never equity. It occurs to me,
Andre, that I was mistaken in coming to you. You are not likely to be of
assistance to me in my interview with M. de Kercadiou." He took up his hat,
clearly with the intention of departing.
Andre-Louis sprang up and caught him by the arm.
"I vow," said he, "that this is the last time ever I shall consent to
talk law or politics with you, Philippe. I love you too well to quarrel with
you over other men's affairs."
"But I make them my own," Philippe insisted vehemently.
"Of course you do, and I love you for it. It is right that you should.
You are to be a priest; and everybody's business is a priest's business.
Whereas I am a lawyer - the fiscal intendant of a nobleman, as you say - and
a lawyer's business is the business of his client. That is the difference
between us. Nevertheless, you are not going to shake me off."
"But I tell you frankly, now that I come to think of it, that I should
prefer you did not see M. de Kercadiou with me. Your duty to your client
cannot be a help to me."
His wrath had passed; but his determination remained firm, based upon
the reason he gave.
"Very well," said Andre-Louis. "It shall be as you please. But nothing
shall prevent me at least from walking with you as far as the chateau, and
waiting for you while you make your appeal to M. de Kercadiou."
And so they left the house good friends, for the sweetness of M. de
Vilmorin's nature did not admit of rancour, and together they took their way
up the steep main street of Gavrillac.
The sleepy village of Gavrillac, a half-league removed from the main
road to Rennes, and therefore undisturbed by the world's traffic, lay in a
curve of the River Meu, at the foot, and straggling halfway up the slope, of
the shallow hill that was crowned by the squat manor. By the time Gavrillac
had paid tribute to its seigneur - partly in money and partly in service -
tithes to the Church, and imposts to the King, it was hard put to it to keep
body and soul together with what remained. Yet, hard as conditions were in
Gavrillac, they were not so hard as in many other parts of France, not half
so hard, for instance, as with the wretched feudatories of the great Lord of
La Tour d'Azyr, whose vast possessions were at one point separated from this
little village by the waters of the Meu.
The Chateau de Gavrillac owed such seigneurial airs as might be claimed
for it to its dominant position above the village rather than to any feature
of its own. Built of granite, like all the rest of Gavrillac, though
mellowed by some three centuries of existence, it was a squat, flat-fronted
edifice of two stories, each lighted by four windows with external wooden
shutters, and flanked at either end by two square towers or pavilions under
extinguisher roofs. Standing well back in a garden, denuded now, but very
pleasant in summer, and immediately fronted by a fine sweep of balustraded
terrace, it looked, what indeed it was, and always had been, the residence
of unpretentious folk who found more interest in husbandry than in
adventure.
Quintin de Kercadiou, Lord of Gavrillac - Seigneur de Gavrillac was all
the vague title that he bore, as his forefathers had borne before him,
derived no man knew whence or how - confirmed the impression that his house
conveyed. Rude as the granite itself, he had never sought the experience of
courts, had not even taken service in the armies of his King. He left it to
his younger brother, Etienne, to represent the family in those exalted
spheres. His own interests from earliest years had been centred in his woods
and pastures. He hunted, and he cultivated his acres, and superficially he
appeared to be little better than any of his rustic metayers. He kept no
state, or at least no state commensurate with his position or with the
tastes of his niece Aline de Kercadiou. Aline, having spent some two years
in the court atmosphere of Versailles under the aegis of her uncle Etienne,
had ideas very different from those of her uncle Quintin of what was
befitting seigneurial dignity. But though this only child of a third
Kercadiou had exercised, ever since she was left an orphan at the early age
of four, a tyrannical rule over the Lord of Gavrillac, who had been father
and mother to her, she had never yet succeeded in beating down his
stubbornness on that score. She did not yet despair - persistence being a
dominant note in her character - although she had been assiduously and
fruitlessly at work since her return from the great world of Versailles some
three months ago.
She was walking on the terrace when Andre-Louis and M. de Vilmorin
arrived. Her slight body was wrapped against the chill air in a white
pelisse; her head was encased in a close-fitting bonnet, edged with white
fur. It was caught tight in a knot of pale-blue ribbon on the right of her
chin; on the left a long ringlet of corn-coloured hair had been permitted to
escape. The keen air had whipped so much of her cheeks as was presented to
it, and seemed to have added sparkle to eyes that were of darkest blue.
Andre-Louis and M. de Vilmorin had been known to her from childhood.
The three had been playmates once, and Andre-Louis - in view of his
spiritual relationship with her uncle - she called her cousin. The cousinly
relations had persisted between these two long after Philippe de Vilmorin
had outgrown the earlier intimacy, and had become to her Monsieur de
Vilmorin.
She waved her hand to them in greeting as they advanced, and stood
- an entrancing picture, and fully conscious of it - to await them at
the end of the terrace nearest the short avenue by which they approached.
"If you come to see monsieur my uncle, you come inopportunely,
messieurs," she told them, a certain feverishness in her air. "He is closely
- oh, so very closely - engaged."
"We will wait, mademoiselle," said M. de Vilmorin, bowing gallantly
over the hand she extended to him. "Indeed, who would haste to the uncle
that may tarry a moment with the niece?"
"M. l'abbe," she teased him, "when you are in orders I shall take you
for my confessor. You have so ready and sympathetic an understanding."
"But no curiosity," said Andre-Louis. "You haven't thought of that."
"I wonder what you mean, Cousin Andre."
"Well you may," laughed Philippe. "For no one ever knows." And then,
his glance straying across the terrace settled upon a carriage that was
drawn up before the door of the chateau. It was a vehicle such as was often
to be seen in the streets of a great city, but rarely in the country. It was
a beautifully sprung two-horse cabriolet of walnut, with a varnish upon it
like a sheet of glass and little pastoral scenes exquisitely painted on the
panels of the door. It was built to carry two persons, with a box in front
for the coachman, and a stand behind for the footman. This stand was empty,
but the footman paced before the door, and as he emerged now from behind the
vehicle into the range of M. de Vilmorin's vision, he displayed the
resplendent blue-and-gold livery of the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr.
"Why!" he exclaimed. "Is it M. de La Tour d'Azyr who is with your
uncle?"
"It is, monsieur," said she, a world of mystery in voice and eyes, of
which M. de Vilmorin observed nothing.
"Ah, pardon!" he bowed low, hat in hand. "Serviteur, mademoiselle," and
he turned to depart towards the house.
"Shall I come with you, Philippe?" Andre-Louis called after him.
"It would be ungallant to assume that you would prefer it," said M. de
Vilmorin, with a glance at mademoiselle. "Nor do I think it would serve. If
you will wait... "
M. de Vilmorin strode off. Mademoiselle, after a moment's blank pause,
laughed ripplingly. "Now where is he going in such a hurry?"
"To see M. de La Tour d'Azyr as well as your uncle, I should say."
"But he cannot. They cannot see him. Did I not say that they are very
closely engaged? You don't ask me why, Andre" There was an arch
mysteriousness about her, a latent something that may have been elation or
amusement, or perhaps both. Andre-Louis could not determine it.
"Since obviously you are all eagerness to tell, why should I ask?"
quoth he.
"If you are caustic I shall not tell you even if you ask. Oh, yes, I
will. It will teach you to treat me with the respect that is my due."
"I hope I shall never fail in that."
"Less than ever when you learn that I am very closely concerned in the
visit of M. de La Tour d'Azyr. I am the object of this visit." And she
looked at him with sparkling eyes and lips parted in laughter.
"The rest, you would seem to imply, is obvious. But I am a dolt, if you
please; for it is not obvious to me."
"Why, stupid, he comes to ask my hand in marriage."
"Good God!" said Andre-Louis, and stared at her, chapfallen.
She drew back from him a little with a frown and an upward tilt of her
chin. "It surprises you?"
"It disgusts me," said he, bluntly. "In fact, I don't believe it. You
are amusing yourself with me."
For a moment she put aside her visible annoyance to remove his doubts.
"I am quite serious, monsieur. There came a formal letter to my uncle this
morning from M. de La Tour d'Azyr, announcing the visit and its object. I
will not say that it did not surprise us a little..
"Oh, I see," cried Andre-Louis, in relief. "I understand. For a moment
I had almost feared... " He broke off, looked at her, and shrugged.
"Why do you stop? You had almost feared that Versailles had been wasted
upon me. That I should permit the court-ship of me to be conducted like that
of any village wench. It was stupid of you. I am being sought in proper
form, at my uncle's hands."
"Is his consent, then, all that matters, according to Versailles?"
"What else?"
"There is your own."
She laughed. "I am a dutiful niece... when it suits me."
"And will it suit you to be dutiful if your uncle accepts this
monstrous proposal?"
"Monstrous!" She bridled. "And why monstrous, if you please?"
"For a score of reasons," he answered irritably.
"Give me one," she challenged him.
"He is twice your age."
"Hardly so much," said she.
"He is forty-five, at least."
"But he looks no more than thirty. He is very handsome - so much you
will admit; nor will you deny that he is very wealthy and very powerful; the
greatest nobleman in Brittany. He will make me a great lady."
"God made you that, Aline."
"Come, that's better. Sometimes you can almost be polite." And she
moved along the terrace, Andre-Louis pacing beside her.
"I can be more than that to show reason why you should not let this
beast befoul the beautiful thing that God has made."
She frowned, and her lips tightened. "You are speaking of my future
husband," she reproved him.
His lips tightened too; his pale face grew paler.
"And is it so? It is settled, then? Your uncle is to agree? You are to
be sold thus, lovelessly, into bondage to a man you do not know. I had
dreamed of better things for you, Aline."
"Better than to be Marquise de La Tour d'Azyr?"
He made a gesture of exasperation. "Are men and women nothing more than
names? Do the souls of them count for nothing? Is there no joy in life, no
happiness, that wealth and pleasure and empty, high-sounding titles are to
be its only aims? I had set you high
- so high, Aline - a thing scarce earthly. There is joy in your heart,
intelligence in your mind; and, as I thought, the vision that pierces husks
and shams to claim the core of reality for its own. Yet you will surrender
all for a parcel of make-believe. You will sell your soul and your body to
be Marquise de La Tour d'Azyr."
"You are indelicate," said she, and though she frowned her eyes
laughed. "And you go headlong to conclusions. My uncle will not consent to
more than to allow my consent to be sought. We understand each other, my
uncle and I. I am not to be bartered like a turnip."
He stood still to face her, his eyes glowing, a flush creeping into his
pale cheeks.
"You have been torturing me to amuse yourself!" he cried. "Ah, well, I
forgive you out of my relief."
"Again you go too fast, Cousin Andre I have permitted my uncle to
consent that M. le Marquis shall make his court to me. I like the look of
the gentleman. I am flattered by his preference when I consider his
eminence. It is an eminence that I may find it desirable to share. M. le
Marquis does not look as if he were a dullard. It should be interesting to
be wooed by him. It may be more interesting still to marry him, and I think,
when all is considered, that I shall probably - very probably - decide to do
so."
He looked at her, looked at the sweet, challenging loveliness of that
childlike face so tightly framed in the oval of white fur, and all the life
seemed to go out of his own countenance.
"God help you, Aline!" he groaned.
She stamped her foot. He was really very exasperating, and something
presumptuous too, she thought.
"You are insolent, monsieur."
"It is never insolent to pray, Aline. And I did no more than pray, as I
shall continue to do. You'll need my prayers, I think."
"You are insufferable!" She was growing angry, as he saw by the
deepening frown, the heightened colour.
"That is because I suffer. Oh, Aline, little cousin, think well of what
you do; think well of the realities you will be bartering for these shams -
the realities that you will never know, because these cursed shams will
block your way to them. When M. de La Tour d'Azyr comes to make his court,
study him well; consult your fine instincts; leave your own noble nature
free to judge this animal by its intuitions. Consider that... "
"I consider, monsieur, that you presume upon the kindness I have always
shown you. You abuse the position of toleration in which you stand. Who are
you? What are you, that you should have the insolence to take this tone with
me?"
He bowed, instantly his cold, detached self again, and resumed the
mockery that was his natural habit.
"My congratulations, mademoiselle, upon the readiness with which you
begin to adapt yourself to the great role you are to play."
"Do you adapt yourself also, monsieur," she retorted angrily, and
turned her shoulder to him.
"To be as the dust beneath the haughty feet of Madame la Marquise. I
hope I shall know my place in future."
The phrase arrested her. She turned to him again, and he perceived that
her eyes were shining now suspiciously. In an instant the mockery in him was
quenched in contrition.
"Lord, what a beast I am, Aline!" he cried, as he advanced. "Forgive me
if you can."
Almost had she turned to sue forgiveness from him. But his contrition
removed the need.
"I'll try," said she, "provided that you undertake not to offend again.
"But I shall," said he. "I am like that. I will fight to save you, from
yourself if need be, whether you forgive me or not."
They were standing so, confronting each other a little breathlessly, a
little defiantly, when the others issued from the porch.
First came the Marquis of La Tour d'Azyr, Count of Solz, Knight of the
Orders of the Holy Ghost and Saint Louis, and Brigadier in the armies of the
King. He was a tall, graceful man, upright and soldierly of carriage, with
his head disdainfully set upon his shoulders. He was magnificently dressed
in a full-skirted coat of mulberry velvet that was laced with gold. His
waistcoat, of velvet too, was of a golden apricot colour; his breeches and
stockings were of black silk, and his lacquered, red-heeled shoes were
buckled in diamonds. His powdered hair was tied behind in a broad ribbon of
watered silk; he carried a little three-cornered hat under his arm, and a
gold-hilted slender dress-sword hung at his side.
Considering him now in complete detachment, observing the magnificence
of him, the elegance of his movements, the great air, blending in so
extraordinary a manner disdain and graciousness, Andre-Louis trembled for
Aline. Here was a practised, irresistible wooer, whose bonnes fortunes were
become a by-word, a man who had hitherto been the despair of dowagers with
marriageable daughters, and the desolation of husbands with attractive
wives.
He was immediately followed by M. de Kercadiou, in completest contrast.
On legs of the shortest, the Lord of Gavrillac carried a body that at
forty-five was beginning to incline to corpulence and an enormous head
containing an indifferent allotment of intelligence. His countenance was
pink and blotchy, liberally branded by the smallpox which had almost
extinguished him in youth. In dress he was careless to the point of
untidiness, and to this and to the fact that he had never married -
disregarding the first duty of a gentleman to provide himself with an heir -
he owed the character of misogynist attributed to him by the countryside.
After M. de Kercadiou came M. de Vilmorin, very pale and
self-contained, with tight lips and an overcast brow.
To meet them, there stepped from the carriage a very elegant young
gentleman, the Chevalier de Chabrillane, M. de La Tour d'Azyr's cousin, who
whilst awaiting his return had watched with considerable interest - his own
presence unsuspected - the perambulations of Andre-Louis and mademoiselle.
Perceiving Aline, M. de La Tour d'Azyr detached himself from the
others, and lengthening his stride came straight across the terrace to her.
To Andre-Louis the Marquis inclined his head with that mixture of
courtliness and condescension which he used. Socially, the young lawyer
stood in a curious position. By virtue of the theory of his birth, he ranked
neither as noble nor as simple, but stood somewhere between the two classes,
and whilst claimed by neither he was used familiarly by both. Coldly now he
returned M. de La Tour d'Azyr's greeting, and discreetly removed himself to
go and join his friend.
The Marquis took the hand that mademoiselle extended to him, and bowing
over it, bore it to his lips.
"Mademoiselle," he said, looking into the blue depths of her eyes, that
met his gaze smiling and untroubled, "monsieur your uncle does me the honour
to permit that I pay my homage to you. Will you, mademoiselle, do me the
honour to receive me when I come to-morrow? I shall have something of great
importance for your ear."
"Of importance, M. le Marquis? You almost frighten me." But there was
no fear on the serene little face in its furred hood. It was not for nothing
that she had graduated in the Versailles school of artificialities.
"That," said he, "is very far from my design."
"But of importance to yourself, monsieur, or to me?"
"To us both, I hope," he answered her, a world of meaning in his fine,
ardent eyes.
"You whet my curiosity, monsieur; and, of course, I am a dutiful niece.
It follows that I shall be honoured to receive you."
"Not honoured, mademoiselle; you will confer the honour. To-morrow at
this hour, then, I shall have the felicity to wait upon you."
He bowed again; and again he bore her fingers to his lips, what time
she curtsied. Thereupon, with no more than this formal breaking of the ice,
they parted.
She was a little breathless now, a little dazzled by the beauty of the
man, his princely air, and the confidence of power he seemed to radiate.
Involuntarily almost, she contrasted him with his critic
- the lean and impudent Andre-Louis in his plain brown coat and
steel-buckled shoes - and she felt guilty of an unpardonable offence in
having permitted even one word of that presumptuous criticism. To-morrow M.
le Marquis would come to offer her a great position, a great rank. And
already she had derogated from the increase of dignity accruing to her from
his very intention to translate her to so great an eminence. Not again would
she suffer it; not again would she be so weak and childish as to permit
Andre-Louis to utter his ribald comments upon a man by comparison with whom
he was no better than a lackey.
Thus argued vanity and ambition with her better self and to her vast
annoyance her better self would not admit entire conviction.
Meanwhile, M. de La Tour d'Azyr was climbing into his carriage. He had
spoken a word of farewell to M. de Kercadiou, and he had also had a word for
M. de Vilmorin in reply to which M. de Vilmorin had bowed in assenting
silence. The carriage rolled away, the powdered footman in blue-and-gold
very stiff behind it, M. de La Tour d'Azyr bowing to mademoiselle, who waved
to him in answer.
Then M. de Vilmorin put his arm through that of Andre Louis, and said
to him, "Come, Andre."
"But you'll stay to dine, both of you!" cried the hospitable Lord of
Gavrillac. "We'll drink a certain toast," he added, winking an eye that
strayed towards mademoiselle, who was approaching. He had no subtleties,
good soul that he was.
M. de Vilmorin deplored an appointment that prevented him doing himself
the honour. He was very stiff and formal.
"And you, Andre?"
"I? Oh, I share the appointment, godfather," he lied, "and I have a
superstition against toasts." He had no wish to remain. He was angry with
Aline for her smiling reception of M. de La Tour d'Azyr and the sordid
bargain he saw her set on making. He was suffering from the loss of an
illusion.
It was M. de Vilmorin's desire that the matter should be settled out of
hand. In this he was at once objective and subjective. A prey to emotions
sadly at conflict with his priestly vocation, he was above all in haste to
have done, so that he might resume a frame of mind more proper to it. Also
he feared himself a little; by which I mean that his honour feared his
nature. The circumstances of his education, and the goal that for some years
now he had kept in view, had robbed him of much of that spirited brutality
that is the birthright of the male. He had grown timid and gentle as a
woman. Aware of it, he feared that once the heat of his passion was spent he
might betray a dishonouring weakness, in the ordeal.
M. le Marquis, on his side, was no less eager for an immediate
settlement; and since they had M. de Chabrillane to act for his cousin, and
Andre-Louis to serve as witness for M. de Vilmorin, there was nothing to
delay them.
And so, within a few minutes, all arrangements were concluded, and you
behold that sinisterly intentioned little group of four assembled in the
afternoon sunshine on the bowling-green behind the inn. They were entirely
private, screened more or less from the windows of the house by a ramage of
trees, which, if leafless now, was at least dense enough to provide an
effective lattice.
There were no formalities over measurements of blades or selection of
ground. M. le Marquis removed his sword-belt and scabbard, but declined not
considering it worth while for the sake of so negligible an opponent - to
divest himself either of his shoes or his coat. Tall, lithe, and athletic,
he stood to face the no less tall, but very delicate and frail, M. de
Vilmorin. The latter also disdained to make any of the usual preparations.
Since he recognized that it could avail him nothing to strip, he came on
guard fully dressed, two hectic spots above the cheek-bones burning on his
otherwise grey face.
M. de Chabrillane, leaning upon a cane - for he had relinquished his
sword to M. de Vilmorin - looked on with quiet interest. Facing him on the
other side of the combatants stood Andre-Louis, the palest of the four,
staring from fevered eyes, twisting and untwisting clammy hands.
His every instinct was to fling himself between the antagonists, to
protest against and frustrate this meeting. That sane impulse was curbed,
however, by the consciousness of its futility. To calm him, he clung to the
conviction that the issue could not really be very serious. If the
obligations of Philippe's honour compelled him to cross swords with the man
he had struck, M. de La Tour d'Azyr's birth compelled him no less to do no
serious hurt to the unfledged lad he had so grievously provoked. M. le
Marquis, after all, was a man of honour. He could intend no more than to
administer a lesson; sharp, perhaps, but one by which his opponent must live
to profit. Andre-Louis clung obstinately to that for comfort.
Steel beat on steel, and the men engaged. The Marquis presented to his
opponent the narrow edge of his upright body, his knees slightly flexed and
converted into living springs, whilst M. de Vilmorin stood squarely, a full
target, his knees wooden. Honour and the spirit of fair play alike cried out
against such a match.
The encounter was very short, of course. In youth, Philippe had
received the tutoring in sword-play that was given to every boy born into
his station of life. And so he knew at least the rudiments of what was now
expected of him. But what could rudiments avail him here? Three disengages
completed the exchanges, and then without any haste the Marquis slid his
right foot along the moist turf, his long, graceful body extending itself in
a lunge that went under M. de Vilmorin's clumsy guard, and with the utmost
deliberation he drove his blade through the young man's vitals.
Andre-Louis sprang forward just in time to catch his friend's body
under the armpits as it sank. Then, his own legs bending beneath the weight
of it, he went down with his burden until he was kneeling on the damp turf.
Philippe's limp head lay against Andre-Louis' left shoulder; Philippe's
relaxed arms trailed at his sides; the blood welled and bubbled from the
ghastly wound to saturate the poor lad's garments.
With white face and twitching lips, Andre-Louis looked up at M. de La
Tour d'Azyr, who stood surveying his work with a countenance of grave but
remorseless interest.
"You have killed him!" cried Andre-Louis.
"Of course."
The Marquis ran a lace handkerchief along his blade to wipe it. As he
let the dainty fabric fall, he explained himself. "He had, as I told him, a
too dangerous gift of eloquence."
And he turned away, leaving completest understanding with Andre-Louis.
Still supporting the limp, draining body, the young man called to him.
"Come back, you cowardly murderer, and make yourself quite safe by
killing me too!"
The Marquis half turned, his face dark with anger. Then M. de
Chabrillane set a restraining hand upon his arm. Although a party throughout
to the deed, the Chevalier was a little appalled now that it was done. He
had not the high stomach of M. de La Tour d'Azyr, and he was a good deal
younger.
"Come away," he said. "The lad is raving. They were friends."
"You heard what he said?" quoth the Marquis.
"Nor can he, or you, or any man deny it," flung back Andre-Louis.
"Yourself, monsieur, you made confession when you gave me now the reason why
you killed him. You did it because you feared him."
"If that were true - what, then?" asked the great gentleman.
"Do you ask? Do you understand of life and humanity nothing but how to
wear a coat and dress your hair - oh, yes, and to handle weapons against
boys and priests? Have you no mind to think, no soul into which you can turn
its vision? Must you be told that it is a coward's part to kill the thing he
fears, and doubly a coward's part to kill in this way? Had you stabbed him
in the back with a knife, you would have shown the courage of your vileness.
It would have been a vileness undisguised. But you feared the consequences
of that, powerful as you are; and so you shelter your cowardice under the
pretext of a duel."
The Marquis shook off his cousin's hand, and took a step forward,
holding now his sword like a whip. But again the Chevalier caught and held
him.
"No, no, Gervais! Let be, in God's name!"
"Let him come, monsieur," raved Andre-Louis, his voice thick and
concentrated. "Let him complete his coward's work on me, and thus make
himself safe from a coward's wages."
M. de Chabrillane let his cousin go. He came white to the lips, his
eyes glaring at the lad who so recklessly insulted him. And then he checked.
It may be that he remembered suddenly the relationship in which this young
man was popularly believed to stand to the Seigneur de Gavrillac, and the
well-known affection in which the Seigneur held him. And so he may have
realized that if he pushed this matter further, he might find himself upon
the horns of a dilemma. He would be confronted with the alternatives of
shedding more blood, and so embroiling himself with the Lord of Gavrillac at
a time when that gentleman's friendship was of the first importance to him,
or else of withdrawing with such hurt to his dignity as must impair his
authority in the countryside hereafter.
Be it so or otherwise, the fact remains that he stopped short; then,
with an incoherent ejaculation, between anger and contempt, he tossed his
arms, turned on his heel and strode off quickly with his cousin.
When the landlord and his people came, they found Andre-Louis, his arms
about the body of his dead friend, murmuring passionately into the deaf ear
that rested almost against his lips:
"Philippe! Speak to me, Philippe! Philippe... Don't you hear me? 0 God
of Heaven! Philippe!"
At a glance they saw that here neither priest nor doctor could avail.
The cheek that lay against Andre-Louis's was leaden-hued, the half-open eyes
were glazed, and there was a little froth of blood upon the vacuously parted
lips.
Half blinded by tears Andre-Louis stumbled after them when they bore
the body into the inn. Upstairs in the little room to which they conveyed
it, he knelt by the bed, and holding the dead man's hand in both his own, he
swore to him out of his impotent rage that M. de La Tour d'Azyr should pay a
bitter price for this.
"It was your eloquence he feared, Philippe," he said. Then if I can get
no justice for this deed, at least it shall be fruitless to him. The thing
he feared in you, he shall fear in me. He feared that men might be swayed by
your eloquence to the undoing of such things as himself. Men shall be swayed
by it still. For your eloquence and your arguments shall be my heritage from
you. I will make them my own. It matters nothing that I do not believe in
your gospel of freedom. I know it - every word of it; that is all that
matters to our purpose, yours and mine. If all else fails, your thoughts
shall find expression in my living tongue. Thus at least we shall have
frustrated his vile aim to still the voice he feared. It shall profit him
nothing to have your blood upon his soul. That voice in you would never half
so relentlessly have hounded him and his as it shall in me - if all else
fails."
It was an exulting thought. It calmed him; it soothed his grief, and he
began very softly to pray. And then his heart trembled as he considered that
Philippe, a man of peace, almost a priest, an apostle of Christianity, had
gone to his Maker with the sin of anger on his soul. It was horrible. Yet
God would see the righteousness of that anger. And in no case - be man's
interpretation of Divinity what it might - could that one sin outweigh the
loving good that Philippe had ever practised, the noble purity of his great
heart. God after all, reflected Andre-Louis, was not a grand-seigneur.
M. de Kercadiou stared at him blankly out of his pale
For the second time that day Andre-Louis set out for the chateau,
walking briskly, and heeding not at all the curious eyes that followed him
through the village, and the whisperings that marked his passage through the
people, all agog by now with that day's event in which he had been an actor.
He was ushered by Benoit, the elderly body-servant, rather
grandiloquently called the seneschal, into the ground-floor room known
traditionally as the library. It still contained several shelves of
neglected volumes, from which it derived its title, but implements of the
chase - fowling-pieces, powder-horns, hunting-bags, sheath-knives - obtruded
far more prominently than those of study. The furniture was massive, of oak
richly carved, and belonging to another age. Great massive oak beams crossed
the rather lofty whitewashed ceiling.
Here the squat Seigneur de Gavrillac was restlessly pacing when
Andre-Louis was introduced. He was already informed, as he announced at
once, of what had taken place at the Breton arme. M. de Chabrillane had just
left him, and he confessed himself deeply grieved and deeply perplexed.
"The pity of it!" he said. "The pity of it!" He bowed his enormous
head. "So estimable a young man, and so full of promise. Ah, this La Tour
d'Azyr is a hard man, and he feels very strongly in these matters. He may be
right. I don't know. I have never killed a man for holding different views
from mine. In fact, I have never killed a man at all. It isn't in my nature.
I shouldn't sleep of nights if I did. But men are differently made."
"The question, monsieur my godfather," said Andre-Louis, "is what is to
be done." He was quite calm and self-possessed, but very white.
M. de Kercadiou stared at him blankly out of his pale eyes.
"Why, what the devil is there to do? From what I am told, Vilmorin went
so far as to strike M. le Marquis."
"Under the very grossest provocation."
"Which he himself provoked by his revolutionary language. The poor
lad's head was full of this encyclopaedist trash. It comes of too much
reading. I have never set much store by books, Andre; and I have never known
anything but trouble to come out of learning. It unsettles a man. It
complicates his views of life, destroys the simplicity which makes for peace
of mind and happiness. Let this miserable affair be a warning to you, Andre.
You are, yourself, too prone to these new-fashioned speculations upon a
different constitution of the social order. You see what comes of it. A
fine, estimable young man, the only prop of his widowed mother too, forgets
himself, his position, his duty to that mother - everything; and goes and
gets himself killed like this. It is infernally sad. On my soul it is sad."
He produced a handkerchief, and blew his nose with vehemence.
Andre-Louis felt a tightening of his heart, a lessening of the hopes,
never too sanguine, which he had founded upon his godfather.
"Your criticisms," he said, "are all for the conduct of the dead, and
none for that of the murderer. It does not seem possible that you should be
in sympathy with such a crime.
"Crime?" shrilled M. de Kercadiou. "My God, boy, you are speaking of M.
de La Tour d'Azyr."
"I am, and of the abominable murder he has committed... "
"Stop!" M. de Kercadiou was very emphatic. "I cannot permit that you
apply such terms to him. I cannot permit it. M. le Marquis is my friend, and
is likely very soon to stand in a still closer relationship."
"Notwithstanding this?" asked Andre-Louis.
M. de Kercadiou was frankly impatient.
"Why, what has this to do with it? I may deplore it. But I have no
right to condemn it. It is a common way of adjusting differences between
gentlemen."
"You really believe that?"
"What the devil do you imply, Andre? Should I say a thing that I don't
believe? You begin to make me angry."
"'Thou shalt not kill,' is the King's law as well as God's."
"You are determined to quarrel with me, I think. It was a duel... "
Andre-Louis interrupted him. "It is no more a duel than if it had been
fought with pistols of which only M. le Marquis 's was loaded. He invited
Philippe to discuss the matter further, with the deliberate intent of
forcing a quarrel upon him and killing him. Be patient with me, monsieur my
god-father. I am not telling you of what I imagine but what M. le Marquis
himself admitted to me."
Dominated a little by the young man's earnestness, M. de Kercadiou's
pale eyes fell away. He turned with a shrug, and sauntered over to the
window.
"It would need a court of honour to decide such an issue. And we have
no courts of honour," he said.
"But we have courts of justice."
With returning testiness the seigneur swung round to face him again.
"And what court of justice, do you think, would listen to such a plea as you
appear to have in mind?"
"There is the court of the King's Lieutenant at Rennes."
"And do you think the King's Lieutenant would listen to you?"
"Not to me, perhaps, Monsieur. But if you were to bring the plaint... "
"I bring the plaint?" M. de Kercadiou's pale eyes were wide with horror
of the suggestion.
"The thing happened here on your domain."
"I bring a plaint against M. de La Tour d'Azyr! You are out of your
senses, I think. Oh, you are mad; as mad as that poor friend of yours who
has come to this end through meddling in what did not concern him. The
language he used here to M. le Marquis on the score of Mabey was of the most
offensive. Perhaps you didn't know that. It does not at all surprise me that
the Marquis should have desired satisfaction."
"I see," said Andre-Louis, on a note of hopelessness.
"You see? What the devil do you see?"
"That I shall have to depend upon myself alone."
"And what the devil do you propose to do, if you please?"
"I shall go to Rennes, and lay the facts before the King's Lieutenant."
"He'll be too busy to see you." And M. de Kercadiou's mind swung a
trifle inconsequently, as weak minds will. "There is trouble enough in
Rennes already on the score of these crazy States General, with which the
wonderful M. Necker is to repair the finances of the kingdom. As if a
peddling Swiss bank-clerk, who is also a damned Protestant, could succeed
where such men as Calonne and Brienne have failed."
"Good-afternoon, monsieur my godfather," said Andre-Louis.
"Where are you going?" was the querulous demand.
"Home at present. To Rennes in the morning."
"Wait, boy, wait!" The squat little man rolled forward, affectionate
concern on his great ugly face, and he set one of his podgy hands on his
godson's shoulder. "Now listen to me, Andre," he reasoned. "This is sheer
knight-errantry - moonshine, lunacy. You'11 come to no good by it if you
persist. You've read 'Don Quixote,' and what happened to him when he went
tilting against windmills. It's what will happen to you, neither more nor
less. Leave things as they are, my boy. I wouldn't have a mischief happen to
you."
Andre-Louis looked at him, smiling wanly.
"I swore an oath to-day which it would damn my soul to break."
"You mean that you'll go in spite of anything that I may say?"
Impetuous as he was inconsequent, M. de Kercadiou was bristling again. "Very
well, then, go... Go to the devil!"
"I will begin with the King's Lieutenant."
"And if you get into the trouble you are seeking, don't come whimpering
to me for assistance," the seigneur stormed. He was very angry now. "Since
you choose to disobey me, you can break your empty head against the
windmill, and be damned to you."
Andre-Louis bowed with a touch of irony, and reached the door.
"If the windmill should prove too formidable," said he, from the
threshold, "I may see what can be done with the wind. Good-bye, monsieur my
godfather."
He was gone, and M. de Kercadiou was alone, purple in the face,
puzzling out that last cryptic utterance, and not at all happy in his mind,
either on the score of his godson or of M. de La Tour d'Azyr. He was
disposed to be angry with them both. He found these headstrong, wilful men
who relentlessly followed their own impulses very disturbing and irritating.
Himself he loved his ease, and to be at peace with his neighbours; and that
seemed to him so obviously the supreme good of life that he was disposed to
brand them as fools who troubled to seek other things.
There was between Nantes and Rennes an established service of three
stage-coaches weekly in each direction, which for a sum of twenty-four
livres - roughly, the equivalent of an English guinea
- would carry you the seventy and odd miles of the journey in some
fourteen hours. Once a week one of the diligences going in each direction
would swerve aside from the highroad to call at Gavrillac, to bring and take
letters, newspapers, and sometimes passengers. It was usually by this coach
that Andre-Louis came and went when the occasion offered. At present,
however, he was too much in haste to lose a day awaiting the passing of that
diligence. So it was on a horse hired from the Breton arme that he set out
next morning; and an hour's brisk ride under a grey wintry sky, by a
half-ruined road through ten miles of flat, uninteresting country, brought
him to the city of Rennes.
He rode across the main bridge over the Vilaine, and so into the upper
and principal part of that important city of some thirty thousand souls,
most of whom, he opined from the seething, clamant crowds that everywhere
blocked his way, must on this day have taken to the streets. Clearly
Philippe had not overstated the excitement prevailing there.
He pushed on as best he could, and so came at last to the Place Royale,
where he found the crowd to be most dense. From the plinth of the equestrian
statue of Louis XV, a white-faced young man was excitedly addressing the
multitude. His youth and dress proclaimed the student, and a group of his
fellows, acting as a guard of honour to him, kept the immediate precincts of
the statue.
Over the heads of the crowd Andre-Louis caught a few of the phrases
flung forth by that eager voice.
"It was the promise of the King... It is the King's authority they
flout... They arrogate to themselves the whole sovereignty in Brittany. The
King has dissolved them... These insolent nobles defying their sovereign and
the people... "
Had he not known already, from what Philippe had told him, of the
events which had brought the Third Estate to the point of active revolt,
those few phrases would fully have informed him. This popular display of
temper was most opportune to his need, he thought. And in the hope that it
might serve his turn by disposing to reasonableness the mind of the King's
Lieutenant, he pushed on up the wide and well-paved Rue Royale, where the
concourse of people began to diminish. He put up his hired horse at the Come
de Cerf, and set out again, on foot, to the Palais de Justice.
There was a brawling mob by the framework of poles and scaffoldings
about the building cathedral, upon which work had been commenced a year ago.
But he did not pause to ascertain the particular cause of that gathering. He
strode on, and thus came presently to the handsome Italianate palace that
was one of the few public edifices hat had survived the devastating fire of
sixty years ago.
He won through with difficulty to the great hall, known as the Salle
des Pas Perdus, where he was left to cool his heels for a full half-hour
after he had found an usher so condescending as to inform the god who
presided over that shrine of Justice that a lawyer from Gavrillac humbly
begged an audience on an affair of gravity.
That the god condescended to see him at all was probably due to the
grave complexion of the hour. At long length he was escorted up the broad
stone staircase, and ushered into a spacious, meagrely furnished anteroom,
to make one of a waiting crowd of clients, mostly men.
There he spent another half-hour, and employed the time in considering
exactly what he should say. This consideration made him realize the weakness
of the case he proposed to set before a man whose views of law and morality
were coloured by his social rank.
At last he was ushered through a narrow but very massive and richly
decorated door into a fine, well-lighted room furnished with enough gilt and
satin to have supplied the boudoir of a lady of fashion.
It was a trivial setting for a King's Lieutenant, but about the King's
Lieutenant there was - at least to ordinary eyes - nothing trivial. At the
far end of the chamber, to the right of one of the tall windows that looked
out over the inner court, before a goat-legged writing-table with Watteau
panels, heavily encrusted with ormolu, sat that exalted being. Above a
scarlet coat with an order flaming on its breast, and a billow of lace in
which diamonds sparkled like drops of water, sprouted the massive powdered
head of M. de Lesdiguieres. It was thrown back to scowl upon this visitor
with an expectant arrogance that made Andre-Louis wonder almost was a
genuflexion awaited from him.
Perceiving a lean, lantern-jawed young man, with straight, lank black
hair, in a caped riding-coat of brown cloth, and yellow buckskin breeches,
his knee-boots splashed with mud, the scowl upon that August visage deepened
until it brought together the thick black eyebrows above the great hooked
nose.
"You announce yourself as a lawyer of Gavrillac with an important
communication," he growled. It was a peremptory command to make this
communication without wasting the valuable time of a King's Lieutenant, of
whose immense importance it conveyed something more than a hint. M. de
Lesdiguieres accounted himself an imposing personality, and he had every
reason to do so, for in his time he had seen many a poor devil scared out of
all his senses by the thunder of his voice.
He waited now to see the same thing happen to this youthful lawyer from
Gavrillac. But he waited in vain.
Andre-Louis found him ridiculous. He knew pretentiousness for the mask
of worthlessness and weakness. And here he beheld pretentiousness incarnate.
It was to be read in that arrogant poise of the head, that scowling brow,
the inflexion of that reverberating voice. Even more difficult than it is
for a man to be a hero to his valet - who has witnessed the dispersal of the
parts that make up the imposing whole - is it for a man to be a hero to the
student of Man who has witnessed the same in a different sense.
Andre-Louis stood forward boldly - impudently, thought M. de
Lesdiguieres.
"You are His Majesty's Lieutenant here in Brittany," he said - and it
almost seemed to the August lord of life and death that this fellow had the
incredible effrontery to address him as one man speaking to another. "You
are the dispenser of the King's high justice in this province."
Surprise spread on that handsome, sallow face under the heavily
powdered wig.
"Is your business concerned with this infernal insubordination of the
canaille?" he asked.
"It is not, monsieur."
The black eyebrows rose. "Then what the devil do you mean by intruding
upon me at a time when all my attention is being claimed by the obvious
urgency of this disgraceful affair?"
"The affair that brings me is no less disgraceful and no less urgent."
"It will have to wait!" thundered the great man in a passion, and
tossing back a cloud of lace from his hand, he reached for the little silver
bell upon his table.
"A moment, monsieur!" Andre-Louis' tone was peremptory. M. de
Lesdiguieres checked in sheer amazement at its impudence. "I can state it
very briefly... "
"Haven't I said already... "
"And when you have heard it," Andre-Louis went on, relentlessly,
interrupting the interruption, "you will agree with me as to its character."
M. de Lesdiguieres considered him very sternly.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Andre-Louis Moreau."
"Well, Andre-Louis Moreau, if you can state your plea briefly, I will
hear you. But I warn you that I shall be very angry if you fail to justify
the impertinence of this insistence at so inopportune a moment."
"You shall be the judge of that, monsieur," said Andre-Louis, and he
proceeded at once to state his case, beginning with the shooting of Mabey,
and passing thence to the killing of M. de Vilmorin. But he withheld until
the end the name of the great gentleman against whom he demanded justice,
persuaded that did he introduce it earlier he would not be allowed to
proceed.
He had a gift of oratory of whose full powers he was himself hardly
conscious yet, though destined very soon to become so.. He told his story
well, without exaggeration, yet with a force of simple appeal that was
irresistible. Gradually the great man's face relaxed from its forbidding
severity. Interest, warming almost to sympathy, came to be reflected on it.
"And who, sir, is the man you charge with this?"
"The Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr."
The effect of that formidable name was immediate. Dismayed anger, and
an arrogance more utter than before, took the place of the sympathy he had
been betrayed into displaying.
"Who?" he shouted, and without waiting for an answer, "Why, here's
impudence," he stormed on, "to come before me with such a charge against a
gentleman of M. de La Tour d'Azyr's eminence! How dare you speak of him as a
coward."
"I speak of him as a murderer," the young man corrected. "And I demand
justice against him."
"You demand it, do you? My God, what next?"
"That is for you to say, monsieur."
It surprised the great gentleman into a more or less successful effort
of self-control.
"Let me warn you," said he, acidly, "that it is not wise to make wild
accusations against a nobleman. That, in itself, is a punishable offence, as
you may learn. Now listen to me. In this matter of Mabey - assuming your
statement of it to be exact - the gamekeeper may have exceeded his duty; but
by so little that it is hardly worth comment. Consider, however, that in any
case it is not a matter for the King's Lieutenant, or for any court but the
seigneurial court of M. de La Tour d'Azyr himself. It is before the
magistrates of his own appointing that such a matter must be laid, since it
is matter strictly concerning his own seigneurial jurisdiction. As a lawyer
you should not need to be told so much."
"As a lawyer, I am prepared to argue the point. But, as a lawyer I also
realize that if that case were prosecuted, it could only end in the unjust
punishment of a wretched gamekeeper, who did no more than carry out his
orders, but who none the less would now be made a scapegoat, if scapegoat
were necessary. I am not concerned to hang Benet on the gallows earned by M.
de La Tour d'Azyr."
M. de Lesdiguieres smote the table violently. "My God!" he cried out,
to add more quietly, on a note of menace, "You are singularly insolent, my
man."
"That is not my intention, sir, I assure you. I am a lawyer, pleading a
case - the case of M. de Vilmorin. It is for his assassination that I have
come to beg the King's justice."
"But you yourself have said that it was a duel!" cried the Lieutenant,
between anger and bewilderment.
"I have said that it was made to appear a duel. There is a distinction,
as I shall show, if you will condescend to hear me out."
"Take your own time, sir!" said the ironical M. de Lesdiguieres, whose
tenure of office had never yet held anything that remotely resembled this
experience.
Andre-Louis took him literally. "I thank you, sir," he answered,
solemnly, and submitted his argument. "It can be shown that M. de Vilmorin
never practised fencing in all his life, and it is notorious that M. de La
Tour d'Azyr is an exceptional swordsman. Is it a duel, monsieur, where one
of the combatants alone is armed? For it amounts to that on a comparison of
their measures of respective skill."
"There has scarcely been a duel fought on which the same trumpery
argument might not be advanced."
"But not always with equal justice. And in one case, at least, it was
advanced successfully."
"Successfully? When was that?"
"Ten years ago, in Dauphiny. I refer to the case of M. de Gesvres, a
gentleman of that province, who forced a duel upon M. de la Roche Jeannine,
and killed him. M. de Jeannine was a member of a powerful family, which
exerted itself to obtain justice. It put forward just such arguments as now
obtain against M. de La Tour d'Azyr. As you will remember, the judges held
that the provocation had proceeded of intent from M. de Gesvres; they found
him guilty of premeditated murder, and he was hanged."
M. de Lesdiguieres exploded yet again. "Death of my life!" he cried.
"Have you the effrontery to suggest that M. de La Tour d'Azyr should be
hanged? Have you?"
"But why not, monsieur, if it is the law, and there is precedent for
it, as I have shown you, and if it can be established that what I state is
the truth - as established it can be without difficulty?"
"Do you ask me, why not? Have you temerity to ask me that?"
"I have, monsieur. Can you answer me? If you cannot, monsieur, I shall
understand that whilst it is possible for a powerful family like that of La
Roche Jeannine to set the law in motion, the law must remain inert for the
obscure and uninfluential, however brutally wronged by a great nobleman."
M. de Lesdiguieres perceived that in argument he would accomplish
nothing against this impassive, resolute young man. The menace of him grew
more fierce.
"I should advise you to take yourself off at once, and to be thankful
for the opportunity to depart unscathed."
"I am, then, to understand, monsieur, that there will be no inquiry
into this case? That nothing that I can say will move you?"
"You are to understand that if you are still there in two minutes it
will be very much the worse for you." And M. de Lesdiguieres tinkled the
silver hand-bell upon his table.
"I have informed you, monsieur, that a duel - so-called - has been
fought, and a man killed. It seems that I must remind you, the administrator
of the King's justice, that duels are against the law, and that it is your
duty to hold an inquiry. I come as the legal representative of the bereaved
mother of M. de Vilmorin to demand of you the inquiry that is due."
The door behind Andre-Louis opened softly. M. de Lesdiguieres, pale
with anger, contained himself with difficulty.
"You seek to compel us, do you, you impudent rascal?" he growled. "You
think the King's justice is to be driven headlong by the voice of any
impudent roturier? I marvel at my own patience with you. But I give you a
last warning, master lawyer; keep a closer guard over that insolent tongue
of yours, or you will have cause very bitterly to regret its glibness." He
waved a jewelled, contemptuous hand, and spoke to the usher standing behind
Andre. "To the door!" he said, shortly.
Andre-Louis hesitated a second. Then with a shrug he turned. This was
the windmill, indeed, and he a poor knight of rueful countenance. To attack
it at closer quarters would mean being dashed to pieces. Yet on the
threshold he turned again.
"M. de Lesdiguieres," said he, "may I recite to you an interesting fact
in natural history? The tiger is a great lord in the jungle, and was for
centuries the terror of lesser beasts, including the wolf. The wolf, himself
a hunter, wearied of being hunted. He took to associating with other wolves,
and then the wolves, driven to form packs for self-protection, discovered
the power of the pack, and took to hunting the tiger, with disastrous
results to him. You should study Buffon, M. de Lesdiguieres."
"I have studied a buffoon this morning, I think," was the punning sneer
with which M. de Lesdiguieres replied. But that he conceived himself witty,
it is probable he would not have condescended to reply at all. "I don't
understand you," he added.
"But you will, M. de Lesdiguieres. You will," said Andre-Louis, and so
departed.
Andre-Louis rode forth from Rennes committed to a deeper adventure than
he had dreamed of when he left the sleepy village of Gavrillac. Lying the
night at a roadside inn, and setting out again early in the morning, he
reached Nantes soon after noon of the following day.
Through that long and lonely ride through the dull plains of Brittany,
now at their dreariest in their winter garb, he had ample leisure in which
to review his actions and his position. From one who had taken hitherto a
purely academic and by no means friendly interest in the new philosophies of
social life, exercising his wits upon these new ideas merely as a fencer
exercises his eye and wrist with the foils, without ever suffering himself
to be deluded into supposing the issue a real one, he found himself suddenly
converted into a revolutionary firebrand, committed to revolutionary action
of the most desperate kind. The representative and delegate of a nobleman in
the States of Brittany, he found himself simultaneously and incongruously
the representative and delegate of the whole Third Estate of Rennes.
It is difficult to determine to what extent, in the heat of passion and
swept along by the torrent of his own oratory, he might yesterday have
succeeded in deceiving himself. But it is at least certain that, looking
back in cold blood now he had no single delusion on the score of what he had
done. Cynically he had presented to his audience one side only of the great
question that he propounded.
But since the established order of things in France was such as to make
a rampart for M. de La Tour d'Azyr, affording him complete immunity for this
and any other crimes that it pleased him to commit, why, then the
established order must take the consequences of its wrong-doing. Therein he
perceived his clear justification.
And so it was without misgivings that he came on his errand of sedition
into that beautiful city of Nantes, rendered its spacious streets and
splendid port the rival in prosperity of Bordeaux and Marseilles.
He found an inn on the Quai La Fosse, where he put up his horse, and
where he dined in the embrasure of a window that looked out over the
tree-bordered quay and the broad bosom of the Loire, on which argosies of
all nations rode at anchor. The sun had again broken through the clouds, and
shed its pale wintry light over the yellow waters and the tall-masted
shipping.
Along the quays there was a stir of life as great as that to be seen on
the quays of Paris. Foreign sailors in outlandish garments and of
harsh-sounding, outlandish speech, stalwart fishwives with baskets of
herrings on their heads, voluminous of petticoat above bare legs and bare
feet, calling their wares shrilly and almost inarticulately, watermen in
woollen caps and loose trousers rolled to the knees, peasants in goatskin
coats, their wooden shoes clattering on the round kidney-stones, shipwrights
and labourers from the dockyards, bellows-menders, rat-catchers,
water-carriers, ink-sellers, and other itinerant pedlars. And, sprinkled
through this proletariat mass that came and went in constant movement,
Andre-Louis beheld tradesmen in sober garments, merchants in long, fur-lined
coats; occasionally a merchant-prince rolling along in his two-horse
cabriolet to the whip-crackings and shouts of "Gare!" from his coachman;
occasionally a dainty lady carried past in her sedan-chair, with perhaps a
mincing abbe from the episcopal court tripping along in attendance;
occasionally an officer in scarlet riding disdainfully; and once the great
carriage of a nobleman, with escutcheoned panels and a pair of
white-stockinged, powdered footmen in gorgeous liveries hanging on behind.
And there were Capuchins in brown and Benedictines in black, and secular
priests in plenty - for God was well served in the sixteen parishes of
Nantes - and by way of contrast there were lean-jawed, out-at-elbow
adventurers, and gendarmes in blue coats and gaitered legs, sauntering
guardians of the peace.
Representatives of every class that went to make up the seventy
thousand inhabitants of that wealthy, industrious city were to be seen in
the human stream that ebbed and flowed beneath the window from which
Andre-Louis observed it.
Of the waiter who ministered to his humble wants with soup and bouilli,
and a measure of vin gris, Andre-Louis enquired into the state of public
feeling in the city. The waiter, a staunch supporter of the privileged
orders, admitted regretfully that an uneasiness prevailed. Much would depend
upon what happened at Rennes. If it was true that the King had dissolved the
States of Brittany, then all should be well, and the malcontents would have
no pretext for further disturbances. There had been trouble and to spare in
Nantes already. They wanted no repetition of it. All manner of rumours were
abroad, and since early morning there had been crowds besieging the portals
of the Chamber of Commerce for definite news. But definite news was yet to
come. It was not even known for a fact that His Majesty actually had
dissolved the States.
It was striking two, the busiest hour of the day upon the Bourse, when
Andre-Louis reached the Place du Commerce. The square, dominated by the
imposing classical building of the Exchange, was so crowded that he was
compelled almost to fight his way through to the steps of the magnificent
Ionic porch. A word would have sufficed to have opened a way for him at
once. But guile moved him to keep silent. He would come upon that waiting
multitude as a thunderclap, precisely as yesterday he had come upon the mob
at Rennes. He would lose nothing of the surprise effect of his entrance.
The precincts of that house of commerce were jealously kept by a line
of ushers armed with staves, a guard as hurriedly assembled by the merchants
as it was evidently necessary. One of these now effectively barred the young
lawyer's passage as he attempted to mount the steps.
Andre-Louis announced himself in a whisper.
The stave was instantly raised from the horizontal, and he passed and
went up the steps in the wake of the usher. At the top, on the threshold of
the chamber, he paused, and stayed his guide.
"I will wait here," he announced. "Bring the president to me."
"Your name, monsieur?"
Almost had Andre-Louis answered him when he remembered Le Chapelier's
warning of the danger with which his mission was fraught, and Le Chapelier's
parting admonition to conceal his identity.
"My name is unknown to him; it matters nothing; I am the mouthpiece of
a people, no more. Go."
The usher went, and in the shadow of that lofty, pillared portico
Andre-Louis waited, his eyes straying out ever and anon to survey that
spread of upturned faces immediately below him.
Soon the president came, others following, crowding out into the
portico, jostling one another in their eagerness to hear the news.
"You are a messenger from Rennes?"
"I am the delegate sent by the Literary Chamber of that city to inform
you here in Nantes of what is taking place."
"Your name?"
Andre-Louis paused. "The less we mention names perhaps the better."
The president's eyes grew big with gravity. He was a corpulent, florid
man, purse-proud, and self-sufficient.
He hesitated a moment. Then - "Come into the Chamber," said he.
"By your leave, monsieur, I will deliver my message from here - from
these steps."
"From here?" The great merchant frowned.
"My message is for the people of Nantes, and from here I can speak at
once to the greatest number of Nantais of all ranks, and it is my desire -
and the desire of those whom I represent - that as great a number as
possible should hear my message at first hand."
"Tell me, sir, is it true that the King has dissolved the States?"
Andre-Louis looked at him. He smiled apologetically, and waved a hand
towards the crowd, which by now was straining for a glimpse of this slim
young man who had brought forth the president and more than half the numbers
of the Chamber, guessing already, with that curious instinct of crowds, that
he was the awaited bearer of tidings.
"Summon the gentlemen of your Chamber, monsieur," said he, "and you
shall hear all."
"So be it."
A word, and forth they came to crowd upon the steps, but leaving clear
the topmost step and a half-moon space in the middle.
To the spot so indicated, Andre-Louis now advanced very deliberately.
He took his stand there, dominating the entire assembly. He removed his hat,
and launched the opening bombshell of that address which is historic,
marking as it does one of the great stages of France's progress towards
revolution.
"People of this great city of Nantes, I have come to summon you to
arms!"
In the amazed and rather scared silence that followed he surveyed them
for a moment before resuming.
"I am a delegate of the people of Rennes, charged to announce to you
what is taking place, and to invite you in this dreadful hour of our
country's peril to rise and march to her defence."
"Name! Your name!" a voice shouted, and instantly the cry was taken up
by others, until the multitude rang with the question.
He could not answer that excited mob as he had answered the president.
It was necessary to compromise, and he did so, happily. "My name," said he,
"is Omnes Omnibus - all for all. Let that suffice you now. I am a herald, a
mouthpiece, a voice; no more. I come to announce to you that since the
privileged orders, assembled for the States of Brittany in Rennes, resisted
your will - our will
- despite the King's plain hint to them, His Majesty has dissolved the
States."
There was a burst of delirious applause. Men laughed and shouted, and
cries of "Vive le Roi!" rolled forth like thunder. Andre-Louis waited, and
gradually the preternatural gravity of his countenance came to be observed,
and to beget the suspicion that there might be more to follow. Gradually
silence was restored, and at last Andre Louis was able to proceed.
"You rejoice too soon. Unfortunately, the nobles, in their insolent
arrogance, have elected to ignore the royal dissolution, and in despite of
it persist in sitting and in conducting matters as seems good to them."
A silence of utter dismay greeted that disconcerting epilogue to the
announcement that had been so rapturously received. Andre-Louis continued
after a moment's pause:
"So that these men who were already rebels against the people, rebels,
against justice and equity, rebels against humanity itself, are now also
rebels against their King. Sooner than yield an inch of the unconscionable
privileges by which too long already they have flourished, to the misery of
a whole nation, they will make a mock of royal authority, hold up the King
himself to contempt. They are determined to prove that there is no real
sovereignty in France but the sovereignty of their own parasitic
faineantise."
There was a faint splutter of applause, but the majority of the
audience remained silent, waiting.
"This is no new thing. Always has it been the same. No minister in the
last ten years, who, seeing the needs and perils of the State, counselled
the measures that we now demand as the only means of arresting our
motherland in its ever-quickening progress to the abyss, but found himself
as a consequence cast out of office by the influence which Privilege brought
to bear against him. Twice already has M. Necker been called to the
ministry, to be twice dismissed when his insistent counsels of reform
threatened the privileges of clergy and nobility. For the third time now has
he been called to office, and at last it seems we are to have States General
in spite of Privilege. But what the privileged orders can no longer prevent,
they are determined to stultify. Since it is now a settled thing that these
States General are to meet, at least the nobles and the clergy will see to
it - unless we take measures to prevent them - by packing the Third Estate
with their own creatures, and denying it all effective representation, that
they convert. the States General into an instrument of their own will for
the perpetuation of the abuses by which they live. To achieve this end they
will stop at nothing. They have flouted the authority of the King, and they
are silencing by assassination those who raise their voices to condemn them.
Yesterday in Rennes two young men who addressed the people as I am
addressing you were done to death in the streets by assassins at the
instigation of the nobility. Their blood cries out for vengeance."
Beginning in a sullen mutter, the indignation that moved his hearers
swelled up to express itself in a roar of anger.
"Citizens of Nantes, the motherland is in peril. Let us march to her
defence. Let us proclaim it to the world that we recognize that the measures
to liberate the Third Estate from the slavery in which for centuries it has
groaned find only obstacles in those orders whose phrenetic egotism sees in
the tears and suffering of the unfortunate an odious tribute which they
would pass on to their generations still unborn. Realizing from the
barbarity of the means employed by our enemies to perpetuate our oppression
that we have everything to fear from the aristocracy they would set up as a
constitutional principle for the governing of France, let us declare
ourselves at once enfranchised from it.
"The establishment of liberty and equality should be the aim of every
citizen member of the Third Estate; and to this end we should stand
indivisibly united, especially the young and vigorous, especially those who
have had the good fortune to be born late enough to be able to gather for
themselves the precious fruits of the philosophy of this eighteenth
century."
Acclamations broke out unstintedly now. He had caught them in the snare
of his oratory. And he pressed his advantage instantly.
"Let us all swear," he cried in a great voice, "to raise up in the name
of humanity and of liberty a rampart against our enemies, to oppose to their
bloodthirsty covetousness the calm perseverance of men whose cause is just.
And let us protest here and in advance against any tyrannical decrees that
should declare us seditious when we have none but pure and just intentions.
Let us make oath upon the honour of our motherland that should any of us be
seized by an unjust tribunal, intending against us one of those acts termed
of political expediency - which are, in effect, but acts of despotism - let
us swear, I say, to give a full expression to the strength that is in us and
do that in self-defence which nature, courage, and despair dictate to us."
Loud and long rolled the applause that greeted his conclusion, and he
observed with satisfaction and even some inward grim amusement that the
wealthy merchants who had been congregated upon the steps, and who now came
crowding about him to shake him by the hand and to acclaim him, were not
merely participants in, but the actual leaders of, this delirium of
enthusiasm.
It confirmed him, had he needed confirmation, in his conviction that
just as the philosophies upon which this new movement was based had their
source in thinkers extracted from the bourgeoisie, so the need to adopt
those philosophies to the practical purposes of life was most acutely felt
at present by those bourgeois who found themselves debarred by Privilege
from the expansion their wealth permitted them. If it might be said of
Andre-Louis that he had that day lighted the torch of the Revolution in
Nantes, it might with even greater truth be said that the torch itself was
supplied by the opulent bourgeoisie.
I need not dwell at any length upon the sequel. It is a matter of
history how that oath which Omnes Omnibus administered to the citizens of
Nantes formed the backbone of the formal protest which they drew up and
signed in their thousands. Nor were the results of that powerful protest -
which, after all, might already be said to harmonize with the expressed will
of the sovereign himself - long delayed. Who shall say how far it may have
strengthened the hand of Necker, when on the 27th of that same month of
November he compelled the Council to adopt the most significant and
comprehensive of all those measures to which clergy and nobility had refused
their consent? On that date was published the royal decree ordaining that
the deputies to be elected to the States General should number at least one
thousand, and that the deputies of the Third Estate should be fully
representative by numbering as many as the deputies of clergy and nobility
together.
Dusk of the following day was falling when the homing Andre-Louis
approached Gavrillac. Realizing fully what a hue and cry there would
presently be for the apostle of revolution who had summoned the people of
Nantes to arms, he desired as far as possible to conceal the fact that he
had been in that maritime city. Therefore he made a wide detour, crossing
the river at Bruz, and recrossing it a little above Chavagne, so as to
approach Gavrillac from the north, and create the impression that he was
returning from Rennes, whither he was known to have gone two days ago.
Within a mile or so of the village he caught in the fading light his
first glimpse of a figure on horseback pacing slowly towards him. But it was
not until they had come within a few yards of each other, and he observed
that this cloaked figure was leaning forward to peer at him, that he took
much notice of it. And then he found himself challenged almost at once by a
woman's voice.
"It is you, Andre - at last!"
He drew rein, mildly surprised, to be assailed by another question,
impatiently, anxiously asked.
"Where have you been?"
"Where have I been, Cousin Aline? Oh... seeing the world."
"I have been patrolling this road since noon to-day waiting for you."
She spoke breathlessly, in haste to explain. "A troop of the marechaussee
from Rennes descended upon Gavrillac this morning in quest of you. They
turned the chateau and the village inside out, and at last discovered that
you were due to return with a horse hired from the Breton arme. So they have
taken up their quarters at the inn to wait for you. I have been here all the
afternoon on the lookout to warn you against walking into that trap."
"My dear Aline! That I should have been the cause of so much concern
and trouble!"
"Never mind that. It is not important."
"On the contrary; it is the most important part of what you tell me. It
is the rest that is unimportant."
"Do you realize that they have come to arrest you?" she asked him, with
increasing impatience. "You are wanted for sedition, and upon a warrant from
M. de Lesdiguieres."
"Sedition?" quoth he, and his thoughts flew to that business at Nantes.
It was impossible they could have had news of it in Rennes and acted upon it
in so short a time.
"Yes, sedition. The sedition of that wicked speech of yours at Rennes
on Wednesday."
"Oh, that!" said he. "Pooh!" His note of relief might have told her,
had she been more attentive, that he had to fear the consequences of a
greater wickedness committed since. "Why, that was nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I almost suspect that the real intentions of these gentlemen of the
marechaussee have been misunderstood. Most probably they have come to thank
me on M. de Lesdiguieres' behalf. I restrained the people when they would
have burnt the Palais and himself inside it."
"After you had first incited them to do it. I suppose you were afraid
of your work. You drew back at the last moment. But you said things of M. de
Lesdiguieres, if you are correctly reported, which he will never forgive."
"I see," said Andre-Louis, and he fell into thought.
But Mlle. de Kercadiou had already done what thinking was necessary,
and her alert young mind had settled all that was to be done.
"You must not go into Gavrillac," she told him, "and you must get down
from your horse, and let me take it. I will stable it at the chateau
to-night. And sometime to morrow afternoon, by when you should be well away,
I will return it to the Breton arme."
"Oh, but that is impossible."
"Impossible? Why?"
"For several reasons. One of them is that you haven't considered what
will happen to you if you do such a thing."
"To me? Do you suppose I am afraid of that pack of oafs sent by M.
Lesdiguieres? I have committed no sedition."
"But it is almost as bad to give aid to one who is wanted for the
crime. That is the law."
"What do I care for the law? Do you imagine that the law will presume
to touch me?"
"Of course there is that. You are sheltered by one of the abuses I
complained of at Rennes. I was forgetting."
"Complain of it as much as you please, but meanwhile profit by it.
Come, Andre, do as I tell you. Get down from your horse." And then, as he
still hesitated, she stretched out and caught him by the arm. Her voice was
vibrant with earnestness. "Andre, you don't realize how serious is your
position. If these people take you, it is almost certain that you will be
hanged. Don't you realize it? You must not go to Gavrillac. You must go away
at once, and lie completely lost for a time until this blows over. Indeed,
until my uncle can bring influence to bear to obtain your pardon, you must
keep in hiding."
"That will be a long time, then," said Andre-Louis. M. de Kercadiou has
never cultivated friends at court."
"There is M. de La Tour d'Azyr," she reminded him, to his astonishment.
"That man!" he cried, and then he laughed. "But it was chiefly against
him that I aroused the resentment of the people of Rennes. I should have
known that all my speech was not reported to you.
"It was, and that part of it among the rest."
"Ah! And yet you are concerned to save me, the man who seeks the life
of your future husband at the hands either of the law or of the people? Or
is it, perhaps, that since you have seen his true nature revealed in the
murder of poor Philippe, you have changed your views on the subject of
becoming Marquise de La Tour d'Azyr?"
"You often show yourself without any faculty of deductive reasoning."
"Perhaps. But hardly to the extent of imagining that M. de La Tour
d'Azyr will ever lift a finger to do as you suggest."
"In which, as usual, you are wrong. He will certainly do so if I ask
him."
"If you ask him?" Sheer horror rang in his voice.
"Why, yes. You see, I have not yet said that I will be Marquise de La
Tour d'Azyr. I am still considering. It is a position that has its
advantages. One of them is that it ensures a suitor's complete obedience."
"So, so. I see the crooked logic of your mind. You might go so far as
to say to him: 'Refuse me this, and I shall refuse to be your marquise.' You
would go so far as that?"
"At need, I might."
"And do you not see the converse implication? Do you not see that your
hands would then be tied, that you would be wanting in honour if afterwards
you refused him? And do you think that I would consent to anything that
could so tie your hands? Do you think I want to see you damned, Aline?"
Her hand fell away from his arm.
"Oh, you are mad!" she exclaimed, quite out of patience.
"Possibly. But I like my madness. There is a thrill in it unknown to
such sanity as yours. By your leave, Aline, I think I will ride on to
Gavrillac."
"Andre, you must not! It is death to you!" In her alarm she backed her
horse, and pulled it across the road to bar his way.
It was almost completely night by now; but from behind the wrack of
clouds overhead a crescent moon sailed out to alleviate the darkness.
"Come, now," she enjoined him. "Be reasonable. Do as I bid you. See,
there is a carriage coming up behind you. Do not let us be found here
together thus."
He made up his mind quickly. He was not the man to be actuated by false
heroics about dying, and he had no fancy whatever for the gallows of M. de
Lesdiguieres' providing. The immediate task that he had set himself might be
accomplished. He had made heard - and ringingly - the voice that M. de La
Tour d'Azyr imagined he had silenced. But he was very far from having done
with life.
"Aline, on one condition only."
"And that?"
"That you swear to me you will never seek the aid of M. de La Tour
d'Azyr on my behalf."
"Since you insist, and as time presses, I consent. And now ride on with
me as far as the lane. There is that carriage coming up."
The lane to which she referred was one that branched off the road some
three hundred yards nearer the village and led straight up the hill to the
chateau itself. In silence they rode together towards it, and together they
turned into that thickly hedged and narrow bypath. At a depth of fifty yards
she halted him.
"Now!" she bade him.
Obediently he swung down from his horse, and surrendered the reins to
her.
"Aline," he said, "I haven't words in which to thank you."
"It isn't necessary," said she.
"But I shall hope to repay you some day."
"Nor is that necessary. Could I do less than I am doing? I do not want
to hear of you hanged, Andre; nor does my uncle, though he is very angry
with you.
"I suppose he is.
"And you can hardly be surprised. You were his delegate, his
representative. He depended upon you, and you have turned your coat. He is
rightly indignant, calls you a traitor, and swears that he will never speak
to you again. But he doesn't want you hanged, Andre."
"Then we are agreed on that at least, for I don't want it myself."
"I'll make your peace with him. And now - good-bye, Andre. Send me a
word when you are safe."
She held out a hand that looked ghostly in the faint light. He took it
and bore it to his lips.
"God bless you, Aline."
She was gone, and he stood listening to the receding clopper-clop of
hooves until it grew faint in the distance. Then slowly, with shoulders
hunched and head sunk on his breast, he retraced his steps to the main road,
cogitating whither he should go. Quite suddenly he checked, remembering with
dismay that he was almost entirely without money. In Brittany itself he knew
of no dependable hiding-place, and as long as he was in Brittany his peril
must remain imminent. Yet to leave the province, and to leave it as quickly
as prudence dictated, horses would be necessary. And how was he to procure
horses, having no money beyond a single louis d'or and a few pieces of
silver?
There was also the fact that he was very weary. He had had little sleep
since Tuesday night, and not very much then; and much of the time had been
spent in the saddle, a wearing thing to one so little accustomed to long
rides. Worn as he was, it was unthinkable that he should go far to-night. He
might get as far as Chavagne, perhaps. But there he must sup and sleep; and
what, then, of to-morrow?
Had he but thought of it before, perhaps Aline might have been able to
assist him with the loan of a few louis. His first impulse now was to follow
her to the chateau. But prudence dismissed the notion. Before he could reach
her, he must be seen by servants, and word of his presence would go forth.
There was no choice for him; he must tramp as far as Chavagne, find a
bed there, and leave to-morrow until it dawned. On the resolve he set his
face in the direction whence he had come. But again he paused. Chavagne lay
on the road to Rennes. To go that way was to plunge further into danger. He
would strike south again. At the foot of some meadows on this side of the
village there was a ferry that would put him across the river. Thus he would
avoid the village; and by placing the river between himself and the
immediate danger, he would obtain an added sense of security.
A lane, turning out of the highroad, a quarter of a mile this side of
Gavrillac, led down to that ferry. By this lane some twenty minutes later
came Andre-Louis with dragging feet. He avoided the little cottage of the
ferryman, whose window was alight, and in the dark crept down to the boat,
intending if possible to put himself across. He felt for the chain by which
the boat was moored, and ran his fingers along this to the point where it
was fastened. Here to his dismay he found a padlock.
He stood up in the gloom and laughed silently. Of course he might have
known it. The ferry was the property of M. de La Tour d'Azyr, and not likely
to be left unfastened so that poor devils might cheat him of seigneurial
dues.
There being no possible alternative, he walked back to the cottage, and
rapped on the door. When it opened, he stood well back, and aside, out of
the shaft of light that issued thence.
"Ferry!" he rapped out, laconically.
The ferryman, a burly scoundrel well known to him, turned aside to pick
up a lantern, and came forth as he was bidden. As he stepped from the little
porch, he levelled the lantern so that its light fell on the face of this
traveller.
"My God!" he ejaculated.
"You realize, I see, that I am pressed," said Andre-Louis, his eyes on
the fellow's startled countenance.
"And well you may be with the gallows waiting for you at Rennes,"
growled the ferryman. "Since you've been so foolish as to come back to
Gavrillac, you had better go again as quickly as you can. I will say nothing
of having seen you."
"I thank you, Fresnel. Your advice accords with my intention. That is
why I need the boat."
"Ah, that, no," said Fresnel, with determination. "I'll hold my peace,
but it's as much as my skin is worth to help you.
"You need not have seen my face. Forget that you have seen it."
"I'll do that, monsieur. But that is all I will do. I cannot put you
across the river."
"Then give me the key of the boat, and I will put myself across."
"That is the same thing. I cannot. I'll hold my tongue, but I will not
- I dare not - help you."
Andre-Louis looked a moment into that sullen, resolute face, and
understood. This man, living under the shadow of La Tour d'Azyr, dared
exercise no will that might he in conflict with the will of his dread lord.
"Fresnel," he said, quietly, "if, as you say, the gallows claim me, the
thing that has brought me to this extremity arises out of the shooting of
Mabey. Had not Mabey been murdered there would have been no need for me to
have raised my voice as I have done. Mabey was your friend, I think. Will
you for his sake lend me the little help I need to save my neck?"
The man kept his glance averted, and the cloud of sullenness deepened
on his face.
"I would if I dared, but I dare not." Then, quite suddenly he became
angry. It was as if in anger he sought support. "Don't you understand that I
dare not? Would you have a poor man risk his life for you? What have you or
yours ever done for me that you should ask that? You do not cross to-night
in my ferry. Understand that, monsieur, and go at once - go before I
remember that it may be dangerous even to have talked to you and not give
information. Go!"
He turned on his heel to reenter his cottage, and a wave of
hopelessness swept over Andre-Louis.
But in a second it was gone. The man must be compelled, and he had the
means. He bethought him of a pistol pressed upon him by Le Chapelier at the
moment of his leaving Rennes, a gift which at the time he had almost
disdained. True, it was not loaded, and he had no ammunition. But how was
Fresnel to know that?
He acted quickly. As with his right hand he pulled it from his pocket,
with his left he caught the ferryman by the shoulder, and swung him round.
"What do you want now?" Fresnel demanded angrily. "Haven't I told you
that I... "
He broke off short. The muzzle of the pistol was within a foot of his
eyes.
"I want the key of the boat. That is all, Fresnel. And you can either
give it me at once, or I'll take it after I have burnt your brains. I should
regret to kill you, but I shall not hesitate. It is your life against mine,
Fresnel; and you'll not find it strange that if one of us must die I prefer
that it shall be you."
Fresnel dipped a hand into his pocket, and fetched thence a key. He
held it out to Andre-Louis in fingers that shook - more in anger than in
fear.
"I yield to violence," he said, showing his teeth like a snarling dog.
"But don't imagine that it will greatly profit you."
Andre-Louis took the key. His pistol remained levelled.
"You threaten me, I think," he said. "It is not difficult to read your
threat. The moment I am gone, you will run to inform against me. You will
set the marechaussee on my heels to overtake me."
"No, no!" cried the other. He perceived his peril. He read his doom in
the cold, sinister note on which Andre-Louis addressed him, and grew afraid.
"I swear to you, monsieur, that I have no such intention."
"I think I had better make quite sure of you."
"0 my God! Have mercy, monsieur!" The knave was in a palsy of terror.
"I mean you no harm - I swear to Heaven I mean you no harm. I will not say a
word. I will not... "
"I would rather depend upon your silence than your assurances. Still,
you shall have your chance. I am a fool, perhaps, but I have a reluctance to
shed blood. Go into the house, Fresnel. Go, man. I follow you."
In the shabby main room of that dwelling, Andre-Louis halted him again.
"Get me a length of rope," he commanded, and was readily obeyed.
Five minutes later Fresnel was securely bound to a chair, and
effectively silenced by a very uncomfortable gag improvised out of a block
of wood and a muffler.
On the threshold the departing Andre-Louis turned.
"Good-night, Fresnel," he said. Fierce eyes glared mute hatred at him.
"It is unlikely that your ferry will be required again to-night. But some
one is sure to come to your relief quite early in the morning. Until then
bear your discomfort with what fortitude you can, remembering that you have
brought it entirely upon yourself by your uncharitableness. If you spend the
night considering that, the lesson should not be lost upon you. By morning
you may even have grown so charitable as not to know who it was that tied
you up. Good-night."
He stepped out and closed the door.
To unlock the ferry, and pull himself across the swift-running waters,
on which the faint moonlight was making a silver ripple, were matters that
engaged not more than six or seven minutes. He drove the nose of the boat
through the decaying sedges that fringed the southern bank of the stream,
sprang ashore, and made the little craft secure. Then, missing the footpath
in the dark, he struck out across a sodden meadow in quest of the road.
Coming presently upon the Redon road, Andre-Louis, obeying instinct
rather than reason, turned his face to the south, and plodded wearily and
mechanically forward. He had no clear idea of whither he was going, or of
whither he should go. All that imported at the moment was to put as great a
distance as possible between Gavrillac and himself.
He had a vague, half-formed notion of returning to Nantes; and there,
by employing the newly found weapon of his oratory, excite the people into
sheltering him as the first victim of the persecution he had foreseen, and
against which he had sworn them to take up arms. But the idea was one which
he entertained merely as an indefinite possibility upon which he felt no
real impulse to act.
Meanwhile he chuckled at the thought of Fresnel as he had last seen
him, with his muffled face and glaring eyeballs. "For one who was anything
but a man of action," he writes, "I felt that I had acquitted myself none so
badly." It is a phrase that recurs at intervals in his sketchy
"Confessions." Constantly is he reminding you that he is a man of mental and
not physical activities, and apologizing when dire neccessity drives him
into acts of violence. I suspect this insistence upon his philosophic
detachment - for which I confess he had justification enough - to betray his
besetting vanity.
With increasing fatigue came depression and self-criticism. He had
stupidly overshot his mark in insultingly denouncing M. de Lesdiguieres. "It
is much better," he says somewhere, "to be wicked than to be stupid. Most of
this world's misery is the fruit not as priests tell us of wickedness, but
of stupidity." And we know that of all stupidities he considered anger the
most deplorable. Yet he had permitted himself to be angry with a creature
like M. de Lesdiguieres - a lackey, a fribble, a nothing, despite his
potentialities for evil. He could perfectly have discharged his self-imposed
mission without arousing the vindictive resentment of the King's Lieutenant.
He beheld himself vaguely launched upon life with the riding-suit in
which he stood, a single louis d'or and a few pieces of silver for all
capital, and a knowledge of law which had been inadequate to preserve him
from the consequences of infringing it.
He had, in addition - but these things that were to be the real
salvation of him he did not reckon - his gift of laughter, sadly repressed
of late, and the philosophic outlook and mercurial temperament which are the
stock-in-trade of your adventurer in all ages.
Meanwhile he tramped mechanically on through the night, until he felt
that he could tramp no more. He had skirted the little township of Guichen,
and now within a half-mile of Guignen, and with Gavrillac a good seven miles
behind him, his legs refused to carry him any farther.
He was midway across the vast common to the north of Guignen when he
came to a halt. He had left the road, and taken heedlessly to the footpath
that struck across the waste of indifferent pasture interspersed with clumps
of gorse. A stone's throw away on his right the common was bordered by a
thorn hedge. Beyond this loomed a tall building which he knew to be an open
barn, standing on the edge of a long stretch of meadowland. That dark,
silent shadow it may have been that had brought him to a standstill,
suggesting shelter to his subconsciousness. A moment he hesitated; then he
struck across towards a spot where a gap in the hedge was closed by a
five-barred gate. He pushed the gate open, went through the gap, and stood
now before the barn. It was as big as a house, yet consisted of no more than
a roof carried upon half a dozen tall, brick pillars. But densely packed
under that roof was a great stack of hay that promised a warm couch on so
cold a night. Stout timbers had been built into the brick pillars, with
projecting ends to serve as ladders by which the labourer might climb to
pack or withdraw hay. With what little strength remained him, Andre-Louis
climbed by one of these and landed safely at the top, where he was forced to
kneel, for lack of room to stand upright. Arrived there, he removed his coat
and neckcloth, his sodden boots and stockings. Next he cleared a trough for
his body, and lying down in it, covered himself to the neck with the hay he
had removed. Within five minutes he was lost to all worldly cares and
soundly asleep.
When next he awakened, the sun was already high in the heavens, from
which he concluded that the morning was well advanced; and this before he
realized quite where he was or how he came there. Then to his awakening
senses came a drone of voices close at hand, to which at first he paid
little heed. He was deliciously refreshed, luxuriously drowsy and
luxuriously warm.
But as consciousness and memory grew more full, he raised his head
clear of the hay that he might free both ears to listen, his pulses faintly
quickened by the nascent fear that those voices might bode him no good. Then
he caught the reassuring accents of a woman, musical and silvery, though
laden with alarm.
"Ah, mon Dieu, Leandre, let us separate at once. If it should be my
father... "
And upon this a man's voice broke in, calm and reassuring:
"No, no, Climene; you are mistaken. There is no one coming. We are
quite safe. Why do you start at shadows?"
"Ah, Leandre, if he should find us here together! I tremble at the very
thought."
More was not needed to reassure Andre-Louis. He had overheard enough to
know that this was but the case of a pair of lovers who, with less to fear
of life, were yet - after the manner of their kind - more timid of heart
than he. Curiosity drew him from his warm trough to the edge of the hay.
Lying prone, he advanced his head and peered down.
In the space of cropped meadow between the barn and the hedge stood a
man and a woman, both young. The man was a well-set-up, comely fellow, with
a fine head of chestnut hair tied in a queue by a broad bow of black satin.
He was dressed with certain tawdry attempts at ostentatious embellishments,
which did not prepossess one at first glance in his favour. His coat of a
fashionable cut was of faded plum-coloured velvet edged with silver lace,
whose glory had long since departed. He affected ruffles, but for want of
starch they hung like weeping willows over hands that were fine and
delicate. His breeches were of plain black cloth, and his black stockings
were of cotton - matters entirely out of harmony with his magnificent coat.
His shoes, stout and serviceable, were decked with buckles of cheap,
lack-lustre paste. But for his engaging and ingenuous countenance,
Andre-Louis must have set him down as a knight of that order which lives
dishonestly by its wits. As it was, he suspended judgment whilst pushing
investigation further by a study of the girl. At the outset, be it confessed
that it was a study that attracted him prodigiously. And this
notwithstanding the fact that, bookish and studious as were his ways, and in
despite of his years, it was far from his habit to waste consideration on
femininity.
The child - she was no more than that, perhaps twenty at the most
- possessed, in addition to the allurements of face and shape that went
very near perfection, a sparkling vivacity and a grace of movement the like
of which Andre-Louis did not remember ever before to have beheld assembled
in one person. And her voice too - that musical, silvery voice that had
awakened him - possessed in its exquisite modulations an allurement of its
own that must have been irresistible, he thought, in the ugliest of her sex.
She wore a hooded mantle of green cloth, and the hood being thrown back, her
dainty head was all revealed to him. There were glints of gold struck by the
morning sun from her light nut-brown hair that hung in a cluster of curls
about her oval face. Her complexion was of a delicacy that he could compare
only with a rose petal. He could not at that distance discern the colour of
her eyes, but he guessed them blue, as he admired the sparkle of them under
the fine, dark line of eyebrows.
He could not have told you why, but he was conscious that it aggrieved
him to find her so intimate with this pretty young fellow, who was partly
clad, as it appeared, in the cast-offs of a nobleman. He could not guess her
station, but the speech that reached him was cultured in tone and word. He
strained to listen.
"I shall know no peace, Leandre, until we are safely wedded," she was
saying. "Not until then shall I count myself beyond his reach. And yet if we
marry without his consent, we but make trouble for ourselves, and of gaining
his consent I almost despair."
Evidently, thought Andre-Louis, her father was a man of sense, who saw
through the shabby finery of M. Leandre, and was not to be dazzled by cheap
paste buckles.
"My dear Climene," the young man was answering her, standing squarely
before her, and holding both her hands, "you are wrong to despond. If I do
not reveal to you all the stratagem that I have prepared to win the consent
of your unnatural parent, it is because I am loath to rob you of the
pleasure of the surprise that is in store. But place your faith in me, and
in that ingenious friend of whom I have spoken, and who should be here at
any moment."
The stilted ass! Had he learnt that speech by heart in advance, or was
he by nature a pedantic idiot who expressed himself in this set and formal
manner? How came so sweet a blossom to waste her perfumes on such a prig?
And what a ridiculous name the creature owned!
Thus Andre-Louis to himself from his observatory. Meanwhile, she was
speaking.
"That is what my heart desires, Leandre, but I am beset by fears lest
your stratagem should be too late. I am to marry this horrible Marquis of
Sbrufadelli this very day. He arrives by noon. He comes to sign the contract
- to make me the Marchioness of Sbrufadelli. Oh!" It was a cry of pain from
that tender young heart. "The very name burns my lips. If it were mine I
could never utter it - never! The man is so detestable. Save me, Leandre.
Save me! You are my only hope."
Andre-Louis was conscious of a pang of disappointment. She failed to
soar to the heights he had expected of her. She was evidently infected by
the stilted manner of her ridiculous lover. There was an atrocious lack of
sincerity about her words. They touched his mind, but left his heart
unmoved. Perhaps this was because of his antipathy to M. Leandre and to the
issue involved.
So her father was marrying her to a marquis! That implied birth on her
side. And yet she was content to pair off with this dull young adventurer in
the tarnished lace! It was, he supposed, the sort of thing to be expected of
a sex that all philosophy had taught him to regard as the maddest part of a
mad species.
"It shall never be!" M. Leandre was storming passionately. "Never! I
swear it!" And he shook his puny fist at the blue vault of heaven
- Ajax defying Jupiter. "Ah, but here comes our subtle friend... "
(Andre-Louis did not catch the name, M. Leandre having at that moment turned
to face the gap in the hedge.) "He will bring us news, I know."
Andre-Louis looked also in the direction of the gap. Through it emerged
a lean, slight man in a rusty cloak and a three-cornered hat worn well down
over his nose so as to shade his face. And when presently he doffed this hat
and made a sweeping bow to the young lovers, Andre-Louis confessed to
himself that had he been cursed with such a hangdog countenance he would
have worn his hat in precisely such a manner, so as to conceal as much of it
as possible. If M. Leandre appeared to be wearing, in part at least, the
cast-offs of nobleman, the newcomer appeared to be wearing the cast-offs of
M. Leandre. Yet despite his vile clothes and viler face, with its three
days' growth of beard, the fellow carried himself with a certain air; he
positively strutted as he advanced, and he made a leg in a manner that was
courtly and practised.
"Monsieur," said he, with the air of a conspirator, "the time for
action has arrived, and so has the Marquis... That is why."
The young lovers sprang apart in consternation; Climene with clasped
hands, parted lips, and a bosom that raced distractingly under its white
fichu-menteur; M. Leandre agape, the very picture of foolishness and dismay.
Meanwhile the newcomer rattled on. "I was at the inn an hour ago when
he descended there, and I studied him attentively whilst he was at
breakfast. Having done so, not a single doubt remains me of our success. As
for what he looks like, I could entertain you at length upon the fashion in
which nature has designed his gross fatuity. But that is no matter. We are
concerned with what he is, with the wit of him. And I tell you confidently
that I find him so dull and stupid that you may be confident he will tumble
headlong into each and all of the traps I have so cunningly prepared for
him."
"Tell me, tell me! Speak!" Climene implored him, holding out her hands
in a supplication no man of sensibility could have resisted. And then on the
instant she caught her breath on a faint scream. "My father!" she exclaimed,
turning distractedly from one to the other of those two. "He is coming! We
are lost!"
"You must fly, Climene!" said M. Leandre.
"Too late!" she sobbed. "Too late! He is here."
"Calm, mademoiselle, calm!" the subtle friend was urging her. "Keep
calm and trust to me. I promise you that all shall be well."
"Oh!" cried M. Leandre, limply. "Say what you will, my friend, this is
ruin - the end of all our hopes. Your wits will never extricate us from
this. Never!"
Through the gap strode now an enormous man with an inflamed moon face
and a great nose, decently dressed after the fashion of a solid bourgeois.
There was no mistaking his anger, but the expression that it found was an
amazement to Andre-Louis.
"Leandre, you're an imbecile! Too much phlegm, too much phlegm! Your
words wouldn't convince a ploughboy! Have you considered what they mean at
all? Thus," he cried, and casting his round hat from him in a broad gesture,
he took his stand at M. Leandre's side, and repeated the very words that
Leandre had lately uttered, what time the three observed him coolly and
attentively.
"Oh, say what you will, my friend, this is ruin - the end of all our
hopes. Your wits will never extricate us from this. Never!"
A frenzy of despair vibrated in his accents. He swung again to face M.
Leandre. "Thus," he bade him contemptuously. "Let the passion of your
hopelessness express itself in your voice. Consider that you are not asking
Scaramouche here whether he has put a patch in your breeches. You are a
despairing lover expressing... "
He checked abruptly, startled. Andre-Louis, suddenly realizing what was
afoot, and how duped he had been, had loosed his laughter. The sound of it
pealing and booming uncannily under the great roof that so immediately
confined him was startling to those below.
The fat man was the first to recover, and he announced it after his own
fashion in one of the ready sarcasms in which he habitually dealt.
"Hark!" he cried, "the very gods laugh at you, Leandre." Then he
addressed the roof of the barn and its invisible tenant. "Hi! You there!"
Andre-Louis revealed himself by a further protrusion of his tousled
head.
"Good-morning," said he, pleasantly. Rising now on his knees, his
horizon was suddenly extended to include the broad common beyond the hedge.
He beheld there an enormous and very battered travelling chaise, a cart
piled up with timbers partly visible under the sheet of oiled canvas that
covered them, and a sort of house on wheels equipped with a tin chimney,
from which the smoke was slowly curling. Three heavy Flemish horses and a
couple of donkeys - all of them hobbled - were contentedly cropping the
grass in the neighbourhood of these vehicles. These, had he perceived them
sooner, must have given him the clue to the queer scene that had been played
under his eyes. Beyond the hedge other figures were moving. Three at that
moment came crowding into the gap - a saucy-faced girl with a tip-tilted
nose, whom he supposed to be Columbine, the soubrette; a lean, active
youngster, who must be the lackey Harlequin;, and another rather loutish
youth who might be a zany or an apothecary.
All this he took in at a comprehensive glance that consumed no more
time than it had taken him to say good-morning. To that good-morning
Pantaloon replied in a bellow:
"What the devil are you doing up there?"
"Precisely the same thing that you are doing down there," was the
answer. "I am trespassing."
"Eh?" said Pantaloon, and looked at his companions, some of the
assurance beaten out of his big red face. Although the thing was one that
they did habitually, to hear it called by its proper name was disconcerting.
"Whose land is this?" he asked, with diminishing assurance.
Andre-Louis answered, whilst drawing on his stockings. "I believe it to
be the property of the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr."
"That's a high-sounding name. Is the gentleman severe?"
"The gentleman," said Andre-Louis, "is the devil; or rather, I should
prefer to say upon reflection, that the devil is a gentleman by comparison.
"And yet," interposed the villainous-looking fellow who played
Scaramouche, "by your own confessing you don't hesitate, yourself, to
trespass upon his property."
"Ah, but then, you see, I am a lawyer. And lawyers are notoriously
unable to observe the law, just as actors are notoriously unable to act.
Moreover, sir, Nature imposes her limits upon us, and Nature conquers
respect for law as she conquers all else. Nature conquered me last night
when I had got as far as this. And so I slept here without regard for the
very high and puissant Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr. At the same time, M.
Scaramouche, you'll observe that I did not flaunt my trespass quite as
openly as you and your companions.
Having donned his boots, Andre-Louis came nimbly to the ground in his
shirt-sleeves, his riding-coat over his arm. As he stood there to don it,
the little cunning eyes of the heavy father conned him in detail. Observing
that his clothes, if plain, were of a good fashion, that his shirt was of
fine cambric, and that he expressed himself like a man of culture, such as
he claimed to be, M. Pantaloon was disposed to be civil.
"I am very grateful to you for the warning, sir... " he was beginning.
"Act upon it, my friend. The gardes-champetres of M. d'Azyr have orders
to fire on trespassers. Imitate me, and decamp."
They followed him upon the instant through that gap in the hedge to the
encampment on the common. There Andre-Louis took his leave of them. But as
he was turning away he perceived a young man of the company performing his
morning toilet at a bucket placed upon one of the wooden steps at the tail
of the house on wheels. A moment he hesitated, then he turned frankly to M.
Pantaloon, who was still at his elbow.
"If it were not unconscionable to encroach so far upon your
hospitality, monsieur," said he, "I would beg leave to imitate that very
excellent young gentleman before I leave you."
"But, my dear sir!" Good-nature oozed out of every pore of the fat body
of the master player. "It is nothing at all. But, by all means. Rhodomont
will provide what you require. He is the dandy of the company in real life,
though a fire-eater on the stage. Hi, Rhodomont!"
The young ablutionist straightened his long body from the right angle
in which it had been bent over the bucket, and looked out through a foam of
soapsuds. Pantaloon issued an order, and Rhodomont, who was indeed as gentle
and amiable off the stage as he was formidable and terrible upon it, made
the stranger free of the bucket in the friendliest manner.
So Andre-Louis once more removed his neckcloth and his coat, and rolled
up the sleeves of his fine shirt, whilst Rhodomont procured him soap, a
towel, and presently a broken comb, and even a greasy hair-ribbon, in case
the gentleman should have lost his own. This last Andre-Louis declined, but
the comb he gratefully accepted, and having presently washed himself clean,
stood, with the towel flung over his left shoulder, restoring order to his
dishevelled locks before a broken piece of mirror affixed to the door of the
travelling house.
He was standing thus, what time the gentle Rhodomont babbled aimlessly
at his side when his ears caught the sound of hooves. He looked over his
shoulder carelessly, and then stood frozen, with uplifted comb and loosened
mouth. Away across the common, on the road that bordered it, he beheld a
party of seven horsemen in the blue coats with red facings of the
marechaussee.
Not for a moment did he doubt what was the quarry of this prowling
gendarmerie. It was as if the chill shadow of the gallows had fallen
suddenly upon him.
And then the troop halted, abreast with them, and the sergeant leading
it sent his bawling voice across the common.
"Hi, there! Hi!" His tone rang with menace.
Every member of the company - and there were some twelve in all
- stood at gaze. Pantaloon advanced a step or two, stalking, his head
thrown back, his manner that of a King's Lieutenant.
"Now, what the devil's this?" quoth he, but whether of Fate or Heaven
or the sergeant, was not clear.
There was a brief colloquy among the horsemen, then they came trotting
across the common straight towards the players' encampment.
Andre-Louis had remained standing at the tail of the travelling house.
He was still passing the comb through his straggling hair, but mechanically
and unconsciously. His mind was all intent upon the advancing troop, his
wits alert and gathered together for a leap in whatever direction should be
indicated.
Still in the distance, but evidently impatient, the sergeant bawled a
question.
"Who gave you leave to encamp here?"
It was a question that reassured Andre-Louis not at all. He was not
deceived by it into supposing or even hoping that the business of these men
was merely to round up vagrants and trespassers. That was no part of their
real duty; it was something done in passing
- done, perhaps, in the hope of levying a tax of their own. It was very
long odds that they were from Rennes, and that their real business was the
hunting down of a young lawyer charged with sedition. Meanwhile Pantaloon
was shouting back.
"Who gave us leave, do you say? What leave? This is communal land, free
to all."
The sergeant laughed unpleasantly, and came on, his troop following.
"There is," said a voice at Pantaloon's elbow, "no such thing as
communal land in the proper sense in all M. de La Tour d'Azyr's vast domain.
This is a terre censive, and his bailiffs collect his dues from all who send
their beasts to graze here."
Pantaloon turned to behold at his side Andre-Louis in his
shirt-sleeves, and without a neckcloth, the towel still trailing over his
left shoulder, a comb in his hand, his hair half dressed.
"God of God!" swore Pantaloon. "But it is an ogre, this Marquis de La
Tour d'Azyr!"
"I have told you already what I think of him," said Andre-Louis. "As
for these fellows you had better let me deal with them. I have experience of
their kind." And without waiting for Pantaloon's consent, Andre-Louis
stepped forward to meet the advancing men of the marechaussee. He had
realized that here boldness alone could save him.
When a moment later the sergeant pulled up his horse alongside of this
half-dressed young man, Andre-Louis combed his hair what time he looked up
with a half smile, intended to be friendly, ingenuous, and disarming.
In spite of it the sergeant hailed him gruffly: "Are you the leader of
this troop of vagabonds?"
"Yes... that is to say, my father, there, is really the leader." And he
jerked a thumb in the direction of M. Pantaloon, who stood at gaze out of
earshot in the background. "What is your pleasure, captain?"
"My pleasure is to tell you that you are very likely to be gaoled for
this, all the pack of you." His voice was loud and bullying. It carried
across the common to the ears of every member of the company, and brought
them all to stricken attention where they stood. The lot of strolling
players was hard enough without the addition of gaolings.
"But how so, my captain? This is communal land free to all."
"It is nothing of the kind."
"Where are the fences?" quoth Andre-Louis, waving the hand that held
the comb, as if to indicate the openness of the place.
"Fences!" snorted the sergeant. "What have fences to do with the
matter? This is terre censive. There is no grazing here save by payment of
dues to the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr."
"But we are not grazing," quoth the innocent Andre-Louis.
"To the devil with you, zany! You are not grazing! But your beasts are
grazing!"
"They eat so little," Andre-Louis apologized, and again essayed his
ingratiating smile.
The sergeant grew more terrible than ever. "That is not the point. The
point is that you are committing what amounts to a theft, and there's the
gaol for thieves."
"Technically, I suppose you are right," sighed Andre-Louis, and fell to
combing his hair again, still looking up into the sergeant's face. "But we
have sinned in ignorance. We are grateful to you for the warning." He passed
the comb into his left hand, and with his right fumbled in his breeches'
pocket, whence there came a faint jingle of coins. "We are desolated to have
brought you out of your way. Perhaps for their trouble your men would honour
us by stopping at the next inn to drink the health of... of this M. de La
Tour d' Azyr, or any other health that they think proper.
Some of the clouds lifted from the sergeant's brow. But not yet all.
"Well, well," said he, gruffly. "But you must decamp, you understand."
He leaned from the saddle to bring his recipient hand to a convenient
distance. Andre-Louis placed in it a three-livre piece.
"In half an hour," said Andre-Louis.
"Why in half an hour? Why not at once?"
"Oh, but time to break our fast."
They looked at each other. The sergeant next considered the broad piece
of silver in his palm. Then at last his features relaxed from their
sternness.
"After all," said he, "it is none of our business to play the tipstaves
for M. de La Tour d'Azyr. We are of the marechaussee from Rennes."
Andre-Louis' eyelids played him false by flickering. "But if you linger,
look out for the gardes-champetres of the Marquis. You'll find them not at
all accommodating. Well, well
- a good appetite to you, monsieur," said he, in valediction.
"A pleasant ride, my captain," answered Andre-Louis.
The sergeant wheeled his horse about, his troop wheeled with him. They
were starting off, when he reined up again.
"You, monsieur!" he called over his shoulder. In a bound Andre-Louis
was beside his stirrup. "We are in quest of a scoundrel named Andre-Louis
Moreau, from Gavrillac, a fugitive from justice wanted for the gallows on a
matter of sedition. You've seen nothing, I suppose, of a man whose movements
seemed to you suspicious?"
"Indeed, we have," said Andre-Louis, very boldly, his face eager with
consciousness of the ability to oblige.
"You have?" cried the sergeant, in a ringing voice. "Where? When?"
"Yesterday evening in the neighbourhood of Guignen... "
"Yes, yes," the sergeant felt himself hot upon the trail.
"There was a fellow who seemed very fearful of being recognized ... a
man of fifty or thereabouts... "
"Fifty!" cried the sergeant, and his face fell. "Bah! This man of ours
is no older than yourself, a thin wisp of a fellow of about your own height
and of black hair, just like your own, by the description. Keep a lookout on
your travels, master player. The King's Lieutenant in Rennes has sent us
word this morning that he will pay ten louis to any one giving information
that will lead to this scoundrel's arrest. So there 's ten louis to be
earned by keeping your eyes open, and sending word to the nearest justices.
It would be a fine windfall for you, that."
"A fine windfall, indeed, captain," answered Andre-Louis, laughing.
But the sergeant had touched his horse with the spur, and was already
trotting off in the wake of his men. Andre-Louis continued to laugh, quite
silently, as he sometimes did when the humour of a jest was peculiarly keen.
Then he turned slowly about, and came back towards Pantaloon and the
rest of the company, who were now all grouped together, at gaze.
Pantaloon advanced to meet him with both hands out-held. For a moment
Andre-Louis thought he was about to be embraced.
"We hail you our saviour!" the big man declaimed. "Already the shadow
of the gaol was creeping over us, chilling us to the very marrow. For though
we be poor, yet are we all honest folk and not one of us has ever suffered
the indignity of prison. Nor is there one of us would survive it. But for
you, my friend, it might have happened. What magic did you work?"
"The magic that is to be worked in France with a King's portrait. The
French are a very loyal nation, as you will have observed. They love their
King - and his portrait even better than himself, especially when it is
wrought in gold. But even in silver it is respected. The sergeant was so
overcome by the sight of that noble visage - on a three-livre piece - that
his anger vanished, and he has gone his ways leaving us to depart in peace."
"Ah, true! He said we must decamp. About it, my lads! Come, come... "
"But not until after breakfast," said Andre-Louis. "A half-hour for
breakfast was conceded us by that loyal fellow, so deeply was he touched.
True, he spoke of possible gardes-champetres. But he knows as well as I do
that they are not seriously to be feared, and that if they came, again the
King's portrait - wrought in copper this time - would produce the same
melting effect upon them. So, my dear M. Pantaloon, break your fast at your
ease. I can smell your cooking from here, and from the smell I argue that
there is no need to wish you a good appetite."
"My friend, my saviour!" Pantaloon flung a great arm about the young
man's shoulders. "You shall stay to breakfast with us."
"I confess to a hope that you would ask me," said Andre-Louis.
They were, thought Andre-Louis, as he sat down to breakfast with them
behind the itinerant house, in the bright sunshine that tempered the cold
breath of that November morning, an odd and yet an attractive crew. An air
of gaiety pervaded them. They affected to have no cares, and made merry over
the trials and tribulations of their nomadic life. They were curiously, yet
amiably, artificial; histrionic in their manner of discharging the most
commonplace of functions; exaggerated in their gestures; stilted and
affected in their speech. They seemed, indeed, to belong to a world apart, a
world of unreality which became real only on the planks of their stage, in
the glare of their footlights. Good-fellowship bound them one to another;
and Andre-Louis reflected cynically that this harmony amongst them might be
the cause of their apparent unreality. In the real world, greedy striving
and the emulation of acquisitiveness preclude such amity as was present
here.
They numbered exactly eleven, three women and eight men; and they
addressed each other by their stage names: names which denoted their several
types, and never - or only very slightly - varied, no matter what might be
the play that they performed.
"We are," Pantaloon informed him, "one of those few remaining staunch
bands of real players, who uphold the traditions of the old Italian Commedia
dell' Arte. Not for us to vex our memories and stultify our wit with the
stilted phrases that are the fruit of a wretched author's lucubrations. Each
of us is in detail his own author in a measure as he develops the part
assigned to him. We are improvisers - improvisers of the old and noble
Italian school."
"I had guessed as much," said Andre-Louis, "when I discovered you
rehearsing your improvisations."
Pantaloon frowned.
"I have observed, young sir, that your humour inclines to the pungent,
not to say the acrid. It is very well. It is I suppose, the humour that
should go with such a countenance. But it may lead you astray, as in this
instance. That rehearsal - a most unusual thing with us - was necessitated
by the histrionic rawness of our Leandre. We are seeking to inculcate into
him by training an art with which Nature neglected to endow him against his
present needs. Should he continue to fail in doing justice to our
schooling... But we will not disturb our present harmony with the unpleasant
anticipation of misfortunes which we still hope to avert. We love our
Leandre, for all his faults. Let me make you acquainted with our company.
And he proceeded to introduction in detail. He pointed out the long and
amiable Rhodomont, whom Andre-Louis already knew.
"His length of limb and hooked nose were his superficial qualifications
to play roaring captains," Pantaloon explained. "His lungs have justified
our choice. You should hear him roar. At first we called him Spavento or
Epouvapte. But that was unworthy of so great an artist. Not since the superb
Mondor amazed the world has so thrasonical a bully been seen upon the stage.
So we conferred upon him the name of Rhodomont that Mondor made famous; and
I give you my word, as an actor and a gentleman - for I am a gentleman,
monsieur, or was - that he has justified us."
His little eyes beamed in his great swollen face as he turned their
gaze upon the object of his encomium. The terrible Rhodomont, confused by so
much praise, blushed like a schoolgirl as he met the solemn scrutiny of
Andre-Louis.
"Then here we have Scaramouche, whom also you already know. Sometimes
he is Scapin and sometimes Coviello, but in the main Scaramouche, to which
let me tell you he is best suited - sometimes too well suited, I think. For
he is Scaramouche not only on the stage, but also in the world. He has a
gift of sly intrigue, an art of setting folk by the ears, combined with an
impudent aggressiveness upon occasion when he considers himself safe from
reprisals. He is Scaramouche, the little skirmisher, to the very life. I
could say more. But I am by disposition charitable and loving to all
mankind."
"As the priest said when he kissed the serving-wench," snarled
Scaramouche, and went on eating.
"His humour, like your own, you will observe, is acrid," said
Pantaloon. He passed on. "Then that rascal with the lumpy nose and the
grinning bucolic countenance is, of course, Pierrot. Could he be aught
else?"
"I could play lovers a deal better," said the rustic cherub.
"That is the delusion proper to Pierrot," said Pantaloon,
contemptuously. "This heavy, beetle-browed ruffian, who has grown old in
sin, and whose appetite increases with his years, is Polichinelle. Each one,
as you perceive, is designed by Nature for the part he plays. This nimble,
freckled jackanapes is Harlequin; not your spangled Harlequin into which
modern degeneracy has debased that first-born of Momus, but the genuine
original zany of the Commedia, ragged and patched, an impudent, cowardly,
blackguardly clown."
"Each one of us, as you perceive," said Harlequin, mimicking the leader
of the troupe, "is designed by Nature for the part he plays."
"Physically, my friend, physically only, else we should not have so
much trouble in teaching this beautiful Leandre to become a lover. Then we
have Pasquariel here, who is sometimes an apothecary, sometimes a notary,
sometimes a lackey - an amiable, accommodating fellow. He is also an
excellent cook, being a child of Italy, that land of gluttons. And finally,
you have myself, who as the father of the company very properly play as
Pantaloon the roles of father. Sometimes, it is true, I am a deluded
husband, and sometimes an ignorant, self-sufficient doctor. But it is rarely
that I find it necessary to call myself other than Pantaloon. For the rest,
I am the only one who has a name - a real name. It is Binet, monsieur.
"And now for the ladies... First in order of seniority we have Madame
there." He waved one of his great hands towards a buxom, smiling blonde of
five-and-forty, who was seated on the lowest of the steps of the travelling
house. "She is our Duegne, or Mother, or Nurse, as the case requires. She is
known quite simply and royally as Madame. If she ever had a name in the
world, she has long since forgotten it, which is perhaps as well. Then we
have this pert jade with the tip-tilted nose and the wide mouth, who is of
course our soubrette Columbine, and lastly, my daughter Climene, an
amoureuse of talents not to be matched outside the Comedie Francaise, of
which she has the bad taste to aspire to become a member."
The lovely Climene - and lovely indeed she was - tossed her nut-brown
curls and laughed as she looked across at Andre-Louis. Her eyes, he had
perceived by now, were not blue, but hazel.
"Do not believe him, monsieur. Here I am queen, and I prefer to be
queen here rather than a slave in Paris."
"Mademoiselle," said Andre-Louis, quite solemnly, "will be queen
wherever she condescends to reign."
Her only answer was a timid - timid and yet alluring - glance from
under fluttering lids. Meanwhile her father was bawling at the comely young
man who played lovers - "You hear, Leandre! That is the sort of speech you
should practise."
Leandre raised languid eyebrows. "That?" quoth he, and shrugged. "The
merest commonplace."
Andre-Louis laughed approval. "M. Leandre is of a readier wit than you
concede. There is subtlety in pronouncing it a commonplace to call Mlle.
Climene a queen.
Some laughed, M. Binet amongst them, with good-humoured mockery.
"You think he has the wit to mean it thus? Bah! His subtleties are all
unconscious."
The conversation becoming general, Andre-Louis soon learnt what yet
there was to learn of this strolling band. They were on their way to
Guichen, where they hoped to prosper at the fair that was to open on Monday
next. They would make their triumphal entry into the town at noon, and
setting up their stage in the old market, they would give their first
performance that same Saturday night, in a new canevas - or scenario - of M.
Binet's own, which should set the rustics gaping. And then M. Binet fetched
a sigh, and addressed himself to the elderly, swarthy, beetle-browed
Polichinelle, who sat on his left.
"But we shall miss Felicien," said he. "Indeed, I do not know what we
shall do without him."
"Oh, we shall contrive," said Polichinelle, with his mouth full.
"So you always say, whatever happens, knowing that in any case the
contriving will not fall upon yourself."
"He should not be difficult to replace," said Harlequin.
"True, if we were in a civilized land. But where among the rustics of
Brittany are we to find a fellow of even his poor parts?" M. Binet turned to
Andre-Louis. "He was our property-man, our machinist, our stage-carpenter,
our man of affairs, and occasionally he acted."
"The part of Figaro, I presume," said Andre-Louis, which elicited a
laugh.
"So you are acquainted with Beaumarchais!" Binet eyed the young man
with fresh interest.
"He is tolerably well known, I think."
"In Paris, to be sure. But I had not dreamt his fame had reached the
wilds of Brittany."
"But then I was some years in Paris - at the Lycee of Louis le Grand.
It was there I made acquaintance with his work."
"A dangerous man," said Polichinelle, sententiously.
"Indeed, and you are right," Pantaloon agreed. "Clever - I do not deny
him that, although myself I find little use for authors. But of a sinister
cleverness responsible for the dissemination of many of these subversive new
ideas. I think such writers should be suppressed."
"M. de La Tour d'Azyr would probably agree with you - the gentleman who
by the simple exertion of his will turns this communal land into his own
property." And Andre-Louis drained his cup, which had been filled with the
poor vin gris that was the players' drink.
It was a remark that might have precipitated an argument had it not
also reminded M. Binet of the terms on which they were encamped there, and
of the fact that the half-hour was more than past. In a moment he was on his
feet, leaping up with an agility surprising in so corpulent a man, issuing
his commands like a marshal on a field of battle.
"Come, come, my lads! Are we to sit guzzling here all day? Time flees,
and there's a deal to be done if we are to make our entry into Guichen at
noon. Go, get you dressed. We strike camp in twenty minutes. Bestir, ladies!
To your chaise, and see that you contrive to look your best. Soon the eyes
of Guichen will be upon you, and the condition of your interior to-morrow
will depend upon the impression made by your exterior to-day. Away! Away!"
The implicit obedience this autocrat commanded set them in a whirl.
Baskets and boxes were dragged forth to receive the platters and remains of
their meagre feast. In an instant the ground was cleared, and the three
ladies had taken their departure to the chaise, which was set apart for
their use. The men were already climbing into the house on wheels, when
Binet turned to Andre-Louis.
"We part here, sir," said he, dramatically, "the richer by your
acquaintance; your debtors and your friends." He put forth his podgy hand.
Slowly Andre-Louis took it in his own. He had been thinking swiftly in
the last few moments. And remembering the safety he had found from his
pursuers in the bosom of this company, it occurred to him hat nowhere could
he be better hidden for the present, until the quest for him should have
died down.
"Sir," he said, "the indebtedness is on my side. It is not every day
one has the felicity to sit down with so illustrious and engaging a
company."
Binet's little eyes peered suspiciously at the young man, in quest of
irony. He found nothing but candour and simple good faith.
"I part from you reluctantly," Andre-Louis continued. "The more
reluctantly since I do not perceive the absolute necessity for parting."
"How?" quoth Binet, frowning, and slowly withdrawing the hand which the
other had already retained rather longer than was necessary.
"Thus," Andre-Louis explained himself. "You may set me down as a sort
of knight of rueful countenance in quest of adventure, with no fixed purpose
in life at present. You will not marvel that what I have seen of yourself
and your distinguished troupe should inspire me to desire your better
acquaintance. On your side you tell me that you are in need of some one to
replace your Figaro - your Felicien, I think you called him. Whilst it may
be presumptuous of me to hope that I could discharge an office so varied and
so onerous... "
"You are indulging that acrid humour of yours again, my friend," Binet
interrupted him. "Excepting for that," he added, slowly, meditatively, his
little eyes screwed up, "we might discuss this proposal that you seem to be
making."
"Alas! we can except nothing. If you take me, you take me as I am. What
else is possible? As for this humour - such as it is - which you decry, you
might turn it to profitable account."
"How so?"
"In several ways. I might, for instance, teach Leandre to make love."
Pantaloon burst into laughter. "You do not lack confidence in your
powers. Modesty does not afflict you."
"Therefore I evince the first quality necessary in an actor."
"Can you act?"
"Upon occasion, I think," said Andre-Louis, his thoughts upon his
performance at Rennes and Nantes, and wondering when in all his histrionic
career Pantaloon's improvisations had so rent the heart of mobs.
M. Binet was musing. "Do you know much of the theatre?" quoth he.
"Everything," said Andre-Louis.
"I said that modesty will prove no obstacle in your career."
"But consider. I know the work of Beaumarchais, Eglantine, Mercier,
Chenier, and many others of our contemporaries. Then I have read, of course,
Moliere, Racine, Corneille, besides many other lesser French
writers. Of foreign authors, I am intimate with the works of Gozzi,
Goldoni, Guarini, Bibbiena, Machiavelli, Secchi, Tasso, Ariosto, and Fedini.
Whilst of those of antiquity I know most of the work of Euripides,
Aristophanes, Terence, Plautus... "
"Enough!" roared Pantaloon.
"I am not nearly through with my list," said Andre-Louis.
"You may keep the rest for another day. In Heaven's name, what can have
induced you to read so many dramatic authors?"
"In my humble way I am a student of man, and some years ago I made the
discovery that he is most intimately to be studied in the reflections of him
provided for the theatre."
"That is a very original and profound discovery," said Pantaloon, quite
seriously. "It had never occurred to me. Yet is it true. Sir, it is a truth
that dignifies our art. You are a man of parts, that is clear to me. It has
been clear since first I met you. I can read a man. I knew you from the
moment that you said 'good-morning.' Tell me, now: Do you think you could
assist me upon occasion in the preparation of a scenario? My mind, fully
engaged as it is with a thousand details of organization, is not always as
clear as I would have it for such work. Could you assist me there, do you
think?"
"I am quite sure I could."
"Hum, yes. I was sure you would be. The other duties that were
Felicien's you would soon learn. Well, well, if you are willing, you may
come along with us. You'd want some salary, I suppose?"
"If it is usual," said Andre-Louis.
"What should you say to ten livres a month?"
"I should say that it isn't exactly the riches of Peru."
"I might go as far as fifteen," said Binet, reluctantly. "But times are
bad."
"I'll make them better for you."
"I've no doubt you believe it. Then we understand each other?"
"Perfectly," said Andre-Louis, dryly, and was thus committed to the
service of Thespis.
The company's entrance into the township of Guichen, if not exactly
triumphal, as Binet had expressed the desire that it should be, was at least
sufficiently startling and cacophonous to set the rustics gaping. To them
these fantastic creatures appeared - as indeed they were - beings from
another world.
First went the great travelling chaise, creaking and groaning on its
way, drawn by two of the Flemish horses. It was Pantaloon who drove it, an
obese and massive Pantaloon in a tight-fitting suit of scarlet under a long
brown bed-gown, his countenance adorned by a colossal cardboard nose. Beside
him on the box sat Pierrot in a white smock, with sleeves that completely
covered his hands, loose white trousers, and a black skull-cap. He had
whitened his face with flour, and he made hideous noises with a trumpet.
On the roof of the coach were assembled Polichinelle, Scaramouche,
Harlequin, and Pasquariel. Polichinelle in black and white, his doublet cut
in the fashion of a century ago, with humps before and behind, a white frill
round his neck and a black mask upon the upper half of his face, stood in
the middle, his feet planted wide to steady him, solemnly and viciously
banging a big drum. The other three were seated each at one of the corners
of the roof, their legs dangling over. Scaramouche, all in black in the
Spanish fashion of the seventeenth century, his face adorned with a pair of
mostachios, jangled a guitar discordantly. Harlequin, ragged and patched in
every colour of the rainbow, with his leather girdle and sword of lath, the
upper half of his face smeared in soot, clashed a pair of cymbals
intermittently. Pasquariel, as an apothecary in skull-cap and white apron,
excited the hilarity of the onlookers by his enormous tin clyster, which
emitted when pumped a dolorous squeak.
Within the chaise itself, but showing themselves freely at the windows,
and exchanging quips with the townsfolk, sat the three ladies of the
company. Climene, the amoureuse, beautifully gowned in flowered satin, her
own clustering ringlets concealed under a pumpkin-shaped wig, looked so much
the lady of fashion that you might have wondered what she was dong in that
fantastic rabble. Madame, as the mother, was also dressed with splendour,
but exaggerated to achieve the ridiculous. Her headdress was a monstrous
structure adorned with flowers, and superimposed by little ostrich plumes.
Columbine sat facing them, her back to the horses, falsely demure, in
milkmaid bonnet of white muslin, and a striped gown of green and blue.
The marvel was that the old chaise, which in its halcyon days may have
served to carry some dignitary of the Church, did not founder instead of
merely groaning under that excessive and ribald load.
Next came the house on wheels, led by the long, lean Rhodomont, who had
daubed his face red, and increased the terror of it by a pair of formidable
mostachios. He was in long thigh-boots and leather jerkin, trailing an
enormous sword from a crimson baldrick. He wore a broad felt hat with a
draggled feather, and as he advanced he raised his great voice and roared
out defiance, and threats of blood-curdling butchery to be performed upon
all and sundry. On the roof of this vehicle sat Leandre alone. He was in
blue satin, with ruffles, small sword, powdered hair, patches and spy-glass,
and red-heeled shoes: the complete courtier, looking very handsome. The
women of Guichen ogled him coquettishly. He took the ogling as a proper
tribute to his personal endowments, and returned it with interest. Like
Climene, he looked out of place amid the bandits who composed the remainder
of the company.
Bringing up the rear came Andre-Louis leading the two donkeys that
dragged the property-cart. He had insisted upon assuming a false nose,
representing as for embellishment that which he intended for disguise. For
the rest, he had retained his own garments. No one paid any attention to him
as he trudged along beside his donkeys, an insignificant rear guard, which
he was well content to be.
They made the tour of the town, in which the activity was already above
the normal in preparation for next week's fair. At intervals they halted,
the cacophony would cease abruptly, and Polichinelle would announce in a
stentorian voice that at five o'clock that evening in the old market, M.
Binet's famous company of improvisers would perform a new comedy in four
acts entitled, "The Heartless Father."
Thus at last they came to the old market, which was the groundfloor of
the town hall, and open to the four winds by two archways on each side of
its length, and one archway on each side of its breadth. These archways,
with two exceptions, had been boarded up. Through those two, which gave
admission to what presently would be the theatre, the ragamuffins of the
town, and the niggards who were reluctant to spend the necessary sous to
obtain proper admission, might catch furtive glimpses of the performance.
That afternoon was the most strenuous of Andre-Louis' life,
unaccustomed as he was to any sort of manual labour. It was spent in
erecting and preparing the stage at one end of the market-hall; and he began
to realize how hard-earned were to be his monthly fifteen livres. At first
there were four of them to the task - or really three, for Pantaloon did no
more than bawl directions. Stripped of their finery, Rhodomont and Leandre
assisted Andre-Louis in that carpentering. Meanwhile the other four were at
dinner with the ladies. When a half-hour or so later they came to carry on
the work, Andre-Louis and his companions went to dine in their turn, leaving
Polichinelle to direct the operations as well as assist in them.
They crossed the square to the cheap little inn where they had taken up
their quarters. In the narrow passage Andre-Louis came face to face with
Climene, her fine feathers cast, and restored by now to her normal
appearance
"And how do you like it?" she asked him, pertly.
He looked her in the eyes. "It has its compensations," quoth he, in
that curious cold tone of his that left one wondering whether he meant or
not what he seemed to mean.
She knit her brows. "You... you feel the need of compensations
already?"
"Faith, I felt it from the beginning," said he. "It was the perception
of them allured me."
They were quite alone, the others having gone on into the room set
apart for them, where food was spread. Andre-Louis, who was as unlearned in
Woman as he was learned in Man, was not to know, upon feeling himself
suddenly extraordinarily aware of her femininity, that it was she who in
some subtle, imperceptible manner so rendered him.
"What," she asked him, with demurest innocence, "are these
compensations?"
He caught himself upon the brink of the abyss.
"Fifteen livres a month," said he, abruptly.
A moment she stared at him bewildered. He was very disconcerting. Then
she recovered.
"Oh, and bed and board," said she. "Don't be leaving that from the
reckoning, as you seem to be doing; for your dinner will be going cold.
Aren't you coming?"
"Haven't you dined?" he cried, and she wondered had she caught a note
of eagerness.
"No," she answered, over her shoulder. "I waited."
"What for?" quoth his innocence, hopefully.
"I had to change, of course, zany," she answered, rudely. Having
dragged him, as she imagined, to the chopping-block, she could not refrain
from chopping. But then he was of those who must be chopping back.
"And you left your manners upstairs with your grand-lady clothes,
mademoiselle. I understand."
A scarlet flame suffused her face. "You are very insolent," she said,
lamely.
"I've often been told so. But I don't believe it." He thrust open the
door for her, and bowing with an air which imposed upon her, although it was
merely copied from Fleury of the Comedie Francaise, so often visited in the
Louis le Grand days, he waved her in. "After you, ma demoiselle." For
greater emphasis he deliberately broke the word into its two component
parts.
"I thank you, monsieur," she answered, frostily, as near sneering as
was possible to so charming a person, and went in, nor addressed him again
throughout the meal. Instead, she devoted herself with an unusual and
devastating assiduity to the suspiring Leandre, that poor devil who could
not successfully play the lover with her on the stage because of his longing
to play it in reality.
Andre-Louis ate his herrings and black bread with a good appetite
nevertheless. It was poor fare, but then poor fare was the common lot of
poor people in that winter of starvation, and since he had cast in his
fortunes with a company whose affairs were not flourishing, he must accept
the evils of the situation philosophically.
"Have you a name?" Binet asked him once in the course of that repast
and during a pause in the conversation.
"It happens that I have," said he. "I think it is Parvissimus.
"Parvissimus?" quoth Binet. "Is that a family name?"
"In such a company, where only the leader enjoys the privilege of a
family name, the like would be unbecoming its least member. So I take the
name that best becomes in me. And I think it is Parvissimus
- the very least."
Binet was amused. It was droll; it showed a ready fancy. Oh, to be
sure, they must get to work together on those scenarios.
"I shall prefer it to carpentering," said Andre-Louis. Nevertheless he
had to go back to it that afternoon, and to labour strenuously until four
o'clock, when at last the autocratic Binet announced himself satisfied with
the preparations, and proceeded, again with the help of Andre-Louis, to
prepare the lights, which were supplied partly by tallow candles and partly
by lamps burning fish-oil.
At five o'clock that evening the three knocks were sounded, and the
curtain rose on "The Heartless Father."
Among the duties inherited by Andre-Louis from the departed Felicien
whom he replaced, was that of doorkeeper. This duty he discharged dressed in
a Polichinelle costume, and wearing a pasteboard nose. It was an arrangement
mutually agreeable to M. Binet and himself. M. Binet - who had taken the
further precaution of retaining Andre-Louis' own garments - was thereby
protected against the risk of his latest recruit absconding with the
takings. Andre-Louis, without illusions on the score of Pantaloon's real
object, agreed to it willingly enough, since it protected him from the
chance of recognition by any acquaintance who might possibly be in Guichen.
The performance was in every sense unexciting; the audience meagre and
unenthusiastic. The benches provided in the front half of the market
contained some twenty-seven persons: eleven at twenty sous a head and
sixteen at twelve. Behind these stood a rabble of some thirty others at six
sous apiece. Thus the gross takings were two louis, ten livres, and two
sous. By the time M. Binet had paid for the use of the market, his lights,
and the expenses of his company at the inn over Sunday, there was not likely
to be very much left towards the wages of his players. It is not surprising,
therefore, that M. Binet's bonhomie should have been a trifle overcast that
evening.
"And what do you think of it?" he asked Andre-Louis, as they were
walking back to the inn after the performance.
"Possibly it could have been worse; probably it could not," said he.
In sheer amazement M. Binet checked in his stride, and turned to look
at his companion.
"Huh!" said he. "Dieu de Dien! But you are frank."
"An unpopular form of service among fools, I know."
"Well, I am not a fool," said Binet.
"That is why I am frank. I pay you the compliment of assuming
intelligence in you, M. Binet."
"Oh, you do?" quoth M. Binet. "And who the devil are you to assume
anything? Your assumptions are presumptuous, sir." And with that he lapsed
into silence and the gloomy business of mentally casting up his accounts.
But at table over supper a half-hour later he revived the topic.
"Our latest recruit, this excellent M. Parvissimus," he announced, "has
the impudence to tell me that possibly our comedy could have been worse, but
that probably it could not." And he blew out his great round cheeks to
invite a laugh at the expense of that foolish critic.
"That's bad," said the swarthy and sardonic Polichinelle. He was grave
as Rhadamanthus pronouncing judgment. "That's bad. But what is infinitely
worse is that the audience had the impudence to be of the same mind."
"An ignorant pack of clods," sneered Leandre, with a toss of his
handsome head.
"You are wrong," quoth Harlequin. "You were born for love, my dear, not
criticism."
Leandre - a dull dog, as you will have conceived - looked
contemptuously down upon the little man. "And you, what were you born for?"
he wondered.
"Nobody knows," was the candid admission. "Nor yet why. It is the case
of many of us, my dear, believe me."
"But why" - M. Binet took him up, and thus spoilt the beginnings of a
very pretty quarrel - "why do you say that Leandre is wrong?"
"To be general, because he is always wrong. To be particular, because I
judge the audience of Guichen to be too sophisticated for 'The Heartless
Father.'"
"You would put it more happily," interposed Andre-Louis - who was the
cause of this discussion - "if you said that 'The Heartless Father' is too
unsophisticated for the audience of Guichen."
"Why, what's the difference?" asked Leandre.
"I didn't imply a difference. I merely suggested that it is a happier
way to express the fact."
"The gentleman is being subtle," sneered Binet.
"Why happier?" Harlequin demanded.
"Because it is easier to bring 'The Heartless Father' to the
sophistication of the Guichen audience, than the Guichen audience to the
unsophistication of 'The Heartless Father.'"
"Let me think it out," groaned Polichinelle, and he took his head in
his hands.
But from the tail of the table Andre-Louis was challenged by Climene
who sat there between Columbine and Madame.
"You would alter the comedy, would you, M. Parvissimus?" she cried.
He turned to parry her malice.
"I would suggest that it be altered," he corrected, inclining his head.
"And how would you alter it, monsieur?"
"I? Oh, for the better."
"But of course!" She was sleekest sarcasm. "And how would you do it?"
"Aye, tell us that," roared M. Binet, and added: "Silence, I pray you,
gentlemen and ladies. Silence for M. Parvissimus."
Andre-Louis looked from father to daughter, and smiled. "Pardi!" said
he. "I am between bludgeon and dagger. If I escape with my life, I shall be
fortunate. Why, then, since you pin me to the very wall, I'll tell you what
I should do. I should go back to the original and help myself more freely
from it."
"The original?" questioned M. Binet - the author.
"It is called, I believe, 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac,' and was written
by Moliere."
Somebody tittered, but that somebody was not M. Binet. He had been
touched on the raw, and the look in his little eyes betrayed the fact that
his bonhomme exterior covered anything but a bonhomme.
"You charge me with plagiarism," he said at last; "with filching the
ideas of Moliere."
"There is always, of course," said Andre-Louis, unruffled, "the
alternative possibility of two great minds working upon parallel lines."
M. Binet studied the young man attentively a moment. He found him bland
and inscrutable, and decided to pin him down.
"Then you do not imply that I have been stealing from Moliere?"
"I advise you to do so, monsieur," was the disconcerting reply.
M. Binet was shocked.
"You advise me to do so! You advise me, me, Antoine Binet, to turn
thief at my age!"
"He is outrageous," said mademoiselle, indignantly.
"Outrageous is the word. I thank you for it, my dear. I take you on
trust, sir. You sit at my table, you have the honour to be included in my
company, and to my face you have the audacity to advise me to become a thief
- the worst kind of thief that is conceivable, a thief of spiritual things,
a thief of ideas! It is insufferable, intolerable! I have been, I fear,
deeply mistaken in you, monsieur; just as you appear to have been mistaken
in me. I am not the scoundrel you suppose me, sir, and I will not number in
my company a man who dares to suggest that I should become one. Outrageous!"
He was very angry. His voice boomed through the little room, and the
company sat hushed and something scared, their eyes upon Andre-Louis, who
was the only one entirely unmoved by this outburst of virtuous indignation.
"You realize, monsieur," he said, very quietly, "that you are insulting
the memory of the illustrious dead?"
"Eh?" said Binet.
Andre-Louis developed his sophistries.
"You insult the memory of Moliere, the greatest ornament of our stage,
one of the greatest ornaments of our nation, when you suggest that there is
vileness in doing that which he never hesitated to do, which no great author
yet has hesitated to do. You cannot suppose that Moliere ever troubled
himself to be original in the matter of ideas. You cannot suppose that the
stories he tells in his plays have never been told before. They were culled,
as you very well know - though you seem momentarily to have forgotten it,
and it is therefore necessary that I should remind you - they were culled,
many of them, from the Italian authors, who themselves had culled them
Heaven alone knows where. Moliere took those old stories and retold them in
his own language. That is precisely what I am suggesting that you should do.
Your company is a company of improvisers. You supply the dialogue as you
proceed, which is rather more than Moliere ever attempted. You may, if you
prefer it
- though it would seem to me to be yielding to an excess of scruple
- go straight to Boccaccio or Sacchetti. But even then you cannot be
sure that you have reached the sources."
Andre-Louis came off with flying colours after that. You see what a
debater was lost in him; how nimble he was in the art of making white look
black. The company was impressed, and no one more that M. Binet, who found
himself supplied with a crushing argument against those who in future might
tax him with the impudent plagiarisms which he undoubtedly perpetrated. He
retired in the best order he could from the position he had taken up at the
outset.
"So that you think," he said, at the end of a long outburst of
agreement, "you think that our story of 'The Heartless Father' could be
enriched by dipping into 'Monsieur de Pourceaugnac,' to which I confess upon
reflection that it may present certain superficial resemblances?"
"I do; most certainly I do - always provided that you do so
judiciously. Times have changed since Moliere." It was as a consequence of
this that Binet retired soon after, taking Andre-Louis with him. The pair
sat together late that night, and were again in close communion throughout
the whole of Sunday morning.
After dinner M. Binet read to the assembled company the amended and
amplified canevas of "The Heartless Father," which, acting upon the advice
of M. Parvissimus, he had been at great pains to prepare. The company had
few doubts as to the real authorship before he began to read; none at all
when he had read. There was a verve, a grip about this story; and, what was
more, those of them who knew their Moliere realized that far from
approaching the original more closely, this canevas had drawn farther away
from it. Moliere's original part - the title role - had dwindled into
insignificance, to the great disgust of Polichinelle, to whom it fell. But
the other parts had all been built up into importance, with the exception of
Leandre, who remained as before. The two great roles were now Scaramouche,
in the character of the intriguing Sbrigandini, and Pantaloon the father.
There was, too, a comical part for Rhodomont, as the roaring bully hired by
Polichinelle to cut Leandre into ribbons. And in view of the importance now
of Scaramouche, the play had been rechristened "Figaro-Scaramouche."
This last had not been without a deal of opposition from M. Binet. But
his relentless collaborator, who was in reality the real author
- drawing shamelessly, but practically at last upon his great store of
reading - had overborne him.
"You must move with the times, monsieur. In Paris Beaumarchais is the
rage. 'Figaro' is known to-day throughout the world. Let us borrow a little
of his glory. It will draw the people in. They will come to see half a
'Figaro' when they will not come to see a dozen 'Heartless Fathers.'
Therefore let us cast the mantle of Figaro upon some one, and proclaim it in
our title."
"But as I am the head of the company... " began M. Binet, weakly.
"If you will be blind to your interests, you will presently be a head
without a body. And what use is that? Can the shoulders of Pantaloon carry
the mantle of Figaro? You laugh. Of course you laugh. The notion is absurd.
The proper person for the mantle of Figaro is Scaramouche, who is naturally
Figaro's twin-brother."
Thus tyrannized, the tyrant Binet gave way, comforted by the reflection
that if he understood anything at all about the theatre, he had for fifteen
livres a month acquired something that would presently be earning him as
many louis.
The company's reception of the canevas now confirmed him, if we except
Polichinelle, who, annoyed at having lost half his part in the alterations,
declared the new scenario fatuous.
"Ah! You call my work fatuous, do you?" M. Binet hectored him.
"Your work?" said Polichinelle, to add with his tongue in his cheek:
"Ah, pardon. I had not realized that you were the author."
"Then realize it now."
"You were very close with M. Parvissimus over this authorship," said
Polichinelle, with impudent suggestiveness.
"And what if I was? What do you imply?"
"That you took him to cut quills for you, of course."
"I'll cut your ears for you if you're not civil," stormed the
infuriated Binet.
Polichinelle got up slowly, and stretched himself.
"Dieu de Dieu!" said he. "If Pantaloon is to play Rhodomont, I think
I'll leave you. He is not amusing in the part." And he swaggered out before
M. Binet had recovered from his speechlessness.
Ar four o'clock on Monday afternoon the curtain rose on
"Figaro-Scaramouche" to an audience that filled three quarters of the
market-hall. M. Binet attributed this good attendance to the influx of
people to Guichen for the fair, and to the magnificent parade of his company
through the streets of the township at the busiest time of the day.
Andre-Louis attributed it entirely to the title. It was the "Figaro" touch
that had fetched in the better-class bourgeoisie, which filled more than
half of the twenty-sous places and three quarters of the twelve-sous seats.
The lure had drawn them. Whether it was to continue to do so would depend
upon the manner in which the canevas over which he had laboured to the glory
of Binet was interpreted by the company. Of the merits of the canevas itself
he had no doubt. The authors upon whom he had drawn for the elements of it
were sound, and he had taken of their best, which he claimed to be no more
than the justice due to them.
The company excelled itself. The audience followed with relish the sly
intriguings of Scaramouche, delighted in the beauty and freshness of
Climene, was moved almost to tears by the hard fate which through four long
acts kept her from the hungering arms of the so beautiful Leandre, howled
its delight over the ignominy of Pantaloon, the buffooneries of his
sprightly lackey Harlequin, and the thrasonical strut and bellowing
fierceness of the cowardly Rhodomont.
The success of the Binet troupe in Guichen was assured. That night the
company drank Burgundy at M. Binet's expense. The takings reached the sum of
eight louis, which was as good business as M. Binet had ever done in all his
career. He was very pleased. Gratification rose like steam from his fat
body. He even condescended so far as to attribute a share of the credit for
the success to M. Parvissimus.
"His suggestion," he was careful to say, by way of properly delimiting
that share, "was most valuable, as I perceived at the time."
"And his cutting of quills," growled Polichinelle. "Don't forget that.
It is most important to have by you a man who understands how to cut a
quill, as I shall remember when I turn author."
But not even that gibe could stir M. Binet out of his lethargy of
content.
On Tuesday the success was repeated artistically and augmented
financially. Ten louis and seven livres was the enormous sum that
Andre-Louis, the doorkeeper, counted over to M. Binet after the performance.
Never yet had M. Binet made so much money in one evening - and a miserable
little village like Guichen was certainly the last place in which he would
have expected this windfall.
"Ah, but Guichen in time of fair," Andre-Louis reminded him. "There are
people here from as far as Nantes and Rennes to buy and sell. To-morrow,
being the last day of the fair, the crowds will be greater than ever. We
should better this evening's receipts."
"Better them? I shall be quite satisfied if we do as well, my friend."
"You can depend upon that," Andre-Louis assured him. "Are we to have
Burgundy?"
And then the tragedy occurred. It announced itself in a succession of
bumps and thuds, culminating in a crash outside the door that brought them
all to their feet in alarm.
Pierrot sprang to open, and beheld the tumbled body of a man lying at
the foot of the stairs. It emitted groans, therefore it was alive. Pierrot
went forward to turn it over, and disclosed the fact that the body wore the
wizened face of Scaramouche, a grimacing, groaning, twitching Scaramouche.
The whole company, pressing after Pierrot, abandoned itself to
laughter.
"I always said you should change parts with me," cried Harlequin.
"You're such an excellent tumbler. Have you been practising?"
"Fool!" Scaramouche snapped. "Must you be laughing when I've all but
broken my neck?"
"You are right. We ought to be weeping because you didn't break it.
Come, man, get up," and he held out a hand to the prostrate rogue.
Scaramouche took the hand, clutched it, heaved himself from the ground,
then with a scream dropped back again.
"My foot!" he complained.
Binet rolled through the group of players, scattering them to right and
left. Apprehension had been quick to seize him. Fate had played him such
tricks before.
"What ails your foot?" quoth he, sourly.
"It's broken, I think," Scaramouche complained.
"Broken? Bah! Get up, man." He caught him under the armpits and hauled
him up.
Scaramouche came howling to one foot; the other doubled under him when
he attempted to set it down, and he must have collapsed again but that Binet
supported him. He filled the place with his plaint, whilst Binet swore
amazingly and variedly.
"Must you bellow like a calf, you fool? Be quiet. A chair here, some
one."
A chair was thrust forward. He crushed Scaramouche down into it.
"Let us look at this foot of yours."
Heedless of Scaramouche's howls of pain, he swept away shoe and
stocking.
"What ails it?" he asked, staring. "Nothing that I can see." He seized
it, heel in one hand, instep in the other, and gyrated it. Scaramouche
screamed in agony, until Climene caught Binet's arm and made him stop.
"My God, have you no feelings?" she reproved her father. "The lad has
hurt his foot. Must you torture him? Will that cure it?"
"Hurt his foot!" said Binet. "I can see nothing the matter with his
foot - nothing to justify all this uproar. He has bruised it, maybe... "
"A man with a bruised foot doesn't scream like that," said Madame over
Climene's shoulder. "Perhaps he has dislocated it."
"That is what I fear," whimpered Scaramouche.
Binet heaved himself up in disgust.
"Take him to bed," he bade them, "and fetch a doctor to see him."
It was done, and the doctor came. Having seen the patient, he reported
that nothing very serious had happened, but that in falling he had evidently
sprained his foot a little. A few days' rest and all would be well.
"A few days!" cried Binet. "God of God! Do you mean that he can't
walk?"
"It would be unwise, indeed impossible for more than a few steps."
M. Binet paid the doctor's fee, and sat down to think. He filled
himself a glass of Burgundy, tossed it off without a word, and sat
thereafter staring into the empty glass.
"It is of course the sort of thing that must always be happening to
me," he grumbled to no one in particular. The members of the company were
all standing in silence before him, sharing his dismay. "I might have known
that this - or something like it - would occur to spoil the first vein of
luck that I have found in years. Ah, well, it is finished. To-morrow we pack
and depart. The best day of the fair, on the crest of the wave of our
success - a good fifteen louis to be taken, and this happens! God of God!"
"Do you mean to abandon to-morrow's performance?"
All turned to stare with Binet at Andre-Louis.
"Are we to play 'Figaro-Scaramouche' without Scaramouche?" asked Binet,
sneering.
"Of course not." Andre-Louis came forward. "But surely some
rearrangement of the parts is possible. For instance, there is a fine actor
in Polichinelle."
Polichinelle swept him a bow. "Overwhelmed," said he, ever sardonic.
"But he has a part of his own," objected Binet.
"A small part, which Pasquariel could play."
"And who will play Pasquariel?"
"Nobody. We delete it. The play need not suffer."
"He thinks of everything," sneered Polichinelle. "What a man!"
But Binet was far from agreement. "Are you suggesting that Polichinelle
should play Scaramouche?" he asked, incredulously.
"Why not? He is able enough!"
"Overwhelmed again," interjected Polichinelle.
"Play Scaramouche with that figure?" Binet heaved himself up to point a
denunciatory finger at Polichinelle's sturdy, thick-set shortness.
"For lack of a better," said Andre-Louis.
"Overwhelmed more than ever." Polichinelle's bow was superb this time.
"Faith, I think I'll take the air to cool me after so much blushing."
"Go to the devil," Binet flung at him.
"Better and better." Polichinelle made for the door. On the threshold
he halted and struck an attitude. "Understand me, Binet. I do not now play
Scaramouche in any circumstances whatever." And he went out. On the whole,
it was a very dignified exit.
Andre-Louis shrugged, threw out his arms, and let them fall to his
sides again. "You have ruined everything," he told M. Binet. "The matter
could easily have been arranged. Well, well, it is you are master here; and
since you want us to pack and be off, that is what we will do, I suppose."
He went out, too. M. Binet stood in thought a moment, then followed
him, his little eyes very cunning. He caught him up in the doorway. "Let us
take a walk together, M. Parvissimus," said he, very affably.
He thrust his arm through Andre-Louis', and led him out into the
street, where there was still considerable movement. Past the booths that
ranged about the market they went, and down the hill towards the bridge. "I
don't think we shall pack to-morrow," said M. Binet, presently. "In fact, we
shall play to-morrow night."
"Not if I know Polichinelle. You have... "
"I am not thinking of Polichinelle."
"Of whom, then?"
"Of yourself."
"I am flattered, sir. And in what capacity are you thinking of me?"
There was something too sleek and oily in Binet's voice for Andre-Louis'
taste.
"I am thinking of you in the part of Scaramouche."
"Day-dreams," said Andre-Louis. "You are amusing yourself, of course."
"Not in the least. I am quite serious."
"But I am not an actor."
"You told me that you could be."
"Oh, upon occasion... a small part, perhaps... "
"Well, here is a big part - the chance to arrive at a single stride.
How many men have had such a chance?"
"It is a chance I do not covet, M. Binet. Shall we change the subject?"
He was very frosty, as much perhaps because he scented in M. Binet's manner
something that was vaguely menacing as for any other reason.
"We'll change the subject when I please," said M. Binet, allowing a
glimpse of steel to glimmer through the silk of him. "To-morrow night you
play Scaramouche. You are ready enough in your wits, your figure is ideal,
and you have just the kind of mordant humour for the part. You should be a
great success."
"It is much more likely that I should be an egregious failure."
"That won't matter," said Binet, cynically, and explained himself. "The
failure will be personal to yourself. The receipts will be safe by then."
"Much obliged," said Andre-Louis.
"We should take fifteen louis to-morrow night."
"It is unfortunate that you are without a Scaramouche," said
Andre-Louis.
"It is fortunate that I have one, M. Parvissimus." Andre-Louis
disengaged his arm. "I begin to find you tiresome," said he. "I think I will
return."
"A moment, M. Parvissimus. If I am to lose that fifteen louis...
you'll not take it amiss that I compensate myself in other ways?"
"That is your own concern, M. Binet."
"Pardon, M. Parvissimus. It may possibly be also yours." Binet took his
arm again. "Do me the kindness to step across the street with me. Just as
far as the post-office there. I have something to show you."
Andre-Louis went. Before they reached that sheet of paper nailed upon
the door, he knew exactly what it would say. And in effect it was, as he had
supposed, that twenty louis would be paid for information leading to the
apprehension of one Andre-Louis Moreau, lawyer of Gavrillac, who was wanted
by the King's Lieutenant in Rennes upon a charge of sedition.
M. Binet watched him whilst he read. Their arms were linked, and
Binet's grip was firm and powerful.
"Now, my friend," said he, "will you be M. Parvissimus and play
Scaramouche to-morrow, or will you be Andre-Louis Moreau of Gavrillac and go
to Rennes to satisfy the King's Lieutenant?"
"And if it should happen that you are mistaken?" quoth Andre-Louis, his
face a mask.
"I'll take the risk of that," leered M. Binet. "You mentioned, I think,
that you were a lawyer. An indiscretion, my dear. It is unlikely that two
lawyers will be in hiding at the same time in the same district. You see it
is not really clever of me. Well, M. Andre-Louis Moreau, lawyer of
Gavrillac, what is it to be?"
"We will talk it over as we walk back," said Andre-Louis.
"What is there to talk over?"
"One or two things, I think. I must know where I stand. Come, sir, if
you please."
"Very well," said M. Binet, and they turned up the street again, but M.
Binet maintained a firm hold of his young friend's arm, and kept himself on
the alert for any tricks that the young gentleman might be disposed to play.
It was an unnecessary precaution. Andre-Louis was not the man to waste his
energy futilely. He knew that in bodily strength he was no match at all for
the heavy and powerful Pantaloon.
"If I yield to your most eloquent and seductive persuasions, M. Binet,"
said he, sweetly, "what guarantee do you give me that you will not sell me
for twenty louis after I shall have served your turn?"
"You have my word of honour for that." M. Binet was emphatic.
Andre-Louis laughed. "Oh, we are to talk of honour, are we? Really, M.
Binet? It is clear you think me a fool."
In the dark he did not see the flush that leapt to M. Binet's round
face. It was some moments before he replied.
"Perhaps you are right," he growled. "What guarantee do you want?"
"I do not know what guarantee you can possibly give."
"I have said that I will keep faith with you."
"Until you find it more profitable to sell me."
"You have it in your power to make it more profitable always for me to
keep faith with you. It is due to you that we have done so well in Guichen.
Oh, I admit it frankly."
"In private," said Andre-Louis.
M. Binet left the sarcasm unheeded.
"What you have done for us here with 'Figaro-Scaramouche,' you can do
elsewhere with other things. Naturally, I shall not want to lose you. That
is your guarantee."
"Yet to-night you would sell me for twenty louis."
"Because - name of God! - you enrage me by refusing me a service well
within your powers. Don't you think, had I been entirely the rogue you think
me, I could have sold you on Saturday last? I want you to understand me, my
dear Parvissimus."
"I beg that you'll not apologize. You would be more tiresome than
ever."
"Of course you will be gibing. You never miss a chance to gibe. It'll
bring you trouble before you're done with life. Come; here we are back at
the inn, and you have not yet given me your decision."
Andre-Louis looked at him. "I must yield, of course. I can't help
myself."
M. Binet released his arm at last, and slapped him heartily upon the
back. "Well declared, my lad. You'll never regret it. If I know anything of
the theatre, I know that you have made the great decision of your life.
To-morrow night you'll thank me."
Andre-Louis shrugged, and stepped out ahead towards the inn. But M.
Binet called him back.
"M. Parvissimus!"
He turned. There stood the man's great bulk, the moonlight beating down
upon that round fat face of his, and he was holding out his hand.
"M. Parvissimus, no rancour. It is a thing I do not admit into my life.
You will shake hands with me, and we will forget all this."
Andre-Louis considered him a moment with disgust. He was growing angry.
Then, realizing this, he conceived himself ridiculous, almost as ridiculous
as that sly, scoundrelly Pantaloon. He laughed and took the outstretched
hand. "No rancour?" M. Binet insisted.
"Oh, no rancour," said Andre-Louis.
Diligent search among the many scenarios of the improvisers which have
survived their day, has failed to bring to light the scenario of "Les
Fourberies de Scaramouche," upon which we are told the fortunes of the Binet
troupe came to be soundly established. They played it for the first time at
Maure in the following week, with Andre-Louis - who was known by now as
Scaramouche to all the company, and to the public alike - in the title-role.
If he had acquitted himself well as Figaro-Scaramouche, he excelled himself
in the new piece, the scenario of which would appear to be very much the
better of the two.
After Maure came Pipriac, where four performances were given, two of
each of the scenarios that now formed the backbone of the Binet repertoire.
In both Scaramouche, who was beginning to find himself, materially improved
his performances. So smoothly now did the two pieces run that Scaramouche
actually suggested to Binet that after Fougeray, which they were to visit in
the following week, they should tempt fortune in a real theatre in the
important town of Redon. The notion terrified Binet at first, but coming to
think of it, and his ambition being fanned by Andre-Louis, he ended by
allowing himself to succumb to the temptation.
It seemed to Andre-Louis in those days that he had found his real
metier, and not only was he beginning to like it, but actually to look
forward to a career as actor-author that might indeed lead him in the end to
that Mecca of all comedians, the Comedie Francaise. And there were other
possibilities. From the writing of skeleton scenarios for improvisers, he
might presently pass to writing plays of dialogue, plays in the proper sense
of the word, after the manner of Chenier, Eglantine, and Beaumarchais.
The fact that he dreamed such dreams shows us how very kindly he had
taken to the profession into which Chance and M. Binet between them had
conspired to thrust him. That he had real talent both as author and as actor
I do not doubt, and I am persuaded that had things fallen out differently he
would have won for himself a lasting place among French dramatists, and thus
fully have realized that dream of his.
Now, dream though it was, he did not neglect the practical side of it.
"You realize," he told M. Binet, "that I have it in my power to make
your fortune for you.
He and Binet were sitting alone together in the parlour of the inn at
Pipriac, drinking a very excellent bottle of Volnay. It was on the night
after the fourth and last performance there of "Les Feurberies." The
business in Pipriac had been as excellent as in Maure and Guichen. You will
have gathered this from the fact that they drank Volnay.
"I will concede it, my dear Scaramouche, so that I may hear the
sequel."
"I am disposed to exercise this power if the inducement is sufficient.
You will realize that for fifteen livres a month a man does not sell such
exceptional gifts as mine.
"There is an alternative," said M. Binet, darkly.
"There is no alternative. Don't be a fool, Binet."
Binet sat up as if he had been prodded. Members of his company did not
take this tone of direct rebuke with him.
"Anyway, I make you a present of it," Scaramouche pursued, airily.
"Exercise it if you please. Step outside and inform the police that they can
lay hands upon one Andre-Louis Moreau. But that will be the end of your fine
dreams of going to Redon, and for the first time in your life playing in a
real theatre. Without me, you can't do it, and you know it; and I am not
going to Redon or anywhere else, in fact I am not even going to Fougeray,
until we have an equitable arrangement."
"But what heat!" complained Binet, "and all for what? Why must you
assume that I have the soul of a usurer? When our little arrangement was
made, I had no idea how could I? - that you would prove as valuable to me as
you are? You had but to remind me, my dear Scaramouche. I am a just man. As
from to-day you shall have thirty livres a month. See, I double it at once.
I am a generous man."
"But you are not ambitious. Now listen to me, a moment."
And he proceeded to unfold a scheme that filled Binet with a paralyzing
terror.
"After Redon, Nantes," he said. "Nantes and the Theatre Feydau."
M. Binet choked in the act of drinking. The Theatre Feydau was a sort
of provincial Comedie Francaise. The great Fleury had played there to an
audience as critical as any in France. The very thought of Redon, cherished
as it had come to be by M. Binet, gave him at moments a cramp in the
stomach, so dangerously ambitious did it seem to him. And Redon was a
puppet-show by comparison with Nantes. Yet this raw lad whom he had picked
up by chance three weeks ago, and who in that time had blossomed from a
country attorney into author and actor, could talk of Nantes and the Theatre
Feydau without changing colour.
"But why not Paris and the Comedie Francaise?" wondered M. Binet, with
sarcasm, when at last he had got his breath.
"That may come later," says impudence.
"Eh? You've been drinking, my friend."
But Andre-Louis detailed the plan that had been forming in his mind.
Fougeray should be a training-ground for Redon, and Redon should be a
training-ground for Nantes. They would stay in Redon as long as Redon would
pay adequately to come and see them, working hard to perfect themselves the
while. They would add three or four new players of talent to the company; he
would write three or four fresh scenarios, and these should be tested and
perfected until the troupe was in possession of at least half a dozen plays
upon which they could depend; they would lay out a portion of their profits
on better dresses and better scenery, and finally in a couple of months'
time, if all went well, they should be ready to make their real bid for
fortune at Nantes. It was quite true that distinction was usually demanded
of the companies appearing at the Feydau, but on the other hand Nantes had
not seen a troupe of improvisers for a generation and longer. They would be
supplying a novelty to which all Nantes should flock provided that the work
were really well done, and Scaramouche undertook - pledged himself - that if
matters were left in his own hands, his projected revival of the Commedia
dell' Arte in all its glories would exceed whatever expectations the public
of Nantes might bring to the theatre.
"We'll talk of Paris after Nantes," he finished, supremely
matter-of-fact, "just as we will definitely decide on Nantes after Redon."
The persuasiveness that could sway a mob ended by sweeping M. Binet off
his feet. The prospect which Scaramouche unfolded, if terrifying, was also
intoxicating, and as Scaramouche delivered a crushing answer to each
weakening objection in a measure as it was advanced, Binet ended by
promising to think the matter over.
"Redon will point the way," said Andre-Louis, "and I don't doubt which
way Redon will point."
Thus the great adventure of Redon dwindled to insignificance. Instead
of a terrifying undertaking in itself, it became merely a rehearsal for
something greater. In his momentary exaltation Binet proposed another bottle
of Volnay. Scaramouche waited until the cork was drawn before he continued.
"The thing remains possible," said he then, holding his glass to the
light, and speaking casually, "as long as I am with you."
"Agreed, my dear Scaramouche, agreed. Our chance meeting was a
fortunate thing for both of us."
"For both of us," said Scaramouche, with stress. "That is as I would
have it. So that I do not think you will surrender me just yet to the
police."
"As if I could think of such a thing! My dear Scaramouche, you amuse
yourself. I beg that you will never, never allude to that little joke of
mine again."
"It is forgotten," said Andre-Louis. "And now for the remainder of my
proposal. If I am to become the architect of your fortunes, if I am to build
them as I have planned them, I must also and in the same degree become the
architect of my own."
"In the same degree?" M. Binet frowned.
"In the same degree. From to-day, if you please, we will conduct the
affairs of this company in a proper manner, and we will keep account-books."
"I am an artist," said M. Binet, with pride. "I am not a merchant."
"There is a business side to your art, and that shall be conducted in
the business manner. I have thought it all out for you. You shall not be
troubled with details that might hinder the due exercise of your art. All
that you have to do is to say yes or no to my proposal."
"Ah? And the proposal?"
"Is that you constitute me your partner, with an equal share in the
profits of your company."
Pantaloon's great countenance grew pale, his little eyes widened to
their fullest extent as he conned the face of his companion. Then he
exploded.
"You are mad, of course, to make me a proposal so monstrous."
"It has its injustices, I admit. But I have provided for them. It would
not, for instance, be fair that in addition to all that I am proposing to do
for you, I should also play Scaramouche and write your scenarios without any
reward outside of the half-profit which would come to me as a partner. Thus
before the profits come to be divided, there is a salary to be paid me as
actor, and a small sum for each scenario with which I provide the company;
that is a matter for mutual agreement. Similarly, you shall be paid a salary
as Pantaloon. After those expenses are cleared up, as well as all the other
salaries and disbursements, the residue is the profit to be divided equally
between us."
It was not, as you can imagine, a proposal that M. Binet would swallow
at a draught. He began with a point-blank refusal to consider it.
"In that case, my friend," said Scaramouche, "we part company at once.
To-morrow I shall bid you a reluctant farewell."
Binet fell to raging. He spoke of ingratitude in feeling terms; he even
permitted himself another sly allusion to that little jest of his concerning
the police, which he had promised never again to mention.
"As to that, you may do as you please. Play the informer, by all means.
But consider that you will just as definitely be deprived of my services,
and that without me you are nothing - as you were before I joined your
company."
M. Binet did not care what the consequences might be. A fig for the
consequences! He would teach this impudent young country attorney that M.
Binet was not the man to be imposed upon.
Scaramouche rose. "Very well," said he, between indifference and
resignation. "As you wish. But before you act, sleep on the matter. In the
cold light of morning you may see our two proposals in their proper
proportions. Mine spells fortune for both of us. Yours spells ruin for both
of us. Good-night, M. Binet. Heaven help you to a wise decision.
The decision to which M. Binet finally came was, naturally, the only
one possible in the face of so firm a resolve as that of Andre-Louis, who
held the trumps. Of course there were further discussions, before all was
settled, and M. Binet was brought to an agreement only after an infinity of
haggling surprising in one who was an artist and not a man of business. One
or two concessions were made by Andre-Louis; he consented, for instance, to
waive his claim to be paid for scenarios, and he also consented that M.
Binet should appoint himself a salary that was out of all proportion to his
deserts.
Thus in the end the matter was settled, and the announcement duly made
to the assembled company. There were, of course, jealousies and resentments.
But these were not deep-seated, and they were readily swallowed when it was
discovered that under the new arrangement the lot of the entire company was
to be materially improved from the point of view of salaries. This was a
matter that had met with considerable opposition from M. Binet. But the
irresistible Scaramouche swept away all objections.
"If we are to play at the Feydau, you want a company of self-respecting
comedians, and not a pack of cringing starvelings. The better we pay them in
reason, the more they will earn for us."
Thus was conquered the company's resentment of this too swift promotion
of its latest recruit. Cheerfully now - with one exception - they accepted
the dominance of Scaramouche, a dominance soon to be so firmly established
that M. Binet himself came under it.
The one exception was Climene. Her failure to bring to heel this
interesting young stranger, who had almost literally dropped into their
midst that morning outside Guichen, had begotten in her a malice which his
persistent ignoring of her had been steadily inflaming. She had remonstrated
with her father when the new partnership was first formed. She had lost her
temper with him, and called him a fool, whereupon M. Binet - in Pantaloon's
best manner - had lost his temper in his turn and boxed her ears. She piled
it up to the account of Scaramouche, and spied her opportunity to pay off
some of that ever-increasing score. But opportunities were few. Scaramouche
was too occupied just then. During the week of preparation at Fougeray, he
was hardly seen save at the performances, whilst when once they were at
Redon, he came and went like the wind between the theatre and the inn.
The Redon experiment had justified itself from the first. Stimulated
and encouraged by this, Andre-Louis worked day and night during the month
that they spent in that busy little town. The moment had been well chosen,
for the trade in chestnuts of which Redon is the centre was just then at its
height. And every afternoon the little theatre was packed with spectators.
The fame of the troupe had gone forth, borne by the chestnut-growers of the
district, who were bringing their wares to Redon market, and the audiences
were made up of people from the surrounding country, and from neighbouring
villages as far out as Allaire, Saint-Perrieux and Saint-Nicholas. To keep
the business from slackening, Andre-Louis prepared a new scenario every
week. He wrote three in addition to those two with which he had already
supplied the company; these were "The Marriage of Pantaloon," "The Shy
Lover," and "The Terrible Captain." Of these the last was the greatest
success. It was based upon the "Miles Gloriosus" of Plautus, with great
opportunities for Rhodomont, and a good part for Scaramouche as the roaring
captain's sly lieutenant. Its success was largely due to the fact that
Andre-Louis amplified the scenario to the extent of indicating very fully in
places the lines which the dialogue should follow, whilst here and there he
had gone so far as to supply some of the actual dialogue to be spoken,
without, however, making it obligatory upon the actors to keep to the letter
of it.
And meanwhile as the business prospered, he became busy with tailors,
improving the wardrobe of the company, which was sorely in need of
improvement. He ran to earth a couple of needy artists, lured them into the
company to play small parts - apothecaries and notaries - and set them to
beguile their leisure in painting new scenery, so as to be ready for what he
called the conquest of Nantes, which was to come in the new year. Never in
his life had he worked so hard; never in his life had he worked at all by
comparison with his activities now. His fund of energy and enthusiasm was
inexhaustible, like that of his good humour. He came and went, acted, wrote,
conceived, directed, planned, and executed, what time M. Binet took his ease
at last in comparative affluence, drank Burgundy every night, ate white
bread and other delicacies, and began to congratulate himself upon his
astuteness in having made this industrious, tireless fellow his partner.
Having discovered how idle had been his fears of performing at Redon, he now
began to dismiss the terrors with which the notion of Nantes had haunted
him.
And his happiness was reflected throughout the ranks of his company,
with the single exception always of Climene. She had ceased to sneer at
Scaramouche, haying realized at last that her sneers left him untouched and
recoiled upon herself. Thus her almost indefinable resentment of him was
increased by being stifled, until, at all costs, an outlet for it must be
found.
One day she threw herself in his way as he was leaving the theatre
after the performance. The others had already gone, and she had returned
upon pretence of having forgotten something.
"Will you tell me what I have done to you?" she asked him, point-blank.
"Done to me, mademoiselle?" He did not understand. She made a gesture
of impatience. "Why do you hate me?"
"Hate you, mademoiselle? I do not hate anybody. It is the most stupid
of all the emotions. I have never hated - not even my enemies."
"What Christian resignation!"
"As for hating you, of all people! Why... I consider you adorable. I
envy Leandre every day of my life. I have seriously thought of setting him
to play Scaramouche, and playing lovers myself."
"I don't think you would be a success," said she.
"That is the only consideration that restrains me. And yet, given the
inspiration that is given Leandre, it is possible that I might be
convincing."
"Why, what inspiration do you mean?"
"The inspiration of playing to so adorable a Climene."
Her lazy eyes were now alert to search that lean face of his.
"You are laughing at me," said she, and swept past him into the theatre
on her pretended quest. There was nothing to be done with such a fellow. He
was utterly without feeling. He was not a man at all.
Yet when she came forth again at the end of some five minutes, she
found him still lingering at the door.
"Not gone yet?" she asked him, superciliously.
"I was waiting for you, mademoiselle. You will be walking to the inn.
If I might escort you... "
"But what gallantry! What condescension!"
"Perhaps you would prefer that I did not?"
"How could I prefer that, M. Scaramouche? Besides, we are both going
the same way, and the streets are common to all. It is that I am overwhelmed
by the unusual honour."
He looked into her piquant little face, and noted how obscured it was
by its cloud of dignity. He laughed.
"Perhaps I feared that the honour was not sought."
"Ah, now I understand," she cried. "It is for me to seek these honours.
I am to woo a man before he will pay me the homage of civility. It must be
so, since you, who clearly know everything, have said so. It remains for me
to beg your pardon for my ignorance."
"It amuses you to be cruel," said Scaramouche. "No matter. Shall we
walk?"
They set out together, stepping briskly to warm their blood against the
wintry evening air. Awhile they went in silence, yet each furtively
observing the other.
"And so, you find me cruel?" she challenged him at length, thereby
betraying the fact that the accusation had struck home.
He looked at her with a half smile. "Will you deny it?"
"You are the first man that ever accused me of that."
"I dare not suppose myself the first man to whom you have been cruel.
That were an assumption too flattering to myself. I must prefer to think
that the others suffered in silence."
"Mon Dieu! Have you suffered?" She was between seriousness and
raillery.
"I place the confession as an offering on the altar of your vanity."
"I should never have suspected it."
"How could you? Am I not what your father calls a natural actor? I was
an actor long before I became Scaramouche. Therefore I have laughed. I often
do when I am hurt. When you were pleased to be disdainful, I acted disdain
in my turn."
"You acted very well," said she, without reflecting.
"Of course. I am an excellent actor."
"And why this sudden change?"
"In response to the change in you. You have grown weary of your part of
cruel madam - a dull part, believe me, and unworthy of your talents., Were I
a woman and had I your loveliness and your grace, Climene, I should disdain
to use them as weapons of offence."
"Loveliness and grace!" she echoed, feigning amused surprise. But the
vain baggage was mollified. "When was it that you discovered this beauty and
this grace, M. Scaramouche?"
He looked at her a moment, considering the sprightly beauty of her, the
adorable femininity that from the first had so irresistibly attracted him.
"One morning when I beheld you rehearsing a love-scene with Leandre."
He caught the surprise that leapt to her eyes, before she veiled them
under drooping lids from his too questing gaze.
"Why, that was the first time you saw me."
"I had no earlier occasion to remark your charms."
"You ask me to believe too much," said she, but her tone was softer
than he had ever known it yet.
"Then you'll refuse to believe me if I confess that it was this grace
and beauty that determined my destiny that day by urging me to join your
father's troupe."
At that she became a little out of breath. There was no longer any
question of finding an outlet for resentment. Resentment was all forgotten.
"But why? With what object?"
"With the object of asking you one day to be my wife."
She halted under the shock of that, and swung round to face him. Her
glance met his own without, shyness now; there was a hardening glitter in
her eyes, a faint stir of colour in her cheeks. She suspected him of an
unpardonable mockery.
"You go very fast, don't you?" she asked him, with heat.
"I do. haven't you observed it? I am a man of sudden impulses. See what
I have made of the Binet troupe in less than a couple of months. Another
might have laboured for a year and not achieved the half of it. Shall I be
slower in love than in work? Would it be reasonable to expect it? I have
curbed and repressed myself not to scare you by precipitancy. In that I have
done violence to my feelings, and more than all in using the same cold
aloofness with which you chose to treat me. I have waited - oh! so patiently
- until you should tire of that mood of cruelty."
"You are an amazing man," said she, quite colourlessly.
"I am," he agreed with her. "It is only the conviction that I am not
commonplace that has permitted me to hope as I have hoped."
Mechanically, and as if by tacit consent, they resumed their walk.
"And I ask you to observe," he said, "when you complain that I go very
fast, that, after all, I have so far asked you for nothing."
"How?" quoth she, frowning.
"I have merely told you of my hopes. I am not so rash as to ask at once
whether I may realize them."
"My faith, but that is prudent," said she, tartly.
"Of course."
It was his self-possession that exasperated her; for after that she
walked the short remainder of the way in silence, and so, for the moment,
the matter was left just there.
But that night, after they had supped, it chanced that when Climene was
about to retire, he and she were alone together in the room abovestairs that
her father kept exclusively for his company. The Binet Troupe, you see, was
rising in the world.
As Climene now rose to withdraw for the night, Scaramouche rose with
her to light her candle. Holding it in her left hand, she offered him her
right, a long, tapering, white hand at the end of a softly rounded arm that
was bare to the elbow.
"Good-night, Scaramouche," she said, but so softly, so tenderly, that
he caught his breath, and stood conning her, his dark eyes aglow.
Thus a moment, then he took the tips of her fingers in his grasp, and
bowing over the hand, pressed his lips upon it. Then he looked at her again.
The intense femininity of her lured him on, invited him, surrendered to him.
Her face was pale, there was a glitter in her eyes, a curious smile upon her
parted lips, and under its fichu-menteur her bosom rose and fell to complete
the betrayal of her.
By the hand he continued to hold, he drew her towards him. She came
unresisting. He took the candle from her, and set it down on the sideboard
by which she stood. The next moment her slight, lithe body was in his arms,
and he was kissing her, murmuring her name as if it were a prayer.
"Am I cruel now?" she asked him, panting. He kissed her again for only
answer. "You made me cruel because you would not see," she told him next in
a whisper.
And then the door opened, and M. Binet came in to have his paternal
eyes regaled by this highly indecorous behaviour of his daughter.
He stood at gaze, whilst they quite leisurely, and in a self-possession
too complete to be natural, detached each from the other.
"And what may be the meaning of this?" demanded M. Binet, bewildered
and profoundly shocked.
"Does it require explaining?" asked Scaramouche. "Doesn't it speak for
itself - eloquently? It means that Climene and I have taken it into our
heads to be married."
"And doesn't it matter what I may take into my head?"
"Of course. But you could have neither the bad taste nor the bad heart
to offer any obstacle."
"You take that for granted? Aye, that is your way, to be sure - to take
things for granted. But my daughter is not to be taken for granted. I have
very definite views for my daughter. You have done an unworthy thing,
Scaramouche. You have betrayed my trust in you. I am very angry with you."
He rolled forward with his ponderous yet curiously noiseless gait.
Scaramouche turned to her, smiling, and handed her the candle.
"If you will leave us, Climene, I will ask your hand of your father in
proper form."
She vanished, a little fluttered, lovelier than ever in her mixture of
confusion and timidity. Scaramouche closed the door and faced the enraged M.
Binet, who had flung himself into an armchair at the head of the short
table, faced him with the avowed purpose of asking for Climene's hand in
proper form. And this was how he did it:
"Father-in-law," said he, "I congratulate you. This will certainly mean
the Comedie Francaise for Climene, and that before long, and you shall shine
in the glory she will reflect. As the father of Madame Scaramouche you may
yet be famous."
Binet, his face slowly empurpling, glared at him in speechless
stupefaction. His rage was the more utter from his humiliating conviction
that whatever he might say or do, this irresistible fellow would bend him to
his will. At last speech came to him.
"You're a damned corsair," he cried, thickly, banging his ham-like fist
upon the table. "A corsair! First you sail in and plunder me of half my
legitimate gains; and now you want to carry off my daughter. But I'll be
damned if I'll give her to a graceless, nameless scoundrel like you, for
whom the gallows are waiting already."
Scaramouche pulled the bell-rope, not at all discomposed. He smiled.
There was a flush on his cheeks and a gleam in his eyes. He was very pleased
with the world that night. He really owed a great debt to M. de
Lesdiguieres.
"Binet," said he, "forget for once that you are Pantaloon, and behave
as a nice, amiable father-in-law should behave when he has secured a
son-in-law of exceptionable merits. We are going to have a bottle of
Burgundy at my expense, and it shall be the best bottle of Burgundy to be
found in Redon. Compose yourself to do fitting honour to it. Excitations of
the bile invariably impair the fine sensitiveness of the palate."
The Binet Troupe opened in Nantes - as you may discover in surviving
copies of the "Courrier Nantais" - on the Feast of the Purification with
"Les Fourberies de Scaramouche." But they did not come to Nantes as hitherto
they had gone to little country villages and townships, unheralded and
depending entirely upon the parade of their entrance to attract attention to
themselves. Andre-Louis had borrowed from the business methods of the
Comedie Francaise. Carrying matters with a high hand entirely in his own
fashion, he had ordered at Redon the printing of playbills, and four days
before the company's descent upon Nantes, these bills were pasted outside
the Theatre Feydau and elsewhere about the town, and had attracted
- being still sufficiently unusual announcements at the time -
considerable attention. He had entrusted the matter to one of the company's
latest recruits, an intelligent young man named Basque, sending him on ahead
of the company for the purpose.
You may see for yourself one of these playbills in the Carnavalet
Museum. It details the players by their stage names only, with the exception
of M. Binet and his daughter, and leaving out of account that he who plays
Trivelin in one piece appears as Tabarin in another, it makes the company
appear to be at least half as numerous again as it really was. It announces
that they will open with "Les Fourberies de Scaramouche," to be followed by
five other plays of which it gives the titles, and by others not named,
which shall also be added should the patronage to be received in the
distinguished and enlightened city of Nantes encourage the Binet Troupe to
prolong its sojourn at the Theatre Feydau. It lays great stress upon the
fact that this is a company of improvisers in the old Italian manner, the
like of which has not been seen in France for half a century, and it exhorts
the public of Nantes not to miss this opportunity of witnessing these
distinguished mimes who are reviving for them the glories of the Comedie de
l'Art. Their visit to Nantes - the announcement proceeds - is preliminary to
their visit to Paris, where they intend to throw down the glove to the
actors of the Comedie Francaise, and to show the world how superior is the
art of the improviser to that of the actor who depends upon an author for
what he shall say, and who consequently says always the same thing every
time that he plays in the same piece.
It is an audacious bill, and its audacity had scared M. Binet out of
the little sense left him by the Burgundy which in these days he could
afford to abuse. He had offered the most vehement opposition. Part of this
Andre-Louis had swept aside; part he had disregarded.
"I admit that it is audacious," said Scaramouche. "But at your time of
life you should have learnt that in this world nothing succeeds like
audacity."
"I forbid it; I absolutely forbid it," M. Binet insisted.
"I knew you would. Just as I know that you'll be very grateful to me
presently for not obeying you.
"You are inviting a catastrophe."
"I am inviting fortune. The worst catastrophe that can overtake you is
to be back in the market-halls of the country villages from which I rescued
you. I'll have you in Paris yet in spite of yourself. Leave this to me."
And he went out to attend to the printing. Nor did his preparations end
there. He wrote a piquant article on the glories of the Comedie de l'Art,
and its resurrection by the improvising troupe of the great mime Florimond
Binet. Binet's name was not Florimond; it was just Pierre. But Andre-Louis
had a great sense of the theatre. That article was an amplification of the
stimulating matter contained in the playbills; and he persuaded Basque, who
had relations in Nantes, to use all the influence he could command, and all
the bribery they could afford, to get that article printed in the "Courrier
Nantais" a couple of days before the arrival of the Binet Troupe.
Basque had succeeded, and, considering the undoubted literary merits
and intrinsic interest of the article, this is not at all surprising.
And so it was upon an already expectant city that Binet and his company
descended in that first week of February. M. Binet would have made his
entrance in the usual manner - a full-dress parade with banging drums and
crashing cymbals. But to this Andre-Louis offered the most relentless
opposition.
"We should but discover our poverty," said he. "Instead, we will creep
into the city unobserved, and leave ourselves to the imagination of the
public."
He had his way, of course. M. Binet, worn already with battling against
the strong waters of this young man's will, was altogether unequal to the
contest now that he found CLIMENE in alliance with Scaramouche, adding her
insistence to his, and joining with him in reprobation of her father's
sluggish and reactionary wits. Metaphorically, M. Binet threw up his arms,
and cursing the day on which he had taken this young man into his troupe, he
allowed the current to carry him whither it would. He was persuaded that he
would be drowned in the end. Meanwhile he would drown his vexation in
Burgundy. At least there was abundance of Burgundy. Never in his life had he
found Burgundy so plentiful. Perhaps things were not as bad as he imagined,
after all. He reflected that, when all was said, he had to thank Scaramouche
for the Burgundy. Whilst fearing the worst, he would hope for the best.
And it was very much the worst that he feared as he waited in the wings
when the curtain rose on that first performance of theirs at the Theatre
Feydau to a house that was tolerably filled by a public whose curiosity the
preliminary announcements had thoroughly stimulated.
Although the scenario of "Lee Fourberies de Scaramouche" has not
apparently survived, yet we know from Andre-Louis' "Confessions" that it is
opened by Polichinelle in the character of an arrogant and fiercely jealous
lover shown in the act of beguiling the waiting-maid, Columbine, to play the
spy upon her mistress, Climene. Beginning with cajolery, but failing in this
with the saucy Columbine, who likes cajolers to be at least attractive and
to pay a due deference to her own very piquant charms, the fierce humpbacked
scoundrel passes on to threats of the terrible vengeance he will wreak upon
her if she betrays him or neglects to obey him implicitly; failing here,
likewise, he finally has recourse to bribery, and after he has bled himself
freely to the very expectant Columbine, he succeeds by these means in
obtaining her consent to spy upon Climene, and to report to him upon her
lady's conduct.
The pair played the scene well together, stimulated, perhaps, by their
very nervousness at finding themselves before so imposing an audience.
Polichinelle was everything that is fierce, contemptuous, and insistent.
Columbine was the essence of pert indifference under his cajolery, saucily
mocking under his threats, and finely sly in extorting the very maximum when
it came to accepting a bribe. Laughter rippled through the audience and
promised well. But M. Binet, standing trembling in the wings, missed the
great guffaws of the rustic spectators to whom they had played hitherto, and
his fears steadily mounted.
Then, scarcely has Polichinelle departed by the door than Scaramouche
bounds in through the window. It was an effective entrance, usually
performed with a broad comic effect that set the people in a roar. Not so on
this occasion. Meditating in bed that morning, Scaramouche had decided to
present himself in a totally different aspect. He would cut out all the
broad play, all the usual clowning which had delighted their past rude
audiences, and he would obtain his effects by subtlety instead. He would
present a slyly humorous rogue, restrained, and of a certain dignity,
wearing a countenance of complete solemnity, speaking his lines drily, as if
unconscious of the humour with which he intended to invest them. Thus,
though it might take the audience longer to understand and discover him,
they would like him all the better in the end.
True to that resolve, he now played his part as the friend and hired
ally of the lovesick Leandre, on whose behalf he came for news of Climene,
seizing the opportunity to further his own amour with Columbine and his
designs upon the money-bags of Pantaloon. Also he had taken certain
liberties with the traditional costume of Scaramouche; he had caused the
black doublet and breeches to be slashed with red, and the doublet to be cut
more to a peak, a la Henri III. The conventional black velvet cap he had
replaced by a conical hat with a turned-up brim, and a tuft of feathers on
the left, and he had discarded the guitar.
M. Binet listened desperately for the roar of laughter that usually
greeted the entrance of Scaramouche, and his dismay increased when it did
not come. And then he became conscious of something alarmingly unusual in
Scaramouche's manner. The sibilant foreign accent was there, but none of the
broad boisterousness their audiences had loved.
He wrung his hands in despair. "It is all over!" he said. "The fellow
has ruined us! It serves me right for being a fool, and allowing him to take
control of everything!"
But he was profoundly mistaken. He began to have an inkling of this
when presently himself he took the stage, and found the public attentive,
remarked a grin of quiet appreciation on every upturned face. It was not,
however, until the thunders of applause greeted the fall of the curtain on
the first act that he felt quite sure they would be allowed to escape with
their lives.
Had the part of Pantaloon in "Les Fourberies" been other than that of a
blundering, timid old idiot, Binet would have ruined it by his
apprehensions. As it was, those very apprehensions, magnifying as they did
the hesitancy and bewilderment that were the essence of his part,
contributed to the success. And a success it proved that more than justified
all the heralding of which Scaramouche had been guilty.
For Scaramouche himself this success was not confined to the public. At
the end of the play a great reception awaited him from his companions
assembled in the green-room of the theatre. His talent, resource, and energy
had raised them in a few weeks from a pack of vagrant mountebanks to a
self-respecting company of first-rate players. They acknowledged it
generously in a speech entrusted to Polichinelle, adding the tribute to his
genius that, as they had conquered Nantes, so would they conquer the world
under his guidance.
In their enthusiasm they were a little neglectful of the feelings of M.
Binet. Irritated enough had he been already by the overriding of his every
wish, by the consciousness of his weakness when opposed to Scaramouche. And,
although he had suffered the gradual process of usurpation of authority
because its every step had been attended by his own greater profit, deep
down in him the resentment abode to stifle every spark of that gratitude due
from him to his partner. To-night his nerves had been on the rack, and he
had suffered agonies of apprehension, for all of which he blamed Scaramouche
so bitterly that not even the ultimate success - almost miraculous when all
the elements are considered - could justify his partner in his eyes.
And now, to find himself, in addition, ignored by this company - his
own company, which he had so laboriously and slowly assembled and selected
among the men of ability whom he had found here and there in the dregs of
cities was something that stirred his bile, and aroused the malevolence that
never did more than slumber in him. But deeply though his rage was moved, it
did not blind him to the folly of betraying it. Yet that he should assert
himself in this hour was imperative unless he were for ever to become a
thing of no account in this troupe over which he had lorded it for long
months before this interloper came amongst them to fill his purse and
destroy his authority.
So he stepped forward now when Polichinelle had done. His make-up
assisting him to mask his bitter feelings, he professed to add his own to
Polichinelle's acclamations of his dear partner. But he did it in such a
manner as to make it clear that what Scaramouche had done, he had done by M.
Binet's favour, and that in all M. Binet's had been the guiding hand. In
associating himself with Polichinelle, he desired to thank Scaramouche, much
in the manner of a lord rendering thanks to his steward for services
diligently rendered and orders scrupulously carried out.
It neither deceived the troupe nor mollified himself. Indeed, his
consciousness of the mockery of it but increased his bitterness. But at
least it saved his face and rescued him from nullity - he who was their
chief.
To say, as I have said, that it did not deceive them, is perhaps to say
too much, for it deceived them at least on the score of his feelings. They
believed, after discounting the insinuations in which he took all credit to
himself, that at heart he was filled with gratitude, as they were. That
belief was shared by Andre-Louis himself, who in his brief, grateful answer
was very generous to M. Binet, more than endorsing the claims that M. Binet
had made.
And then followed from him the announcement that their success in
Nantes was the sweeter to him because it rendered almost immediately
attainable the dearest wish of his heart, which was to make Climene his
wife. It was a felicity of which he was the first to acknowledge his utter
unworthiness. It was to bring him into still closer relations with his good
friend M. Binet, to whom he owed all that he had achieved for himself and
for them. The announcement was joyously received, for the world of the
theatre loves a lover as dearly as does the greater world. So they acclaimed
the happy pair, with the exception of poor Leandre, whose eyes were more
melancholy than ever.
They were a happy family that night in the upstairs room of their inn
on the Quai La Fosse - the same inn from which Andre-Louis had set out some
weeks ago to play a vastly different role before an audience of Nantes. Yet
was it so different, he wondered? Had he not then been a sort of Scaramouche
- an intriguer, glib and specious, deceiving folk, cynically misleading them
with opinions that were not really his own? Was it at all surprising that he
should have made so rapid and signal a success as a mime? Was not this
really all that he had ever been, the thing for which Nature had designed
him?
On the following night they played "The Shy Lover" to a full house, the
fame of their debut having gone abroad, and the success of Monday was
confirmed. On Wednesday they gave "Figaro-Scaramouche," and on Thursday
morning the "Courrier Nantais" came out with an article of more than a
column of praise of these brilliant improvisers, for whom it claimed that
they utterly put to shame the mere reciters of memorized parts.
Andre-Louis, reading the sheet at breakfast, and having no delusions on
the score of the falseness of that statement, laughed inwardly. The novelty
of the thing, and the pretentiousness in which he had swaddled it, had
deceived them finely. He turned to greet Binet and Climene, who entered at
that moment. He waved the sheet above his head.
"It is settled," he announced, "we stay in Nantes until Easter."
"Do we?" said Binet, sourly. "You settle everything, my friend."
"Read for yourself." And he handed him the paper.
Moodily M. Binet read. He set the sheet down in silence, and turned his
attention to his breakfast.
"Was I justified or not?" quoth Andre-Louis, who found M. Binet's
behaviour a thought intriguing.
"In what?"
"In coming to Nantes?"
"If I had not thought so, we should not have come," said Binet, and he
began to eat.
Andre-Louis dropped the subject, wondering.
After breakfast he and Climene sallied forth to take the air upon the
quays. It was a day of brilliant sunshine and less cold than it had lately
been. Columbine tactlessly joined them as they were setting out, though in
this respect matters were improved a little when Harlequin came running
after them, and attached himself to Columbine.
Andre-Louis, stepping out ahead with Climene, spoke of the thing that
was uppermost in his mind at the moment.
"Your father is behaving very oddly towards me," said he. "It is almost
as if he had suddenly become hostile."
"You imagine it," said she. "My father is very grateful to you, as we
all are."
"He is anything but grateful. He is infuriated against me; and I think
I know the reason. Don't you? Can't you guess?"
"I can't, indeed."
"If you were my daughter, Climene, which God be thanked you are not, I
should feel aggrieved against the man who carried you away from me. Poor old
Pantaloon! He called me a corsair when I told him that I intend to marry
you."
"He was right. You are a bold robber, Scaramouche."
"It is in the character," said he. "Your father believes in having his
mimes play upon the stage the parts that suit their natural temperaments."
"Yes, you take everything you want, don't you?" She looked up at him,
half adoringly, half shyly.
"If it is possible," said he. "I took his consent to our marriage by
main force from him. I never waited for him to give it. When, in fact, he
refused it, I just snatched it from him, and I'll defy him now to win it
back from me. I think that is what he most resents."
She laughed, and launched upon an animated answer. But he did not hear
a word of it. Through the bustle of traffic on the quay a cabriolet, the
upper half of which was almost entirely made of glass, had approached them.
It was drawn by two magnificent bay horses and driven by a superbly livened
coachman.
In the cabriolet alone sat a slight young girl wrapped in a lynx-fur
pelisse, her face of a delicate loveliness. She was leaning forward, her
lips parted, her eyes devouring Scaramouche until they drew his gaze. When
that happened, the shock of it brought him abruptly to a dumfounded halt.
Climene, checking in the middle of a sentence, arrested by his own
sudden stopping, plucked at his sleeve.
"What is it, Scaramouche?"
But he made no attempt to answer her, and at that moment the coachman,
to whom the little lady had already signalled, brought the carriage to a
standstill beside them. Seen in the gorgeous setting of that coach with its
escutcheoned panels, its portly coachman and its white-stockinged footman -
who swung instantly to earth as the vehicle stopped - its dainty occupant
seemed to Climene a princess out of a fairy-tale. And this princess leaned
forward, with eyes aglow and cheeks aflush, stretching out a choicely gloved
hand to Scaramouche.
"Andre-Louis!" she called him.
And Scaramouche took the hand of that exalted being, just as he might
have taken the hand of Climene herself, and with eyes that reflected the
gladness of her own, in a voice that echoed the joyous surprise of hers, he
addressed her familiarly by name, just as she had addressed him.
"Aline!"
"The door," Aline commanded her footman, and "Mount here beside me,"
she commanded Andre-Louis, in the same breath.
"A moment, Aline."
He turned to his companion, who was all amazement, and to Harlequin and
Columbine, who had that moment come up to share it. "You permit me,
Climene?" said he, breathlessly. But it was more a statement than a
question. "Fortunately you are not alone. Harlequin will take care of you.
Au revoir, at dinner."
With that he sprang into the cabriolet without waiting for a reply. The
footman dosed the door, the coachman cracked his whip, and the regal
equipage rolled away along the quay, leaving the three comedians staring
after it, open-mouthed... Then Harlequin laughed.
"A prince in disguise, our Scaramouche!" said he.
Columbine clapped her hands and flashed her strong teeth. "But what a
romance for you, Climene! How wonderful!"
The frown melted from Climene's brow. Resentment changed to
bewilderment.
"But who is she?"
"His sister, of course," said Harlequin, quite definitely.
"His sister? How do you know?"
"I know what he will tell you on his return."
"But why?"
"Because you wouldn't believe him if he said she was his mother."
Following the carriage with their glance, they wandered on in the
direction it had taken. And in the carriage Aline was considering
Andre-Louis with grave eyes, lips slightly compressed, and a tiny frown
between her finely drawn eyebrows.
"You have taken to queer company, Andre," was the first thing she said
to him. "Or else I am mistaken in thinking that your companion was Mlle.
Binet of the Theatre Feydau."
"You are not mistaken. But I had not imagined Mlle. Binet so famous
already."
"Oh, as to that... " mademoiselle shrugged, her tone quietly scornful.
And she explained. "It is simply that I was at the play last night. I
thought I recognized her."
"You were at the Feydau last night? And I never saw you!"
"Were you there, too?"
"Was I there!" he cried. Then he checked, and abruptly changed his
tone. "Oh, yes, I was there," he said, as commonplace as he could, beset by
a sudden reluctance to avow that he had so willingly descended to depths
that she must account unworthy, and grateful that his disguise of face and
voice should have proved impenetrable even to one who knew him so very well.
"I understand," said she, and compressed her lips a little more
tightly.
"But what do you understand?"
"The rare attractions of Mlle. Binet. Naturally you would be at the
theatre. Your tone conveyed it very clearly. Do you know that you disappoint
me, Andre? It is stupid of me, perhaps; it betrays, I suppose, my imperfect
knowledge of your sex. I am aware that most young men of fashion find an
irresistible attraction for creatures who parade themselves upon the stage.
But I did not expect you to ape the ways of a man of fashion. I was foolish
enough to imagine you to be different; rather above such trivial pursuits. I
conceived you something of an idealist."
"Sheer flattery."
"So I perceive. But you misled me. You talked so much morality of a
kind, you made philosophy so readily, that I came to be deceived. In fact,
your hypocrisy was so consummate that I never suspected it. With your gift
of acting I wonder that you haven't joined Mlle. Binet's troupe."
"I have," said he.
It had really become necessary to tell her, making choice of the lesser
of the two evils with which she confronted him.
He saw first incredulity, then consternation, and lastly disgust
overspread her face.
"Of course," said she, after a long pause, "that would have the
advantage of bringing you closer to your charmer."
"That was only one of the inducements. There was another. Finding
myself forced to choose between the stage and the gallows, I had the
incredible weakness to prefer the former. It was utterly unworthy of a man
of my lofty ideals, but - what would you? Like other ideologists, I find it
easier to preach than to practise. Shall I stop the carriage and remove the
contamination of my disgusting person? Or shall I tell you how it happened?"
"Tell me how it happened first. Then we will decide."
He told her how he met the Binet Troupe, and how the men of the
marechaussee forced upon him the discovery that in its bosom he could lie
safely lost until the hue and cry had died down. The explanation dissolved
her iciness.
"My poor Andre, why didn't you tell me this at first?"
"For one thing, you didn't give me time; for another, I feared to shock
you with the spectacle of my degradation."
She took him seriously. "But where was the need of it? And why did you
not send us word as I required you of your whereabouts?"
"I was thinking of it only yesterday. I have hesitated for several
reasons."
"You thought it would offend us to know what you were doing?"
"I think that I preferred to surprise you by the magnitude of my
ultimate achievements."
"Oh, you are to become a great actor?" She was frankly scornful.
"That is not impossible. But I am more concerned to become a great
author. There is no reason why you should sniff. The calling is an
honourable one. All the world is proud to know such men as Beaumarchais and
Chenier."
"And you hope to equal them?"
"I hope to surpass them, whilst acknowledging that it was they who
taught me how to walk. What did you think of the play last night?"
"It was amusing and well conceived."
"Let me present you to the author."
"You? But the company is one of the improvisers."
"Even improvisers require an author to write their scenarios. That is
all I write at present. Soon I shall be writing plays in the modern manner."
"You deceive yourself, my poor Andre. The piece last night would have
been nothing without the players. You are fortunate in your Scaramouche."
"In confidence - I present you to him."
"You - Scaramouche? You?" She turned to regard him fully. He smiled his
close-lipped smile that made wrinkles like gashes in his cheeks. He nodded.
"And I didn't recognize you!"
"I thank you for the tribute. You imagined, of course, that I was a
scene-shifter. And now that you know all about me, what of Gavrillac? What
of my godfather?"
He was well, she told him, and still profoundly indignant with
Andre-Louis for his defection, whilst secretly concerned on his behalf.
"I shall write to him to-day that I have seen you."
"Do so. Tell him that I am well and prospering. But say no more. Do not
tell him what I am doing. He has his prejudices too. Besides, it might not
be prudent. And now the question I have been burning to ask ever since I
entered your carriage. Why are you in Nantes, Aline?"
"I am on a visit to my aunt, Mme. de Sautron. It was with her that I
came to the play yesterday. We have been dull at the chateau; but it will be
different now. Madame my aunt is receiving several guests to-day. M. de La
Tour d'Azyr is to be one of them."
Andre-Louis frowned and sighed. "Did you ever hear, Aline, how poor
Philippe de Vilmorin came by his end?"
"Yes; I was told, first by my uncle; then by M. de La Tour d'Azyr,
himself."
"Did not that help you to decide this marriage question?"
"How could it? You forget that I am but a woman. You don't expect me to
judge between men in matters such as these?"
"Why not? You are well able to do so. The more since you have heard two
sides. For my godfather would tell you the truth. If you cannot judge, it is
that you do not wish to judge." His tone became harsh. "Wilfully you close
your eyes to justice that might check the course of your unhealthy,
unnatural ambition."
"Excellent!" she exclaimed, and considered him with amusement and
something else. "Do you know that you are almost droll? You rise unblushing
from the dregs of life in which I find you, and shake off the arm of that
theatre girl, to come and preach to me."
"If these were the dregs of life I might still speak from them to
counsel you out of my respect and devotion ,Aline." He was very stiff and
stern. "But they are not the dregs of life. Honour and virtue are possible
to a theatre girl; they are impossible to a lady who sells herself to
gratify ambition; who for position, riches, and a great title barters
herself in marriage."
She looked at him breathlessly. Anger turned her pale. She reached for
the cord.
"I think I had better let you alight so that you may go back to
practise virtue and honour with your theatre wench."
"You shall not speak so of her, Aline."
"Faith, now we are to have heat on her behalf. You think I am too
delicate? You think I should speak of her as a... "
"If you must speak of her at all," he interrupted, hotly, "you'll speak
of her as my wife."
Amazement smothered her anger. Her pallor deepened. "My God!" she said,
and looked at him in horror. And in horror she asked him presently: "You are
married - married to that -?"
"Not yet. But I shall be, soon. And let me tell you that this girl whom
you visit with your ignorant contempt is as good and pure as you are, Aline.
She has wit and talent which have placed her where she is and shall carry
her a deal farther. And she has the womanliness to be guided by natural
instincts in the selection of her mate."
She was trembling with passion. She tugged the cord.
"You will descend this instant!" she told him fiercely. "That you
should dare to make a comparison between me and that... "
"And my wife-to-be," he interrupted, before she could speak the
infamous word. He opened the door for himself without waiting for the
footman, and leapt down. "My compliments," said he, furiously, "to the
assassin you are to marry." He slammed the door. "Drive on," he bade the
coachman.
The carriage rolled away up the Faubourg Gigan, leaving him standing
where he had alighted, quivering with rage. Gradually, as he walked back to
the inn, his anger cooled. Gradually, as he cooled, he perceived her point
of view, and in the end forgave her. It was not her fault that she thought
as she thought. Her rearing had been such as to make her look upon every
actress as a trull, just as it had qualified her calmly to consider the
monstrous marriage of convenience into which she was invited.
He got back to the inn to find the company at table. Silence fell when
he entered, so suddenly that of necessity it must be supposed he was himself
the subject of the conversation. Harlequin and Columbine had spread the tale
of this prince in disguise caught up into the chariot of a princess and
carried off by her; and it was a tale that had lost nothing in the telling.
Climene had been silent and thoughtful, pondering what Columbine had
called this romance of hers. Clearly her Scaramouche must be vastly other
than he had hitherto appeared, or else that great lady and he would never
have used such familiarity with each other. Imagining him no better than he
was, Climene had made him her own. And now she was to receive the reward of
disinterested affection.
Even old Binet's secret hostility towards Andre-Louis melted before
this astounding revelation. He had pinched his daughter's ear quite
playfully. "Ah, ah, trust you to have penetrated his disguise, my child!"
She shrank resentfully from that implication.
"But I did not. I took him for what he seemed."
Her father winked at her very solemnly and laughed. "To be sure, you
did. But like your father, who was once a gentleman, and knows the ways of
gentlemen, you detected in him a subtle something different from those with
whom misfortune has compelled you hitherto to herd. You knew as well as I
did that he never caught that trick of haughtiness, that grand air of
command, in a lawyer's musty office, and that his speech had hardly the ring
or his thoughts the complexion of the bourgeois that he pretended to be. And
it was shrewd of you to have made him yours. Do you know that I shall be
very proud of you yet, Climene?"
She moved away without answering. Her father's oiliness offended her.
Scaramouche was clearly a great gentleman, an eccentric if you please, but a
man born. And she was to be his lady. Her father must learn to treat her
differently.
She looked shyly - with a new shyness - at her lover when he came into
the room where they were dining. She observed for the first time that proud
carriage of the head, with the chin thrust forward, that was a trick of his,
and she noticed with what a grace he moved
- the grace of one who in youth has had his dancing-masters and
fencing-masters.
It almost hurt her when he flung himself into a chair and exchanged a
quip with Harlequin in the usual manner as with an equal, and it offended
her still more that Harlequin, knowing what he now knew, should use him with
the same unbecoming familiarity.
"Do you know," said Climene, "that I am waiting for the explanation
which I think you owe me?"
They were alone together, lingering still at the table to which
Andre-Louis had come belatedly, and Andre-Louis was loading himself a pipe.
Of late - since joining the Binet Troupe - he had acquired the habit of
smoking. The others had gone, some to take the air and others, like Binet
and Madame, because they felt that it were discreet to leave those two to
the explanations that must pass. It was a feeling that Andre-Louis did not
share. He kindled a light and leisurely applied it to his pipe. A frown came
to settle on his brow.
"Explanation?" he questioned presently, and looked at her. "But on what
score?"
"On the score of the deception you have practised on us - on me."
"I have practised none," he assured her.
"You mean that you have simply kept your own counsel, and that in
silence there is no deception. But it is deceitful to withhold facts
concerning yourself and your true station from your future wife. You should
not have pretended to be a simple country lawyer, which, of course, any one
could see that you are not. It may have been very romantic, but... Enfin,
will you explain?"
"I see," he said, and pulled at his pipe. "But you are wrong, Climene.
I have practised no deception. If there are things about me that I have not
told you, it is that I did not account them of much importance. But I have
never deceived you by pretending to be other than I am. I am neither more
nor less than I have represented myself."
This persistence began to annoy her, and the annoyance showed on her
winsome face, coloured her voice.
"Ha! And that fine lady of the nobility with whom you are so intimate,
who carried you off in her cabriolet with so little ceremony towards myself?
What is she to you?"
"A sort of sister," said he.
"A sort of sister!" She was indignant. "Harlequin foretold that you
would say so; but he was amusing himself. It was not very funny. It is less
funny still from you. She has a name, I suppose, this sort of sister?"
"Certainly she has a name. She is Mlle. Aline de Kercadiou, the niece
of Quintin de Kercadiou, Lord of Gavrillac."
"Oho! That's a sufficiently fine name for your sort of sister. What
sort of sister, my friend?"
For the first time in their relationship he observed and deplored the
taint of vulgarity, of shrewishness, in her manner.
"It would have been more accurate in me to have said a sort of reputed
left-handed cousin."
"A reputed left-handed cousin! And what sort of relationship may that
be? Faith, you dazzle me with your lucidity."
"It requires to be explained."
"That is what I have been telling you. But you seem very reluctant with
your explanations."
"Oh, no. It is only that they are so unimportant. But be you the judge.
Her uncle, M. de Kercadiou, is my godfather, and she and I have been
playmates from infancy as a consequence. It is popularly believed in
Gavrillac that M. de Kercadiou is my father. He has certainly cared for my
rearing from my tenderest years, and it is entirely owing to him that I was
educated at Louis le Grand. I owe to him everything that I have - or,
rather, everything that I had; for of my own free will I have cut myself
adrift, and to-day I possess nothing save what I can earn for myself in the
theatre or elsewhere."
She sat stunned and pale under that cruel blow to her swelling pride.
Had he told her this but yesterday, it would have made no impression upon
her, it would have mattered not at all; the event of to-day coming as a
sequel would but have enhanced him in her eyes. But coming now, after her
imagination had woven for him so magnificent a background, after the rashly
assumed discovery of his splendid identity had made her the envied of all
the company, after having been in her own eyes and theirs enshrined by
marriage with him as a great lady, this disclosure crushed and humiliated
her. Her prince in disguise was merely the outcast bastard of a country
gentleman! She would be the laughing-stock of every member of her father's
troupe, of all those who had so lately envied her this romantic good
fortune.
"You should have told me this before," she said, in a dull voice that
she strove to render steady.
"Perhaps I should. But does it really matter?"
"Matter?" She suppressed her fury to ask another question. "You say
that this M. de Kercadiou is popularly believed to be your father. What
precisely do you mean?"
"Just that. It is a belief that I do not share. It is a matter of
instinct, perhaps, with me. Moreover, once I asked M. de Kercadiou
point-blank, and I received from him a denial. It is not, perhaps, a denial
to which one would attach too much importance in all the circumstances. Yet
I have never known M de Kercadiou for other than a man of strictest honour,
and I should hesitate to disbelieve him
- particularly when his statement leaps with my own instincts. He
assured me that he did not know who my father was."
"And your mother, was he equally ignorant?" She was sneering, but he
did not remark it. Her back was to the light.
"He would not disclose her name to me. He confessed her to be a dear
friend of his."
She startled him by laughing, and her laugh was not pleasant.
"A very dear friend, you may be sure, you simpleton. What name do you
bear?"
He restrained his own rising indignation to answer her question calmly:
"Moreau. It was given me, so I am told, from the Brittany village in which I
was born. But I have no claim to it. In fact I have no name, unless it be
Scaramouche, to which I have earned a title. So that you see, my dear," he
ended with a smile, "I have practised no deception whatever."
"No, no. I see that now." She laughed without mirth, then drew a deep
breath and rose. "I am very tired," she said.
He was on his feet in an instant, all solicitude. But she waved him
wearily back.
"I think I will rest until it is time to go to the theatre." She moved
towards the door, dragging her feet a little. He sprang to open it, and she
passed out without looking at him.
Her so brief romantic dream was ended. The glorious world of fancy
which in the last hour she had built with such elaborate detail, over which
it should be her exalted destiny to rule, lay shattered about her feet, its
debris so many stumbling-blocks that prevented her from winning back to her
erstwhile content in Scaramouche as he really was.
Andre-Louis sat in the window embrasure, smoking and looking idly out
across the river. He was intrigued and meditative. He had shocked her. The
fact was clear; not so the reason. That he should confess himself nameless
should not particularly injure him in the eyes of a girl reared amid the
surroundings that had been Climene's. And yet that his confession had so
injured him was fully apparent.
There, still at his brooding, the returning Columbine discovered him a
half-hour later.
"All alone, my prince!" was her laughing greeting, which suddenly threw
light upon his mental darkness. Climene had been disappointed of hopes that
the wild imagination of these players had suddenly erected upon the incident
of his meeting with Aline. Poor child! He smiled whimsically at Columbine.
"I am likely to be so for some little time," said he, "until it becomes
a commonplace that I am not, after all, a prince.
"Not a prince? Oh, but a duke, then - at least a marquis."
"Not even a chevalier, unless it be of the order of fortune. I am just
Scaramouche. My castles are all in Spain."
Disappointment clouded the lively, good-natured face.
"And I had imagined you... "
"I know," he interrupted. "That is the mischief." He might have gauged
the extent of that mischief by Climene's conduct that evening towards the
gentlemen of fashion who clustered now in the green-room between the acts to
pay their homage to the incomparable amoureuse. Hitherto she had received
them with a circumspection compelling respect. To-night she was recklessly
gay, impudent, almost wanton.
He spoke of it gently to her as they walked home together, counselling
more prudence in the future.
"We are not married yet," she told him, tartly. "Wait until then before
you criticize my conduct."
"I trust that there will be no occasion then," said he.
"You trust? Ah, yes. You are very trusting."
"Climene, I have offended you. I am sorry."
"It is nothing," said she. "You are what you are. Still was he not
concerned. He perceived the source of her ill-humour; understood, whilst
deploring it; and, because he understood, forgave. He perceived also that
her ill-humour was shared by her father, and by this he was frankly amused.
Towards M. Binet a tolerant contempt was the only feeling that complete
acquaintance could beget. As for the rest of the company, they were disposed
to be very kindly towards Scaramouche. It was almost as if in reality he had
fallen from the high estate to which their own imaginations had raised him;
or possibly it was because they saw the effect which that fall from his
temporary and fictitious elevation had produced upon Climene.
Leandre alone made himself an exception. His habitual melancholy seemed
to be dispelled at last, and his eyes gleamed now with malicious
satisfaction when they rested upon Scaramouche, whom occasionally he
continued to address with sly mockery as "mon prince."
On the morrow Andre-Louis saw but little of Climene. This was not in
itself extraordinary, for he was very hard at work again, with preparations
now for "Figaro-Scaramouche" which was to be played on Saturday. Also, in
addition to his manifold theatrical occupations, he now devoted an hour
every morning to the study of fencing in an academy of arms. This was done
not only to repair an omission in his education, but also, and chiefly, to
give him added grace and poise upon the stage. He found his mind that
morning distracted by thoughts of both Climene and Aline. And oddly enough
it was Aline who provided the deeper perturbation. Climene's attitude he
regarded as a passing phase which need not seriously engage him. But the
thought of Aline's conduct towards him kept rankling, and still more deeply
rankled the thought of her possible betrothal to M. de La Tour d'Azyr.
This it was that brought forcibly to his mind the self-imposed but by
now half-forgotten mission that he had made his own. He had boasted that he
would make the voice which M. de La Tour d'Azyr had sought to silence ring
through the length and breadth of the land. And what had he done of all this
that he had boasted? He had incited the mob of Rennes and the mob of Nantes
in such terms as poor Philippe might have employed, and then because of a
hue and cry he had fled like a cur and taken shelter in the first kennel
that offered, there to lie quiet and devote himself to other things -
self-seeking things. What a fine contrast between the promise and the
fulfilment!
Thus Andre-Louis to himself in his self-contempt. And whilst he trifled
away his time and played Scaramouche, and centred all his hopes in presently
becoming the rival of such men as Chenier and Mercier, M. de La Tour d'Azyr
went his proud ways unchallenged and wrought his will. It was idle to tell
himself that the seed he had sown was bearing fruit. That the demands he had
voiced in Nantes for the Third Estate had been granted by M. Necker, thanks
largely to the commotion which his anonymous speech had made. That was not
his concern or his mission. It was no part of his concern to set about the
regeneration of mankind, or even the regeneration of the social structure of
France. His concern was to see that M. de La Tour d'Azyr paid to the
uttermost liard for the brutal wrong he had done Philippe de Vilmorin. And
it did not increase his self-respect to find that the danger in which Aline
stood of being married to the Marquis was the real spur to his rancour and
to remembrance of his vow. He was - too unjustly, perhaps - disposed to
dismiss as mere sophistries his own arguments that there was nothing he
could do; that, in fact, he had but to show his head to find himself going
to Rennes under arrest and making his final exit from the world's stage by
way of the gallows.
It is impossible to read that part of his "Confessions" without feeling
a certain pity for him. You realize what must have been his state of mind.
You realize what a prey he was to emotions so conflicting, and if you have
the imagination that will enable you to put yourself in his place, you will
also realize how impossible was any decision save the one to which he says
he came, that he would move, at the first moment that he perceived in what
direction it would serve his real aims to move.
It happened that the first person he saw when he took the stage on that
Thursday evening was Aline; the second was the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr.
They occupied a box on the right of, and immediately above, the stage. There
were others with them - notably a thin, elderly, resplendent lady whom
Andre-Louis supposed to be Madame la Comtesse de Sautron. But at the time he
had no eyes for any but those two, who of late had so haunted his thoughts.
The sight of either of them would have been sufficiently disconcerting. The
sight of both together very nearly made him forget the purpose for which he
had come upon the stage. Then he pulled himself together, and played. He
played, he says, with an unusual nerve, and never in all that brief but
eventful career of his was he more applauded.
That was the evening's first shock. The next came after the second act.
Entering the green-room he found it more thronged than usual, and at the far
end with Climene, over whom he was bending from his fine height, his eyes
intent upon her face, what time his smiling lips moved in talk, M. de La
Tour d'Azyr. He had her entirely to himself, a privilege none of the men of
fashion who were in the habit of visiting the coulisse had yet enjoyed.
Those lesser gentlemen had all withdrawn before the Marquis, as jackals
withdraw before the lion.
Andre-Louis stared a moment, stricken. Then recovering from his
surprise he became critical in his study of the Marquis. He considered the
beauty and grace and splendour of him, his courtly air, his complete and
unshakable self-possession. But more than all he considered the expression
of the dark eyes that were devouring Climene's lovely face, and his own lips
tightened.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr never heeded him or his stare; nor, had he done
so, would he have known who it was that looked at him from behind the
make-up of Scaramouche; nor, again, had he known, would he have been in the
least troubled or concerned.
Andre-Louis sat down apart, his mind in turmoil. Presently he found a
mincing young gentleman addressing him, and made shift to answer as was
expected. Climene having been thus sequestered, and Columbine being already
thickly besieged by gallants, the lesser visitors had to content themselves
with Madame and the male members of the troupe. M. Binet, indeed, was the
centre of a gay cluster that shook with laughter at his sallies. He seemed
of a sudden to have emerged from the gloom of the last two days into high
good-humour, and Scaramouche observed how persistently his eyes kept
flickering upon his daughter and her splendid courtier.
That night there, were high words between Andre-Louis and Climene, the
high words proceeding from Climene. When Andre-Louis again, and more
insistently, enjoined prudence upon his betrothed, and begged her to beware
how far she encouraged the advances of such a man as M. de La Tour d'Azyr,
she became roundly abusive. She shocked and stunned him by her virulently
shrewish tone, and her still more unexpected force of invective.
He sought to reason with her, and finally she came to certain terms
with him.
"If you have become betrothed to me simply to stand as an obstacle in
my path, the sooner we make an end the better."
"You do not love me then, Climene?"
"Love has nothing to do with it. I'll not tolerate your insensate
jealousy. A girl in the theatre must make it her business to accept homage
from all."
"Agreed; and there is no harm, provided she gives nothing in exchange."
White-faced, with flaming eyes she turned on him at that.
"Now, what exactly do you mean?"
"My meaning is clear. A girl in your position may receive all the
homage that is offered, provided she receives it with a dignified aloofness
implying clearly that she has no favours to bestow in return beyond the
favour of her smile. If she is wise she will see to it that the homage is
always offered collectively by her admirers, and that no single one amongst
them shall ever have the privilege of approaching her alone. If she is wise
she will give no encouragement, nourish no hopes that it may afterwards be
beyond her power to deny realization."
"How? You dare?"
"I know my world. And I know M. de La Tour d'Azyr," he answered her.
"He is a man without charity, without humanity almost; a man who takes what
he wants wherever he finds it and whether it is given willingly or not; a
man who reckons nothing of the misery he scatters on his self-indulgent way;
a man whose only law is force. Ponder it, Climene, and ask yourself if I do
you less than honour in warning you."
He went out on that, feeling a degradation in continuing the subject.
The days that followed were unhappy days for him, and for at least one
other. That other was Leandre, who was cast into the profoundest dejection
by M. de La Tour d'Azyr's assiduous attendance upon Climene. The Marquis was
to be seen at every performance; a box was perpetually reserved for him, and
invariably he came either alone or else with his cousin M. de Chabrillane.
On Tuesday of the following week, Andre-Louis went out alone early in
the morning. He was out of temper, fretted by an overwhelming sense of
humiliation, and he hoped to clear his mind by walking. In turning the
corner of the Place du Bouffay he ran into a slightly built,
sallow-complexioned gentleman very neatly dressed in black, wearing a
tie-wig under a round hat. The man fell back at sight of him, levelling a
spy-glass, then hailed him in a voice that rang with amazement.
"Moreau! Where the devil have you been hiding your-self these months?"
It was Le Chapelier, the lawyer, the leader of the Literary Chamber of
Rennes.
"Behind the skirts of Thespis," said Scaramouche.
"I don't understand."
"I didn't intend that you should. What of yourself, Isaac? And what of
the world which seems to have been standing still of late?"
"Standing still!" Le Chapelier laughed. "But where have you been, then?
Standing still!" He pointed across the square to a caf‚ under the shadow of
the gloomy prison. "Let us go and drink a bavaroise. You are of all men the
man we want, the man we have been seeking everywhere, and - behold! - you
drop from the skies into my path."
They crossed the square and entered the caf‚.
"So you think the world has been standing still! Dieu de Dieu! I
suppose you haven't heard of the royal order for the convocation of the
States General, or the terms of them - that we are to have what we demanded,
what you demanded for us here in Nantes! You haven't heard that the order
has gone forth for the primary elections - the elections of the electors.
You haven't heard of the fresh uproar in Rennes, last month. The order was
that the three estates should sit together at the States General of the
bailliages, but in the bailliage of Rennes the nobles must ever be
recalcitrant. They took up arms actually - six hundred of them with their
valetaille, headed by your old friend M. de La Tour d'Azyr, and they were
for slashing us - the members of the Third Estate - into ribbons so as to
put an end to our insolence." He laughed delicately. "But, by God, we showed
them that we, too, could take up arms. It was what you yourself advocated
here in Nantes, last November. We fought them a pitched battle in the
streets, under the leadership of your namesake Moreau, the provost, and we
so peppered them that they were glad to take shelter in the Cordelier
Convent. That is the end of their resistance to the royal authority and the
people's will."
He ran on at great speed detailing the events that had taken place, and
finally came to the matter which had, he announced, been causing him to hunt
for Andre-Louis until he had all but despaired of finding him.
Nantes was sending fifty delegates to the assembly of Rennes which was
to select the deputies to the Third Estate and edit their cahier of
grievances. Rennes itself was being as fully represented, whilst such
villages as Gavrillac were sending two delegates for every two hundred
hearths or less. Each of these three had clamoured that Andre-Louis Moreau
should be one of its delegates. Gavrillac wanted him because he belonged to
the village, and it was known there what sacrifices he had made in the
popular cause; Rennes wanted him because it had heard his spirited address
on the day of the shooting of the students; and Nantes - to whom his
identity was unknown - asked for him as the speaker who had addressed them
under the name of Omnes Omnibus and who had framed for them the memorial
that was believed so largely to have influenced M. Necker in formulating the
terms of the convocation.
Since he could not be found, the delegations had been made up without
him. But now it happened that one or two vacancies had occurred in the
Nantes representation; and it was the business of filling these vacancies
that had brought Le Chapelier to Nantes.
Andre-Louis firmly shook his head in answer to Le Chapelier's proposal.
"You refuse?" the other cried. "Are you mad? Refuse, when you are
demanded from so many sides? Do you realize that it is more than probable
you will be elected one of the deputies, that you will be sent to the States
General at Versailles to represent us in this work of saving France?"
But Andre-Louis, we know, was not concerned to save France. At the
moment he was concerned to save two women, both of whom he loved, though in
vastly different ways, from a man he had vowed to ruin. He stood firm in his
refusal until Le Chapelier dejectedly abandoned the attempt to persuade him.
"It is odd," said Andre-Louis, "that I should have been so deeply
immersed in trifles as never to have perceived that Nantes is being
politically active."
"Active! My friend, it is a seething cauldron of political emotions. It
is kept quiet on the surface only by the persuasion that all goes well. At a
hint to the contrary it would boil over."
"Would it so?" said Scaramouche, thoughtfully. "The knowledge may be
useful." And then he changed the subject. "You know that La Tour d'Azyr is
here?"
"In Nantes? He has courage if he shows himself. They are not a docile
people, these Nantais, and they know his record and the part he played in
the rising at Rennes. I marvel they haven't stoned him. But they will,
sooner or later. It only needs that some one should suggest it."
"That is very likely," said Andre-Louis, and smiled. "He doesn't show
himself much; not in the streets, at least. So that he has not the courage
you suppose; nor any kind of courage, as I told him once. He has only
insolence."
At parting Le Chapelier again exhorted him to give thought to what he
proposed. "Send me word if you change your mind. I am lodged at the Cerf,
and I shall be here until the day after to-morrow. If you have ambition,
this is your moment."
"I have no ambition, I suppose," said Andre-Louis, and went his way.
That night at the theatre he had a mischievous impulse to test what Le
Chapelier had told him of the state of public feeling in the city. They were
playing "The Terrible Captain," in the last act of which the empty cowardice
of the bullying braggart Rhodomont is revealed by Scaramouche.
After the laughter which the exposure of the roaring captain invariably
produced, it remained for Scaramouche contemptuously to dismiss him in a
phrase that varied nightly, according to the inspiration of the moment. This
time he chose to give his phrase a political complexion:
"Thus, 0 thrasonical coward, is your emptiness exposed. Because of your
long length and the great sword you carry and the angle at which you cock
your hat, people have gone in fear of you,, have believed in you, have
imagined you to be as terrible and as formidable as you insolently make
yourself appear. But at the first touch of true spirit you crumple up, you
tremble, you whine pitifully, and the great sword remains in your scabbard.
You remind me of the Privileged Orders when confronted by the Third Estate."
It was audacious of him, and he was prepared for anything - a laugh,
applause, indignation, or all together. But he was not prepared for what
came. And it came so suddenly and spontaneously from the groundlings and the
body of those in the amphitheatre that he was almost scared by it - as a boy
may be scared who has held a match to a sun-scorched hayrick. It was a
hurricane of furious applause. Men leapt to their feet, sprang up on to the
benches, waving their hats in the air, deafening him with the terrific
uproar of their acclamations. And it rolled on and on, nor ceased until the
curtain fell.
Scaramouche stood meditatively smiling with tight lips. At the last
moment he had caught a glimpse of M. de La Tour d'Azyr's face thrust farther
forward than usual from the shadows of his box, and it was a face set in
anger, with eyes on fire.
"Mon Dieu!" laughed Rhodomont, recovering from the real scare that had
succeeded his histrionic terror, "but you have a great trick of tickling
them in the right place, Scaramouche."
Scaramouche looked up at him and smiled. "It can be useful upon
occasion," said he, and went off to his dressing-room to change.
But a reprimand awaited him. He was delayed at the theatre by matters
concerned with the scenery of the new piece they were to mount upon the
morrow. By the time he was rid of the business the rest of the company had
long since left. He called a chair and had himself carried back to the inn
in solitary state. It was one of many minor luxuries his comparatively
affluent present circumstances permitted.
Coming into that upstairs room that was common to all the troupe, he
found M. Binet talking loudly and vehemently. He had caught sounds of his
voice whilst yet upon the stairs. As he entered Binet broke off short, and
wheeled to face him.
"You are here at last!" It was so odd a greeting that Andre-Louis did
no more than look his mild surprise. "I await your explanations of the
disgraceful scene you provoked to-night."
"Disgraceful? Is it disgraceful that the public should applaud me?"
"The public? The rabble, you mean. Do you want to deprive us of the
patronage of all gentlefolk by vulgar appeals to the low passions of the
mob.?"
Andre-Louis stepped past M. Binet and forward to the table. He shrugged
contemptuously. The man offended him, after all.
"You exaggerate grossly - as usual."
"I do not exaggerate. And I am the master in my own theatre. This is
the Binet Troupe, and it shall be conducted in the Binet way."
"Who are the gentlefolk the loss of whose patronage to the Feydau will
be so poignantly felt?" asked Andre-Louis.
"You imply that there are none? See how wrong you are. After the play
to-night M. le Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr came to me, and spoke to me in the
severest terms about your scandalous outburst. I was forced to apologize,
and... "
"The more fool you," said Andre-Louis. "A man who respected himself
would have shown that gentleman the door." M. Binet's face began to
empurple. "You call yourself the head of the Binet Troupe, you boast that
you will be master in your own theatre, and you stand like a lackey to take
the orders of the first insolent fellow who comes to your green-room to tell
you that he does not like a line spoken by one of your company! I say again
that had you really respected yourself you would have turned him out."
There was a murmur of approval from several members of the company,
who, having heard the arrogant tone assumed by the Marquis, were filled with
resentment against the slur cast upon them all.
"And I say further," Andre-Louis went on, "that a man who respects
himself, on quite other grounds, would have been only too glad to have
seized this pretext to show M. de La Tour d'Azyr the door."
"What do you mean by that?" There was a rumble of thunder in the
question.
Andre-Louis' eyes swept round the company assembled at the
supper-table. "Where is Climene?" he asked, sharply.
Leandre leapt up to answer him, white in the face, tense and quivering
with excitement.
"She left the theatre in the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr's carriage
immediately after the performance. We heard him offer to drive her to this
inn."
Andre-Louis glanced at the timepiece on the overmantel. He seemed
unnaturally calm.
"That would be an hour ago - rather more. And she has not yet arrived?"
His eyes sought M. Binet's. M. Binet's eyes eluded his glance. Again it
was Leandre who answered him.
"Not yet."
"Ah!" Andre-Louis sat down, and poured himself wine. There was an
oppressive silence in the room. Leandre watched him expectantly, Columbine
commiseratingly. Even M. Binet appeared to be waiting for a cue from
Scaramouche. But Scaramouche disappointed him. "Have you left me anything to
eat?" he asked.
Platters were pushed towards him. He helped himself calmly to food, and
ate in silence, apparently with a good appetite. M. Binet sat down, poured
himself wine, and drank. Presently he attempted to make conversation with
one and another. He was answered curtly, in monosyllables. M. Binet did not
appear to be in favour with his troupe that night.
At long length came a rumble of wheels below and a rattle of halting
hooves. Then voices, the high, trilling laugh of Climene floating upwards.
Andre-Louis went on eating unconcernedly.
"What an actor!" said Harlequin under his breath to Polichinelle, and
Polichinelle nodded gloomily.
She came in, a leading lady taking the stage, head high, chin thrust
forward, eyes dancing with laughter; she expressed triumph and arrogance.
Her cheeks were flushed, and there was some disorder in the mass of
nut-brown hair that crowned her head. In her left hand she carried an
enormous bouquet of white camellias. On its middle finger a diamond of great
price drew almost at once by its effulgence the eyes of all.
Her father sprang to meet her with an unusual display of paternal
tenderness. "At last, my child!"
He conducted her to the table. She sank into a chair, a little wearily,
a little nervelessly, but the smile did not leave her face, not even when
she glanced across at Scaramouche. It was only Leandre, observing her
closely, with hungry, scowling stare, who detected something as of fear in
the hazel eyes momentarily seen between the fluttering of her lids.
Andre-Louis, however, still went on eating stolidly, without so much as
a look in her direction. Gradually the company came to realize that just as
surely as a scene was brooding, just so surely would there be no scene as
long as they remained. It was Polichinelle, at last, who gave the signal by
rising and withdrawing, and within two minutes none remained in the room but
M. Binet, his daughter, and Andre-Louis. And then, at last, Andre-Louis set
down knife and fork, washed his throat with a draught of Burgundy, and sat
back in his chair to consider Climene.
"I trust," said he, "that you had a pleasant ride, mademoiselle."
"Most pleasant, monsieur. Impudently she strove to emulate his
coolness, but did not completely succeed.
"And not unprofitable, if I may judge that jewel at this distance. It
should be worth at least a couple of hundred louis, and that is a formidable
sum even to so wealthy a nobleman as M. de La Tour d'Azyr. Would it be
impertinent in one who has had some notion of becoming your husband, to ask
you, mademoiselle, what you have given him in return?"
M. Binet uttered a gross laugh, a queer mixture of cynicism and
contempt.
"I have given nothing," said Climene, indignantly.
"Ah! Then the jewel is in the nature of a payment in advance."
"My God, man, you're not decent!" M. Binet protested.
"Decent?" Andre-Louis' smouldering eyes turned to discharge upon M.
Binet such a fulmination of contempt that the old scoundrel shifted
uncomfortably in his chair. "Did you mention decency, Binet? Almost you make
me lose my temper, which is a thing that I detest above all others!" Slowly
his glance returned to Climene, who sat with elbows on the table, her chin
cupped in her palms, regarding him with something between scorn and
defiance. "Mademoiselle," he said, slowly, "I desire you purely in your own
interests to consider whither you are going."
"I am well able to consider it for myself, and to decide without advice
from you, monsieur."
"And now you've got your answer," chuckled Binet. "I hope you like it."
Andre-Louis had paled a little; there was incredulity in his great
sombre eyes as they continued steadily to regard her. Of M. Binet he took no
notice.
"Surely, mademoiselle, you cannot mean that willingly, with open eyes
and a full understanding of what you do, you would exchange an honourable
wifehood for... for the thing that such men as M. de La Tour d'Azyr may have
in store for you?"
M. Binet made a wide gesture, and swung to his daughter. "You hear him,
the mealy-mouthed prude! Perhaps you'll believe at last that marriage with
him would be the ruin of you. He would always be there the inconvenient
husband - to mar your every chance, my girl."
She tossed her lovely head in agreement with her father "I begin to
find him tiresome with his silly jealousies," she confessed. "As a husband I
am afraid he would be impossible."
Andre-Louis felt a constriction of the heart. But - always the actor -
he showed nothing of it. He laughed a little, not very pleasantly, and rose.
"I bow to your choice, mademoiselle. I pray that you may not regret it"
"Regret it?" cried M. Binet. He was laughing, relieved to see his
daughter at last rid of this suitor of whom he had never approved, if we
except those few hours when he really believed him to be an eccentric of
distinction. "And what shall she regret? That she accepted the protection of
a nobleman so powerful and wealthy that as a mere trinket he gives her a
jewel worth as much as an actress earns in a year at the Comedie Francaise?"
He got up, and advanced towards Andre-Louis. His mood became conciliatory.
"Come, come, my friend, no rancour now. What the devil! You wouldn't stand
in the girl's way? You can't really blame her for making this choice? Have
you thought what it means to her? Have you thought that under the protection
of such a gentleman there are no heights which she may not reach? Don't you
see the wonderful luck of it? Surely, if you're fond of her, particularly
being of a jealous temperament, you wouldn't wish it otherwise?"
Andre-Louis looked at him in silence for a long moment. Then he laughed
again. "Oh, you are fantastic," he said. "You are not real." He turned on
his heel and strode to the door.
The action, and more the contempt of his look, laugh, and words stung
M. Binet to passion, drove out the conciliatoriness of his mood.
"Fantastic, are we?" he cried, turning to follow the departing
Scaramouche with his little eyes that now were inexpressibly evil.
"Fantastic that we should prefer the powerful protection of this great
nobleman to marriage with beggarly, nameless bastard. Oh, we are fantastic!"
Andre-Louis turned, his hand upon the door-handle. No," he said, "I was
mistaken. You are not fantastic. You are just vile - both of you." And he
went out.
Mlle. de Kercadiou walked with her aunt in the bright morning sunshine
of a Sunday in March on the broad terrace of the Chateau de Sautron.
For one of her natural sweetness of disposition she had been oddly
irritable of late, manifesting signs of a cynical worldliness, which
convinced Mme. de Sautron more than ever that her brother Quintin had
scandalously conducted the child's education. She appeared to be instructed
in all the things of which a girl is better ignorant, and ignorant of all
the things that a girl should know. That at least was the point of view of
Mme. de Sautron.
"Tell me, madame," quoth Aline, "are all men beasts?" Unlike her
brother, Madame la Comtesse was tall and majestically built. In the days
before her marriage with M. de Sautron, ill-natured folk described her as
the only man in the family. She looked down now from her noble height upon
her little niece with startled eyes.
"Really, Aline, you have a trick of asking the most disconcerting and
improper questions."
"Perhaps it is because I find life disconcerting and improper.
"Life? A young girl should not discuss life."
"Why not, since I am alive? You do not suggest that it is an
impropriety to be alive?"
"It is an impropriety for a young unmarried girl to seek to know too
much about life. As for your absurd question about men, when I remind you
that man is the noblest work of God, perhaps you will consider yourself
answered."
Mme. de Sautron did not invite a pursuance of the subject. But Mlle. de
Kercadiou's outrageous rearing had made her headstrong.
"That being so," said she, will you tell me why they find such an
overwhelming attraction in the immodest of our sex?"
Madame stood still and raised shocked hands. Then she looked down her
handsome, high-bridged nose.
"Sometimes - often, in fact, my dear Aline - you pass all
understanding. I shall write to Quintin that the sooner you are married the
better it will be for all."
"Uncle Quintin has left that matter to my own deciding," Aline reminded
her.
"That," said madame with complete conviction, "is the last and most
outrageous of his errors. Who ever heard of a girl being left to decide the
matter of her own marriage? It is... indelicate almost to expose her to
thoughts of such things." Mme. de Sautron shuddered. "Quintin is a boor. His
conduct is unheard of. That M. de La Tour d'Azyr should parade himself
before you so that you may make up your mind whether he is the proper man
for you!" Again she shuddered. "It is of a grossness, of... of a prurience
almost... Mon Dieu! When I married your uncle, all this was arranged between
our parents. I first saw him when he came to sign the contract. I should
have died of shame had it been otherwise. And that is how these affairs
should be conducted."
"You are no doubt right, madame. But since that is not how my own case
is being conducted, you will forgive me if I deal with it apart from others.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr desires to marry me. He has been permitted to pay his
court. I should be glad to have him informed that he may cease to do so."
Mme. de Sautron stood still, petrified by amazement. Her long face
turned white; she seemed to breathe with difficulty.
"But.., but.. what are you saying?" she gasped.
Quietly Aline repeated her statement.
"But this is outrageous! You cannot be permitted to play fast-and-loose
with a gentleman of M. le Marquis' quality! Why, it is little more than a
week since you permitted him to be informed that you would become his wife!"
"I did so in a moment of... rashness. Since then M. le Marquis' own
conduct has convinced me of my error."
"But - mon Dieu!" cried the Countess. "Are you blind to the great
honour that is being paid you? M. le Marquis will make you the first lady in
Brittany. Yet, little fool that you are, and greater fool that Quintin is,
you trifle with this extraordinary good fortune! Let me warn you." She
raised an admonitory forefinger. "If you continue in this stupid humour M.
de La Tour d'Azyr may definitely withdraw his offer and depart in justified
mortification."
"That, madame, as I am endeavouring to convey to you, is what I most
desire."
"Oh, you are mad."
"It may be, madame, that I am sane in preferring to be guided by my
instincts. It may be even that I am justified in resenting that the man who
aspires to become my husband should at the same time be paying such
assiduous homage to a wretched theatre girl at the Feydau."
"Aline!"
"Is it not true? Or perhaps you do not find it strange that M. de La
Tour d'Azyr should so conduct himself at such a time?"
"Aline, you are so extraordinary a mixture. At moments you shock me by
the indecency of your expressions; at others you amaze me by the excess of
your prudery. You have been brought up like a little bourgeoise, I think.
Yes, that is it - a little bourgeoise. Quintin was always something of a
shopkeeper at heart."
"I was asking your opinion on the conduct of M. de La Tour d'Azyr,
madame. Not on my own."
"But it is an indelicacy in you to observe such things. You should be
ignorant of them, and I can't think who is so... so unfeeling as to inform
you. But since you are informed, at least you should be modestly blind to
things that take place outside the... orbit of a properly conducted
demoiselle."
"Will they still be outside my orbit when I am married?"
"If you are wise. You should remain without knowledge of them. It... it
deflowers your innocence. I would not for the world that M. de La Tour
d'Azyr should know you so extraordinarily instructed. Had you been properly
reared in a convent this would never have happened to you."
"But you do not answer me, madame!" cried Aline in despair. "It is not
my chastity that is in question; but that of M. de La Tour d'Azyr."
"Chastity!" Madame's lips trembled with horror. Horror overspread her
face. "Wherever did you learn that dreadful, that so improper word?"
And then Mme. de Sautron did violence to her feelings. She realized
that here great calm and prudence were required. "My child, since you know
so much that you ought not to know, there can be no harm in my adding that a
gentleman must have these little distractions."
"But why, madame? Why is it so?"
"Ah, mon Dieu, you are asking me riddles of nature. It is so because it
is so. Because men are like that."
"Because men are beasts, you mean - which is what I began by asking
you."
"You are incorrigibly stupid, Aline."
"You mean that I do not see things as you do, madame. I am not
over-expectant as you appear to think; yet surely I have the right to expect
that whilst M. de La Tour d'Azyr is wooing me, he shall not be wooing at the
same time a drab of the theatre. I feel that in this there is a subtle
association of myself with that unspeakable creature which soils and insults
me. The Marquis is a dullard whose wooing takes the form at best of stilted
compliments, stupid and unoriginal. They gain nothing when they fall from
lips still warm from the contamination of that woman's kisses."
So utterly scandalized was madame that for a moment she remained
speechless. Then -
"Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed. "I should never have suspected you of so
indelicate an imagination."
"I cannot help it, madame. Each time his lips touch my fingers I find
myself thinking of the last object that they touched. I at once retire to
wash my hands. Next time, madame, unless you are good enough to convey my
message to him, I shall call for water and wash them in his presence."
"But what am I to tell him? How... in what words can I convey such a
message?" Madame was aghast.
"Be frank with him, madame. It is easiest in the end. Tell him that
however impure may have been his life in the past, however impure he intend
that it shall be in the future, he must at least study purity whilst
approaching with a view to marriage a virgin who is herself pure and without
stain."
Madame recoiled, and put her hands to her ears, horror stamped on her
handsome face. Her massive bosom heaved.
"Oh, how can you?" she panted. "How can you make use of such terrible
expressions? Wherever have you learnt them?"
"In church," said Aline.
"Ah, but in church many things are said that... that one would not
dream of saying in the world. My dear child, how could I possibly say such a
thing to M. le Marquis? How could I possibly?"
"Shall I say it?"
"Aline!"
"Well, there it is," said Aline. "Something must be done to shelter me
from insult. I am utterly disgusted with M. le Marquis
- a disgusting man. And however fine a thing it may be to become
Marquise de La Tour d'Azyr, why, frankly, I'd sooner marry a cobbler who
practised decency."
Such was her vehemence and obvious determination that Mme. de Sautron
fetched herself out of her despair to attempt persuasion. Aline was her
niece, and such a marriage in the family would be to the credit of the whole
of it. At all costs nothing must frustrate it.
"Listen, my dear," she said. "Let us reason. M. le Marquis is away and
will not be back until to-morrow."
"True. And I know where he has gone - or at least whom he has gone
with. Mon Dieu, and the drab has a father and a lout of a fellow who intends
to make her his wife, and neither of them chooses to do anything. I suppose
they agree with you, madame, that a great gentleman must have his little
distractions." Her contempt was as scorching as a thing of fire. "However,
madame, you were about to say?"
"That on the day after to-morrow you are returning to Gavrillac. M. de
La Tour d'Azyr will most likely follow at his leisure."
"You mean when this dirty candle is burnt out?"
"Call it what you will." Madame, you see, despaired by now of
controlling the impropriety of her niece's expressions. "At Gavrillac there
will be no Mlle. Binet. This thing will be in the past. It is unfortunate
that he should have met her at such a moment. The chit is very attractive,
after all. You cannot deny that. And you must make allowances."
"M. le Marquis formally proposed to me a week ago. Partly to satisfy
the wishes of the family, and partly... " She broke off, hesitating a
moment, to resume on a note of dull pain, "Partly because it does not seem
greatly to matter whom I marry, I gave him my consent. That consent, for the
reasons I have given you, madame, I desire now definitely to withdraw."
Madame fell into agitation of the wildest. "Aline, I should never
forgive you! Your uncle Quintin would be in despair. You do not know what
you are saying, what a wonderful thing you are refusing. Have you no sense
of your position, of the station into which you were born?"
"If I had not, madame, I should have made an end long since. If I have
tolerated this suit for a single moment, it is because I realize the
importance of a suitable marriage in the worldly sense. But I ask of
marriage something more; and Uncle Quintin has placed the decision in my
hands."
"God forgive him!" said madame. And then she hurried on: "Leave this to
me now, Aline. Be guided by me - oh, be guided by me!" Her tone was
beseeching. "I will take counsel with your uncle Charles. But do not
definitely decide until this unfortunate affair has blown over. Charles will
know how to arrange it. M. le Marquis shall do penance, child, since your
tyranny demands it; but not in sackcloth and ashes. you'll not ask so much?"
Aline shrugged. "I ask nothing at all," she said, which was neither
assent nor dissent.
So Mme. de Sautron interviewed her husband, a slight, middle-aged man,
very aristocratic in appearance and gifted with a certain shrewd sense. She
took with him precisely the tone that Aline had taken with herself and which
in Aline she had found so disconcertingly indelicate. She even borrowed
several of Aline's phrases.
The result was that on the Monday afternoon when at last M. de La Tour
d'Azyr's returning berline drove up to the chateau, he was met by M. le
Comte de Sautron who desired a word with him even before he changed.
"Gervais, you're a fool," was the excellent opening made by M. le
Comte.
"Charles, you give me no news," answered M. le Marquis. "Of what
particular folly do you take the trouble to complain?"
He flung himself wearily upon a sofa, and his long graceful body
sprawling there he looked up at his friend with a tired smile on that nobly
handsome pale face that seemed to defy the onslaught of age.
"Of your last. This Binet girl."
"That! Pooh! An incident; hardly a folly."
"A folly - at such a time," Sautron insisted. The Marquis looked a
question. The Count answered it. "Aline," said he, pregnantly. "She knows.
How she knows I can't tell you, but she knows, and she is deeply offended."
The smile perished on the Marquis' face. He gathered himself up.
"Offended?" said he, and his voice was anxious.
"But yes. You know what she is. You know the ideals she has formed. It
wounds her that at such a time - whilst you are here for the purpose of
wooing her - you should at the same time be pursuing this affair with that
chit of a Binet girl."
"How do you know?" asked La Tour d'Azyr.
"She has confided in her aunt. And the poor child seems to have some
reason. She says she will not tolerate that you should come to kiss her hand
with lips that are still contaminated from... Oh, you understand. You
appreciate the impression of such a thing upon a pure, sensitive girl such
as Aline. She said - I had better tell you - that the next time you kiss her
hand, she will call for water and wash it in your presence."
The Marquis' face flamed scarlet. He rose. Knowing his violent,
intolerant spirit, M. de Sautron was prepared for an outburst. But no
outburst came. The Marquis turned away from him, and paced slowly to the
window, his head bowed, his hands behind his back. Halted there he spoke,
without turning, his voice was at once scornful and wistful.
"You are right, Charles, I am a fool - a wicked fool! I have just
enough sense left to perceive it. It is the way I have lived, I suppose. I
have never known the need to deny myself anything I wanted." Then suddenly
he swung round, and the outburst came. "But, my God, I want Aline as I have
never wanted anything yet! I think I should kill myself in rage if through
my folly I should have lost her." He struck his brow with his hand. "I am a
beast!" he said. "I should have known that if that sweet saint got word of
these petty devilries of mine she would despise me; and I tell you, Charles,
I'd go through fire to regain her respect."
"I hope it is to be regained on easier terms," said Charles; and then
to ease the situation which began to irk him by its solemnity, he made a
feeble joke. "It is merely asked of you that you refrain from going through
certain fires that are not accounted by mademoiselle of too purifying a
nature."
"As to that Binet girl, it is finished - finished," said the Marquis.
"I congratulate you. When did you make that decision?"
"This moment. I would to God I had made it twenty-four hours ago. As it
is-" he shrugged - "why, twenty-four hours of her have been enough for me as
they would have been for any man - a mercenary, self-seeking little baggage
with the soul of a trull. Bah!" He shuddered in disgust of himself and her.
"Ah! That makes it easier for you," said M. de Sautron, cynically.
Don't say it, Charles. It is not so. Had you been less of a fool, you
would have warned me sooner."
"I may prove to have warned you soon enough if you'll profit by the
warning."
"There is no penance I will not do. I will prostrate myself at her
feet. I will abase myself before her. I will make confession in the proper
spirit of contrition, and Heaven helping me, I'll keep to my purpose of
amendment for her sweet sake." He was tragically in earnest.
To M. de Sautron, who had never seen him other than self-contained,
supercilious, and mocking, this was an amazing revelation. He shrank from it
almost; it gave him the feeling of prying, of peeping through a keyhole. He
slapped his friend's shoulder.
"My dear Gervais, here is a magnificently romantic mood. Enough said.
Keep to it, and I promise you that all will presently be well. I will be
your ambassador, and you shall have no cause to complain."
"But may I not go to her myself?"
"If you are wise you will at once efface yourself. Write to her if you
will - make your act of contrition by letter. I will explain why you have
gone without seeing her. I will tell her that you did so upon my advice, and
I will do it tactfully. I am a good diplomat, Gervais. Trust me."
M. le Marquis raised his head, and showed a face that pain was searing.
He held out his hand. "Very well, Charles. Serve me in this, and count me
your friend in all things."
Leaving his host to act as his plenipotentiary with Mademoiselle de
Kercadiou, and to explain to her that it was his profound contrition that
compelled him to depart without taking formal leave of her, the Marquis
rolled away from Sautron in a cloud of gloom. Twenty-four hours with La
Binet had been more than enough for a man of his fastidious and discerning
taste. He looked back upon the episode with nausea - the inevitable
psychological reaction - marvelling at himself that until yesterday he
should have found her so desirable, and cursing himself that for the sake of
that ephemeral and worthless gratification he should seriously have
imperilled his chances of winning Mademoiselle de Kercadiou to wife. There
is, after all, nothing very extraordinary in his frame of mind, so that I
need not elaborate it further. It resulted from the conflict between the
beast and the angel that go to make up the composition of every man.
The Chevalier de Chabrillane - who in reality occupied towards the
Marquis a position akin to that of gentleman-in-waiting - sat opposite to
him in the enormous travelling berline. A small folding table had been
erected between them, and the Chevalier suggested piquet. But M. le Marquis
was in no humour for cards. His thoughts absorbed him. As they were rattling
over the cobbles of Nantes' streets, he remembered a promise to La Binet to
witness her performance that night in "The Faithless Lover." And now he was
running away from her. The thought was repugnant to him on two scores. He
was breaking his pledged word, and he was acting like a coward. And there
was more than that. He had led the mercenary little strumpet - it was thus
he thought of her at present, and with some justice - to expect favours from
him in addition to the lavish awards which already he had made her. The
baggage had almost sought to drive a bargain with him as to her future. He
was to take her to Paris, put her into her own furniture - as the expression
ran, and still runs - and under the shadow of his powerful protection see
that the doors of the great theatres of the capital should be opened to her
talents. He had not - he was thankful to reflect - exactly committed
himself. But neither had he definitely refused her. It became necessary now
to come to an understanding, since he was compelled to choose between his
trivial passion for her - a passion quenched already - and his deep, almost
spiritual devotion to Mademoiselle de Kercadiou.
His honour, he considered, demanded of him that he should at once
deliver himself from a false position. La Binet would make a scene, of
course; but he knew the proper specific to apply to hysteria of that nature.
Money, after all, has its uses.
He pulled the cord. The carriage rolled to a standstill; a footman
appeared at the door.
"To the Theatre Feydau," said he.
The footman vanished and the berline rolled on. M. de Chabrillane
laughed cynically.
"I'll trouble you not to be amused," snapped the Marquis. "You don't
understand." Thereafter he explained himself. It was a rare condescension in
him. But, then, he could not bear to be misunderstood in such a matter.
Chabrillane grew serious in reflection of the Marquis' extreme seriousness.
"Why not write?" he suggested. "Myself, I confess that I should find it
easier.
Nothing could better have revealed M. le Marquis' state of mind than
his answer.
"Letters are liable both to miscarriage and to misconstruction. Two
risks I will not run. If she did not answer, I should never know which had
been incurred. And I shall have no peace of mind until I know that I have
set a term to this affair. The berline can wait while we are at the theatre.
We will go on afterwards. We will travel all night if necessary."
"Peste!" said M. de Chabrillane with a grimace. But that was all.
The great travelling carriage drew up at the lighted portals of the
Feydau, and M. le Marquis stepped out. He entered the theatre with
Chabrillane, all unconsciously to deliver himself into the hands of
Andre-Louis.
Andre-Louis was in a state of exasperation produced by Climene's long
absence from Nantes in the company of M. le Marquis, and fed by the
unspeakable complacency with which M. Binet regarded that event of quite
unmistakable import.
However much he might affect the frame of mind of the stoics, and seek
to judge with a complete detachment, in the heart and soul of him
Andre-Louis was tormented and revolted. It was not Climene he blamed. He had
been mistaken in her. She was just a poor weak vessel driven helplessly by
the first breath, however foul, that promised her advancement. She suffered
from the plague of greed; and he congratulated himself upon having
discovered it before making her his wife. He felt for her now nothing but a
deal of pity and some contempt. The pity was begotten of the love she had
lately inspired in him. It might be likened to the dregs of love, all that
remained after the potent wine of it had been drained off. His anger he
reserved for her father and her seducer.
The thoughts that were stirring in him on that Monday morning, when it
was discovered that Climene had not yet returned from her excursion of the
previous day in the coach of M. le Marquis, were already wicked enough
without the spurring they received from the distraught Leandre.
Hitherto the attitude of each of these men towards the other had been
one of mutual contempt. The phenomenon has frequently been observed in like
cases. Now, what appeared to be a common misfortune brought them into a sort
of alliance. So, at least, it seemed to Leandre when he went in quest of
Andre-Louis, who with apparent unconcern was smoking a pipe upon the quay
immediately facing the inn.
"Name of a pig!" said Leandre. "How can you take your ease and smoke at
such a time?"
Scaramouche surveyed the sky. "I do not find it too cold," said he.
"The sun is shining. I am very well here."
"Do I talk of the weather?" Leandre was very excited.
"Of what, then?"
"Of Climene, of course."
"Oh! The lady has ceased to interest me," he lied.
Leandre stood squarely in front of him, a handsome figure handsomely
dressed in these days, his hair well powdered, his stockings of silk. His
face was pale, his large eyes looked larger than usual.
"Ceased to interest you? Are you not to marry her?" Andre-Louis
expelled a cloud of smoke. "You cannot wish to be offensive. Yet you almost
suggest that I live on other men's leavings."
"My God!" said Leandre, overcome, and he stared awhile. Then he burst
out afresh. "Are you quite heartless? Are you always Scaramouche?"
"What do you expect me to do?" asked Andre-Louis, evincing surprise in
his own turn, but faintly.
"I do not expect you to let her go without a struggle."
"But she has gone already." Andre-Louis pulled at his pipe a moment,
what time Leandre clenched and unclenched his hands in impotent rage. "And
to what purpose struggle against the inevitable? Did you struggle when I
took her from you?"
"She was not mine to be taken from me. I but aspired, and you won the
race. But even had it been otherwise where is the comparison? That was a
thing in honour; this - this is hell."
His emotion moved Andre-Louis. He took Leandre's arm. "You're a good
fellow, Leandre. I am glad I intervened to save you from your fate."
"Oh, you don't love her!" cried the other, passionately. "You never
did. You don't know what it means to love, or you'd not talk like this. My
God! if she had been my affianced wife and this had happened, I should have
killed the man - killed him! Do you hear me? But you... Oh, you, you come
out here and smoke, and take the air, and talk of her as another man's
leavings. I wonder I didn't strike you for the word."
He tore his arm from the other's grip, and looked almost as if he would
strike him now.
"You should have done it," said Andre-Louis. "It's in your part."
With an imprecation Leandre turned on his heel to go. Andre-Louis
arrested his departure.
"A moment, my friend. Test me by yourself. Would you marry her now?"
"Would I?" The young man's eyes blazed with passion. "Would I? Let her
say that she will marry me, and I am her slave."
"Slave is the right word - a slave in hell."
"It would never be hell to me where she was, whatever she had done. I
love her, man, I am not like you. I love her, do you hear me?"
"I have known, it for some time," said Andre-Louis. "Though I didn't
suspect your attack of the disease to be quite so violent. Well, God knows I
loved her, too, quite enough to share your thirst for killing. For myself,
the blue blood of La Tour d'Azyr would hardly quench this thirst. I should
like to add to it the dirty fluid that flows in the veins of the unspeakable
Binet."
For a second his emotion had been out of hand, and he revealed to
Leandre in the mordant tone of those last words something of the fires that
burned under his icy exterior. The young man caught him by the hand.
"I knew you were acting," said he. "You feel - you feel as I do."
"Behold us, fellows in viciousness. I have betrayed myself, it seems.
Well, and what now? Do you want to see this pretty Marquis torn limb from
limb? I might afford you the spectacle."
"What?" Leandre stared, wondering was this another of Scaramouche's
cynicisms.
"It isn't really difficult provided I have aid. I require only a
little. Will you lend it me?"
"Anything you ask," Leandre exploded. "My life if you require it."
Andre-Louis took his arm again. "Let us walk," he said. "I will
instruct you."
When they came back the company was already at dinner. Mademoiselle had
not yet returned. Sullenness presided at the table. Columbine and Madame
wore anxious expressions. The fact was that relations between Binet and his
troupe were daily growing more strained.
Andre-Louis and Leandre went each to his accustomed place. Binet's
little eyes followed them with a malicious gleam, his thick lips pouted into
a crooked smile.
"You two are grown very friendly of a sudden," he mocked.
"You are a man of discernment, Binet," said Scaramouche, the cold
loathing of his voice itself an insult. "Perhaps you discern the reason?"
"It is readily discerned."
"Regale the company with it!" he begged; and waited. "What? You
hesitate? Is it possible that there are limits to your shamelessness?"
Binet reared his great head. "Do you want to quarrel with me,
Scaramouche?" Thunder was rumbling in his deep, voice.
"Quarrel? You want to laugh. A man doesn't quarrel with creatures like
you. We all know the place held in the public esteem by complacent husbands.
But, in God's name, what place is there at all for complacent fathers?"
Binet heaved himself up, a great towering mass of manhood. Violently he
shook off the restraining hand of Pierrot who sat on his left.
"A thousand devils!" he roared; "if you take that tone with me, I'll
break every bone in your filthy body."
"If you were to lay a finger on me, Binet, you would give me the only
provocation I still need to kill you." Andre-Louis was as calm as ever, and
therefore the more menacing. Alarm stirred the company. He protruded from
his pocket the butt of a pistol - newly purchased. "I go armed, Binet. It is
only fair to give you warning. Provoke me as you have suggested, and I'll
kill you with no more compunction than I should kill a slug, which after all
is the thing you most resemble - a slug, Binet; a fat, slimy body; foulness
without soul and without intelligence. When I come to think of it I can't
suffer to sit at table with you. It turns my stomach."
He pushed away his platter and got up. "I'll go and eat at the ordinary
below stairs."
Thereupon up jumped Columbine.
"And I'll come with you, Scaramouche!" cried she.
It acted like a signal. Had the thing been concerted it couldn't have
fallen out more uniformly. Binet, in fact, was persuaded of a conspiracy.
For in the wake of Columbine went Leandre, in the wake of Leandre,
Polichinelle and then all the rest together, until Binet found himself
sitting alone at the head of an empty table in an empty room - a badly
shaken man whose rage could afford him no support against the dread by which
he was suddenly invaded.
He sat down to think things out, and he was still at that melancholy
occupation when perhaps a half-hour later his daughter entered the room,
returned at last from her excursion.
She looked pale, even a little scared - in reality excessively
self-conscious now that the ordeal of facing all the company awaited her.
Seeing no one but her father in the room, she checked on the threshold.
"Where is everybody?" she asked, in a voice rendered natural by effort.
M. Binet reared his great head and turned upon her eyes that were
blood-injected. He scowled, blew out his thick lips and made harsh noises in
his throat. Yet he took stock of her, so graceful and comely and looking so
completely the lady of fashion in her long fur-trimmed travelling coat of
bottle green, her muff and her broad hat adorned by a sparkling Rhinestone
buckle above her adorably coiffed brown hair. No need to fear the future
whilst he owned such a daughter, let Scaramouche play what tricks he would.
He expressed, however, none of these comforting reflections.
"So you're back at last, little fool," he growled in greeting. "I was
beginning to ask myself if we should perform this evening. It wouldn't
greatly have surprised me if you had not returned in time. Indeed, since you
have chosen to play the fine hand you held in your own way and scorning my
advice, nothing can surprise me."
She crossed the room to the table, and leaning against it, looked down
upon him almost disdainfully.
"I have nothing to regret," she said.
"So every fool says at first. Nor would you admit it if you had. You
are like that. You go your own way in spite of advice from older heads.
Death of my life, girl, what do you know of men?"
"I am not complaining," she reminded him.
"No, but you may be presently, when you discover that you would have
done better to have been guided by your old father. So long as your Marquis
languished for you, there was nothing you could not have done with the fool.
So long as you let him have no more than your fingertips to kiss... ah, name
of a name! that was the time to build your future. If you live to be a
thousand you'll never have such a chance again, and you've squandered it,
for what?"
Mademoiselle sat down.- "You're sordid," she said, with disgust.
"Sordid, am I?" His thick lips curled again. "I have had enough of the
dregs of life, and so I should have thought have you. You held a hand on
which to have won a fortune if you had played it as I bade you. Well, you've
played it, and where's the fortune? We can whistle for that as a sailor
whistles for wind. And, by Heaven, we'll need to whistle presently if the
weather in the troupe continues as it's set in. That scoundrel Scaramouche
has been at his ape's tricks with them. They've suddenly turned moral. They
won't sit at table with me any more." He was spluttering between anger and
sardonic mirth. "It was your friend Scaramouche set them the example of
that. He threatened my life actually. Threatened my life! Called me... Oh,
but what does that matter? What matters is that the next thing to happen to
us will be that the Binet Troupe will discover it can manage without M.
Binet and his daughter. This scoundrelly bastard I've befriended has little
by little robbed me of everything. It's in his power to-day to rob me of my
troupe, and the knave's ungrateful enough and vile enough to make use of his
power.
"Let him," said mademoiselle contemptuously.
"Let him?" He was aghast. "And what's to become of us?"
"In no case will the Binet Troupe interest me much longer," said she.
"I shall be going to Paris soon. There are better theatres there than the
Feydau. There's Mlle. Montansier's theatre in the Palais Royal; there's the
Ambigu Comique; there's the Comedie Francaise; there's even a possibility I
may have a theatre of my own."
His eyes grew big for once. He stretched out a fat hand, and placed it
on one of hers. She noticed that it trembled.
"Has he promised that? Has he promised?"
She looked at him with her head on one side, eyes sly and a queer
little smile on her perfect lips.
"He did not refuse me when I asked it," she answered, with conviction
that all was as she desired it.
"Bah!" He withdrew his hand, and heaved himself up. There was disgust
on his face. "He did not refuse!" he mocked her; and then with passion: "Had
you acted as I advised you, he would have consented to anything that you
asked, and what is more he would have provided anything that you asked -
anything that lay within his means, and they are inexhaustible. You have
changed a certainty into a possibility, and I hate possibilities - God of
God! I have lived on possibilities, and infernally near starved on them."
Had she known of the interview taking place at that moment at the
Chateau de Sautron she would have laughed less confidently at her father's
gloomy forebodings. But she was destined never to know, which indeed was the
cruellest punishment of all. She was to attribute all the evil that of a
sudden overwhelmed her, the shattering of all the future hopes she had
founded upon the Marquis and the sudden disintegration of the Binet Troupe,
to the wicked interference of that villain Scaramouche.
She had this much justification that possibly, without the warning from
M. de Sautron, the Marquis would have found in the events of that evening at
the Theatre Feydau a sufficient reason for ending an entanglement that was
fraught with too much unpleasant excitement, whilst the breaking-up of the
Binet Troupe was most certainly the result of Andre-Louis' work. But it was
not a result that he intended or even foresaw.
So much was this the case that in the interval after the second act, he
sought the dressing-room shared by Polichinelle and Rhodomont. Polichinelle
was in the act of changing.
"I shouldn't trouble to change," he said. "The piece isn't likely to go
beyond my opening scene of the next act with Leandre."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll see." He put a paper on Polichinelle's table amid the
grease-paints. "Cast your eye over that. It's a sort of last will and
testament in favour of the troupe. I was a lawyer once; the document is in
order. I relinquish to all of you the share produced by my partnership in
the company."
"But you don't mean that you are leaving us?" cried Polichinelle in
alarm, whilst Rhodomont's sudden stare asked the same question.
Scaramouche's shrug was eloquent. Polichinelle ran on gloomily: "Of
course it was to have been foreseen. But why should you be the one to go? It
is you who have made us; and it is you who are the real head and brains of
the troupe; it is you who have raised it into a real theatrical company. If
any one must go, let it be Binet - Binet and his infernal daughter. Or if
you go, name of a name! we all go with you!"
"Aye," added Rhodomont, "we've had enough of that fat scoundrel."
"I had thought of it, of course," said Andre-Louis. "It was not vanity,
for once; it was trust in your friendship. After to-night we may consider it
again, if I survive."
"If you survive?" both cried.
Polichinelle got up. "Now, what madness have you in mind?" he asked.
"For one thing I think I am indulging Leandre; for another I am
pursuing an old quarrel."
The three knocks sounded as he spoke.
"There, I must go. Keep that paper, Polichinelle. After all, it may not
be necessary.
He was gone. Rhodomont stared at Polichinelle. Polichinelle stared at
Rhodomont.
"What the devil is he thinking of?" quoth the latter.
"That is most readily ascertained by going to see," replied
Polichinelle. He completed changing in haste, and despite what Scaramouche
had said; and then followed with Rhodomont.
As they approached the wings a roar of applause met them coming from
the audience. It was applause and something else; applause on an unusual
note. As it faded away they heard the voice of Scaramouche ringing clear as
a bell:
"And so you see, my dear M. Leandre, that when you speak of the Third
Estate, it is necessary to be more explicit. What precisely is the Third
Estate?"
"Nothing," said Leandre.
There was a gasp from the audience, audible in the wings, and then
swiftly followed Scaramouche's next question:
"True. Alas! But what should it be?"
"Everything," said Leandre.
The audience roared its acclamations, the more violent because of the
unexpectedness of that reply.
"True again," said Scaramouche. "And what is more, that is what it will
be; that is what it already is. Do you doubt it?"
"I hope it," said the schooled Leandre.
"You may believe it," said Scaramouche, and again the acclamations
rolled into thunder.
Polichinelle and Rhodomont exchanged glances: indeed, the former
winked, not without mirth.
"Sacred name!" growled a voice behind them. "Is the scoundrel at his
political tricks again?"
They turned to confront M. Binet. Moving with that noiseless tread of
his, he had come up unheard behind them, and there he stood now in his
scarlet suit of Pantaloon under a trailing bedgown, his little eyes glaring
from either side of his false nose. But their attention was held by the
voice of Scaramouche. He had stepped to the front of the stage.
"He doubts it," he was felling the audience. "But then this M. Leandre
is himself akin to those who worship the worm-eaten idol of Privilege, and
so he is a little afraid to believe a truth that is becoming apparent to all
the world. Shall I convince him? Shall I tell him how a company of noblemen
backed by their servants under arms - six hundred men in all - sought to
dictate to the Third Estate of Rennes a few short weeks ago? Must I remind
him of the martial front shown on that occasion by the Third Estate, and how
they swept the streets clean of that rabble of nobles - cette canaille
noble... "
Applause interrupted him. The phrase had struck home and caught. Those
who had writhed under that infamous designation from their betters leapt at
this turning of it against the nobles themselves.
"But let me tell you of their leader - le pins noble de cette canaille,
on bien le plus canaille de ces nobles! You know him
- that one. He fears many things, but the voice of truth he fears most.
With such as him the eloquent truth eloquently spoken is a thing instantly
to be silenced. So he marshalled his peers and their valetailles, and led
them out to slaughter these miserable bourgeois who dared to raise a voice.
But these same miserable bourgeois did not choose to be slaughtered in the
streets of Rennes. It occurred to them that since the nobles decreed that
blood should flow, it might as well be the blood of the nobles. They
marshalled themselves too - this noble rabble against the rabble of nobles -
and they marshalled themselves so well that they drove M. de La Tour d'Azyr
and his warlike following from the field with broken heads and shattered
delusions. They sought shelter at the hands of the Cordeliers; and the
shavelings gave them sanctuary in their convent - those who survived, among
whom was their proud leader, M. de La Tour d'Azyr. You have heard of this
valiant Marquis, this great lord of life and death?"
The pit was in an uproar a moment. It quieted again as Scaramouche
continued:
"Oh, it was a fine spectacle to see this mighty hunter scuttling to
cover like a hare, going to earth in the Cordelier Convent. Rennes has not
seen him since. Rennes would like to see him again. But if he is valorous,
he is also discreet. And where do you think he has taken refuge, this great
nobleman who wanted to see the streets of Rennes washed in the blood of its
citizens, this man who would have butchered old and young of the
contemptible canaille to silence the voice of reason and of liberty that
presumes to ring through France to-day? Where do you think he hides himself?
Why, here in Nantes."
Again there was uproar.
"What do you say? Impossible? Why, my friends, at this moment he is
here in this theatre - skulking up there in that box. He is too shy to show
himself - oh, a very modest gentleman. But there he is behind the curtains.
Will you not show yourself to your friends, M. de La Tour d'Azyr, Monsieur
le Marquis who considers eloquence so very dangerous a gift? See, they would
like a word with you; they do not believe me when I tell them that you are
here."
Now, whatever he may have been, and whatever the views held on the
subject by Andre-Louis, M. de La Tour d'Azyr was certainly not a coward. To
say that he was hiding in Nantes was not true. He came and went there openly
and unabashed. It happened, however, that the Nantais were ignorant until
this moment of his presence among them. But then he would have disdained to
have informed them of it just as he would have disdained to have concealed
it from them.
Challenged thus, however, and despite the ominous manner in which the
bourgeois element in the audience had responded to Scaramouche's appeal to
its passions, despite the attempts made by Chabrillane to restrain him, the
Marquis swept aside the curtain at the side of the box, and suddenly showed
himself, pale but self-contained and scornful as he surveyed first the
daring Scaramouche and then those others who at sight of him had given
tongue to their hostility.
Hoots and yells assailed him, fists were shaken at him, canes were
brandished menacingly.
"Assassin! Scoundrel! Coward! Traitor!"
But he braved the storm, smiling upon them his ineffable contempt. He
was waiting for the noise to cease; waiting to address them in his turn. But
he waited in vain, as he very soon perceived.
The contempt he did not trouble to dissemble served but to goad them
on.
In the pit pandemonium was already raging. Blows were being freely
exchanged; there were scuffling groups, and here and there swords were being
drawn, but fortunately the press was too dense to permit of their being used
effectively. Those who had women with them and the timid by nature were
making haste to leave a house that looked like becoming a cockpit, where
chairs were being smashed to provide weapons, and parts of chandeliers were
already being used as missiles.
One of these hurled by the hand of a gentleman in one of the boxes
narrowly missed Scaramouche where he stood, looking down in a sort of grim
triumph upon the havoc which his words had wrought. Knowing of what
inflammable material the audience was composed, he had deliberately flung
down amongst them the lighted torch of discord, to produce this
conflagration.
He saw men falling quickly into groups representative of one side or
the other of this great quarrel that already was beginning to agitate the
whole of France. Their rallying cries were ringing through the theatre.
"Down with the canaille!" from some.
"Down with the privileged!" from others.
And then above the general din one cry rang out sharply and
insistently:
"To the box! Death to the butcher of Rennes! Death to La Tour d'Azyr
who makes war upon the people!"
There was a rush for one of the doors of the pit that opened upon the
staircase leading to the boxes.
And now, whilst battle and confusion spread with the speed of fire,
overflowing from the theatre into the street itself, La Tour d'Azyr's box,
which had become the main object of the attack of the bourgeoisie, had also
become the rallying ground for such gentlemen as were present in the theatre
and for those who, without being men of birth themselves, were nevertheless
attached to the party of the nobles.
La Tour d'Azyr had quitted the front of the box to meet those who came
to join him. And now in the pit one group of infuriated gentlemen, in
attempting to reach the stage across the empty orchestra, so that they might
deal with the audacious comedian who was responsible for this explosion,
found themselves opposed and held back by another group composed of men to
whose feelings Andre-Louis had given expression.
Perceiving this, and remembering the chandelier, he turned to Leandre,
who had remained beside him.
"I think it is time to be going," said he.
Leandre, looking ghastly under his paint, appalled by the storm which
exceeded by far anything that his unimaginative brain could have
conjectured, gurgled an inarticulate agreement. But it looked as if already
they were too late, for in that moment they were assailed from behind.
M. Binet had succeeded at last in breaking past Polichinelle and
Rhodomont, who in view of his murderous rage had been endeavouring to
restrain him. Half a dozen gentlemen, habitues of the green-room, had come
round to the stage to disembowel the knave who had created this riot, and it
was they who had flung aside those two comedians who hung upon Binet. After
him they came now, their swords out; but after them again came Polichinelle,
Rhodomont, Harlequin, Pierrot, Pasquariel, and Basque the artist, armed with
such implements as they could hastily snatch up, and intent upon saving the
man with whom they sympathized in spite of all, and in whom now all their
hopes were centred.
Well ahead rolled Binet, moving faster than any had ever seen him move,
and swinging the long cane from which Pantaloon is inseparable.
"Infamous scoundrel!" he roared. "You have ruined me! But, name of a
name, you shall pay!"
Andre-Louis turned to face him. "You confuse cause with effect," said
he. But he got no farther... Binet's cane, viciously driven, descended and
broke upon his shoulder. Had he not moved swiftly aside as the blow fell it
must have taken him across the head, and possibly stunned him. As he moved,
he dropped his hand to his pocket, and swift upon the cracking of Binet's
breaking cane came the crack of the pistol with which Andre-Louis replied.
"You had your warning, you filthy pander!" he cried. And on the word he
shot him through the body.
Binet went down screaming, whilst the fierce Polichinelle, fiercer than
ever in that moment of fierce reality, spoke quickly into Andre-Louis' ear:
"Fool! So much was not necessary! Away with you now, or you'll leave
your skin here! Away with you!"
Andre-Louis thought it good advice, and took it. The gentlemen who had
followed Binet in that punitive rush upon the stage, partly held in check by
the improvised weapons of the players, partly intimidated by the second
pistol that Scaramouche presented, let him go. He gained the wings, and here
found himself faced by a couple of sergeants of the watch, part of the
police that was already invading the theatre with a view to restoring order.
The sight of them reminded him unpleasantly of how he must stand towards the
law for this night's work, and more particularly for that bullet lodged
somewhere in Binet's obese body. He flourished his pistol.
"Make way, or I'll burn your brains!" he threatened them, and
intimidated, themselves without firearms, they fell back and let him pass.
He slipped by the door of the green-room, where the ladies of the company
had shut themselves in until the storm should be over, and so gained the
street behind the theatre. It was deserted. Down this he went at a run,
intent on reaching the inn for clothes and money, since it was impossible
that he should take the road in the garb of Scaramouche.
Once again, precisely as he had done when he joined the Binet troupe,
did Andre-Louis now settle down whole-heartedly to the new profession into
which necessity had driven him, and in which he found effective concealment
from those who might seek him to his hurt. This profession might - although
in fact it did not - have brought him to consider himself at last as a man
of action. He had not, however, on that account ceased to be a man of
thought, and the events of the spring and summer months of that year 1789 in
Paris provided him with abundant matter for reflection. He read there in the
raw what is perhaps the most amazing page in the history of human
development, and in the end he was forced to the conclusion that all his
early preconceptions had been at fault, and that it was such exalted,
passionate enthusiasts as Vilmorin who had been right.
I suspect him of actually taking pride in the fact that he had been
mistaken, complacently attributing his error to the circumstance that he had
been, himself, of too sane and logical a mind to gauge the depths of human
insanity now revealed.
He watched the growth of hunger, the increasing poverty and distress of
Paris during that spring, and assigned it to its proper cause, together with
the patience with which the people bore it. The world of France was in a
state of hushed, of paralyzed expectancy, waiting for the States General to
assemble and for centuries of tyranny to end. And because of this
expectancy, industry had come to a standstill, the stream of trade had
dwindled to a trickle. Men would not buy or sell until they clearly saw the
means by which the genius of the Swiss banker, M. Necker, was to deliver
them from this morass. And because of this paralysis of affairs the men of
the people were thrown out of work and left to starve with their wives and
children.
Looking on, Andre-Louis smiled grimly. So far he was right. The
sufferers were ever the proletariat. The men who sought to make this
revolution, the electors - here in Paris as elsewhere - were men of
substance, notable bourgeois, wealthy traders. And whilst these, despising
the canaille, and envying the privileged, talked largely of equality - by
which they meant an ascending equality that should confuse themselves with
the gentry - the proletariat perished of want in its kennels.
At last with the month of May the deputies arrived, Andre-Louis' friend
Le Chapelier prominent amongst them, and the States General were inaugurated
at Versailles. It was then that affairs began to become interesting, then
that Andre-Louis began seriously to doubt the soundness of the views he had
held hitherto.
When the royal proclamation had gone forth decreeing that the deputies
of the Third Estate should number twice as many as those of the other two
orders together, Andre-Louis had believed that the preponderance of votes
thus assured to the Third Estate rendered inevitable the reforms to which
they had pledged themselves.
But he had reckoned without the power of the privileged orders over the
proud Austrian queen, and her power over the obese, phlegmatic, irresolute
monarch. That the privileged orders should deliver battle in defence of
their privileges, Andre-Louis could understand. Man being what he is, and
labouring under his curse of acquisitiveness, will never willingly surrender
possessions, whether they be justly or unjustly held. But what surprised
Andre-Louis was the unutterable crassness of the methods by which the
Privileged ranged themselves for battle. They opposed brute force to reason
and philosophy, and battalions of foreign mercenaries to ideas. As if ideas
were to be impaled on bayonets!
The war between the Privileged and the Court on one side, and the
Assembly and the People on the other had begun.
The Third Estate contained itself, and waited; waited with the patience
of nature; waited a month whilst, with the paralysis of business now
complete, the skeleton hand of famine took a firmer grip of Paris; waited a
month whilst Privilege gradually assembled an army in Versailles to
intimidate it - an army of fifteen regiments, nine of which were Swiss and
German - and mounted a park of artillery before the building in which the
deputies sat. But the deputies refused to be intimidated; they refused to
see the guns and foreign uniforms; they refused to see anything but the
purpose for which they had been brought together by royal proclamation.
Thus until the 10th of June, when that great thinker and metaphysician,
the Abbe Sieyes, gave the signal: "It is time," said he, "to cut the cable."
And the opportunity came soon, at the very beginning of July. M. du
Chatelet, a harsh, haughty disciplinarian, proposed to transfer the eleven
French Guards placed under arrest from the military gaol of the Abbaye to
the filthy prison of Bicetre reserved for thieves and felons of the lowest
order. Word of that intention going forth, the people at last met violence
with violence. A mob four thousand strong broke into the Abbaye, and
delivered thence not only the eleven guardsmen, but all the other prisoners,
with the exception of one whom they discovered to be a thief, and whom they
put back again;
That was open revolt at last, and with revolt Privilege knew how to
deal. It would strangle this mutinous Paris in the iron grip of the foreign
regiments. Measures were quickly concerted. Old Marechal de Broglie, a
veteran of the Seven Years' War, imbued with a soldier's contempt for
civilians, conceiving that the sight of a uniform would be enough to restore
peace and order, took control with Besenval as his second-in-command. The
foreign regiments were stationed in the environs of Paris, regiments whose
very names were an irritation to the Parisians, regiments of Reisbach, of
Diesbach, of Nassau, Esterhazy, and Roehmer. Reenforcements of Swiss were
sent to the Bastille between whose crenels already since the 30th of June
were to be seen the menacing mouths of loaded cannon.
On the 10th of July the electors once more addressed the King to
request the withdrawal of the troops. They were answered next day that the
troops served the purpose of defending the liberties of the Assembly! And on
the next day to that, which was a Sunday, the philanthropist Dr. Guillotin -
whose philanthropic engine of painless death was before very long to find a
deal of work, came from the Assembly, of which he was a member, to assure
the electors of Paris that all was well, appearances notwithstanding, since
Necker was more firmly in the saddle than ever. He did not know that at the
very moment in which he was speaking so confidently, the oft-dismissed and
oft-recalled M. Necker had just been dismissed yet again by the hostile
cabal about the Queen. Privilege wanted conclusive measures, and conclusive
measures it would have - conclusive to itself.
And at the same time yet another philanthropist, also a doctor, one
Jean-Paul Mara, of Italian extraction - better known as Marat, the
gallicized form of name he adopted - a man of letters, too, who had spent
some years in England, and there published several works on sociology, was
writing:
"Have a care! Consider what would be the fatal effect of a seditious
movement. If you should have the misfortune to give way to that, you will be
treated as people in revolt, and blood will flow."
Andre-Louis was in the gardens of the Palais Royal, that place of shops
and puppet-shows, of circus and cafes, of gaming houses and brothels, that
universal rendezvous, on that Sunday morning when the news of Necker's
dismissal spread, carrying with it dismay and fury. Into Necker's dismissal
the people read the triumph of the party hostile to themselves. It sounded
the knell of all hope of redress of their wrongs.
He beheld a slight young man with a pock-marked face, redeemed from
utter ugliness by a pair of magnificent eyes, leap to a table outside the
Caf‚ de Foy, a drawn sword in his hand, crying, "To arms!" And then upon the
silence of astonishment that cry imposed, this young man poured a flood of
inflammatory eloquence, delivered in a voice marred at moments by a stutter.
He told the people that the Germans on the Champ de Mars would enter Paris
that night to butcher the inhabitants. "Let us mount a cockade!" he cried,
and tore a leaf from a tree to serve his purpose - the green cockade of
hope.
Enthusiasm swept the crowd, a motley crowd made up of men and women of
every class, from vagabond to nobleman, from harlot to lady of fashion.
Trees were despoiled of their leaves, and the green cockade was flaunted
from almost every head.
"You are caught between two fires," the incendiary's stuttering voice
raved on. "Between the Germans on the Champ de Mars and the Swiss in the
Bastille. To arms, then! To arms!"
Excitement boiled up and over. From a neighbouring waxworks show came
the bust of Necker, and presently a bust of that comedian the Duke of
Orleans, who had a party and who was as ready as any other of the budding
opportunists of those days to take advantage of the moment for his own
aggrandizement. The bust of Necker was draped with crepe.
Andre-Louis looked on, and grew afraid. Marat's pamphlet had impressed
him. It had expressed what himself he had expressed more than half a year
ago to the mob at Rennes. This crowd, he felt must be restrained. That
hot-headed, irresponsible stutterer would have the town in a blaze by night
unless something were done. The young man, a causeless advocate of the
Palais named Camille Desmoulins, later to become famous, leapt down from his
table still waving his sword, still shouting, "To arms! Follow me!"
Andre-Louis advanced to occupy the improvised rostrum, which the stutterer
had just vacated, to make an effort at counteracting that inflammatory
performance. He thrust through the crowd, and came suddenly face to face
with a tall man beautifully dressed, whose handsome countenance was sternly
set, whose great sombre eyes mouldered as if with suppressed anger.
Thus face to face, each looking into the eyes of the other, they stood
for a long moment, the jostling crowd streaming past them, unheeded. Then
Andre-Louis laughed.
"That fellow, too, has a very dangerous gift of eloquence, M. le
Marquis," he said. "In fact there are a number of such in France to-day.
They grow from the soil, which you and yours have irrigated with the blood
of the martyrs of liberty. Soon it may be your blood instead. The soil is
parched, and thirsty for it."
"Gallows-bird!" he was answered. "The police will do your affair for
you. I shall tell the, Lieutenant-General that you are to be found in
Paris."
"My God, man!" cried Andre-Louis, "will you never get sense? Will you
talk like that of Lieutenant-Generals when Paris itself is likely to tumble
about your ears or take fire under your feet? Raise your voice, M. le
Marquis. Denounce me here, to these. You will make a hero of me in such an
hour as this. Or shall I denounce you? I think I will. I think it is high
time you received your wages. Hi! You others, listen to me! Let me present
you to... "
A rush of men hurtled against him, swept him along with them, do what
he would, separating him from M. de La Tour d'Azyr, so oddly met. He sought
to breast that human torrent; the Marquis, caught in an eddy of it, remained
where he had been, and Andre-Louis' last glimpse of him was of a man smiling
with tight lips, an ugly smile.
Meanwhile the gardens were emptying in the wake of that stuttering
firebrand who had mounted the green cockade. The human torrent poured out
into the Rue de Richelieu, and Andre-Louis perforce must suffer himself to
be borne along by it, at least as far as the Rue du Hasard. There he sidled
out of it, and having no wish to be crushed to death or to take further part
in the madness that was afoot, he slipped down the street, and so got home
to the deserted academy. For there were no pupils to-day, and even M. des
Amis, like Andre-Louis, had gone out to seek for news of what was happening
at Versailles.
This was no normal state of things at the Academy of Bertrand des Amis.
Whatever else in Paris might have been at a standstill lately, the fencing
academy had flourished as never hitherto. Usually both the master and his
assistant were busy from morning until dusk, and already Andre-Louis was
being paid now by the lessons that he gave, the master allowing him one half
of the fee in each case for himself, an arrangement which the assistant
found profitable. On Sundays the academy made half-holiday; but on this
Sunday such had been the state of suspense and ferment in the city that no
one having appeared by eleven o'clock both des Amis and Andre-Louis had gone
out. Little they thought as they lightly took leave of each other
- they were very good friends by now - that they were never to meet
again in this world.
Bloodshed there was that day in Paris. On the Place Vendome a
detachment of dragoons awaited the crowd out of which Andre-Louis had
slipped. The horsemen swept down upon the mob, dispersed it, smashed the
waxen effigy of M. Necker, and killed one man on the spot - an unfortunate
French Guard who stood his ground. That was a beginning. As a consequence
Besenval brought up his Swiss from the Champ de Mars and marshalled them in
battle order on the Champs Elysees with four pieces of artillery. His
dragoons he stationed in the Place Louis XV. That evening an enormous crowd,
streaming along the Champs Elysees and the Tuileries Gardens, considered
with eyes of alarm that warlike preparation. Some insults were cast upon
those foreign mercenaries and some stones were flung. Besenval, losing his
head, or acting under orders, sent for his dragoons and ordered them to
disperse the crowd, But that crowd was too dense to be dispersed in this
fashion; so dense that it was impossible for the horsemen to move without
crushing some one. There were several crushed, and as a consequence when the
dragoons, led by the Prince de Lambesc, advanced into the Tuileries Gardens,
the outraged crowd met them with a fusillade of stones and bottles. Lambesc
gave the order to fire. There was a stampede. Pouring forth from the
Tuileries through the city went those indignant people with their story of
German cavalry trampling upon women and children, and uttering now in
grimmest earnest the call to arms, raised at noon by Desmoulins in the
Palais Royal.
The victims were taken up and borne thence, and amongst them was
Bertrand des Amis, himself - like all who lived by the sword - an ardent
upholder of the noblesse, trampled to death under hooves of foreign horsemen
launched by the noblesse and led by a nobleman.
To Andre-Louis, waiting that evening on the second floor of No. 13 Rue
du Hasard for the return of his friend and master, four men of the people
brought that broken body of one of the earliest victims of the Revolution
that was now launched in earnest.
The ferment of Paris which, during the two following days, resembled an
armed camp rather than a city, delayed the burial of Bertrand des Amis until
the Wednesday of that eventful week. Amid events that were shaking a nation
to its foundations the death of a fencing-master passed almost unnoticed
even among his pupils, most of whom did not come to the academy during the
two days that his body lay there. Some few, however, did come, and these
conveyed the news to others, with the result that the master was followed to
Pere Lachaise by a score of young men at the head of whom as chief mourner
walked Andre-Louis.
There were no relatives to be advised so far as Andre-Louis was aware,
although within a week of M. des Amis' death a sister turned up from Passy
to claim his heritage. This was considerable, for the master had prospered
and saved money, most of which was invested in the Compagnie des Eaux and
the National Debt. Andre-Louis consigned her to the lawyers, and saw her no
more.
The death of des Amis left him with so profound a sense of loneliness
and desolation that he had no thought or care for the sudden access of
fortune which it automatically procured him. To the master's sister might
fall such wealth as he had amassed, but Andre-Louis succeeded to the mine
itself from which that wealth had been extracted, the fencing-school in
which by now he was himself so well established as an instructor that its
numerous pupils looked to him to carry it forward successfully as its chief.
And never was there a season in which fencing-academies knew such prosperity
as in these troubled days, when every man was sharpening his sword and
schooling himself in the uses of it.
It was not until a couple of weeks later that Andre-Louis realized what
had really happened to him, and he found himself at the same time an
exhausted man, for during that fortnight he had been doing the work of two.
If he had not hit upon the happy expedient of pairing-off his more advanced
pupils to fence with each other, himself standing by to criticize, correct
and otherwise instruct, he must have found the task utterly beyond his
strength. Even so, it was necessary for him to fence some six hours daily,
and every day he brought arrears of lassitude from yesterday until he was in
danger of succumbing under the increasing burden of fatigue. In the end he
took an assistant to deal with beginners, who gave the hardest work. He
found him readily enough by good fortune in one of his own pupils named Le
Duc. As the summer advanced, and the concourse of pupils steadily increased,
it became necessary for him to take yet another assistant - an able young
instructor named Galoche - and another room on the floor above.
They were strenuous days for Andre-Louis, more strenuous than he had
ever known, even when he had been at work to build up the Binet Company; but
it follows that they were days of extraordinary prosperity. He comments
regretfully upon the fact that Bertrand des Amis should have died by
ill-chance on the very eve of so profitable a vogue of sword-play.
The arms of the Academie du Roi, to which Andre-Louis had no title,
still continued to be displayed outside his door. He had overcome the
difficulty in a manner worthy of Scaramouche. He left the escutcheon and the
legend "Academie de Bertrand des Amis, Maitre en fait d'Armes des Academies
du Roi," appending to it the further legend: "Conducted by Andre-Louis."
With little time now in which to go abroad it was from his pupils and
the newspapers - of which a flood had risen in Paris with the establishment
of the freedom of the Press - that he learnt of the revolutionary processes
around him, following upon, as a measure of anticlimax, the fall of the
Bastille. That had happened whilst M. des Amis lay dead, on the day before
they buried him, and was indeed the chief reason of the delay in his burial.
It was an event that had its inspiration in that ill-considered charge of
Prince Lambesc in which the fencing-master had been killed.
The outraged people had besieged the electors in the Hotel de Ville,
demanding arms with which to defend their lives from these foreign murderers
hired by despotism. And in the end the electors had consented to give them
arms, or, rather - for arms it had none to give - to permit them to arm
themselves. Also it had given them a cockade, of red and blue, the colours
of Paris. Because these colours were also those of the liveries of the Duke
of Orleans, white was added to them - the white of the ancient standard of
France - and thus was the tricolour born. Further, a permanent committee of
electors was appointed to watch over public order.
Thus empowered the people went to work with such good effect that
within thirty-six hours sixty thousand pikes had been forged. At nine
o'clock on Tuesday morning thirty thousand men were before the Invalides. By
eleven o'clock they had ravished it of its store of arms amounting to some
thirty thousand muskets, whilst others had seized the Arsenal and possessed
themse1ves of powder.
Thus they prepared to resist the attack that from seven points was to
be launched that evening upon the city. But Paris did not wait for the
attack. It took the initiative. Mad with enthusiasm it conceived the insane
project of taking that terrible menacing fortress, the Bastille, and, what
is more, it succeeded, as you know, before five o'clock that night, aided in
the enterprise by the French Guards with cannon.
The news of it, borne to Versailles by Lambesc in flight with his
dragoons before the vast armed force that had sprouted from the
paving-stones of Paris, gave the Court pause. The people were in possession
of the guns captured from the Bastille. They were erecting barricades in the
streets, and mounting these guns upon them. The attack had been too long
delayed. It must be abandoned since now it could lead only to fruitless
slaughter that must further shake the already sorely shaken prestige of
Royalty.
And so the Court, growing momentarily wise again under the spur of
fear, preferred to temporize. Necker should be brought back yet once again,
the three orders should sit united as the National Assembly demanded. It was
the completest surrender of force to force, the only argument. The King went
alone to inform the National Assembly of that eleventh-hour resolve, to the
great comfort of its members, who viewed with pain and alarm the dreadful
state of things in Paris. "No force but the force of reason and argument"
was their watchword, and it was so to continue for two years yet, with a
patience and fortitude in the face of ceaseless provocation to which
insufficient justice has been done.
As the King was leaving the Assembly, a woman, embracing his knees,
gave tongue to what might well be the question of all France:
"Ah, sire, are you really sincere? Are you sure they will not make you
change your mind?"
Yet no such question was asked when a couple of days later the King,
alone and unguarded save by the representatives of the Nation, came to Paris
to complete the peacemaking, the surrender of Privilege. The Court was
filled with terror by the adventure. Were they not the "enemy," these
mutinous Parisians? And should a King go thus among his enemies? If he
shared some of that fear, as the gloom of him might lead us to suppose, he
must have found it idle. What if two hundred thousand men under arms - men
without uniforms and with the most extraordinary motley of weapons ever seen
- awaited him? They awaited him as a guard of honour.
Mayor Bailly at the barrier presented him with the keys of the city.
"These are the same keys that were presented to Henri IV. He had reconquered
his people. Now the people have reconquered their King."
At the Hotel de Ville Mayor Bailly offered him the new cockade, the
tricoloured symbol of constitutional France, and when he had given his royal
confirmation to the formation of the Garde Bourgeoise and to the
appointments of Bailly and Lafayette, he departed again for Versailles amid
the shouts of "Vive le Roi!" from his loyal people.
And now you see Privilege - before the cannon's mouth, as it were
- submitting at last, where had they submitted sooner they might have
saved oceans of blood - chiefly their own. They come, nobles and clergy, to
join the National Assembly, to labour with it upon this constitution that is
to regenerate France. But the reunion is a mockery - as much a mockery as
that of the Archbishop of Paris singing the Te Deum for the fall of the
Bastille - most grotesque and incredible of all these grotesque and
incredible events. All that has happened to the National Assembly is that it
has introduced five or six hundred enemies to hamper and hinder its
deliberations.
But all this is an oft-told tale, to be read in detail elsewhere. I
give you here just so much of it as I have found in Andre-Louis' own
writings, almost in his own words, reflecting the changes that were operated
in his mind. Silent now, he came fully to believe in those things in which
he had not believed when earlier he had preached them.
Meanwhile together with the change in his fortune had come a change in
his position towards the law, a change brought about by the other changes
wrought around him. No longer need he hide himself. Who in these days would
prefer against him the grotesque charge of sedition for what he had done in
Brittany? What court would dare to send him to the gallows for having said
in advance what all France was saying now? As for that other possible charge
of murder, who should concern himself with the death of the miserable Binet
killed by him - if, indeed, he had killed him, as he hoped - in
self-defence.
And so one fine day in early August, Andre-Louis gave himself a holiday
from the academy, which was now working smoothly under his assistants, hired
a chaise and drove out to Versailles to the Caf‚ d'Amaury, which he knew for
the meeting-place of the Club Breton, the seed from which was to spring that
Society of the Friends of the Constitution better known as the Jacobins. He
went to seek Le Chapelier, who had been one of the founders of the club, a
man of great prominence now, president of the Assembly in this important
season when it was deliberating upon the Declaration of the Rights of Man.
Le Chapelier's importance was reflected in the sudden servility of the
shirt-sleeved, white-aproned waiter of whom Andre-Louis inquired for the
representative.
M. Le Chapelier was above-stairs with friends. The waiter desired to
serve the gentleman, but hesitated to break in upon the assembly in which M.
le Depute found himself.
Andre-Louis gave him a piece of silver to encourage him to make the
attempt. Then he sat down at a marble-topped table by the window looking out
over the wide tree-encircled square. There, in that common-room of the caf‚,
deserted at this hour of mid-afternoon, the great man came to him. Less than
a year ago he had yielded precedence to Andre-Louis in a matter of delicate
leadership; to-day he stood on the heights, one of the great leaders of the
Nation in travail, and Andre-Louis was deep down in the shadows of the
general mass.
The thought was in the minds of both as they scanned each other, each
noting in the other the marked change that a few months had wrought. In Le
Chapelier, Andre-Louis observed certain heightened refinements of dress that
went with certain subtler refinements of countenance. He was thinner than of
old, his face was pale and there was a weariness in the eyes that considered
his visitor through a gold-rimmed spy-glass. In Andre-Louis those jaded but
quick-moving eyes of the Breton deputy noted changes even more marked. The
almost constant swordmanship of these last months had given Andre-Louis a
grace of movement, a poise, and a curious, indefinable air of dignity, of
command. He seemed taller by virtue of this, and he was dressed with an
elegance which if quiet was none the less rich. He wore a small
silver-hilted sword, and wore it as if used to it, and his black hair that
Le Chapelier had never seen other than fluttering lank about his bony cheeks
was glossy now and gathered into a club. Almost he had the air of a
petit-maitre.
In both, however, the changes were purely superficial, as each was soon
to reveal to the other. Le Chapelier was ever the same direct and downright
Breton, abrupt of manner and of speech. He stood smiling a moment in mingled
surprise and pleasure; then opened wide his arms. They embraced under the
awe-stricken gaze of the waiter, who at once effaced himself.
"Andre-Louis, my friend! Whence do you drop?"
"We drop from above. I come from below to survey at close quarters one
who is on the heights."
"On the heights! But that you willed it so, it is yourself might now be
standing in my place."
"I have a poor head for heights, and I find the atmosphere too
rarefied. Indeed, you look none too well on it yourself, Isaac. You are
pale."
"The Assembly was in session all last night. That is all. These damned
Privileged multiply our difficulties. They will do so until we decree their
abolition."
They sat down. "Abolition! You contemplate so much? Not that you
surprise me. You have always been an extremist."
"I contemplate it that I may save them. I seek to abolish them
officially, so as to save them from abolition of another kind at the hands
of a people they exasperate."
"I see. And the King?"
"The King is the incarnation of the Nation. We shall deliver him
together with the Nation from the bondage of Privilege. Our constitution
will accomplish it. You agree?"
Andre-Louis shrugged. "Does it matter? I am a dreamer in politics, not
a man of action. Until lately I have been very moderate; more moderate than
you think. But now almost I am a republican. I have been watching, and I
have perceived that this King is - just nothing, a puppet who dances
according to the hand that pulls the string."
"This King, you say? What other king is possible? You are surely not of
those who weave dreams about Orleans? He has a sort of party, a following
largely recruited by the popular hatred of the Queen and the known fact that
she hates him. There are some who have thought of making him regent, some
even more; Robespierre is of the number."
"Who?" asked Andre-Louis, to whom the name was unknown.
"Robespierre - a preposterous little lawyer who represents Arras, a
shabby, clumsy, timid dullard, who will make speeches through his nose to
which nobody listens - an ultra-royalist whom the royalists and the
Orleanists are using for their own ends. He has pertinacity, and he insists
upon being heard. He may be listened to some day. But that he, or the
others, will ever make anything of Orleans... pish! Orleans himself may
desire it, but. the man is a eunuch in crime; he would, but he can't. The
phrase is Mirabeau's."
He broke off to demand Andre-Louis' news of himself.
"You did not treat me as a friend when you wrote to me," he complained.
"You gave me no clue to your whereabouts; you represented yourself as on the
verge of destitution and withheld from me the means to come to your
assistance. I have been troubled in mind about you, Andre. Yet to judge by
your appearance I might have spared myself that. You seem prosperous,
assured. Tell me of it."
Andre-Louis told him frankly all that there was to tell. "Do you know
that you are an amazement to me?" said the deputy. "From the robe to the
buskin, and now from the buskin to the sword! What will be the end of you, I
wonder?"
"The gallows, probably."
"Fish! Be serious. Why not the toga of the senator in senatorial
France? It might be yours now if you had willed it so."
"The surest way to the gallows of all," laughed Andre-Louis.
At the moment Le Chapelier manifested impatience. I wonder did the
phrase cross his mind that day four years later when himself he rode in the
death-cart to the Greve.
"We are sixty-six Breton deputies in the Assembly. Should a vacancy
occur, will you act as suppleant? A word from me together with the influence
of your name in Rennes and Nantes, and the thing is done."
Andre-Louis laughed outright. "Do you know, Isaac, that I never meet
you but you seek to thrust me into politics?"
"Because you have a gift for politics. You were born for politics."
"Ah, yes - Scaramouche in real life. I've played it on the stage. Let
that suffice. Tell me, Isaac, what news of my old friend, La Tour d'Azyr?"
"He is here in Versailles, damn him - a thorn in the flesh of the
Assembly. They've burnt his chateau at La Tour d'Azyr. Unfortunately he
wasn't in it at the time. The flames haven't even singed his insolence. He
dreams that when this philosophic aberration is at an end, there will be
serfs to rebuild it for him."
"So there has been trouble in Brittany?" Andre-Louis had become
suddenly grave, his thoughts swinging to Gavrillac.
"An abundance of it, and elsewhere too. Can you wonder? These delays at
such a time, with famine in the land? Chateaux have been going up in smoke
during the last fortnight. The peasants took their cue from the Parisians,
and treated every castle as a Bastille. Order is being restored, there as
here, and they are quieter now."
"What of Gavrillac? Do you know?"
"I believe all to be well. M. de Kercadiou was not a Marquis de La Tour
d'Azyr. He was in sympathy with his people. It is not likely that they would
injure Gavrillac. But don't you correspond with your godfather?"
"In the circumstances - no. What you tell me would make it now more
difficult than ever, for he must account me one of those who helped to light
the torch that has set fire to so much belonging to his class. Ascertain for
me that all is well, and let me know."
"I will, at once."
At parting, when Andre-Louis was on the point of stepping into his
cabriolet to return to Paris, he sought information on another matter.
"Do you happen to know if M. de La Tour d'Azyr has married?" he asked.
"I don't; which really means that he hasn't. One would have heard of it
in the case of that exalted Privileged."
"To be sure." Andre-Louis spoke indifferently. "Au revoir, Isaac!
You'll come and see me - 13 Rue du Hasard. Come soon."
"As soon and as often as my duties will allow. They keep me chained
here at present."
"Poor slave of duty with your gospel of liberty!"
"True! And because of that I will come. I have a duty to Brittany: to
make Omnes Omnibus one of her representatives in the National Assembly."
"That is a duty you will oblige me by neglecting," laughed Andre-Louis,
and drove away.
Later in the week he received a visit from Le Chapelier just before
noon.
"I have news for you, Andre. Your godfather is at Meudon. He arrived
there two days ago. Had you heard?"
"But no. How should I hear? Why is he at Meudon?" He was conscious of a
faint excitement, which he could hardly have explained.
"I don't know. There have been fresh disturbances in Brittany. It may
be due to that."
"And so he has come for shelter to his brother?" asked Andre-Louis.
"To his brother's house, yes; but not to his brother. Where do you live
at all, Andre? Do you never hear any of the news? Etienne de Gavrillac
emigrated years ago. He was of the household of M. d'Artois, and he crossed
the frontier with him. By now, no doubt, he is in Germany with him,
conspiring against France. For that is what the emigres are doing. That
Austrian woman at the Tuileries will end by destroying the monarchy."
"Yes, yes," said Andre-Louis impatiently. Politics interested him not
at all this morning. "But about Gavrillac?"
"Why, haven't I told you that Gavrillac is at Meudon, installed in the
house his brother has left? Dieu de Dieu! Don't I speak French or don't you
understand the language? I believe that Rabouillet, his intendant, is in
charge of Gavrillac. I have brought you the news the moment I received it. I
thought you would probably wish to go out to Meudon."
"Of course. I will go at once - that is, as soon as I can. I can't
to-day, nor yet to-morrow. I am too busy here." He waved a hand towards the
inner room, whence proceeded the click-click of blades, the quick moving of
feet, and the voice of the instructor, Le Duc.
"Well, well, that is your own affair. You are busy. I leave you now.
Let us dine this evening at the Caf‚ de Foy. Kersain will be of the party."
"A moment!" Andre-Louis' voice arrested him on the threshold. "Is Mlle.
de Kercadiou with her uncle?"
"How the devil should I know? Go and find out."
He was gone, and Andre-Louis stood there a moment deep in thought. Then
he turned and went back to resume with his pupil, the Vicomte de Villeniort,
the interrupted exposition of the demi-contre of Danet, illustrating with a
small-sword the advantages to be derived from its adoption.
Thereafter he fenced with the Vicomte, who was perhaps the ablest of
his pupils at the time, and all the while his thoughts were on the heights
of Meudon, his mind casting up the lessons he had to give that afternoon and
on the morrow, and wondering which of these he might postpone without
deranging the academy. When having touched the Vicomte three times in
succession, he paused and wrenched himself back to the present, it was to
marvel at the precision to be gained by purely mechanical action. Without
bestowing a thought upon what he was doing, his wrist and arm and knees had
automatically performed their work, like the accurate fighting engine into
which constant practice for a year and more had combined them.
Not until Sunday was Andre-Louis able to satisfy a wish which the
impatience of the intervening days had converted into a yearning. Dressed
with more than ordinary care, his head elegantly coiffed
- by one of those hairdressers to the nobility of whom so many were
being thrown out of employment by the stream of emigration which was now
flowing freely - Andre-Louis mounted his hired carriage, and drove out to
Meudon.
The house of the younger Kercadiou no more resembled that of the head
of the family than did his person. A man of the Court, where his brother was
essentially a man of the soil, an officer of the household of M. le Comte
d'Artois, he had built for himself and his family an imposing villa on the
heights of Meudon in a miniature park, conveniently situated for him midway
between Versailles and Paris, and easily accessible from either. M. d'Artois
- the royal tennis-player - had been amongst the very first to emigrate.
Together with the Condes, the Contis, the Polignacs, and others of the
Queen's intimate council, old Marshal de Broglie and the Prince de Lambesc,
who realized that their very names had become odious to the people, he had
quitted France immediately after the fall of the Bastille. He had gone to
play tennis beyond the frontier - and there consummate the work of ruining
the French monarchy upon which he and those others had been engaged in
France. With him, amongst several members of his household went Etienne de
Kercadiou, and with Etienne de Kercadiou went his family, a wife and four
children. Thus it was that the Seigneur de Gavrillac, glad to escape from a
province so peculiarly disturbed as that of Brittany - where the nobles had
shown themselves the most intransigent of all France - had come to occupy in
his brother's absence the courtier's handsome villa at Meudon.
That he was quite happy there is not to be supposed. A man of his
almost Spartan habits, accustomed to plain fare and self-help, was a little
uneasy in this sybaritic abode, with its soft carpets, profusion of gilding,
and battalion of sleek, silent-footed servants
- for Kercadiou the younger had left his entire household behind. Time,
which at Gavrillac he had kept so fully employed in agrarian concerns, here
hung heavily upon his hands. In self-defence he slept a great deal, and but
for Aline, who made no attempt to conceal her delight at this proximity to
Paris and the heart of things, it is possible that he would have beat a
retreat almost at once from surroundings that sorted so ill with his habits.
Later on, perhaps, he would accustom himself and grow resigned to this
luxurious inactivity. In the meantime the novelty of it fretted him, and it
was into the presence of a peevish and rather somnolent M. de Kercadiou that
Andre-Louis was ushered in the early hours of the afternoon of that Sunday
in June. He was unannounced, as had ever been the custom at Gavrillac. This
because Benoit, M. de Kercadiou's old seneschal, had accompanied his
seigneur upon this soft adventure, and was installed - to the ceaseless and
but half-concealed hilarity of the impertinent valetaille that M. Etienne
had left - as his maitre d'hotel here at Meudon.
Benoit had welcomed M. Andre with incoherencies of delight; almost had
he gambolled about him like some faithful dog, whilst conducting him to the
salon and the presence of the Lord of Gavrillac, who would - in the words of
Benoit - be ravished to see M. Andre again.
"Monseigneur! Monseigneur!" he cried in a quavering voice, entering a
pace or two in advance of the visitor. "It is M. Andre... M. Andre, your
godson, who comes to kiss your hand. He is here... and so fine that you
would hardly know him. Here he is, monseigneur! Is he not beautiful?"
And the old servant rubbed his hands in conviction of the delight that
he believed he was conveying to his master.
Andre-Louis crossed the threshold of that great room, soft-carpeted to
the foot, dazzling to the eye. It was immensely lofty, and its festooned
ceiling was carried on fluted pillars with gilded capitals. The door by
which he entered, and the windows that opened upon the garden, were of an
enormous height - almost, indeed, the full height of the room itself. It was
a room overwhelmingly gilded, with an abundance of ormolu encrustations on
the furniture, in which it nowise differed from what was customary in the
dwellings of people of birth and wealth. Never, indeed, was there a time in
which so much gold was employed decoratively as in this age when coined gold
was almost unprocurable, and paper money had been put into circulation to
supply the lack. It was a saying of Andre-Louis' that if these people could
only have been induced to put the paper on their walls and the gold into
their pockets, the finances of the kingdom might soon have been in better
case.
The Seigneur - furbished and beruffled to harmonize with his
surroundings - had risen, startled by this exuberant invasion on the part of
Benoit, who had been almost as forlorn as himself since their coming to
Meudon.
"What is it? Eh?" His pale, short-sighted eyes peered at the visitor.
"Andre!" said he, between surprise and sternness; and the colour deepened in
his great pink face.
Benoit, with his back to his master, deliberately winked and grinned at
Andre-Louis to encourage him not to be put off by any apparent hostility on
the part of his godfather. That done, the intelligent old fellow discreetly
effaced himself.
"What do you want here?" growled M. de Kercadiou.
"No more than to kiss your hand, as Benoit has told you, monsieur my
godfather," said Andre-Louis submissively, bowing his sleek black head.
"You have contrived without kissing it for two years."
"Do not, monsieur, reproach me with my misfortune."
The little man stood very stiffly erect, his disproportionately large
head thrown back, his pale prominent eyes very stern.
"Did you think to make your outrageous offence any better by vanishing
in that heartless manner, by leaving us without knowledge of whether you
were alive or dead?"
"At first it was dangerous - dangerous to my life - to disclose my
whereabouts. Then for a time I was in need, almost destitute, and my pride
forbade me, after what I had done and the view you must take of it, to
appeal to you for help. Later... "
"Destitute?" The Seigneur interrupted. For a moment his lip trembled.
Then he steadied himself, and the frown deepened as he surveyed this very
changed and elegant godson of his, noted the quiet richness of his apparel,
the paste buckles and red heels to his shoes, the sword hilted in
mother-o'-pearl and silver, and the carefully dressed hair that he had
always seen hanging in wisps about his face. "At least you do not look
destitute now," he sneered.
"I am not. I have prospered since. In that, monsieur, I differ from the
ordinary prodigal, who returns only when he needs assistance. I return
solely because I love you, monsieur - to tell you so. I have come at the
very first moment after hearing of your presence here." He advanced.
"Monsieur my godfather!" he said, and held out his hand.
But M. de Kercadiou remained unbending, wrapped in his cold dignity and
resentment.
"Whatever tribulations you may have suffered or consider that you may
have suffered, they are far less than your disgraceful conduct deserved, and
I observe that they have nothing abated your impudence. You think that you
have but to come here and say, 'Monsieur my godfather!' and everything is to
be forgiven and forgotten. That is your error. You have committed too great
a wrong; you have offended against everything by which I hold, and against
myself personally, by your betrayal of my trust in you. You are one of those
unspeakable scoundrels who are responsible for this revolution."
"Alas, monsieur, I see that you share the common delusion. These
unspeakable scoundrels but demanded a constitution, as was promised them
from the throne. They were not to know that the promise was insincere, or
that its fulfilment would be baulked by the privileged orders. The men who
have precipitated this revolution, monsieur, are the nobles and the
prelates."
"You dare - and at such a time as this - stand there and tell me such
abominable lies! You dare to say that the nobles have made the revolution,
when scores of them, following the example of M. le Duc d'Aiguillon, have
flung their privileges, even their title-deeds, into the lap of the people!
Or perhaps you deny it?"
"Oh, no. Having wantonly set fire to their house, they now try to put
it out by throwing water on it; and where they fail they put the entire
blame on the flames."
"I see that you have come here to talk politics."
"Far from it. I have come, if possible, to explain myself. To
understand is always to forgive. That is a great saying of Montaigne's. If I
could make you understand... "
"You can't. You'll never make me understand how you came to render
yourself so odiously notorious in Brittany."
"Ah, not odiously, monsieur!"
"Certainly, odiously - among those that matter. It is said even that
you were Omnes Omnibus, though that I cannot, will not believe."
"Yet it is true."
M. de Kercadiou choked. "And you confess it? You dare to confess it?"
"What a man dares to do, he should dare to confess - unless he is a
coward."
"Oh, and to be sure you were very brave, running away each time after
you had done the mischief, turning comedian to hide yourself, doing more
mischief as a comedian, provoking a riot in Nantes, and then running away
again, to become God knows what - something dishonest by the affluent look
of you. My God, man, I tell you that in these past two years I have hoped
that you were dead, and you profoundly disappoint me that you are not!" He
beat his hands together, and raised his shrill voice to call - "Benoit!" He
strode away towards the fireplace, scarlet in the face, shaking with the
passion into which he had worked himself. "Dead, I might have forgiven you,
as one who had paid for his evil, and his folly. Living, I never can forgive
you. You have gone too far. God alone knows where it will end.
"Benoit, the door. M. Andre-Louis Moreau to the door!" The tone argued
an irrevocable determination. Pale and self-contained, but with a queer pain
at his heart, Andre-Louis heard that dismissal, saw Benoit's white, scared
face and shaking hands half-raised as if he were about to expostulate with
his master. And then another voice, a crisp, boyish voice, cut in.
"Uncle!" it cried, a world of indignation and surprise in its pitch,
and then: "Andre!" And this time a note almost of gladness, certainly of
welcome, was blended with the surprise that still remained.
Both turned, half the room between them at the moment, and beheld Aline
in one of the long, open windows, arrested there in the act of entering from
the garden, Aline in a milk-maid bonnet of the latest mode, though without
any of the tricolour embellishments that were so commonly to be seen upon
them.
The thin lips of Andre's long mouth twisted into a queer smile. Into
his mind had flashed the memory of their last parting. He saw himself again,
standing burning with indignation upon the pavement of Nantes, looking after
her carriage as it receded down the Avenue de Gigan.
She was coming towards him now with outstretched hands, a heightened
colour in her cheeks, a smile of welcome on her lips. He bowed low and
kissed her hand in silence.
Then with a glance and a gesture she dismissed Benoit, and in her
imperious fashion constituted herself Andre's advocate against that harsh
dismissal which she had overheard.
"Uncle," she said, leaving Andre and crossing to M. de Kercadiou, "you
make me ashamed of you! To allow a feeling of peevishness to overwhelm all
your affection for Andre!"
"I have no affection for him. I had once. He chose to extinguish it. He
can go to the devil; and please observe that I don't permit you to
interfere."
"But if he confesses that he has done wrong... "
"He confesses nothing of the kind. He comes here to argue with me about
these infernal Rights of Man. He proclaims himself unrepentant. He announces
himself with pride to have been, as all Brittany says, the scoundrel who hid
himself under the sobriquet of Omnes Omnibus. Is that to be condoned?"
She turned to look at Andre across the wide space that now separated
them.
"But is this really so? Don't you repent, Andre - now that you see all
the harm that has come?"
It was a clear invitation to him, a pleading to him to say that he
repented, to make his peace with his godfather. For a moment it almost moved
him. Then, considering the subterfuge unworthy, he answered truthfully,
though the pain he was suffering rang in his voice.
"To confess repentance," he said slowly, "would be to confess to a
monstrous crime. Don't you see that? Oh, monsieur, have patience with me;
let me explain myself a little. You say that I am in part responsible for
something of all this that has happened. My exhortations of the people at
Rennes and twice afterwards at Nantes are said to have had their share in
what followed there. It may be so. It would be beyond my power positively to
deny it. Revolution followed and bloodshed. More may yet come. To repent
implies a recognition that I have done wrong. How shall I say that I have
done wrong, and thus take a share of the responsibility for all that blood
upon my soul? I will be quite frank with you to show you how far, indeed, I
am from repentance. What I did, I actually did against all my convictions at
the time. Because there was no justice in France to move against the
murderer of Philippe de Vilmorin, I moved in the only way that I imagined
could make the evil done recoil upon the hand that did it, and those other
hands that had the power but not the spirit to punish. Since then I have
come to see that I was wrong, and that Philippe de Vilmorin and those who
thought with him were in the right.
"You must realize, monsieur, that it is with sincerest thankfulness
that I find I have done nothing calling for repentance; that, on the
contrary, when France is given the inestimable boon of a constitution, as
will shortly happen, I may take pride in having played my part in bringing
about the conditions that have made this possible."
There was a pause. M. de Kercadiou's face turned from pink to purple.
"You have quite finished?" he said harshly.
"If you have understood me, monsieur."
"Oh, I have understood you, and... and I beg that you will go."
Andre-Louis shrugged his shoulders and hung his head. He had come there
so joyously, in such yearning, merely to receive a final dismissal. He
looked at Aline. Her face was pale and troubled; but her wit failed to show
her how she could come to his assistance. His excessive honesty had burnt
all his boats.
"Very well, monsieur. Yet this I would ask you to remember after I am
gone. I have not come to you as one seeking assistance, as one driven to you
by need. I am no returning prodigal, as I have said. I am one who, needing
nothing, asking nothing, master of his own destinies, has come to you driven
by affection only, urged by the love and gratitude he bears you and will
continue to bear you."
"Ah, yes!" cried Aline, turning now to her uncle. Here at least was an
argument in Andre's favour, thought she. "That is true. Surely that..."
Inarticulately he hissed her into silence, exasperated.
"Hereafter perhaps that will help you to think of me more kindly,
monsieur.
"I see no occasion, sir, to think of you at all. Again, I beg that you
will go."
Andre-Louis looked at Aline an instant, as if still hesitating.
She answered him by a glance at her furious uncle, a faint shrug, and a
lift of the eyebrows, dejection the while in her countenance.
It was as if she said: "You see his mood. There is nothing to be done."
He bowed with that singular grace the fencing-room had given him and
went out by the door.
"Oh, it is cruel!" cried Aline, in a stifled voice, her hands clenched,
and she sprang to the window.
"Aline!" her uncle's voice arrested her. "Where are you going?"
"But we do not know where he is to be found."
"Who wants to find the scoundrel?"
"We may never see him again."
"That is most fervently to be desired."
Aline said "Ouf!" and went out by the window.
He called after her, imperiously commanding her return. But Aline
- dutiful child - closed her ears lest she must disobey him, and sped
light-footed across the lawn to the avenue there to intercept the departing
Andre-Louis.
As he came forth wrapped in gloom, she stepped from the bordering trees
into his path.
"Aline!" he cried, joyously almost.
"I did not want you to go like this. I couldn't let you, she explained
herself. "I know him better than you do, and I know that his great soft
heart will presently melt. He will be filled with regret. He will want to
send for you, and he will not know where to send."
"You think that?"
"Oh, I know it! You arrive in a bad moment. He is peevish and
cross-grained, poor man, since he came here. These soft surroundings are all
so strange to him. He wearies himself away from his beloved Gavrillac, his
hunting and tillage, and the truth is that in his mind he very largely
blames you for what has happened
- for the necessity, or at least, the wisdom, of this change. Brittany,
you must know, was becoming too unsafe. The chateau of La Tour d'Azyr,
amongst others, was burnt to the ground some months ago. At any moment,
given a fresh excitement, it may be the turn of Gavrillac. And for this and
his present discomfort he blames you and your friends. But he will come
round presently. He will be sorry that he sent you away like this - for I
know that he loves you, Andre, in spite of all. I shall reason with him when
the time comes. And then we shall want to know where to find you."
"At number 13, Rue du Hasard. The number is unlucky, the name of the
street appropriate. Therefore both are easy to remember."
She nodded. "I will walk with you to the gates." And side by side now
they proceeded at a leisurely pace down the long avenue in the June sunshine
dappled by the shadows of the bordering trees. "You are looking well, Andre;
and do you know that you have changed a deal? I am glad that you have
prospered." And then, abruptly changing the subject before he had time to
answer her, she came to the matter uppermost in her mind.
"I have so wanted to see you in all these months, Andre. You were the
only one who could help me; the only one who could tell me the truth, and I
was angry with you for never having written to say where you were to be
found."
"Of course you encouraged me to do so when last we met in Nantes."
"What? Still resentful?"
"I am never resentful. You should know that." He expressed one of his
vanities. He loved to think himself a Stoic. "But I still bear the scar of a
wound that would be the better for the balm of your retraction."
"Why, then, I retract, Andre. And now tell me."
"Yes, a self-seeking retraction," said he. "You give me something that
you may obtain something." He laughed quite pleasantly. "Well, well; command
me."
"Tell me, Andre." She paused, as if in some difficulty, and then went
on, her eyes upon the ground: "Tell me - the truth of that event at the
Feydau."
The request fetched a frown to his brow. He suspected at once the
thought that prompted it. Quite simply and briefly he gave her his version
of the affair.
She listened very attentively. When he had done she sighed; her face
was very thoughtful.
"That is much what I was told," she said. "But it was added that M. de
La Tour d'Azyr had gone to the theatre expressly for the purpose of breaking
finally with La Binet. Do you know if that was so?"
"I don't; nor of any reason why it should be so. La Binet provided him
the sort of amusement that he and his kind are forever craving... "
"Oh, there was a reason," she interrupted him. "I was the reason. I
spoke to Mme. de Sautron. I told her that I would not continue to receive
one who came to me contaminated in that fashion." She spoke of it with
obvious difficulty, her colour rising as he watched her half-averted face.
"Had you listened to me... " he was beginning, when again she
interrupted him.
"M. de Sautron conveyed my decision to him, and afterwards represented
him to me as a man in despair, repentant, ready to give proofs - any proofs
- of his sincerity and devotion to me. He told me that M. de La Tour d'Azyr
had sworn to him that he would cut short that affair, that he would see La
Binet no more. And then, on the very next day I heard of his having all but
lost his life in that riot at the theatre. He had gone straight from that
interview with M. de Sautron, straight from those protestations of future
wisdom, to La Binet. I was indignant. I pronounced myself finally. I stated
definitely that I would not in any circumstances receive M. de La Tour
d'Azyr again! And then they pressed this explanation upon me. For a long
time I would not believe it."
"So that you believe it now," said Andre quickly. "Why?"
"I have not said that I believe it now. But... but... neither can I
disbelieve. Since we came to Meudon M. de La Tour d'Azyr has been here, and
himself he has sworn to me that it was so."
"Oh, if M. de La Tour d'Azyr has sworn... " Andre-Louis was laughing on
a bitter note of sarcasm.
"Have you ever known him lie?" she cut in sharply. That checked him.
"M. de La Tour d'Azyr is, after all, a man of honour, and men of honour
never deal in falsehood. Have you ever known him do so, that you should
sneer as you have done?"
"No," he confessed. Common justice demanded that he should admit that
virtue at least in his enemy. "I have not known him lie, it is true. His
kind is too arrogant, too self-confident to have recourse to untruth. But I
have known him do things as vile... "
"Nothing is as vile," she interrupted, speaking from the code by which
she had been reared. "It is for liars only - who are first cousin to thieves
- that there is no hope. It is in falsehood only that there is real loss of
honour."
"You are defending that satyr, I think," he said frostily.
"I desire to be just."
"Justice may seem to you a different matter when at last you shall have
resolved yourself to become Marquise de La Tour d'Azyr." He spoke bitterly.
"I don't think that I shall ever take that resolve."
"But you are still not sure - in spite of everything."
"Can one ever be sure of anything in this world?"
"Yes. One can be sure of being foolish."
Either she did not hear or did not heed him.
"You do not of your own knowledge know that it was not as M. de La Tour
d'Azyr asserts - that he went to the Feydau that night?"
"I don't," he admitted. "It is of course possible. But does it matter?"
"It might matter. Tell me; what became of La Binet after all?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?" She turned to consider him. "And you can say it with
that indifference! I thought... I thought you loved her, Andre"
"So did I, for a little while. I was mistaken. It required a La Tour
d'Azyr to disclose the truth to me. They have their uses, these gentlemen.
They help stupid fellows like myself to perceive important truths. I was
fortunate that revelation in my case preceded marriage. I can now look back
upon the episode with equanimity and thankfulness for my near escape from
the consequences of what was no more than an aberration of the senses. It is
a thing commonly confused with love. The experience, as you see, was very
instructive."
She looked at him in frank surprise.
"Do you know, Andre, I sometimes think that you have no heart."
"Presumably because I sometimes betray intelligence. And what of
yourself, Aline? What of your own attitude from the outset where M. de La
Tour d'Azyr is concerned? Does that show heart? If I were to tell you what
it really shows, we should end by quarrelling again, and God knows I can't
afford to quarrel with you now. I... I shall take another way.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, nothing at the moment, for you are not in any danger of marrying
that animal."
"And if I were?"
"Ah! In that case affection for you would discover to me some means of
preventing it - unless.. ." He paused.
"Unless?" she demanded, challengingly, drawn to the full of her sort
height, her eyes imperious.
"Unless you could also tell me that you loved him," said he simply,
whereat she was as suddenly and most oddly softened. And then he added,
shaking his head: "But that of course is impossible."
"Why?" she asked him, quite gently now.
"Because you are what you are, Aline - utterly good and pure and
adorable. Angels do not mate with devils. His wife you might become, but
never his mate, Aline - never."
They had reached the wrought-iron gates at the end of the avenue.
Through these they beheld the waiting yellow chaise which had brought
Andre-Louis. From near at hand came the creak of other wheels, the beat of
other hooves, and now another vehicle came in sight, and drew to a
stand-still beside the yellow chaise - a handsome equipage with polished
mahogany panels on which the gold and azure of armorial bearings flashed
brilliantly in the sunlight. A footman swung to earth to throw wide the
gates; but in that moment the lady who occupied the carriage, perceiving
Aline, waved to her and issued a command.
The postilion drew rein, and the footman opened the door, letting down
the steps and proffering his arm to his mistress to assist her to alight,
since that was the wish she had expressed. Then he opened one wing of the
iron gates, and held it for her. She was a woman of something more than
forty, who once must have been very lovely, who was very lovely still with
the refining quality that age brings to some women. Her dress and carriage
alike advertised great rank.
"I take my leave here, since you have a visitor," said Andre-Louis.
"But it is an old acquaintance of your own, Andre. You remember Mme. la
Comtesse de Plougastel?"
He looked at the approaching lady, whom Aline was now hastening forward
to meet, and because she was named to him he recognized her. He must, he
thought, had he but looked, have recognized her without prompting anywhere
at any time, and this although it was some sixteen years since last he had
seen her. The sight of her now brought it all back to him - a treasured
memory that had never permitted itself to be entirely overlaid by subsequent
events.
When he was a boy of ten, on the eve of being sent to school at Rennes,
she had come on a visit to his godfather, who was her cousin. It happened
that at the time he was taken by Rabouillet to the Manor of Gavrillac, and
there he had been presented to Mme. de Plougastel. The great lady, in all
the glory then of her youthful beauty, with her gentle, cultured voice - so
cultured that she had seemed to speak a language almost unknown to the
little Breton lad - and her majestic air of the great world, had scared him
a little at first. Very gently had she allayed those fears of his, and by
some mysterious enchantment she had completely enslaved his regard. He
recalled now the terror in which he had gone to the embrace to which he was
bidden, and the subsequent reluctance with which he had left those soft
round arms. He remembered, too, how sweetly she had smelled and the very
perfume she had used, a perfume as of lilac - for memory is singularly
tenacious in these matters.
For three days whilst she had been at Gavrillac, he had gone daily to
the manor, and so had spent hours in her company. A childless woman with the
maternal instinct strong within her, she had taken this precociously
intelligent, wide-eyed lad to her heart.
"Give him to me, Cousin Quintin," he remembered her saying on the last
of those days to his godfather. "Let me take him back with me to Versailles
as my adopted child."
But the Seigneur had gravely shaken his head in silent refusal, and
there had been no further question of such a thing. And then, when she said
good-bye to him - the thing came flooding back to him now
- there had been tears in her eyes.
"Think of me sometimes, Andre-Louis," had been her last words.
He remembered how flattered he had been to have won within so short a
time the affection of this great lady. The thing had given him a sense of
importance that had endured for months thereafter, finally to fade into
oblivion.
But all was vividly remembered now upon beholding her again, after
sixteen years, profoundly changed and matured, the girl - for she had been
no more in those old days - sunk in this worldly woman with the air of calm
dignity and complete self-possession. Yet, he insisted, he must have known
her anywhere again.
Aline embraced her affectionately, and then answering the questioning
glance with faintly raised eyebrows that madame was directing towards
Aline's companion -
"This is Andre-Louis," she said. "You remember Andre-Louis, madame?"
Madame checked. Andre-Louis saw the surprise ripple over her face,
taking with it some of her colour, leaving her for a moment breathless.
And then the voice - the well-remembered rich, musical voice - richer
and deeper now than of yore, repeated his name:
"Andre-Louis!"
Her manner of uttering it suggested that it awakened memories, memories
perhaps of the departed youth with which it was associated. And she paused a
long moment, considering him, a little wide-eyed, what time he bowed before
her.
"But of course I remember him," she said at last, and came towards him,
putting out her hand. He kissed it dutifully, submissively, instinctively.
"And this is what you have grown into?" She appraised him, and he flushed
with pride at the satisfaction in her tone. He seemed to have gone back
sixteen years, and to be again the little Breton lad at Gavrillac. She
turned to Aline. "How mistaken Quintin was in his assumptions. He was
pleased to see him again, was he not?"
"So pleased, madame, that he has shown me the door," said Andre-Louis.
"Ah!" She frowned, conning him still with those dark, wistful eyes of
hers. "We must change that, Aline. He is of course very angry with you. But
it is not the way to make converts. I will plead for you, Andre-Louis. I am
a good advocate."
He thanked her and took his leave.
"I leave my case in your hands with gratitude. My homage, madame."
And so it happened that in spite of his godfather's forbidding
reception of him, the fragment of a song was on his lips as his yellow
chaise whirled him back to Paris and the Rue du Hasard. That meeting with
Mme. de Plougastel had enheartened him; her promise to plead his case in
alliance with Aline gave him assurance that all would be well.
That he was justified of this was proved when on the following Thursday
towards noon his academy was invaded by M. de Kercadiou. Gilles, the boy,
brought him word of it, and breaking off at once the lesson upon which he
was engaged, he pulled off his mask, and went as he was - in a chamois
Waistcoat buttoned to the chin and with his foil under his arm to the modest
salon below, where his godfather awaited him.
The florid little Lord of Gavrillac stood almost defiantly to receive
him.
"I have been over-persuaded to forgive you," he announced aggressively,
seeming thereby to imply that he consented to this merely so as to put an
end to tiresome importunities.
Andre-Louis was not misled. He detected a pretence adopted by the
Seigneur so as to enable him to retreat in good order.
"My blessings on the persuaders, whoever they may have been. You
restore me my happiness, monsieur my godfather."
He took the hand that was proffered and kissed it, yielding to the
impulse of the unfailing habit of his boyish days. It was an act symbolical
of his complete submission, reestablishing between himself and his godfather
the bond of protected and protector, with all the mutual claims and duties
that it carries. No mere words could more completely have made his peace
with this man who loved him.
M. de Kercadiou's face flushed a deeper pink, his lip trembled, and
there was a huskiness in the voice that murmured "My dear boy!" Then he
recollected himself, threw back his great head and frowned. His voice
resumed its habitual shrillness. "You realize, I hope, that you have behaved
damnably... damnably, and with the utmost ingratitude?"
"Does not that depend upon the point of view?" quoth Andre-Louis, but
his tone was studiously conciliatory.
"It depends upon a fact, and not upon any point of view. Since I have
been persuaded to overlook it, I trust that at least you have some intention
of reforming."
"I... I will abstain from politics," said Andre-Louis, that being the
utmost he could say with truth.
"That is something, at least." His godfather permitted himself to be
mollified, now that a concession - or a seeming concession - had been made
to his just resentment.
"A chair, monsieur."
"No, no. I have come to carry you off to pay a visit with me. You owe
it entirely to Mme. de Plougastel that I consent to receive you again. I
desire that you come with me to thank her."
"I have my engagements here... " began Andre-Louis, and then broke off.
"No matter! I will arrange it. A moment." And he was turning away to reenter
the academy.
"What are your engagements? You are not by chance a
fencing-instructor?" M. de Kercadiou had observed the leather waistcoat and
the foil tucked under Andre-Louis' arm.
"I am the master of this academy - the academy of the late Bertrand des
Amis, the most flourishing school of arms in Paris to-day."
M. de Kercadiou's brows went up.
"And you are master of it?"
"Maitre en fait d'Armes. I succeeded to the academy upon the death of
des Amis."
He left M. Kercadiou to think it over, and went to make his
arrangements and effect the necessary changes in his toilet.
"So that is why you have taken to wearing a sword," said M. de
Kercadiou, as they climbed into his waiting carriage.
"That and the need to guard one's self in these times."
"And do you mean to tell me that a man who lives by what is after all
an honourable profession, a profession mainly supported by the nobility, can
at the same time associate himself with these peddling attorneys and low
pamphleteers who are spreading dissension and insubordination?"
"You forget that I am a peddling attorney myself, made so by your own
wishes, monsieur."
M. de Kercadiou grunted, and took snuff. "You say the academy
flourishes?" he asked presently.
"It does. I have two assistant instructors. I could employ a third. It
is hard work."
"That should mean that your circumstances are affluent."
"I have reason to be satisfied. I have far more than I need."
"Then you'll be able to do your share in paying off this national
debt," growled the nobleman, well content that as he conceived it
- some of the evil Andre-Louis had helped to sow should recoil upon
him.
Then the talk veered to Mme. de Plougastel. M. de Kercadiou,
Andre-Louis gathered, but not the reason for it, disapproved most strongly
of this visit. But then Madame la Comtesse was a headstrong woman whom there
was no denying, whom all the world obeyed. M. de Plougastel was at present
absent in Germany, but would shortly be returning. It was an indiscreet
admission from which it was easy to infer that M. de Plougastel was one of
those intriguing emissaries who came and went between the Queen of France
and her brother, the Emperor of Austria.
The carriage drew up before a handsome hotel in the Faubourg
Saint-Denis, at the corner of the Rue Paradis, and they were ushered by a
sleek servant into a little boudoir, all gilt and brocade, that opened upon
a terrace above a garden that was a park in miniature. Here madame awaited
them. She rose, dismissing the young person who had been reading to her, and
came forward with both hands outheld to greet her cousin Kercadiou.
"I almost feared you would not keep your word," she said. "It was
unjust. But then I hardly hoped that you would succeed in bringing him." And
her glance, gentle, and smiling welcome upon him, indicated Andre-Louis.
The young man made answer with formal gallantry.
"The memory of you, madame, is too deeply imprinted on my heart for any
persuasions to have been necessary."
"Ah, the courtier!" said madame, and abandoned him her hand. "We are to
have a little talk, Andre-Louis," she informed him, with a gravity that left
him vaguely ill at ease.
They sat down, and for a while the conversation was of general matters,
chiefly concerned, however, with Andre-Louis, his occupations and his views.
And all the while madame was studying him attentively with those gentle,
wistful eyes, until again that sense of uneasiness began to pervade him. He
realized instinctively that he had been brought here for some purpose deeper
than that which had been avowed.
At last, as if the thing were concerted - and the clumsy Lord of
Gavrillac was the last man in the world to cover his tracks - his godfather
rose and, upon a pretext of desiring to survey the garden, sauntered through
the windows on to the terrace, over whose white stone balustrade the
geraniums trailed in a scarlet riot. Thence he vanished among the foliage
below.
"Now we can talk more intimately," said madame. "Come here, and sit
beside me." She indicated the empty half of the settee she occupied.
Andre-Louis went obediently, but a little uncomfortably. "You know,"
she said gently, placing a hand upon his arm, "that you have behaved very
ill, that your godfather's resentment is very justly founded?"
"Madame, if I knew that, I should be the most unhappy, the most
despairing of men.". And he explained himself, as he had explained himself
on Sunday to his godfather. "What I did, I did because it was the only means
to my hand in a country in which justice was paralyzed by Privilege to make
war upon an infamous scoundrel who had killed my best friend - a wanton,
brutal act of murder, which there was no law to punish. And as if that were
not enough - forgive me if I speak with the utmost frankness, madame - he
afterwards debauched the woman I was to have married."
"Ah, mon Dieu!" she cried out.
"Forgive me. I know that it is horrible. You perceive, perhaps, what I
suffered, how I came to be driven. That last affair of which I am guilty -
the riot that began in the Feydau Theatre and afterwards enveloped the whole
city of Nantes - was provoked by this."
"Who was she, this girl?"
It was like a woman, he thought, to fasten upon the unessential.
"Oh, a theatre girl, a poor fool of whom I have no regrets. La Binet
was her name. I was a player at the time in her father's troupe. That was
after the Rennes business, when it was necessary to hide from such justice
as exists in France - the gallows' justice for unfortunates who are not
'born.' This added wrong led me to provoke a riot in the theatre."
"Poor boy," she said tenderly. "Only a woman's heart can realize what
you must have suffered; and because of that I can so readily forgive you.
But now... "
"Ah, but you don't understand, madame. If to-day I thought that I had
none but personal grounds for having lent a hand in the holy work of
abolishing Privilege, I think I should cut my throat. My true justification
lies in the insincerity of those who intended that the convocation of the
States General should be a sham, mere dust in the eyes of the nation."
"Was it not, perhaps, wise to have been insincere in such a matter?"
He looked at her blankly.
"Can it ever be wise, madame, to be insincere?"
"Oh, indeed it can; believe me, who am twice your age, and know my
world."
"I should say, madame, that nothing is wise that complicates existence;
and I know of nothing that so complicates it as insincerity. Consider a
moment the complications that have arisen out of this."
"But surely, Andre-Louis, your views have not been so perverted that
you do not see that a governing class is a necessity in any country?"
"Why, of course. But not necessarily a hereditary one."
"What else?"
He answered her with an epigram. "Man, madame, is the child of his own
work. Let there be no inheriting of rights but from such a parent. Thus a
nation's best will always predominate, and such a nation will achieve
greatly."
"But do you account birth of no importance?"
"Of none, madame - or else my own might trouble me." From the deep
flush that stained her face, he feared that he had offended by what was
almost an indelicacy. But the reproof that he was expecting did not come.
Instead -
"And does it not?" she asked. "Never, Andre?"
"Never, madame. I am content."
"You have never.., never regretted your lack of parents' care?"
He laughed, sweeping aside her sweet charitable concern that was so
superfluous. "On the contrary, madame, I tremble to think what they might
have made of me, and I am grateful to have had the fashioning of myself."
She looked at him for a moment very sadly, and then, smiling, gently
shook her head.
"You do not want self-satisfaction... Yet I could wish that you saw
things differently, Andre. It is a moment of great opportunities for a young
man of talent and spirit. I could help you; I could help you, perhaps, to go
very far if you would permit yourself to be helped after my fashion."
"Yes," he thought, "help me to a halter by sending me on treasonable
missions to Austria on the Queen's behalf, like M. de Plougastel. That would
certainly end in a high position for me."
Aloud he answered more as politeness prompted. "I am grateful, madame.
But you will see that, holding the ideals I have expressed, I could not
serve any cause that is opposed to their realization."
"You are misled by prejudice, Andre-Louis, by personal grievances. Will
you allow them to stand in the way of your advancement?"
"If what I call ideals were really prejudices, would it be honest of me
to run counter to them whilst holding them?"
"If I could convince you that you are mistaken! I could help you so
much to find a worthy employment for the talents you possess. In the service
of the King you would prosper quickly. Will you think of it, Andre-Louis,
and let us talk of this again?"
He answered her with formal, chill politeness.
"I fear that it would be idle, madame. Yet your interest in me is very
flattering, and I thank you. It is unfortunate for me that I am so
headstrong."
"And now who deals in insincerity?" she asked him.
"Ah, but you see, madame, it is an insincerity that does not mislead."
And then M. de Kercadiou came in through the window again, and
announced fussily that he must be getting back to Meudon, and that he would
take his godson with him and set him down at the Rue du Hasard.
"You must bring him again, Quintin," the Countess said, as they took
their leave of her.
"Some day, perhaps,"said M. de Kercadiou vaguely, and swept his godson
out.
In the carriage he asked him bluntly of what madame had talked.
"She was very kind - a sweet woman," said Andre-Louis pensively.
"Devil take you, I didn't ask you the opinion that you presume to have
formed of her. I asked you what she said to you.
"She strove to point out to me the error of my ways. She spoke of great
things that I might do - to which she would very kindly help me - if I were
to come to my senses. But as miracles do not happen, I gave her little
encouragement to hope."
"I see. I see. Did she say anything else?"
He was so peremptory that Andre-Louis turned to look at him.
"What else did you expect her to say, monsieur my godfather?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Then she fulfilled your expectations."
"Eh? Oh, a thousand devils, why can't you express yourself in a
sensible manner that a plain man can understand without having to think
about it?"
He sulked after that most of the way to the Rue du Hasard, or so it
seemed to Andre-Louis. At least he sat silent, gloomily thoughtful to judge
by his expression.
"You may come and see us soon again at Meudon," he told Andre-Louis at
parting. "But please remember - no revolutionary politics in future, if we
are to remain friends."
One morning in August the academy in the Rue du Hasard was invaded by
Le Chapelier accompanied by a man of remarkable appearance, whose herculean
stature and disfigured countenance seemed vaguely familiar to Andre-Louis.
He was a man of little, if anything, over thirty, with small bright eyes
buried in an enormous face. His cheek-bones were prominent, his nose awry,
as if it had been broken by a blow, and his mouth was rendered almost
shapeless by the scars of another injury. (A bull had horned him in the face
when he was but a lad.) As if that were not enough to render his appearance
terrible, his cheeks were deeply pock-marked. He was dressed untidily in a
long scarlet coat that descended almost to his ankles, soiled buckskin
breeches and boots with reversed tops. His shirt, none too clean, was open
at the throat, the collar hanging limply over an unknotted cravat,
displaying fully the muscular neck that rose like a pillar from his massive
shoulders. He swung a cane that was almost a club in his left hand, and
there was a cockade in his biscuit-coloured, conical hat. He carried himself
with an aggressive, masterful air, that great head of his thrown back as if
he were eternally at defiance.
Le Chapelier, whose manner was very grave, named him to Andre-Louis.
"This is M. Danton, a brother-lawyer, President of the Cordeliers, of
whom you will have heard."
Of course Andre-Louis had heard of him. Who had not, by then?
Looking at him now with interest, Andre-Louis wondered how it came that
all, or nearly all the leading innovators, were pock-marked. Mirabeau, the
journalist Desmoulins, the philanthropist Marat, Robespierre the little
lawyer from Arras, this formidable fellow Danton, and several others he
could call to mind all bore upon them the scars of smallpox. Almost he began
to wonder was there any connection between the two. Did an attack of
smallpox produce certain moral results which found expression in this way?
He dismissed the idle speculation, or rather it was shattered by the
startling thunder of Danton's voice.
"This -- Chapelier has told me of you. He says that you are a patriotic
-- ."
More than by the tone was Andre-Louis startled by the obscenities with
which the Colossus did not hesitate to interlard his first speech to a total
stranger. He laughed outright. There was nothing else to do.
"If he has told you that, he has told you more than the truth! I am a
patriot. The rest my modesty compels me to disavow."
"You're a joker too, it seems," roared the other, but he laughed
nevertheless, and the volume of it shook the windows. "There's no offence in
me. I am like that."
"What a pity," said Andre-Louis.
It disconcerted the king of the markets. "Eh? what's this, Chapelier?
Does he give himself airs, your friend here?"
The spruce Breton, a very petit-maitre in appearance by contrast with
his companion, but nevertheless of a down-right manner quite equal to
Danton's in brutality, though dispensing with the emphasis of foulness,
shrugged as he answered him:
"It is merely that he doesn't like your manners, which is not at all
surprising. They are execrable."
"Ah, bah! You are all like that, you - Bretons. Let's come to business.
You'll have heard what took place in the Assembly yesterday? You haven't? My
God, where do you live? Have you heard that this scoundrel who calls himself
King of France gave passage across French soil the other day to Austrian
troops going to crush those who fight for liberty in Belgium? Have you heard
that, by any chance?"
"Yes," said Andre-Louis coldly, masking his irritation before the
other's hectoring manner. "I have heard that."
"Oh! And what do you think of it?" arms akimbo, the Colossus towered
above him.
Andre-Louis turned aside to Le Chapelier.
"I don't think I understand. Have you brought this gentleman here to
examine my conscience?"
"Name of a name! He 's prickly as a - porcupine!" Danton protested.
"No, no." Le Chapelier was conciliatory, seeking to provide an antidote
to the irritant administered by his companion. "We require your help, Andre.
Danton here thinks that you are the very man for us. Listen now... "
"That's it. You tell him," Danton agreed. "You both talk the same
mincing - sort of French. He'll probably understand you."
Le Chapelier went on without heeding the interruption. "This violation
by the King of the obvious rights of a country engaged in framing a
constitution that shall make it free has shattered every philanthropic
illusion we still cherished. There are those who go so far as to proclaim
the King the vowed enemy of France. But that, of course, is excessive.
"Who says so?" blazed Danton, and swore horribly by way of conveying
his total disagreement.
Le Chapelier waved him into silence, and proceeded.
"Anyhow, the matter has been more than enough, added to all the rest,
to set us by the ears again in the Assembly. It is open war between the
Third Estate and the Privileged."
"Was it ever anything else?"
"Perhaps not; but it has assumed a new character. You'll have heard of
the duel between Lameth and the Duc de Castries?"
"A trifling affair."
"In its results. But it might have been far other. Mirabeau is
challenged and insulted now at every sitting. But he goes his way,
cold-bloodedly wise. Others are not so circumspect; they meet insult with
insult, blow with blow, and blood is being shed in private duels. The thing
is reduced by these swordsmen of the nobility to a system."
Andre-Louis nodded. He was thinking of Philippe de Vilmorin. "Yes," he
said, "it is an old trick of theirs. It is so simple and direct - like
themselves. I wonder only that they didn't hit upon this system sooner. In
the early days of the States General, at Versailles, it might have had a
better effect. Now, it comes a little late."
"But they mean to make up for lost time - sacred name!" cried Danton.
"Challenges are flying right and left between these bully-swordsmen, these
spadassinicides, and poor devils of the robe who have never learnt to fence
with anything but a quill. It's just -- murder. Yet if I were to go amongst
messieurs les nobles and crunch an addled head or two with this stick of
mine, snap a few aristocratic necks between these fingers which the good God
has given me for the purpose, the law would send me to atone upon the
gallows. This in a land that is striving after liberty. Why, Dieu me damne!
I am not even allowed to keep my hat on in the theatre. But they - these
--s!"
"He is right," said Le Chapelier. "The thing has become unendurable,
insufferable. Two days ago M. d'Ambly threatened Mirabeau with his cane
before the whole Assembly. Yesterday M. de Faussigny leapt up and harangued
his order by inviting murder. 'Why don't we fall on these scoundrels, sword
in hand?' he asked. Those were his very words: 'Why don't we fall on these
scoundrels, sword in hand.'"
"It is so much simpler than lawmaking," said Andre-Louis.
"Lagron, the deputy from Ancenis in the Loire, said something that we
did not hear in answer. As he was leaving the Manege one of these bullies
grossly insulted him. Lagron no more than used his elbow to push past when
the fellow cried out that he had been struck, and issued his challenge. They
fought this morning early in the Champs Elysees, and Lagron was killed, run
through the stomach deliberately by a man who fought like a fencing-master,
and poor Lagron did not even own a sword. He had to borrow one to go to the
assignation."
Andre-Louis - his mind ever on Vilmorin, whose case was here repeated,
even to the details - was swept by a gust of passion. He clenched his hands,
and his jaws set. Danton's little eyes observed him keenly.
"Well? And what do you think of that? Noblesse oblige, eh? The thing is
we must oblige them too, these --s. We must pay them back in the same coin;
meet them with the same weapons. Abolish them; tumble these assassinateurs
into the abyss of nothingness by the same means.
"But how?"
"How? Name of God! haven't I said it?"
"That is where we require your help," Le Chapelier put in. "There must
be men of patriotic feeling among the more advanced of your pupils. M.
Danton's idea is that a little band of these - say a half-dozen, with
yourself at their head - might read these bullies a sharp lesson."
Andre-Louis frowned.
"And how, precisely, had M. Danton thought that this might be done?"
M. Danton spoke for himself, vehemently.
"Why, thus: We post you in the Manege, at the hour when the Assembly is
rising. We point out the six leading phlebotomists, and let you loose to
insult them before they have time to insult any of the representatives. Then
to-morrow morning, six -- phlebotomists themselves phlebotomized secundum
artem. That will give the others something to think about. It will give them
a great deal to think about, by --! If necessary the dose may be repeated to
ensure a cure. If you kill the --s, so much the better."
He paused, his sallow face flushed with the enthusiasm of his idea.
Andre-Louis stared at him inscrutably.
"Well, what do you say to that?"
"That it is most ingenious." And Andre-Louis turned aside to look out
of the window.
"And is that all you think of it?"
"I will not tell you what else I think of it because you probably would
not understand. For you, M. Danton, there is at least this excuse that you
did not know me. But you, Isaac - to bring this gentleman here with such a
proposal!"
Le Chapelier was overwhelmed in confusion. "I confess I hesitated," he
apologized. "But M. Danton would not take my word for it that the proposal
might not be to your taste."
"I would not!" Danton broke in, bellowing. He swung upon Le Chapelier,
brandishing his great arms. "You told me monsieur was a patriot. Patriotism
knows no scruples. You call this mincing dancing-master a patriot?"
"Would you, monsieur, out of patriotism consent to become an assassin?"
"Of course I would. haven't I told you so? haven't I told you that I
would gladly go among them with my club, and crack them like so many -
fleas?"
"Why not, then?"
"Why not? Because I should get myself hanged. Haven't I said so?"
"But what of that-being a patriot? Why not, like another Curtius, jump
into the gulf, since you believe that your country would benefit by your
death?"
M. Danton showed signs of exasperation. "Because my country will
benefit more by my life."
"Permit me, monsieur, to suffer from a similar vanity."
"You? But where would be the danger to you? You would do your work
under the cloak of duelling - as they do."
"Have you reflected, monsieur, that the law will hardly regard a
fencing-master who kills his opponent as an ordinary combatant, particularly
if it can be shown that the fencing-master himself provoked the attack?"
"So! Name of a name!" M. Danton blew out his cheeks and delivered
himself with withering scorn. "It comes to this, then: you are afraid!"
"You may think so if you choose - that I am afraid to do slyly and
treacherously that which a thrasonical patriot like yourself is afraid of
doing frankly and openly. I have other reasons. But that one should suffice
you."
Danton gasped. Then he swore more amazingly and variedly than ever.
"By --! you are right," he admitted, to Andre-Louis' amazement. "You
are right, and I am wrong. I am as bad a patriot as you are, and I am a
coward as well." And he invoked the whole Pantheon to witness his
self-denunciation. "Only, you see, I count for something: and if they take
me and hang me, why, there it is! Monsieur, we must find some other way.
Forgive the intrusion. Adieu!" He held out his enormous hand..
Le Chapelier stood hesitating, crestfallen.
"You understand, Andre? I am sorry that... "
"Say no more, please. Come and see me soon again. I would press you to
remain, but it is striking nine, and the first of my pupils is about to
arrive."
"Nor would I permit it,". said Danton. "Between us we must resolve the
riddle of how to extinguish M. de La Tour d'Azyr and his friends."
"Who?"
Sharp as a pistol-shot came that question, as Danton was turning away.
The tone of it brought him up short. He turned again, Le Chapelier with him.
"I said M. de La Tour d'Azyr."
"What has he to do with the proposal you were making me?"
"He? Why, he is the phlebotomist in chief."
And Le Chapelier added. "It is he who killed Lagron."
"Not a friend of yours, is he?" wondered Danton.
"And it is La Tour d'Azyr you desire me to kill?" asked Andre-Louis
very slowly, after the manner of one whose thoughts are meanwhile pondering
the subject.
"That's it," said Danton. "And not a job for a prentice hand, I can
assure you.
"Ah, but this alters things," said Andre-Louis, thinking aloud. "It
offers a great temptation."
"Why, then... ?" The Colossus took a step towards him again.
"Wait!" He put up his hand. Then with chin sunk on his breast, he paced
away to the window, musing.
Le Chapelier and Danton exchanged glances, then watched him, waiting,
what time he considered.
At first he almost wondered why he should not of his own accord have
decided upon some such course as this to settle that long-standing account
of M. de La Tour d'Azyr. What was the use of this great skill in fence that
he had come to acquire, unless he could turn it to account to avenge
Vilmorin, and to make Aline safe from the lure of her own ambition? It would
be an easy thing to seek out La Tour d'Azyr, put a mortal affront upon him,
and thus bring him to the point. To-day this would be murder, murder as
treacherous as that which La Tour d'Azyr had done upon Philippe de Vilmorin;
for to-day the old positions were reversed, and it was Andre-Louis who might
go to such an assignation without a doubt of the issue. It was a moral
obstacle of which he made short work. But there remained the legal obstacle
he had expounded to Danton. There was still a law in France; the same law
which he had found it impossible to move against La Tour d'Azyr, but which
would move briskly enough against himself in like case. And then, suddenly,
as if by inspiration, he saw the way - a way which if adopted would probably
bring La Tour d'Azyr to a poetic justice, bring him, insolent, confident, to
thrust himself upon Andre-Louis' sword, with all the odium of provocation on
his own side.
He turned to them again, and they saw that he was very pale, that his
great dark eyes glowed oddly.
"There will probably be some difficulty in finding a suppleant for this
poor Lagron," he said. "Our fellow-countrymen will be none so eager to offer
themselves to the swords of Privilege.
"True enough," said Le Chapelier gloomily; and then, as if suddenly
leaping to the thing in Andre-Louis' mind: "Andre!" he cried. "Would you...
"
"It is what I was considering. It would give me a legitimate place in
the Assembly. If your Tour d'Azyrs choose to seek me out then, why, their
blood be upon their own heads. I shall certainly do nothing to discourage
them." He smiled curiously. "I am just a rascal who tries to be honest -
Scaramouche always, in fact; a creature of sophistries. Do you think that
Ancenis would have me for its representative?"
"Will it have Omnes Omnibus for its representative?" Le Chapelier was
laughing, his countenance eager. "Ancenis will be convulsed with pride. It
is not Rennes or Nantes, as it might have been had you wished it. But it
gives you a voice for Brittany."
"I should have to go to Ancenis... "
"No need at all. A letter from me to the Municipality, and the
Municipality will confirm you at once. No need to move from here. In a
fortnight at most the thing can be accomplished. It is settled, then?"
Andre-Louis considered yet a moment. There was his academy. But he
could make arrangements with Le Duc and Galoche to carry it on for him
whilst himself directing and advising. Le Duc, after all, was become a
thoroughly efficient master, and he was a trustworthy fellow. At need a
third assistant could be engaged.
"Be it so," he said at last.
Le Chapelier clasped hands with him and became congratulatorily
voluble, until interrupted by the red-coated giant at the door.
"What exactly does it mean to our business, anyway?" he asked. "Does it
mean that when you are a representative you will not scruple to skewer M. le
Marquis?"
"If M. le Marquis should offer himself to be skewered, as he no doubt
will."
"I perceive the distinction," said M. Danton, and sneered. "You've an
ingenious mind." He turned to Le Chapelier. "What did you say he was to
begin with - a lawyer, wasn't it?"
"Yes, I was a lawyer, and afterwards a mountebank."
"And this is the result!"
"As you say. And do you know that we are after all not so dissimilar,
you and I?"
"What?"
"Once like you I went about inciting other people to go and kill the
man I wanted dead. You'll say I was a coward, of course."
Le Chapelier prepared to slip between them as the clouds gathered on
the giant's brow. Then these were dispelled again, and the great laugh
vibrated through the long room.
"You've touched me for the second time, and in the same place. Oh, you
can fence, my lad. We should be friends. Rue des Cordeliers is my address.
Any - scoundrel will tell you where Danton lodges. Desmoulins lives
underneath. Come and visit us one evening. There's always a bottle for a
friend."
After an absence of rather more than a week, M. le Marquis de La Tour
d'Azyr was back in his place on the Cote Droit of the National Assembly.
Properly speaking, we should already at this date allude to him as the
ci-devant Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr, for the time was September of 1790, two
months after the passing - on the motion of that downright Breton leveller,
Le Chapelier - of the decree that nobility should no more be hereditary than
infamy; that just as the brand of the gallows must not defile the possibly
worthy descendants of one who had been convicted of evil, neither should the
blazon advertising achievement glorify the possibly unworthy descendants of
one who had proved himself good. And so the decree had been passed
abolishing hereditary nobility and consigning family escutcheons to the
rubbish-heap of things no longer to be tolerated by an enlightened
generation of philosophers. M. le Comte de Lafayette, who had supported the
motion, left the Assembly as plain M. Motier, the great tribune Count
Mirabeau became plain M. Riquetti, and M. le Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr just
simple M. Lesarques. The thing was done in one of those exaltations produced
by the approach of the great National Festival of the Champ de Mars, and no
doubt it was thoroughly repented on the morrow by those who had lent
themselves to it. Thus, although law by now, it was a law that no one
troubled just yet to enforce.
That, however, is by the way. The time, as I have said, was September,
the day dull and showery, and some of the damp and gloom of it seemed to
have penetrated the long Hall of the Manege, where on their eight rows of
green benches elliptically arranged in ascending tiers about the space known
as La Piste, sat some eight or nine hundred of the representatives of the
three orders that composed the nation.
The matter under debate by. the constitution-builders was whether the
deliberating body to succeed the Constituent Assembly should work in
conjunction with the King, whether it should be periodic or permanent,
whether it should govern by two chambers or by one.
The Abbe Maury, son of a cobbler, and therefore in these days of
antitheses orator-in-chief of the party of the Right - the Blacks, as those
who fought Privilege's losing battles were known - was in the tribune. He
appeared to be urging the adoption of a two-chambers system framed on the
English model. He was, if anything, more long-winded and prosy even than his
habit; his arguments assumed more and more the form of a sermon; the tribune
of the National Assembly became more and more like a pulpit; but the
members, conversely, less and less like a congregation. They grew restive
under that steady flow of pompous verbiage, and it was in vain that the four
ushers in black satin breeches and carefully powdered heads, chain of office
on their breasts, gilded sword at their sides, circulated in the Piste,
clapping their hands, and hissing
"Silence! En place!"
Equally vain was the intermittent ringing of the bell by the president
at his green-covered table facing the tribune. The Abbe Maury had talked too
long, and for some time had failed to interest the members. Realizing it at
last, he ceased, whereupon the hum of conversation became general. And then.
it fell abruptly. There was a silence of expectancy, and a turning of heads,
a craning of necks. Even the group of secretaries at the round table below
the president's dais roused themselves from their usual apathy to consider
this young man who was mounting the tribune of the Assembly for the first
time.
"M. Andre-Louis Moreau, deputy suppleant, vice Emmanuel Lagron,
deceased, for Ancenis in the Department of the Loire."
M. de La Tour d'Azyr shook himself out of the gloomy abstraction in
which he had sat. The successor of the deputy he had slain must, in any
event, be an object of grim interest to him. You conceive how that interest
was heightened when he heard him named, when, looking across, he recognized
indeed in this Andre-Louis Moreau the young scoundrel who was continually
crossing his path, continually exerting against him a deep-moving, sinister
influence to make him regret that he should have spared his life that day at
Gavrillac two years ago. That he should thus have stepped into the shoes of
Lagron seemed to M. de La Tour d'Azyr too apt for mere coincidence, a direct
challenge in itself.
He looked at the young man in wonder rather than in anger, and looking
at him he was filled by a vague, almost a premonitory, uneasiness.
At the very outset, the presence which in itself he conceived to be a
challenge was to demonstrate itself for this in no equivocal terms.
"I come before you," Andre-Louis began, "as a deputy-suppleant to fill
the place of one who was murdered some three weeks ago."
It was a challenging opening that instantly provoked an indignant
outcry from the Blacks. Andre-Louis paused, and looked at them, smiling a
little, a singularly self-confident young man.
"The gentlemen of the Right, M. le President, do not appear to like my
words. But that is not surprising. The gentlemen of the Right notoriously do
not like the truth."
This time there was uproar. The members of the Left roared with
laughter, those of the Right thundered menacingly. The ushers circulated at
a pace beyond their usual, agitated themselves, clapped their hands, and
called in vain for silence.
The President rang his bell.
Above the general din came the voice of La Tour d'Azyr, who had
half-risen from his seat: "Mountebank! This is not the theatre!"
"No, monsieur, it is becoming a hunting-ground for bully-swordsmen,"
was the answer, and the uproar grew.
The deputy-suppleant looked round and waited. Near at hand he met the
encouraging grin of Le Chapelier, and the quiet, approving smile of Kersain,
another Breton deputy of his acquaintance. A little farther off he saw the
great head of Mirabeau thrown back, the great eyes regarding him from under
a frown in a sort of wonder, and yonder, among all that moving sea of faces,
the sallow countenance of the Arras' lawyer Robespierre - or de Robespierre,
as the little snob now called himself, having assumed the aristocratic
particle as the prerogative of a man of his distinction in the councils of
his country. With his tip-tilted nose in the air, his carefully curled head
on one side, the deputy for Arras was observing Andre-Louis attentively. The
horn-rimmed spectacles he used for reading were thrust up on to his pale
forehead, and it was through a levelled spy-glass that he considered the
speaker, his thin-lipped mouth stretched a little in that tiger-cat smile
that was afterwards to become so famous and so feared.
Gradually the uproar wore itself out, and diminished so that at last
the President could make himself heard. Leaning forward, he gravely
addressed the young man in the tribune:
"Monsieur, if you wish to be heard, let me beg of you not to be
provocative in your language." And then to the others: "Messieurs, if we are
to proceed, I beg that you will restrain your feelings until the
deputy-suppleant has concluded his discourse."
"I shall endeavour to obey, M. le President, leaving provocation to the
gentlemen of the Right. If the few words I have used so far have been
provocative, I regret it. But it was necessary that I should refer to the
distinguished deputy whose place I come so unworthily to fill, and it was
unavoidable that I should refer to the event which has procured us this sad
necessity. The deputy Lagron was a man of singular nobility of mind, a
selfless, dutiful, zealous man, inflamed by the high purpose of doing his
duty by his electors and by this Assembly. He possessed what his opponents
would call a dangerous gift of eloquence."
La Tour d'Azyr writhed at the well-known phrase - his own phrase
- the phrase that he had used to explain his action in the matter of
Philippe de Vilmorin, the phrase that from time to time had been cast in his
teeth with such vindictive menace.
And then the crisp voice of the witty Canales, that very rapier of the
Privileged party, cut sharply into the speaker's momentary pause.
"M. le President," he asked with great solemnity, "has the
deputy-suppleant mounted the tribune for the purpose of taking part in the
debate on the constitution of the legislative assemblies, or for the purpose
of pronouncing a funeral oration upon the departed deputy Lagron?"
This time it was the Blacks who gave way to mirth, until checked by the
deputy-suppleant.
"That laughter is obscene!" In this truly Gallic fashion he flung his
glove into the face of Privilege, determined, you see, upon no half
measures; and the rippling laughter perished on the instant quenched in
speechless fury.
Solemnly he proceeded.
"You all know how Lagron died. To refer to his death at all requires
courage, to laugh in referring to it requires something that I will not
attempt to qualify. If I have alluded to his decease, it is because my own
appearance among you seemed to render some such allusion necessary. It is
mine to take up the burden which he set down. I do not pretend that I have
the strength, the courage, or the wisdom of Lagron; but with every ounce of
such strength and courage and wisdom as I possess that burden will I bear.
And I trust, for the sake of those who might attempt it, that the means
taken to impose silence upon that eloquent voice will not be taken to impose
silence upon mine.
There was a faint murmur of applause from the Left, splutter of
contemptuous laughter from the Right.
"Rhodomont!" a voice called to him.
He looked in the direction of that voice, proceeding from the group of
spadassins amid the Blacks across the Piste, and he smiled. Inaudibly his
lips answered:
"No, my friend - Scaramouche; Scaramouche, the subtle, dangerous fellow
who goes tortuously to his ends." Aloud, he resumed: "M. le President, there
are those who will not understand that the purpose for which we are
assembled here is the making of laws by which France may be equitably
governed, by which France may be lifted out of the morass of bankruptcy into
which she is in danger of sinking. For there are some who want, it seems,
not laws, but blood; I solemnly warn them that this blood will end by
choking them, if they do not learn in time to discard force and allow reason
to prevail."
Again in that phrase there was something that stirred a memory in La
Tour d'Azyr. He turned in the fresh uproar to speak to his cousin
Chabrillane who sat beside him.
"A daring rogue, this bastard of Gavrillac's," said he.
Chabrillane looked at him with gleaming eyes, his face white with
anger.
"Let him talk himself out. I don't think he will be heard again after
to-day. Leave this to me."
Hardly could La Tour have told you why, but he sank back in his seat
with a sense of relief. He had been telling himself that here was matter
demanding action, a challenge that he must take up. But despite his rage he
felt a singular unwillingness. This fellow had a trick of reminding him, he
supposed, too unpleasantly of that young abbe done to death in the garden
behind the" Breton arme" at Gavrillac. Not that the death of Philippe de
Vilmorin lay heavily upon M. de La Tour d'Azyr's conscience. He had
accounted himself fully justified of his action. It was that the whole thing
as his memory revived it for him made an unpleasant picture: that distraught
boy kneeling over the bleeding body of the friend he had loved, and almost
begging to be slain with him, dubbing the Marquis murderer and coward to
incite him.
Meanwhile, leaving now the subject of the death of Lagron, the
deputy-suppleant had at last brought himself into order, and was speaking
upon the question under debate. He contributed nothing of value to it; he
urged nothing definite. His speech on the subject was very brief - that
being the pretext and not the purpose for which he had ascended the tribune.
When later he was leaving the hall at the end of the sitting, with Le
Chapelier at his side, he found himself densely surrounded by deputies as by
a body-guard. Most of them were Bretons, who aimed at screening him from the
provocations which his own provocative words in the Assembly could not fail
to bring down upon his head. For a moment the massive form of Mirabeau
brought up alongside of him.
"Felicitations, M. Moreau," said the great man. "You acquitted yourself
very well. They will want your blood, no doubt. But be discreet, monsieur,
if I may presume to advise you, and do not allow yourself to be misled by
any false sense of quixotry. Ignore their challenges. I do so myself. I
place each challenger upon my list. There are some fifty there already, and
there they will remain. Refuse them what they are pleased to call
satisfaction, and all will be well." Andre-Louis smiled and sighed. "It
requires courage," said the hypocrite.
"Of course it does. But you would appear to have plenty."
"Hardly enough, perhaps. But I shall do my best."
They had come through the vestibule, and although this was lined with
eager Blacks waiting for the young man who had insulted them so flagrantly
from the rostrum, Andre-Louis' body-guard had prevented any of them from
reaching him.
Emerging now into the open, under the great awning at the head of the
Carriere, erected to enable carriages to reach the door under cover, those
in front of him dispersed a little, and there was a moment as he reached the
limit of the awning when his front was entirely uncovered. Outside the rain
was falling heavily, churning the ground into thick mud, and for a moment
Andre-Louis, with Le Chapelier ever at his side, stood hesitating to step
out into the deluge.
The watchful Chabrillane had seen his chance, and by a detour that took
him momentarily out into the rain, he came face to face with the too-daring
young Breton. Rudely, violently, he thrust Andre-Louis back, as if to make
room for himself under the shelter.
Not for a second was Andre-Louis under any delusion as to the man's
deliberate purpose, nor were those who stood near him, who made a belated
and ineffectual attempt to close about him. He was grievously disappointed.
It was not Chabrillane he had been expecting. His disappointment was
reflected on his countenance, to be mistaken for something very different by
the arrogant Chevalier.
But if Chabrillane was the man appointed to deal with him, he would
make the best of it.
"I think you are pushing against me, monsieur," he said, very civilly,
and with elbow and shoulder he thrust M. de Chabrillane back into the rain.
"I desire to take shelter, monsieur," the Chevalier hectored.
"You may do so without standing on my feet. I have a prejudice against
any one standing on my feet. My feet are very tender. Perhaps you did not
know it, monsieur. Please say no more.
"Why, I wasn't speaking, you lout!" exclaimed the Chevalier, slightly
discomposed.
"Were you not? I thought perhaps you were about to apologize."
"Apologize?" Chabrillane laughed. "To you! Do you know that you are
amusing?" He stepped under the awning for the second time, and again in view
of all thrust Andre-Louis rudely back.
"Ahi!" cried Andre-Louis, with a grimace. "You hurt me, monsieur. I
have told you not to push against me." He raised his voice that all might
hear him, and once more impelled M. de Chabrillane back into the rain.
Now, for all his slenderness, his assiduous daily sword-practice had
given Andre-Louis an arm of iron. Also he threw his weight into the thrust.
His assailant reeled backwards a few steps, and then his heel struck a baulk
of timber left on the ground by some workmen that morning, and he sat down
suddenly in the mud.
A roar of laughter rose from all who witnessed the fine gentleman's
downfall. He rose, mud-bespattered, in a fury, and in that fury sprang at
Andre-Louis.
Andre-Louis had made him ridiculous, which was altogether unforgivable.
"You shall meet me for this!" he spluttered. "I shall kill you for it."
His inflamed face was within a foot of Andre-Louis'. Andre-Louis
laughed. In the silence everybody heard the laugh and the words that
followed.
"Oh, is that what you wanted? But why didn't you say so before? You
would have spared me the trouble of knocking you down. I thought gentlemen
of your profession invariably conducted these affairs with decency, decorum,
and a certain grace. Had you done so, you might have saved your breeches."
"How soon shall we settle this?" snapped Chabrillane, livid with very
real fury.
"Whenever you please, monsieur. It is for you to say when it will suit
your convenience to kill me. I think that was the intention you announced,
was it not?" Andre-Louis was suavity itself.
"To-morrow morning, in the Bois. Perhaps you will bring a friend."
"Certainly, monsieur. To-morrow morning, then. I hope we shall have
fine weather. I detest the rain."
Chabrillane looked at him almost with amazement Andre-Louis smiled
pleasantly.
"Don't let me detain you now, monsieur. We quite understand each other.
I shall be in the Bois at nine o'clock to-morrow morning."
"That is too late for me, monsieur."
"Any other hour would be too early for me. I do not like to have my
habits disturbed. Nine o'clock or not at all, as you please."
"But I must be at the Assembly at nine, for the morning session."
"I am afraid, monsieur, you will have to kill me first, and I have a
prejudice against being killed before nine o'clock."
Now this was too complete a subversion of the usual procedure for M. de
Chabrillane's stomach. Here was a rustic deputy assuming with him precisely
the tone of sinister mockery which his class usually dealt out to their
victims of the Third Estate. And to heighten the irritation, Andre-Louis -
the actor, Scaramouche always - produced his snuffbox, and proffered it with
a steady hand to Le Chapelier before helping himself.
Chabrillane, it seemed, after all that he had suffered, was not even to
be allowed to make a good exit.
"Very well, monsieur," he said. "Nine o'clock, then; and we'll see if
you'll talk as pertly afterwards."
On that he flung away, before the jeers of the provincial deputies. Nor
did it soothe his rage to be laughed at by urchins all the way down the Rue
Dauphine because of the mud and filth that dripped from his satin breeches
and the tails of his elegant, striped coat.
But though the members of the Third had jeered on the surface, they
trembled underneath with fear and indignation. It was too much. Lagron
killed by one of these bullies, and now his successor challenged, and about
to be killed by another of them on the very first day of his appearance to
take the dead man's place. Several came now to implore Andre-Louis not to go
to the Bois, to ignore the challenge and the whole affair, which was but a
deliberate attempt to put him out of the way. He listened seriously, shook
his head gloomily, and promised at last to think it over.
He was in his seat again for the afternoon session as if nothing
disturbed him.
But in the morning, when the Assembly met, his place was vacant, and so
was M. de Chabrillane's. Gloom and resentment sat upon the members of the
Third, and brought a more than usually acrid note into their debates. They
disapproved of the rashness of the new recruit to their body. Some openly
condemned his lack of circumspection. Very few - and those only the little
group in Le Chapelier's confidence - ever expected to see him again.
It was, therefore, as much in amazement as in relief that at a few
minutes after ten they saw him enter, calm, composed, and bland, and thread
his way to his seat. The speaker occupying the rostrum at that moment - a
member of the Privileged - stopped short to stare in incredulous dismay.
Here was something that he could not understand at all. Then from somewhere,
to satisfy the amazement on both sides of the assembly, a voice explained
the phenomenon contemptuously.
"They haven't met. He has shirked it at the last moment."
It must be so, thought all; the mystification ceased, and men were
settling back into their seats. But now, having reached his place, having
heard the voice that explained the matter to the universal satisfaction,
Andre-Louis paused before taking his seat. He felt it incumbent upon him to
reveal the true fact.
"M. le President, my excuses for my late arrival." There was no
necessity for this. It was a mere piece of theatricality, such as it was not
in Scaramouche's nature to forgo. "I have been detained by an engagement of
a pressing nature. I bring you also the excuses of M. de Chabrillane. He,
unfortunately, will be permanently absent from this Assembly in future."
The silence was complete. Andre-Louis sat down.
M. Le Chevalier de Chabrillane had been closely connected, you will
remember, with the iniquitous affair in which Philippe de Vilmorin had lost
his life. We know enough to justify a surmise that he had not merely been La
Tour d'Azyr's second in the encounter, but actually an instigator of the
business. Andre-Louis may therefore have felt a justifiable satisfaction in
offering up the Chevalier's life to the Manes of his murdered friend. He may
have viewed it as an act of common justice not to be procured by any other
means. Also it is to be remembered that Chabrillane had gone confidently to
the meeting, conceiving that he, a practised ferailleur, had to deal with a
bourgeois utterly unskilled in swordsmanship. Morally, then, he was little
better than a murderer, and that he should have tumbled into the pit he
conceived that he dug for Andre-Louis was a poetic retribution. Yet,
notwithstanding all this, I should find the cynical note on which
Andre-Louis announced the issue to the Assembly utterly detestable did I
believe it sincere. It would justify Aline of the expressed opinion, which
she held in common with so many others who had come into close contact with
him, that Andre-Louis was quite heartless.
You have seen something of the same heartlessness in his conduct when
he discovered the faithlessness of La Binet although that is belied by the
measures he took to avenge himself. His subsequent contempt of the woman I
account to be born of the affection in which for a time he held her. That
this affection was as deep as he first imagined, I do not believe; but that
it was as shallow as he would almost be at pains to make it appear by the
completeness with which he affects to have put her from his mind when he
discovered her worthlessness, I do not believe; nor, as I have said, do his
actions encourage that belief. Then, again, his callous cynicism in hoping
that he had killed Binet is also an affectation. Knowing that such things as
Binet are better out of the world, he can have suffered no compunction; he
had, you must remember, that rarely level vision which sees things in their
just proportions, and never either magnifies or reduces them by sentimental
considerations. At the same time, that he should contemplate the taking of
life with such complete and cynical equanimity, whatever the justification,
is quite incredible.
Similarly now, it is not to be believed that in coming straight from
the Bois de Boulogne, straight from the killing of a man, he should be
sincerely expressing his nature in alluding to the fact in terms of such
outrageous flippancy. Not quite to such an extent was he the incarnation of
Scaramouche. But sufficiently was he so ever to mask his true feelings by an
arresting gesture, his true thoughts by an effective phrase. He was the
actor always, a man ever calculating the effect he would produce, ever
avoiding self-revelation, ever concerned to overlay his real character by an
assumed and quite fictitious one. There was in this something of impishness,
and something of other things.
Nobody laughed now at his flippancy. He did not intend that anybody
should. He intended to be terrible; and he knew that the more flippant and
casual his tone, the more terrible would be its effect. He produced exactly
the effect he desired.
What followed in a place where feelings and practices had become what
they had become is not difficult to surmise. When the session rose, there
were a dozen spadassins awaiting him in the vestibule, and this time the men
of his own party were less concerned to guard him. He seemed so entirely
capable of guarding himself; he appeared, for all his circumspection, to
have so completely carried the war into the enemy's camp, so completely to
have adopted their own methods, that his fellows scarcely felt the need to
protect him as yesterday.
As he emerged, he scanned that hostile file, whose air and garments
marked them so clearly for what they were. He paused, seeking the man he
expected, the man he was most anxious to oblige. But M. de La Tour d'Azyr
was absent from those eager ranks. This seemed to him odd. La Tour d'Azyr
was Chabrillane's cousin and closest friend. Surely he should have been
among the first to-day. The fact was that La Tour d'Azyr was too deeply
overcome by amazement and grief at the utterly unexpected event. Also his
vindictiveness was held curiously in leash. Perhaps he, too, remembered the
part played by Chabrillane in the affair at Gavrillac, and saw in this
obscure Andre-Louis Moreau, who had so persistently persecuted him ever
since, an ordained avenger. The repugnance he felt to come to the point,
with him, particularly after this culminating provocation, was puzzling even
to himself. But it existed, and it curbed him now.
To Andre-Louis, since La Tour was not one of that waiting pack, it
mattered little on that Tuesday morning who should be the next. The next, as
it happened, was the young Vicomte de La Motte-Royau, one of the deadliest
blades in the group.
On the Wednesday morning, coming again an hour or so late to the
Assembly, Andre-Louis announced - in much the same terms as he had announced
the death of Chabrillane - that M. de La Motte-Royau would probably not
disturb the harmony of the Assembly for some weeks to come, assuming that he
were so fortunate as to recover ultimately from the effects of an unpleasant
accident with which he had quite unexpectedly had the misfortune to meet
that morning.
On Thursday he made an identical announcement with regard to the Vidame
de Blavon. On Friday he told them that he had been delayed by M. de
Troiscantins, and then turning to the members of the Cote Droit, and
lengthening his face to a sympathetic gravity:
"I am glad to inform you, messieurs, that M. des Troiscantins is in the
hands of a very competent surgeon who hopes with care to restore him to your
councils in a few weeks' time."
It was paralyzing, fantastic, unreal; and friend and foe in that
assembly sat alike stupefied under those bland daily announcements. Four of
the most redoubtable spadassinicides put away for a time, one of them dead -
and all this performed with such an air of indifference and announced in
such casual terms by a wretched little provincial lawyer!
He began to assume in their eyes a romantic aspect. Even that group of
philosophers of the Cote Gauche, who refused to worship any force but the
force of reason, began to look upon him with a respect and consideration
which no oratorical triumphs could ever have procured him.
And from the Assembly the fame of him oozed out gradually over Paris.
Desmoulins wrote a panegyric upon him in his paper "Les Revolutions,"
wherein he dubbed him the "Paladin of the Third Estate," a name that caught
the fancy of the people, and clung to him for some time. Disdainfully was he
mentioned in the "Actes des Apotres," the mocking organ of the Privileged
party, so light-heartedly and provocatively edited by a group of gentlemen
afflicted by a singular mental myopy.
The Friday of that very busy week in the life of this young man who
even thereafter is to persist in reminding us that he is not in any sense a
man of action, found the vestibule of the Manege empty of swordsmen when he
made his leisurely and expectant egress between Le Chapelier and Kersain.
So surprised was he that he checked in his stride.
"Have they had enough?" he wondered, addressing the question to Le
Chapelier.
"They have had enough of you, I should think," was the answer. "They
will prefer to turn their attention to some one less able to take care of
himself."
Now this was disappointing. Andre-Louis had lent himself to this
business with a very definite object in view. The slaying of Chabrillane
had, as far as it went, been satisfactory. He had regarded that as a sort of
acceptable hors d'oeuvre. But the three who had followed were no affair of
his at all. He had met them with a certain amount of repugnance, and dealt
with each as lightly as consideration of his own safety permitted. Was the
baiting of him now to cease whilst the man at whom he aimed had not
presented himself? In that case it would be necessary to force the pace!
Out there under the awning a group of gentlemen stood in earnest talk.
Scanning the group in a rapid glance, Andre-Louis perceived M. de La Tour
d'Azyr amongst them. He tightened his lips. He must afford no provocation.
It must be for them to fasten their quarrels upon him. Already the "Actes
des Apotres" that morning had torn the mask from his face, and proclaimed
him the fencing-master of the Rue du Hasard, successor to Bertrand des Amis.
Hazardous as it had been hitherto for a man of his condition to engage in
single combat it was rendered doubly so by this exposure, offered to the
public as an aristocratic apologia.
Still, matters could not be left where they were, or he should have had
all his pains for nothing. Carefully looking away from that group of
gentlemen, he raised his voice so that his words must carry to their ears.
"It begins to look as if my fears of having to spend the remainder of
my days in the Bois were idle."
Out of the corner of his eye he caught the stir his words created in
that group. Its members had turned to look at him; but for the moment that
was all. A little more was necessary. Pacing slowly along between his
friends he resumed:
"But is it not remarkable that the assassin of Lagror should make no
move against Lagron's successor? Or perhaps it is not remarkable. Perhaps
there are good reasons. Perhaps the gentleman is prudent."
He bad passed the group by now, and he left that last sentence of his
to trail behind him, and after it sent laughter, insolent and provoking.
He had not long to wait. Came a quick step behind him, and a hand
falling upon his shoulder, spun him violently round. He was brought face to
face with M. de La Tour d'Azyr, whose handsome countenance was calm and
composed, but whose eyes reflected something of the sudden blaze of passion
stirring in him. Behind him several members of the group were approaching
more slowly. The others - like Andre-Louis' two companions - remained at
gaze.
"You spoke of me, I think," said the Marquis quietly. "I spoke of an
assassin - yes. But to these my friends." Andre-Louis' manner was no less
quiet, indeed the quieter of the two, for he was the more experienced actor.
"You spoke loudly enough to be overheard," said the Marquis, answering
the insinuation that he had been eavesdropping.
"Those who wish to overhear frequently contrive to do so."
"I perceive that it is your aim to be offensive."
"Oh, but you are mistaken, M. le Marquis. I have no wish to be
offensive. But I resent having hands violently laid upon me, especially when
they are hands that I cannot consider clean, In the circumstances I can
hardly be expected to be polite."
The elder man's eyelids flickered. Almost he caught himself admiring
Andre-Louis' bearing. Rather, he feared that his own must suffer by
comparison. Because of this, he enraged altogether, and lost control of
himself.
"You spoke of me as the assassin of Lagron. I do not affect to
misunderstand you. You expounded your views to me once before, and I
remember."
"But what flattery, monsieur!"
"You called me an assassin then, because I used my skill to dispose of
a turbulent hot-head who made the world unsafe for me. But how much better
are you, M. the fencing-master, when you oppose yourself to men whose skill
is as naturally inferior to your own!"
M. de La Tour d'Azyr's friends looked grave, perturbed. It was really
incredible to find this great gentleman so far forgetting himself as to
descend to argument with a canaille of a lawyer-swordsman. And what was
worse, it was an argument in which he was being made ridiculous.
"I oppose myself to them!" said Andre-Louis on a tone of amused
protest. "Ah, pardon, M. le Marquis; it is they who chose to oppose
themselves to me - and so stupidly. They push me, they slap my face, they
tread on my toes, they call me by unpleasant names. What if I am a
fencing-master? Must I on that account submit to every manner of
ill-treatment from your bad-mannered friends? Perhaps had they found out
sooner that I am a fencing-master their manners would have been better. But
to blame me for that! What injustice!"
"Comedian!" the Marquis contemptuously apostrophized him. "Does it
alter the case? Are these men who have opposed you men who live by the sword
like yourself?"
"On the contrary, M. le Marquis, I have found them men who died by the
sword with astonishing ease. I cannot suppose that you desire to add
yourself to their number."
"And why, if you please?" La Tour d'Azyr's face had flamed scarlet
before that sneer.
"Oh," Andre-Louis raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, a man
considering. He delivered himself slowly. "Because, monsieur, you prefer the
easy victim - the Lagrons and Vilmorins of this world, mere sheep for your
butchering. That is why."
And then the Marquis struck him.
Andre-Louis stepped back. His eyes gleamed a moment; the next they were
smiling up into the face of his tall enemy.
"No better than the others, after all! Well, well! Remark, I beg you,
how history repeats itself - with certain differences. Because poor Vilmorin
could not bear a vile lie with which you goaded him, he struck you. Because
you cannot bear an equally vile truth which I have uttered, you strike me.
But always is the vileness yours. And now as then for the striker there
is... " He broke off. "But why name it? You will remember what there is.
Yourself you wrote it that day with the point of your too-ready sword. But
there. I will meet you if you desire it, monsieur."
"What else do you suppose that I desire? To talk?"
Andre-Louis turned to his friends and sighed. "So that I am to go
another jaunt to the Bois. Isaac, perhaps you will kindly have a word with
one of these friends of M. le Marquis', and arrange for nine o'clock
to-morrow, as usual."
"Not to-morrow," said the Marquis shortly to Le Chapeher. "I have an
engagement in the country, which I cannot postpone."
Le Chapelier looked at Andre-Louis.
"Then for M. le Marquis' convenience, we will say Sunday at the same
hour."
"I do not fight on Sunday. I am not a pagan to break the holy day."
"But surely the good God would not have the presumption to damn a
gentleman of M. le Marquis' quality on that account? Ah, well, Isaac, please
arrange for Monday, if it is not a feast-day or monsieur has not some other
pressing engagement. I leave it in your hands."
He bowed with the air of a man wearied by these details, and threading
his arm through Kersain's withdrew.
"Ah, Dieu de Dieu! But what a trick of it you have," said the Breton
deputy, entirely unsophisticated in these matters.
"To be sure I have. I have taken lessons at their hands." He laughed.
He was in excellent good-humour. And Kersam was enrolled in the ranks of
those who accounted Andre-Louis a man without heart or conscience.
But in his "Confessions" he tells us - and this is one of the glimpses
that reveal the true man under all that make-believe
- that on that night he went down on his knees to commune with his dead
friend Philippe, and to call his spirit to witness that he was about to take
the last step in the fulfilment of the oath sworn upon his body at Gavrillac
two years ago.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr's engagement in the country on that Sunday was
with M. de Kercadiou. To fulfil it he drove out early in the day to Meudon,
taking with him in his pocket a copy of the last issue of "Les Actes des
Apotres," a journal whose merry sallies at the expense of the innovators
greatly diverted the Seigneur de Gavrillac. The venomous scorn it poured
upon those worthless rapscallions afforded him a certain solatium against
the discomforts of expatriation by which he was afflicted as a result of
their detestable energies.
Twice in the last month, had M. de La Tour d'Azyr gone to visit the
Lord of Gavrillac at Meudon, and the sight of Aline, so sweet and fresh, so
bright and of so lively a mind, had caused those embers smouldering under
the ashes of the past, embers which until now he had believed utterly
extinct, to kindle into flame once more. He desired her as we desire Heaven.
I believe that it was the purest passion of his life; that had it come to
him earlier he might have been a vastly different man. The cruelest wound
that in all his selfish life he had taken was when she sent him word, quite
definitely after the affair at the Feydau, that she could not again in any
circumstances receive him. At one blow - through that disgraceful riot - he
had been robbed of a mistress he prized and of a wife who had become a
necessity to the very soul of him. The sordid love of La Binet might have
consoled him for the compulsory renunciation of his exalted love of Aline,
just as to his exalted love of Aline he had been ready to sacrifice his
attachment to La Binet. But that ill-timed riot had robbed him at once of
both. Faithful to his word to Sautron he had definitely broken with La
Binet, only to find that Aline had definitely broken with him. And by the
time that he had sufficiently recovered from his grief to think again of La
Binet, the comedienne had vanished beyond discovery.
For all this he blamed, and most bitterly blamed, Andre-Louis. That
low-born provincial lout pursued him like a Nemesis, was become indeed the
evil genius of his life. That was it - the evil genius of his life! And it
was odds that on Monday... He did not like to think of Monday. He was not
particularly afraid of death. He was as brave as his kind in that respect,
too brave in the ordinary way, and too confident of his skill, to have
considered even remotely such a possibility as that of dying in a duel. It
was only that it would seem like a proper consummation of all the evil that
he had suffered directly or indirectly through this Andre-Louis Moreau that
he should perish ignobly by his hand. Almost he could hear that insolent,
pleasant voice making the flippant announcement to the Assembly on Monday
morning.
He shook off the mood, angry with himself for entertaining it. It was
maudlin. After all Chabrillane and La Motte-Royau were quite exceptional
swordsmen, but neither of them really approached his own formidable calibre.
Reaction began to flow, as he drove out through country lanes flooded with
pleasant September sunshine. His spirits rose. A premonition of victory
stirred within him Far from fearing Monday's meeting, as he had so
unreasonably been doing; he began to look forward to it. It should afford
him the means of setting a definite term to this persecution of which he had
been the victim. He would crush this insolent and persistent flea that had
been stinging him at every opportunity. Borne upward on that wave of
optimism, he took presently a more hopeful view of his case with Aline.
At their first meeting a month ago he had used the utmost frankness
with her. He had told her the whole truth of his motives in going that night
to the Feydau; he had made her realize that she had acted unjustly towards
him. True he had gone no farther.
But that was very far to have gone as a beginning. And in their last
meeting, now a fortnight old, she had received him with frank friendliness.
True, she had been a little aloof. But that was to be expected until he
quite explicitly avowed that he had revived the hope of winning her. He had
been a fool not to have returned before to-day.
Thus in that mood of new-born confidence - a confidence risen from the
very ashes of despondency - came he on that Sunday morning to Meudon. He was
gay and jovial with M. de Kercadiou what time he waited in the salon for
mademoiselle to show herself. He pronounced with confidence on the country's
future. There were signs already
- he wore the rosiest spectacles that morning - of a change of opinion,
of a more moderate note. The Nation began to perceive whither this lawyer
rabble was leading it. He pulled out "The Acts of the Apostles" and read a
stinging paragraph. Then, when mademoiselle at last made her appearance, he
resigned the journal into the hands of M. de Kercadiou.
M. de Kercadiou, with his niece's future to consider, went to read the
paper in the garden, taking up there a position whence he could keep the
couple within sight - as his obligations seemed to demand of him - whilst
being discreetly out of earshot.
The Marquis made the most of an opportunity that might be brief. He
quite frankly declared himself, and begged, implored to be taken back into
Aline's good graces, to be admitted at least to the hope that one day before
very long she would bring herself to consider him in a nearer relationship.
"Mademoiselle," he told her, his voice vibrating with a feeling that
admitted of no doubt, "you cannot lack conviction of my utter sincerity. The
very constancy of my devotion should afford you this. It is just that I
should have been banished from you, since I showed myself so utterly
unworthy of the great honour to which I aspired. But this banishment has
nowise diminished my devotion. If you could conceive what I have suffered,
you would agree that I have fully expiated my abject fault."
She looked at him with a curious, gentle wistfulness on her lovely
face.
"Monsieur, it is not you whom I doubt. It is myself."
"You mean your feelings towards me?"
"Yes."
"But that I can understand. After what has happened... "
"It was always so, monsieur," she interrupted quietly. "You speak of me
as if lost to you by your own action. That is to say too much. Let me be
frank with you. Monsieur, I was never yours to lose. I am conscious of the
honour that you do me. I esteem you very deeply... "
"But, then," he cried, on a high note of confidence, "from such a
beginning... "
"Who shall assure me that it is a beginning? May it not be the whole?
Had I held you in affection, monsieur, I should have sent for you after the
affair of which you have spoken. I should at least not have condemned you
without hearing your explanation. As it was... " She shrugged, smiling
gently, sadly. "You see... "
But his optimism far from being crushed was stimulated. "But it is to
give me hope, mademoiselle. If already I possess so much, I may look with
confidence to win more. I shall prove myself worthy. I swear to do that. Who
that is permitted the privilege of being near you could do other than seek
to render himself worthy?"
And then before she could add a word, M. de Kercadiou came blustering
through the window, his spectacles on his forehead, his face inflamed,
waving in his hand "The Acts of the Apostles," and apparently reduced to
speechlessness.
Had the Marquis expressed himself aloud he would have been profane. As
it was he bit his lip in vexation at this most inopportune interruption.
Aline sprang up, alarmed by her uncle's agitation.
"What has happened?"
"Happened?" He found speech at last. "The scoundrel! The faithless dog!
I consented to overlook the past on the clear condition that he should avoid
revolutionary politics in future. That condition he accepted, and now" - he
smacked the news-sheet furiously - "he has played me false again. Not only
has he gone into politics, once more, but he is actually a member of the
Assembly, and what is worse he has been using his assassin's skill as a
fencing-master, turning himself into a bully-swordsman. My God Is there any
law at all left in France?"
One doubt M. de La Tour d'Azyr had entertained, though only faintly, to
mar the perfect serenity of his growing optimism. That doubt concerned this
man Moreau and his relations with M. de Kercadiou. He knew what once they
had been, and how changed they subsequently were by the ingratitude of
Moreau's own behavior in turning against the class to which his benefactor
belonged. What he did not know was that a reconciliation had been effected.
For in the past month - ever since circumstances had driven Andre-Louis to
depart from his undertaking to steer clear of politics - the young man had
not ventured to approach Meudon, and as it happened his name had pot been
mentioned in La Tour d'Azyr's hearing on the occasion of either of his own
previous visits. He learnt of that reconciliation now; but he learnt at the
same time that the breach was now renewed, and rendered wider and more
impassable than ever. Therefore he did not hesitate to avow his own
position.
"There is a law," he answered. "The law that this rash young man
himself evokes. The law of the sword." He spoke very gravely, almost sadly.
For he realized that after all the ground was tender. "You are not to
suppose that he is to continue indefinitely his career of evil and of
murder. Sooner or later he will meet a sword that will avenge the others.
You have observed that my cousin Chabrillane is among the number of this
assassin's victims; that he was killed on Tuesday last."
"If I have not expressed my condolence, Azyr, it is because my
indignation stifles at the moment every other feeling. The scoundrel! You
say that sooner or later he will meet a sword that will avenge the others. I
pray that it may be soon."
The Marquis answered him quietly, without anything but sorrow in his
voice. "I think your prayer is likely to be heard. This wretched young man
has an engagement for to-morrow, when his account may be definitely
settled."
He spoke with such calm conviction that his words had all the sound of
a sentence of death. They suddenly stemmed the flow of M. de Kercadiou's
anger. The colour receded from his inflamed face; dread looked out of his
pale eyes, to inform M. de La Tour d'Azyr, more clearly than any words, that
M. de Kercadiou's hot speech had been the expression of unreflecting anger,
that his prayer that retribution might soon overtake his godson had been
unconsciously insincere. Confronted now by the fact that this retribution
was about to be visited upon that scoundrel, the fundamental gentleness and
kindliness of his nature asserted itself; his anger was suddenly whelmed in
apprehension; his affection for the lad beat up to the surface, making
Andre-Louis' sin, however hideous, a thing of no account by comparison with
the threatened punishment.
M. de Kercadiou moistened his lips.
"With whom is this engagement?" he asked in a voice that by an effort
he contrived to render steady.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr bowed his handsome head, his eyes upon the
gleaming parquetry of the floor. "With myself," he answered quietly,
conscious already with a tightening of the heart that his answer must sow
dismay. He caught the sound of a faint outcry from Aline; he saw the sudden
recoil of M. de Kercadiou. And then he plunged headlong into the explanation
that he deemed necessary.
"In view of his relations with you, M. de Kercadiou, and because of my
deep regard for you, I did my best to avoid this, even though as you will
understand the death of my dear friend and cousin Chabrillane seemed to
summon me to action, even though I knew that my circumspection was becoming
matter for criticism among my friends. But yesterday this unbridled young
man made further restraint impossible to me. He provoked me deliberately and
publicly. He put upon me the very grossest affront, and... to-morrow morning
in the Bois... we meet."
He faltered a little at the end, fully conscious of the hostile
atmosphere in which he suddenly found himself. Hostility from M. de
Kercadiou, the latter's earlier change of manner had already led him to
expect; the hostility of mademoiselle came more in the nature of a surprise.
He began to understand what difficulties the course to which he was
committed must raise up for him. A fresh obstacle was to be flung across the
path which he had just cleared, as he imagined. Yet his pride and his sense
of the justice due to be done admitted of no weakening.
In bitterness he realized now, as he looked from uncle to niece
- his glance, usually so direct and bold, now oddly furtive - that
though to-morrow he might kill Andre-Louis, yet even by his death
Andre-Louis would take vengeance upon him. He had exaggerated nothing in
reaching the conclusion that this Andre-Louis Moreau was the evil genius of
his life. He saw now that do what he would, kill him even though he might,
he could never conquer him. The last word would always be with Andre-Louis
Moreau. In bitterness, in rage, and in humiliation - a thing almost unknown
to him - did he realize it, and the realization steeled his purpose for all
that he perceived its futility.
Outwardly he showed himself calm and self-contained, properly
suggesting a man regretfully accepting the inevitable. It would have been as
impossible to find fault with his bearing as to attempt to turn him from the
matter to which he was committed. And so M. de Kercadiou perceived.
"My God!" was all that he said, scarcely above his breath, yet almost
in a groan.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr did, as always, the thing that sensibility
demanded of him. He took his leave. He understood that to linger where his
news had produced such an effect would be impossible, indecent. So he
departed, in a bitterness comparable only with his erstwhile optimism, the
sweet fruit of hope turned to a thing of gall even as it touched his lips.
Oh, yes; the last word, indeed, was with Andre-Louis Moreau - always!
Uncle and niece looked at each other as he passed out, and there was
horror in the eyes of both. Aline's pallor was deathly almost, and standing
there now she wrung her hands as if in pain.
"Why did you not ask him - beg him... " She broke off.
"To what end? He was in the right, and... and there are things one
cannot ask; things it would be a useless humiliation to ask." He sat down,
groaning. "Oh, the poor boy - the poor, misguided boy."
In the mind of neither, you see, was there any doubt of what must be
the issue. The calm confidence in which La Tour d'Azyr had spoken compelled
itself to be shared. He was no vainglorious boaster, and they knew of what a
force as a swordsman he was generally accounted.
"What does humiliation matter? A life is at issue - Andre's life."
"I know. My God, don't I know? And I would humiliate myself if by
humiliating myself I could hope to prevail. But Azyr is a hard, relentless
man, and... "
Abruptly she left him.
She overtook the Marquis as he was in the act of stepping his carriage.
He turned as she called, and bowed.
"Mademoiselle?"
At once he guessed her errand, tasted in anticipation the unparalleled
bitterness of being compelled to refuse her. Yet at her invitation he
stepped back into the cool of the hall.
In the middle of the floor of chequered marbles, black and white, stood
a carved table of black oak. By this he halted, leaning lightly against it
whilst she sat enthroned in the great crimson chair beside it.
"Monsieur, I cannot allow you so to depart," she said. "You cannot
realize, monsieur, what a blow would be dealt my uncle if... if evil,
irrevocable evil were to overtake his godson to-morrow. The expressions that
he used at first... "
"Mademoiselle, I perceived their true value. Spare yourself. Believe me
I am profoundly desolated by circumstances which I had not expected to find.
You must believe me when I say that. It is all that I can say."
"Must it really be all? Andre is very dear to his godfather."
The pleading tone cut him like a knife; and then suddenly it aroused
another emotion - an emotion which he realized to be utterly unworthy, an
emotion which, in his overwhelming pride of race, seemed almost sullying,
yet not to be repressed. He hesitated to give it utterance; hesitated even
remotely to suggest so horrible a thing as that in a man of such lowly
origin he might conceivably discover a rival. Yet that sudden pang of
jealousy was stronger than his monstrous pride.
"And to you, mademoiselle? What is this Andre-Louis Moreau to you? You
will pardon the question. But I desire clearly to understand."
Watching her he beheld the scarlet stain that overspread her face. He
read in it at first confusion, until the gleam of her blue eyes announced
its source to lie in anger. That comforted him; since he had affronted her,
he was reassured. It did not occur to him that the anger might have another
source.
"Andre and I have been playmates from infancy. He is very dear to me,
too; almost I regard him as a brother. Were I in need of help, and were my
uncle not available, Andre would be the first man to whom I should turn. Are
you sufficiently answered, monsieur? Or is there more of me you would desire
revealed?"
He bit his lip. He was unnerved, he thought, this morning; otherwise
the silly suspicion with which he had offended could never have occurred to
him.
He bowed very low. "Mademoiselle, forgive that I should have troubled
you with such a question. You have answered more fully than I could have
hoped or wished."
He said no more than that. He waited for her to resume. At a loss, she
sat in silence awhile, a pucker on her white brow, her fingers nervously
drumming on the table. At last she flung herself headlong against the
impassive, polished front that he presented.
"I have come, monsieur, to beg you to put off this meeting."
She saw the faint raising of his dark eyebrows, the faintly regretful
smile that scarcely did more than tinge his fine lips, and she hurried on.
"What honour can await you in such an engagement, monsieur?"
It was a shrewd thrust at the pride of race that she accounted his
paramount sentiment, that had as often lured him into error as it had urged
him into good.
"I do not seek honour in it, mademoiselle, but - I must say it
- justice. The engagement, as I have explained, is not of my seeking.
It has been thrust upon me, and in honour I cannot draw back."
"Why, what dishonour would there be in sparing him? Surely, monsieur,
none would call your courage in question? None could misapprehend your
motives."
"You are mistaken, mademoiselle. My motives would most certainly be
misapprehended. You forget that this young man has acquired in the past week
a certain reputation that might well make a man hesitate to meet him."
She brushed that aside almost contemptuously, conceiving it the merest
quibble.
"Some men, yes. But not you, M. le Marquis."
Her confidence in him on every count was most sweetly flattering. But
there was a bitterness behind the sweet.
"Even I, mademoiselle, let me assure you. And there is more than that.
This quarrel which M. Moreau has forced upon me is no new thing. It is
merely the culmination of a long-drawn persecution.
"Which you invited," she cut in. "Be just, monsieur."
"I hope that it is not in my nature to be otherwise, mademoiselle."
"Consider, then, that you killed his friend."
"I find in that nothing with which to reproach myself. My justification
lay in the circumstances - the subsequent events in this distracted country
surely confirm it."
"And... " She faltered a little, and looked away from him for the first
time. "And that you... that you... And what of Mademoiselle Binet, whom he
was to have married?"
He stared at her for a moment in sheer surprise. "Was to have married?"
he repeated incredulously, dismayed almost.
"You did not know that?"
"But how do you?"
"Did I not tell you that we are as brother and sister almost? I have
his confidence. He told me, before... before you made it impossible."
He looked away, chin in hand, his glance thoughtful, disturbed, almost
wistful.
"There is," he said slowly, musingly. "a singular fatality at work
between that man and me, bringing us ever each by turns athwart the other's
path... "
He sighed; then swung to face her again, speaking more briskly:
"Mademoiselle, until this moment I had no knowledge - no suspicion of this
thing. But..." He broke off, considered, and then shrugged. "If I wronged
him, I did so unconsciously. It would be unjust to blame me, surely. In all
our actions it must be the intention alone that counts."
"But does it make no difference?"
"None that I can discern, mademoiselle. It gives me no justification to
withdraw from that to which I am irrevocably committed. No justification,
indeed, could ever be greater than my concern for the pain it must occasion
my good friend, your uncle, and perhaps yourself, mademoiselle."
She rose suddenly, squarely confronting him, desperate now, driven to
play the only card upon which she thought she might count.
"Monsieur," she said, "you did me the honour to-day to speak in certain
terms; to... to allude to certain hopes with which you honour me."
He looked at her almost in fear. In silence, not daring to speak, he
waited for her to continue.
"I... I... Will you please to understand, monsieur, that if you persist
in this matter, if... unless you can break this engagement of yours
to-morrow morning in the Bois, you are not to presume to mention this
subject to me again, or, indeed, ever again to approach me."
To put the matter in this negative way was as far as she could possibly
go. It was for him to make the positive proposal to which she had thus
thrown wide the door.
"Mademoiselle, you cannot mean... "
"I do, monsieur... irrevocably, please to understand." He looked at her
with eyes of misery, his handsome, manly face as pale as she had ever seen
it. The hand he had been holding out in protest began to shake. He lowered
it to his side again, lest she should perceive its tremor. Thus a brief
second, while the battle was fought within him, the bitter engagement
between his desires and what he conceived to be the demands of his honour,
never perceiving how far his honour was buttressed by implacable
vindictiveness. Retreat, he conceived, was impossible without shame; and
shame was to him an agony unthinkable. She asked too much. She could not
understand what she was asking, else she would never be so unreasonable, so
unjust. But also he saw that it would be futile to attempt to make her
understand.
It was the end. Though he kill Andre-Louis Moreau in the morning as he
fiercely hoped he would, yet the victory even in death must lie with
Andre-Louis Moreau.
He bowed profoundly, grave and sorrowful of face as he was grave and
sorrowful of heart.
"Mademoiselle, my homage," he murmured, and turned to go.
"But you have not answered me!" she called after him in terror.
He checked on the threshold, and turned; and there from the cool gloom
of the hall she saw him a black, graceful silhouette against the brilliant
sunshine beyond - a memory of him that was to cling as something sinister
and menacing in the dread hours that were to follow.
"What would you, mademoiselle? I but spared myself and you the pain of
a refusal."
He was gone leaving her crushed and raging. She sank down again into
the great red chair, and sat there crumpled, her elbows on the table, her
face in her hands - a face that was on fire with shame and passion. She had
offered herself, and she had been refused! The inconceivable had befallen
her. The humiliation of it seemed to her something that could never be
effaced.
Startled, appalled, she stepped back, her hand pressed to her tortured
breast.
M. de Kercadiou wrote a letter.
"Godson," he began, without any softening adjective, "I have learnt
with pain and indignation that you have dishonoured yourself again by
breaking the pledge you gave me to abstain from politics. With still greater
pain and indignation do I learn that your name has become in a few short
days a byword, that you have discarded the weapon of false, insidious
arguments against my class - the class to which you owe everything - for the
sword of the assassin. It has come to my knowledge that you have an
assignation to-morrow with my good friend M. de La Tour d'Azyr. A gentleman
of his station is under certain obligations imposed upon him by his birth,
which do not permit him to draw back from an engagement. But you labour
under no such disadvantages. For a man of your class to refuse an engagement
of honour, or to neglect it when made, entails no sacrifice. Your peers will
probably be of the opinion that you display a commendable prudence.
Therefore I beg you, indeed, did I think that I still exercise over you any
such authority as the favours you have received from me should entitle me to
exercise, I would command you, to allow this matter to go no farther, and to
refrain from rendering yourself to your assignation to-morrow morning.
Having no such authority, as your past conduct now makes clear, having no
reason to hope that a proper sentiment of gratitude to me will induce to
give heed to this my most earnest request, I am compelled to add that should
you survive to-morrow's encounter, I can in no circumstances ever again
permit myself to be conscious of your existence. If any spark survives of
the affection that once you expressed for me, or if you set any value upon
the affection, which, in spite of all that you have done to forfeit it, is
the chief prompter of this letter, you will not refuse to do as I am
asking."
It was not a tactful letter. M. de Kercadiou was not a tactful man.
Read it as he would, Andre-Louis - when it was delivered to him on that
Sunday afternoon by the groom dispatched with it into Paris
- could read into it only concern for M. La Tour d'Azyr, M. de
Kercadiou's good friend, as he called him, and prospective nephew-in-law.
He kept the groom waiting a full hour while composing his answer. Brief
though it was, it cost him very considerable effort and several unsuccessful
attempts. In the end this is what he wrote:
Monsieur my godfather - You make refusal singularly hard for me when
you appeal to me upon the ground of affection. It is a thing of which all my
life I shall hail the opportunity to give you proofs, and I am therefore
desolated beyond anything I could hope to express that I cannot give you the
proof you ask to-day. There is too much between M. de La Tour d'Azyr and me.
Also you do me and my class - whatever it may be - less than justice when
you say that obligations of honour are not binding upon us. So binding do I
count them, that, if I would, I could not now draw back.
If hereafter you should persist in the harsh intention you express, I
must suffer it. That I shall suffer be assured.
Your affectionate and grateful godson
Andre-Louis
He dispatched that letter by M. de Kercadiou's groom, and conceived
this to be the end of the matter. It cut him keenly; but he bore the wound
with that outward stoicism he affected.
Next morning, at a quarter past eight, as with Le Chapelier - who had
come to break his fast with him - he was rising from table to set out for
the Bois, his housekeeper startled him by announcing Mademoiselle de
Kercadiou.
He looked at his watch. Although his cabriolet was already at the door,
he had a few minutes to spare. He excused himself from Le Chapelier, and
went briskly out to the anteroom.
She advanced to meet him, her manner eager, almost feverish.
"I will not affect ignorance of why you have come," he said quickly, to
make short work. "But time presses, and I warn you that only the most solid
of reasons can be worth stating."
It surprised her. It amounted to a rebuff at the very outset, before
she had uttered a word; and that was the last thing she had expected from
Andre-Louis. Moreover, there was about him an air of aloofness that was
unusual where she was concerned, and his voice had been singularly cold and
formal.
It wounded her. She was not to guess the conclusion to which he had
leapt. He made with regard to her - as was but natural, after all - the same
mistake that he had made with regard to yesterday's letter from his
godfather. He conceived that the mainspring of action here was solely
concern for M. de La Tour d'Azyr. That it might be concern for himself never
entered his mind. So absolute was his own conviction of what must be the
inevitable issue of that meeting that he could not conceive of any one
entertaining a fear on his behalf.
What he assumed to be anxiety on the score of the predestined victim
had irritated him in M. de Kercadiou; in Aline it filled him with a cold
anger; he argued from it that she had hardly been frank with him; that
ambition was urging her to consider with favour the suit of M. de La Tour
d'Azyr. And than this there was no spur that could have driven more
relentlessly in his purpose, since to save her was in his eyes almost as
momentous as to avenge the past.
She conned him searchingly, and the complete calm of him at such a time
amazed her. She could not repress the mention of it.
"How calm you are, Andre!"
"I am not easily disturbed. It is a vanity of mine."
"But... Oh, Andre, this meeting must not take place!" She came close up
to him, to set her hands upon his shoulders, and stood so, her face within a
foot of his own.
"You know, of course, of some good reason why it should not?" said he.
"You may be killed," she answered him, and her eyes dilated as she
spoke.
It was so far from anything that he had expected that for a moment he
could only stare at her. Then he thought he had understood. He laughed as he
removed her hands from his shoulders, and stepped back. This was a shallow
device, childish and unworthy in her.
"Can you really think to prevail by attempting to frighten me?" he
asked, and almost sneered.
"Oh, you are surely mad! M. de La Tour d'Azyr is reputed the most
dangerous sword in France."
"Have you never noticed that most reputations are undeserved?
Chabrillane was a dangerous swordsman, and Chabrillane is underground. La
Motte-Royau was an even more dangerous swordsman, and he is in a surgeon's
hands. So are the other spadassinicides who dreamt of skewering a poor sheep
of a provincial lawyer. And here to-day comes the chief, the fine flower of
these bully-swordsmen. He comes, for wages long overdue. Be sure of that. So
if you have no other reason to urge.
It was the sarcasm of him that mystified her. Could he possibly be
sincere in his assurance that he must prevail against M. de La Tour d'Azyr?
To her in her limited knowledge, her mind filled with her uncle's contrary
conviction, it seemed that Andre-Louis was only acting; he would act a part
to the very end.
Be that as it might, she shifted her ground to answer him.
"You had my uncle's letter?"
"And I answered it."
"I know. But what he said, he will fulfil. Do not dream that he will
relent if you carry out this horrible purpose."
"Come, now, that is a better reason than the other," said he. "If there
is a reason in the world that could move me it would be that. But there is
too much between La Tour d'Azyr and me. There is an oath I swore on the dead
hand of Philippe de Vilmorin. I could never have hoped that God would afford
me so great an opportunity of keeping it."
"You have not kept it yet," she warned him.
He smiled at her. "True!" he said. "But nine o'clock will soon be here.
Tell me," he asked her suddenly, "why did you not carry this request of
yours to M. de La Tour d'Azyr?"
"I did," she answered him, and flushed as she remembered her
yesterday's rejection. He interpreted the flush quite otherwise.
"And he?" he asked.
"M. de La Tour d'Azyr's obligations... " she was beginning: then she
broke off to answer shortly: "Oh, he refused."
"So, so. He must, of course, whatever it may have cost him. Yet in his
place I should have counted the cost as nothing. But men are different, you
see." He sighed. "Also in your place, had that been so, I think I should
have left the matter there. But then... "
"I don't understand you, Andre."
"I am not so very obscure. Not nearly so obscure as I can be. Turn it
over in your mind. It may help to comfort you presently." He consulted his
watch again. "Pray use this house as your own. I must be going."
Le Chapelier put his head in at the door.
"Forgive the intrusion. But we shall be late, Andre, unless you... "
"Coming," Andre answered him. "If you will await my return, Aline, you
will oblige me deeply. Particularly in view of your uncle's resolve."
She did not answer him. She was numbed. He took her silence for assent,
and, bowing, left her. Standing there she heard his steps going down the
stairs together with Le Chapelier's. He was speaking to his friend, and his
voice was calm and normal.
Oh, he was mad - blinded by self-confidence and vanity. As his carriage
rattled away, she sat down limply, with a sense of exhaustion and nausea.
She was sick and faint with horror. Andre-Louis was going to his death.
Conviction of it - an unreasoning conviction, the result, perhaps, of all M.
de Kercadiou's rantings - entered her soul. Awhile she sat thus, paralyzed
by hopelessness. Then she sprang up again, wringing her hands. She must do
something to avert this horror. But what could she do? To follow him to the
Bois and intervene there would be to make a scandal for no purpose. The
conventions of conduct were all against her, offering a barrier that was not
to be overstepped. Was there no one could help her?
Standing there, half-frenzied by her helplessness, she caught again a
sound of vehicles and hooves on the cobbles of the street below. A carriage
was approaching. It drew up with a clatter before the fencing-academy. Could
it be Andre-Louis returning? Passionately she snatched at that straw of
hope. Knocking, loud and urgent, fell upon the door. She heard Andre-Louis'
housekeeper, her wooden shoes clanking upon the stairs, hurrying down to
open.
She sped to the door of the anteroom, and pulling it wide stood
breathlessly to listen. But the voice that floated up to her was not the
voice she so desperately hoped to hear. It was a woman's voice asking in
urgent tones for M. Andre-Louis - a voice at first vaguely familiar, then
clearly recognized, the voice of Mme. de Plougastel.
Excited, she ran to the head of the narrow staircase in time to hear
Mme. de Plougastel exclaim in agitation:
"He has gone already! Oh, but how long since? Which way did he take?"
It was enough to inform Aline that Mme. de Plougastel's errand must be
akin to her own. At the moment, in the general distress and confusion of her
mind, her mental vision focussed entirely on the one vital point, she found
in this no matter for astonishment. The singular regard conceived by Mme. de
Plougastel for Andre-Louis seemed to her then a sufficient explanation.
Without pausing to consider, she ran down that steep staircase,
calling:
"Madame! Madame!"
The portly, comely housekeeper drew aside, and the two ladies faced
each other on that threshold. Mme. de Plougastel looked white and haggard, a
nameless dread staring from her eyes.
"Aline! You here!" she exclaimed. And then in the urgency sweeping
aside all minor considerations, "Were you also too late?" she asked.
"No, madame. I saw him. I implored him. But he would not listen."
"Oh, this is horrible!" Mme. de Plougastel shuddered as she spoke. "I
heard of it only half an hour ago, and I came at once, to prevent it at all
costs."
The two women looked blankly, despairingly, at each other. In the
sunshine-flooded street one or two shabby idlers were pausing to eye the
handsome equipage with its magnificent bay horses, and the two great ladies
on the doorstep of the fencing-academy. From across the way came the raucous
voice of an itinerant bellows-mender raised in the cry of his trade:
"A raccommoder les vieux soufflets!"
Madame swung to the housekeeper.
"How long is it since monsieur left?"
"Ten minutes, maybe; hardly more." Conceiving these great ladies to be
friends of her invincible master's latest victim, the good woman preserved a
decently stolid exterior.
Madame wrung her hands. "Ten minutes! Oh!" It was almost a moan. "Which
way did he go?"
"The assignation is for nine o'clock in the Bois de Boulogne," Aline
informed her. "Could we follow? Could we prevail if we did?"
"Ah, my God! The question is should we come in time? At nine o'clock!
And it wants but little more than a quarter of an hour. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!"
Madame clasped and unclasped her hands in anguish. "Do you know, at least,
where in the Bois they are to meet?"
"No - only that it is in the Bois."
"In the Bois!" Madame was flung into a frenzy. "The Bois is nearly half
as large as Paris." But she swept breathlessly on, "Come, Aline: get in, get
in!"
Then to her coachman. "To the Bois de Boulogne by way of the Cours Ia
Reine," she commanded, "as fast as you can drive. There are ten pistoles for
you if we are in time. Whip up, man!"
She thrust Aline into the carriage, and sprang after her with the
energy of a girl. The heavy vehicle - too heavy by far for this race with
time - was moving before she had taken her seat. Rocking and lurching it
went, earning the maledictions of more than one pedestrian whom it narrowly
avoided crushing against a wall or trampling underfoot.
Madame sat back with closed eyes and trembling lips. Her face showed
very white and drawn. Aline watched her in silence. Almost it seemed to her
that Mme. de Plougastel was suffering as deeply as herself, enduring an
anguish of apprehension as great as her own.
Later Aline was to wonder at this. But at the moment all the thought of
which her half-numbed mind was capable was bestowed upon their desperate
errand.
The carriage rolled across the Place Louis XV and out on to the Cours
Ia Reine at last. Along that beautiful, tree-bordered avenue between the
Champs Elysees and the Seine, almost empty at this hour of the day, they
made better speed, leaving now a cloud of dust behind them.
But fast to danger-point as was the speed, to the women in that
carriage it was too slow. As they reached the barrier at the end of the
Cours, nine o'clock was striking in the city behind them, and every stroke
of it seemed to sound a note of doom.
Yet here at the barrier the regulations compelled a momentary halt.
Aline enquired of the sergeant-in-charge how long it was since a cabriolet
such as she described had gone that way. She was answered that some twenty
minutes ago a vehicle had passed the barrier containing the deputy M. le
Chapelier and the Paladin of the Third Estate, M. Moreau. The sergeant was
very well informed. He could make a shrewd guess, he said, with a grin, of
the business that took M. Moreau that way so early in the day.
They left him, to speed on now through the open country, following the
road that continued to hug the river. They sat back mutely despairing,
staring hopelessly ahead, Aline's hand clasped tight in madame's. In the
distance, across the meadows on their right, they could see already the
long, dusky line of trees of the Bois, and presently the carriage swung
aside following a branch of the road that turned to the right, away from the
river and heading straight for the forest.
Mademoiselle broke at last the silence of hopelessness that had reigned
between them since they had passed the barrier.
"Oh, it is impossible that we should come in time! Impossible!"
"Don't say it! Don't say it!" madame cried out.
"But it is long past nine, madame! Andre would be punctual, and
these... affairs do not take long. It... it will be all over by now.
Madame shivered, and closed her eyes. Presently, however, she opened
them again, and stirred. Then she put her head from the window. "A carriage
is approaching," she announced, and her tone conveyed the thing she feared.
"Not already! Oh, not already!" Thus Aline expressed the silently
communicated thought. She experienced a difficulty in breathing, felt the
sudden need of air. Something in her throat was throbbing as if it would
suffocate her; a mist came and went before her eyes.
In a cloud of dust an open caleche was speeding towards them, coming
from the Bois. They watched it, both pale, neither venturing to speak,
Aline, indeed, without breath to do so.
As it approached, it slowed down, perforce, as they did, to effect a
safe passage in that narrow road. Aline was at the window with Mme. de
Plougastel, and with fearful eyes both looked into this open carriage that
was drawing abreast of them.
"Which of them is it, madame? Oh, which of them?" gasped Aline, scarce
daring to look, her senses swimming.
Qn the near side sat a swarthy young gentleman unknown to either of the
ladies. He was smiling as he spoke to his companion. A moment later and the
man sitting beyond came into view. He was not smiling. His face was white
and set, and it was the face of the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr.
For a long moment, in speechless horror, both women stared at him,
until, perceiving them, blankest surprise invaded his stern face.
In that moment, with a long shuddering sigh Aline sank swooning to the
carriage floor behind Mme. de Plougastel.
By fast driving Andre-Louis had reached the ground some minutes ahead
of time, notwithstanding the slight delay in setting out. There he had found
M. de La Tour d'Azyr already awaiting him, supported by a M. d'Ormesson, a
swarthy young gentleman in the blue uniform of a captain in the Gardes du
Corps.
Andre-Louis had been silent and preoccupied throughout that drive. He
was perturbed by his last interview with Mademoiselle de Kercadiou and the
rash inferences which he had drawn as to her motives.
"Decidedly," he had said, "this man must be killed."
Le Chapelier had not answered him. Almost, indeed, had the Breton
shuddered at his compatriot's cold-bloodedness. He had often of late thought
that this fellow Moreau was hardly human. Also he had found him
incomprehensibly inconsistent. When first this spadassinicide business had
been proposed to him, he had been so very lofty and disdainful. Yet, having
embraced it, he went about it at times with a ghoulish flippancy that was
revolting, at times with a detachment that was more revolting still.
Their preparations were made quickly and in silence, yet without undue
haste or other sign of nervousness on either side. In both men the same grim
determination prevailed. The opponent must be killed; there could be no
half-measures here. Stripped each of coat and waistcoat, shoeless and with
shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow, they faced each other at last, with the
common resolve of paying in full the long score that stood between them. I
doubt if either of them entertained a misgiving as to what must be the
issue.
Beside them, and opposite each other, stood Le Chapelier and the young
captain, alert and watchful.
"Allez, messieurs!"
The slender, wickedly delicate blades clashed together, and after a
momentary glizade were whirling, swift and bright as lightnings, and almost
as impossible to follow with the eye. The Marquis led the attack,
impetuously and vigorously, and almost at once Andre-Louis realized that he
had to deal with an opponent of a very different mettle from those
successive duellists of last week, not excluding La Motte-Royau, of terrible
reputation.
Here was a man whom much and constant practice had given extraordinary
speed and a technique that was almost perfect. In addition, he enjoyed over
Andre-Louis physical advantages of strength and length of reach, which
rendered him altogether formidable. And he was cool, too; cool and
self-contained; fearless and purposeful. Would anything shake that calm,
wondered Andre-Louis?
He desired the punishment to be as full as he could make it. Not
content to kill the Marquis as the Marquis had killed Philippe, he desired
that he should first know himself as powerless to avert that death as
Philippe had been. Nothing less would content Andre-Louis. M. le Marquis
must begin by tasting of that cup of despair. It was in the account; part of
the quittance due.
As with a breaking sweep Andre-Louis parried the heavy lunge in which
that first series of passes culminated, he actually laughed
- gleefully, after the fashion of a boy at a sport he loves.
That extraordinary, ill-timed laugh made M. de La Tour d'Azyr's
recovery hastier and less correctly dignified than it would otherwise have
been. It startled and discomposed him, who had already been discomposed by
the failure to get home with a lunge so beautifully timed and so truly
delivered.
He, too, had realized that his opponent's force was above anything that
he could have expected, fencing-master though he might be, and on that
account he had put forth his utmost energy to make an end at once.
More than the actual parry, the laugh by which it was accompanied
seemed to make of that end no more than a beginning. And yet it was the end
of something. It was the end of that absolute confidence that had hitherto
inspired M. de La Tour d'Azyr. He no longer looked upon the issue as a thing
forgone. He realized that if he was to prevail in this encounter, he must go
warily and fence as he had never fenced yet in all his life.
They settled down again; and again - on the principle this time that
the soundest defence is in attack - it was the Marquis who made the game.
Andre-Louis allowed him to do so, desired him to do so; desired him to spend
himself and that magnificent speed of his against the greater speed that
whole days of fencing in succession for nearly two years had given the
master. With a beautiful, easy pressure of forte on foible Andre-Louis kept
himself completely covered in that second bout, which once more culminated
in a lunge.
Expecting it now, Andre-Louis parried it by no more than a deflecting
touch. At the same moment he stepped suddenly forward, right within the
other's guard, thus placing his man so completely at his mercy that, as if
fascinated, the Marquis did not even attempt to recover himself.
This time Andre-Louis did not laugh: He just smiled into the dilating
eyes of M. de La Tour d'Azyr, and made no shift to use his advantage.
"Come, come, monsieur!" he bade him sharply. "Am I to run my blade
through an uncovered man?" Deliberately he fell back, whilst his shaken
opponent recovered himself at last.
M. d'Ormesson released the breath which horror had for a moment caught.
Le Chapelier swore softly, muttering:
"Name of a name! It is tempting Providence to play the fool in this
fashion!"
Andre-Louis observed the ashen pallor that now over spread the face of
his opponent.
"I think you begin to realize, monsieur, what Philippe de Vilmorin must
have felt that day at Gavrillac. I desired that you should first do so.
Since that is accomplished, why, here's to make an end."
He went in with lightning rapidity. For a moment his point seemed to La
Tour d'Azyr to be everywhere at once, and then from a low engagement in
sixte, Andre-Louis stretched forward with swift and vigorous ease to lunge
in tierce. He drove his point to transfix his opponent whom a series of
calculated disengages uncovered in that line. But to his amazement and
chagrin, La Tour d'Azyr parried the stroke; infinitely more to his chagrin
La Tour d'Azyr parried it just too late. Had he completely parried it, all
would yet have been well. But striking the blade in the last fraction of a
second, the Marquis deflected the point from the line of his body, yet not
so completely but that a couple of feet of that hard-driven steel tore
through the muscles of his sword-arm.
To the seconds none of these details had been visible. All that they
had seen had been a swift whirl of flashing blades, and then Andre-Louis
stretched almost to the ground in an upward lunge that had pierced the
Marquis' right arm just below the shoulder.
The sword fell from the suddenly relaxed grip of La Tour d'Azyr's
fingers, which had been rendered powerless, and he stood now disarmed, his
lip in his teeth, his face white, his chest heaving, before his opponent,
who had at once recovered. With the blood-tinged tip of his sword resting on
the ground, Andre-Louis surveyed him grimly, as we survey the prey that
through our own clumsiness has escaped us at the last moment.
In the Assembly and in the newspapers this might be hailed as another
victory for the Paladin of the Third Estate; only himself could know the
extent and the bitternest of the failure.
M. d'Ormesson had sprung to the side of his principal.
"You are hurt!" he had cried stupidly.
"It is nothing," said La Tour d'Azyr. "A scratch." But his lip writhed,
and the torn sleeve of his fine cambric shirt was full of blood.
D'Ormesson, a practical man in such matters, produced a linen kerchief,
which he tore quickly into strips to improvise a bandage.
Still Andre-Louis continued to stand there, looking on as if bemused.
He continued so until Le Chapelier touched him on the arm. Then at last he
roused himself, sighed, and turned away to resume his garments, nor did he
address or look again at his late opponent, but left the ground at once.
As, with Le Chapelier, he was walking slowly and in silent dejection
towards the entrance of the Bois, where they had left their carriage, they
were passed by the caleche conveying La Tour d'Azyr and his second - which
had originally driven almost right up to the spot of the encounter. The
Marquis' wounded arm was carried in a sling improvised from his companion's
sword-belt. His sky-blue coat with three collars had been buttoned over
this, so that the right sleeve hung empty. Otherwise, saving a certain
pallor, he looked much his usual self.
And now you understand how it was that he was the first to return, and
that seeing him thus returning, apparently safe and sound, the two ladies,
intent upon preventing the encounter, should have assumed that their worst
fears were realized.
Mme. de Plougastel attempted to call out, but her voice refused its
office. She attempted to throw open the door of her own carriage; but her
fingers fumbled clumsily and ineffectively with the handle. And meanwhile
the caleche was slowly passing, La Tour d'Azyr's fine eyes sombrely yet
intently meeting her own anguished gaze. And then she saw something else. M.
d'Ormesson, leaning back again from the forward inclination of his body to
join his own to his companion's salutation of the Countess, disclosed the
empty right sleeve of M. de La Tour d'Azyr's blue coat. More, the near side
of the coat itself turned back from the point near the throat where it was
caught together by single button, revealed the slung arm beneath in its
blood. sodden cambric sleeve.
Even now she feared to jump to the obvious conclusion feared lest
perhaps the Marquis, though himself wounded, might have dealt his adversary
a deadlier wound.
She found her voice at last, and at the same moment signalled to the
driver of the caleche to stop.
As it was Pulled to a standstill, M. d'Ormesson alighted, and so met
madame in the little space between the two carriages.
"Where is M. Moreau?" was the question with which she surprised him.
"Following at his leisure, no doubt, madame," he answered, recovering.
"He is not hurt?"
"Unfortunately it is we who... " M. d'Ormesson was beginning, when from
behind him M. de La Tour d'Azyr's voice cut in crisply:
"This interest on your part in M. Moreau, dear Countess... "
He broke off, observing a vague challenge in the air with which she
confronted him. But indeed his sentence did not need completing.
There was a vaguely awkward pause. And then she looked at M.
d'Ormesson. Her manner changed. She offered what appeared to be an
explanation of her concern for M. Moreau.
"Mademoiselle de Kercadiou is with me. The poor child has fainted."
There was more, a deal more, she would have said just then, but for M.
d'Ormesson's presence.
Moved by a deep solicitude for Mademoiselle de Kertadiou, de La Tour
d'Azyr sprang up despite his wound.
"I am in poor case to render assistance, madame," he said, an
apologetic smile on his pale face. "But... "
With the aid of d'Ormesson, and in spite of the latter's protestations,
he got down from the caleche, which then moved on a little way, so as to
leave the road clear - for another carriage that was approaching from the
direction of the Bois.
And thus it happened that when a few moments later that approaching
cabriolet overtook and passed the halted vehicles, Andre-Louis beheld a very
touching scene. Standing up to obtain a better view, he saw Aline in a
half-swooning condition - she was beginning to revive by now - seated in the
doorway of the carriage, supported by Mme. de Plougastel. In an attitude of
deepest concern, M. de La Tour d'Azyr, his wound notwithstanding, was
bending over the girl, whilst behind him stood M. d'Ormesson and madame's
footman.
The Countess looked up and saw him as he was driven past. Her face
lighted; almost it seemed to him she was about to greet him or to call him,
wherefore, to avoid a difficulty, arising out of the presence there of his
late antagonist, he anticipated her by bowing frigidly - for his mood was
frigid, the more frigid by virtue of what he saw - and then resumed his seat
with eyes that looked deliberately ahead.
Could anything more completely have confirmed him in his conviction
that it was on M. de La Tour d'Azyr's account that Aline had come to plead
with him that morning? For what his eyes had seen, of course, was a lady
overcome with emotion at the sight of blood of her dear friend, and that
same dear friend restoring her with assurances that his hurt was very far
from mortal. Later, much later, he was to blame his own perverse stupidity.
Almost is he too severe in his self-condemnation. For how else could he have
interpreted the scene he beheld, his preconceptions being what they were?
That which he had already been suspecting, he now accounted proven to
him. Aline had been wanting in candour on the subject of her feelings
towards M. de La Tour d'Azyr. It was, he supposed, a woman's way to be
secretive in such matters, and he must not blame her. Nor could he blame her
in his heart for having succumbed to the singular charm of such a man as the
Marquis - for not even his hostility could blind him to M. de La Tour
d'Azyr's attractions. That she had succumbed was betrayed, he thought, by
the weakness that had overtaken her upon seeing him wounded.
"My God!" he cried aloud. "What must she have suffered, then, if I had
killed him as I intended!"
If only she had used candour with him, she could so easily have won his
consent to the thing she asked. If only she had told him what now he saw,
that she loved M. de La Tour d'Azyr, instead of leaving him to assume her
only regard for the Marquis to be based on unworthy worldly ambition, he
would at once have yielded.
He fetched a sigh, and breathed a prayer for forgiveness to the shade
of Vilmorin.
"It is perhaps as well that my lunge went wide," he said.
"What do you mean?" wondered Le Chapelier.
"That in this business I must relinquish all hope of recommencing."
M. de La Tour d'Azyr was seen no more in the Manege - or indeed in
Paris at all - throughout all the months that the National Assembly remained
in session to complete its work of providing France with a constitution.
After all, though the wound to his body had been comparatively slight, the
wound to such a pride as his had been all but mortal.
The rumour ran that he had emigrated. But that was only half the truth.
The whole of it was that he had joined that group of noble travellers who
came and went between the Tuileries and the headquarters of the emigres at
Coblenz. He became, in short, a member of the royalist secret service that
in the end was to bring down the monarchy in ruins.
As for Andre-Louis, his godfather's house saw him no more, as a result
of his conviction that M. de Kercadiou would not relent from his written
resolve never to receive him again if the duel were fought.
He threw himself into his duties at the Assembly with such zeal and
effect that when - its purpose accomplished - the Constituent was dissolved
in September of the following year, membership of the Legislative, whose
election followed immediately, was thrust upon him.
He considered then, like many others, that the Revolution was a thing
accomplished, that France had only to govern herself by the Constitution
which had been given her, and that all would now be well. And so it might
have been but that the Court could not bring itself to accept the altered
state of things. As a result of its intrigues half Europe was arming to hurl
herself upon France, and her quarrel was the quarrel of the French King with
his people. That was the horror at the root of all the horrors that were to
come.
Of the counter-revolutionary troubles that were everywhere being
stirred up by the clergy, none were more acute than those of Brittany, and,
in view of the influence it was hoped he would wield in his native province,
it was proposed to Andre-Louis by the Commission of Twelve, in the early
days of the Girondin ministry, that he should go thither to combat the
unrest. He was desired to proceed peacefully, but his powers were almost
absolute, as is shown by the orders he carried - orders enjoining all to
render him assistance and warning those who might hinder him that they would
do so at their peril.
He accepted the task, and he was one of the five plenipotentiaries
despatched on the same errand in that spring of 1792. It kept him absent
from Paris for four months and might have kept him longer but that at the
beginning of August he was recalled. More imminent than any trouble in
Brittany was the trouble brewing in Paris itself; when the political sky was
blacker than it had been since '89. Paris realized that the hour was rapidly
approaching which would see the climax of the long struggle between Equality
and Privilege. And it was towards a city so disposed that Andre-Louis came
speeding from the West, to find there also the climax of his own disturbed
career.
Mlle. de Kercadiou, too, was in Paris in those days of early August, on
a visit to her uncle's cousin and dearest friend, Mme. de Plougastel. And
although nothing could now be plainer than the seething unrest that heralded
the explosion to come, yet the air of gaiety, indeed of jocularity,
prevailing at Court - whither madame and mademoiselle went almost daily -
reassured them. M. de Plougastel had come and gone again, back to Coblenz on
that secret business that kept him now almost constantly absent from his
wife. But whilst with her he had positively assured her that all measures
were taken, and that an insurrection was a thing to be welcomed, because it
could have one only conclusion, the final crushing of the Revolution in the
courtyard of the Tuileries. That, he added, was why the King remained in
Paris. But for his confidence in that he would put himself in the centre of
his Swiss and his knights of the dagger, and quit the capital. They would
hack a way out for him easily if his departure were opposed. But not even
that would be necessary.
Yet in those early days of August, after her husband's departure the
effect of his inspiring words was gradually dissipated by the march of
events under madame's own eyes. And finally on the afternoon of the ninth,
there arrived at the Hotel Plougastel a messenger from Meudon bearing a note
from M. de Kercadiou in which he urgently bade mademoiselle join him there
at once, and advised her hostess to accompany her.
You may have realized that M. de Kercadiou was of those who make
friends with men of all classes. His ancient lineage placed him on terms of
equality with members of the noblesse; his simple manners - something
between the rustic and the bourgeois - and his natural affability placed him
on equally good terms with those who by birth were his inferiors. In Meudon
he was known and esteemed of all the simple folk, and it was Rougane, the
friendly mayor, who, informed on the 9th of August of the storm that was
brewing for the morrow, and knowing of mademoiselle's absence in Paris, had
warningly advised him to withdraw her from what in the next four-and-twenty
hours might be a zone of danger for all persons of quality, particularly
those suspected of connections with the Court party.
Now there was no doubt whatever of Mme. de Plougastel's connection with
the Court. It was not even to be doubted - indeed, measure of proof of it
was to be forthcoming - that those vigilant and ubiquitous secret societies
that watched over the cradle of the young revolution were fully informed of
the frequent journeyings of M. de Plougastel to Coblenz, and entertained no
illusions on the score of the reason for them. Given, then, a defeat of the
Court party in the struggle that was preparing, the position in Paris of
Mme. de Plougastel could not be other than fraught with danger, and that
danger would be shared by any guest of birth at her hotel.
M. de Kercadiou's affection for both those women quickened the fears
aroused in him by Rougane's warning. Hence that hastily dispatched note,
desiring his niece and imploring his friend to come at once to Meudon.
The friendly mayor carried his complaisance a step farther, and
dispatched the letter to Paris by the hands of his own son, an intelligent
lad of nineteen. It was late in the afternoon of that perfect August day
when young Rougane presented himself at the Hotel Plougastel.
He was graciously received by Mme. de Plougastel in the salon, whose
splendours, when combined with the great air of the lady herself,
overwhelmed the lad's simple, unsophisticated soul. Madame made up her mind
at once.
M. de Kercadiou's urgent message no more than confirmed her own fears
and inclinations. She decided upon instant departure.
"Bien, madame," said the youth. "Then I have the honour to take my
leave."
But she would not let him go. First to the kitchen to refresh himself,
whilst she and mademoiselle made ready, and then a seat for him in her
carriage as far as Meudon. She could not suffer him to return on foot as he
had come.
Though in all the circumstances it was no more than his due, yet the
kindliness that in such a moment of agitation could take thought for another
was presently to be rewarded. Had she done less than this, she would have
known - if nothing worse - at least some hours of anguish even greater than
those that were already in store for her.
It wanted, perhaps, a half-hour to sunset when they set out in her
carriage with intent to leave Paris by the Porte Saint-Martin. They
travelled with a single footman behind. Rougane - terrifying condescension -
was given a seat inside the carriage with the ladies, and proceeded to fall
in love with Mlle. de Kercadiou, whom he accounted the most beautiful being
he had ever seen, yet who talked to him simply and unaffectedly as with an
equal. The thing went to his head a little, and disturbed certain republican
notions which he had hitherto conceived himself to have thoroughly digested.
The carriage drew up at the barrier, checked there by a picket of the
National Guard posted before the iron gates.
The sergeant in command strode to the door of the vehicle. The Countess
put her head from the window.
"The barrier is closed, madame," she was curtly informed.
"Closed!" she echoed. The thing was incredible. "But... but do you mean
that we cannot pass?"
Not unless you have a permit, madame." The sergeant leaned nonchalantly
on his pike. "The orders are that no one is to leave or enter without proper
papers."
"Whose orders?"
"Orders of the Commune of Paris."
"But I must go into the country this evening." Madame's voice was
almost petulant. "I am expected."
"In that case let madame procure a permit."
"Where is it to be procured?"
"At the Hotel de Ville or at the headquarters of madame's section."
She considered a moment. "To the section, then. Be so good as to tell
my coachman to drive to the Bondy Section."
He saluted her and stepped back. "Section Bondy, Rue des Morts," he
bade the driver.
Madame sank into her seat again, in a state of agitation fully shared
by mademoiselle. Rougane set himself to pacify and reassure them. The
section would put the matter in order. They would most certainly be accorded
a permit. What possible reason could there be for refusing them? A mere
formality, after all!
His assurance uplifted them merely to prepare them for a still more
profound dejection when presently they met with a flat refusal from the
president of the section who received the Countess.
"Your name, madame?" he had asked brusquely. A rude fellow of the most
advanced republican type, he had not even risen out of deference to the
ladies when they entered. He was there, he would have told you, to perform
the duties of his office, not to give dancing-lessons.
"Plougastel," he repeated after her, without title, as if it had been
the name of a butcher or baker. He took down a heavy volume from a shelf on
his right, opened it and turned the pages. It was a sort of directory of his
section. Presently he found what he sought. "Comte de Plougastel, Hotel
Plougastel, Rue du Paradis. Is that it?"
"That is correct, monsieur," she answered, with what civility she could
muster before the fellow's affronting rudeness.
There was a long moment of silence, during which he studied certain
pencilled entries against the name. The sections had been working in the
last few weeks much more systematically than was generally suspected.
"Your husband is with you, madame?" he asked curtly, his eyes still
conning that page.
"M. le Comte is not with me," she answered, stressing the title.
"Not with you?" He looked up suddenly, and directed upon her a glance
in which suspicion seemed to blend with derision. "Where is he?"
"He is not in Paris, monsieur.
"Ab! Is he at Coblenz, do you think?"
Madame felt herself turning cold. There was something ominous in all
this. To what end had the sections informed themselves so thoroughly of the
comings and goings of their inhabitants? What was preparing? She had a sense
of being trapped, of being taken in a net that had been cast unseen.
"I do not know, monsieur," she said, her voice unsteady.
"Of course not." He seemed to sneer. "No matter. And you wish to leave
Paris also? Where do you desire to go?"
"To Meudon."
"Your business there?"
The blood leapt to her face. His insolence was unbearable to a woman
who in all her life had never known anything but the utmost deference from
inferiors and equals alike. Nevertheless, realizing that she was face to
face with forces entirely new, she controlled herself, stifled her
resentment, and answered steadily.
"I wish to conduct this lady, Mlle. de Kercadiou, back to her uncle who
resides there."
"Is that all? Another day will do for that, madame. The matter is not
pressing."
"Pardon, monsieur, to us the matter is very pressing."
"You have not convinced me of it, and the barriers are closed to all
who cannot prove the most urgent and satisfactory reasons for wishing to
pass. You will wait, madame, until the restriction is removed.
Good-evening."
"But, monsieur... "
"Good-evening, madame," he repeated significantly, a dismissal more
contemptuous and despotic than any royal "You have leave to go.
Madame went out with Aline. Both were quivering with the anger that
prudence had urged them to suppress. They climbed into the coach again,
desiring to be driven home.
Rougane's astonishment turned into dismay when they told him what had
taken place. "Why not try the Hotel de Ville, madame?" he suggested.
"After that? It would be useless. We must resign ourselves to remaining
in Paris until the barriers are opened again."
"Perhaps it will not matter to us either way by then, madame," said
Aline.
"Aline!" she exclaimed in horror.
"Mademoiselle!" cried Rougane on the same note. And then, because he
perceived that people detained in this fashion must be in some danger not
yet discernible, but on that account more dreadful, he set his wits to work.
As they were approaching the Hotel Plougastel once more, he announced that
he had solved the problem.
"A passport from without would do equally well," he announced. "Listen,
now, and trust to me. I will go back to Meudon at once. My father shall give
me two permits - one for myself alone, and another for three persons - from
Meudon to Paris and back to Meudon. I reenter Paris with my own permit,
which I then proceed to destroy, and we leave together, we three, on the
strength of the other one, representing ourselves as having come from Meudon
in the course of the day. It is quite simple, after all. If I go at once, I
shall be back to-night."
"But how will you leave?" asked Aline.
"I? Pooh! As to that, have no anxiety. My father is Mayor of Meudon.
There are plenty who know him. I will go to the Hotel de Ville, and tell
them what is, after all, true - that I am caught in Paris by the closing of
the barriers, and that my father is expecting me home this evening. They
will pass me through. It is quite simple."
His confidence uplifted them again. The thing seemed as easy as he
represented it.
"Then let your passport be for four, my friend," madame begged him.
"There is Jacques," she explained, indicating the footman who had just
assisted them to alight.
Rougane departed confident of soon returning, leaving them to await him
with the same confidence. But the hours succeeded one another, the night
closed in, bedtime came, and still there was no sign of his return.
They waited until midnight, each pretending for the other's sake to a
confidence fully sustained, each invaded by vague premonitions of evil, yet
beguiling the time by playing tric-trac in the great salon, as if they had
not a single anxious thought between them.
At last on the stroke of midnight, madame sighed and rose.
"It will be for to-morrow morning," she said, not believing it.
"Of course," Aline agreed. "It would really have been impossible for
him to have returned to-night. And it will be much better to travel
to-morrow. The journey at so late an hour would tire you so much, dear
madame."
Thus they made pretence.
Early in the morning they were awakened by a din of bells - the tocsins
of the sections ringing the alarm. To their startled ears came later the
rolling of drums, and at one time they heard the sounds of a multitude on
the march. Paris was rising. Later still came the rattle of small-arms in
the distance and the deeper boom of cannon. Battle was joined between the
men of the sections and the men of the Court. The people in arms had
attacked the Tuileries. Wildest rumours flew in all directions, and some of
them found their way through the servants to the Hotel Plougastel, of that
terrible fight for the palace which was to end in the purposeless massacre
of all those whom the invertebrate monarch abandoned there, whilst placing
himself and his family under the protection of the Assembly. Purposeless to
the end, ever adopting the course pointed out to him by evil counsellors, he
prepared for resistance only until the need for resistance really arose,
whereupon he ordered a surrender which left those who had stood by him to
the last at the mercy of a frenzied mob.
And while this was happening in the Tuileries, the two women at the
Hotel Plougastel still waited for the return of Rougane, though now with
ever-lessening hope. And Rougane did not return. The affair did not appear
so simple to the father as to the son. Rougane the elder was rightly afraid
to lend himself to such a piece of deception.
He went with his son to inform M. de Kercadiou of what had happened,
and told him frankly of the thing his son suggested, but which he dared not
do.
M. de Kercadiou sought to move him by intercessions and even by the
offer of bribes. But Rougane remained firm.
"Monsieur," he said, "if it were discovered against me, as it
inevitably would be, I should, hang for it. Apart from that, and in spite of
my anxiety to do all in my power to serve you, it would be a breach of trust
such as I could not contemplate. You must not ask me, monsieur."
"But what do you conceive is going to happen?" asked the half-demented
gentleman.
"It is war," said Rougane, who was well informed, as we have seen. "War
between the people and the Court. I am desolated that my warning should have
come too late. But, when all is said, I do not think that you need really
alarm yourself. War will not be made on women. M. de Kercadiou clung for
comfort to that assurance after the mayor and his son had departed. But at
the back of his mind there remained the knowledge of the traffic in which M.
de Plougastel was engaged. What if the revolutionaries were equally well
informed? And most probably they were. The women-folk political offenders
had been known aforetime to suffer for the sins of their men. Anything was
possible in a popular upheaval, and Aline would be exposed jointly with Mme.
de Plougastel.
Late that night, as he sat gloomily in his brother's library, the pipe
in which he had sought solace extinguished between his fingers, there came a
sharp knocking at the door.
To the old seneschal of Gavrillac who went to open there stood revealed
upon the threshold a slim young man in a dark olive surcoat, the skirts of
which reached down to his calves. He wore boots, buckskins, and a
small-sword, and round his waist there was a tricolour sash, in his hat a
tricolour cockade, which gave him an official look extremely sinister to the
eyes of that old retainer of feudalism, who shared to the full his master's
present fears.
"Monsieur desires?" he asked, between respect and mistrust.
And then a crisp voice startled him.
"Why, Benoit! Name of a name! Have you completely forgotten me?"
With a shaking hand the old man raised the lantern he carried so as to
throw its light more fully upon that lean, wide-mouthed countenance.
"M. Andre!" he cried. "M.Andre!" And then he looked at the sash and the
cockade, and hesitated, apparently at a loss.
But Andre-Louis stepped past him into the wide vestibule, with its
tessellated floor of black-and-white marble.
"If my godfather has not yet retired, take me to him. If he has
retired, take me to him all the same."
"Oh, but certainly, M. Andre - and I am sure he will be ravished to see
you. No, he has not yet retired. This way, M. Andre; this way, if you
please."
The returning Andre-Louis, reaching Meudon a half-hour ago, had gone
straight to the mayor for some definite news of what might be happening in
Paris that should either confirm or dispel the ominous rumours that he had
met in ever-increasing volume as he approached the capital. Rougane informed
him that insurrection was imminent, that already the sections had possessed
themselves of the barriers, and that it was impossible for any person not
fully accredited to enter or leave the city.
Andre-Louis bowed his head, his thoughts of the gravest. He had for
some time perceived the danger of this second revolution from within the
first, which might destroy everything that had been done, and give the reins
of power to a villainous faction that would plunge the country into anarchy.
The thing he had feared was more than ever on the point of taking place. He
would go on at once, that very night, and see for himself what was
happening.
And then, as he was leaving, he turned again to Rougane to ask if M. de
Kercadiou was still at Meudon.
"You know him, monsieur?"
"He is my godfather."
"Your godfather! And you a representative! Why, then, you may be the
very man he needs." And Rougane told him of his son's errand into Paris that
afternoon and its result.
No more was required. That two years ago his godfather should upon
certain terms have refused him his house weighed for nothing at the moment.
He left his travelling carriage at the little inn and went straight to M. de
Kercadiou.
And M. de Kercadiou, startled in such an hour by this sudden
apparition, of one against whom he nursed a bitter grievance, greeted him in
terms almost identical with those in which in that same room he had greeted
him on a similar occasion once before.
"What do you want here, sir?"
"To serve you if possible, my godfather," was the disarming answer.
But it did not disarm M. de Kercadiou. "You have stayed away so long
that I hoped you would not again disturb me."
"I should not have ventured to disobey you now were it not for the hope
that I can be of service. I have seen Rougane, the mayor... "
"What's that you say about not venturing to disobey?"
"You forbade me your house, monsieur."
M. de Kercadiou stared at him helplessly.
"And is that why you have not come near me in all this time?"
"Of course. Why else?"
M. de Kercadiou continued to stare. Then he swore under his breath. It
disconcerted him to have to deal with a man who insisted upon taking him so
literally. He had expected that Andre-Louis would have come contritely to
admit his fault and beg to be taken back into favour. He said so.
"But how could I hope that you meant less than you said, monsieur? You
were so very definite in your declaration. What expressions of contrition
could have served me without a purpose of amendment? And I had no notion of
amending. We may yet be thankful for that."
"Thankful?"
"I am a representative. I have certain powers. I am very opportunely
returning to Paris. Can I serve you where Rougane cannot? The need,
monsieur, would appear to be very urgent if the half of what I suspect is
true. Aline should be placed in safety at once."
M. de Kercadiou surrendered unconditionally. He came over and took
Andre-Louis' hand.
"My boy," he said, and he was visibly moved, "there is in you a certain
nobility that is not to be denied. If I seemed harsh with you, then, it was
because I was fighting against your evil proclivities. I desired to keep you
out of the evil path of politics that have brought this unfortunate country
into so terrible a pass. The enemy on the frontier; civil war about to flame
out at home. That is what you revolution. aries have done."
Andre-Louis did not argue. He passed on.
"About Aline?" he asked. And himself answered his own question: "She is
in Paris, and she must be brought out of it at once, before the place
becomes a shambles, as well it may once the passions that have been brewing
all these months are let loose. Young Rougane's plan is good. At least, I
cannot think of a better one."
"But Rougane the elder will not hear of it."
"You mean he will not do it on his own responsibility. But he has
consented to do it on mine. I have left him a note over my signature to the
effect that a safe-conduct for Mlle. de Kercadiou to go to Paris and return
is issued by him in compliance with orders from me. The powers I carry and
of which I have satisfied him are his sufficient justification for obeying
me in this. I have left him that note on the understanding that he is to use
it only in an extreme case, for his own protection. In exchange he has given
me this safe-conduct."
"You already have it!"
M. de Kercadiou took the sheet of paper that Andre-Louis held out. His
hand shook. He approached it to the cluster of candles burning on the
console and screwed up his short-sighted eyes to read.
"If you send that to Paris by young Rougane in the morning," said
Andre-Louis, "Aline should be here by noon. Nothing, of course, could be
done to-night without provoking suspicion. The hour is too late. And now,
monsieur my godfather, you know exactly why I intrude in violation of your
commands. If there is any other way in which I can serve you, you have but
to name it whilst I am here."
"But there is, Andre. Did not Rougane tell you that there were
others... "
"He mentioned Mme. de Plougastel and her servant."
"Then why... ?" M. de Kercadiou broke off, looking his question.
Very solemnly Andre-Louis shook his head.
"That is impossible," he said.
M. de Kercadiou's mouth fell open in astonishment. "Impossible!" he
repeated. "But why?"
"Monsieur, I can do what I am doing for Aline without offending my
conscience. Besides, for Aline I would offend my conscience and do it. But
Mme. de Plougastel is in very different case. Neither Aline nor any of hers
have been concerned in counter-revolutionary work, which is the true source
of the calamity that now threatens to overtake us. I can procure her removal
from Paris without self-reproach, convinced that I am doing nothing that any
one could censure, or that might become the subject of enquiries. But Mme.
de Plougastel is the wife of M. le Comte de Plougastel, whom all the world
knows to be an agent between the Court and the emigres."
"That is no fault of hers," cried M. de Kercadiou through his
consternation.
"Agreed. But she may be called upon at any moment to establish the fact
that she is not a party to these manoeuvres. It is known that she was in
Paris to-day. Should she be sought to-morrow and should it be found that she
has gone, enquiries will certainly be made, from which it must result that I
have betrayed my trust, and abused my powers to serve personal ends. I hope,
monsieur, that you will understand that the risk is too great to be run for
the sake of a stranger."
"A stranger?" said the Seigneur reproachfully.
"Practically a stranger to me," said Andre-Louis.
"But she is not a stranger to me, Andre. She is my cousin and very dear
and valued friend. And, mon Dieu, what you say but increases the urgency of
getting her out of Paris. She must be rescued, Andre, at all costs - she
must be rescued! Why, her case is infinitely more urgent than Aline's!"
He stood a suppliant before his godson, very different now from the
stern man who had greeted him on his arrival. His face was pale, his hands
shook, and there were beads of perspiration on his brow.
"Monsieur my godfather, I would do anything in reason. But I cannot do
this. To rescue her might mean ruin for Aline and yourself as well as for
me."
"We must take the risk."
"You have a right to speak for yourself, of course."
"Oh, and for you, believe me, Andre, for you!" He came close to the
young man. "Andre, I implore you to take my word for that, and to obtain
this permit for Mme. de Plougastel."
Andre looked at him mystified. "This is fantastic," he said. "I have
grateful memories of the lady's interest in me for a few days once when I
was a child, and again more recently in Paris when she sought to convert me
to what she accounts the true political religion. But I do not risk my neck
for her - no, nor yours, nor Aline's."
"Ah! But, Andre... "
"That is my last word, monsieur. It is growing late, and I desire to
sleep in Paris."
"No, no! Wait!" The Lord of Gavrillac was displaying signs of
unspeakable distress. "Andre, you must!"
There was in this insistence and, still more, in the frenzied manner of
it, something so unreasonable that Andre could not fail to assume that some
dark and mysterious motive lay behind it.
"I must?" he echoed. "Why must I? Your reasons,monsieur?"
"Andre, my reasons are overwhelming."
"Pray allow me to be the judge of that." Andre-Louis' manner was almost
peremptory.
The demand seemed to reduce M. de Kercadiou to despair. He paced the
room, his hands tight-clasped behind him, his brow wrinkled. At last he came
to stand before his godson.
"Can't you take my word for it that these reasons exist?" he cried in
anguish.
"In such a matter as this - a matter that may involve my neck? Oh,
monsieur, is that reasonable?"
"I violate my word of honour, my oath, if I tell you." M. de Kercadiou
turned away, wringing his hands, his condition visibly piteous; then turned
again to Andre. "But in this extremity, in this desperate extremity, and
since you so ungenerously insist, I shall have to tell you. God help me, I
have no choice. She will realize that when she knows. Andre, my boy... " He
paused again, a man afraid. He set a hand on his godson's shoulder, and to
his increasing amazement Andre-Louis perceived that over those pale,
short-sighted eyes there was a film of tears. "Mme. de Plougastel is your
mother."
Followed, for a long moment, utter silence. This thing that he was told
was not immediately understood. When understanding came at last Andre-Louis'
first impulse was to cry out. But he possessed himself, and played the
Stoic. He must ever be playing something. That was in his nature. And he was
true to his nature even in this supreme moment. He continued silent until,
obeying that queer histrionic instinct, he could trust himself to speak
without emotion. "I see," he said, at last, quite coolly.
His mind was sweeping back over the past. Swiftly he reviewed his
memories of Mme. de Plougastel, her singular if sporadic interest in him,
the curious blend of affection and wistfulness which her manner towards him
had always presented, and at last he understood so much that hithert had
intrigued him.
"I see," he said again; and added now, "Of course, any but a fool would
have guessed it long ago."
It was M. de Kercadiou who cried out, M. de Kercadiou who recoiled as
from a blow.
"My God, Andre, of what are you made? You can take such an announcement
in this fashion?".
"And how would you have me take it? Should it surprise me to discover
that I had a mother? After all, a mother is an indispensable necessity to
getting one's self born."
He sat down abruptly, to conceal the too-revealing fact that his limbs
were shaking. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow,
which had grown damp. And then,quite suddenly, he found himself weeping.
At the sight of those tears streaming silently down that face that had
turned so pale, M. de Kercadiou came quickly across to him. He sat down
beside him and threw an arm affectionately over his shoulder.
"Andre, my poor lad," he murmured. "I... I was fool enough to think ou
had no heart. You deceived me with your infernal pretence, and now I see...
I see... " He was not sure what it was that he saw, or else he hesitated to
express it.
"I: is nothing, monsieur. I am tired out, and... and I have a cold in
the head." And then, finding the part beyond his power, he abruptly threw it
up, utterly abandoned all pretence. "Why... why has there been all this
mystery?" he asked. "Was it intended that I should never know?"
"I: was, Andre. It... it had to be, for prudence' sake."
"Eut why? Complete your confidence, sir. Surely you cannot leave it
there. Having told me so much, you must tell me all."
"'The reason, my boy, is that you were born some three years after your
mother's marriage with M. de Plougastel, some eighteen months after M. de
Plougastel had been away with the army, and some four months before his
return to his wife. It is a matter that M. de Plougastel has never suspeted,
and for gravest family reasons must never suspect. That is why the utmost
secrecy has been preserved. That is why none was ever allowed to know. Your
mother came betimes into Brittany, and under an assumed name spent some
months in the village of Moreau. It was while she was there that you were
born."
Andre-Louis turned it over in his mind. He had dried his tears. And sat
now rigid and collected.
"When you say that none was ever allowed to know, you are telling me,
of course, that you, monsieur... "
"Oh, mon Dieu, no!" The denial came in a violent outburst. M. de
Kercadiou sprang to his feet propelled from Andre's side by the violence of
his emotions. It was as if the very suggestion filled him with horror. "I
was the only other one who knew. But it is not as you think, Andre. You
cannot imagine that I should lie to you, that I should deny you if you were
my son?"
"If you say that I am not, monsieur, that is sufficient."
"You are not. I was Therese's cousin and also, as she well knew, her
truest friend. She knew that she could trust me; and it was to me she came
for help in her extremity. Once, years before, I would have married her.
But, of course, I am not the sort of man a woman could love. She trusted,
however, to my love for her, and I have kept her trust."
"Then, who was my father?"
"I don't know. She never told me. It was her secret, and I did not pry.
It is not in my nature, Andre."
Andre-Louis got up, and stood silently facing M. de Kercadiou.
"You believe me, Andre."
"Naturally, monsieur; and I am sorry, I am sorry that I am not your
son.
M. de Kercadiou gripped his godson's hand convulsively, and held it a
moment with no word spoken. Then as they fell away from each other again:
"And now, what will you do, Andre?" he asked. "Now that you know?"
Andre-Louis stood awhile. considering, then broke into laughter. The
situation had its humours. He explained them.
"What difference should the knowledge make? Is filial piety to be
called into existence by the mere announcement of relationship? Am I to risk
my neck through lack of circumspection on behalf of a mother so very
circumspect that she had no intention of ever revealing herself? The
discovery rests upon the merest chance, upon a fall of the dice of Fate. Is
that to weigh with me?"
"The decision is with you, Andre."
"Nay, it is beyond me. Decide it who can, I cannot."
"You mean that you refuse even now?"
"I mean that I consent. Since I cannot decide what it is that I should
do, it only remains for me to do what a son should. It is grotesque; but all
life is grotesque."
"You will never, never regret it."
"I hope not," said Andre. "Yet I think it very likely that I shall. And
now I had better see Rougane again at once, and obtain from him the other
two permits required. Then perhaps it will be best that I take them to Paris
myself, in the morning. If you will give me a bed, monsieur, I shall be
grateful. I... I confess that I am hardly in case to do more to-night."
Into the late afternoon of that endless day of horror with its
perpetual alarms, its volleying musketry, rolling drums, and distant
muttering of angry multitudes, Mme. de Plougastel and Aline sat waiting in
that handsome house in the Rue du Paradis. It was no longer for Rougane they
waited. They realized that, be the reason what it might - and by now many
reasons must no doubt exist - this friendly messenger would not return. They
waited without knowing for what. They waited for whatever might betide.
At one time early in the afternoon the roar of battle approached them,
racing swiftly in their direction, swelling each moment in volume and in
horror. It was the frenzied clamour of a multitude drunk with blood and bent
on destruction. Near at hand that fierce wave of humanity checked in its
turbulent progress. Followed blows of pikes upon a door and imperious calls
to open, and thereafter came the rending of timbers, the shivering of glass,
screams of terror blending with screams of rage, and, running through these
shrill sounds, the deeper diapason of bestial laughter.
It was a hunt of two wretched Swiss guardsmen seeking blindly to
escape. And they were run to earth in a house in the neighbourhood, and
there cruelly done to death by that demoniac mob. The thing accomplished,
the hunters, male and female, forming into a battalion, came swinging down
the Rue du Paradis, chanting the song of Marseilles - a song new to Paris in
those days:
Allons, enfants de la patrie! Le jour de gloire est arrive Contre nous
de la tyrannie L'etendard sanglant est 1eve.
Nearer it came, raucously bawled by some hundreds of voices, a dread
sound that had come so suddenly to displace at least temporarily the merry,
trivial air of the "Ca ira!" which hitherto had been the revolutionary
carillon. Instinctively Mme. de Plougastel and Aline clung to each other.
They had heard the sound of the ravishing of that other house in the
neighbourhood, without knowledge of the reason. What if now it should be the
turn of the Hotel Plougastel! There was no real cause to fear it, save that
amid a turmoil imperfectly understood and therefore the more awe-inspiring,
the worst must be feared always.
The dreadful song so dreadfully sung, and the thunder of heavily shod
feet upon the roughly paved street, passed on and receded. They breathed
again, almost as if a miracle had saved them, to yield to fresh alarm an
instant later, when madame's young footman, Jacques, the most trusted of her
servants, burst into their presence unceremoniously with a scared face,
bringing the announcement that a man who had just climbed over the garden
wall professed himself a friend of madame's, and desired to be brought
immediately to her presence.
"But he looks like a sansculotte, madame," the staunch fellow warned
her.
Her thoughts and hopes leapt at once to Rougane.
"Bring him in," she commanded breathlessly.
Jacques went out, to return presently accompanied by a tall man in a
long, shabby, and very ample overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat that was turned
down all round, and adorned by an enormous tricolour cockade. This hat he
removed as he entered.
Jacques, standing behind him, perceived that his hair, although now in
some disorder, bore signs of having been carefully dressed. It was clubbed,
and it carried some lingering vestiges of powder. The young footman wondered
what it was in the man's face, which was turned from him, that should cause
his mistress to out and recoil. Then he found himself dismissed abruptly by
a gesture.
The newcomer advanced to the middle of the salon, moving like a man
exhausted and breathing hard. There he leaned against a table, across which
he confronted Mme. de Plougastel. And she stood regarding him, a strange
horror in her eyes.
In the background, on a settle at the salon's far end, sat Aline
staring in bewilderment and some fear at a face which, if unrecognizable
through the mask of blood and dust that smeared it, was yet familiar. And
then the man spoke, and instantly she knew the voice for that of the Marquis
de La Tour d'Azyr.
"My dear friend," he was saying, "forgive me if I startled you. Forgive
me if I thrust myself in here without leave, at such a time, in such a
manner. But... you see how it is with me. I am a fugitive. In the course of
my distracted flight, not knowing which way to turn for safety, I thought of
you. I told myself that if I could but safely reach your house, I might find
sanctuary."
"You are in danger?"
"In danger?" Almost he seemed silently to laugh at the unnecessary
question. "If I were to show myself openly in the streets just now, I might
with luck contrive to live for five minutes! My friend, it has been a
massacre. Some few of us escaped from the Tuileries at the end, to be hunted
to death in the streets. I doubt if by this time a single Swiss survives.
They had the worst of it, poor devils. And as for us - my God! they hate us
more than they hate the Swiss. Hence this filthy disguise."
He peeled off the shaggy greatcoat, and casting it from him stepped
forth in the black satin that had been the general livery of the hundred
knights of the dagger who had rallied in the Tuileries that morning to the
defence of their king.
His coat was rent across the back, his neckcloth and the ruffles at his
wrists were torn and bloodstained; with his smeared face and disordered
headdress he was terrible to behold. Yet he contrived to carry himself with
his habitual easy assurance, remembered to kiss the trembling hand which
Mme. de Plougastel extended to him in welcome.
"You did well to come to me, Gervais," she said. "Yes, here is
sanctuary for the present. You will be quite safe, at least for as long as
we are safe. My servants are entirely trustworthy. Sit down and tell me
all."
He obeyed her, collapsing almost into the armchair which she thrust
forward, a man exhausted, whether by physical exertion or by nerve-strain,
or both. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped some of the blood
and dirt from his face.
"It is soon told." His tone was bitter with the bitterness of despair.
"This, my dear, is the end of us. Plougastel is lucky in being across the
frontier at such a time. Had I not been fool enough to trust those who
to-day have proved themselves utterly unworthy of trust, that is where I
should be myself. My remaining in Paris is the crowning folly of a life full
of follies and mistakes. That I should come to you in my hour of most urgent
need adds point to it." He laughed in his bitterness.
Madame moistened her dry lips. "And... and now?" she asked him.
"It only remains to get away as soon as may be, if it is still
possible. Here in France there is no longer any room for us - at least, not
above ground. To-day has proved it." And then he looked up at her, standing
there beside him so pale and timid, and he smiled. He patted the fine hand
that rested upon the arm of his chair. "My dear Therese, unless you carry
charitableness to the length of giving me to drink, you will see me perish
of thirst under your eyes before ever the canaille has a chance to finish
me."
She started. "I should have thought of it!" she cried in self-reproach,
and she turned quickly. "Aline," she begged, "tell Jacques to bring... "
"Aline!" he echoed,interrupting, and swinging round in his turn. Then,
as Aline rose into view, detaching from her background, and he at last
perceived her, he heaved himself abruptly to his weary legs again, and stood
there stiffly bowing to her across the space of gleaming floor.
"Mademoiselle, I had not suspected your presence," he said, and he seemed
extraordinarily ill-at-ease, a man startled, as if caught in an illicit act.
"I perceived it, monsieur," she answered, as she advanced to do
madame's commission. She paused before him. "From my heart, monsieur, I
grieve that we should meet again in circumstances so very painful."
Not since the day of his duel with Andre-Louis - the day which had seen
the death and burial of his last hope of winning her - had they stood face
to face.
He checked as if on the point of answering her. His glance strayed to
Mme. de Plougastel, and, oddly reticent for one who could be very glib, he
bowed in silence.
"But sit, monsieur, I beg. You are fatigued."
"You are gracious to observe it. With your permission, then." And he
resumed his seat. She continued on her way to the door and passed out upon
her errand.
When presently she returned they had almost unaccountably changed
places. It was Mme. de Plougastel who was seated in that armchair of brocade
and gilt, and M. de La Tour d'Azyr who, despite his lassitude, was leaning
over the back of it talking earnestly, seeming by his attitude to plead with
her. On Aline's entrance he broke off instantly and moved away, so that she
was left with a sense of having intruded. Further she observed that the
Countess was in tears.
Following her came presently the diligent Jacques, bearing a tray laden
with food and wine. Madame poured for her guest, and he drank a long draught
of the Burgundy, then begged, holding forth his grimy hands, that he might
mend his appearance before sitting down to eat.
He was led away and valeted by Jacques, and when he returned he had
removed from his person the last vestige of the rough handling he had
received. He looked almost his normal self, the disorder in his attire
repaired, calm and dignified and courtly in his bearing, but very pale and
haggard of face, seeming suddenly to have increased in years, to have
reached in appearance the age that was in fact his own.
As he ate and drank - and this with appetite, for as he told them he
had not tasted food since early morning - he entered into the details of the
dreadful events of the day, and gave them the particulars of his own escape
from the Tuileries when all was seen to be lost and when the Swiss, having
burnt their last cartridge, were submitting to wholesale massacre at the
hands of the indescribably furious mob.
"Oh, it was all most ill done," he ended critically. "We were timid
when we should have been resolute, and resolute at last when it was too
late. That is the history of our side from the beginning of this accursed
struggle. We have lacked proper leadership throughout, and now - as I have
said already - there is an end to us. It but remains to escape, as soon as
we can discover how the thing is to be accomplished."
Madame told him of the hopes that she had centred upon Rougane.
It lifted him out of his gloom. He was disposed to be optimistic.
"You are wrong to have abandoned that hope," he assured her. "If this
mayor is so well disposed, he certainly can do as his son promised. But last
night it would have been too late for him to have reached you, and to-day,
assuming that he had come to Paris, almost impossible for him to win across
the streets from the other side. It is most likely that he will yet come. I
pray that he may; for the knowledge that you and Mlle. de Kercadiou are out
of this would comfort me above all."
"We should take you with us," said madame.
"Ah! But how?"
"Young Rougane was to bring me permits for three persons - Aline,
myself, and my footman, Jacques. You would take the place of Jacques."
"Faith, to get out of Paris, madame, there is no man whose place I
would not take." And he laughed.
Their spirits rose with his and their flagging hopes revived. But as
dusk descended again upon the city, without any sign of the deliverer they
awaited, those hopes began to ebb once more.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr at last pleaded weariness, and begged to be
permitted to withdraw that he might endeavour to take some rest against
whatever might have to be faced in the immediate future. When he had gone,
madame persuaded Aline to go and lie down.
"I will call you, my dear, the moment he arrives," she said, bravely
maintaining that pretence of a confidence that had by now entirely
evaporated.
Aline kissed her affectionately, and departed, outwardly so calm and
unperturbed as to leave the Countess wondering whether she realized the
peril by which they were surrounded, a peril infinitely increased by the
presence in that house of a man so widely known and detested as M. de La
Tour d'Azyr, a man who was probably being sought for by his enemies at this
moment.
Left alone, madame lay down on a couch in the salon itself, to be ready
for any emergency. It was a hot summer night, and the glass doors opening
upon the luxuriant garden stood wide to admit the air. On that air came
intermittently from the distance sounds of the continuing horrible
activities of the populace, the aftermath of that bloody day.
Mme. de Plougastel lay there, listening to those sounds for upwards of
an hour, thanking Heaven that for the present at least the disturbances were
distant, dreading lest at any moment they should occur nearer at hand, lest
this Bondy section in which her hotel was situated should become the scene
of horrors similar to those whose echoes reached her ears from other
sections away to the south and west.
The couch occupied by the Countess lay in shadow; for all the lights in
that long salon had been extinguished with the exception of a cluster of
candles in a massive silver candle branch placed on a round marquetry table
in the middle of the room - an island of light in the surrounding gloom.
The timepiece on the overmantel chimed melodiously the hour of ten, and
then, startling in the suddenness with which it broke the immediate silence,
another sound vibrated through the house, and brought madame to her feet, in
a breathless mingling of hope and dread. Some one was knocking sharply on
the door below. Followed moments of agonized suspense, culminating in the
abrupt invasion of the room by the footman Jacques. He looked round, not
seeing his mistress at first.
"Madame! Madame!" he panted, out of breath.
"What is it, Jacques!" Her voice was steady now that the need for
self-control seemed thrust upon her. She advanced from the shadows into that
island of light about the table. "There is a man below. He is asking... he
is demanding to see you at once."
"A man?" she questioned.
"He... he seems to be an official; at least he wears the sash of
office. And he refuses to give any name; he says that his name would convey
nothing to you. He insists that he must see you in person and at once."
"An official?" said madame.
"An official," Jacques repeated. "I would not have admitted him, but
that he demanded it in the name of the Nation. Madame, it is for you to say
what shall be done. Robert is with me. If you wish it... whatever it may
be... "
"My good Jacques, no, no." She was perfectly composed. If this man
intended evil, surely he would not come alone. Conduct him to me, and then
beg Mlle. de Kercadiou to join me if she is awake."
Jacques departed, himself partly reassured. Madame seated herself in
the armchair by the table well within the light. She smoothed her dress with
a mechanical hand. If, as it would seem, her hopes had been futile, so had
her momentary fears. A man on any but an errand of peace would have brought
some following with him, as she had said.
The door opened again, and Jacques reappeared; after him, stepping
briskly past him, came a slight man in a wide-brimmed hat, adorned by a
tricolour cockade. About the waist of an olive-green riding-coat he wore a
broad tricolour sash; a sword hung at his side.
He swept off his hat, and the candlelight glinted on the steel buckle
in front of it. Madame found herself silently regarded by a pair of large,
dark eyes set in a lean, brown face, eyes that were most singularly intent
and searching.
She leaned forward, incredulity swept across her countenance. Then her
eyes kindled, and the colour came creeping back into her pale cheeks. She
rose suddenly. She was trembling.
"Andre-Louis!" she exclaimed.
Across the body of that convulsively sobbing woman, the mother of one
and the mistress of the other, the eyes of those mortal enemies met,
invested with a startled, appalled interest that admitted of no words.
Beyond the table, as if turned to stone by this culminating horror of
revelation, stood Aline.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr was the first to stir. Into his bewildered mind
came the memory of something that Mme. de Plougastel had said of a letter
that was on the table. He came forward, unhindered. The announcement made,
Mme. de Plougastel no longer feared the sequel, and so she let him go. He
walked unsteadily past this new-found son of his, and took up the sheet that
lay beside the candlebranch. A long moment he stood reading it, none heeding
him. Aline's eyes were all on Andre-Louis, full of wonder and commiseration,
whilst Andre-Louis was staring down, in stupefied fascination, at his
mother.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr read the letter slowly through. Then very quietly
he replaced it. His next concern, being the product of an artificial age
sternly schooled in the suppression of emotion, was to compose himself. Then
he stepped back to Mme. de Plougastel's side and stooped to raise her.
"Therese," he said.
Obeying, by instinct, the implied command, she made an effort to rise
and to control herself in her turn. The Marquis half conducted, half carried
her to the armchair by the table.
Andre-Louis looked on. Still numbed and bewildered, he made no attempt
to assist. He saw as in a dream the Marquis bending over Mme. de Plougastel.
As in a dream he heard him ask:
"How long have you known this, Therese?"
"I... I have always known it... always. I confided him to Kercadiou. I
saw him once as a child... Oh, but what of that?"
"Why was I never told? Why did you deceive me? Why did you tell me that
this child had died a few days after birth? Why, Therese? Why?"
"I was afraid. I... I thought it better so - that nobody, nobody, not
even you, should know. And nobody has known save Quintin until last night,
when to induce him to come here and save me he was forced to tell him."
"But I, Therese?" the Marquis insisted. "It was my right to know."
"Your right? What could you have done? Acknowledge him? And then? Ha!"
It was a queer, desperate note of laughter. "There was Plougastel; there was
my family. And there was you... you, yourself, who had ceased to care, in
whom the fear of discovery had stifled love. Why should I have told you,
then? Why? I should not have told you now had there been any other way to...
to save you both. Once before I suffered just such dreadful apprehensions
when you and he fought in the Bois. I was on my way to prevent it when you
met me. I would have divulged the truth, as a last resource, to avert that
horror. But mercifully God spared me the necessity then."
It had not occurred to any of them to doubt her statement, incredible
though it might seem. Had any done so her present words must have resolved
all doubt, explaining as they did much that to each of her listeners had
been obscure until this moment.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr, overcome; reeled away to a chair and sat down
heavily. Losing command of himself for a moment, he took his haggard face in
his hands.
Through the windows open to the garden came from the distance the faint
throbbing of a drum to remind them of what was happening around them. But
the sound went unheeded. To each it must have seemed that here they were
face to face with a horror greater than any that might be tormenting Paris.
At last Andre-Louis began to speak, his voice level and unutterably cold.
"M. de La Tour d'Azyr," he said, "I trust that you'll agree that this
disclosure, which can hardly be more distasteful and horrible to you than it
is to me, alters nothing, - since it effaces nothing of all that lies
between us. Or, if it alters anything, it is merely to add something to that
score. And yet... Oh, but what can it avail to talk! Here, monsieur, take
this safe-conduct which is made out for Mme. de Plougastel's footman, and
with it make your escape as best you can. In return I will beg of you the
favour never to allow me to see you or hear of you again."
"Andre!" His mother swung upon him with that cry. And yet again that
question. "Have you no heart? What has he ever done to you that you should
nurse so bitter a hatred of him?"
"You shall hear, madame. Once, two years ago in this very room I told
you of a man who had brutally killed my dearest friend and debauched the
girl I was to have married. M. de La Tour d'Azyr is that man."
A moan was her only answer. She covered her face with her hands.
The Marquis rose slowly to his feet again. He came slowly forward, his
smouldering eyes scanning his son's face.
"You are hard," he said grimly. "But I recognize the hardness. It
derives from the blood you bear."
"Spare me that," said Andre-Louis.
The Marquis inclined his head. "I will not mention it again. But I
desire that you should at least understand me, and you too, Therese. You
accuse me, sir, of murdering your dearest friend. I will admit that the
means employed were perhaps unworthy. But what other means were at my
command to meet an urgency that every day since then proves to have existed?
M. de Vilmorin was a revolutionary, a man of new ideas that should overthrow
society and rebuild it more akin to the desires of such as himself. I
belonged to the order that quite as justifiably desired society to remain as
it was. Not only was it better so for me and mine, but I also contend, and
you have yet to prove me wrong, that it is better so for all the world;
that, indeed, no other conceivable society is possible. Every human society
must of necessity be composed of several strata. You may disturb it
temporarily into an amorphous whole by a revolution such as this; but only
temporarily. Soon out of the chaos which is all that you and your kind can
ever produce, order must be restored or life will perish; and with the
restoration of order comes the restoration of the various strata necessary
to organized society. Those that were yesterday at the top may in the new
order of things find themselves dispossessed without any benefit to the
whole. That change I resisted. The spirit of it I fought with whatever
weapons were available, whenever and wherever I encountered it. M. de
Vilmorin was an incendiary of the worst type, a man of eloquence full of
false ideals that misled poor ignorant men into believing that the change
proposed could make the world a better place for them. You are an
intelligent man, and I defy you to answer me from your heart and conscience
that such a thing was true or possible. You know that it is untrue; you know
that it is a pernicious doctrine; and what made it worse on the lips of M.
de Vilmorin was that he was sincere and eloquent. His voice was a danger
that must be removed - silenced. So much was necessary in self-defence. In
self-defence I did it. I had no grudge against M. de Vilmorin. He was a man
of my own class; a gentleman of pleasant ways, amiable, estimable, and able.
"You conceive me slaying him for the very lust of slaying, like some
beast of the jungle flinging itself upon its natural prey. That has been
your error from the first. I did what I did with the very heaviest heart -
oh, spare me your sneer! - I do not lie, I have never lied. And I swear to
you here and now, by my every hope of Heaven, that what I say is true. I
loathed the thing I did. Yet for my own sake and the sake of my order I must
do it. Ask yourself whether M. de Vilmorin would have hesitated for a moment
if by procuring my death he could have brought the Utopia of his dreams a
moment nearer realization.
"After that. You determined that the sweetest vengeance would be to
frustrate my ends by reviving in yourself the voice that I had silenced, by
yourself carrying forward the fantastic apostleship of equality that was M.
de Vilmorin's. You lacked the vision that would have shown you that God did
not create men equals. Well, you are in case to-night to judge which of us
was right, which rong. You see what is happening here in Paris. You see the
foul spectre of Anarchy stalking through a land fallen into confusion.
Probably you have enough imagination to conceive something of what must
follow. And do you deceive yourself that out of this filth and ruin there
will rise up an ideal form of society? Don't you understand that society
must re-order itself presently out of all this?
"But why say more? I must have said enough to make you understand the
only thing that really matters - that I killed M. de Vilmorin as a matter of
duty to my order. And the truth - which though it may offend you should also
convince you - is that to-night I can ook back on the deed with equanimity,
without a single regret, apart from what lies between you and me.
"When, kneeling beside the body of your friend that day at Gavrillac,
you insulted and provoked me, had I been the tiger you conceived me I must
have killed you too. I am, as you may know, a man of quick passions. Yet I
curbed the natural anger you aroused in me, because I could forgive an
affront to myself where I could not overlook a calculated attack upon my
order."
He paused a moment. Andre-Louis stood rigid listening and wondering.
So, too, the others. Then M. le Marquis resumed, on a note of less
assurance. "In the matter of Mlle. Binet I was unfortunate. I wronged you
through inadvertence. I had no knowledge of the relations between you."
Andre-Louis interrupted him 'sharply at last with a question: "Would it
have made a difference if you had?"
"No," he was answered frankly. "I have the faults of my kind. I cannot
pretend that any such scruple as you suggest would have weighed with me. But
can you - if you are capable of any detached judgment - blame me very much
for that?"
"All things considered, monsieur, I am rapidly being forced to the
conclusion that it is impossible to blame any man for anything in this
world; that we are all of us the sport of destiny. Consider, monsieur, this
gathering - this family gathering - here to-night, whilst out there... 0 my
God, let us make an end! Let us go our ways and write 'finis' to this
horrible chapter of our lives."
M. le La Tour considered him gravely, sadly, in silence for a moment.
"Perhaps it is best," he said, at length, in a small voice. He turned
to Mme. de Plougastel. "If a wrong I have to admit in my life, a wrong that
I must bitterly regret, it is the wrong that I have done to you, my dear...
"
"Not now, Gervais! Not now!" she faltered, interrupting him.
"Now - for the first and the last time. I am going. It is not likely
that we shall ever meet again - that I shall ever see any of you again - you
who should have been the nearest and dearest to me. We are all, he says, the
sport of destiny. Ah, but not quite. Destiny is an intelligent force, moving
with purpose. In life we pay for the evil that in life we do. That is the
lesson that I have learnt to-night. By an act of betrayal I begot unknown to
me a son who, whilst as ignorant as myself of our relationship, has come to
be the evil genius of my life, to cross and thwart me, and finally to help
to pull me down in ruin. It is just - poetically just. My full and resigned
acceptance of that fact is the only atonement I can offer you."
He stooped and took one of madame's hands that lay limply in her lap.
"Good-bye, Therese!" His voice broke. He had reached the end of his
iron self-control.
She rose and clung to him a moment, unashamed before them. The ashes of
that dead romance had been deeply stirred this night, and deep down some
lingering embers had been found that glowed brightly now before their final
extinction. Yet she made no attempt to detain him. She understood that their
son had pointed out the only wise, the only possible course, and was
thankful that M. de La Tour d'Azyr accepted it.
"God keep you, Gervais," she murmured. "You will take the safe-conduct,
and... and you will let me know when you are safe?"
He held her face between his hands an instant; then very gently kissed
her and put her from him. Standing erect, and outwardly calm again, he
looked across at Andre-Louis who was proffering him a sheet of paper.
"It is the safe-conduct. Take it, monsieur. It is my first and last
gift to you, and certainly the last gift I should ever have thought of
making you - the gift of life. In a sense it makes us quits. The irony, sir,
is not mine, but Fate's. Take it, monsieur, and go in peace."
M. de La Tour d'Azyr took it. His eyes looked hungrily into the lean
face confronting him, so sternly set. He thrust the paper into his bosom,
and then abruptly, convulsively, held out his hand. His son's eyes asked a
question.
"Let there be peace between us, in God's name," said the Marquis
thickly.
Pity stirred at last in Andre-Louis. Some of the sternness left his
face. He sighed. "Good-bye, monsieur," he said.
"You are hard," his father told him, speaking wistfully. "But perhaps
you are in the right so to be. In other circumstances I should have been
proud to have owned you as my son. As it is... " He broke off abruptly, and
as abruptly added, "Good-bye."
He loosed his son's hand and stepped back. They bowed formally to each
other. And then M. de La Tour d'Azyr bowed to Mlle. de Kercadiou in utter
silence, a bow that contained something of utter renunciation, of finality.
That done he turned and walked stiffly out of the room, and so out of
all their lives. Months later they were to hear if him in the service of the
Emperor of Austria.
Andre-Louis took the air next morning on the terrace at Meudon. The
hour was very early, and the newly risen sun was transmuting into diamonds
the dewdrops that still lingered on the lawn. Down in the valley, five miles
away, the morning mists were rising over Paris. Yet early as it was that
house on the hill was astir already, in a bustle of preparation for the
departure that was imminent.
Andre-Louis had won safely out of Paris last night with his mother and
Aline, and to-day they were to set out all of them for Coblenz.
To Andre-Louis, sauntering there with hands clasped behind him and head
hunched between his shoulders - for life had never been richer in material
for reflection - came presently Aline through one of the glass doors from
the library.
"You're early astir," she greeted him.
"Faith, yes. I haven't been to bed. No," he assured her, in answer to
her exclamation. "I spent the night or what was left of it sitting at the
window thinking."
"My poor Andre!"
"You describe me perfectly. I am very poor - for I know nothing,
understand nothing. It is not a calamitous condition until it is realized.
Then... " He threw out his arms, and let them fall again. His face she
observed was very drawn and haggard.
She paced with him along the old granite balustrade over which the
geraniums flung their mantle of green and scarlet.
"Have you decided what you are going to do?" she asked him.
"I have decided that I have no choice. I, too, must emigrate. I am
lucky to be able to do so, lucky to have found no one amid yesterday's chaos
in Paris to whom I could report myself as I foolishly desired, else I might
no longer be armed with these." He drew from his pocket the powerful
passport of the Commission of Twelve, enjoining upon all Frenchmen to lend
him such assistance as he might require, and warning those who might think
of hindering him that they did so at their own peril. He spread it before
her. "With this I conduct you all safely to the frontier. Over the frontier
M. de Kercadiou and Mme. de Plougastel will have to conduct me; and then we
shall be quits."
"Quits?" quoth she. "But you will be unable to return!"
"You conceive, of course, my eagerness to do so. My child, in a day or
two there will be enquiries. It will be asked what has become of me. Things
will transpire. Then the hunt will start. But by then we shall be well upon
our way, well ahead of any possible pursuit. You don't imagine that I could
ever give the government any satisfactory explanation of my absence -
assuming that any government remains to which to explain it?"
"You mean... that you will sacrifice your future, this career upon
which you have embarked?" It took her breath away.
"In the pass to which things have come there is no career for me down
there - at least no honest one. And I hope you do not think that I could be
dishonest. It is the day of the Dantons, and the Marats, the day of the
rabble. The reins of government will be tossed to the populace, or else the
populace, drunk with the conceit with which the Dantons and the Marats have
filled it, will seize the reins by force. Chaos must follow, and a despotism
of brutes and apes, a government of the whole by its lowest parts. It cannot
endure, because unless a nation is ruled by its best elements it must wither
and decay."
"I thought you were a republican," said she.
"Why, so I am. I am talking like one. I desire a society which selects
its rulers, from the best elements of every class and denies the right of
any class or corporation to usurp the government to itself - whether it be
the nobles, the clergy, the bourgeoisie, or the proletariat. For government
by any one class is fatal to the welfare of the whole. Two years ago our
ideal seemed to have been realized. The monopoly of power had been taken
from the class that had held it too long and too unjustly by the hollow
right of heredity. It had been distributed as evenly as might be throughout
the State, and if men had only paused there, all would have been well. But
our impetus carried us too far, the privileged orders goaded us on by their
very opposition, and the result is the horror of which yesterday you saw no
more than the beginnings. No, no," he ended. "Careers there may be for venal
place-seekers, for opportunists; but none for a man who desires to respect
himself. It is time to go. I make no sacrifice in going."
"But where will you go? What will you do?"
"Oh, something. Consider that in four years I have been lawyer,
politician, swordsman, and buffoon - especially the latter. There is always
a place in the world for Scaramouche. Besides, do you know that unlike
Scaramouche I have been oddly provident? I am the owner of a little farm in
Saxony. I think that agriculture might suit me. It is a meditative
occupation; and when all is said, I am not a man of action. I haven't the
qualities for the part."
She looked up into his face, and there was a wistful smile in her deep
blue eyes.
"Is there any part for which you have not the qualities, I wonder?"
"Do you really? Yet you cannot say that I have made a success of any of
those which I have played. I have always ended by running away. I am running
away now from a thriving fencing-academy, which is likely to become the
property of Le Duc. That comes of having gone into politics, from which I am
also running away. It is the one thing in which I really excel. That, too,
is an attribute of Scaramouche."
"Why will you always be deriding yourself?" she wondered.
"Because I recognize myself for part of this mad world, I suppose. You
wouldn't have me take it seriously? I should lose my reason utterly if I
did; especially since discovering my parents."
"Don't, Andre!" she begged him. "You are insincere, you know."
"Of course I am. Do you expect sincerity in man when hypocrisy is the
very keynote of human nature? We are nurtured on it; we are schooled in it,
we live by it; and we rarely realize it. You have seen it rampant and out of
hand in France during the past four years - cant and hypocrisy on the lips
of the revolutionaries, cant and hypocrisy on the lips of the upholders of
the old regime; a riot of hypocrisy out of which in the end is begotten
chaos. And I who criticize it all on this beautiful God-given morning am the
rankest and most contemptible hypocrite of all. It was this - the
realization of this truth kept me awake all night. For two years I have
persecuted by every means in my power... M. de La Tour d'Azyr."
He paused before uttering the name, paused as if hesitating how to
speak of him.
"And in those two years I have deceived myself as to the motive that
was spurring me. He spoke of me last night as the evil genius of his life,
and himself he recognized the justice of this. It may be that he was right,
and because of that it is probable that even had he not killed Philippe de
Vilmorin, things would still have been the same. Indeed, to-day I know that
they must have been. That is why I call myself a hypocrite, a poor,
self-duping hypocrite."
"But why, Andre?"
He stood still and looked at her. "Because he sought you, Aline.
Because in that alone he must have found me ranged against him, utterly
intransigeant. Because of that I must have strained every nerve to bring him
down - so as to save you from becoming the prey of your own ambition.
"I wish to speak of him no more than I must. After this, I trust never
to speak of him again. Before the lines of our lives crossed, I knew him for
what he was, I knew the report of him that ran the countryside. Even then I
found him detestable. You heard him allude last night to the unfortunate La
Binet. You heard him plead, in extenuation of his fault, his mode of life,
his rearing. To that there is no answer, I suppose. He conforms to type.
Enough! But to me, he was the embodiment of evil, just as you have always
been the embodiment of good; he was the embodiment of sin, just as you are
the embodiment of purity. I had enthroned you so high, Aline, so high, and
yet no higher than your place. Could I, then, suffer that you should be
dragged down by ambition, could I suffer the evil I detested to mate with
the good I loved? What could have come of it but your own damnation, as I
told you that day at Gavrillac? Because of that my detestation of him became
a personal, active thing. I resolved to save you at all costs from a fate so
horrible. Had you been able to tell me that you loved him it would have been
different. I should have hoped that in a union sanctified by love you would
have raised him to your own pure heights. But that out of considerations of
worldly advancement you should lovelessly consent to mate with him... Oh, it
was vile and hopeless. And so I fought him - a rat fighting a lion - fought
him relentlessly until I saw that love had come to take in your heart the
place of ambition. Then I desisted."
"Until you saw that love had taken the place of ambition!" Tears had
been gathering in her eyes whilst he was speaking. Now amazement eliminated
her emotion. "But when did you see that? When?"
"I - I was mistaken. I know it now. Yet, at the time... surely, Aline,
that morning when you came to beg me not to keep my engagement with him in
the Bois, you were moved by concern for him?"
"For him! It was concern for you," she cried, without thinking what she
said.
But it did not convince him. "For me? When you knew - when all the
world knew what I had been doing daily for a week!"
"Ah, but he, he was different from the others you had met. His
reputation stood high. My uncle accounted him invincible; he persuaded me
that if you met nothing could save you."
He looked at her frowning.
"Why this, Aline?" he asked her with some sternness. "I can understand
that, having changed since then, you should now wish to disown those
sentiments. It is a woman's way, I suppose."
"Oh, what are you saying, Andre? How wrong you are! It is the truth I
have told you!"
"And was it concern for me," he asked her, "that laid you swooning when
you saw him return wounded from the meeting? That was what opened my eyes."
"Wounded? I had not seen his wound. I saw him sitting alive and
apparently unhurt in his caleche, and I concluded that he had killed you as
he had said he would. What else could I conclude?"
He saw light, dazzling, blinding, and it scared him. He fell back, a
hand to his brow. "And that was why you fainted?" he asked incredulously.
She looked at him without answering. As she began to realize how much
she had been swept into saying by her eagerness to make him realize his
error, a sudden fear came creeping into her eyes.
He held out both hands to her.
"Aline! Aline!" His voice broke on the name. "It was I... "
"0 blind Andre, it was always you - always! Never, never did I think of
him, not even for loveless marriage, save once for a little while, when...
when that theatre girl came into your life, and then... " She broke off,
shrugged, and turned her head away. "I thought of following ambition, since
there was nothing left to follow."
He shook himself. "I am dreaming, of course, or else I am mad," he
said.
"Blind, Andre; just blind," she assured him.
"Blind only where it would have been presumption to have seen."
"And yet," she answered him with a flash of the Aline he had known of
old, "I have never found you lack presumption."
M. de Kercadiou, emerging a moment later from the library window,
beheld them holding hands and staring each at the other, beatifically, as if
each saw Paradise in the other's face.