Reaching a safe spot in the marshes, where the cold water oozed around their hands and knees, the raiders waited. The music ceased; the laughter was gone. One by one, the watchfires flickered out, and now there were less than half a dozen at scattered points. The camp was guarded in a scattered manner, for no one dreamed that the starved and exhausted Rochellais might dare to attack.
Arsène suddenly lifted his head in a signal, which those behind him imitated by also lifting their hands to those behind them. Then, rising in a body they swept down, as silent and shapeless as ghosts, upon the camp. They had already discerned where the foods stores were secreted, for these stores had several guards about them, distrusting the Cardinal’s own lusty and rapacious soldiers. So swift was the attack, so unexpected, that not even a cry escaped the guards when Arsène and his men fell upon them, throttling them with one hand while they drove home their knives with the other. There were only faint grunts and heavy breathing, for the attackers lowered their bleeding victims slowly upon the ground so that not even the clank of a sword or the thud of a fallen musket might be heard.
One hundred and fifty men had been delegated to carry the stores to the wall. The others were to advance deeper into the camp on their mission of vengeance, and to cover the operations of the raiders of the stores.
A terrible excitement seized Arsène, giving his emaciated body superhuman strength. When his knife had entered the plump bodies of the guards, he had had to bite his lips to restrain a savage and exultant cry. His appetite was only whetted. There was bloodier and more important work to be done.
The Cardinal’s soldiers slept in scattered improvised barracks and tents. It was an easy matter to attack each small unit separately, and in a concentrated manner. Within a few moments fifty sleeping men, surprised and dazed upon a swift awakening, died swiftly and easily, even as their hands stretched out to seize musket or sword. Within the next five minutes, fifty more died. The attackers had not lost a single man, though the attack had taken place in total darkness.
Emerging, blood-stained and covered with sweat, and panting heavily, Arsène saw a distant small house which had once belonged to a local farmer. There were several guards pacing about the house, stopping to converse indolently. A campfire burned near them, and Arsène could see their sleepy and truculent faces, and their distinctive livery. Here, then, slept the Cardinal, himself.
He had a sudden mad thought. Why was it not possible to seize the Cardinal, take him prisoner, drag him within the beset city as hostage? Or, at the most desperate, to kill him? Nothing seemed impossible to the aroused young man, whose head was giddy with weakness, hunger and excitement.
He communicated this to his emerging companions in a stifled whisper. They thought him mad, and dubiously shook their heads. They were doing splendidly so far. But it would be no easy, and silent matter, to approach the house of the Cardinal. There were many guards. Some would immediately give the alarm. Arsène was enraged. His thoughts were turbulent and delirious.
“Let us return to the stores,” said the Spaniard, whose natural lust had been excited by the sight of food. “Let us take what we can, and return.”
“I am not done,” said Arsène. He was muffled up to the nose in his cloak, and they saw the mad gleam of his eyes in the light of the far watchfires.
The German, Von Steckler, hesitated, shaking his head slightly. The leaders stood in the shadow of low thick brush. Behind them they heard the crowded breathing of their followers.
Giddy, seized with mounting delirium, Arsène stared unblinkingly at the house. There lay the Cardinal, the Monster of Europe, sleeping. He could be destroyed! With him would fall the persecution of Frenchmen, the mounting horror and cruelty of the Catholic reaction, the creeping pestilence of the world. It could be done!
He turned to his officers and whispered: “Fifty men can do this! Let the others return to the stores and hasten to the walls.”
The Spaniard, the Italian and the German were silent for several moments. Then they whispered to those behind them. The whisper sped on almost soundless lips to the others. In a few moments all but fifty men had melted away into the night. Those that remained were not convinced, but Arsène’s excitement had communicated itself to them. It was a mad, an impossible scheme, but they were caught up in their leader’s insanity, and wild recklessness rose in them. If they failed to carry off the Cardinal, there was still the possibility, before they were seized, of killing him.
They crept forward, stepping lightly on the balls of their exhausted feet. Now they were in terrible danger. The firelight would soon betray them to the guards. They spread out in a thin line, closing in towards the house.
Suddenly they halted. A faint strangled cry sounded not too far in their rear. Hearts roaring, they listened. Was that the sound of stealthy feet at their rear? They looked backward, straining into the darkness. They saw nothing, heard nothing.
They turned back to the little house. And then they saw that the door was opening. The Cardinal, fully dressed in his uniform, his plumed hat upon his head, appeared in the doorway. His guards came to attention, presented arms. He glanced at them abstractedly. He was looking in the direction of Arsène and his companions. The watchfire lay between them. The Cardinal’s vision was bedazzled by it, so that the wall of flickering red light must have prevented him from seeing what might have been seen.
Arsène raised his musket desperately. There was a slight movement, as if of involuntary protest and uneasiness about him, then silence. He pointed the musket directly at the Cardinal’s heart. But his hands shook. He caught his lip between his teeth and bit it so violently that it bled. He did not feel it. His whole being was concentrated in his hatred, in his purpose. He blinked his eyes furiously for the firelight and his own weakness made the Cardinal’s figure dance before him.
The Cardinal stood there, cloaked and uniformed, unprotected, calm and still, gazing towards the brush where the attackers stood. He did not move. His guards had begun their pacing again. Nothing could have been more composed than that slight regal figure, the night wind stirring his plumes and blowing his cloak. His expression was lofty and removed as usual, his terrible tigerish eyes glowing in the firelight.
And then, all at once, the wildest and strangest thought seized Arsène. He was convinced that the Cardinal knew everything, had discerned everything in the moment that he stood there, that he saw Arsène as clearly as though he were standing in the blaze of the noonday sun. Was that a faint sardonic smile on that narrow ivory countenance, or was it only the effect of the blowing firelight?
Arsène’s hands became wet. The musket shook more and more. His numb finger fumbled for the trigger. He could hear his heart, like a caged thing, leaping and roaring. Somewhere, some time in the past, he had heard that the Cardinal, like all felines, could see in the dark—
Then the Cardinal lifted his hand with a delicate and negligent gesture. He smiled, as if pleased. His clear strong voice sounded in the night:
“Is that you, my dear de Bonnelle?”
Arsène started. It must be now, or never. He exerted all his strength in his shaking finger curled about the trigger. But some paralysis held him, some nightmare.
Then he heard a faint thick exclamation behind him, a dim confusion. A horrible sickness welled up in him, though he did not swerve from his position or drop the musket. From the sounds of his companions, he knew that they were surrounded. Yet, there was no uproar, no shout, no shot. They were undone. They were lost.
But he, Arsène, was still free, the musket still pointed at that figure which appeared to be jigging and dancing wildly in the firelight. Now it had become a tiny distant figure, a marionette, jerked by the strings held by a drunken man. The ground swayed under Arsène’s feet; he felt the drops of his own sweat dropping into his eyes. But the paralyzed finger would not stir in spite of his superhuman efforts to jerk it.
“De Bonnelle?” called the Cardinal, and now his smile was broader. He advanced a pace or
two. “Come forward. You are recognized.”
Arsène felt a strong hand on his arm, and the Spaniard’s indolent and amused voice in his ear. “We are lost,” he said. And then the musket, in some way, had fallen from Arsène’s fingers and had dropped at his feet.
A strange and dreamlike coldness engulfed the young man. He looked behind him. Beyond his companions were a host of silent men, armed and waiting. He could barely see them; he sensed, rather than saw, their presence.
He heard the light sound of approaching feet in the frightful and ominous silence. The Cardinal was advancing. Three of his guards fell in behind him. Arsène watched him come. The firelight threw vivid red shadows upon him. He walked with calm grace and certainty. Now the smile was more fixed upon his attenuated countenance, as though he were contemplating something which amused him. Some one threw more wood upon the fire. It sprang upwards with a scarlet roar, and bathed the surrounding countryside. It revealed, completely, Arsène and his companions, and the shadowy outlines of the enemy behind them.
Arsène thought: It is finished. He sighed. His madness had gone. He thought of Cecile, and his father. At least, they would have food for a while. A deep grief and weariness assailed him. He waited for the Cardinal’s exclamation of recognition and final betrayal.
But still the Cardinal said nothing. He continued to advance. He paused only five paces from Arsène, and the two men gazed steadfastly at each other.
He knew from the beginning, thought Arsène, with a kind of dull wonder. He still waited.
The firelight was now behind the Cardinal, and his figure was silhouetted against it. Arsène could no longer see his face clearly. He felt, rather than saw, the strange, glimmering light in those frightful eyes, a fiendish and sardonic light. He advanced a pace, then waited again.
There was utter silence all about him. Arsène’s companions were caught in a strange numb amazement. Why did not the Cardinal speak, denounce their leader, order them all to be seized? They gripped their swords. They waited for a signal from Arsène. They would sell their lives dearly, even against overpowering odds, if he gave them the word.
But Arsène did not move or speak. He and the Cardinal were regarding each other like statues, eternally turned face to face.
Then the Cardinal spoke softly, and affectionately: “Ah, so it is you, my dear de Bonnelle. I have been waiting a long time. I had come to believe you might never arrive.”
A long murmur broke behind Arsène. He heard the rustle of his companions, the relaxing of their waiting executioners.
The Cardinal extended his hand. Arsène stared at it, incredulously. Was it possible that the Cardinal had not recognized him? he thought, his mind swirling. But as he looked again at his enemy, he knew this was a foolish thought. For the Cardinal was laughing softly, his hand still stretched forth.
Arsène, convinced now that he was in a nightmare, took that hand. He felt the pressure of the fragile and delicate fingers. The Cardinal’s eyes regarded him with long slow amusement, and there was an irrepressible movement about his bearded lips as if he could hardly restrain his laughter.
“You have brought few bravos, my dear friend,” said the Cardinal, in a light reproving tone, as his eye flickered on Arsène’s companions. “But even a small detachment is welcome. Spaniards, I presume, of course? How unfortunate! They will not be able to converse and make merry with my own men.”
Arsène heard the caught breaths of his companions, the shifting of their feet. I have gone mad! he thought. This is a dream. He felt his head nodding.
“Yes, unfortunate,” he murmured.
“But not doubt you have others encamped at a distance?” urged the Cardinal, in a careless and friendly tone. Arsène nodded again. The Cardinal still held his hand.
“And you will wish to return to them almost immediately?” said the priest.
“Yes, Monseigneur,” said Arsène, in his dull sick voice.
“But first,” said the Cardinal, in a tone of affectionate enthusiasm, “you must rest a while, and join me in a glass of wine.”
He glanced beyond Arsène to his own soldiers.
“You, Bretonne, take Monsieur de Bonnelle’s men to the fire, and feed them well, and give them some wine. They cannot converse with you, but food has an international language. Monsieur de Bonnelle will return in a few moments, after we have had a brief conversation.”
He dropped Arsène’s hand. Arsène looked at his companions. Their eyes, in the firelight, were amazed and bewildered. But the Spaniard and the Italian were smiling faintly. They did not understand, but they were supple enough to move cautiously wherever the Cardinal directed.
Arsène found himself following the Cardinal towards the house. How soon would the murdered men be found? His thoughts were confused, swirling in alternate darkness and redness. This was a mad play. It was not happening. The Cardinal waited for him, until he stood abreast.
“You have had a hard journey?”
“A very hard journey. A long and painful one,” replied Arsène, hoarsely.
The Cardinal nodded, with sympathetic understanding. They entered the house. It was simply but comfortably furnished. Candles were lighted on a long oaken table, and a fire smoldered on the hearth. The Cardinal’s orderly, whom Arsène did not recognize, was moving about with agility, setting out plates of stewed fowl and rabbit, bread, pastries and wine. The Cardinal removed his cloak, flung it aside, sat down with quiet grace before the table, indicating that Arsène was to do so also. Then he ordered his servant to leave. He spoke in the friendliest and most casual manner.
“Doubtless, you did not come this far without some—murder?”
“Doubtless,” said Arsène. His head was throbbing with his weakness. The warmth of the little house, the excitement of the night, his capture, his fear for his father and Cecile, and the unaccustomed exertion of the past hour, had completely undone him. Everything swam in snapping bands of light and color before him. He saw his blood-stained hands as they rested on the white damask cloth of the laden table. Suddenly a slow shudder passed over him, and his chin dropped on his breast.
He heard the Cardinal’s light amused voice.
“Yonder there is water in the bowl, and towels nearby. You would, of course, prefer to wash before dining?”
Arsène forced himself to his feet. He staggered, passed his hand over his eyes. The Cardinal, smiling so casually as he sat at the table, waited. Arsène’s footsteps wavered on the way to the bowl. Now there was no sound in the room but the splashing of the water, the crackling of the good fire. The touch of the cold water on Arsène’s hands and face revived him. His mind still swirled, but here and there a poignant thought and lucid conjecture forced themselves through the mist. He had no doubt that the Cardinal was playing with him, in his famous cruelty, and enjoying himself in the process. Then, certes, he could play, too. It was a grim comedy, but such comedy had always appealed to him. He was certain that he was lost. His only uneasiness now was in the fear that he would suffer the ignominous death by hanging. He resolved that he would appeal, as a soldier, … death by shooting.
He had seen death so often, had looked into its fatal countenance on more than one occasion. Like all the young men of his caste, he had regarded death with indifference, as a regrettable inconvenience. But now he had become older. Life had taken on new and vivid values. He did not want to die. He suddenly clutched the silken linen towel in desperate hands.
He returned to the table. The Cardinal had heaped Arsène’s plate with luscious food. Arsène smelled the hot wine sauces, and his mouth watered. He would play to the end. In the meanwhile, he would eat, to recover his strength for whatever ordeal still lay before him.
With a graceful and most courteous gesture, the Cardinal filled the sparkling wine goblets. He lifted his own and waited. Arsène lifted his goblet. They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Then the Cardinal inclined his head with a grave smile, and touched Arsène’s rim with his own. The little cli
nk in the silence had a portentous sound. Arsène drank deeply, his hand trembling on the stem of his goblet.
He put down the goblet and again gazed into those tigerish eyes, which were now so hooded and inscrutable. The Cardinal silently indicated Arsène’s plate. The young man could not resist. He seized knife and fork and ate ravenously. He hardly tasted the food, so rapidly did he gulp. He did not look at the Cardinal as he devoured the excellent fowl, pastries and salad, and gulped the wine. When he did glance up, his eye touched a huge golden crucifix which hung over the fireplace. The Cardinal did not speak. He sat at his place, one narrow ivory hand drooping slackly over the back of his chair, his attitude one of remote contemplation, as if he were alone. His profile was presented to Arsène. His expression was withdrawn, stern, yet still faintly sardonic. He appeared less frail, less terrible, less majestic, in his general’s uniform than he did in his ecclesiastical robes. He was more of a man, less clothed in terror, more approachable. Though the moulding of his narrow and aristocratic head expressed his natural pride and hauteur, its contours, without the Cardinal’s hat, were singularly defenseless and delicate. To the casual glance, that head and that long melancholy countenance belonged to a scholar full of sadness and weariness. On one attenuated and bloodless finger his Cardinal’s ring winked and flashed in the firelight and candlelight.
Finally, Arsène could eat no more. He was replete. Strength had come to him. But his mind reeled with the wine. He felt the warmth of the room and the warmth of the wine in his body and his veins. He became reckless, but also cunning.
The Cardinal sighed. He appeared to arouse himself with an effort. He turned his face to Arsène, smiling. But that smile was like invincible armor.
The Arm and the Darkness Page 70