Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  The discussion centred on a debauch in which they had participated the evening before, and after a while their language became so disgusting that Philip hurried with his chocolate and rose to pay the reckoning. As he laid the six sous on the counter and turned toward the door, a sentence uttered by the elder of the two scouts arrested him.

  “Nom de Dieu! if Raoul Rigault wants the man he’ll get him; never fear, Sureau, he’ll get him! Tiens! I should very much like to run across either of them. I could pay you your ten francs then, — I’d have money to toss out of the window, eh! Sureau?”

  “Tu m’ennuis,” replied the other, sulkily; “if I’m not going to get my ten francs before you catch this merle-blanc — what’s his name—”

  “Philip Landes is one, — Ellice is the other,” said the elder soldier. “Alive or dead, it’s the same reward. I’d fix them. Think, Sureau! Imagine poor old Pastoret coming in with two, — both birds together, — one in each hand nicely spit through with my bayonet!”

  “And my ten francs! Get out with your white blackbirds! Look here — I’m in earnest — Pastoret, I want you to pay me that ten francs.”

  “I’m going to pay — there!”

  “No cheat.”

  “No cheat — I tell you!”

  “Swear!”

  “Tu te fiche de moi, espèce de crétin.”

  The dispute recommenced with reference to the orgie of the previous night, and Philip waited to hear no more but hurried out into the street.

  To his own astonishment the discussion of the reward for himself, dead or alive, neither shocked nor scared him. On the contrary, a pleasant shiver of exhilaration passed through him, his face tingled with excitement, and he stepped along with every sense alert. He felt perfect confidence in his simple disguise, he looked forward to a satisfactory termination of his mission, and he walked with an air which was almost gay.

  The Luxembourg Gardens were turned into a military camp. As he passed along the gilded iron railing beyond the École des Mines, he saw artillery parked on the northern terrace and cavalrymen watering their horses at the basin of the big fountain. Federal infantry were encamped around the old palace, from which floated the red flag of the Commune. Sentinels lounged before each gate, chatting idly with citizens who came to enquire for relatives among the insurgent battalions, and sallow-faced officers, blazing with gold and crimson, paced listlessly up and down the gravel walks by the eastern palace wing. In the Place de Medici two Hussars of Death sat motionless upon their bony horses, their long cloaks hanging to the stirrups, black crêpe fluttering on their arms. Like foul night-birds surprised by daylight, blinking maliciously at the passers-by, these strange creatures peered over the cloaks which shrouded their faces, watching with fierce bright eyes every movement of the people.

  The dome of the Pantheon was glowing in the sky, as he passed the rue Gay Lussac, and above it the red flag of the Commune flapped black against the rising sun. Figures passed across the terraced roof, silhouetted against the bright blue above, with a sparkle of buttons and bayonets as they turned. On the Boulevard St. Michel the cafés were opening, and those hopeless creatures, the morning absinthe drinkers, dotted the terraces of the cafés “Rouge et Noir,” and “Garibaldi.” A few harsh-voiced women, over whose pale faces the rouge was smeared, were returning with their escorts from some fête in Montparnasse, and their eyes, encircled by violet rings, glittered with vice. Their escorts were students, weary and viciously drunk, and they filled the street with coarse yells and shouts of defiance.

  “Vive la Commune!” shouted one.

  “Oh, non — pas ça voyons,” cried another; “vive Thiers!”

  “Vive Theirs!” they shouted ironically.

  Then they noticed the Hussars of Death in the Place de Medici, and shook their fists at them in drunken bravado.

  “Long live Thiers!” they screamed. “Long live the Republic!” Down with the Commune!” À mort, les Hussards de la Mort!”

  Slowly one of the draped cavaliers turned in his saddle and pointed at the students. Drunk as they were they felt the menace of that outstretched arm; their yells and cat-calls died in their throats, and one of the women ran into a café shrieking hysterically. A ghastly silent laugh stretched the skin on the hussar’s sunken face, his arm fell slowly to his side, and his head sank again among the folds of the long cloak. Only his eyes, restless and brilliant, glittered venomously above the mantle.

  Philip shuddered in spite of himself and a feeling of insecurity began to trouble him. He was in a quarter where he was well known, and, though he pulled the visor of his cap low over his face, a nervousness, almost a foreboding set his heart fluttering under the blue blouse. Then, as he turned from the Place de Medici to cross the Boulevard, he met Faustine Courtois face to face. She knew him at once, but she passed on, very pale, and gave no sign of recognition. The shock of the meeting unnerved him, and he crept along the sidewalk, listening for pursuing footfalls. Not that he feared Faustine, but if she had recognized him so easily he knew he was not safe. Any shop-keeper in the Quarter, any student or grisette who wished to betray him, through cupidity or from what they imagined to be patriotism, would reap an easy reward and stand high in the favor of Raoul Rigault.

  Before he reached the rue des Écoles he passed half a dozen familiar faces, but nobody noticed him and fear began to give place to hope. Still the buoyancy and pleasant thrill of adventure had left him; he cursed himself for a fool in not making a wide circuit behind the Pantheon and avoiding the Boulevard as he would the plague. He could yet escape passing through the Boulevard to the Palais de Justice, and although he was not known in that section he was prudent enough to turn into the rue des Écoles, enter the rue des Carmes, and pick his way through the labyrinth of narrow crooked streets which lie between the Boulevard St. Germain and the river. The bridges which cross the left arm of the Seine to the Isle St. Louis were guarded by troops, so he turned to the left and walked along the quays until he came to the Pont Neuf. There people and vehicles were passing freely, and he mixed with the crowd and crossed unmolested.

  The problem now was, how to get back to the Boulevard St. Michel, or rather to that section of it known as the Boulevard Sebastopol where the little Hôtel Boule d’Or was located. Barricades closed the quays along the right bank of the Seine, but the Place du Carrousel was open and he decided to make the circuit by way of the rue de Rivoli. He crossed the court of the Louvre and entered the street. It was useless; barricades cut him off on every side. For hours he wandered through the city, always attempting to find a path through the jumble of streets and alleys to the Boulevard Sebastopol. In vain, and at last he had to own it to himself as he stood, wearied and discouraged in an archway, wondering what he should do next.

  Across the street a sentinel was standing before a gray stone building which he recognized as the residence of the Archbishop of Paris. He had often seen the gentle, kindly old man, and he wondered what the sentinel was doing there. The sentinel was doing nothing as far as Landes could see, for people passed freely in and out of the court-yard, and carriages drove through the porte cochère. A sudden thought struck him. Suppose he could get speech with the Archbishop, and suppose the Archbishop should find means of sending a message to the American Minister! Without waiting a moment he crossed the street, passed the sentinel who paid no attention to him, and entered the court-yard of the Archevêché. As he stood looking for the right doorway, a servant approached and asked him what he wanted.

  “I wish to see Monseigneur Darboy,” said Philip, boldly.

  “Monseigneur Darboy is at the Madeleine with the curé of the Madeleine,” replied the servant.

  “When will he return?” demanded Philip.

  A priest was passing and the servant approached him with a low bow. “Monsieur l’abbé, this young man wishes to see the Archbishop,” he said.

  The abbé Lagarde, vicar-general to the Archbishop of Paris, turned pleasantly to Philip.

  “Do you w
ish to see the Archbishop, my son?”

  “Yes, my father.”

  “He will return by one o’clock; come then,” said the abbé, with a sad smile, and turning to the servant, “see that this young man is admitted,” he added. Philip thanked him and took his leave.

  When he stood again in the street and looked at his watch, he found that it was twelve o’clock. There was an hour to wait, and he wondered how he could best use it. For an instant he thought of attempting to reach the American Minister himself, but remembered Wilton’s warning and Joseph’s experience. Then another impulse seized him. He would have time to go to the Hôtel Perret in the Place Pigalle before the Archbishop returned.

  “Who knows,” he muttered — I may be able to find some clue. Anyway I will go and reconnoitre.”

  It took him longer than he had thought it would to reach the Place, for barricades were numerous and the detours long, but at last he entered the square, found it quiet and entirely deserted, and crossed the street to the Hôtel Perret. The hotel appeared to be empty, the door was locked, but the blinds were up and the glass in the window beside the door, which he had smashed with the butt of his revolver two weeks before, had not been replaced.

  Without hesitating a moment he climbed through the shattered window and sprang noiselessly up the stairs to the de Brassac apartment. The door was open and he entered, his revolver in his hand, every sense keen and alert. Almost at once he saw that the apartment had been thoroughly ransacked. Cabinets swung wide open, doors in the armoires hung shattered from the hinges, beds were dismantled and pulled to pieces, carpets and rugs lay heaped in the corners, and bureau drawers lay scattered on the bare floor.

  He passed through the suite of rooms, treading gently, searching every corner for a lurking enemy, until he came to Colonel de Brassac’s dressing-room. On the wall, above a shattered dressing-table, hung a rusty old pistol. He seized it, felt in the barrel, touched a wad of something, worked at it until it slipped out, and a stream of splendid diamonds poured into his hand. He was so overcome with excitement that for a moment he could neither move nor breathe nor even think. Gradually his mind cleared, but still he stood there motionless, pondering how and where he should place Jeanne de Brassac’s little fortune in safety. Deep tenderness and exulting pride made his heart beat thickly as he realized that he had been able to serve so well the woman he loved; and, as he tasted the full sweetness of this thought, all at once, somewhere in the house, a door opened and light footsteps sounded on the bare floor. He thrust the diamonds into his pocket. The steps ceased, a face flashed in a mirror above his head, and down the long corridor which the glass reflected he saw Georgias standing, his eyes starting from their sockets, his jaw hanging loosely between the flabby folds of his chin. The Greek saw him as he saw Georgias, through the mirror. In an instant he had bounded to the door, and at the same moment Georgias fired and fled. With the crash of the splintering mirror behind him, Philip sprang through the corridor, firing as he ran, but Georgias turned into the hallway and sped down the stairs toward the lower floor. As Philip jumped to the landing he caught a glimpse of the Greek on the stairs below. Coolly and deliberately he raised his arm, knowing he had the man at his mercy, and without the slightest compunction fired the last two cartridges in his revolver. Both shots struck Georgias, who screamed shrilly and plunged head-first down the stairway to the tiled vestibule. He was quite dead when Philip reached him. He lay on the stone floor, a hideous heap in a widening pool of blood, his single-barrelled pistol clutched in one hand, a long thin knife lying beside the other. Philip stooped and picked up the knife, then flung it from him with a shudder, for he knew it was the same that he had seen in the Café Cardinal, — the same that had been sheathed in the throat of Colonel de Brassac.

  The blood crept in long bright streams toward his shoes, and he drew back. Very calmly he opened his revolver; the empty shells flew out and fell ringing to the stone floor; then he carefully reloaded every chamber, snapped the cylinder into place, and thrust the weapon into the leather holster which was strapped around his waist under the blue blouse. Without another glance at the dead murderer, he climbed through the broken window and dropped to the sidewalk.

  The square was still deserted. If there were yet any inhabitants among the silent houses opposite, they had either not heard the shots, or they prudently refrained from investigation.

  He reached the rue Blanche without difficulty, entered an alley, and threaded his way toward the Archevêché. He had been away nearly two hours, and he hastened his steps, fearing that the Archbishop might have returned and gone away again. As he came in sight of the Archevêché, he saw a carriage drive through the porte cochère, a priest step out and then assist an old man to alight. Philip entered the court-yard and found the same servant who had given him information two hours earlier.

  “The Archbishop has just returned,” Landes said, “I saw him leave his carriage and come in on the arm of a priest. Will you ask him if he can spare me an instant on a matter of life and death?”

  “The Archbishop is tired,” said the servant; “Monseigneur is old and not at all in good health. I am not to admit anybody.”

  “This is a matter of life and death,” repeated Philip, slowly. “And you remember that M. l’Abbé gave orders that I should be admitted.”

  The servant hesitated a moment but finally went away, and returned presently saying Philip was to follow him.

  They passed through long hallways and rich apartments, the servant leading, until they came to a closed door where a priest stood reading. He looked up as Philip approached, dismissed the servant with a silent nod, and then turned his keen eyes on the young man.

  “The Archbishop is tired and ill but he will not refuse you,” said the priest. “Follow me.”

  They entered a small room to the left, passed through a doorway hidden by a curtain, and came into a large sunny chamber where an old man was lying on a lounge. His mild face, pale under the fringe of snow-white hair, was drawn as if in pain, but he smiled as Philip entered, and silently acknowledged the young man’s deep obeisance. When he spoke his voice was sad and weak, but there was kindly sympathy in every line of his pallid face.

  “Can I help you, my son?”

  “If you will, Monseigneur.”

  “If it be God’s will,” murmured Monseigneur Darboy. “Tell me your trouble, my son.”

  Before Philip could reply a priest hurried into the room and threw himself on his knees before the Archbishop. He was laboring under terrible excitement, and the Archbishop raised himself on one arm and laid his hand on the priest’s head. At the same instant the street outside was filled with the crash of drums; the noise of an assembling crowd grew louder and louder, the shuffling of many feet sounded along the sidewalk, and there was the clang of arms in the court-yard. So suddenly had this occurred that Philip had barely time to spring to a window before the door burst open and an officer of the National Guard strode into the room and walked coolly toward the Archbishop.

  After a moment of silence he had the decency to remove his gold-laced cap and bow to the Archbishop, who returned his salute with quiet dignity. Another officer entered and saluted mechanically. He wore the uniform of a staff captain and carried a folded paper in his gloved hand.

  “Is this Monseigneur Darboy?” he demanded.

  The Archbishop bowed silently. The officer turned to his companion, who wore the costume of the companies de marche.

  “Captain Journeaux, take charge of the Archevêché.”

  The officer addressed saluted and withdrew without a glance at the Archbishop who had now risen to his feet. Then the staff captain turned insolently to the Archbishop and said in a quick, jerky manner: “I am Captain Révol of the staff and I bring an order for your arrest.” With a brusque gesture he unfolded the paper in his hands, and read in a nasal sing-song voice, glancing sharply every moment at the two priests who stood beside the Archbishop:

  * * Order is given to Citizen Révol
, Captain Adjutant attached to the Prefecture of Police, to enter the Archevêché and arrest the Sieur Darboy who calls himself Archbishop of Paris, and to there seize all papers of which a minute examination will be made.

  “RAOUL RIGAULT.”

  “An order of arrest,” repeated Monseigneur Darboy, incredulously.

  “Exactly,” replied the officer, folding up the paper and pocketing it.

  “It is impossible, this outrage!” cried a priest. He was sternly silenced by Révol.

  It was the fourth of April, Holy Tuesday, and the Episcopal Council had been in session at the Archevêché as usual, but had broken up at two o’clock and many of the prelates had gone. However a large number remained, among them the Vicar-General, the Abbé Lagarde, who had gone to bed with a sick headache.

  Hearing the drums and the noise of the crowd he had risen and dressed and now entered the room where the Archbishop stood facing the Captain.

  “Who are you?” demanded the officer. The Vicar-General took no notice of his question but passed quietly to the Archbishop’s side.

  “Why am I arrested?” asked Monseigneur Darboy, looking at the Captain.

  “Because,” replied Révol, coolly, “last night a body of Federal troops were fired upon in the rue des Postes from the house windows. Monsieur the Préfet of Police desires to question Monsigneur about it, as it is believed that the shots came from the windows of a religious society connected with the Archevêché. Of course,” he added, “there is no doubt but that Monseigneur will be allowed to return at once to the Archevêché.”