Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  She eyed him out of a pale face, with eyes that seemed fascinated. That short burst of the fiery eloquence that had made him famous revealed him to her in a new light: the light of a strength and capacity above and beyond that which, already, she had perceived was his.

  “Will you believe, Monsieur, that it cost me many tears to use you as I did? If you but knew—” And there she paused abruptly. She had all but told him of the kiss that she had left upon his unconscious lips that evening on the road to Liege. “Mon Dieu how I hated myself!” And she shuddered as she spoke.

  He observed all this, and with a brusqueness that was partly assumed he hastened to her rescue.

  “What is done is done, Citoyenne. Come, let us leave reminiscences. You are here to atone, I take it.”

  At that she started. His words reminded her of those of his letter.

  “Monsieur La Boulaye—”

  “If it is all one to you, Citoyenne, I should prefer that you call me citizen.”

  “Citizen, then,” she amended. “I have brought with me the gems which I told you would constitute my dowry. In his letter to me the Vicomte suggested that—” She paused.

  “That some Republican blackguard might be bribed,” he concluded, very gently.

  His gentleness deceived her. She imagined that it meant that he might not be unwilling to accept such a bribe, and thereupon she set herself to plead with him. He listened dispassionately, his hands behind his back, his eyes bent upon her, yet betraying nothing of his thoughts. At last she brought her prayer for Ombreval’s life to an end, and produced a small leather bag which she set upon the table, beseeching him to satisfy himself as to the value of the contents.

  Now at last he stirred. His face grew crimson to the roots of his hair, and his eyes seemed of a sudden to take fire. He seized that little bag and held it in his hand.

  “And so, Mademoiselle de Bellecour,” said he, in a concentrated voice, “you have learnt so little of me that you bring me a bribe of gems. Am I a helot, that you should offer to buy my very soul? Do you think my honour is so cheap a thing that you can have it for the matter of some bits of glass? Or do you imagine that we of the new regime, because we do not mouth the word at every turn, have no such thing as honour? For shame!” He paused, his wrath boiling over as he sought words in which to give it utterance. And then, words failing him to express the half of what was in him, he lifted the bag high above his head, and hurled it at her feet with a force that sent half the glittering contents rolling about the parquet floor. “Citoyenne, your journey has been in vain. I will not treat with you another instant.”

  She recoiled before his wrath, a white and frightened thing that but an instant back had been so calm and self-possessed. She gave no thought to the flashing jewels scattered about the floor. Through all the fear that now possessed her rose the consideration of this man — this man whom she had almost confessed half-shamedly to herself that she loved, that night on the Liege road; this man who at every turn amazed her and filled her with a new sense of his strength and dignity.

  Then, bethinking her of Ombreval and of her mission, she took her courage in both hands, and, advancing a step, she cast herself upon her knees before Caron.

  “Monsieur, forgive me,” she besought him. “I meant you no insult. How could I, when my every wish is to propitiate you? Bethink you, Monsieur, I have journeyed all the way from Prussia to save that man, because my hon — because he is my betrothed. Remember, Monsieur, you held out to me the promise in your letter that if I came you would treat with me, and that I might buy his life from you.”

  “Why, so I did,” he answered, touched by her humiliation and her tears. “But you went too fast in your conclusions.”

  “Forgive me that. See! I am on my knees to you. Am I not humbled enough? Have I not suffered enough for the wrong I may have done you?”

  “It would take the sufferings of a generation to atone for the wrongs I have endured at the hands of your family, Citoyenne.”

  “I will do what you will, Monsieur. Bethink you that I am pleading for the life of the man I am to marry.”

  He looked down upon her now in an emotion that in its way was as powerful as her own. Yet his voice was hard and sternly governed as he now asked her,

  “Is that an argument, Mademoiselle? Is it an argument likely to prevail with the man who, for his twice-confessed love of you, has suffered sore trials?”

  He felt that in a way she had conquered him; his career, which but that day had seemed all-sufficing to him, was now fallen into the limbo of disregard. The one thing whose possession would render his life a happy one, whose absence would leave him now a lasting unhappiness, knelt here at his feet. Forgotten were the wrongs he had suffered, forgotten the purpose to humble and to punish. Everything was forgotten and silenced by the compelling voice of his blood, which cried out that he loved her. He stooped to her and caught her wrists in a grip that made her wince. His voice grew tense.

  “If you would bribe me to save his life, Suzanne, there is but one price that you can pay.”

  “And that?” she gasped her eyes looking up with a scared expression into his masterful face.

  “Yourself,” he whispered, with an ardour that almost amounted to fierceness.

  She gazed a second at him in growing alarm, then she dragged her hands from his grasp, and covering her face she fell a-sobbing.

  “Do not misunderstand me,” he cried, as he stood erect over her. “If you would have Ombreval saved and sent out of France you must become my wife.”

  “Your wife?” she echoed, pausing in her weeping, and for a moment an odd happiness seemed to fill her. But as suddenly as it had arisen did she stifle it. Was she not the noble daughter of the noble Marquis de Bellecour and was not this a lowly born member of a rabble government? There could be no such mating. A shudder ran through her. “I cannot, Monsieur, I cannot!” she sobbed.

  He looked at her a moment with a glance that was almost of surprise, then, with a slight compression of the lips and the faintest raising of the shoulders, he turned from her and strode over to the window. There was a considerable concourse of people on their way to the Place de la Republique, for the hour of the tumbrils was at hand.

  A half-dozen of those unsexed viragos produced by the Revolution, in filthy garments, red bonnets and streaming hair, were marching by to the raucous chorus of the “Ca ira!”

  He turned from the sight in disgust, and again faced his visitor.

  “Citoyenne,” he said, in a composed voice, “I am afraid that your journey has been in vain.”

  She rose now from her knees, and advanced towards him.

  “Monsieur, you will not be so cruel as to send me away empty-handed?” she cried, scarce knowing what she was saying.

  But he looked at her gravely, and without any sign of melting.

  “On what,” he asked, “do you base any claim upon me?”

  “On what?” she echoed, and her glance was troubled with perplexity. Then of a sudden it cleared. “On the love that you have confessed for me,” she cried.

  He laughed a short laugh-half amazement, half scorn.

  “Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, tossing his arms to Heaven, “a fine claim that, as I live; a fine argument by which to induce me to place another man in your arms. I am to do it because I love you!”

  They gazed at each other now, she with a glance of strained anxiety, he with the same look of half-contemptuous wonder. And then a creaking rumble from below attracted his attention, and he looked round. He moved forward and threw the window wide, letting in with the March air an odd medley of sounds to which the rolling of drums afforded a most congruous accompaniment.

  “Look, Citoyenne,” he said, and he pointed out the first tumbril, which was coming round the corner of the Rue St. Honore.

  She approached with some shrinking begotten by a suspicion of what she was desired to see.

  In the street below, among a vociferating crowd of all sorts and conditions, the
black death-cart moved on its way to the guillotine. It was preceded by a company of National Guards, and followed by the drummers and another company on foot. Within the fatal vehicle travelled three men and two women, accompanied by a constitutional priest — one of those renegades who had taken the oath imposed by the Convention. The two women sat motionless, more like statues than living beings, their faces livid and horribly expressionless, so numbed were their intelligences by fear. Of the men, one stood calm and dignified, another knelt at his prayers, and was subject, therefore, to the greater portion of the gibes the mob was offering these poor victims; the third, a very elegant gentleman in a green coat and buckskin breeches, leant nonchalantly upon the rail of the tumbril and exchanged gibes with the people. All five of them were in the prime of life, and, by their toilettes and the air that clung to them, belonged unmistakably to the noblesse.

  One glance did Mademoiselle bestow upon that tragic spectacle, then with a shudder she drew back, her face going deathly white.

  “Why did you bid me look?” she moaned.

  “That for yourself you might see,” he answered pitilessly, “the road by which your lover is to journey.”

  “Mon Dieu!” she cried, wringing her hands, “it is horrible. Oh! You are not men, you Revolutionists. You are beasts of prey, tigers in human semblance.”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Great injustices beget great reactions. Great wrongs can only be balanced by great wrongs. For centuries the power has lain with the aristocrats, and they have most foully abused it. For centuries the people of France have writhed beneath the armed heel of the nobility, and their blood, unjustly and wantonly shed, has saturated the soil until from that seed has sprung this overwhelming retribution. Now — now, when it is too late — you are repenting; now, when at last some twenty-five million Frenchmen have risen with weapons in their hands to purge the nation of you. We are no worse than were you; indeed, not so bad. It is only that we do in a little while — and, therefore, while it lasts in greater quantity — what you have been doing through countless generations.”

  “Spare me these arguments, Monsieur,” she cried, recovering her spirit. “The ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’ of it are nothing to me. I see what you are doing, and that is enough. But,” and her voice grew gentle and pleading, her hands were held out to him, “you are good at heart, Monsieur; you are generous and you can be noble. You will give me the life that I have come to beg of you; the life you promised me.”

  “Yes, but upon terms, Mademoiselle, and those terms you have heard.”

  She looked a moment into that calm, set face, into the dark grey eyes that looked so solemn and betrayed so little of what was passing within.

  “And you say that you love me?” she cried.

  “Helas!” he sighed. “It is a weakness I cannot conquer.

  “Look well down into your heart, M. La Boulaye,” she answered him, “and you will find how egregious is your error. You do not love me; you love yourself, and only yourself. If you loved me you would not seek to have me when I am unwilling. Above all things, you would desire my happiness — it is ever so when we truly love — and you would seek to promote it. If, indeed, you loved me you would grant my prayer, and not torture me as you are doing. But since you only love yourself, you minister only to yourself, and seek to win me by force since you desire me.”

  She ceased, and her eyes fell before his glance, which remained riveted upon her face. Immovable he stood a moment or two, then he turned from her with a little sigh, and leaning his elbow upon the window-sill, he gazed down into the crowds surging about the second tumbril. But although he saw much there that was calculated to compel attention, he heeded nothing. His thoughts were very busy, and he was doing what Mademoiselle had bidden him. He was looking into himself. And from that questioning he gathered not only that he loved her, but that he loved her so well and so truly that — in spite even of all that was passed — he must do her will, and deliver up to her the man she loved.

  His resolve was but half taken when he heard her stirring in the room behind him. He turned sharply to find that she had gained the door.

  “Mademoiselle!” he called after her. She stopped, and as she turned, he observed that her lashes were wet. But in her heart there arose now a fresh hope, awakened by the name by which he had recalled her. “Whither are you going?” he asked.

  “Away, Monsieur,” she answered. “I was realising that my journey had indeed been in vain.”

  He looked at her a second in silence. Then stepping forward:

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, very quietly, “your arguments have prevailed, and it shall be as you desire. The ci-devant Vicomte d’Ombreval shall go free.”

  Her face seemed to grow of a sudden paler, and for an instant she stood still as if robbed of understanding. Then she came forward with hands outheld.

  “Said I not that you were good and generous? Said I not that you could be noble, Monsieur?” she cried, as she caught his resisting hand and sought to carry it to her lips. “God will bless you, Monsieur—”

  He drew his hand away, but without roughness. “Let us say no more, Mademoiselle,” he begged.

  “But I will,” she answered him. “I am not without heart, Monsieur, and now that you have given me this proof of the deep quality of your love, I—” She paused, as if at a loss for words.

  “Well, Mademoiselle?” he urged her.

  “I have it in my heart to wish that — that it were otherwise,” she said, her cheeks reddening under his gaze. “If it were not that I account myself in honour bound to wed M. le Vicomte—”

  “Stop!” he interrupted her. He had caught at last the drift of what she was saying. “There is no need for any comedy, Suzanne. Enough of that had we at Boisvert.”

  “It is not comedy,” she cried with heat. “It was not altogether comedy at Boisvert.”

  “True,” he said, wilfully misunderstanding her that he might the more easily dismiss the subject, “it went nearer to being tragedy.” Then abruptly he asked her:

  “Where are you residing?”

  She paused before replying. She still wanted to protest that some affection for him dwelt in her heart, although curbed (to a greater extent even than she was aware) by the difference in their stations, and checked by her plighted word to Ombreval. At last, abandoning a purpose which his countenance told her would be futile:

  “I am staying with my old nurse at Choisy,” she answered him. “Henriette Godelliere is her name. She is well known in the village, and seems in good favour with the patriots, so that I account myself safe. I am believed to be her niece from the country.”

  “Hum!” he snorted. “The Citoyenne Godelliere’s niece from the country in silks?”

  “That is what someone questioned, and she answered that it was a gown plundered from the wardrobe of some emigrated aristocrats.”

  “Have a care, Suzanne,” said he. “The times are dangerous, and it is a matter of a week ago since a man was lanterne for no other reason than because he was wearing gloves, which was deemed an aristocratic habit. Come, Mademoiselle, let us gather up your gems. You were going without them some moments ago.”

  And down upon his knees he went, and, taking up the little bag which had been left where he had flung it, he set himself to restore the jewels to it. She came to his assistance, in spite of his protestations, and so, within a moment or two, the task was completed, and the little treasure was packed away in the bosom of her gown.

  “To-morrow,” he said, as he took his leave of her at the door, “I shall hope to bring the ci-devant Vicomte to Choisy, and I will see that he is equipped with a laissez-passer that will carry both of you safely out of France.”

  She was beginning to thank him all over again, but he cut her short, and so they parted.

  Long after she was gone did he sit at his writing-table, his head in his hands and his eyes staring straight before him. His face looked grey and haggard; the lines that seared it were li
nes of pain.

  “They say,” he murmured once, thinking aloud, as men sometimes will in moments of great stress, “that a good action brings its own reward. Perhaps my action is not a good one, after all, and that is why I suffer.”

  And, burying his head in his arms, he remained thus with his sorrow until his official entered to inquire if he desired lights.

  CHAPTER XVIII. THE INCORRUPTIBLE

  It was towards noon of the following day when Caron La Boulaye presented himself at the house of Duplay, the cabinet-maker in the Rue St. Honore, and asked of the elderly female who admitted him if he might see the Citizen-deputy Robespierre.

  A berline stood at the door, the postillion at the horses’ heads, and about it there was some bustle, as if in preparation of a departure. But La Boulaye paid no heed to it as he entered the house.

  He was immediately conducted upstairs to the Incorruptible’s apartment — for he was too well known to so much as need announcing. In answer to the woman’s knock a gentle, almost plaintive voice from within bade them enter, and thus was Caron ushered into the humble dwelling of the humble and ineffective-looking individual whose power already transcended that of any other man in France, and who was destined to become still more before his ephemeral star went out.

  Into that unpretentious and rather close-smelling room — for it was bed-chamber as well as dining-room and study — stepped La Boulaye unhesitatingly, with the air of a man who is intimate with his surroundings and assured of his welcome in them. In the right-hand corner stood the bed on which the clothes were still tumbled; in the centre of the chamber was a table all littered with the disorder of a meal partaken; on the left, by the window, sat Robespierre at his writing-table, and from the overmantel at the back of the room a marble counterpart of Robespierre’s own head and shoulders looked down upon the newcomer. There were a few pictures on the whitewashed walls, and a few objects of art about the chamber, but in the main it had a comfortless air, which may in part have resulted from the fact that no fire had been lighted.