The Arm and the Darkness

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  “I repeat, Italians have never appealed to me.”

  The Capuchin compressed his lips. “It pleases you, Armand-Jeanne, to attempt to annoy me. Monseigneur de Pacilli has waited almost a year for an audience, for a position, yet you have perversely refused to see him, though he came here after the request which you sent to his Holiness.”

  “I have only been meditating as to where we can use him to the best advantage.”

  “This, then, is the advantage. He is not too young; he is not too old,” added the Capuchin, with an ironic intonation. “Let Monsieur le Bishop sympathically urge upon de Vitry the necessity of a holiday for old Père Lovelle, who has two nieces and a nephew near Rouen. Pacilli, then, will take his place, ostensibly for the period, only. We have only to explain what we wish to him. He will do the rest.”

  Within less than two hours, Monseigneur Antoine de Pacilli was admitted to the presence of the Cardinal through devious and secret passageways. No one saw him come. He was filled with delight and satisfaction at finally being called into the august and terrible presence.

  CHAPTER XXV

  There was, in Paul de Vitry, the mysterious and indefinable element of greatness, which has nothing to do with fame, or her handmaiden, acclaim, or her false buffoon notoriety. He spoke simply, yet gently; he had a smile of singular sweetness. When he laughed, he laughed with his eyes as well as his lips, and a glow, clear and translucent, would light up in them. His manner was soft and deprecating, as if he felt a deep humility. If his opinions were vehement, they were nevertheless not dogmatic or arrogant; he lived in apprehension that they might offend unintentionally, and he would frequently apologize for them. He was generous, sympathetic, subtle and sensitive. He was a devoted friend, and felt no enmity for any one. There was no bitterness or hatred in him. Above all, he was compassionate and merciful, loathing nothing but injustice and cruelty and oppression.

  Perhaps it was the sum of all these things that made him great. He possessed them all, whereas other men possessed one or a few. Perhaps he lacked reserve in his virtue: he had no reticences in mercy, love, tenderness and honor. There was no moderation in his goodness. His heart was as wide as infinity. He was like a spring that gushes inexhaustibly, not confined by the stones of caution, or selfishness, not made brackish by constant consideration of his own good, not restrained or thickened by the mud of judiciousness or self-restraint. He gave all of his heart and did not ask if by doing so he exhibited wisdom, prudence, or moderation.

  The greatness of great men is in the complete abandon and openness of their souls. Too, Paul’s greatness was in his infinite passion, the boundless horizon of his spirit. Where there is artifice there is reserve, and where there is reserve, there is no greatness. Some of his greatness lay in his lack of artifice, and in his noble disregard of the disapproval, incredulity or contempt of others. He had a lofty and fervid innocence, which, however, was not unconscious of evil. But in his recognition of it, and his invariable and outraged astonishment at it, was that pristine affirmation of his own majesty. There was in him the quality of exaggeration, which is the mark of all greatness, good or evil.

  For all this, he was adored by a few, and violently hated by the majority, for it is a sad fact that greatness in a man is the unpardonable sin.

  Arsène had always loved him, but it was not until his own still confused awakening that he realized the full stature of his friend. He would not have said: “I would trust Paul with my life,” for in that admission is the element of simpering self-consciousness. He never thought of this, for it was an empirical fact to him.

  He went to Paul immediately with the report of his audience with the Cardinal. Paul listened with the deepest concentration.

  “I have thought that I must accept,” said Arsène, “for many reasons. Among them is the plan that in such a position I would be privy to any plots of that man.”

  At this, Paul burst into an involuntary laugh. “Arsène, I adore you!” he exclaimed. Then at Arsène’s offended frown, he quickly threw his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Ah, now, I have annoyed you! But you must perceive how this is not feasible. The mere acceptance of this post would not remove you from suspicion. It would only expose you to easier spying. What a gallant, but innocent soul you have, Arsène! You are too passionate, too angry of temperament, to play a subtle rôle. Too, you would be excessively unhappy. Treachery is not easy for you. I could not advise you to entangle yourself in such a situation. Moreover, the idea, itself, is immoral. One does not accept benefits, nor take a solemn oath, with the inner determination to betray all of them.”

  “It is you who are the innocent,” said Arsène, mortified.

  “No,” said Paul, with sudden seriousness, “it is not that. I would have you do no injury to yourself, not even for me, or our friends.”

  “But, if I do not, you are in danger.”

  “Not in more danger than I am. Too, all this is in God’s hands.” He added: “I do not fear overmuch for you, Arsène. You are the son of the Marquis du Vaubon.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Arsène, wryly, “that would not prevent the Cardinal from hiring an assassin to despatch me.”

  “Your best recourse, then, is to inform a large circle of 272 friends and acquaintances of the Cardinal’s offer, and your own refusal, with regrets. I suspect that even the Cardinal would hesitate to do a deed that would put him under the foulest suspicion.”

  He sighed. He began to speak of the Duc de Tremblant and the Dutchman. “They leave tonight, inconspicuously, with only a small number of guards. A large retinue would inspire curiosity and suspicion. They will travel modestly, on horseback, arousing no conjecture. Gentlemen of small means taking a quiet and unheralded journey.”

  “The road is infested,” said Arsène, gloomily. “Moreover, do not think that the Cardinal will not learn something of it.”

  “That is not possible. Only de Bouillon, de Rohan, I and yourself know of this. Where, then, can enter the treachery? Besides, who would dare molest the Duc de Tremblant, even if it were known?”

  “You do not know the Cardinal.”

  Paul then asked Arsène if he would like to accompany him on a visit to his estates. He had recognized that the bravo, on the search for adventure, was beginning to think. He had eagerly taken it upon himself to direct that thinking. Arsène expressed himself as delighted.

  “I must return within five days,” he said, “for my marriage.”

  He said this calmly, with no lighting of his eyes, no smile of tenderness. Paul studied him with quick penetration. When Arsène spoke thus of his wedding, a shade darkened his eye and a gloomy shadow appeared about his mouth. Paul did not speak of this, but he felt some sadness. “Tomorrow, then, we shall go,” he said.

  Arsène sent a letter to the Cardinal, filled with the most exaggerated expressions of regret, declining the honor of the post offered him. He told his father of the offer and the refusal, and the Marquis was filled with excitable wrath and disappointment. “I have dreamt of this, you fool, you scoundrel!” he exclaimed.

  “How could I be false to my convictions?” urged Arsène, amused.

  “Bah, convictions! Only women and eunuchs can afford convictions! There is no room in an ambitious man for such folly.”

  “I am not ambitious, my father,” replied Arsène.

  “You are only a rascal!” cried the Marquis. “Have you never realized that this is your only chance to escape murder? Have you never thought what the Cardinal might know of you, you and your Les Blanches?” When the Marquis had said this, he turned excessively pale, and Arsène fully understood in what terror his father lived perpetually.

  He set himself to soothe the Marquis. “He will not murder me. I shall tell every one of the offer, and my regret, and my inability to accept the disciplinarian life. That will tie the Cardinal’s hands.”

  The Marquis clasped his own hands, and even Arsène could not smile at the theatrical gesture. “I beseech you!” said the Marquis. �
�Do you not owe this to me, your father? Have you ever contemplated in what misery and fear I live, because of your recklessness? How long do you think it will be before you are ruined?”

  “I have thought much of my grandfather,” replied Arsène, quietly.

  At this, the Marquis was silent, his lips twitching, his eyes darting away. A strange look appeared on his face, and then, after a moment, he regarded Arsène as he would regard a fearful stranger. He said, at last, in a dwindled voice: “You must do, then, what you must.”

  Arsène was amazed. With a burst of love and tenderness, he tried to console the Marquis. Never had he felt such affection, such gratitude, for him, and his heart troubled him. But though the Marquis accepted these gestures of consolation, of appreciation and understanding, he would not be comforted. He allowed Arsène to kiss his cheek and hold his hand. When Arsène tried to withdraw his hand eventually, the Marquis clung to it. His eyes were full of tears which rose from his heart.

  Arsène mused much on this strange scene later. Was it possible that after all there was some nobility, some noblesse oblige, in the frivolous and shallow Marquis, who lived only for intrigue, women, perfumes and the Court? He was incredulous.

  He had neglected Mademoiselle Clarisse de Tremblant lately, and that night he called upon his betrothed, going to the Hôtel de Tremblant in his sober doublet, cloak and hose. The cavalier, the gallant, no longer appeared to care for gay raiment. Heretofore, Arsène de Richepin had been known for his dashing elegance and excellent tailors, and admirable figure. But lately his wardrobe had been neglected; his valet, Pierre, would shake his head dolefully as he brushed the unworn garments and polished the fine boots, which were rarely used in these days. “Monsieur has become an English puritan,” he would complain, with disgust. Even the jeweled rapiers hung dustily in far corners. Arsène carried with him always the sword of his grandfather, like a talisman.

  Now, as he approached the Hôtel de Tremblant, he saw that all the tall glittering windows were blazing with lights, that music issued softly from the gardens in the rear, which were illuminated by myriads of lamps strung from the tall dark trees. Carriages turned and wheeled through the narrow streets, which were crowded with curious ragged Parisians, staring blankly, or discussing, with inimitable French obscenity, the personalities of the various scented and beautiful women and elegant gentlemen who were alighting. However, they were kept at a respectful distance by detachments of the King’s and the Cardinal’s Musketeers, who swaggered and glowered and pulled plumed hatbrims incessantly. Hubbub resounded all through the neighborhood. When servants opened the massive oak and brazen doors, gushes of hot yellow light spewed out into the dark and fetid street, and the ribald and sardonic populace jeered and cheered. In the seething and anonymous mass, Parisians were not respectful, and even the Musketeers curled their mustaches and smiled under them at some of the shouted witticisms. In the distance, the towers of Notre Dame floated against a pure dark blue sky swarming with trembling stars.

  Arsène halted in the press of the crowd, astonished. Apprehensively, he searched his mind. What had he forgotten now? The crowds buffeted him, for he was not to be distinguished, in his plain and sober garments, from any other man, except for his sword. He was assailed by the foul odors of sweat and dirt which emanated from the mobs, and he winced. He looked about him at the faces splashed by torches, and all at once a cold hand of terror gripped his heart. For in these dark and dirty faces, lighted by black and glittering eyes and the glisten of wet exposed teeth, he discerned a formless but frightful danger. They laughed and shouted as each carriage expelled its fragrant and magnificent freight, but under the laughter there was a sound as of caged and savage beasts, hungry and powerful.

  He perceived the Captain of the King’s Guard at a little distance, and struggled to reach him. Arms, shoulders, bodies blocked his passage. Finally, in desperation, as a man who is drowning calls, he shouted to the Captain, who turned in astonishment in the direction of his voice. Then, he moved towards that voice, and the crowds sullenly separated. When he saw who had hailed him, his mouth fell open in imbecile astonishment. “Monsieur de Richepin!” he exclaimed, unbelievingly, and he glanced over his shoulder as if he expected to see a duplicate of Arsène alighting from some carriage near the entrance. He could hardly persuade himself that this young disheveled man fighting among the mob was in truth Arsène de Richepin.

  Persuaded at last, that this was indeed Arsène, he pulled him from the press, and stared in still greater astonishment at the young nobleman’s plain and disordered dress.

  “Ma foi!” exclaimed Arsène, fastidiously brushing his cloak with his hand, and removing his hat that he might shake loose the bent dark plume. “What is this that is afoot?”

  Now the Captain seemed overcome with the extremity of his amazement. He gaped; his eyes goggled. He had the aspect of a fish that is removed from water. Two or three of his men joined him, and when they recognized Arsène, they, too, gulped and goggled. Arsène experienced some uneasiness, and said irritably: “Can no one speak? What is all this?”

  The Captain finally found his voice. “Is it possible that Monsieur has forgotten that a fete has been given in honor of himself and Mademoiselle de Tremblant, and that Monsieur le Duc de Richelieu and his Majesty are momentarily expected?”

  Cold dismay made blank Arsène’s countenance. “Ah, yes,” he muttered. “I had forgotten.”

  At this, the Captain appeared about to swoon. He literally trembled. “The Marquis du Vaubon and Monseigneur de Richepin have already arrived,” he said, weakly. “No doubt they are wondering at Monsieur’s absence.”

  Arsène was full of consternation. Not to be on hand to greet their Majesties would be unpardonable. Madame de Tremblant would never forgive him for this affront, nor would the King. Yet, how dared he enter that magnificent, laced and silken assemblage in these garments, dusty, worn and fit only for the street? Nor did he have the time to return to the Hôtel du Vaubon for a change of costume. At any moment august personages would be arriving.

  “Clear a way for me to the servants’ entrances,” he said desperately to the Captain, cursing himself. When he was conducted to those entrances by a gloomy and astounded Captain, he was greeted with further astonishment by the men on guard there. The servants were overcome. He demanded to be led to the apartments of the Duc de Tremblant. When he entered those apartments, he discovered the Duc suffering, indifferently, the ministrations of his valets. His curled wig was being dangled before his eyes and he was regarding it with distaste. When he saw the figure of Arsène in the mirror, he stared, incredulously. Then he turned, stared again, and burst into laughter. For indeed, the young man’s desperate face, disordered hair, wrinkled and bourgeois clothing, were a strange and unexpected vision.

  “There is no time for laughter or explanation other than I forgot, and have no time to return to the Hôtel du Vaubon,” said Arsène hurriedly, and with offense. His dark thin face was flushed with mortification and anger at himself. He could not bear laughter at his own expense. “I must beg your indulgence, Monsieur le Duc, and ask if it is possible for me to wear one of your own costumes.”

  The Duc no longer laughed, but his grave brown eyes danced irrepressibly. “What a bridegroom this is!” he murmured. Then even the laughter died from his eyes, and he regarded Arsène with sudden searching gravity. He turned to his gaping valets. “See if it is possible for us to oblige Monsieur.”

  He stood up. He was some two inches taller than Arsène. He circled him slowly and thoughtfully, while the color increased in the young man’s face. The valets circled also, fingers at dubious lips. Even at this distance, through muted doors, sounds of revelry and music penetrated. Sweat appeared on Arsène’s brow, and his eyes began to glitter at this absurd scene. He was like a strange animal being carefully and wonderingly studied. He was humiliatingly conscious of his body.

  At last one of the valets scurried to the wardrobes, and returned with a gorgeous costume of pl
um colored velvet laced and decorated with gold. Another valet produced a white silken shirt, foaming with lace at the neck and cuffs. Still another burrowed in a chest and triumphantly brought to light an elaborate curled wig, and silken stockings and slippers with golden buckles.

  “Ah, yes,” exclaimed the Duc, with relief. “That is a costume I meant to return to my tailor, for the imbecile made it much too small for me. Hasten, rascals, hasten!”

  Confusion fell upon the mirror-lined chamber. Basins of perfumed water and white towels were brought. The valets assaulted Arsène feverishly, while the Duc, smiling again, attended to his own toilette, and watched. Buffeted, swung about, splashed, disrobed, Arsène, with increasing mortification, allowed them to do what they would with him. Suddenly he caught a glimpse of the absorbed Duc, whose wig hung over one ear rakishly, and he laughed reluctantly.

  The doublet, however, was too long for him, and he surveyed it with dismay. But there was nothing to be done. The slippers were too large, and one of the inspired and sweating valets stuffed the toes with a torn handkerchief. The wig showed an alarming tendency to fall over his eyes. Inspiration again came to his rescue, and another kerchief was folded upon his head and the wig lowered with trepidation. “If Monsieur will be careful, and keep his head erect, there will not be much danger,” stammered one of the valets.

  There was a louder burst of music from the gardens and the hotel. One of the valets darted to the Duc for the final touches. By this time, Arsène was in a bad temper. He appreciated jokes, but not on himself. He felt himself offended, robbed of dignity. With much majesty, he buckled on his sword, himself. The Duc was encrimsoned in his efforts to preserve his gravity. He saw that Arsène moved cautiously, for the breeches were a tight fit. The Duc’s long shanks were notorious for their leanness. Arsène tried to hitch the skirt of his coat about his shimmering thighs. He noticed, wretchedly, that his borrowed garments were tight or loose in too strategic spots.