A DAUGHTER OF THE GIRONDE
In a room on the second floor of a house in the Rue Favart in Paris--alarge room scantily and untidily furnished--a man sat reading by thelight of an oil lamp. The hour was late, the night a July night in theyear 1794--year two of the Republic. The house already slumbered roundhim; the sounds of Paris rose to his ears softened by night anddistance. Intent on his work, he looked up from time to time to make anote; or, drawing the lamp a little nearer he trimmed its wick and setit back. When this happened, the light falling strongly on his face, andbringing into relief its harsh lines and rugged features, showed him tobe a man past middle life, grey-haired, severe, almost forbidding ofaspect.
Peaceful as his occupation seemed, there was something in the air of theroom which suggested change, even danger. The floor was littered withpacking cases and with books piled together at random. On the lowbedstead lay a travelling cloak; on the table, by the reader's hand, laya pistol and beside it one of the huge sabres which were then infashion. Nor were these signs without meaning. The man reading on, wraptand unconscious, in his upper room, merely followed his bent. He readand reasoned, though in the great city round him the terror of theRevolution was at its height; though the rattle of the drum had scarcelyceased with nightfall, and the last tumbril was even now being wheeledback into its shed.
For men grow strangely callous. The danger which impends daily and everyday ceases to be feared. Achille Mirande had seen the chiefs of hisparty fall round him. He had seen Petion and Barbaroux, Louvet andVergniaud die--the Girondins who had dreamed with him of a republic ofproperty, free and yet law-abiding. Nor had his experiences stoppedthere. He had seen his foes perish also, the Hebertists first and laterthe Dantonists. But for himself--death seemed to have passed him by.Danger had become second nature; the very rumbling of the tumbrilspassing his house on the way to the guillotine had ceased to be anythingbut annoying; until to-day, to avoid the interruption, he had left hishouse in the Rue St. Honore and established himself in this empty flatin the little Rue Favart.
By-and-by he laid down the book he was reading and fell into deepmeditation. As he sat thus, alone and silent in the silent room, asound, which a keener ear would have noticed before, attracted hisattention. Startled in a degree by it, he roused himself; he lookedround. "A rat, I suppose," he muttered. Yet he continued to peer withsuspicion into the corner whence the sound had come, and presently heheard it again. The next instant he sprang to his feet; phantom-like adoor in the panelled wall at the back of the room--a door in the wallwhere there should have been no door--was swinging, nay, had swung open.While he glared at it, hardly believing his senses, a man appearedstanding in the dark aperture.
The man was young and of middle height. Dazzled by the light, andsuffering apparently from weakness, he paused, leaning for supportagainst the doorway. His eyes were bright, his sunken cheeks told offever or famine. His clothes stained and dusty, and his unkempt hair,added to the wildness of his appearance. For a moment he and the ownerof the room glared at one another in speechless wonder. Then a namesprang to the lips of each.
"Monsieur Mirande!" the younger man muttered.
"De Bercy!" exclaimed the other.
The stranger said no more, but shaking with agitation walked to a chairand sat down. Mirande, his face rigid with passion, stood in silence andwatched him do it. Then the Republican found his voice.
"You villain!" he cried, advancing a step, his manner menacing. "Was itnot enough that you stole into my house and robbed me of my daughter?Was it not enough that you led her to forfeit her life in your plots andthen left her to die? Was not this enough, that you now come and insultme by your presence?"
The young man raised his hand in deprecation, but seemed unable toreply. Mirande, gazing pitilessly at him, presently read his silencearight, and an expression of cruel joy altered his features.
"I understand," he said grimly. "I see all now. You have been in hidinghere. To be sure, your name has been on the list of suspects these threemonths. And you all the time have been starving like a rat behind thepanels! Well, you shall have food and wine. You shall eat, you shalldrink. I would not for the world have you cheat the guillotine."
He went to a cupboard as he spoke, and, taking from it bread and wine,he placed them before the other. The young man made a slight gesture, asthough he would have refused them; but his pale face flushed with desirenegatived the action, the momentary resistance of his pride gave way,and he ate and drank, sparingly, yet with the craving of a manhalf-famished.
"I have not tasted food for three days," he murmured presently, lookingup with a glance of apology. The wine had already done its work. Helooked a different man. His hand was steady, his cheeks wore a morehealthy colour. "M. Chareloi hid me here," he went on, "but a week ago Iheard a disturbance in the house, and coming out when all was quiet Ifound it empty and locked. I fear he was arrested."
"He was guillotined five days ago," the Girondin replied with brutalfrankness.
"Why? For what?" the young man exclaimed.
"As a suspect," Mirande answered, shrugging his shoulders.
Bercy had partly risen from his chair. He sat down again, stunned.
"Things move quickly nowadays," Mirande continued, with a ferocioussmile. "To the Luxembourg, thence to the Conciergerie, thence to thePlace de la Revolution is a journey of three days at most; and the pathis well trodden. You will find yourself in good company, M. de Bercy."
"You will give me up?"
"Ay!" the Republican answered hoarsely. He had risen, and stood facinghis antagonist, his hands on the table, his face flushed and swollen."Ay, though you were my own son! What have you not done to me? You creptlike a snake into my house, and robbed me of my daughter!"
"I made her my wife!" the Vicomte answered, with calm pride.
"Ay, and then? After that act of mighty condescension you led her totake part in your vile plot, and when she was discovered and arrested,you left her to pay the penalty. You left her to die alone rather thanrisk one hair of your miserable head!"
The young man sprang to his feet in sudden ungovernable excitement. "Itis false!" he cried. "False!"
"It is true!" Mirande retorted, striking the table so violently that theroom rang again and the flame of the lamp leapt up and for an instantdyed the two angry faces with a lurid gleam.
"I say it is false!" the Vicomte replied sternly. "On the contrary,being at Rheims when I heard that Corinne was arrested, I took horse onthe instant. I rode for Paris as a man rides for life. I was anxious togive myself up in her place if I could save her in no other way. But atMeaux, M. Mirande, I met your agent----"
"And went back to Rheims again and into hiding," the other continued,with a bitter sneer, "after sending me, her father, the shameful messagethat your duty to your race forbade the last of the Bercys to die for amerchant's daughter."
"I sent that message, do you say? I? I?" the young man cried.
"Yes, you! Who else? You--sent it after hearing from me that if youwould surrender, the Committee of Safety would suffer her to escape! Somuch my services had wrung from them--in vain. What? Do you deny thatyou met my agent at night in the yard of the Three Kings at Meaux, M. leVicomte?"
"I met him," the young man answered firmly, though his frame was a-shakewith excitement. "But I did not send that message by him! Nor did hegive me such a message as you state. On the contrary, he told me that Iwas too late, that my wife had suffered two days before; and that youbade me save myself, if I could."
"Ay, she suffered," Mirande answered ironically. "But it was four dayslater. And for the rest you tell me nothing but lies, and clumsy ones."
"What I tell you," the Vicomte rejoined, with a solemnity which at lastenforced the other's attention, "is as true as that I loved my wife andwould have died to save her. I swear it!"
M. Mirande passed his hand over his brow, and stood for a moment gazingat his son-in-law. There was a new expression, an expression almost offear, in his eyes.
"I do not think I should," the Vicomte answered. "He inquired for me bythe name upon which we had agreed. We were together for a few minutesonly, and the night was dark, the only light a distant lanthorn."
"Would he know you, do you think?"
"I cannot say."
M. Mirande shrugged his shoulders, and strode half a dozen times up anddown the room, his face dark with thought, with suspicion, withuncertainty. At length he stopped before his son-in-law.
"Listen to me," he said, meeting and striving to read the young man'seyes. "It is possible that what you say is true and that you are not thecoward I have thought you. In that case you shall have justice at myhands. Before I give you up to the Committee of Safety, who will dealshortly with you, I will resolve the doubt. Until I find the means tosolve it, you may stay here."
"Indeed?" cried the young man proudly. "But what if I am not willing tobe beholden to you?"
"Then you have your alternative!" Mirande answered coolly. "Come with meto the nearest Guard House, and I will inform against you. After all, itwill be the shortest way. It was only that being a citizen, and not a_ci-devant_, I wished to do justice--even to you."
The young man hesitated. He had spoken truly when he suggested that hewas unwilling to be beholden to Mirande. But the alternative meantcertain death.
"I will stop," he said, after a pause, shrugging his shoulders as heaccepted the strange offer made him. "Why should I not? It is your agentwho has lied, not I."
"We shall see," replied the other, without emotion. "There is one thing,however, I must name to you. I know that you are a gallant among theladies, M, de Bercy. My daughter Claire, who was at the seminary whenyou visited me before, is now at home. You will kindly restrict yourintercourse with her to the most formal limits. Unfortunately," hecontinued, with a strange bitterness in his tone, "she is like hersister, and the same arts that won the one, may win the other from thepath of duty."
"For shame, sir!" the young noble answered, his eyes sparkling withindignation. "You insult, not me, but your dead daughter! Do you thinkthat I loved her for her fortune alone? Or that her very image,untenanted by her soul, would satisfy me?"
"They were singularly alike," Mirande muttered with a grim shrug. "Godknows! At any rate you are warned."
The young man shot at him an angry glance, but said no more; andMirande, seeming to be satisfied that his condition was accepted,dropped the subject and proceeded to show his guest where he mightsleep; for the latter felt a natural reluctance to return to his narrowprison behind the wainscot. In a few minutes the light was extinguishedand the two men, thus strangely brought together again, lay a few feetfrom one another; the mind of each turning in the stillness of thenight, to the link which had bound them, nay, which still bound them ina forced and uncongenial union.
The Vicomte was aware that his host ran a certain risk in shelteringhim. The supremacy which Robespierre had won at this time, and thedesperate lengths to which he had gone, exposed all who were not of hisimmediate following to a jealousy that had already hurried to theguillotine the chiefs of half a dozen sections of the Republican party.Mirande, as one of the few surviving Girondins and as a man stillpossessing friends and influence was peculiarly obnoxious to suspicion.The slightest accusation, the word of a servant, the hint of a rival,would suffice to despatch him also along the path which so many troddaily.
The Vicomte, therefore, on rising in the morning, proposed to withdrawto his hiding-place. M. Mirande, however, a little to his guest'ssurprise, would not hear of this; observing curtly that he could trusthis household, and that a change of name was all that safety required.The younger man, whose anxiety was not on his own account only, wouldhave argued the point; but his host cut short the matter by opening thedoor, and ushering the Vicomte, almost before the young man was aware,into another room--a room, large and scantily furnished, but in otherrespects in striking contrast to that which he had left. Here the tall,narrow windows, three in number, were open; the sunlight poured inthrough half-closed jalousies and fell in bars on the shining parquet,and on a little table daintily laid for the morning meal and gay withflowers. In the cooler and darker parts of the room stood high-backedchairs littered with a dozen articles which spoke of a woman's presence;here a fan and silk hood, there a half-mended glove. As the young man'seyes fell on these, and he drank in the airy brightness and even luxuryof the room, he felt a strange pang of regret and misery. Such thingswere no longer for him. Such prettinesses no longer formed part of hislife. And then he turned, and in an instant forgot his unhappiness andhis loss in the sight of a young girl who, seated a little aside, hadrisen at his entrance and now stood facing him, her back to the light.
He had been warned; yet he stood thunderstruck, breathless, staring. Hiseyes grew large, his jaw fell, the room for a moment went round withhim. The likeness of the woman before him to his dead wife was sostrong, so complete, so astonishing, that involuntarily, not knowingwhat he did, he held out his hands.
"Corinne!" he muttered, his voice full of tears. "Corinne!"
The girl, who but for the ravages of ill-health would have been verybeautiful, did not answer; nevertheless she seemed scarcely lessaffected by his sudden appearance and his strange address. She swayed onher feet, and had she not grasped a chair would have fallen. A burningflush for an instant lit up her wan cheek, to disappear at the firstsound of her father's voice. He had followed Bercy into the room, andhis tone was sharp with reproof and warning.
"Citizen Perrot," he said sternly, "this is my daughter Claire. Here isyour place. Be seated, if you please."
The Vicomte mechanically did as he was told without looking where hesat. His hands shook, his brain was on fire. He had eyes only for thegirl; who was so wondrously, so completely, like his wife. She had takenher seat with some timidity at the other side of the table, and if sheno longer betrayed the same emotion, her eyes were downcast, the colourfluttered in her cheeks. It was in vain that Mirande shot angry glancesat her--and at him. The young man stared as one enchanted, seeing onlythe white-robed figure seated between himself and the sunlight, that,shining through her dark hair, found golden threads in it, and crownedthe face he knew so well with an aureole of brightness.
Gradually the spell fell from him. For as he looked, the girl's facechanged and hardened and grew older; grew sharper and whiter; and hediscerned the difference between Claire and Corinne. Corinne had neverlooked at him, or at any one, after that fashion. With a sigh, yet witheyes that often and involuntarily returned to the lode-star, herecovered himself; and he made, or pretended to make, a meal. Hisappetite, however, was gone, and he was thankful when his host rose andput an end to the constrained sitting.
"You will excuse me," the Republican said, drawing out his watch andlooking at it. "I should be at M. Carnot's at this hour. These rooms,however, are at your disposal, my friend; and if you want books, mydaughter will direct you where to find them. But--caution, remember!"
And with that, to the Vicomte's astonishment, M. Mirande departed,leaving the two together. For a moment the young man sat, troubled andperplexed, gazing at the floor. He had intercepted the glance of warningwhich his host on leaving had aimed at his daughter; and with theknowledge that he was suspected, with the brutally frank exhortationaddressed to himself fresh in his mind, to be left alone with the girlsurprised him beyond measure.
Presently he stole a look at her. She had passed to one of the windows,and, having seated herself, was employed upon some needle-work. Herattitude, the lines of her figure, the pose of her head, presented thesame abnormal maddening resemblance to his wife; and slowly, as iffascinated, he moved nearer to her.
"Pardon me," he said at last, speaking almost in a whisper. "You arevery like your sister, mademoiselle."
She glanced quickly at him, her face wearing the hard, sharp look thathad slowly grown upon it. But she gave him no other answer.
He felt that he ought to l
eave her, but the spell was upon him and helingered.
"You have been ill, I fear," he said, after a long silence.
"Monsieur is right," she answered briefly. "The times are such that fewof us escape. Those are perhaps most happy," and as she paused on theword she looked up at him, "who die with their beliefs unshattered,before discovering the clay feet of their idols."
He started.
"Mademoiselle!" he cried almost fiercely, carried away by an intenselypainful thought. "My wife! Your sister? Answer me, answer me quickly, Ibeg of you. They did not--they did not tell her that I--that Irefused----"
"That monsieur declined to save her?" Mademoiselle Claire answeredslowly, her great dark eyes looking into vacancy--into the depths ofgloomy memories. "Yes, they did. A woman, perhaps, would not have doneit; would not have borne to do it. But men are cruel--cruel! And afterall it helped her to die, you understand. It made it more easy."
He walked to the other end of the room, his face hidden in his hands.And there his frame began to be racked by deep sobs. He tried to summonup his pride, his courage, his manliness; but in vain. The thought thatthe woman who had loved and trusted him, his young wife--his young wifeof a few months only--had died believing him a coward and an ingrate wastoo bitter! Too bitter, the conviction that, mistaken as her belief was,it could never be altered! Never be altered! She would never know!
A light touch on his arm recalled him to himself. He turned and foundMademoiselle Claire at his elbow holding a glass of wine towards him.Her lips were compressed, but her face wore a delicate flush, and hereyes were changed and softened.
"Drink," she muttered hurriedly. "You are still weak; you have eatennothing."
He controlled himself by an effort and took the wine; and the girl,moving away quickly, brought from the table a roll and, without againmeeting his eyes, laid it on a chair beside him. She was in the act ofregaining her place by the window, when the door opened somewhatabruptly, and the young Vicomte, scarcely master of himself, turned anddiscovered a man standing on the threshold.
The stranger stared at him and he at the stranger, while MademoiselleClaire, with eyes which on a sudden became keen and intent, seemed toforget herself in gazing on both. The new-comer was taller than theVicomte and of about the same age; a thin, lithe man, with restless eyesand dark, tumbled hair. He scanned the Vicomte with at least as muchdisfavour as the latter, taken by surprise, spent on him; and he was thefirst to speak.
"I thought that you were alone, mademoiselle," he said, frowning as headvanced into the room and looked about him suspiciously.
"This is a friend of my father's," she answered, "He is staying with us,M. Baudouin."
The explanation did not seem to improve matters in the young man's eyes.He frowned still more gloomily.
"Monsieur is from the country?" he asked.
"No," the Vicomte answered. "I have been in Paris some months."
The stranger looked darkly down, toying with a book which lay at theedge of the table. The girl waited awhile and then--
"Did you bring a message from my father?" she asked, a slight tinge ofimpatience and hauteur in her manner.
"No, mademoiselle, I have not seen him this morning," he answered. Andhis sullenness matched her impatience.
"Had you not better follow him then?" she said, with sharpness. "He isat M. Carnot's. He may need you."
For a moment it was plain that M. Baudouin hesitated, but in the end hemade up his mind to obey, and bowing with exaggerated respect he leftthe room.
The Vicomte thought that he could not do better than follow the other'sexample, and he too withdrew. Crossing the lobby to the room whichcommunicated with his hiding-place he threw himself into a chair andgave himself up to the most melancholy reflections. The singularresemblance which Mademoiselle Claire bore to his wife must alone havesufficed to fill him with vain longings and poignant regrets; but thesewere now rendered a thousand times more bitter by the knowledge, socruelly conveyed to him, that his wife had died believing him aheartless and faithless coward.
The return of M. Mirande later in the day, if it did not dispel thesegloomy thoughts, compelled him at any rate to conceal them. The eveningmeal passed much as the morning one had passed; the host uttering a fewformal phrases, while the other two sat for the most part silent. TheVicomte could not avert his eyes from his sister-in-law; and though heno longer felt the violent emotions which her face had at first awakenedin him, he sat sad and unhappy. Her pale features reminded him of thedead past: and at once tortured him with regret, and tantalized him withthe simulacrum of that which had been his. He could have cursed theHeaven that had formed two beings so much alike.
In this way a week passed by, and little by little a vague discomfortand restlessness began to characterize the attitude of his mind towardsher. He felt himself at once attracted by her beauty--as what man of hisyears would not?--and repelled by the likeness that made of the feelinga sacrilege. Meantime, whether he would or no, they were lefttogether--much together. M. Mirande went abroad each day and seemedintent on public affairs. Each day, indeed, his look grew a trifle moreaustere, and the shade on his brow grew deeper; but though it wasevident that the situation out-of-doors was growing more strained, thestorms which were agitating Paris and desolating so many homes affectedthe little household in no other way. The Vicomte kept necessarilywithin, spending most of his time in reading. Mademoiselle Claire alsowent seldom abroad; and it followed that during the long July days whenthe sunshine flooded the second floor, in the early mornings when thesparrows perched on the open jalousies and twittered gaily, or in thegrey evenings, when the night fell slowly, they met from time totime--met not infrequently. On such occasions the Vicomte noticed thatBaudouin was never far distant. The secretary, as a rule, put in anappearance before the conversation had lasted ten minutes.
Bercy began to suspect the cause of this, and one day he happened upon adiscovery. He was sitting in M. Mirande's room, when the sound of araised voice made him lay down his book and listen. The voice seemed tocome from the parlour. Once he was assured of this, and that thespeaker, whose anger was apparent, was not Mirande, he took his steps.He stole out upon the lobby, and found the parlour door as he hadsuspected slightly ajar. Any scruples he might have entertained weredispelled by the certainty that the speaker was Baudouin and that theperson whom he was addressing in harsh and vehement tones, wasMademoiselle Claire. The Vicomte drew himself up behind the door andlistened.
"What would I have?" were the first words he caught. "Little enough,heaven knows! Little enough! What have I ever asked except to be allowedto serve? To gratify your least caprice. To be at your beck and call. Tofetch and carry while another basked in your smiles. That is all I askedin the old days and I ask no more now. I am content to serve and waitand hope. But I will have--no stranger come between us. Not again! Notagain!"
"You do not understand, M. Baudouin," the girl answered hurriedly.
"Do I not?" he cried. "Perhaps I did not understand last time. But thistime I do. I do! It had been well for you had I known more then!"
"Spare me," she said faintly, overcome apparently by some hidden meaningin his words.
"That you may amuse yourself with this stranger?" he retorted. "No, Ihave given way enough. It had been better, as I say, if I had not,mademoiselle."
The stress he laid on the last word was unintelligible to the hiddenlistener, who knew only that it veiled an insult and drew nearer to thedoor. The girl remained silent and Baudouin presuming on this continuedin a tone still more aggressive, "Times are changed, mademoiselle,changed in the last month. You, living out of the world, are ignorant ofwhat is passing, and your father is being left as completely behind.Unless I make a mistake, in a little time you will need other andstronger protection than his."
"Not while he lives," the girl answered, in a low tone.
Baudouin laughed. "The pitcher goes often to the well, but it is brokenat last," he said drily. "I would have you understand that, since youma
y stand in need of my help, you would do well not to try me too far."
"M. Baudouin," the girl said abruptly--and her tone was changed, and thelistener, though he could not see her, could picture the challenge ofher startled eyes--"you have never spoken to me in this way before. Youhave changed."
"So are the times. Those who were servants are now masters!"
"You will never be mine," the girl said firmly.
"We shall see!" he answered.
"We shall see!" cried an unexpected voice--that of the Vicomte, whocould bear it no longer. His eyes stern, his colour high, he flung thedoor wide and entered. The secretary, startled, stepped back a pace. Thegirl, who had been standing close to the door, turned, and seeing who itwas, uttered a low cry of thankfulness; in her relief she even stretchedout her hands as if she would grasp the new-comer's arm. The nextinstant she drew back, a strange expression in her eyes.
"Now, sir," the young Vicomte continued, harshly, "you have to deal witha man, and not with a woman whom you can terrify. I have overheard all,and I warn you that on his return I shall repeat it word for word to M.Mirande, who will know how to deal with you."
He expected that the threat would produce its effect, and that thesecretary taken in the act would resume his normal demeanour. ButBaudouin, his first surprise over, merely smiled. "Who are you, Iwonder," he replied grimly. "One in the Tallien-Barrere-Carnotconspiracy, that's afoot, I suppose. If so, I need not----"
"You need suppose nothing!" the Vicomte retorted fiercely. "But leavethe room without words, you dog!"
"Thank you," said the secretary, smiling contemptuously. "But I wouldhave you remember that a living dog is better than a dead lion."
With that--and with little show of embarrassment or dismay--he wentout. As the door closed behind him a singular constraint fell upon thetwo who were left. The Vicomte, with a grave face, paused by the table,and stood listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps. The girl,who had withdrawn to the farther end of the room, kept her face averted.The Vicomte looked at her doubtfully--looked at her more than once."Mademoiselle," he ventured at last, his voice low and agitated, "I amafraid he--I am afraid he means mischief."
"I fear so," she whispered without turning.
"Will you--shall I speak to your father?"
"It may be better," she answered--to the same tone.
He looked at her long at that, but she did not move; and with a gestureas of farewell he turned and went softly away. Safe in his own room,with the door shut, he stood in the middle of the floor thinking;thinking not of the secretary nor of the danger with which Baudouin'senmity threatened the house, but of the strange look which the girl'sface had worn on his first appearance at her side, the look of reliefand thankfulness which he had surprised in her eyes, the impulse ofconfidence which had made her move towards him! He recalled them all,and his brow grew hot, his hand trembled. He felt at once terror andshame. When he heard M. Mirande's step on the stairs, he gave himself notime for thought, but went hurriedly out on the lobby and called himinto the room. "M. Mirande," he said, "I have something to tell you. Ihave two things to tell you."
The Republican looked at him, his inscrutable eyes betraying nosurprise. "What are they?" he asked, his tone almost phlegmatic.
"The man Baudouin has been here, addressing himself so rudely to yourdaughter that I felt myself obliged to--to interfere."
"That is unlucky."
"It may be that he has your confidence," the young Vicomte continued,"but, from the way in which he spoke of you, I doubt if you have his. Heseemed to me--a dangerous man, M. Baudouin."
"Did he use threats?" the Republican asked, a slight shade of anxiety inhis tone.
The Vicomte nodded.
"Did he mention any names?" M. Mirande continued, looking sharply at hiswatch.
"Yes. Those of Carnot, Barrere--and I think, Tallien."
"Ah!" For a moment M. Mirande's impulse seemed to be to leave the room;to leave it hurriedly, to go back perhaps whence he had come. But hethought better of it, and after a pause he continued, "Had you notsomething else to tell me?"
"I had," the young man answered, betraying, by his agitation, that hehad now come to the real purpose for which he had sought the interview."I wish to leave, M. Mirande. I wish to leave your house at once. I donot know," he continued hurriedly, before the elder man could utter thedry retort which was on his lips, "whether you had it in your mind totry me by leaving me with your daughter, or whether I have only my ownweakness to thank. But I must go. I am ashamed of myself, I hate myselffor it; but I cannot be with her and not feel what I ought not to feel.Understand me," the young man continued, his cheeks pale; "it is not byreason of any charm of hers, but because she is so like--so like mywife--because she seems a dozen times a day to be my wife, that mymemory is unfaithful to Corinne--that I dare not remain here anotherday!"
He stopped abruptly. M. Mirande coughed.
"This is a strange confession," he said, after a long pause. "You havesaid nothing to Claire?"
"Heaven forbid!"
"Then say nothing!" the Republican replied with curt decision. "As forleaving this place to-day, it is impossible. A crisis is at hand; thishouse is watched. You would be recognized and arrested before you passedten yards from the door. Moreover," he went on, seeming to ponder deeplyas he spoke, "if you are right about Baudouin--and I doubt now whether Ihave been Wise to trust him--I see great and immediate danger beforeme. Therefore, if you would not desert the sinking ship, you mustremain."
"I dare not," the young man muttered, shaking his head.
"What?" the old Girondin answered, his voice swelling, his eyes growingbright. "You a noble, and you dare not? You a noble, and you cannotgovern yourself? Consider, M. le Vicomte! A few days may see me traversethe road so many traverse every day; the road of the guillotine. Then mydaughter will be alone, defenceless, unprotected. I ask you--for I haveno one else to whom I can turn--to be her brother and her guardian. Doyou refuse?"
"You no longer distrust me?" the Vicomte muttered, his cheek hot.
"When you came to me a week ago," Mirande answered, "I did not foreseethis crisis, nor the present danger. If I had, I might have received youdifferently. But, see you, what if this be the way in which I would tryyou?" he continued with energy. "What if this be the atonement heavenhas assigned to you? In that case, do you accept, or do you refuse?"
"I accept," the Vicomte answered solemnly, carried away by the other'sburst of feeling. "I accept the charge."
M. Mirande smiled, but only for a moment. Quickly the light died out ofhis face, leaving it stern and austere. His brow grew dark, and turningwith a sigh to his table, he signed to his companion to leave him, andwas presently immersed in figures and calculations.
The young man retired; on his side full of doubt and amazement, yetlifted by the other's appeal to a higher level of will and purpose.Confidence begets honour. Frankly as he had gone to the Girondin withhis confession, so frankly had the other received it. Now he felt thatit behoved him to deserve confidence. Henceforth Claire must be hissister. But he knew that merely to call her sister was not all. He knewenough of his own weakness to recognize the necessity of shunningtemptation, and during the next three days he was careful to avoidconversation with the girl; who on her part seemed to observe nothing,but went to and fro about her household duties.
And yet she did not go about them as usual, a keen observer would havesaid. A subtle change had come over her. Alone in her room she sang toherself low crooning songs of happiness. Her eyes, so carefully loweredin the parlour, shone with a tender brightness, when no one saw them.Her cheek had grown fuller, her colour stronger, her whole beingradiant. If she still went delicately when other's eyes were upon her,it was rather in sympathy with the heavy air of fear and expectationwhich pervaded the house, which pervaded the city, than in obedience toher natural impulses.
On the third evening, M. Mirande, who had been abroad all day, came homerather later than usual. The Vicomte and
Claire were sitting in separaterooms, but something ominous in the sound of his footstep as he mountedthe stairs, drew them both to the lobby to receive him. The eveninglight, shining through the window behind them, fell full upon his faceand exaggerated its cold and grey severity. They waited for him insilence, and he did not see them until he set his foot on the last step.Then he pointed to his room, and, "Go in there, my children," he saidgravely.
The young man started. The girl blushed and trembled. They both obeyed.M. Mirande's next act was equally surprising. Following them into theroom he proceeded to lock and bolt the door behind him; and then passingquickly to the window he looked out. For a moment they stood behind himin silence. After a pause the Vicomte spoke.
"What is it?" he said.
"The order for my arrest was signed an hour ago," the Girondin answered,his eyes still glued to the window. "You are both included in it. Ah!here they are!"
"Who?" the Vicomte asked with energy.
"Baudouin and three officers. However, the door is shut. It is strong,and will gain us a few minutes."
"To what end?" The Vicomte spoke coldly. Mirande's conduct took him bysurprise, for resistance to arrest was rare during the Revolution. Suchmen as Mirande, courageous, bigoted, devoted to an ideal, made apoint--unless they resorted to suicide--of submitting calmly to destinyand the law.
The Girondin, however, had decided otherwise. Nor did he seem to beaware of his companion's disapproval. He did not answer, but continuedto look out long after the tramp of heavy footsteps on the stairs haddrawn his daughter to his side. There was a loud summons without, "Inthe name of the law!" but the three remained silent, standing closetogether, the girl's white, scared face glimmering in the increasingdarkness of the room. The Vicomte a foot from her, could almost hear thedull beating of her heart.
"Can nothing be done?" he muttered.
"We can do nothing but wait and be silent," the Republican answeredcalmly. "They know we are here, but if we do not answer, they may pauseawhile before they attack the door. And every moment--is a momentgained."
The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders, but acquiesced; and some minuteselapsed--minutes which seemed hours to more than one of thethree--before the locksmith for whom the Commissary had sent, assailedthe door, and the almost empty house rang with the harsh sounds of hishammer.
Crash! The door was open at last, letting into the room a flood oflight, and with the light three men who entered with levelled arms. Theforemost, an officer girt with a huge tricolour scarf, stopped abruptly,his jaw dropping ludicrously as his eyes fell on the placid group beforehim. "Citizen Achille Mirande?" he said interrogatively. "Yes? I amempowered to arrest you in the name of the Committee of Safety; you,your daughter also present I think--and a guest. This I presume is theperson?"
"It is," Mirande answered quietly. "Perhaps you will permit me to showyou where my papers are. They may be needed?"
"They will be needed," the Commissary replied, re-arranging his scarf,which had been pulled awry. "You may certainly collect them undersurveillance."
"I can save M. Mirande the trouble," remarked a mocking voice in thebackground. "I think I can lay my hand on any paper that may berequired."
"I do not doubt it, Baudouin," the Girondin answered placidly. "I takeit that I have to thank you for this?"
There was shame as well as triumph in the secretary's eyes as he cameforward. "You cannot say I did not warn you," he said, avoiding the lookof scorn which Claire--who stood by her father's side, her hand inhis--shot at him. "But you would go your way."
"And you, yours!" Mirande retorted. "An old way--Judas's. But hark you,my friend! You seem to be prospering now. You have kicked down theladder by which you have risen. Yet it is in my power to wound you. Seeyou, do you know who this is?" and he pointed to the Vicomte who, withhis arms folded, was gazing haughtily at the Commissary and hisfollowers.
"A conspirator against the safety of the Republic--that is all I know,"Baudouin answered sullenly.
"Possibly," said Mirande. "But not the less for that my son-in-law!"
"The Vicomte de Bercy!" Baudouin almost shouted. "It is false. I heardof him but yesterday--at Nantes."
"You heard wrongly then!" Mirande answered with a cold sneer. "This isthe man whom you met at Meaux, and of whom you lied to me, saying--thatyou might divide him effectually from my daughter--that he refused tosurrender himself to save her."
"It was true--what I told you," the secretary muttered, gazing at Bercywith hatred.
"It was false!" cried the Girondin sternly. "Do I need evidence? I haveit. Whom shall I believe, you, who have betrayed me to-day, or he whoremained by my side in danger?"
"He could not escape," Baudouin said abruptly. His face was pale, theperspiration stood on his brow. His jealous eyes glared askance at thegirl's face. Mirande had said rightly. He had yet the power to woundthis traitor.
"He did not attempt it," the Girondin answered. "And besides, I havetried him as gold in the fire! Look you at this. Bercy!" As the namerang through the room the speaker turned to the Vicomte and took hishand, "My friend, I have deceived you. My daughter did not die. Iprocured her pardon by the use of such influence as I possessed at thattime. But having done that, deluded by this villain's tale, I forced herto renounce you and to take her maiden name."
For an instant there was silence in the room.
"She did not die?" the young man muttered, his eyes dilating. Then,before an answer could be given, he plucked his hand from Mirande'sgrasp and seizing him by the shoulder shook him to and fro.
"Where is she?" he cried hoarsely. "Speak, man, what have you done withher? Where is she?"
"She is behind you."
Bercy turned. Claire was behind him. "Claire?" he cried. "Claire?"
The girl stood, her eyes slightly downcast, her arms hanging by hersides. And then at the sound of the name uttered a second time, shelooked up, her eyes swimming with love and tears. "No, Corinne!" shesaid simply. And then, in a voice which pierced the traitor's bosom aswith a sword, she continued, "Honore, my husband! Forgive me! Forgiveme that I distrusted you! That I disowned you!"
He did not answer, but he opened his arms and took her into them andheld her there; while the father went to the window--perhaps to hide hisemotion, and the Commissary lifted up his hands in admiration genuineand French of this moving scene. As for Baudouin, he bit his nails, hisface white with rage.
He cursed the delay. He would have cursed the police, had he dared, andhad not the tricolour scarf awed him. "Bah!" he exclaimed at last invenomous tones, "a fine piece of play-acting, M. Mirande! And ourfriends here have indulgently given you time for it. But it is over, andthe sequel will be less pleasant, I fear. He laughs best who laughslast."
"That is true," Mirande answered soberly; and for an instant from hisplace at the window, he looked into the room.
"In three days you will sneeze into the sack, my friends," Baudouincontinued with savage mockery. "Your married bliss, M. le Vicomte, willlast but a short time, I fear. As for mademoiselle, Sanson will provebut a rough coiffeur, I doubt."
"Silence!" the Girondin cried; and his tone was strangely altered, hisvoice vibrated strangely through the room. "Silence, you hound!" hecontinued, turning from the window and walking into the middle of thechamber, his figure drawn to its full height, his hand outstretched. "Bestill, and tremble for your own head. The warrant you bring is signed byMaximilien Robespierre?"
"The Incorruptible," murmured the Commissary. And saluted.
"Corruptible or Incorruptible," Mirande rejoined, with a sneer, "he isfallen! He is fallen! Within the last ten minutes he has been arrestedand lodged in the Tuileries!"
"You rave!" cried the officer. While Bercy and Corinne cast dazedglances about them, and the other men stared in stupid wonder.
"I do not rave!" the Girondin answered, standing in the middle of theroom, the master of the situation. "I tell but the fact. Mark the threelighted candles in yonder upper window. They are a signal tha
tRobespierre is arrested. Go, if you doubt me, and ask. Or--you need not.Listen, listen!" With a gesture of command, he raised his hand, and allstood silent. For an instant there seemed equal silence in the streetsbelow; but gradually as they listened there grew out of this silence adistant hollow murmur, as of a great sea swelling higher and louder witheach moment. The face of more than one in the room lost its colour.
"The Faubourgs are rising," muttered the Commissary uneasily. "There issomething amiss."
"On the contrary," answered the Girondin quietly, "there is nothingamiss, but things are in a fair way to be set straight. If you willtake my advice you will tear up that warrant, my friend. To-morrow itwill be more dangerous to you than to me. The Terror of these days isover," he continued solemnly. "For those who have profited by it thereckoning remains!"
M. Mirande was right. Abruptly as this narration ends, the Terror, sofamous in history, came to its end; and many a life held worthless a fewminutes before was saved. For twenty-four hours indeed the fate ofRobespierre and indirectly of our friends hung in the balance, all mentrembling and watching what would happen and who would prevail. Then hefell, and the cruelty of his rule recoiled on his associates. Whatbecame of Baudouin is not known for certain, though one tale allegesthat he was met and murdered by a company of Royalists near Nantes, andanother, that he was guillotined under another name with FouquierTinville and his gang. Enough that he disappeared unmarked andunregretted, along with many others of the baser and more obscureadventurers of the time.
Of Bercy and Corinne, re-wedded under circumstances so strange and soabnormal, we know only that their descendants, well versed in thistradition of the family, still flourish on the Loire, and often andoften tell this tale under the walnut-trees on summer evenings. Nor arethere wanting to-day both a Corinne and a Claire.
IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!
On the moorland above the old grey village of Carhaix, inFinistere--Finistere, the most westerly province of Brittany--stands acottage, built, as all the cottages in that country are, of rough-hewnstones. It is a poor, rude place to-day, but it wore an aspect stillmore rude and primitive a hundred years ago--on an August day in theyear 1793, when a man issued from the low doorway, and, shading his eyesfrom the noonday sun, gazed long and fixedly in the direction of anarrow rift which a few score paces away breaks the monotony of theupland level. The man was tall and thin and unkempt, and his features,which expressed a mixture of cunning and simplicity, matched his figure.He gazed a while in silence, but at length he uttered a grunt ofsatisfaction as the figure of a woman rose gradually into sight. Shecame slowly towards him in a stooping posture, dragging behind her agreat load of straw, which completely hid the little sledge on which itrested, and which was attached to her waist by a rope of twisted hay.
The figure of a woman--rather of a girl. As she drew nearer it could beseen that her cheeks, though brown and sunburned, were as smooth as achild's. She seemed to be still in her teens. Her head was bare, and hershort petticoats, of some coarse stuff, left visible bare feet thrustinto wooden shoes. She advanced with her head bent, and her shouldersstrained forward, her face dull and patient. Once, and once only, whenthe man's eyes left her for a moment, she shot at him a look of scaredapprehension; and later, when she came abreast of him, her breath comingand going with her exertions, he might have seen, had he looked closely,that her strong brown limbs were trembling under her.
But the man noticed nothing in his impatience, and only chid her for herslowness. "Where have you been dawdling, lazy-bones?" he cried.
She murmured, without halting, that the sun was hot.
"Sun hot!" he retorted. "Jeanne is lazy, that is it! _Mon Dieu_, that Ishould have married a wife who is tired by noon! I had better have leftyou to that never-do-well Pierre Bounat. But I have news for you, mygirl."
He lounged after her as he spoke, his low cunning face--the face of theworst kind of French peasant--flickering with cruel pleasure, as he sawhow she winced at the name he had mentioned. She made him no answer,however. Instead, she drew her load with increased vehemence towards oneof the two doors which led into the building. "Well, well, I will tellyou presently," he called after her. "Be quick and come to dinner."
He entered himself by the other door. The house was divided into twochambers by a breast-high partition of wood. The one room served forkitchen; the other, now half full of straw, was barn and granary,fowl-house and dove-cote, all in one. "Be quick!" he called to her.Standing in the house-room, he could see her head as she proceeded tounload the straw.
After a few minutes she came in, her shoes clattering on the floor. Theperspiration stood in great beads on her forehead, and showed how littleshe had deserved his reproach. She took her seat silently, avoiding hiseyes with some care; but he thought nothing of this. It was no newthing. It pleased him, if anything.
He liked to be feared. "Well, my Jeanne," he said, in his gibing tone,"are you longing for my news?"
The hand she extended towards the pitcher of cider, that, with blackbread and onions, made up their meal, shook a little; but she answeredsimply, "If you please, Michel."
"Well, the Girondins have got the worst of it, my girl, and are flyingall over the country. That is the news. Your Pierre is among them, Idon't doubt, if he has not been killed already. I wish he would comethis way."
"Why?" she asked; and as she spoke looked up at last, a flash of lightin her grey eyes.
"Why?" he repeated, grinning across the table at her, "because he wouldbe worth five crowns to me. There is five crowns, I am told, on the headof every Girondin who has been in arms, my girl. Five crowns! It is notevery day we can earn five crowns!"
The French Revolution, it will be understood, was at its height. Themore moderate and constitutional Republicans--the Girondins, as theywere called--worsted in Paris by the Jacobins and the mob, had latelytried to raise the provinces against the capital, and to this end haddrawn together at Caen, near the border of Brittany. They had beendefeated, however, and the Jacobins, in this month of August, werepreparing to take a fearful vengeance at once on them and on theRoyalists. The Reign of Terror had begun. Even to such a boor as this,sitting over his black bread, in his remote hovel, the Revolution hadcome home, and, in common with many a thousand others, he wondered whathe could make of it.
The girl did not answer, even by the look of contempt to which he hadbecome accustomed, and for which he hated her, and for which he beather; and he repeated, "Five crowns! Ah, it is money, that is! _MonDieu!_" Then, with a sudden exclamation, he sprang up. "What is that?"he cried.
He had been sitting with his back to the barn, but he turned, as hespoke, so as to face it. Something had startled him--a movement, arustling in the straw behind him. "What is that?" he asked again, hishand on the table, his face lowering and watchful.
The girl had risen also; and, as the last word passed his lips, sprangby him with a low cry, and aimed a frantic blow with her stool atsomething he could not see, something low, on the floor.
"What is it?" he asked, recoiling.
"A rat!" she answered, breathless. And she aimed another blow at it.
"Where?" he asked sharply. "Where is it?" He snatched up his stool, too,and at that moment a rat darted out of the straw, ran nimbly between hislegs, and plunged into a hole by the door. He flung the wooden stoolafter it; but in vain. "It was a rat!" he said, as if until then he haddoubted it.
"Thank God!" she muttered. She was shaking all over.
He stared at her in stupid wonder. What did she mean? What had come toher? "Have you had a sunstroke my girl?" he said suspiciously.
Her nut-brown face was a shade less brown than usual, but she met hiseyes boldly. "No," she said, "I am all right." And she added anexplanation that for the moment satisfied him. But he did not sit downagain, and when she went out he went out also. And though, as sheretired slowly to the rye fields and her work, she repeatedly lookedback at him, it was always to find his eyes fixed upon her. When thishad happened half a dozen t
imes, a thought struck him. "How now?" hemuttered. "The rat ran out of the straw! Why?"
Nevertheless he continued to gaze after her, with a cunning look uponhis features, until she disappeared over the edge of the rift. Then hecrept back to the door of the barn, and stole in, exchanging thesunlight for the cool darkness of the raftered building, across which adozen rays of light were shooting, laden with dancing motes. A pace ortwo from the door he stood stock still until he had regained the use ofhis eyes; then he began to peer round him. In a moment, far sooner thanhe expected, he found what he sought. Half upon, and half hidden by, thestraw in the furthest corner, lay a young man, in the deep sleep ofutter exhaustion. His face, which bore traces of more than commonbeauty, was white and pinched; his hair hung dank about his forehead.His clothes were in rags; and his feet, bound up with pieces torn atrandom from his blouse, were raw and bleeding. For a short time MichelTellier bent over him, noting these things with glistening eyes. Thenthe peasant stole out again. "It is five crowns!" he muttered, blinkingin the sunlight. "Ha, ha! Five crowns!"
He looked round him cautiously, but could see no sign of his wife; andafter hesitating and pondering a minute or two, he took the path forCarhaix, his native astuteness leading him to saunter at a slow paceafter his ordinary fashion. When he was gone the moorland about thecottage lay still and deserted. Thrice, at intervals, the girl draggedhome her load of straw, but on each occasion she seemed to linger in thebarn no longer than was necessary. Michel's absence, though it wasunlooked-for, raised no suspicion in her breast, for he would frequentlygo down to the village to spend the afternoon. The sun sank lower, andthe shadow of the great monolith, which, on the crest of the highestpoint of the moor, at a distance of a mile, rose gaunt and black againsta roseate sky, grew longer and longer; and then, as twilight fell, thetwo coming home met a few paces from the cottage. He asked somequestions about the work she had been doing, and she answered briefly.Then, silent and uncommunicative, they went in together. The girl setthe bread and cider on the table, and going to the great black pot whichhad been simmering all day upon the fire, poured some broth into twopitchers. It did not escape Michel's frugal eye that she was careful toleave a little broth in the bottom of the pot; and the fact induced anew feeling in him--anger. When his wife invited him by a sign to themeal, he went instead to the door, and fastened it. Then he moved to thecorner and picked up the wood-chopper, and armed with this he came backto his seat.
The girl watched his movements first with surprise, then with secretterror. The twilight was come, the cottage was almost dark, and she wasalone with him; or, if not alone, yet with no one near who could helpher. Nevertheless she met his grin of triumph bravely. "What is this?"she said. "Why do you want that?"
"For the rat," he answered grimly, his eyes on hers.
Her heart sank. "The rat?" she echoed.
"Ay!"
"Why not--your stool?" she strove to murmur.
"Not for this rat," he answered cunningly. "It might not do, my girl.Oh, I know what is to do," he continued, fingering the edge of the axe."I have been down to the village, and seen the mayor, and he is comingup to fetch him." He nodded towards the partition, and she knew that hersecret was known.
"It is Pierre," she said, trembling violently, and turning first crimsonand then a dull sallow hue.
"I know it, Jeanne. It was excellent of you! Excellent! It is long sinceyou have done such a day's work."
"You will not give him up?" she gasped.
"My faith, I shall!" he answered, affecting, and perhaps really feeling,wonder at her simplicity. "He is five crowns, my girl! You do notunderstand. He is worth five crowns and the risk nothing at all."
If he had been angry, if he had shown anything of the fury of thesuspicious husband, if he had been about to do this out of jealousy orrevenge or passion she would have quailed before him, though she haddone him no wrong, save the wrong of mercy and pity. But his spirit wastoo mean for the great passions; he felt only the mean and sordidimpulses, which to a woman are the most hateful. And instead ofquailing, she looked at him with flashing eyes. "I shall warn him," shesaid.
"It will not help him," he answered, sitting still, and feeling anew theedge of the hatchet with his fingers.
"It will help him," she retorted. "He shall go. He shall escape beforethey come." She rose impetuously from her seat.
"I have locked the door!"
"Give me the key!" she panted. "Give me the key, I say!" She stoodbefore him, her trembling hands outstretched, her figure drawn to itsfull height. Her look was such that he rose and retreated behind thetable, still retaining the hatchet in his grasp.
"Stand back!" he said sullenly. "You may awaken him, if you please, mygirl. It will not avail him. Do you not understand, fool, that he isworth five crowns? Five crowns? And listen! It is too late now. They arehere!"
A blow fell on the door as he spoke, and he stepped towards it. But atthat, seeing the last chance leaving her, despair moved her, she threwherself upon him; for a moment she wrestled with him like a wild-cat,but in the end he prevailed; he flung her off, and, brandishing hisweapon in her face, kept her at bay. "You vixen!" he cried, retreatingto the door, with a pale cheek and his eyes still on her, for he was anarrant coward. "You deserve to go to prison with him, you jade! I willhave you in the stocks for this! I'll have you jailed!"
She leaned against the wall where he had flung her, her white despairingface seeming to shine in the darkness of the wretched room. Meanwhilethe continuous murmur of men's voices outside the door could be heardmingled with the clatter of weapons; the summons for admission wasrepeated, and again repeated, as if those without had no mind to be keptwaiting long.
"Patience! patience! I am opening!" he cried. Still keeping his face toher, he unlocked the door and called on the men to enter. "He is in thestraw, M. le Maire!" he said, in a tone of triumph, his eyes still onhis wife. "Cursed Girondin! He will give you no trouble, I will answerit! But first give me my five crowns, M. le Maire. My five crowns!"
He felt, craven as he was, so much fear of his wife that he did not turnto see the men enter, and he was taken by surprise when a voice at hiselbow--a voice he did not know--answered, "Five crowns, my friend? Forwhat, may I ask?"
In his eagerness and greed he suspected nothing, but that on somepretext or other they were trying to filch from him his dues. "For what?For the Girondin!" he answered rapidly. Then at last he did turn andfound that half a dozen men had entered, that more were entering. But tohis astonishment, they were all strangers--men with stern, gloomy faces,and armed to the teeth. There was something so formidable, indeed, intheir appearance that he stepped back, and his voice faltered as headded: "But where is the mayor, gentlemen? I do not see him."
No one answered, but in silence the last of the men--they were eleven inall--entered and bolted the door behind him. Michel Tellier peered atthem in the gloom with growing alarm, nay, with growing terror. Inreturn the tallest of the strangers, he who had entered first and seemedto command the others, looked round him keenly. And it was he who atlength broke the silence. "So you have a Girondin here, have you?" hesaid, his voice curiously sweet and sonorous.
"I was to have five crowns for him," Michel muttered dubiously.
"Oh!" and then, "Petion," the spokesman continued to one of hiscompanions, "can you kindle a light? It strikes me that we have hit upona dark place."
The man addressed took something from his pouch. For a moment there wassilence, broken only by the sharp sound of the flint striking the steel.Then a slow-growing glare lit up the dark interior, and disclosed thegroup of cloaked strangers standing about the door, the light gleamingback from their trailing sabres and great horse-pistols. Micheltrembled. He had never seen such men as these. True, they were wet andtravel-stained, and had the air of those who spend their nights inditches and under haystacks. But their pale, stern faces were set inindomitable resolve. Their eyes glowed with a steady fire, and they trodthe mud floor as kings tread. Their leader was a
man of majestic heightand stern beauty, and in his eyes alone there seemed to lurk a spark oflighter fire, as if his spirit still rose above the task which hadsobered his companions. Michel noted all this in fear and bewilderment;noted the white head yet the vigorous bearing of the man who had struckthe light; noted even the manner in which the light died away in the dimrecesses of the barn.
"And this Girondin--is he in hiding here?" the tall man asked.
"That is so," Michel answered. "But I had nothing to do with hiding him,citizen. It was my wife hid him in the straw there."
"And you gave notice of his presence to the authorities?" the strangercontinued, raising his hand to repress some movement among hisfollowers.
"Certainly, or you would not be here," replied Michel, better satisfiedwith himself.
The answer struck him, prostrated him, with an awful terror. "That doesnot follow," the tall man rejoined coolly, "for we, we, also, areGirondins!"
"You are? You?"
"Without doubt," the other answered, with majestic simplicity; "or thereare no such persons. This is Petion of Paris, and this citizen Buzot.Have you heard of Louvet? There he stands. For me, I am Barbaroux."
Michel's tongue remained glued to the roof of his mouth. He could notutter a word. But another could. On the far side of the barrier arustling was heard, and while all turned to look--but with whatdifferent feelings--the pale face of the youth over whom Michel had bentin the afternoon appeared above the partition. A smile of joyfulrecognition effaced for the time the lines of exhaustion. The young man,clinging for support to the planks, uttered a cry of thankfulness. "Itis you! It is really you! You are safe!" he exclaimed. Love beamed inhis eyes.
"We are safe, all of us, Pierre," Barbaroux answered. "And now"--heturned to Michel Tellier with thunder in his voice--"know that this manwhom you would have betrayed is our guide, whom we lost last night.Speak, then, in your defence, if you can. Say what you have to say whyjustice should not be done upon you, miserable caitiff, who would havesold a man's life, as you would sell a sheep's, for a few pieces ofsilver!"
The wretched peasant's knees trembled under him; the perspiration stoodupon his brow. He heard the voice as the voice of a judge or anexecutioner. He looked in the stern eyes of the Girondins, and read onlyanger, doom, vengeance. Then he caught in the silence the sound of hiswife weeping, for at Pierre's appearance she had broken into wildsobbing; and on that he spoke out of the base instincts of his heart."He was her lover," he muttered. "I swear it, citizens."
"He lies!" the man at the barrier cried, his face transfigured withrage. "I loved her once, it is true, but it was before her old fathersold her to this Judas. For what he would have you believe now, myfriends, it is false. I, too, swear it."
A murmur of execration broke from the group of Girondins. Barbarouxrepressed it by a gesture. "What do you say of this man?" he asked,turning to them, his tone deep and solemn.
"He is not fit to live!" they answered with one voice.
The poor coward screamed as he heard the words, and, flinging himself onthe ground, he embraced Barbaroux's knees in a paroxysm of terror. Butthe judge did not look at him. Barbaroux turned, instead, to PierreBounat. "What do you say of him?" he asked.
"He is not fit to live," the young man answered solemnly, his breathcoming quick and fast.
"And you?" Barbaroux continued, turning and looking with eyes of fire atthe wife. And his voice was still more solemn.
A moment before she had ceased to weep, and had stood up listening andgazing, awe and wonder in her face. Barbaroux had to repeat his questionbefore she answered. Then she said, "He is not fit to die."
There was silence for a moment, broken only by the entreaties, theprayers, of the wretch on the floor. At last Barbaroux spoke. "She hassaid rightly," he pronounced. "He shall live. They have put us out ofthe law and set a price on our heads; but we will keep the law. He shalllive. Yet, hark you," the great orator continued, in tones which Michelnever forgot, "if a whisper escape you as to our presence here, or as toour names, or if you wrong your wife from this time forth by word ordeed, the life she has saved shall pay for it.
"Remember!" he added, shaking Michel to and fro with a finger, "the armof Barbaroux of Marseilles is long, and though I be a hundred leaguesaway, I shall know and I shall punish. So, beware! Now rise, and live!"
The miserable man cowered back to the wall, frightened to the core ofhis heart. The Girondins conferred a while in whispers, two of theirnumber assisting Pierre to cross the barrier. Suddenly on their talkthere broke--and Michel trembled anew as he heard it--a loud knocking atthe door. All started and stood listening and waiting. A voice cried:"Open! open! in the name of the law!"
"We have lingered too long," Barbaroux muttered. "I should have thoughtof this. It is the Mayor of Carhaix come to apprehend our friend."
Again the Girondins conferred together. At last, seeming to arrive at aconclusion, they ranged themselves on either side of the door, and oneof their number opened it. A short, stout man, girt with a tricoloursash, and wearing a huge sword, entered with an air of authority.Blinded by the gush of light he saw, at his first entrance, nothing outof the common; he was followed by four men armed with muskets.
Their appearance produced an extraordinary effect on Michel Tellier. Asthey crossed the threshold one by one, the peasant leaned forward, hisface flushed, his eyes gleaming; and he counted them. They were onlyfive. And the others were twelve. He fell back, and from that moment hisbelief in the Girondins' power was clinched.
"In the name of the law!" the mayor panted. He was a little out ofbreath. "Why did you not----" Then he stopped abruptly, his mouthremaining open. He found himself surrounded by a group of grim, silentmutes, with arms in their hands; and in a twinkling it flashed into hismind that these were the eleven chiefs of the Girondins, whom he hadbeen warned to keep watch for, and to take. He had come to catch apigeon and had caught a crow. He turned pale and his eyes dropped. "Whoare--who are these gentlemen?" he stammered, in a tone suddenly andludicrously fallen.
"Some volunteers of Quimper, returning home," replied Barbaroux, withironical smoothness.
"You have your papers, citizens?" the mayor asked, mechanically; and hetook a step backwards towards the door, and looked over his shoulder.
"Here they are!" said Petion rudely, thrusting a packet into his hands."They are in order."
The mayor took them, and longing only to see the outside of the door,pretended to look through them, his little heart going pit-a-pat withinhim. "They seem to be in order," he assented, feebly. "I need nottrouble you further, citizens. I came here under a misapprehension, Ifind, and I wish you a good journey."
He knew, as he backed out, that he was cutting a poor figure. And hewould fain have made a more dignified retreat. But before these men,fugitives and outlaws as they were, he felt, though he was Mayor ofCarhaix, almost as small a man as did Michel Tellier. These were the menof the Revolution, nay, they were the Revolution. They had beardedCapet, they had shattered the regime of centuries, they had pulled downkings. There was Barbaroux, who had grappled with Marat; and Petion, theMayor of the Bastille. The little Mayor of Carhaix knew greatness whenhe saw it. He turned tail, and hurried back to his fireside, hisbody-guard not a whit behind him in their desire to be gone.
Five minutes later the men he feared and envied came out also, and wenttheir way, passing in single file into the darkness which brooded overthe great monolith; beginning, brave hearts, another of the few stageswhich still lay between them and the guillotine. Then in the cottagethere remained only Michel and Jeanne. She sat by the dying embers,silent, and lost in thought. He leaned against the wall, his eyes rovingceaselessly, but always when his gaze met hers it fell. Barbaroux hadconquered him. It was not until Jeanne had risen to close the door, andhe was alone, that he wrung his hands, and muttered: "Five crowns! Fivecrowns gone and wasted!"
THE END
* * * * *
UNDER THE RED ROBE.
A ROMANCE.
BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN,
AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF," ETC.
With 12 Full-page Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. 12mo, LinenCloth, Ornamental, $1.25.
"Mr. Weyman is a brave writer, who imagines fine things and describesthem splendidly. There is something to interest a healthy mind on everypage of his new Story. Its interest never flags, for his resource isrich, and it is, moreover, the kind of a story that one cannot plainlysee the end of from Chapter I.... the story reveals a knowledge ofFrench character and French landscape that was surely never acquired atsecond hand. The beginning is wonderfully interesting."--NEW YORK TIMES.
"As perfect a novel of the new school of fiction as 'Ivanhoe' or 'HenryEsmond' was of theirs. Each later story has shown a marked advance instrength and treatment, and in the last Mr. Weyman ... demonstrates thathe has no superior among living novelists.... There are but twocharacters in the story--his art makes all other but unnoticed shadowscast by them--and the attention is so keenly fixed upon one or both,from the first word to the last, that we live in their thoughts and seethe drama unfolded through their eyes."--N. Y. WORLD.
"It was bold to take Richelieu and his time as a subject and thus tochallenge comparison with Dumas's immortal musketeers; but the resultjustifies the boldness.... The plot is admirably clear and strong, thediction singularly concise and telling, and the stirring events are somanaged as not to degenerate into sensationalism. Few better novels ofadventure than this have ever been written."--OUTLOOK, NEW YORK.
"A wonderfully brilliant and thrilling romance.... Mr. Weyman has apositive talent for concise dramatic narration. Every phrase tells, andthe characters stand out with life-like distinctness. Some of the mostfascinating epochs in French history have been splendidly illuminated byhis novels, which are to be reckoned among the notable successes oflater nineteenth-century fiction. This story of 'Under the Red Robe' isin its way one of the very best things he has done. It is illustratedwith rigor and appropriateness from twelve full-page designs by R. CatonWoodville."--BOSTON BEACON.
"It is a skillfully drawn picture of the times, drawn in simple andtransparent English, and quivering with tense human feeling from thefirst word to the last. It is not a book that can be laid down at themiddle of it. The reader once caught in its whirl can no more escapefrom it than a ship from the maelstrom."--PICAYUNE, NEW ORLEANS.
"The 'red robe' refers to Cardinal Richelieu, in whose day the story islaid. The descriptions of his court, his judicial machinations andministrations, his partial defeat, stand out from the book as vivid asflame against a background of snow. For the rest, the book is clever andinteresting, and overflowing with heroic incident. Stanley Weyman is anauthor who has apparently come to stay."--CHICAGO POST.
"In this story Mr. Weyman returns to the scene of his 'Gentleman ofFrance,' although his new heroes are of different mould. The book isfull of adventure and characterized by a deeper study of character thanits predecessor."--WASHINGTON POST.
"Mr. Weyman has quite topped his first success.... The author artfullypursues the line on which his happy initial venture was laid. We have inBerault, the hero, a more impressive Marsac; an accomplished duelist,telling the tale of his own adventures, he first repels and finallyattracts us. He is at once the tool of Richelieu, and a man of honor.Here is a noteworthy romance, full of thrilling incident set down by amaster-hand."--PHILADELPHIA PRESS.
* * * * *
THE RED COCKADE.
A NOVEL OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN,
AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "UNDER THE RED ROBE," "THE HOUSE OFTHE WOLF," "MY LADY ROTHA," ETC.
With 48 Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. Crown 8vo, Cloth,ornamental, $1.50.
"Deserves a place among the best historical fiction of the latter partof this century. The gradual maddening of the people by agitators, therising of those who have revenges to feed, the burnings and the outragesare described in a masterly way. The attack on the castle of St. Alais,the hideous death of the steward, the looting of the great building, andthe escape of the young lovers--these incidents are told in thatbreathless way which Weyman has made familiar in other stories. It isonly when one has finished the book and has gone back to reread certainpassages that the dramatic power and the sustained passion of thesescenes are clearly felt."--SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE.
"'The Red Cockade,' a story of the French Revolution, shows, in thefirst place, careful study and deliberate, well-directed effort. Mr.Weyman ... has caught the spirit of the times.... The book is brimful ofromantic incidents. It absorbs one's interest from the first page to thelast; it depicts human character with truth, and it causes the good andbrave to triumph. In a word, it is real romance."--SYRACUSE POST.
"We have in this novel a powerful but not an exaggerated study of thespirit of the high born and the low born which centuries of aristocratictyranny and democratic suffering engendered in France. It is historywhich we read here, and not romance, but history which is so perfectlywritten, so veritable, that it blends with the romantic associations inwhich it is set as naturally as the history in Shakespeare's playsblends with the poetry which vitalizes and glorifies it."--MAIL ANDEXPRESS, NEW YORK.
"It will be scarcely more than its due to say that this will always rankamong Weyman's best work. In the troublous times of 1789 in France itsaction is laid, and with marvellous skill the author has delineated themost striking types of men and women who made the Revolution soterrible."--NEW YORK WORLD.
"'The Red Cockade' is a novel of events, instinct with the spirit of theeighteenth century and full of stirring romance. The tragic period ofthe French Revolution forms a frame in which to set the adventures ofAdrien du Pont, Vicomte de Saux, and the part he plays in those days ofperil has a full measure of dramatic interest.... Mr. Weyman hasevidently studied the history of the revolution with a profoundrealization of its intense tragedy."--DETROIT FREE PRESS.
"The action of the story is rapid and powerful. The Vicomte's strugglewith his own prejudices, his unhappy position in regard to his friends,the perils he encounters, and the great bravery he shows in his devotionto Denise are strikingly set forth, while the historical background ismade vivid and convincing--the frenzy caused by the fall of the Bastile,the attacks of the mob, the defence and strategy of the nobility, allbeing described with dramatic skill and verisimilitude. It is afascinating and absorbing tale, which carries the reader with it, andimpresses itself upon the mind as only a novel of unusual merit andpower can do."--BOSTON BEACON.
"The story gives a view of the times which is apart from the usual, andmarked with a fine study of history and of human conditions and impulseon Mr. Weyman's part. Regarding his varied and well-chosen charactersone cares only to say that they are full of interest and admirablyportrayed.... It is one of the most spirited stories of the hour, andone of the most delightfully freighted with suggestion."--CHICAGOINTERIOR.
"With so striking a character for his hero, it is not wonderful that Mr.Weyman has evolved a story that for ingenuity of plot and felicity oftreatment is equal to some of his best efforts.... 'The Red Cockade' isone of the unmistakably strong historical romances of theseason."--BOSTON HERALD.
"We are greatly mistaken if the 'Red Cockade' does not take rank withthe very best book that Mr. Weyman has written."--SCOTSMAN.
* * * * *
SOPHIA
BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN
AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "UNDER THE RED ROBE," ETC.
With 12 Illustrations by C. Hammond. Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental,$1.50.
"Mr. Weyman's new romance illustrates the types and manners offashionable London society in the year 1742. In everything that meansthe revival of an historical atmosphere it is skilful, and, on thewhole, just. The characters also are well realized.... 'Sophia' is adecidedly interesting novel.... The tale moves swiftly, hurrying on fromthe town to the heat
h, from hatred to love, from imprisonment on breadand water to diamonds ... and a dozen other things. Sophia, the heroine,is a bundle of girlish foolishness and charms. 'Sophia,' the book, is abundle of more or less extraordinary episodes woven into a story in themost beguiling manner."--NEW YORK TRIBUNE, April, 1900.
"It is a good, lively, melodramatic story of love and adventure ... itis safe to say that nobody who reads the lively episode in the firstchapter will leave the book unfinished, because there is not a moment'sbreak in the swift and dramatic narrative until the last page.... Thedramatic sequence is nearly faultless."--TRIBUNE, CHICAGO.
"Sophia, with her mistakes, her adventures, and her final surrender;Sophia moving among the eighteenth century world of fashion at Vauxhall;Sophia flying through the country roads, pursued by an adventurer, andSophia captured by her husband, transport one so far from thiswork-a-day life that the reader comes back surprised to find that thisprosaic world is still here after that too-brief excursion into therealm of fancy."--NEW YORK COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER.
"The gem of the book is its description of the long coach-ride made bySophia to Sir Hervey's home in Sussex, the attempt made by highwaymen torob her, and her adventures at the paved ford and in the house madesilent by smallpox, where she took refuge. This section of the story isalmost as breathless as Smollett.... In the general firmness of touch,and sureness of historic portrayal, the book deserves highpraise."--BUFFALO EXPRESS.
"'Sophia' contains, in its earlier part, a series of incidents that is,we believe, the most ingenious yet planned by its author.... Theadventure develops and grows, the tension increases with each page, tosuch an extent that the hackneyed adjective, 'breathless,' finds anappropriate place."--NEW YORK MAIL AND EXPRESS.
"'Sophia,' his latest, is also one of his best. A delightful spirit ofadventure hangs about the story; something interesting happens in everychapter. The admirable ease of style, the smooth and natural dialogue,the perfect adjustment of events and sequences conceal all the usualobtrusive mechanism, and hold the curiosity of the reader throughout thedevelopment of an excellent plot and genuine people."--PUBLIC LEDGER,PHILADELPHIA, PA.
"Those who read Mr. Stanley J. Weyman's 'Castle Inn' with delight, willfind in his 'Sophia' an equally brilliant performance, in which they areintroduced to another part of the Georgian era.... Mr. Weyman knows theeighteenth century from top to bottom, and could any time be moresuitable for the writer of romance?... There is only one way to definethe subtle charm and distinction of this book, and that is to say thatit deserves a place on the book-shelf beside those dainty volumes inwhich Mr. Austin Dobson has embalmed the very spirit of the period ofthe hoop and the patch, the coffee-house, and the sedan chair. And couldMr. Stanley Weyman ask for better company for his books thanthat?"--EVENING SUN, NEW YORK.
"Contains what is probably the most ingenious and exciting situationeven he has ever invented."--BOOK BUYER, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
THE CASTLE INN.
A ROMANCE.
BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN.
AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "UNDER THE RED ROBE," "SHREWSBURY,"ETC., ETC.
With six full-page Illustrations by Walter Appleton Clark. Crown 8vo,Cloth, ornamental, $1.50.
A tale which is full of old-world romance and adventure. It has a strongflavor of the under life in England when George the Third was young,when sign-posts served also as gibbets, when travel was by coach andhighwaymen were many, when men drank deep and played high. There areplenty of stirring scenes along the way, plenty of treachery andfighting at cross-purposes which lead to intricate and dramaticsituations. The heroine's charms recall Mlle. de Cocheforet in 'Underthe Red Robe,' and she proves herself a maid of spirit through all themishaps which befall her. One of the most notable things about 'TheCastle Inn' is the way in which Mr. Weyman has caught the spirit of theage, and manages to imbue his readers with its feeling."--DETROIT FREEPRESS.
" ... In 'The Castle Inn,' this master of romance tells a story of thetime of George III, in the third person.... A story of rapid action,with a swinging succession of moving incidents that keep the readerincessantly on the _qui vive_. It deals with human emotions withdirectness and thoughtfulness."--THE PRESS, PHILA., PA.
" ... 'The Castle Inn' ... is so fresh and entertaining that it takesone back to 'A Gentleman of France,' and other good things this authordid several years ago. Mr. Weyman, in looking about for an appropriatesetting for his romance, very wisely eschews scenes and people ofto-day, and chooses, instead, England a hundred and thirty years ago,when George III. was on her throne, and living was a far morepicturesque business than it is now. Beautiful maidens could bekidnapped then; daring lovers faced pistols and swords in behalf oftheir sweethearts, and altogether the pace was a lively one. Mr. Weymanknows how to use the attractive colorings to the best advantagepossible."--CHICAGO EVENING POST.
" ... a piece of work which is infinitely better than anything elsewhich he has accomplished. He has treated the eighteenth century, thetime of the elder Pitt, with a grasp and a sympathy that presage agreater reputation for this novelist than he has enjoyed hitherto. Thestory itself is worth the telling, but the great thing is the way it istold."--NEW YORK SUN.
" ... he has a firm grasp of his period in this book, and revives theatmosphere of the last century in England, with its shallow graces andprofound brutality, coherently and even with eloquence ... it is a mostinteresting story, which should please the reader of romantic tastes andsustain the author's reputation."--NEW YORK TRIBUNE.
"The characters in the book are all entertaining, and many of them aredroll, while a few, like the conscientious Mr. Fishwick, the attorney,and the cringing parasite, Mr. Thomasson, are, in their own way,masterpieces of character study. Take it all in all, 'The Castle Inn' isin many ways the best work which has yet come from Mr. Weyman'spen."--COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, NEW YORK.
"Mr. Weyman has surpassed himself in 'The Castle Inn.' From cover tocover the book teems with adventure and romance, and the love episode isdelicious. Julia will live as one of the most graceful heroines in theliterature of our time.... We get an excellent idea of the doings offashionable society in the time when George III. was young, andaltogether the volume can be heartily recommended as the best thing thatWeyman has done, and, in the opinion of one, at least, the mostfascinating book of the season."--HOME JOURNAL, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
COUNT HANNIBAL
A ROMANCE OF THE COURT OF FRANCE
BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN
AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "UNDER THE RED ROBE," "THE CASTLEINN," ETC., ETC.
With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.50
"It is very seldom that one runs across a historical novel the plot ofwhich is so ably sustained, the characters so strongly drawn, the localcolor or atmosphere so satisfactory.... 'Count Hannibal' is thestrongest and most interesting novel as yet written by this popularauthor."--BOSTON TIMES.
"Stanley J. Weyman has had hundreds of imitators since he wrote 'AGentleman of France,' but no man has yet surpassed him. I know of nobook in the whole list of popular favorites that holds one's interestmore intensely or more continuously than 'Count Hannibal' does. And whatan insistent, throat-gripping interest it is!
What is the use of hoping for a decadence of the craze for historicalromances so long as the public is fed on books like this? Such a storyhas zest for the most jaded palate; nay, it can hold the interest evenof a book reviewer. From the first page to the last there is not amoment when one's desire to finish the book weakens. Along with theordinary interest of curiosity there goes that of a delightful andunique love story involving no little skill in characterdelineation."--RECORD-HERALD, CHICAGO.
"A spirited, tersely interesting and most vivid story of scenes andincidents and portrayals of various characters that lived and fought andbled in the lurid days that saw the massacre of St. Bartholomew.... Thisis Mr. Weyman's most graphic and realist
ic novel."--PICAYUNE, NEWORLEANS.
"Mr. Weyman has surpassed himself in 'Count Hannibal.' The scene of thestory is laid chiefly in Paris, at the time of the massacre of St.Bartholomew.... We are made to grasp the soul of Count Hannibal and aretacitly asked to let its envelope take care of itself.... Never has Mr.Weyman achieved, in fact, a higher degree of verisimilitude. CountHannibal may leave us breathless with his despotic methods, but he isnot abnormal; he is one of the Frenchmen who shared the temper whichmade the St. Bartholomew, and he is intensely human too ... how thetangle of events in which he and half a dozen others are involved isstraightened out we refrain from disclosing. The reader who once takesup this book will want to find all this out for himself."--NEW YORKTRIBUNE.
"A story in Mr. Weyman's best vein, with the crimson horror of St.Bartholomew as an historical setting. 'Count Hannibal' is a worthycompanion of 'A Gentleman of France' and 'The Red Cockade,' and Mr.Weyman's hand is as cunning as ever in fashioning a romance which willsend a thrill through the most jaded reader and keep even a reviewerfrom his bed."--BOOKMAN, LONDON.
"The book is rapid, is absorbing, and the hero is a distinctlyinteresting character in himself, apart from his deeds ofdaring."--ATHENAEUM.
"Mr. Stanley Weyman's 'Count Hannibal' is fully worthy of his greatreputation--the style is brilliant, easy and clear; the invention ofsubject and the turns of fortune in the story surprising; above all, thesubtle painting of a man and a woman's heart is done with inexhaustibleknowledge."--GUARDIAN.
"A picturesque and vigorous romance. The narrative will be followed withbreathless interest."--TIMES, LONDON.
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
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