“What have I done?” she cried, brokenly— “what have I done that this shame should come upon me?”
“You have done nothing,” I said, “neither for good nor evil in this crisis. But Sylvia has; Sylvia the spy. That a man should give up his life for a friend is good; that a woman offer hers for her country is better. What has it cost her? The friendship of the woman she worships — you, madame! It has cost her that already, and the price may include her life and the life of the man she loves. She has done her duty; the sacrifice is still burning; I pray it may spare her and spare him.”
I walked to the door and laid my hand on the brass knob. 362
“The world is merciless to failures,” I said. “Yet even a successful spy is scarcely tolerated among the Philistines; a captured spy is a horror for friends to forget and for enemies to destroy in righteous indignation. Madame, I know, for I have served your country in Algiers as a spy,... not from patriotism, for I am an alien, but because I was fitted for it in my line of duty. Had I been caught I should have looked for nothing but contempt from France; from the Kabyle, for neither admiration nor mercy. I tell you this that you may understand my respect for this woman, whose motives are worthy of it.”
The Countess looked at me scornfully. “It is well,” she said, “for those who understand and tolerate treachery to condone it. It is well that the accused be judged by their peers. We of Trécourt know only one tongue. But that is the language of truth, monsieur. All else is foreign.”
“Where did the nobility learn this tongue — to our exclusion?” I asked, bluntly.
“When our forefathers faced the tribunals!” she flashed out. “Did you ever hear of a spy among us? Did you ever hear of a lie among us?”
“You have been taught history by your peers, madame,” I said, with a bow; “I have been taught history by mine.”
“The sorry romance!” she said, bitterly. “It has brought me to this!”
“It has brought others to their senses,” I said, sharply.
“To their knees, you mean!”
“Yes — to their knees at last.”
“To the guillotine — yes!”
“No, madame, to pray for their native land — too late!”
“I think,” she said, “that we are not fitted to understand each other.” 363
“It remains,” I said, “for me to thank you for your kindness to us all, and for your generosity to me in my time of need.... It is quite useless for me to dream of repaying it.... I shall never forget it.... I ask leave to make my adieux, madame.”
She flushed to her temples, but did not answer.
As I stood looking at her, a vivid flare of light flashed through the window behind me, crimsoning the walls, playing over the ceiling with an infernal radiance. At the same instant the gate outside crashed open, a hubbub of voices swelled into a roar; then the outer doors were flung back and a score of men sprang into the hallway, soldiers with the red torch-light dancing on rifle-barrels and bayonets.
And before them, revolver swinging in his slender hand, strode Buckhurst, a red sash tied across his breast, his colorless eyes like diamonds.
Speed and Jacqueline came hurrying through the hall to where I stood; Buckhurst’s smile was awful as his eyes flashed from Speed to me.
Behind him, close to his shoulder, the torch-light fell on Mornac’s smooth, false face, stretched now into a ferocious grimace; behind him crowded the soldiers of the commune, rifles slung, craning their unshaven faces to catch a glimpse of us.
“Demi-battalion, halt!” shouted an officer, and flung up his naked sabre.
“Halt,” repeated Buckhurst, quietly.
Madame de Vassart’s servants had come running from kitchen and stable at the first alarm, and now stood huddled in the court-yard, bewildered, cowed by the bayonets which had checked them.
“Buckhurst,” I said, “what the devil do you mean by this foolery?” and I started for him, shouldering my way among his grotesque escort.
For an instant I looked into his deadly eyes; then he silently motioned me back; a dozen bayonets were levelled, forcing me to retire, inch by inch, until I felt Speed’s grip on my arm.
“That fellow means mischief,” he whispered. “Have you a pistol?”
“I gave mine to Eyre,” I said, under my breath. “If he means us harm, don’t resist or they may take revenge on the Countess. Speed, keep her in the room there! Don’t let her come out.”
But the Countess de Vassart was already in the hall, facing Buckhurst with perfect composure.
Twice she ordered him to leave; he looked up from his whispered consultation with Mornac and coolly motioned her to be silent.
Once she spoke to Mornac, quietly demanding a reason for the outrage, and Mornac silenced her with a brutal gesture.
“Madame,” I said, “it is I they want. I beg you to retire.”
“You are my guest,” she said. “My place is here.”
“Your place is where I please to put you!” broke in Mornac; and to Buckhurst: “I tell you she’s as guilty as the others. Let me attend to this and make a clean sweep!”
“Citizen Mornac will endeavor to restrain his zeal,” observed Buckhurst, with a sneer. And then, as I looked at this slender, pallid man, I understood who was the dominant power behind the curtain; and so did Speed, for I felt him press my elbow significantly.
He turned and addressed us, suavely, bowing with a horrid, mock deference to the Countess:
“In the name of the commune! The ci-devant Countess de Vassart is accused of sheltering the individual Scarlett, late inspector of Imperial Police; the individual Speed, ex-inspector of Imperial Gendarmes; the individual Eyre, under general suspicion; the woman called Sylvia Elven, a German spy. As war-delegate of the commune, I am here to accuse!”
There was a silence, then a low, angry murmur from the soldiers, which grew louder until Buckhurst turned on them. He did not utter a word, but the sullen roar died out, a bayonet rattled, then all was still in the dancing torch-light.
“I accuse,” continued Buckhurst, in a passionless voice, “the individual Scarlett of treachery to the commune; of using the telegraph for treacherous ends; of hoisting signals with the purpose of attracting government troops to destroy us. I accuse the individual Speed of aiding his companion in using the telegraph to stop the government train, thus depriving the commune of the funds which rightfully belong to it — the treasures wrung from wretched peasants by the aristocrats of an accursed monarchy and a thrice-accursed empire!”
A roaring cheer burst from the excited soldiers, drowning the voice of Buckhurst.
“Silence!” shouted Mornac, savagely. And as the angry voices were stilled, one by one, above the banging of rifle-stocks and the rattle of bayonets, Buckhurst’s calm voice rose in a sinister monotone.
“I accuse the woman Sylvia Elven of communication with Prussian agents; of attempted corruption of soldiers under my command. I accuse the citoyenne Éline Trécourt, lately known as the Countess de Vassart, of aiding, encouraging, and abetting these enemies of France!”
He waited until the short, fierce yell of approval had died away. Then:
“Call the soldier Rolland!” he said.
My heart began to hammer in my throat. “I believe it’s going hard with us,” I muttered to Speed.
“Listen,” he motioned. 366
I listened to the wretched creature Rolland while he told what had happened at the semaphore. In his eagerness he pushed close to where I stood, menacing me with every gesture, cursing and lashing himself into a rage, ignoring all pretence of respect and discipline for his own superiors.
“What are you waiting for?” he shouted, insolently, turning on Buckhurst. “I tell the truth; and if this man can afford to pay hundreds of francs for a telegram, he must be rich enough to pluck, I tell you!”
“You say he bribed you?” asked Buckhurst, gently.
“Yes; I’ve said it twenty times, haven’t I?”
“And you took the
bribes?”
“Parbleu!”
“And you thought if you admitted it and denounced the man who bribed you that you would help divide a few millions with us, you rogue?” suggested Buckhurst, admiringly.
The wretch laughed outright.
“And you believe that you deserve well of the commune?” smiled Buckhurst.
The soldier grinned and opened his mouth to answer, and Buckhurst shot him through the face; and, as he fell, shot him again, standing wreathed in the smoke of his own weapon.
The deafening racket of the revolver, the smoke, the spectacle of the dusty, inert thing on the floor over which Buckhurst stood and shot, seemed to stun us all.
“I think,” said Buckhurst, in a pleasantly persuasive voice, “that there will be no more bribery in this battalion.” He deliberately opened the smoking weapon; the spent shells dropped one by one from the cylinder, clinking on the stone floor.
“No — no more bribery,” he mused, touching the dead man with the carefully polished toe of his shoe. “Because,” he added, reloading his revolver, “I do not like it.”
He turned quietly to Mornac and ordered the corpse to be buried, and Mornac, plainly unnerved at the murderous act of his superior, repeated the order, cursing his men to cover the quaver in his voice.
“As for you,” observed Buckhurst, glancing up at us where we stood speechless together, “you will be judged and sentenced when this drum-head court decides. Go into that room!”
The Countess did not move.
Speed touched her arm; she looked up quietly, smiled, and stepped across the threshold. Speed followed; Jacqueline slipped in beside him, and then I turned on Buckhurst, who had just ordered his soldiers to surround the house outside.
“As a matter of fact,” I said, when the last armed ruffian had departed, “I am the only person in this house who has interfered with your affairs. The others have done nothing to harm you.”
“The court will decide that,” he replied, balancing his revolver in his palm.
I eyed him for an instant. “Do you mean harm to this unfortunate woman?” I asked.
“My friend,” he replied, in a low voice, “you have very stupidly upset plans that have cost me months to perfect. You have, by stopping that train, robbed me of something less than twenty millions of francs. I have my labor for my pains; I have this mob of fools on my hands; I may lose my life through this whim of yours; and if I don’t, I have it all to begin again. And you ask me what I am going to do!”
His eyes glittered.
“If I strike her I strike you. Ask yourself whether or not I will strike.” 368
All the blood seemed to leave my heart; I straightened up with an effort.
“There are some murders,” I said, “that even you must recoil at.”
“I don’t think you appreciate me,” he replied, with a deathly smile.
He motioned toward the door with levelled weapon. I turned and entered the tea-room, and he locked the door from the outside.
The Countess, seated on the sofa, looked up as I appeared. She was terribly pale, but she smiled as my heavy eyes met hers.
“Is it to be farce or tragedy, monsieur?” she asked, without a tremor in her clear voice.
I could not have uttered a word to save my life. Speed, pacing the room, turned to read my face; and I think he read it, for he stopped short in his tracks. Jacqueline, watching him with blue, inscrutable eyes, turned sharply toward the window and peered out into the darkness.
Beyond the wall of the garden the fog, made luminous by the torches of the insurgents, surrounded the house with a circle of bright, ruddy vapor.
Speed came slowly across the room with me.
“Do they mean to shoot us?” he asked, bluntly.
“Messieurs,” said the Countess, with a faint smile, “your whispers are no compliment to my race. Pray honor me by plain speaking. Are we to die?”
We stood absolutely speechless before her.
“Ah, Monsieur Scarlett,” she said, gravely, “do you also fail me ... at the end?... You, too — even you?... Must I tell you that we of Trécourt fear nothing in this world?”
She made a little gesture, exquisitely imperious.
I stepped toward her; she waited for me to seat myself beside her. 369
“Are we to die?” she asked.
“Yes, madame.”
“Thank you,” she said, softly.
I looked up. My head was swimming so that I could scarcely see her, scarcely perceive the deep, steady tenderness in her clear eyes.
“Do you not understand?” she asked. “You are my friend. I wished to know my fate from you.”
“Madame,” I said, hoarsely, “how can you call me friend when you know to what I have brought you?”
“You have brought me to know myself,” she said, simply. “Why should I not be grateful? Why do you look at me so sadly, Monsieur Scarlett? Truly, you must know that my life has been long enough to prove its uselessness.”
“It is not true!” I cried, stung by remorse for all I had said. “Such women as you are the hope of France! Such women as you are the hope of the world! Ah, that you should consider the bitterness and folly of such a man as I am — that you should consider and listen to the sorry wisdom of a homeless mountebank — a wandering fool — a preacher of empty platitudes, who has brought you to this with his cursed meddling!”
“You taught me truth,” she said, calmly; “you make the last days of my life the only ones worth living. I said to you but an hour since — when I was angry — that we were unfitted to comprehend each other. It is not true. We are fitted for that. I had rather die with you than live without the friendship which I believe — which I know — is mine. Monsieur Scarlett, it is not love. If it were, I could not say this to you — even in death’s presence. It is something better; something untroubled, confident, serene.... You see it is not love.... And perhaps it has no name.... For I have never before known such happiness, such peace, as I know now, here with you, talking of our death. If we could live,... you would go away.... I should be alone.... And I have been alone all my life,... and I am tired. You see I have nothing to regret in a death that brings me to you again.... Do you regret life?”
“Not now,” I said.
“You are kind to say so. I do believe — yes, I know that you truly care for me.... Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then it will not be hard.... Perhaps not even very painful.”
The key turning in the door startled us. Buckhurst entered, and through the hallway I saw his dishevelled soldiers running, flinging open doors, tearing, trampling, pillaging, wrecking everything in their path.
“Your business will be attended to in the garden at dawn,” he observed, blinking about the room, for the bright lamp-light dazzled him.
Speed, who had been standing by the window with Jacqueline, wheeled sharply, took a few steps into the room, then sank into a chair, clasping his lank hands between his knees.
The Countess did not even glance up as the sentence was pronounced; she looked at me and laid her left hand on mine, smiling, as though waiting for the moment to resume an interrupted conversation.
“Do you hear?” demanded Buckhurst, raising his voice.
There was no answer for a moment; then Jacqueline stepped from the window and said: “Am I free to go?”
“You!” said Buckhurst, contemptuously; “who in hell are you?”
“I am Jacqueline.”
“Really,” sneered Buckhurst. 371
He went away, slamming and locking the door; and I heard Mornac complaining that the signals had gone out on the semaphore and that there was more treachery abroad.
“Get me a horse!” said Buckhurst. “There are plenty of them in the stables. Mornac, you stay here; I’ll ride over to the semaphore. Gut this house and fire it after you’ve finished that business in the garden to-morrow morning.”
“Where are you going?” demanded Mornac’s angry voice. “Do y
ou expect me to stay here while you start for Paris?”
“You have your orders,” said Buckhurst, menacingly.
“Oh, have I? What are they? To stay here when the country is roused — stay here and perhaps be shelled by that damned cruiser out there—”
His voice was stifled as though a hand had clutched his throat; there came the swift sound of a struggle, the banging of scabbards and spurs, the scuffle of heavy boots.
“Are you mad?” burst out Mornac’s strangled voice.
“Are you?” breathed Buckhurst. “Silence, you fool. Do you obey orders or not?”
Their voices receded. Speed sprang to the door to listen, then ran back to the window.
“Scarlett,” he whispered, “there are the lights of a vessel at anchor off Groix.”
I was beside him in an instant. “It’s the cruiser,” I said. “Oh, Speed, for a chance to signal!”
We looked at each other desperately.
“We could set the room afire,” he said; “they might land to see what had happened.”
“And find us all shot.”
Jacqueline, standing beside Speed, said, quietly: “I could swim it. Wait. Raise the window a little.” 372
“You cannot dive from that cliff!” I said.
She cautiously unlocked the window and peered out into the dark garden.
“The cliff falls sheer from the wall yonder,” she whispered. “I shall try to drop. I learned much in the circus. I am not afraid, Speed. I shall drop into the sea.”
“To your death,” I said.
“Possibly, m’sieu. It is a good death, however. I am not afraid.”
“Close the window,” muttered Speed. “They’d shoot her from the wall, anyway.”
Again the child gravely asked permission to try.
“No,” said Speed, harshly, and turned away. But in that instant Jacqueline flung open the window and vaulted into the garden. Before I could realize what had happened she was only a glimmering spot in the darkness. Then Speed and I followed her, running swiftly toward the foot of the garden, but we were too late; a slim, white shape rose from the top of the wall and leaped blindly out through the ruddy torch glare into the blackness beyond.
We heard a soldier’s startled cry, a commotion, curses, and astonished exclamations from the other side of the wall.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 198