The Arm and the Darkness

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  But one day a hurried messenger, covered with dust and with a strained and haggard face, appeared at his door, accompanied by the wary Pierre. This messenger had come from the Duc de Rohan, and he brought with him the hasty and exigent demand that the time had come for all the members of Les Blanches to appear at the beleaguered city of La Rochelle. “I implore you to come at once,” the Duc had written grimly. “Every wasted hour is an hour of danger to us and our cause.”

  Arsène immediately sent Pierre to his friends. No later than that night, they must set forth for La Rochelle. England had declared war on France. The Huguenots were supporting this enemy, for they saw in the triumph of Protestant England the assurance of liberty and tolerance for themselves. Richelieu, therefore, perceived that the first blow to England must come in the subduing of the Protestant French nobles at La Rochelle, for these nobles were the Achilles heel of France, the port of invasion open to English military assault. That port must be closed.

  Richelieu, who by temperament preferred the good offices of the purse and diplomacy to that of the sword, in spite of his constant conceit of himself as a soldier, had determined, with secret aversion, to lead the campaign himself. By the time Arsène received the message from the Duc de Rohan, the Cardinal had left that morning for La Rochelle, where a dyke, or mole, was already in hurried construction to prevent the entrance of English men-of-war.

  Later in the day, by way of his passage through the cellars of the Hôtel du Vaubon, Arsène hurried to the Hôtel de Vitry, for the first time since Cecile Grandjean had been installed there. A servant admitted him to the small drawingroom, where Mademoiselle sat in sad contemplation before the fire.

  Arsène, engrossed with the single-minded man’s absorption in his present problem, suddenly found himself shaken at the sight of the girl. His heart began a furious pounding. He, who always precipitated himself with graceful dexterity into any room, entered falteringly, and with diffidence.

  The girl did not immediately perceive him. She sat alone, before the low fire, a white shawl over her knees. Her attitude was one of deep despondency and sadness, but there was strength also in the quietness of her young body, and the nobility which was an integral part of her seemed more evident than ever. Her plain black gown made more emphatic the whiteness of her neck and her still hands. Her light brown hair, glistening with radiant threads, was plaited in long shining ropes which fell over her slight straight shoulders. Her head was bent, her face composed and meditative. Arsène saw her profile, clear and silent. The firelight glimmered in the lucid blue of her eyes. Her lips, of the most pale and delicate rose, were folded firmly, but without tightness. If her thoughts were sorrowful, they were also courageous, and without bitterness.

  As Arsène watched her, a tide of the most intense love and ecstasy washed over him, mingled with grief. This was the girl whom Paul de Vitry had loved. Arsène was no longer jealous. Paul’s love mingled with his own. He had no doubt, now, that the proximity of that gentle and noble man had impressed itself upon Cecile Grandjean, that if she had not loved him with passion, she had loved him. If she grieved for him now, Arsène felt no wild resentment. Had she not grieved, he would have loved her less. It was good that she was in Paul’s house. Perhaps his spirit felt that goodness, and was content.

  Arsène knew also that Cecile loved him, as he loved her. But in their love was anger, irritation, resentment, antagonism and obstinacy. Perhaps all these were the very essence of passion, after all, and, without them, passion was impossible. Purest love, devoid of passion, was a noble but raptureless thing. Strife was necessary for complete joy.

  Cecile felt his presence. She turned her head slowly and looked at him.

  A thousand darts of light passed between them. For an instant, Cecile could not control her expression. It softened; it kindled; it became enormously excited. Her lips parted, turned to deep rose, and trembled. Then, controlling herself, after that instant, she forced her face to assume a look of boldness and reserve, and even hostility.

  He approached her across the shining floor, and she watched him come. Her hands were no longer quiet; they clenched together upon her knee. But she said nothing. She did not offer him her hand. Her deep blue eyes regarded him with a formality in which there was something of dread, and much of withdrawal. In their depths an icy spark became brighter.

  He bowed before her. There was a dryness and tightness in his throat.

  “Mademoiselle, allow me to commiserate with you over the death of your grandfather,” he said, and his voice had a dull sound in it which he despised, helplessly.

  Her clenched hands moved. Her whole figure became imbued with something that was inimical and alert.

  “And allow me, Monsieur, to commiserate with you over the death of your friend,” she answered. Was that a tone of contempt under her quiet and formal voice? A quick but nameless anger seized Arsène. The girl was bloodless, heartless! She had expressed no grief, no softness, over those tragic and innocent deaths. Her eye revealed no trace of past tears.

  Hardly knowing what he did, he held out his hand to her. She looked at it long and meaningfully, and then raised her eyes to him. The spark was a bitter blaze.

  “Is Monsieur to be congratulated for the affair at Chantilly?” she asked. He was silent. But he was filled with fury. He looked at her with narrowed gaze and tightened lips. The signs of her illness, and her recent suffering, were still clear in her thin pale cheeks and the somber purple that stained the skin under her unshakeable eyes, but he was not moved by these. He wanted to strike her.

  “So, you have heard, Mademoiselle?” he asked, ironically. “Who was the informant who so distressed your sick-bed, where you were recovering from the kind ministrations of your recent friends?”

  Her fury rose up to meet his, and if it was quieter, it was not the less violent. A vivid light exploded on her face, which was now drained of all color.

  “Roselle, who today returned to Chantilly, received this information from her uncle, in a letter. Let me assure you, Monsieur, that you have a deep admirer in Crequy, who wrote gloatingly about his part in that shameful crime. No doubt Monsieur is flattered that Crequy admires him?”

  Her voice, ringing with contempt, breathless with passion, struck at him like a brutal fist. She half rose in her chair. Her hands turned white on the arms, with her straining efforts. Now scorn blazed at him from her face, from the teeth that glittered between her lips, from the straining muscles of her throat, from the illuminated blue eyes.

  Before that scorn, he felt a sudden daunting, and then wild anger. His heart roared in his ears. He was overcome with shame, and with rage.

  He could not speak for a moment, then he said, in a voice hoarse and heavy with his emotions: “Would Mademoiselle have preferred that I shower honors on the murderers of her grandfather, and my friend? Would she have been delighted if I had assured them that they had done a just and noble thing? Mademoiselle appears to have disdain for justice.”

  “Justice!” she cried. “Does not Monsieur mistake justice for revenge? Was Monsieur activated less by grief than by hatred?” She rose now, leaning against the chair, and her face was white as death.

  He clenched his hands at his sides as he looked at her. His lean dark face was convulsed, and the sharp black eyebrows drew down over his sparkling eyes.

  “Mademoiselle’s words and actions betray that she feels no grief for either her grandfather or my poor friend,” he said. “She is less concerned with their horrible deaths than the fate of their murderers. Mademoiselle will pardon me if I do not understand, if I suspect that she is hard of heart and insensible to natural emotions.”

  Her face changed. It became lined with suffering, but, strangely, it also became harder. She drew a deep and quivering breath. She could hardly make her voice audible when she answered: “If I grieve, it is without hatred. Do not mistake that I feel no bitterness, no despair, Monsieur. But I cannot perceive that Monsieur is more worthy, nor greater, than those he execu
ted. They were activated by what they believed was a just revenge on the Comte de Vitry. Monsieur was activated by the same revenge, on his murderers. But Monsieur was inspired by no love for the Comte. Had he paused to consider, to reflect, he would have known that the Comte would have desired no such retribution on those he had loved. He would have known that the Comte understood all things, even cruelty, and had long perceived that the cruelest acts come from ignorance, fear and confusion. But Monsieur did not consider, or reflect. In his revenge on those wretches he exercised a hatred which must long have been latent in him. That is what cannot be forgiven. That is what the Comte de Vitry could not have understood.”

  Now proud tears rushed to her eyes. She bit her lip to prevent a sob that rose from her breast. But she did not bow her head or turn away. She looked straightly at Arsène, and without flinching.

  “I had thought that Monsieur was incapable of that hatred, and that revenge,” she added, and her voice shook.

  Suddenly, all his fury was gone. He approached her a step, understanding. She recoiled slightly, but her eyes did not leave his face.

  “Has Mademoiselle thought that if I had not done justice, the law of France must inevitably have accomplished it?” he asked, with much gentleness.

  But she was not softened. The scorn was enkindled in her eyes.

  “France, then, owes a debt of gratitude to Monsieur, for his accomplishment of an act it would otherwise have been compelled to exercise itself?”

  She cried out: “I cannot endure it that Monsieur did this thing! Speak no hypocrisy to me, Arsène de Richepin! Do not tell me that the vengeance of the law would have been more merciless! I do not care for this. It is nothing to me. But I cannot endure it that Monsieur in his own person sought such a frightful revenge, out of the urging of his own heart!”

  Arsène gazed at her meditatively, and with great softness. Seeing this, she uttered a faint but desolate cry, made an impotent gesture, and turned away proudly and with grief.

  He went to her and took her hand. For an instant, she resisted, strove to release it. And then it was quiet. Now she bent her head and wept, as she had not wept at the death of her grandfather and Paul. There was a heart-broken sound in her weeping.

  Arsène lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it deeply, pressing it against his mouth, and then his cheek. The fingers were chill and lifeless at first, then suddenly warmed, became like soft tendrils winding themselves about his own. But she did not turn to him, or cease her weeping.

  “At the last, Cecile, I was merciful,” he said. “It is true that I was revengeful.” He paused. He had almost said, so devastatingly: “But what are these wretches to us, this lowborn canaille, this scum, this anonymous refuse?” He bit them back, and was depressed that even now he could think these things. Did the noble, the high-born, the powerful, the privileged, return, in moments of stress, inevitably, to old habits of thoughts and compulsions?

  He continued: “You must not forget, Mademoiselle, that I was, at the last, merciful, that I held back my hand. You must comprehend that I now regret that I was motivated by hatred and revenge. But you must understand that these came from my love for Paul de Vitry, and I acted only in a human manner.”

  She did not speak, but her weeping was softer, as she listened.

  He felt a fond impatience for her. But he spoke even more gently:

  “I saw Mademoiselle at the inn of Crequy. She was at the point of death, because of the injuries visited upon her by her savage assailants.” He hesitated, then whispered: “Had I been on that bed, instead of Mademoiselle, would she have had more lofty thoughts than I?”

  She tore her hand from his, and turned to him impetuously. And then, as she met his eyes, penetrating and gentle, she was silent. A deep flush ran over her face. Her lips parted. But her eyes were fixed on the vision he had invoked. Now she turned pale again. She looked at him with passionate honesty.

  “Monsieur,” she said; in a low tone, “I most probably would have felt the same.” Then she cried out: “You are guilty, then! But certainly, I am guilty, also!”

  She was innocently overcome with grief. She regarded him with wild horror. When he drew her into his arms, she dropped her head on his shoulder and sobbed aloud. He held her tightly against him, kissing her hair, her forehead, her cheeks. She clung to him in abject despair.

  He was overjoyed. Now, he felt only peace and fulfilment. He could face whatever the future brought, however terrible and convulsing, with srength. He had not thought it possible to love like this, with such protectiveness and gentleness, such wisdom.

  He said, so moved that his voice trembled: “Our poor friend wished us to be together, my dearest one. He knew that we loved. Not long before he died, he said to me: ‘Take what joy can come to you, in each other’s arms, no matter what the morrow brings.’”

  He was silent a moment, while the girl, clinging to him so desperately, listened:

  “Tonight, Cecile, I go to La Rochelle. Shall I live or die there? Shall I flee in exile, in ruin? To what strange land shall I go? Only God can answer it. My beloved, will you go with me, to share whatever comes to me?”

  She lifted her head. Her eyes, luminously blue and full of courage and passion, fixed themselves upon his face. Never had she appeared so beautiful and desirable to him.

  “What else is there for me, Arsène?” she whispered.

  CHAPTER XLVII

  It had been a relief to Arsène, embarrassed and ashamed, that during his last days at the Hôtel du Vaubon, his young wife, Clarisse, had been at the home of her mother, Madame de Tremblant, consoling her for the death of Marguerite. Madame had evinced a passionate grief which astonished her friends, for surely there could have been little rapport between that coarse and brutal lady and the silent and docile young girl. A strong and vicious mare had given birth to a lamb, the ribald of Paris had often asserted. Now it appeared that this mare was inconsolable over the passing of this pretty lamb, who had lived and died insignificantly and gently in the shadow of her violent and lewd mother.

  Clarisse, her favorite, therefore was necessary at the Hôtel de Tremblant. Madame clung to her, lying in her shaded masculine chamber. Her collapse was complete. Arsène, who had been fond of Marguerite in a careless way, found himself grateful to her for removing the embarrassing presence of his wife from his house. He remembered Clarisse with sheepish regret, but he had no doubt that his permanent removal from her side might some day be of considerable relief to her. He could not believe that she loved him as Cecile loved him. In truth, in conjecturing on this, he was uneasy and annoyed. He had removed her from his life, with ease. He wished her to remove him from hers with the same casualness. That Clarisse was with child, a fact that she had carefully concealed from him until such time as she could reveal it with proper grace, did not occur to him. However, the Marquis, who was much in her confidence, knew, and was delighted. The news was to be broken to Arsène after Clarisse’s return from her mother’s side. The Marquis, who was simple-minded in many respects, was certain that when Arsène knew, all the darkness and doubts and malaise which seemed annoyingly to be engrossing him these bewildering days would pass away, and he would immediately become more composed, and lose all the moodiness and abstraction which was so distressing to more orderly and realistic persons. Such as the Marquis. Deep in the Marquis’ mind lived the fatuous belief that obstetrics answered all problems, including those perplexing and obscure ones which tormented the human soul. They had never solved his problems, but he had an invincible conviction, sentimental and foolish, that they inevitably accomplished this pleasant result in others.

  Having done with his old life, and now confronting a hazardous and gloomy future, fraught with violence and death, Arsène was irritated that no one else at the Hôtel du Vaubon, except Pierre, perceived his withdrawal. He did not wish the Marquis to be confronted with the inexorable fact that his spiritual withdrawal was a prelude to his actual withdrawal, but he did wish that the Marquis was less obt
use to the distress and despondency which agitated him. There was much of the theatrical and the dramatic in Arsène. He was an actor in a terrible drama, but the Marquis, the audience, was serenely oblivious of this. Yet, had the Marquis suddenly understood, no one would have regretted it more than Arsène, for all his egotism.

  He had disliked his father, but had been fond of him in a careless and indulgent fashion. He had endured him, laughed at him, been annoyed by him. And now, in these last days, he loved him. How was it possible to love such a malicious and shallow creature, full of affectations and frivolities and malevolence? He was a brittle old chameleon, colorful in a silly and pretentious way, but of no value whatsoever. Yet, Arsène now found his attitudes endearing, and pathetic. He was a fool, and a malignant one, but he was amusing. There was pathos in this, too. Also, he loved Arsène, and it is impossible to be indifferent to a creature who loves one.

  The Marquis had not been unaware, however, that Arsène was changing under his eyes. And changing much too ominously for the Marquis’ peace of mind. But he was convinced that if one ignored unpleasant things, the unpleasantness atrophied and disappeared. So he ignored Arsène’s moods so flagrantly and obstinately that the young man was more convinced than ever that his father was an old fool who never saw further than his nose.

  On this last stressful day, he was uncommonly affectionate to the Marquis, and showed a tendency, in the last two hours, to be possessed of a deep love for him. The Marquis was going, later, to the gaming tables. He had been complaining that since the Cardinal had left, the tables were no longer the same. He complained incessantly, with a kind of feverishness. Arsène had said nothing about going to La Rochelle, and the Marquis forced himself to believe that if Arsène had thought of this, he did so no longer. Surely, Arsène, the voluble, would have mentioned it!

  They were together in the Marquis’ gay and frivolous but tasteful chamber. Candles blazed everywhere. Lackeys, burdened with colorful satin and velvet garments, brought armfuls to be inspected and pettishly discarded by their lord. A fine array of curled wigs was set out before him on an inlaid table, and he examined them irritably. Another lackey was laying out the Marquis’ immense collection of jewelry. Still another was tentatively extending buckled and jewelled slippers and hose. The heavy but delightful odor of the Marquis’ latest scent pervaded the warm room. Arsène, smiling and dark and unusually quiet, sat nearby, affected to be interested in the wardrobe. The Marquis could not make up his mind. He sat before his dressing table, trying on one shade of rouge after another, plucking his eyebrows, preening, pressing his painted lips together to spread the paste, and wafting a handkerchief, impregnated with his new perfume querulously across his nose. But at each whiff, he smiled a little, with arrogant pleasure.