Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  The house stirred at last, but I had still to wait till noon before I could see Madame Catinot. I spent the interval in an aimless walk through the town. At another time the things I saw must have filled me with wonder; at another time the hoary, gloomy ring of the Arènes, rising in tiers of frowning arches, high above the squalid roofs that leaned against it — and choked within by a Ghetto of the like, huddled where prefects once sat, and the Emperor’s colours flew victorious round the circle — must have won my admiration by its vastness; the Maison Carrée by its fair proportions; the streets by the teeming crowds that filled them, and stood about the cabarets, and read the placards on the walls. But I had only thought for Louis, and my love, and the lagging minutes. At the first stroke of twelve I knocked at Madame Catinot’s door; the last saw me in her presence.

  It needed but a look at her face, and my heart sank; the thanks I was preparing to utter died on my lips as I gazed at her. She on her part was agitated. For a moment we were both silent.

  At last, “I see that you have bad news for me, Madame,” I said, striving to smile, and bear myself bravely.

  “The worst, I fear,” she said pitifully, smoothing her skirt. “For I have none, Monsieur.”

  “Yet I have heard it said that no news is good news?” I said, wondering.

  Her lip trembled, but she did not look at me.

  “Come, Madame,” I persisted, though I was sick at heart. “Surely you are going to tell me more than that? At least you can tell me where I can see Madame St. Alais.”

  “No, Monsieur, I cannot tell you,” she said in a low voice.

  “Nor why M. Louis has so suddenly become hostile to me?”

  “No, Monsieur, nor that. And I beg — as you are a gentleman,” she continued hurriedly, “that you will spare me questions! I thought that I could help you, and I asked you to see me to-day. I find that I can only give you pain.”

  “And that is all, Madame?”

  “That is all,” she said, with a gesture that told more than her words.

  I looked round the silent room, I walked half way to the door. And then I turned back. I could not go. “No!” I cried vehemently, “I will not go so! What is it you have learned, that has closed your lips, Madame? What are they plotting against her — that you fear to tell me? Speak, Madame! You did not bring me here to hear this! That I know.”

  But she only looked at me, her face full of reproach. “Monsieur,” she said, “I meant kindly. Is this my reward?”

  And that was too much for me. I turned without a word, and went out — of the room and the house.

  Outside I felt like a child in darkness, on whom the one door leading to life and liberty had closed, as his hand touched it. I felt a dead, numbing disappointment that at any moment might develop into sharp pain. This change in Madame Catinot, resembling so exactly the change in Louis St. Alais, what could be the cause of it? What had been revealed to her? What was the mystery, the plot, the danger that made them all turn from me, as if I had the plague?

  For awhile I was in the depths of despair. Then the warm sunshine that filled the streets, and spoke of coming summer, kindled lighter thoughts. After all it could not be hard to find a person in Nîmes! I had soon found M. Louis. And this was the eighteenth century and not the sixteenth. Women were no longer exposed to the pressure that had once been brought to bear on them; nor men to the violence natural in old feuds.

  And then — as I thought of that and strove to comfort myself with it — I heard a noise burst into the street behind me, a roar of voices and a sudden trampling of hundreds of feet; and turning I saw a dense press of men coming towards me, waving aloft blue banners, and crucifixes, and flags with the Five Wounds. Some were singing and some shouting, all were brandishing clubs and weapons. They came along at a good pace, filling the street from wall to wall; and to avoid them I stepped into an archway, that opportunely presented itself.

  They came up in a moment, and swept past me with deafening shouts. It was difficult to see more than a forest of waving arms and staves over swart excited faces; but through a break in the ranks I caught a glimpse of three men walking in the heart of the crowd, quiet themselves, yet the cause and centre of all; and the middle man of the three was Froment. One of the others wore a cassock, and the third had a reckless air, and a hat cocked in the military fashion. So much I saw, then only rank upon rank of hurrying shouting men. After these again followed three or four hundred of the scum of the city, beggars and broken rascals and homeless men.

  As I turned from staring after them I found a man at my elbow; by a strange coincidence the very same man who, the night before, had directed me to the Hôtel de Louvre. I asked him if that was not M. Froment.

  “Yes,” he said with a sneer. “And his brother.”

  “Oh, his brother! What is his name, Monsieur?”

  “Bully Froment, some call him.”

  “And what are they going to do?”

  “Groan outside a Protestant church to-day,” he answered pithily. “To-morrow break the windows. The next day, or as soon as they can get their courage to the sticking point, fire on the worshippers, and call in the garrison from Montpellier. After that the refugees from Turin will come, we shall be in revolt, and there will be dragoonings. And then — if the Cevennols don’t step in — Monsieur will see strange things.”

  “But the Mayor?” I said. “And the National Guards? Will they suffer it?”

  “The first is red,” the man answered curtly. “And two-thirds of the last. Monsieur will see.”

  And with a cool nod he went on his way; while I stood a moment looking idly after the procession. On a sudden, as I stood, it occurred to me that where Froment was, the St. Alais might be; and snatching at the idea, wondering hugely that I had not had it before, I started recklessly in pursuit of the mob. The last broken wave of the crowd was still visible, eddying round a distant corner; and even after that disappeared, it was easy to trace the course it had taken by closed shutters and scared faces peeping from windows. I heard the mob stop once, and groan and howl; but before I came up with it it was on again, and when I at last overtook it, where one of the streets, before narrowing to an old gateway, opened out into a little square — with high dingy buildings on this side and that, and a meshwork of alleys running into it — the nucleus of the crowd had vanished, and the fringe was melting this way and that.

  My aim was Froment, and I had missed him. But I was at a loss only for a moment, for as I stood and scanned the people trooping back into the town, my eye alighted on a lean figure with stooping head and a scanty cassock, that, wishing to cross the street, paused a moment striving to pass athwart the crowd. It needed a glance only; then, with a cry of joy, I was through the press, and at the man’s side.

  It was Father Benôit! For a moment we could not speak. Then, as we looked at one another, the first hasty joyful words spoken, I saw the very expression of dismay and discomfiture, which I had read on Louis St. Alais’ face, dawn on his! He muttered, “O mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” under his breath, and wrung his hands stealthily.

  But I was sick of this mystery, and I said so in hot words. “You at any rate shall tell me, father!” I cried.

  Two or three of the passers-by heard me, and looked at us curiously. He drew me, to escape these, into a doorway; but still a man stood peering in at us. “Come upstairs,” the father muttered, “we shall be quiet there.” And he led the way up a stone staircase, ancient and sordid, serving many and cleaned by none.

  “Do you live here?” I said.

  “Yes,” he answered; and then stopped short, and turned to me with an air of confusion. “But it is a poor place, M. le Vicomte,” he continued, and he even made as if he would descend again, “and perhaps we should be wise to go — —”

  “No, no!” I said, burning with impatience. “To your room, man! To your room, if you live here! I cannot wait. I have found you, and I will not let another minute pass before I have learned the truth.”

  He s
till hesitated, and even began to mutter another objection. But I had only mind for one thing, and giving way to me, he preceded me slowly to the top of the house; where under the tiles he had a little room with a mattress and a chair, two or three books and a crucifix. A small square dormer-window admitted the light — and something else; for as we entered a pigeon rose from the floor and flew out by it.

  He uttered an exclamation of annoyance, and explained that he fed them sometimes. “They are company,” he said sadly. “And I have found little here.”

  “Yet you came of your own accord,” I retorted brutally. I was choking with anxiety, and it took that form.

  “To lose one more illusion,” he answered. “For years — you know it, M. le Vicomte — I looked forward to reform, to liberty, to freedom. And I taught others to look forward also. Well, we gained these — you know it, and the first use the people made of their liberty was to attack religion. Then I came here, because I was told that here the defenders of the Church would make a stand; that here the Church was strong, religion respected, faith still vigorous. I came to gain a little hope from others’ hope. And I find pretended miracles, I find imposture, I find lies and trickery and chicanery used on one side and the other. And violence everywhere.”

  “Then in heaven’s name, man, why did you not go home again?” I cried.

  “I was going a week ago,” he answered. “And then I did not go. And — —”

  “Never mind that now!” I cried harshly. “It is not that I want. I have seen Louis St. Alais, and I know that there is something amiss. He will not face me. He will not tell me where Madame is. He will have nothing to do with me. He looks at me as if I were a death’s head! Now what is it? You know and I must know. Tell me.”

  “Mon Dieu!” he answered. And he looked at me with tears in his eyes. Then, “This is what I feared,” he said.

  “Feared? Feared what?” I cried.

  “That your heart was in it, M. le Vicomte.”

  “In what? In what? Speak plainly, man.”

  “Mademoiselle de St. Alais’ — engagement,” he said.

  I stood a moment staring at him. “Her engagement?” I whispered. “To whom?”

  “To M. Froment,” he answered.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  RIVALS.

  “It is impossible!” I said slowly. “Froment! It is impossible!”

  But even while I said it, I knew that I lied; and I turned to the window that Benôit might not see my face. Froment! The name alone, now that the hint was supplied, let in the light. Fellow-traveller, fellow-conspirator, in turn protected and protector, his face as I had seen it at the carriage door in the pass by Villeraugues, rose up before me, and I marvelled that I had not guessed the secret earlier. A bourgeois and ambitious, thrown into Mademoiselle’s company, what could be more certain than that, sooner or later, he would lift his eyes to her? What more likely than that Madame St. Alais, impoverished and embittered, afloat on the whirlpool of agitation, would be willing to reward his daring even with her daughter’s hand? Rich already, success would ennoble him; for the rest I knew how the man, strong where so many were weak, resolute where a hundred faltered, assured of his purpose and steadfast in pursuing it, where others knew none, must loom in a woman’s eyes. And I gnashed my teeth.

  I had my eyes fixed, as I thought these thoughts, on a little dingy, well-like court that lay below his window, and on the farther side of which, but far below me, a monastic-looking porch surmounted by a carved figure, formed the centre of vision. Mechanically, though I could have sworn that my whole mind was otherwise engaged, I watched two men come into the court, and go to this porch. They did not knock or call, but one of them struck his stick twice on the pavement; in a second or two the door opened, as of itself, and the men disappeared.

  I saw and noted this unconsciously; yet, in all probability, it was the closing of the door roused me from my thoughts. “Froment!” I said, “Froment!” And then I turned from the window. “Where is she?” I said hoarsely.

  Father Benôit shook his head.

  “You must know!” I cried — indeed I saw that he did. “You must know!”

  “I do know,” he answered slowly, his eyes on mine. “But I cannot tell you. I could not, were it to save your life, M. le Vicomte. I had it in confession.”

  I stared at him baffled; and my heart sank at that answer, as it would have sunk at no other. I knew that on this door, this iron door without a key, I might beat my hands and spend my fury until the end of time and go no farther. At length, “Then why — why have you told me so much?” I cried, with a harsh laugh. “Why tell me anything?”

  “Because I would have you leave Nîmes,” Father Benôit answered gently, laying his hand on my arm, his eyes full of entreaty. “Mademoiselle is contracted, and beyond your reach. Within a few hours, certainly as soon as the elections come on, there will be a rising here. I know you,” he continued, “and your feelings, and I know that your sympathies will be with neither party. Why stay then, M. le Vicomte?”

  “Why?” I said, so quickly that his hand fell from my arm as if I had struck him. “Because until Mademoiselle is married I follow her, if it be to Turin! Because M. Froment is unwise to mingle love and war, and my sympathies are now with one side, and it is not his! It is not his! Why, you ask? Because — you cannot tell me, but there are those who can, and I go to them!”

  And without waiting to hear answer or remonstrance — though he cried to me and tried to detain me — I caught up my hat, and flew down the stairs; and once out of the house and in the street hastened back at the top of my speed to the quarter of the town I had left. The streets through which I passed were still crowded, but wore an air not so much of disorder as of expectation, as if the procession I had followed had left a trail behind it. Here and there I saw soldiers patrolling, and warning the people to be quiet; and everywhere knots of townsmen, whispering and scowling, who stared at me as I passed. Every tenth male I saw was a monk, Dominican or Capuchin, and though my whole mind was bent on finding M. de Géol and Buton, and learning from them what they knew, as enemies, of Froment’s plans and strength, I felt that the city was in an abnormal state; and that if I would do anything before the convulsion took place, I must act quickly.

  I was fortunate enough to find M. de Géol and Buton at their lodgings. The former, whom I had not seen since our arrival, and who doubtless had his opinion of the cause of my sudden disappearance in the street, greeted me with a scowl and a bitter sarcasm, but when I had put a few questions, and he found that I was in earnest, his manner changed. “You may tell him,” he said, nodding to Buton.

  Then I saw that they too were excited, though they would fain hide it. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Froment’s party rose at Avignon yesterday,” he answered eagerly. “Prematurely; and were crushed — crushed with heavy loss. The news has just arrived. It may hasten his plans.”

  “I saw soldiers in the street,” I said.

  “Yes, the Calvinists have asked for protection. But, that, and the patrols,” De Géol answered with a grim smile, “are equally a farce. The regiment of Guienne, which is patriotic and would assist us, and even be some protection, is kept within barracks by its officers; the mayor and municipals are red, and whatever happens will not hoist the flag or call out the troops. The Catholic cabarets are alive with armed men; in a word, my friend, if Froment succeeds in mastering the town, and holding it three days, M. d’Artois, governor of Montpellier, will be here with his garrison, and — —”

  “Yes!”

  “And what was a riot will be a revolt,” he said pithily. “But there is many a slip between the cup and the lip, and there are more than sheep in the Cevennes Mountains!”

  The words had scarcely passed from his lips, when a man ran into the room, looked at us, and raised his hand in a peculiar way. “Pardon me,” said M. de Géol quickly; and with a muttered word he followed the man out. Buton was not a whit behind. In a moment I was alone.

/>   I supposed they would return, and I waited impatiently; but a minute or two passed, and they did not appear. At length, tired of waiting, and wondering what was afoot, I went into the yard of the inn, and thence into the street. Still I did not find them; but collected before the inn I found a group of servants and others belonging to the place. They were all standing silent, listening, and as I joined them one looked round peevishly, and raised his hand as a warning to me to be quiet.

  Before I could ask what it meant, the distant report of a gun, followed quickly by a second and a third, made my heart beat. A dull sound, made, it might be, by men shouting, or the passage of a heavy waggon over pavement, ensued; then more firing, each report short, sharp, and decisive. While we listened, and as the last red glow of sunset faded on the eaves above us, leaving the street cold and grey, a bell somewhere began to toll hurriedly, stroke upon stroke; and a man, dashing round a corner not far away, made towards us.

  But the landlord of the Ecu did not wait for him. “All in!” he cried to his people, “and close the great gates! And do you, Pierre, bar the shutters. And you, Monsieur,” he continued hurriedly, turning to me, “will do well to come in also. The town is up, and the streets will not be safe for strangers.”

  But I was already half-way down the street. I met the fugitive, and he cried to me, as I passed, that the mob were coming. I met a frightened, riderless horse, galloping madly along the kennel; it swerved from me, and almost fell on the slippery pavement. But I took no heed of either. I ran on until two hundred paces before me I saw smoke and dust, and dimly through it a row of soldiers, who, with their backs to me, were slowly giving way before a dense crowd that pressed upon them. Even as I came in sight of them, they seemed to break and melt away, and with a roar of triumph the mob swept over the place on which they had stood.