A Marriage Under the Terror

by Patricia Wentworth

“The paper with the cipher on it, did I give you my copy as well as your own?”

  “But no, mon ami. Why, have you not got it?”

  Sélincourt raised his shoulders.

  “Certainly not, since I ask if you have it,” he returned.

  Madame’s delicate chin lifted a little.

  “And when did you find this out?” she asked.

  “I had no occasion to use the code until yesterday, and then…” the lift of his shoulders merged into a decided shrug.

  The Marquise turned away with a slight frown. It was annoying, but then the Vicomte was always careless, and no doubt the paper would be found; it must be somewhere, and her guests were assembling.

  Of such stuff were the conspirators of those days,—triflers, fops, and flirts; men who mislaid the papers which meant life and death to them and to a hundred more; women who chattered secrets in the hearing of their lackeys and serving-maids, unable to realise that these were listeners more dangerous than the chairs and tables of their gaily furnished salons. What wonder that of all the aristocratic plots and counterplots of the Revolution there was not one but perished immature? Powdered nobles and painted dames, they played at conspiracy as they played at love and hate, played with gilded counters instead of sterling gold, and in the end they paid the reckoning in blood.

  Meanwhile Madame received.

  The gay, softly lighted salon filled apace. Day was still warm outside, but the curtains were drawn, and clusters of wax candles, set in glittering chandeliers, threw their becoming light upon the bare shoulders of the ladies and lent the rouge a more natural air.

  Play was the order of the day, the one real passion which held that world. Life and death were trifles, birth and marriage a jest, love and hate the flicker of shadow and sunshine over shallow waters; but the gambler could still feel joy of gain or rage of loss, and the faro table demanded an earnestness which religion was powerless to evoke. Mlle de Rochambeau stood behind her cousin’s chair. The scene fascinated, interested, excited her. The swiftly passing cards, the heaps of gold, the flushed faces, the half-checked ejaculations, all drew and enchained her attention; for this was the great world, and these her future friends.

  At first the game itself was a mystery, but by degrees her quick wits grasped the principle, and she watched with a breathless interest. Madame de Montargis won and won. As the rouleaux of gold grew beside her, she slid them into an embroidered bag, where her monogram shone in pearls and silver and was wreathed by clustering forget-me-nots.

  Now she was not in such good luck. She knit her brows, set her teeth into the full lower lip, pouted ominously,—and cheated. Quite distinctly Mademoiselle saw her change a card, and play on smilingly, as the change brought fickle fortune to her side once more. Aline de Rochambeau’s hand went up to her throat with a nervous gesture. She wore around it a single string of pearls—milk-white, and of great value. In her surprise and agitation she caught sharply at the necklet, and in a moment the thread snapped, and the pearls rolled here and there over the polished floor. Aileen Desmond had worn them last, a dozen years before, and the silken string had had time to rot since then.

  The players took no notice, but Mademoiselle de Rochambeau gave a soft little cry and went down on her knees to pick up her pearls. The greater number were to her hand, but a few had rolled away to the corner of the room. Mademoiselle put what she had picked up into her muslin handkerchief, and slipped it into her bosom. Then she went timidly forward, casting her looks here, there, and everywhere in search of the three pearls which she still missed. She found one under the fold of a heavy curtain, and as she bent to pick it up she heard voices in the alcove it screened, and caught her own name.

  “The little Rochambeau”—just like that.

  It was a woman’s voice, very clear, and a little shrill, and then a man said:

  “She is not bad—she has eyes, and a fine shape, and a delicate skin. Laure de Montargis will be green with jealousy.”

  The woman laughed, a high, tinkling laugh, like the trill of a guitar.

  “The faithful Sélincourt will be straining at his leash,” pursued the same voice. “It is time he ranged himself; and, after all, he has given her twelve years.”

  Another ripple of laughter.

  “What a gift! Heaven protect me from the like. He is tedious enough for an hour, and twelve years!—that poor Laure!”

  “Chère Duchesse, she has permitted herself distractions.” Here the voice dropped, but Aline caught names and shuddered. She rose, bewildered and confused, and as she crossed the room and took her station near Madame again, her eyes looked very dark amidst the pallour of her face. The hand that knotted the fine handkerchief over the last of her pearls shook more than a little, and at a sudden glance of Sélincourt’s she looked down, trembling in every limb. M. de Sélincourt, her betrothed, and Laure de Montargis, her cousin,—lovers. But Laure was married. M. de Montargis was with the Princes,—his wife had spoken of him only that day. Oh, kind saints, what wickedness was this?

  Aline’s brain was in a whirl, but through her shocked bewilderment emerged a very definite horror of the sallow-faced, shifty-eyed gentleman whom she had been taught to regard as her future husband. She shuddered when she remembered that he had kissed her hand, and furtively she rubbed the place, as if to efface a stain. If she had been less taken up with her own thoughts, she would have noticed that whereas the room appeared to have grown curiously quiet, there was a strange sound of trampling, and a confused buzz of speech outside. Suddenly, however, the door was burst open, and a frightened lackey ran in, followed by another and another.

  “Madame—a Commissioner—and a Guard—oh, Madame!” stammered one and another.

  Mme de Montargis raised her arched eyebrows and stared at the foremost man in displeased silence. He fell back muttering incoherently, and she turned her attention to the game once more. But her guests hesitated, and ceased to play, for behind the lackey came a little procession of three, and with it some of the desperate reality of life seemed to enter that salon of the artificial. A Commissioner of the Commune walked first, with broad tri-coloured sash above an attire sufficiently rough and disordered to bear witness to his ardent patriotism. His lank black hair hung unpowdered to his shoulders, and his fat, sallow face wore an expression of mingled dislike and complacency. He was followed by two blue-coated National Guards, who looked curiously about them and smelled horribly of garlic.

  Madame’s gaze dwelt on them with a surprised resentment that did not at all distinguish between the officer and his subordinates.

  “Messieurs, this intrusion—” she began, and on the instant the Commissioner was by her side.

  “Ci-devant Marquise de Montargis, you are my prisoner,” and rough as his voice came his hand upon her shoulder. With a fashionable oath Sélincourt drew his sword, and a woman screamed.

  (“It was the La Rivière,” said Mme de Montargis afterwards. “I always knew she had no breeding.”)

  M. le Commissionaire had a fine dramatic sense. He experienced a most pleasing conviction of being in his element as he signed to the nearest of his underlings, and the man, without a word, drew back the heavy crimson curtains which screened the window towards the street.

  The afternoon sun poured in, turning the candle-light to a cheap tawdry yellow, and with it came a sound which I suppose no one has yet heard unmoved—the voice of an angry crowd. Oaths flew, foul words rose, and above the din sounded a shrill scream of—“The Austrian spy, bring out the Austrian spy!” and with a roar the crowd took up the word, “To the lantern, to the lantern, to the lantern!”

  There was no uncertainty about that voice, and at that, and the Commissioner’s meaning gesture, Sélincourt’s sword-arm dropped to his side again. If Madame turned pale her rouge hid it, and her manner continued calm to the verge of indifference. When the shouting outside had died down a little she turned politely to the man beside her.

  “Monsieur, your hand incommodes me; if you would hav
e the kindness to remove it”; and under her eye, and the faint, stinging sarcasm which flavoured its glance, he coloured heavily and withdrew a pace. Then he produced a paper, drawing from its rustling folds fresh confidence and a return to his official bearing.

  “The ci-devant Vicomte de Sélincourt,” he said in loud, harsh tones; and, as Sélincourt made a movement, “You, too, are arrested.”

  “But this is an outrage,” stammered the Vicomte, “an outrage, fellow, for which you shall suffer. On what charge—by what authority?”

  The man shrugged fat shoulders across which lay the tri-colour scarf.

  “Charge of treasonable correspondence with Austria,” he said shortly; “and as to authority, I am the Commune’s delegate. But, ma foi, Citizen, there is authority for you if you don’t like mine,” and, with a gesture which he admired a good deal, he waved an arm towards the street, where the clamour raged unchecked. As he spoke a stone came flying through the glass, and a sharp splinter struck Sélincourt upon the cheek, drawing blood, and an oath.

  “You had best come with me before those outside break in to ask why we delay,” said the delegate meaningly.

  Madame de Montargis surveyed her guests. She was too well-bred to smile at their dismay, but something of amusement, and something of scorn, lurked in her hazel eyes. Then, with her usual slow grace, she took Sélincourt’s arm, and walked towards the door, smiling, nodding, curtsying, speaking here a few words and there a mere farewell, whilst the Commissioner followed awkwardly, spitting now and then to relieve his embarrassment, and decidedly of the opinion that these aristocrats built rooms far too long.

  “Chère Adèle, ’tis au revoir.”

  “Marquise, I cannot express my regrets.”

  “Nay, Duchesse, mine is the discourtesy, though a most unintentional one. I must rely upon the kindness of my friends to forgive it me.”

  Aline de Rochambeau walked after her cousin, but participated in none of the farewells. She felt cold and very bewildered; her only instinct to keep close to the one protector she knew. To stay behind never occurred to her. In the vestibule Madame de Montargis paused.

  “Dupont!” she called sharply, and the stout major-domo of the establishment emerged from a group of frightened servants.

  “Madame—” Dupont’s knees were shaking, but he contrived a presentable bow.

  Madame’s eyes had lost their smile, but the scorn remained. She spoke aloud.

  “Discharge those three fools who ran in just now, and see that in future I have lackeys who know their place,” and with that she walked on again. All the way down the grand staircase the noise of the mob pursued them. In the vestibule more of the Guard waited with an officer, and yet another Commissioner. The three men in authority conferred for a moment, and then the Commissioners hurried their prisoners to a side door where a fiacre stood waiting. They passed out, and behind them the door was shut and locked. Then, for the first time, Madame seemed to be aware of her cousin’s presence.

  “Aline—little fool!—go back—but on the instant—”

  “Ma cousine——”

  “Go back, I say. Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle, what folly!”

  The girl put her hand on the door, tried it, and said, in a low, shaking voice:

  “But it is locked——”

  “Decidedly, since those were my orders,” growled the second Commissioner. “What’s all this to-do? Who’s this, Renard? Send her back.”

  “But I ask you how?” demanded Renard, “since the door is locked inside, and—Heavens, man, they are coming this way!”

  Lenoir uttered an imprecation.

  “Here, get in, get in!” he shouted, pushing the girl as he spoke. “It is the less matter since the house and all effects are to be sealed up. Get in, I say, or the mob will be down on us!”

  Madame gave him a furious glance, and took her seat beside her trembling cousin. Sélincourt and Renard followed. Lenoir swung himself to the box-seat, and the fiacre drove off noisily, the sound of its wheels on the rough cobble-stones drowning by degrees the lessening outcries of the furious crowd behind.

  CHAPTER III

  SHUT OUT BY A PRISON WALL

  THE FIACRE DREW UP at the gate of La Force. M. le Vicomte de Sélincourt got down, bowed politely, and assisted Madame de Montargis to alight. He then gave his hand to her cousin, and the little party entered the prison. Mme la Marquise walked delicately, with an exaggeration of that graceful, mincing step which was considered so elegant by her admirers. She fanned herself, and raised a scented pomander ball to her nostrils.

  “Fi donc! What an air!” she observed with petulant disgust.

  Renard of the dramatic soul shrugged his shoulders. It was vexing not to be ready with a biting repartee, but he was consoled by the conviction that a gesture from him was worth more than many words from some lesser soul. His colleague Lenoir—a rough, coarse-faced hulk—scowled fiercely, and growled out:

  “Eh, Mme l’Aristocrate, it has been a good enough air for many a poor devil of a patriot, as the citizen gaoler here can tell you, and turn and turn about’s fair play.” And with that he spat contemptuously in Madame’s path, and scowled again as she lifted her dainty petticoats a trifle higher but crossed the inner threshold without so much as a glance in his direction.

  Bault, the head gaoler of La Force, motioned the prisoners into a dull room, used at this time as an office, but devoted at a later date to a more sinister purpose, for it was here in days to come—days whose shadow already rested palpably upon the thick air—that the hair of the condemned was cut, and their arms pinioned for the last fatal journey which ended in the embraces of Mme Guillotine.

  Bault opened the great register with a clap of the leaves that betokened impatience. He was a nervous man, and the times frightened him; he slept ill at nights, and was irritable enough by day.

  “Your names?” he demanded abruptly.

  Mme de Montargis drew herself up and raised her arched eyebrows, slightly, but quite perceptibly.

  “I am the Marquise de Montargis, my good fellow,” she observed, with something of indulgence in her tone.

  “First name, or names?” pursued Citizen Bault, unmoved.

  “Laure Marie Josèphe.”

  “And you?” turning without ceremony to the Vicomte.

  “Jean Christophe de Sélincourt, at your service, Monsieur. Quelle comédie!” he added, turning to Mme de Montargis, who permitted a slight, insolent smile to lift her vermilion upper lip. Meanwhile the Commissioners were handing over their papers.

  “Quite correct, Citizens.” Then, with a glance around, “But what of this demoiselle? There is no mention of her that I can see.”

  Lenoir laughed and swore.

  “Eh,” he said, “she was all for coming, and I dare say a whiff of the prison air, which the old Citoyenne found so trying, will do her no harm.”

  Bault shook a doubtful head, and Renard threw himself with zeal into the role of patriot, animated at once by devotion to the principles of liberty, and loyalty to law and order.

  “No, no, Lenoir; no, no, my friend. Everything must be done in order. The Citoyenne sees now what comes of treason and plots. Let her be warned in time, or she will be coming back for good. For this time there is no accusation against her.”

  He spoke loudly, hand in vest, and felt himself every inch a Roman; but his magniloquence was entirely lost on Mademoiselle, for, with a cry of dismay, she caught her cousin’s hand.

  “Oh, Messieurs, let me stop! Madame is my guardian, my place is with her!”

  Mme de Montargis looked surprised, but she interrupted the girl with energy.

  “Silence then, Aline! What should a young girl do in La Force? Fi donc, Mademoiselle!”—as the soft, distressed murmur threatened to break out again,—“you will do as I tell you. Mme de Maillé will receive you; go straight to her at the Hotel de Maillé. Present my apologies for not writing to her, and—”

  “Sacrebleu!” thundered Lenoir furiously, “this is n
ot Versailles, where a pack of wanton women may chatter themselves hoarse. Send the young one packing, Bault, and lock these people up. Are the Deputies of the Commune to stand here till nightfall listening to a pair of magpies? Silence, I say, and march! The old woman and the young one, both of you march, march!”

  He laid a large dirty hand on Mlle de Rochambeau’s shoulder as he spoke, and pushed her towards the door. As she passed through it she saw her cousin delicately accepting M. de Sélincourt’s proffered arm, whilst her left hand, flashing with its array of rings, still held the sweet pomander to her face. Next moment she was in the street.

  Her first thought was for the fiacre which had conveyed them to the prison, but to her despair it had disappeared, and there was no other vehicle in sight.

  As she stood in hesitating bewilderment, she was aware of the sound of approaching wheels, and looking up she saw three carriages coming, one behind the other, at a brisk pace. There were three priests in the first, one of them so old that all the solicitous assistance of the two younger men was required to get him safely down the high step and through the gate. In the second were two ladies, whose faces seemed vaguely familiar. Was it a year or only an hour ago that they had laughed and jested at Mme de Montargis’ brilliant gathering? They looked at her in the same half uncomprehending manner, and passed on. The last carriage bore the De Maillé crest, but a National Guard occupied the box-seat in place of the magnificent coachman Aline had seen the day before, when Mme de Maillé had taken her old friend’s daughter for a drive through Paris.

  The door of the chariot opened, and Mme De Maillé, pale, almost fainting, was helped out. She looked neither to right nor left, and when Aline started forward and would have spoken, the National Guard pushed her roughly back.

  “Go home, go home!” he said, not unkindly; “if you are not arrested, thank the saints for it, for there are precious few aristocrats as lucky to-day”; and Aline shrank against the wall, dumb with perturbation and dismay.

  As in a dream she listened to the clang of the prison gate, the roll of departing wheels, and it was only when the last echo died away that the mist which hung about her seemed to clear, and she realised that she was alone in the deserted street.