“I shall be very happy to do anything — if you are there.”
“Even drink tea when you abhor it? Then I certainly ought to reward you with my presence at the rite.... Are you dizzy? You are terribly pale.... Would you lean on my arm?”
I was not dizzy, but I did so; and if such deceit is not pardonable, there is no justice in this world or in the next.
The tea was hot and harmless; I lay thinking while she sat in the sunny window-corner, nibbling biscuit and marmalade, and watching me gravely.
“My appetite is dreadful in these days,” she said; “age increases it; I have just had my chocolate, yet here am I, eating like a school-girl.... I have a strange idea that I am exceedingly young,... that I am just beginning to live. That tired, thin, shabby girl you saw at La Trappe was certainly not I.... And long before that, before I knew you, there was another impersonal, half — awakened creature, who watched the world surging and receding around her, who grew tired even of violets and bonbons, tired of the companionship of the indifferent, hurt by the intimacy of the unfriendly; and I cannot believe that she was I.... Can you?”
“I can believe it; I once saw you then,” I said.
She looked up quickly. “Where?”
“In Paris.”
“When?”
“The day that they received the news from Mexico. You sat in your carriage before the gates of the war office.”
“I remember,” she said, staring at me. Then a slight shudder passed over her.
Presently she said: “Did you recognize me afterward at La Trappe?”
“Yes,... you had grown more beautiful.”
She colored and bent her head.
“You remembered me all that time?... But why didn’t you — didn’t you—” She laughed nervously. “Why didn’t we know each other in those years? Truly, Monsieur Scarlett, I needed a friend then, if ever;... a friend who thought first of me and last of himself.”
I did not answer.
“Fancy,” she continued, “your passing me so long ago,... and I totally unconscious, sitting there in my carriage,... never dreaming of this friendship which I ... care for so much!... Do you remember at La Trappe what I told you, there on the staircase? — how sometimes the impulse used to come to me when I saw a kindly face in the street to cry out, ‘Be friends with me!’ Do you remember?... It is strange that I did not feel that impulse when you passed me that day in Paris — feel it even though I did not see you — for I sorely needed kindness then, kindness and wisdom; and both passed by, at my elbow,... and I did not know.” She bent her head, smiling with an effort. “You should have thrown yourself astride the horse and galloped away with me.... They did those things once, Monsieur Scarlett — on this very spot, too, in the days of the Saxon pirates.”
The whirring monotone of the spinning-wheel suddenly filled the house; Sylvia was singing at her wheel:
“Woe to the maids of Paradise!
Yvonne!
Twice have the Saxons landed; twice!
Yvonne!
Yet shall Paradise see them thrice,
Yvonne! Yvonne! Marivonik!”
“The prophecy of that Breton spinning song is being fulfilled,” I said. “For the third time we Saxons have come to Paradise, you see.”
“But this time our Saxons are not very formidable,” she said, raising her beautiful gray eyes; “and the gwerz says, ‘Woe to the maids of Paradise!’ Do you intend to bring woe upon us maids of Paradise — do you come to carry us off, monsieur?”
“If you will go with — me,” I said, smiling.
“All of us?”
“Only one, madame.”
She started to speak, then her eyes fell. She laughed uncertainly. “Which one among us, if you please — mizilour skler ha brillant deuz ar fidelite?”
“Met na varwin Ket Kontant, ma na varwan fidel,” I said, slowly, as the words of the song came back to me. “I shall choose only the fairest and loveliest, madame. You know it is always that way in the story.” My voice was not perfectly steady, nor was hers when she smiled and wished me happiness and a long life with the maid of Paradise I had chosen, even though I took her by force.
Then constraint crept in between us, and I was grimly weighing the friendship this woman had given me — weighing it in the balance against a single hope.
Once she looked across at me with questioning eyes in which I thought I read dawning disappointment. It almost terrified me.... I could not lose her confidence,... I could not, and go through life without it.... But I could live a hopeless life to its end with that confidence.... And I must do so,... and be content.
“I suppose,” said I, thinking aloud, “that I had better go to England.”
“When?” she asked, without raising her head.
“In a day or two. I can find employment there, I think.”
“Is it necessary that you find employment ... so soon?”
“Yes,” I said, with a meaningless laugh, “I fear it is.”
“What will you do?”
“Oh, the army — horses — something of that kind. Riding-master, perhaps — perhaps Scotland Yard. I may not be able to pick and choose.... If I ever save enough money for the voyage, perhaps you would let me come, once in a long while, to pay my respects, madame?”
“Yes,... come, if you wish.”
She said no more, nor did I. Presently Sylvia appeared with a peasant woman, and the young countess went away, followed by the housekeeper with her keys at her girdle.
I rose and walked to the window; then, nerveless and depressed, I went out into the garden again to smoke a cigar.
The cat had disappeared; I traversed the garden, passed through the side wicket, and found myself on the cliffs. Almost immediately I was aware of a young girl, a child, seated on the rocks, her chin propped on her hands, the sea-wind blowing her curly elf-locks across her cheeks and eyes. A bundle tied in a handkerchief lay beside her; a cat dozed in her lap, its sleek fur stirring in the wind.
“Jacqueline!” I said, gently.
She raised her head; the movement awakened the cat, who stood up in her lap, stretching and yawning vigorously.
“I thought you were to sail from Lorient to-day?”
The cat stopped purring from her knees; the child rose, pushing back her hair from her eyes with both hands.
“Where is Speed?” she asked, drowsily.
“Did you want to see him, Jacqueline?”
“That is why I returned.”
“To see Speed?”
“Parbleu.”
“And you are going to let the others sail without you?”
“Yes.”
“And give up the circus forever, Jacqueline?”
“Y-es.”
“Just because you want to see Speed?”
“Only for that.”
She stood rubbing her eyes with her small fists, as though just awakened.
“Oui,” she said, without emotion, “c’est comme ça, m’sieu. Where the heart is, happiness lies. I left the others at the city gate; I said, ‘Voyons, let us be reasonable, gentlemen. I am happy in your circus; I am happy with Speed; I can be contented without your circus, but I cannot be contented without Speed. Voilà!’... and then I went.”
“You walked back all the way from Lorient?”
“Bien sûr! I have no carriage — I, Jacqueline.” She stretched her slim figure, raised her arms slowly, and yawned. “Pardon,” she murmured, “I have slept in the gorse — badly.”
“Come into the garden,” I said; “we can talk while you rest.”
She thanked me tranquilly, picked up her bundle, and followed me with a slight limp. The cat, tail up, came behind.
The young countess was standing at the window as we approached in solemn single file along the path, and when she caught sight of us she opened the door and stepped out on the tiny porch.
“Why, this is our little Jacqueline,” she said, quickly. “They have taken your father for the conscription, have they
not, my child? And now you are homeless!”
“I think so, madame.”
“Then you will stay with me until he returns, won’t you, little one?”
There was a moment’s pause; Jacqueline made a grave gesture. “This is my cat, madame — Ange Pitou.”
The countess stared at the cat, then broke out into the prettiest peal of laughter. “Of course you must bring your cat! My invitation is also for Ange Pitou, you understand.”
“Then we thank you, and permit ourselves to accept, madame,” said Jacqueline. “We are very glad because we are quite hungry, and we have thorns from the gorse in our feet—” She broke off with a joyous little cry: “There is Speed!” And Speed, entering the garden hurriedly, stopped short in his tracks.
The child ran to him and threw both arms around his neck. “Oh, Speed! Speed!” she stammered, over and over again. “I was too lonely; I will do what you wish; I will be instructed in the graces of education — truly I will. I am glad to come back — and I am so tired, Speed. I will never go away from you again.... Oh, Speed, I am contented!... Do you love me?”
“Dearly, little sweetheart,” he said, huskily, trying to steady his voice. “There! Madame the countess is waiting. All will be well now.” He turned, smiling, toward the young countess, and lifted his hat, then stepped back and fixed me with a blank look of dismay, which said perfectly plainly that he had unpleasant news to communicate. The countess, I think, saw that look, too, for she gave me an almost imperceptible nod and took Jacqueline’s hand in hers.
“If there are thorns in your feet we must find them,” she said, sweetly. “Will you come, Jacqueline?”
“Yes, madame,” said the child, with an adoring smile at Speed, who bent and kissed her upturned face as she passed.
They went into the house, the countess holding Jacqueline’s thorn-scratched hand, the cat following, perfectly self-possessed, to the porch, where she halted and sat down, surveying the landscape with dignified indifference.
“Well,” said I, turning to Speed, “what new deviltry is going on in Paradise now?”
“Preparations for train-wrecking, I should say,” he replied, bluntly. “They are tinkering with the trestle. Buckhurst’s ragamuffins have just seized the railroad station at Rose-Sainte-Anne, where the main line crosses, you know, near the ravine at Lammerin. I was sure there was something extraordinary going to happen, so I went down to the river, hailed Jeanne Rolland, the passeuse, and had her ferry me over to Bois-Gilbert. Then I made for the telegraph, gave the operator ten francs to let me work the keys, and called up the arsenal at Lorient. But it was no use, Scarlett, the governor of Lorient can’t spare a soldier — not a single gendarme. It seems that Uhlans have been signalled north of Quimper, and Lorient is frantic, and the garrison is preparing to stand siege.”
“You mean,” I said, indignantly, “that they’re not going to try to catch Buckhurst and Mornac?”
“That’s what I mean; they’re scared as rabbits over these rumors of Uhlans in the west and north.”
“Well,” said I, disgusted, “it appears to me that Buckhurst is going to get off scot-free this time — and Mornac, too! Did you know that Mornac was here?”
“Know it? I saw him an hour ago, marshalling a new company of malcontents in the square — a bad lot, Scarlett — deserters from Chanzy’s army, from Bourbaki, from Garibaldi — a hundred or more line soldiers, dragoons without horses, francs-tireurs, Garibaldians, even a Turco, from Heaven knows where — bad soldiers who disgrace France — marauders, cowardly, skulking mobiles — a sweet lot, Scarlett, to be let loose in Madame de Vassart’s vicinity.”
“I think so, too,” I said, seriously.
“And I earnestly agree with you,” muttered Speed. “That’s all I have to report, except that your friend, Robert the Lizard, is out yonder flat on his belly under a gorse-bush, and he wants to see you.”
“The Lizard!” I exclaimed. “Come on, Speed. Where is he?”
“Yonder, clothed in somebody’s line uniform. He’s one of them. Scarlett, do you trust him? He has a rifle.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, impatiently. “Come on, man! It’s all right; the fellow is watching Buckhurst for me.” And I gave Speed a nervous push toward the moors. We started, Speed ostentatiously placing his revolver in his side-pocket so that he could shoot through his coat if necessary. I walked beside him, closely scanning the stretch of open moor for a sign of life, knowing all the while that it is easier to catch moon-beams in a net than to find a poacher in the bracken. But Speed had marked him down as he might mark a squatting quail, and suddenly we flushed him, rifle clapped to his shoulder.
“None of that, my friend,” growled Speed; but the poacher at sight of me had already lowered the weapon.
I greeted him frankly, offering my hand; he took it, then his hard fist fell away and he touched his cap.
“I have done what you wanted,” he said, sullenly. “I have the company’s rolls — here they are.” He dragged from his baggy trousers pockets a mass of filthy papers, closely covered with smeared writing. “Here is the money, too,” he said, fishing in the other pocket; and, to my astonishment, he produced a flattened, soiled mass of bank-notes. “Count it,” he added, calmly.
“What money is that?” I asked, taking it reluctantly.
“Didn’t you warn me to get that box — the steel box that Tric-Trac sat down on when he saw me?”
“Is that money from the box?” I exclaimed.
“Yes, m’sieu. I could not bring the box, and there had been enough blood shed over it already. Besides, when Buckhurst broke it open there was only a bit of iron for the scrap-heap left.”
I touched Speed’s arm to call his attention; the poacher shrugged his shoulders and continued: “Tric-Trac made no ceremony with me; he told me that he and Buckhurst had settled this Dr. Delmont, and the other — the professor — Tavernier.”
“Murdered them?” muttered Speed.
“Dame! — the coup du Père François is murder, I suppose.”
Speed turned to me. “That’s the argot for strangling,” he said, grimly.
“Go on,” I motioned to the poacher. “How did you get the money?”
“Oh, pour ça — in my turn I turned sonneur,” he replied, with a savage smile.
A sonneur, in thieves’ slang, is a creature of the footpad type who, tripping his victim flat, seizes him by the shoulders and beats his head against the pavement until he renders him unconscious — if he doesn’t kill him.
“It was pay-day,” continued the Lizard. “Buckhurst opened the box and I heard him — he hammered it open with a cold chisel. I was standing guard on the forest’s edge; I crept back, hearing the hammering and the little bell ringing the Angelus of Tric-Trac. It was close to dusk; by the time he got into the box it was dark in the woods, and it was easy to jump on his back and strike — not very hard, m’sieu — but, I tell you, Buckhurst lay for two days with eyes like a sick owl’s! He knew one of his own men had done it. He never said a word, but I know he thinks it was Tric-Trac.... And when he is ready — bon soir, Tric-Trac!”
He drew his right hand across his corded throat with a horridly suggestive motion. Speed watched him narrowly.
I asked the poacher why Buckhurst had come to Paradise, and why his banditti had seized the railroad at Rose-Sainte-Anne. 336
“Ah,” cried the Lizard, with a ferocious leer, “that is the kernel under the limpet’s tent! And I have uncovered it — I, Robert Garenne, bon sang de Jésu!”
He stretched out his powerful arm toward the sea. “Where is that cruiser, m’sieu? Gone? Yes, but who sent her off? Buckhurst, with his new signal-book! Where? In chase of a sea-swallow, or a frigate (bird). Who knows? Listen, messieurs! We are to wreck the train for Brest to-night. Do you comprehend?”
“Where?” I asked, quietly.
“Just where the trestle at Lammerin crosses the ravine below the house of Josephine Tanguy.”
Speed looked around at me.
“It’s the treasure-train from Lorient. They’re probably sending the crown diamonds back to Brest in view of the Uhlans being seen near Quimper.”
“On a false order?”
“I believe so. I believe that Buckhurst sent the cruiser to Brest, and now he’s started the treasure-trains back to Brest in a panic.”
“That is the truth,” said the Lizard; “Tric-Trac told me. They have the code-book of Mornac.” His eyes began to light up with that terrible anger as the name of his blood enemy fell from his lips; his nose twitched; his upper lip wrinkled into a snarl.
I thought quietly for a moment, then asked the poacher whether there was a guard at the semaphore of Saint-Yssel.
“Yes, the soldier Rolland, who says he understands the telegraph — a sot from Morlaix.” He hesitated and looked across the open moor toward Paradise. “I must go,” he muttered; “I am on guard yonder.”
I offered him my hand again; he took it, looking me sincerely in the eyes.
“Let your private wrongs wait a little longer,” I said. “I think we can catch Buckhurst and Mornac alive. Do you promise?”
“Y-es,” he replied.
“Strike, then, like a Breton!”
We struck palms heavily. Then he turned to Speed and motioned him to retire.
Speed walked slowly toward a half-buried bowlder and sat down out of ear-shot.
“For your sake,” said the poacher, clutching my hand in a tightening grip— “for your sake I have let Mornac go — let him pass me at arm’s-length, and did not strike. You have dealt openly by me — and justly. No man can say I betrayed friendship. But I swear to you that if you miss him this time, I shall not miss — I, Robert the Lizard!”
“You mean to kill Mornac?” I asked.
His eyes blazed.
“Ami,” he said, “I once spoke of ‘a little red deer,’ and you half understood me, for you are wise in strange ways, as I am.”
“I remember,” I said.
His strong fingers closed tighter on my hand. “Woman — or doe — it’s all one now; and I am out of prison — the prison he sent me to! Do you understand that he wronged me — me, the soldier Garenne, in garrison at Vincennes; he, the officer, the aristocrat?”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 195