by Frank Yerby
“I haven’t thanked you for saving my life,” she said pleasantly. “That was gallant of you, Jean.”
“I have regretted that gallantry since,” Jean said.
Her hazel eyes widened.
“You want me dead, then?” she breathed.
“No,” Jean said truthfully, “I don’t.”
“Then why. . . ? Oh, I see—Gervais! Don’t tell me you’re still jealous! How childish of you, my Jeannot.”
“Don’t call me your Jeannot,” Jean said; “I’ve long since ceased to be anything of yours.”
“Have you? I doubt it. Anyone who has been mine stays mine for ever—if I want him. Even if I don’t, he still remains mine in his heart. All I need do is beckon, Jeannot—true?”
“You witch!” Jean swore.
Lucienne threw back her head and laughed merrily.
“How funny you are!” she laughed. “Even with that wonderful horror of a face you’re still funny.”
“You didn’t think so once,” Jean said.
“I was a child,” Lucienne said. “I knew nothing of the world—or of men.”
“And now you know?” Jean growled.
Lucienne sat back in her chair, smiling peacefully.
“Yes,” she said, “now I know.”
Jean sat there looking at her, thinking: You were always a real woman, weren’t you, Lucienne? But now you’re something more; you’re complete now. When you were younger you were very complicated. You’re still very complicated, but you’ve dominated your complications, so that now you’re very clear. An awful thing, that clarity of yours—a dangerous thing, really. For you have to live in a world that’s very muddled, and the only thing it knows to do with the clear ones like you is to kill them.
He smiled at her a little, searching her face with his eyes. I think you’ve found out that the only unforgivable sins are weakness and stupidity. I know that too, but I don’t believe it. That’s the difference between us, you believe it. And that disbelief of mine makes me unclear and a part of the world I live in, while your clarity and your force make you superior to it, so it must destroy you. And it will, my sweet—because the stupid and the weak always destroy the clear and the strong by sheer weight of numbers.
“What are you thinking?” Lucienne said.
“That you’ve become very clear,” Jean told her.
“Ah,” Lucienne said. Then: “Clear, yes—but not transparent. For instance, you don’t know what I’m thinking now.”
Jean smiled at her. He was recovering his poise now. “My indifference,” he said, “is both complete—and profound.”
“Liar!” Lucienne laughed.
Jean Paul shrugged.
‘Have it your own way,” he said.
“I always have my own way,” Lucienne said; and Jean believed her.
“I’m going to see you again?” she said. It was more than half a statement.
Jean thought about that one. He started to say no, that she would never see him again; but he knew she’d smile at that and accept it as a kind of cowardice. Yet to say yes was to add fuel to that vanity of hers that wasn’t vanity really, but a part of her clarity. It isn’t vanity, Jean thought wryly, to believe that you can wind most men around your little finger—when you know perfectly and from long experience that you actually can.
“If you like,” he said, the note of indifference in his voice just right, not overdone, with no crudities or staginess. He stifled the impulse to cover a feigned yawn with the back of his hand. She, he decided, would see through that in an instant. She’s clear—oh yes, she’s very clear.
“I like,” Lucierine smiled. “But not tonight. Gervais is calling tonight. Day after tomorrow, perhaps?”
Jean stood up. The scar blazed across his face. It came to him that, next to Gervais la Moyte, he hated this woman. She could do too many things to him, and he hated her. The inseparable twins, he thought bitterly, hatred—and love.
“I,” he said, damning himself for a simpleton as he said it, “shall be busy all this week. You’re at the Opéra, aren’t you? I’ll leave a note for you backstage. . . .”
But she wasn’t listening to him. She was staring past him, and the warmest, most inviting of smiles lighted her face.
“Gervais!” she said laughingly, “I didn’t expect you so soon!”
“Obviously,” the Comte de Gravereau smiled. “Ah, Marin— my worthy political opponent. That’s right, the two of you know each other—don’t you?”
“Rather well,” Lucienne said. “It’s fortunate you came, Gervais. M. Marin was about to desolate me by leaving.”
“Far be it from me to detain him,” Gervais la Moyte laughed, “busy as he must be with the terribly weighty matters of State.”
Jean had control of himself now. He had even stopped trembling.
“Yet,” he said frigidly, “I fear that I must detain M. le Comte for a moment. Not long though—just long enough to exchange cards. I believe this tiresome business of face-slapping is unnecessary between two such old acquaintances.”
“Jean!” Lucienne said; “don’t be an utter idiot. I won’t have you getting yourself run through over me. You’re a bourgeois—like me. What training have you had in swordplay?”
“None,” Jean said grimly; “not that it matters. But at the risk of seeming unflattering, I must inform you, Mademoiselle, that I shan’t be fighting over you. I can’t think of any combination of circumstances that would make me risk nicking a finger-tip in your behalf. M. le Comte de Gravereau knows well why I challenge him.”
Gervais’s face was filled with honest puzzlement. “You’ll forgive me, M. Marin,” he said, “but I don’t—truly I don’t.”
Jean stared at him. He shook his head as though to clear it. “You mean to tell me,” he said, “that when you rode away from Château Gravereau, leaving it surrounded by that peasant mob, you didn’t know they’d burn it to the ground?”
Horror flared in La Moyte’s eyes.
“They burned it?” he whispered; “they burned my château?”
“You didn’t know?” Jean spat.
“Of course not! Why hasn’t Thérèse written and told me? When I rode away, I did so only to save it. Those madmen love Thérèse—I was sure they wouldn’t. . . .” He stopped, staring into Jean’s eyes. “My God!” he got out. “You don’t mean that they—that Thérèse . . .”
“Yes,” Jean said. “Your château—and Thérèse. My brother, Bertrand, was able to recognise my sister’s body only by that part of her jewellery that remained unmelted. Why else did you think I challenged you?”
“I didn’t know,” Gervais said weakly. “Oh, the beasts! The foul, unspeakable beasts!”
“They were men once,” Jean said. “Your class is damnably expert in making beasts of men.”
“I won’t meet you,” Gervais said quietly. “Not over this—not ever over this. Please, a chair—I think I’d better sit down. . . .”
Jean pushed one forward. Lucienne was already beside Gervais, cradling his head upon her arm.
Jean sighed. I cannot finish this now, he thought; but now— if ever. He started to walk away, but two yards away he turned.
“You had best write, M. le Comte,” he said dryly, “and inquire after your own sister. When last seen she was fleeing for the woods, pursued by a horde of armed men.”
“God!” Gervais got out. It was a cry of pure agony.
Lucienne’s eyes flamed.
“You are a monster!” she said. “You haven’t any heart!”
“On the contrary, Mademoiselle,” Jean laughed, “I’m as soft as butter in the proper hands—remember?”
He made them both a deep bow.
“Au ‘voir, M’sieur, M’amzelle,” he said. Then he turned and went down the street, leaving the sound of his laughter trailing behind him.
But a minute or two later, when it came to him what he had done, he stopped still. Lucienne is right, he thought bitterly, I haven’t a heart. I believe that
Nicole escaped. I couldn’t countenance a universe that would permit such a thing to happen to her. But that same fate, God, universe—call it what you will—permitted Thérèse to die in horrible agony. To believe a thing because it is pleasant to believe is the worst of stupidity.
Fool, fool—how long will it take you to accept the fact that life is pitiless, and between a man’s deserts and what actually happens to him there is no connection whatsoever?
He moved on, his face brooding.
To have fought La Moyte was one thing; but to slash at him with words was another. And to use Nicole—poor, lost Nicole—as a weapon against him was quite the most despicable thing I’ve ever done in all my life.
There was a tavern on the corner. He stopped before it, frowning. This, too, is a weakness, he thought. But he went in all the same.
Between a man’s plans and his deeds lies a distance that sometimes must be measured in leagues. Jean Paul Marin found that out during the first weeks of the sittings of the States-General. He had planned to live in Paris and ride each day to Versailles; but he soon found that this was impossible. Events were moving too fast.
Not that he regretted this thunderous onrush of history. It was exhilarating to be a part of it; to stand in the tennis-court and swear with uplifted hand Mounier’s deathless oath: “We take our solemn oath not to separate until the Constitution of France be established. . .”; to listen to Mirabeau’s roar on June twenty-third, after the King had enjoined each Order to repair to its separate chamber, and the Grand Master of Ceremonies had announced pompously: “Gentlemen, you know the intentions of the King. . .” and Mirabeau rising, ugly, magnificent, thundering:
“If, sir, you have been charged to make us quit this place, you must ask for orders to use force, for we will not stir from our places save at the point of the bayonet!”
And Louis, informed, shrugging his fat shoulders, saying:
“If the gentlemen of the Third Estate do not choose to leave the hall, why, then there is nothing to do but leave them there.”
It did something to a man to measure skill with the best in debate. Of them all, only Sieyès could best him. Mirabeau commanded more admiration; but Deputy Marin’s speeches made up in pristine clarity what they wanted in rhetoric. He was in the thick of it all, and he gloried in it.
He saw the battle won finally when, debating the King’s censure of their temerity in calling themselves the National Assembly, as though they, the Third Estate alone, constituted all France, he rose and said:
“But, Gentlemen, we are all France! If the representatives of twenty-four million people are not the deputies of the Nation, what then are those who sit for a mere two hundred thousand—one per cent, of the population, and that part consisting of the drones and parasites of society, the men who do nothing, produce nothing, who live like leeches upon the life-blood of the people. . . .”
The applause from the gallery drowned his words. But even then he heard himself bested by the invincible Sieyès, who rose and pronounced one sentence and then sat down again. But that sentence, clear, incisive, perfect, would echo down the halls of time for ever:
“Gentlemen,” Sieyès said quietly; “you are today what yesterday you were.”
And the debate was over, ended in the stunned silence of the recognition of its perfection. The National Assembly they were, and would remain.
By July second it was over. The last, most reluctant of the nobles had accepted defeat. The three Orders sat together and the battle between them was joined.
On July twelfth Jean was back in Paris, sent with twenty-four other deputies and all the Paris contingent to investigate the disorders there. After a day spent in walking through a city torn from one end to the other by rioting, he came at nightfall to the little flat that Pierre and Marianne, at his orders, had furnished for Fleurette.
She opened the door at his knock, and, hearing his voice, the joy in her face was almost too much to be borne.
Oh yes, M’sieur Jean—entirely! My bones have all knit together and I have no pain. I’ve even gained a little weight—see?”
Jean saw. The good food that Pierre and Marianne furnished her with paid for by Jean, had had its effect. Her little figure Was becoming fetchingly rounded.
It s becoming,” he said. “The dress is pretty, too. . . .”
“Marianne made it. It’s so good to have friends—though—”
“What were you going to say, little one?” Jean said gently.
“I—I shouldn’t say it. It’s just that—that I miss you so! It’s been so awful—Jean——” She stopped, her face flooded with colour. “May I call you that? You are so young, and so good to me; so much my friend that it seems strange to say M’sieur.”
“Of course, Fleurette,” Jean said. “I’m pleased that you want to.”
“Marianne calls you that. And I feel ever so much closer to you than she. . . .” She had gained confidence now, and she kept her sightless eyes upon him, her face smiling, happy. “I’m so glad that you came back. Are you going to stay?”
“Yes,” Jean said, “as much as possible now—things have quieted down at Versailles.”
She stood up then and came towards him, her face radiant.
“Then take me back with you!” she breathed, “to your place, I mean. Oh, Jean, Jean—I wouldn’t be any trouble; I could keep it clean and cook for you—I can do those things, and wash too. Anything, so long as I am near you.”
Jean stared at her.
“But, Fleurette,” he got out, “you’re a young woman—and a pretty one, too. Don’t you know what people would say?”
“I don’t care what they’d say—as long as it isn’t true. And it wouldn’t be. There could never be anything wrong between us—because you are good, and kind, and feel only pity for me. If they said I was your mistress, they would be lying, and I don’t care about lies. I—I couldn’t be your mistress, Jean, because you don’t love me. . . .”
“And if I did?” he asked, out of curiosity.
“I don’t know. I—I’m so afraid. For, you see—I do love you. I have for ever so long a time.”
“This is a grave thing,” Jean said sadly. “There would be days, even weeks, sometimes when I wouldn’t be there. And when I came, there would always be this thing between us. I should be troubled, Fleurette, trying not to offend you. You are good and sweet and lovely, but—”
“My blindness?” she breathed.
“No. I don’t think that bothers me any more. It is simpler than that, Fleurette. There is someone else—whom I love. . . .”
“I see.” He could almost hear the joy fall from her voice. “She is here—in Paris, I mean?”
“No. I don’t know where she is. She may even be—dead.”
“Oh,” Fleurette said.
“I’m waiting for news of her. When it comes, things may be different for me. But one thing—and this is the bad thing, little Fleurette: no matter how long it takes to come, if I should grow old and be lying upon my final bed, I shall be waiting still—for word of her. That’s how it is, Fleurette; that’s how it will always be. . . .”
She put out her hand to him.
“Forgive me,” she said quietly; “I hope you find her—Jean.” He went from there down the streets flaming with burning barriers, which the mobs had forced and set afire. Overturned carriages blazed fiercely. Jean walked as close as he dared to these vehicles. He wanted to find out something. And not one coach that was not already too far gone for him to be able to determine it bore a coat-of-arms upon its door.
So it goes, he thought bitterly. When we unleashed the hatred and envy that lies at the heart of every man, we thought only to destroy our enemies thereby. But unchain a beast, and he turns and rends you. . . . Fools that we were to think that they would draw fine distinctions between the upper bourgeoisie and the nobles. . . .
He heard, close at hand, a scattered burst of musket-fire, then screams, curses, and the clatter of stones against walls, doors.
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He turned towards the sound, for one of the tasks that he and all the other deputies had undertaken ever since they reached Paris was to save people from the mobs. It was for that reason that he wore his black uniform. In Paris, those first weeks of July, the black garb of a deputy of the Third Estate was better protection for a man than a suit of armour.
In the street some two hundred men, women and children were throwing stones at ten or twelve members of the Garde Française. The guards had their bayonets ready, but they weren’t firing any more. They were trying to call out to the madmen bent upon murdering them, but the roars of the men and the shrieks of the women drowned their voices.
Jean took a deep breath. Then he walked out into that shower of stones. He was struck three times before someone recognised his dress.
“A deputy!” they cried out; “one of our deputies!”
The stones ceased. The street became very still.
Give a cheer for M’sieur le Député!” a burly fellow roared.
Vive le Député!” they bellowed. The noise of their cheering reverberated between the walls of the houses.
Citizens!” Jean cried out. “These soldiers are citizens, too! They have their orders to see that the peace is kept, and to put down disturbances. Yet regard how nobly they, your servants, have behaved. Not one of you is wounded. These men have fired above your heads—have refrained from slaughter. I beg of you, citizens—let them go!”
“We have something to say, M. le Député!” one of the Garde called out, taking advantage of the moment of silence.
“Hear the sergeant, mes amis,” Jean pleaded.
“Let him speak!” the big fellow who was leading the mob called.
“Citizens,” the sergeant said. “As M. le Député has told you we have our orders—from the King, from the nobles. Know ye what those orders were? We were to shoot at sight anyone suspected of rioting or pillage! Have we done so, citizens, friends? I ask you, have we?”
“No!” the mob roared out. “Vive Messieurs les Citoyens Soldats!”
“We,” the sergeant said proudly, “have taken our oath never to fire upon the people of Paris! You are our friends, we have married among you; think ye we’d shoot the brothers and sisters of our wives?”