by Frank Norris
One of these movements brought Lauth near to an open doorway; he wrested himself away from the press, and stood in the free space of the door to regain breath. As he was standing there several others hurried past him into the house. They carried arbalists, bows, and slings. One of them had a hand culverin. Grasping his own weapon, an arbalist, he followed them, up the stairs, through the upper rooms, and finally out among the chimney pots upon the leads. The others had remained in the house below, shooting from the upper windows.
He bent his weapon, fitted a bolt to the leathern cord, and sliding down to the edge of the roof, peered over into the street below. Yet he hesitated to shoot. He was not a soldier, either by profession or inclination; he had never taken life before, and he was unwilling to do so now. He laid his arbalist aside and contented himself with watching the progress of the fight below.
Yet soon he saw that it was faring ill with his companions. The gens d’armes, forming a solid and compact front, were now forcing them backward with ever-increasing rapidity. Twice they had rallied in vain; another rush, and the soldiers would have driven them in. He lost control of his more humane instincts and discharged his arbalist at random into the crowd of his enemies below. The course of the bolt was not so rapid but that he could follow it with his eyes, and he saw it whiz through the air to bury itself deep in the neck of a stoutly built man who fought without a helmet. The man threw up his arms and fell sideward.
In an instant a mighty flame of blood lust thrilled up through all Lauth’s body and mind. At the sight of blood shed by his own hands all the animal savagery latent in every human being woke within him — no more merciful scruples now. He could kill. In the twinkling of an eye the pale, highly cultivated scholar, whose life had been passed in the study of science and abstruse questions of philosophy, sank back to the level of his savage Celtic ancestors. His eyes glittered, he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, and his whole frame quivered with the eagerness and craving of a panther in sight of his prey. He could not stretch his arbalist quickly enough again, and his fingers shook as he laid the bolt in the groove.
He took deliberate aim and pulled the trigger, but his hands so trembled with excitement that his bolt went wide of the mark. A second sped with like result. His heart sank with disappointment, and he drew back upon the leads and composed himself for a moment. He must get some more of them. Oh, for an unerring aim now! With three more he thought he would be contented — or only two — even one — ay, he must get one more. Years ago he had stalked deer in the forests of Picardie, but stalking deer was nothing to compare with this.
Once more lying flat upon the roof he crawled to the edge and looked over; now there, just where the enemy were pressed the closest, in the centre of the bridge, even a random shot could not fail to reach something there. The crosse of the arbalist recoiled against his shoulder. “Atteinte!” he shouted, leaping to his feet with a thrill of joy, such as he had never known before, “atteinte, a vous, canaille de bourgeoisie!” and he shook his fist at the throng below. He had struck down the port e-re eve of the St. Jacques gate.
His next missile, glancing up harmlessly from the oval timbre of a bicoque, drove him to an almost insane fury. He gnashed his teeth, spat upon them, hurled at them insults in the vilest language of the Cour des Miracles, and then, as his next bolt spun through the brain of a furrier’s apprentice in a yellow gaberdine, grew white and stood silent, quivering for very joy.
He became like one intoxicated. The smell of blood and dust and sweat from the raging hell below rose to his nostrils like an unholy incense and made him mad-drunk. When his last bolt was gone he threw his arbalist at them, and then his sword, as if it had been a javelin. The thirst of a drunkard was upon him. Just one more, only one, and it would suffice. With hands and nails he tore at the tiles that covered the roof, and at the stones of a chimney that stood behind him. He heaped up the entire mass of debris at the verge of the roof, then, bracing his shoulder against it, sent it toppling over. It careened outward, describing an ever-widening curve; a few stones upon the top detached themselves from the main body, then with a sudden rush it reached the earth with a crash and a thick cloud of dust.
There was nothing more that could serve him as a projectile, and for want of such Lauth’s madness — it had amounted to that — began to abate. Panting, he closed his eyes and passed his hand over his face, then — for the crisis passing left him exhausted — withdrew to the centre of the roof and sat down.
When he again looked over into the street, he saw it deserted. Both parties had withdrawn to their strongholds. It was dusk. The rioting for the day was over. The white horse yet lay upon the pavement, a formless gray mass in the obscurity, but still, at last. Upward of forty bodies were scattered helter-skelter upon the bridge, a few of them moving. The long, slitlike windows of the Chatelet began to shine, while a ruddy vibrating glow behind the barricade announced the usual evening camp fire of the mob. It had begun to grow still again, and with every minute the liquid rustling of the Seine seemed to grow louder and more distinct.
Lauth now found himself in a situation of no little difficulty and danger. The house that he had occupied throughout the afternoon was situated about midway between the Chatelet and the barricade, in such a manner that in order to reach his friends he would have to cross the bridge within sight and bow shot of his enemies. His first thought was to wait until dark before making the attempt, but he recollected that the moon was at her full at this time of the month, and that her light would be far more brilliant than the half gloom of the present twilight. He did not know what had become of the archers who had entered with him. He only knew that he was alone in the house now, and that it was full of shadows and echoes.
He descended to the ground floor. A haze of silver over the Tour de Nesle warned him to be quick. He went to the back of the house and looked over upon the Seine beneath, and then up and down the line of the rear parts of the houses stretching toward the banks. No, there was no passage there, and no boat at the foot of the water stairs that led down from several of them, for many had been taken to help build the barricade, those that had not been thus employed being cut adrift to prevent the crossing of the men-at-arms.
He returned through the house and peered out into the street through the half open door in front. Unfortunately for him, he saw that the house stood upon the right hand side of the bridge, the entrance of the barricade upon the left, and that therefore he would have to traverse the full diagonal width of the bridge to gain it; right out into the open, with no shadow to hide him. Although he knew that no one at the Chatelet would be prepared for his dash across, and was sure that a running mark such as his figure would present would be unusually hard of attaint, yet he felt horribly afraid of being hit. He kept saying to himself, half-aloud, “There is no other course; it must be done,” as though by a verbal repetition of the fact he could bring himself to face it with greater courage.
However, the moon had risen.
From where he stood, he could see the shadow from a sharp gable thrown across the street. He said to himself, “When that shadow has passed over ten of the paving stones, then I will run across.” But first he recollected his prayers. He went back into the house, knelt, and repeated two paters and an ave, and commended himself to Athanasius, his patron saint, vowing twelve red candles to his altar and ten sols parisis to the Hotel Dieu in case of his deliverance. When he returned to the door the shadow had traversed seven out of the ten squares of paving stones. That would not do. When the shadow had covered ten more, then surely he would start. But when the tenth was reached, and looking out he saw the sentries of the Chatelet turning in the moonlight, his heart failed him. Then he grew angry with himself, again made resolve, and sat down to count squares.
One, two, five, seven, eight, and he rose to his feet prepared for the dash; nine, ten, and drawing back into the house to gain greater impetus he darted out toward the gate of the barricade.
Halfway across t
he bridge he trod with one foot upon the scabbard of a sword lying there, and caught his other in the belt to which it was attached. A bolt from an arbalist hit him in the side as he rose to his feet. “It is not a bad hit — it’s not a bad hit,” he muttered between his teeth as he ran on, though he knew it was. An arrow sang past his face, another bolt struck out a long train of sparks at his feet; he could hear other shots striking into the houses upon his right. Fearing to be hit again he dodged into a doorway of one of them and ran into the back room. “It was an ambuscade,” he said to himself, “and they were waiting for me to come out.”
In spite of his efforts his knees bent under him and he sank upon the floor. “Sang Dieu!” he cried desperately. “It’s not to the death, I am not hurt to the death. This is no mortal wound. Mortal!” He laughed aloud incredulously as though to deceive himself. “Why, if it were mortal there would be more pain — a mere flesh wound. The hauberk broke most of the force. There is scarcely any blood. Mortal! Why, I know I am able to rise.”
He did so, and felt a great grateful wave of genuine hope, and heaved a sigh of relief. “But I thought for a moment it was to the death,” he said. “Why, I am all right,” he continued, “of course I’m all right.”
He took a step forward, another, and then it seemed as if a red-hot knife were suddenly driven through his entrails. What was that so warm in his mouth? Blood! A great weakness came over him; he felt as though a thousand unseen hands were dragging him to the floor. But he ground his teeth and stood upright. “It will pass soon,” he muttered. “I am not going to die this time. That little scratch is not to kill me.” He would not let his mind rest upon the possibility of death. He kept saying, “I’m all right; I am not to die yet.” Only when men were hit to the death did they fall, and he would not let himself fall, for he was going to live. If he could stand, that would be proof of it. Another thought that gave him courage was that he was perfectly conscious. When men were to die they lost control of their faculties. He still possessed all of his.
To test them and to take his mind from his wound, he looked about the room in which he found himself, now lighted by the moon. It had been pillaged, like the rooms of all the houses; a broken gridiron, a bottle, and an odd shoe, lay on the bare floor. The wall was painted green, and here and there in lead frames, hung all askew, were gaudy little pictures of St. Julian, St. Chrysostom, and an allegorical figure representing Traffic. The names of these were painted upon the hems of their garments. “Je mi appele St. Julianus,’’ “Je mi appele St. Chrysostom,” etc., and each had a cloudshaped inscription coming out of its mouth.
It suddenly occurred to him to examine and dress his wound. Even if it were not unusually serious he ought to do this. He unfastened his belt and turned back the clothing from the spot; there was very little blood. Some three inches above the hip he saw a hole about as big as a sou piece, but blue about the edges. He tried to bandage it, but succeeded only partially. “Bah! it did not need it; it was but a scratch.” He even thought he could feel the iron bolt scarcely half an inch beneath the skin. It should be probed out to-morrow, he thought. It was nothing; he was not to die yet; a few miserable ounces of metal could not kill him. He grew impatient with himself for thinking about his wound. Sang Dieu! Was there any reason why he should so foolishly keep telling himself that he was not to die? He would think no more about it, but would go to the front of the house and for a second time try to regain the barricade. He turned about and fell flat upon his face with a great noise. He had been standing almost motionless in the centre of the room, and his first movement had destroyed his balance.
Then, as he lay with his face upon the floor, there came to him for the first time, like a great flash of light, the absolute certainty that he was to die; there, in that room, perhaps in a minute, perhaps in an hour. For a moment only he realized this, and an instant afterward was despairingly struggling against it as before. “The wound might be very dangerous, certainly, but not necessarily mortal; no, not that, surely.” He swiftly recalled to mind all the cases he had heard of men recovering from worse wounds than this; and just as he had hoodwinked himself into a delusive hope, he began to be conscious of a horrible thirst. This in a moment reawakened all the apprehensions that he had so desperately tried to allay. He had always heard it said and always believed that this thirst was the inevitable forerunner of death upon the battlefield.
For some time past he had felt, though he strove to think that he had not, an ever-growing sense of suffering all about the lower part of his side and back. All at once this increased — it was impossible to conceal it longer from himself. It became worse, and he could feel his blood throb and pulse all through his body. Every breath was an agony. The pain increased, he ground his teeth, and in spite of himself a groan escaped him; and even yet he kept saying again and again betwixt his clenched jaws: “It will pass; I am all right; I am not to die yet.” His suffering grew more and more horrible. He beat his hands upon the floor, panted, and rolled his head. He shifted his body about, as though a different position might bring him relief. Fiercer and fiercer grew the torture; he howled and bit his fingers. He began to wonder how it was possible that one could endure such suffering and yet live, and to think that as a relief from them death might not be undesirable. But the instant that this alternative presented itself to his mind he strove to banish it. “No, no,” he cried, through all the red whirl of torment, “I am not to die, I will not die. Life at any cost! Life, even though maimed and crippled! Life, even though it were passed in rayless dungeons.”
Then, as suddenly as it had come on, the paroxysm left him. Oh, the blessedness of that moment when the pain was gone! He drew long sighs of pure delight. He was better now, he was not going to die after all. The crisis had been passed. “I am all right now,” he said. Life had never seemed sweeter than now. He must not, no, he must not die. He had a notion that by thinking hard enough he could keep himself alive. Again and again he prayed for life, not in the formal orisons of the Church, but with fierce, passionate outbursts, and with the words of a child beseeching a parent.
By and by there began to steal over him a strange chilling and indefinable sensation, which, he knew not why, struck him with awe. What was this? What was going to happen? Why was he suddenly so afraid? Was it the pain coming on again? Was he about to faint? Was it — was it the approach of death?
Yes, death at last. It was all over now; he could no longer deceive himself. He knew now that he was going to die; fool that he had been ever to have thought otherwise. For a moment he looked calmly at his approaching end; then suddenly became filled with confusion, terror, and despair, and the most violent agitation. A thousand rapidly succeeding impressions began to rush across his brain, impressions as transient and momentary as words and fragments of sentences caught here and there in a book whose leaves are rapidly turned. He could not think connectedly. He wondered how the end would feel: would his breath cease and would he die of suffocation? Would the spasm of pain come on again? They would find his body all cold in this room some day, perhaps gnawed with rats. “This is death,” he said aloud. “I am going to meet death. Oh, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.”
He remembered having heard and read how men died in battle. Some of them had made long and beautiful speeches welcoming death, recommending their souls to heaven, and addressing last words to their friends. He could do nothing of this. Conflicting ideas and emotions hustled together in his brain like frightened rats in a trap. He had heard, too, how soldiers with their last breath defied their enemies and cheered their friends; he only felt a fierce hatred for them all. They and their miserable quarrel had been the cause of his death, and, involved in their petty strife, they cared nothing for his life, which was ebbing away. This brought him back to his present situation again. Once more he repeated, “This is death; this is death. I am dying.” He looked at the wound that had caused it; touched it with his fingers. There was a hole in the hauberk where the bolt had entered. He
remembered where and under just what circumstances he had first put the hauberk on; in the public room of the Hostel des Quatre filz d’Aymon in the Rue St. Honore, opposite the Quinze-Vingts, and nearly fifty scholars had been there, and arms, offensive and defensive, were being distributed by the committee. D’Orsay had handed him this hauberk, and he recollected just how he laughed, and the peculiar heavy and clinging texture of the steel shirt. He remembered the deaf-and-dumb girl who ran back and forth in the room with drinking cups and stout mugs. They has tested the hauberk, too, with a poniard.
It seemed a long time ago, many weeks, since he had attempted the fatal run across the bridge. What would his father and La Vingtrie say when they heard of his death?
A slight shiver shook his limbs. Was that death? No, not yet. What would the symptoms be like? He began to watch himself in order to detect their approach, feeling his own pulse with one hand to catch its first failing quiver. He was going to die without confession or absolution — he had not thought of that. How fierce had been the press in the fight of that afternoon! Where would they bury him, he wondered? Suppose he should fall into a comatose state and they should bury him alive? He wondered whether the white horse on the bridge was dead yet. Yes, he remembered seeing him still and stiff. He was going to die, too; he was no better then than the horse. With all his superior intelligence he could not avoid death. The horse was white, and like those of all white horses his mane and tail were tinged with yellow. The barricade had been very still. He remembered trivial things long past — a summer’s day in the forest of Fontainebleau, a lecture in the Ecole de Medecine, the branding of a Jew at the Croix Trahoir when it had rained. He thought that, when death approached, all the events of one’s life passed before the mind’s eye; it was not so with him now.