“Comrade, you’ve caught our pretty Vivandière!” cried a soldier, laughing. Philip turned instantly to Faustine and held out his hand.
“Thank you, citoyenne,” he said in a low voice.
“God bless you, comrade!” she murmured; then with a quick military salute she stood still, and he walked on alone.
Half an hour later he threw himself down beside the white military road and emptied his haversack on the grass. A clear stream gurgled under a little stone bridge that spanned the road below him. He washed the grime from his face and hands and fell to. He had not eaten since that hasty gammel of soup on the fortifications before daylight and, tired as he was, he devoured his bread and meat, and drank his red wine with a keen relish. Then he lay back against the trunk of a chestnut tree and looked across to where the walls of Paris were in plain view. He was not sleepy, but repose was delicious. Before him the road wound away toward the city, passing by two hamlets nestling among groves of sycamore and chestnut, then curved out by the Point-du-Jour through earthworks and rows of tents until it entered the city gate under the granite fortifications. As far as he could see, the white road was deserted, except by two quarrelling magpies. The magpies were disputing noisily. They hopped and bounded and flittered here and there, flirting their black and white wings viciously, cocking their impudent bright eyes, and piling insult upon insult, until Philip, deadly weary of noise and fighting, closed his eyes, hoping they would carry their war into another region. A few moments later he opened his eyes to see if they were gone. Both birds were still in the road, but they had become strangely silent. He soon discovered the cause of this. A common danger threatened them. A large cat, belly flattened to the ground, was stalking the birds. They saw her. She crept nearer and nearer, eyes glowing, body flat as a serpent’s; then gathering herself together she crouched, trembling, for the final spring. At that moment both birds burst into screams of mockery and derision and flitted away over the fields toward a distant dead tree. Slowly the cat turned her head, watching them until they disappeared across the meadow, then she crept up to where they had sat in the road, sniffed about, and finally rose with a disgusted jerk of her tail. A moment later she turned like a flash, for Philip had sprung to his feet and stood staring at her, rubbing his eyes violently. At that instant a solitary figure came into view around the curve in the road, — a woman who walked slowly and listlessly with bared head bent.
“Tcherka!” cried Philip.
The cat trotted toward him, hoisting a gorgeous crimson tail and making pleased observations rapidly. The woman started and raised her head with a gesture of terror, but when he jumped down the bank and sprang toward her she threw out her hands, with a soft cry, and in a moment more his arms were around her and her face lay against his.
CHAPTER XXI. COMMISSIONS FOR TWO.
THE sun was sinking into the battle smoke beyond Clamart village. High in the zenith the new moon hung, a faint crescent in the rosy, evening sky. The rumble of war had died away in the west, but still from the south deep muffled intonations were borne on the spring winds, and strangely shaped battle clouds climbed above the horizon. The country around was quiet and peaceful; the solemn notes of the cannon grew less and less frequent, and the awful voice of Mont-Valérien was stilled.
Jeanne de Brassac, smiling and happy, sat under a tree in the meadow above the Paris road. Philip lay at her feet, his chin on his hands, his scarlet fez pushed back on his forehead. Tcherka was hunting field-mice. If her success had been in proportion to her enthusiam, the field-mouse would have become extinct in France. From an oak tree near by two magpies jeered at her efforts until a small hedge-sparrow aroused their ire and they disappeared in headlong chase.
Philip and Jeanne had not said much after their meeting. The swift clasp and clinging caress left one of them happy and thoughtful, and the other dazed. It had happened so suddenly, — neither was conscious of anything except that heart-sick terror was gone and a dear face was there, unchanged. Very sweetly she clung to him, now quiet and hopeful, with his strong arm clasping her waist, and his firm, young hand holding both of hers. That she herself was safe now did not occur to her at first. She only thought, “Philip is alive, — Philip is unhurt, here by my side.” Of course, she was safe enough now. Was not Philip there? Did anything ever stand against Philip? A moment before, she had been walking on the white military road, alone, penniless, not knowing, nor, for that matter, thinking, where she might lay her head at night; it was the load of deadly foreboding for Philip which weighted her young breast and bowed her head until her mind grew numb with hopeless misery. Her future seemed one long vista, dull and blank and full of sorrow. A second had changed all that, — the sound of a voice, a swift step, a strong arm about her, — ah, yes, one glance into the dear eyes! — and sorrow and trouble had vanished like broken bubbles.
They had told each other their little tales of danger and mischance, but already, in her presence, the dangers which lay behind him seemed so far away and so insignificant that his story was finished in a dozen words. Hers he listened to silently, touched to the quick by her low voice.
“But, Jeanne, how came you to be in the garden at that hour?”
“I could not sleep;” — after a pause she added, “because of you.”
Philip lay perfectly still, his chin on his hands, his eyes fixed on hers. She met his gaze with one, clear and serene, yet very sweet and wistful. He came and knelt at her feet. She placed her white hands on his shoulders, innocently, tenderly. How deep her violet eyes were above her white cheeks! He bit his lip and trembled with the agony of silence, but he would not speak. Oh, he had fought the battle with himself again and again. He knew — he never tried to disguise from himself — that to speak to her of love while she was helplessly dependent on his protection would be dishonorable. And his love, passionate, almost fierce as it was at times from restraint, had never yet mastered his will. But her innocent tenderness, her open, fond affection, together with the joy of finding her, were straining his powers of self-control to their utmost.
“Marguerite,” she began again in her low, thrilling voice, still keeping her hands on Philip’s shoulders, “Marguerite thinks I am nothing but a child — and perhaps she is right. But I did not feel like a child when I was weeping for you last night in our garden, — and I said then that if God would let me see you once more I would tell you that — oh, Philip! — there is no one in all the world whom I love as I do you.”
He bent his head, — a single bright drop of blood fell from his lips on the grass. He strove after the right, safe words to answer. She took her hands from his shoulders. He looked up and saw her drawing back, bewildered, dismayed at his silence, and he cried out: “Jeanne! don’t you understand! — I always loved you — always! — from the moment, on that Christmas eve, when I first saw you, a mere child; from that moment your face has haunted me — your voice, your eyes, your hair, your hands; — I love you so much and so truly that I have tried to be silent. Oh, Jeanne, — I have tried! I did not mean to take advantage of my guardianship — I never meant to violate that trust; and now I have failed; whether because I loved you too much, or too little, I do not know — but this I know, that your affection for me is returned as purely, as innocently as it is given. And some day, if God is merciful and keeps you safe, I shall come to you, among your own people, and offer you myself, my life, all I am or hope to be; — you will listen then, Jeanne?”
Almost humbly she answered, recognizing and worshipping the ardor, the vital force which she did not yet understand:
“You must teach me how to listen, Philip.”
He took her hand and kissed it, trembling.
“I will teach you, — Jeanne — and — and I will wait!” They stood up together, a little dazed, as Tcherka came trotting up.
“Here’s Tcherka, blessed cat!” said Philip, smiling with an effort.
Jeanne mechanically stooped to caress her. “Jeanne,” said Philip, mischievously, “say Toodles
!”
“Too-dells, Monsieur!” cried Jeanne, indignantly. “But I should like to know, if you please, where you are going to take me. Do you see it is almost dark? — and the gates at the Point-du-Jour will be closed.”
“I have been thinking,” he answered, with a secret thrill in her perfect trust, “that perhaps it is as well that we can’t get into Paris just yet, until we hear the result of the battle. And I don’t like to take you back to the little village; it’s full of Federals. I see the roof of a farm-house a few steps beyond the curve of the road there. You must have passed it in coming.”
“I did; a young man came to the hedge and called after me as I passed. I did not understand what he said, and I kept on without replying. Shall we go and see if we can get shelter there? I am very hungry.”
“Yes, we’ll try it. Hungry?”
“Yes; I have not eaten since early this morning on the fortifications. Madame Cartier, your poor captain’s mother, gave me some breakfast.”
“What, Jeanne?”
“Not much,” she admitted; “a glass of wine, — some bread. She had to force me to eat it. She was very good to me—”
“And you’ve eaten nothing since that, and now it is almost night!”
Making her sit down again he pulled the provisions from his haversack, constructed a sandwich from the bread and beef, opened the bottle, and handed her a tin cup. With a gay laugh she bit a piece as best she could out of the sandwich, and soon held up the cup to be filled. The wine ran out. “Why, Philip, there is a hole in the cup! — it’s a bullet hole,” she added quietly.
“Oh, yes — I forget — well — you’ll have to drink out of the bottle then. I’ll hold it.” She put up her pretty mouth, and he tipped the bottle, as he thought with great dexterity, until she waved the sandwich for him to take it away again.
“Oh, dear me,” she gasped, “what a perfectly untidy person I shall be! Look where the wine has dripped!”
“Look at my uniform! — you need not feel embarrassed!”
“My handkerchief is all wine — lend me yours,” she implored.
“I wish I had one,” he said pathetically; “will this do?” and he cut off a piece of his red sash. She took it laughingly, and begged him to give Tcherka some more meat.
“She shall have woodcock on toast some day,” said Philip. “Didn’t she bring you to me?”
“The darling!” cried Jeanne; “cut the meat up fine, Philip.”
When Tcherka had finished Philip picked her up and they descended the bank to the wood, and walked toward the red-roofed farm-house which stood just beyond the curve. When they reached the gate and entered the gravel path that led to the door, a young man came out carrying a lantern and a set of harness. He looked sharply at them, raising the lantern above his head.
“Good-evening, citizen,” said Philip; “can we get a bowl of soup and shelter here for to-night?”
“Can you pay?” asked the man.
Philip was silent. He hadn’t a sou.
“I have a watch,” whispered Jeanne.
Philip nodded. “Yes, we can pay, citizen,” he said. The man hesitated. “I shall have two officers here to dinner,” he said, after a moment; “I can get you a bowl of soup before they come.”
“All right — we won’t keep them from the table,” replied Philip.
The man pointed to the door. “The table, is there. I must harness my horse first. Go in.” He turned away toward the stable, and ‘Philip and Jeanne walked into the cottage. In the room on the ground floor a table stood by the fireplace. Philip drew two chairs beside it and they sat down to wait. In a few minutes the man reappeared outside, leading a horse attached to a dog-cart. He set down his lantern, hitched the horse to the hedge in the garden, and then entered the cottage.
“I hope we do not inconvenience you too much, Monsieur,” said Jeanne, politely.
She had made a bad mistake. Philip saw it instantly. “Monsieur” was obsolete in the Commune’s vocabulary; “citizen” was the shibboleth.
The man turned slowly toward her; his narrow eyes glittered.
“No, Madame he said, “you do not inconvenience me.”
The soup, in two earthen bowls, was hot and nourishing. It was what they both needed. The man sat down beside Philip and glanced over his uniform.
“You are one of Colonel Sarre’s Turcos, citizen?”
“Yes, citizen.”
“You were peppered?”
“Passably well peppered.”
“They say Flourens is killed.”
“He’s not the only one then.”
“No, no, not the only one,” said the man, stealing a glance at Jeanne. Philip watched him without seeming to do so.
“They say Dombrowski is at the village yonder,” said the man again.
“Yes. I have the honor of accompanying the citizen General,” replied Philip.
“Oh,” said the man, more respectfully, “are you the Turco he has as ordonnance?”
“Yes,” said Philip, lying deliberately. The man cast another swift glance at Jeanne, and then rose and beckoned Philip to follow.
“Here, citizen,” said the man, as they entered the small room beyond, which was filled with farming implements and garden tools, “just oblige me by reading that,” and he pointed to a new placard pasted on the bare wall.
It was the placard offering a reward for “les nommés Landes and Ellice,” and for the “Citoyennes de Brassac and de St. Brieuc.” The man pointed eagerly to the description of Jeanne. His narrow eyes sparkled.
“The powder has almost blinded me, citizen, — read it aloud,” said Philip. As the man stepped forward and began to read in a low voice, Philip picked up a wooden mallet from the bench behind him and quietly examined the head. The man finished and turned to him eagerly.
“Five thousand francs reward for the woman,” he whispered.
“But where is she?” demanded Philip.
“In there! Don’t you see it is the same? I saw her coming along the road two hours ago, and I thought it might be she, but when I went to find her she was gone. I sent my boy to notify the village yonder to watch out.”
“But — but you wouldn’t betray this poor weman—”
“Bah! She’s an aristocrat. And to think you didn’t know what sort of hussy you had picked up for a night’s frolic! Half the reward is mine, comrade, — I only claim half — oh! — oh! mon Dieu!” — Twice Philip swung his mallet on the man’s skull, and now he lay beside the rakes and shovels on the damp floor of the tool-room. At the same moment there came heavy steps and the banging of a sabre from the court-yard outside. With one searching look at the prostrate man’s face, Philip shut the door, locked it, and dropping the key into his pocket entered the dining-room. An officer stood, cap in hand, bowing very politely to Jeanne; when Philip entered he glanced at his uniform and drew himself up a little to receive the expected salute. The Turco did not salute in the fashion expected; instead of that he sprang toward the officer and seized both his hands. “Archie Wilton! you ‘re a Godsend to me!”
“Landes! Philip Landes!” cried Wilton.
“Come here.” Philip pulled him into the hallway, opened the tool-room, and showed him the man on the floor. “I don’t think I’ve killed him, but I had to stop his mouth,” and he hurriedly told Wilton how it happened that he was there with Mademoiselle de Brassac, and how helpless they were without knowledge of the country and in danger of being recognized and arrested for the reward.
“And I haven’t one sou, Archie, not a cent to bless myself—”
Wilton took a full minute to recover his faculties. Then he pulled out a fat purse and handed it to Philip. “Here!” he said, with his boyish laugh, “I never meet you but you Ve been punching somebody’s head — I suppose you’ll punch mine if I don’t give you this! There’s a big roll of gold in it — I forget how much.”
“But you’ll need it.”
“No; I’d only blow it in. Besides, I’ll get more.”
“You are a good fellow. Wilton,” said Philip, deeply moved.
“All right. What about the party with the cracked skull? What will you do with him?”
“Gag him and leave him here locked in?” suggested Landes.
“No; better have him arrested as a suspect, then if he does recover he won’t bother Mademoiselle de Brassac. I’ve an ordonnance at the gate. He’ll sling the fellow across his saddle and gallop him into the Point-du-Jour.”
They dragged the unconscious man through the room where Jeanne, who had heard the struggle and muffled cries, was standing pale and quiet, and at the garden gate they hoisted their burden to the saddle-bow of a trooper who sat unconcerned on his sweating horse.
“Picard, here’s a suspect. Run him in to Mazas by the Point-du-Jour,” said Wilton. The trooper saluted, grasped the limp form by the waistband, shook the bridle, and was off along the Paris route.
“Seems a low-down trick,” muttered Landes, looking after him. “But it’s our lives or his—”
“Yes, and it seems to me he was getting ready with a trick of his own,” said Wilton. Philip’s face hardened as he remembered how the man had spoken of Jeanne.
“Now what in blazes can I get as a disguise for Mademoiselle de Brassac, I wonder,” pondered Archie—” and for you too. If they find you wandering about in that uniform they’ll shoot you as a deserter. Look here, — I’m going back to the village to steal some clothes for you — I was going to dine here with another officer but he’s — er — incapacitated by drink from keeping his engagement. He won’t miss his uniform at present, and I’ll borrow it for you. If I can find some woman’s clothes I will. If not, Mademoiselle de Brassac has got to wear what I can find.”
“Not — not men’s clothes!”
“She can take her choice,” said Wilton, vaulting into the saddle; “wear them or run the risk of getting caught — and mighty soon too — I heard she had been seen before I came here — a boy brought the news, and the whole village will be after that five thousand francs. She’s young and slender and as straight as an arrow, and if she wears the pointed hood and long loose rain cloak over her cap and uniform you know — she’ll be invisible, — all but her boots and spurs and the tip of her nose. You’d better advise her to accept it if necessary — unless you want Raoul Rigault to get her—”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 45