Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Girl, are you mad?” he snarled in the breathless hush of the room, the hush that followed as all looked at her.

  “I am not mad,” she answered, her eyes burning in her white face.

  “Then if you feel no shame do you feel no fear?” he retorted in a terrible voice.

  “No!” she cried. “For I love! And I love him.”

  I will not say what I felt when I heard that, myself helpless. For one thing, I was in so great a rage I scarcely knew what I felt; and for another, the words were barely spoken before M. le Marquis seized the girl roughly by the waist, and dragged her, screaming and resisting, to the other end of the room.

  This was the signal for a scene indescribable. I sprang forward to protect her; in an instant the three men flung themselves upon me, and bore me by sheer weight towards the door. St. Alais, foaming with rage, shouted to them to remove me, while I called him coward, and cursed him and strove desperately to get at him. For a moment I made head against them all, though they were three to one; the maid’s screaming added to the uproar. Then the odds prevailed; and in a minute they had me out, and had closed the door on her and her cries.

  I was panting, breathless, furious. But the moment it was done and the door shut, a kind of calm fell upon us. The men relaxed their hold on me, and stood looking at me quietly; while I leaned against the wall, and glowered at them. Then, “There, Monsieur, have no more of that!” one of them said civilly enough. “Go peaceably, and we will be easy with you; otherwise — —”

  “He is a cowardly hound!” I cried with a sob.

  “Softly, Monsieur, softly.”

  There were five of them, for two had remained at the door. The passage was dark, but they had a lantern, and we waited in silence two or three minutes. Then the door opened a few inches, and the man who seemed to be the leader went to it, and having received his orders, returned.

  “Forward!” he said. “In No. 6. And do you, Petitot, fetch the key.”

  The man named went off quickly, and we followed more slowly along the corridor; the steady tramp of my guards, as they marched beside me, awaking sullen echoes that rolled away before us. The yellow light of the lantern showed a white-washed wall on either side, broken on the right hand by a dull line of doors, as of cells. We halted presently before one of these, and I thought that I was to be confined there; and my courage rose, for I should still be near Denise. But the door, when opened, disclosed only a little staircase which we descended in single file, and so reached a bare corridor similar to that above. Half-way along this we stopped again, beside an open window, through which the night wind came in so strongly as to stir the hair, and force the man who carried the lantern to shield the light under his skirts. And not the night wind only; with it entered all the noises of the night and the disturbed city; hoarse cries and cheers, and the shrill monotonous jangle of bells, and now and then a pistol-shot — noises that told only too eloquently what was passing under the black veil that hid the chaos of streets and houses below us. Nay, in one place the veil was rent, and through the gap a ruddy column poured up from the roofs, dispersing sparks — the hot glare of some great fire, that blazing in the heart of the city, seemed to make the sky sharer in the deeds and horrors that lay beneath it.

  The men with me pressed to the window, and peered through it, and strained eyes and ears; and little wonder. Little wonder, too, that the man who was responsible for all, and had staked all, walked the roof above with tireless steps. For the struggle below was the one great struggle of the world, the struggle that never ceases between the old and the new: and it was being fought as it had been fought in Nîmes for centuries, savagely, ruthlessly, over kennels running with blood. Nor could the issue be told; only, that as it was here, it was likely to be through half of France. We who stood at that window, looked into the darkness with actual eyes; but across the border at Turin, and nearer at Sommières and Montpellier, thousands of Frenchmen bearing the greatest names of France, watched also — watched with faces turned to Nîmes, and hearts as anxious as ours.

  I gathered from the talk of those round me, that M. Froment had seized the Arènes, and garrisoned it, and that the flames we saw were those of one of the Protestant churches; that as yet the patriots, taken by surprise, made little resistance, and that if the Reds could hold for twenty-four hours longer what they had seized, the arrival of the troops from Montpellier would then secure all, and at the same time stamp the movement with the approval of the highest parties.

  “But it was a near thing,” one of the men muttered. “If we had not been at their throats to-night, they would have been at ours to-morrow!”

  “And now, not half the companies have turned out.”

  “But the villages will come in in the morning,” a third cried eagerly. “They are to toll all the bells from here to the Rhone.”

  “Ay, but what if the Cevennols come in first? What then, man?”

  No one had an answer to this, and all stood watching eagerly, until the sound of footsteps approaching along the passage caused the men to draw in their heads. “Here is the key,” said the leader. “Now, Monsieur!”

  But it was not the key that disturbed us, nor Petitot, who had been sent for it, but a very tall man, cloaked, and wearing his hat, who came hastily along the corridor with three or four behind him. As he approached he called out, “Is Buzeaud here?”

  The man who had spoken before stood out respectfully. “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Take half a dozen men, the stoutest you have downstairs,” the new comer answered — it was Froment himself— “and get as many more from the Vierge, and barricade the street leading beside the barracks to the Arsenal. You will find plenty of helpers. And occupy some of the houses so as to command the street. And — But what is this?” he continued, breaking off sharply, as his eyes, passing over the group, stopped at me. “How does this gentleman come here? And in this dress?”

  “M. le Marquis arrested him — upstairs.”

  “M. le Marquis?”

  “Yes, Monsieur, and ordered him to be confined in No. 6 for the present.”

  “Ah!”

  “As a spy.”

  M. Froment whistled softly, and for a moment we looked at one another. The wavering light of the lanterns, and perhaps the tension of the man’s feelings, deepened the harsh lines of his massive features, and darkened the shadows about his eyes and mouth; but presently he drew a deep breath, and smiled, as if something whimsical in the situation struck him. “So we meet again, M. le Vicomte,” he said with that. “I remember now that I have something of yours. You have come for it, I suppose?”

  “Yes, Monsieur, I have come for it,” I said defiantly, giving him back look for look; and I saw that he understood.

  “And M. le Marquis found you upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah!” For a moment he seemed to reflect. Then, turning to the men. “Well, you can go, Buzeaud. I will be answerable for this gentleman — who had better remove that masquerade. And do you,” he continued, addressing the two or three who had come with him, “wait for me above. Tell M. Flandrin — it is my last word — that whatever happens the Mayor must not raise the flag for the troops. He may tell him what he pleases from me — that I will hang him from the highest window of the tower, if he likes — but it must not be done. You understand?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Then go. I will be with you presently.”

  They went, leaving a lantern on the floor; and in a moment Froment and I were alone. I stood expectant, but he did not look at me. Instead, he turned to the open window, and leaning on the sill, gazed into the night, and so remained for some time silent; whether the orders he had just given had really diverted his thoughts into another channel, or he had not made up his mind how to treat me, I cannot determine. More than once I heard him sigh, however; and at last he said abruptly, “Only three companies have risen?”

  I do not know what moved me, but I answered in the same spirit. “Out of
how many?” I said coolly.

  “Thirteen,” he answered. “We are out-numbered. But we moved first, we have the upper hand, and we must keep it. And if the villagers come in to-morrow — —”

  “And the Cevennols do not.”

  “Yes; and if the officers can hold the Guienne regiment within barracks, and the Mayor does not hoist the flag, calling them out, and the Calvinists do not surprise the Arsenal — I think we may be able to do so.”

  “But the chances are?”

  “Against us. The more need, Monsieur” — for the first time he turned and looked at me with a sort of dark pride glowing in his face— “of a man! For — do you know what we are fighting for down there? France! France!” he continued bitterly, and letting his emotion appear, “and I have a few hundred cutthroats and rascals and shavelings to do the work, while all the time your fine gentlemen lie safe and warm across the frontier, waiting to see what will happen! And I run risks, and they hold the stakes! I kill the bear, and they take the skin. They are safe, and if I fail I hang like Favras! Faugh! It is enough to make a man turn patriot and cry ‘Vive la Nation!’”

  He did not wait for my answer, but impatiently snatching up the lantern, he made a sign to me to follow him, and led the way down the passage. He had said not a word of my presence in the house, of my position, of Mademoiselle St. Alais, or how he meant to deal with me; and at the door, not knowing what was in his mind, I touched his shoulder and stopped him.

  “Pardon me,” I said, with as much dignity as I could assume, “but I should like to know what you are going to do with me, Monsieur. I need not tell you that I did not enter this house as a spy — —”

  “You need tell me nothing,” he answered, cutting me short with rudeness. “And for what I am going to do with you, it can be told in half a dozen words. I am going to keep you by me, that if the worst comes of this — in which event I am not likely to see the week out — you may protect Mademoiselle de St. Alais and convey her to a place of safety. To that end your commission shall be restored to you; I have it safe. If, on the other hand, we hold our own, and light the fire that shall burn up these cold-blooded pedants là bas, then, M. le Vicomte — I shall have a word to say to you. And we will talk of the matter as gentlemen.”

  For a moment I stood dumb with astonishment. We were at the door of the little staircase — by which I had descended — when he said this; and as he spoke the last word, he turned, as expecting no answer, and opened it, and set his foot on the lowest stair, casting the light of the lantern before him. I plucked him by the sleeve, and he turned, and faced me.

  “M. Froment!” I muttered. And then for the life of me I could say no more.

  “There is no need for words,” he said grandly.

  “Are you sure — that you know all!” I muttered.

  “I am sure that she loves you, and that she does not love me,” he answered with a curling lip and a ring of scorn in his voice. “And besides that, I am sure of one thing only.”

  “Yes?”

  “That within forty-eight hours blood will flow in every street of Nîmes, and Froment, the bourgeois, will be Froment le Baron — or nothing! In the former case, we will talk. In the latter,” and he shrugged his shoulders with a gesture a little theatrical, “it will not matter.”

  With the word he turned to the stairs, and I followed him up them and across the upper corridor, and by the outer staircase, where I had evaded my guide, and so to the roof, and from it by a short wooden ladder to the leads of a tower; whence we overlooked, lying below us, all the dim black chaos of Nîmes, here rising in giant forms, rather felt than seen, there a medley of hot lights and deep shadows, thrown into relief by the glare of the burning church. In three places I picked out a cresset shining, high up in the sky, as it were; one on the rim of the Arènes, another on the roof of a distant church, a third on a tower beyond the town. But for the most part the town was now at rest. The riot had died down, the bells were silent, the wind blew salt from the sea and cooled our faces.

  There were a dozen cloaked figures on the leads, some gazing down in silence, others walking to and fro, talking together; but in the darkness it was impossible to recognise any one. Froment, after receiving one or two reports, withdrew to the outer side of the tower overlooking the country, and walked there alone, his head bowed, and his hands behind him, a desire to preserve his dignity having more to do with this, or I was mistaken, than any longing for solitude. Still, the others respected his wishes, and following their example I seated myself in an embrasure of the battlements, whence the fire, now growing pale, could be seen.

  What were the others’ thoughts I cannot say. A muttered word apprised me that Louis St. Alais was in command at the Arènes; and that M. le Marquis waited only until success was assured to start for Sommières, whence the commandant had promised a regiment of horse should Froment be able to hold his own without them. The arrangement seemed to me to be of the strangest; but the Emigrés, fearful of compromising the King, and warned by the fate of Favras — who, deserted by his party, had suffered for a similar conspiracy a few months before — were nothing if not timid. And if those round me felt any indignation, they did not express it.

  The majority, however, were silent, or spoke only when some movement in the town, some outcry or alarm, drew from them a few eager words; and for myself, my thoughts were neither of the struggle below — where both parties lay watching each other and waiting for the day — nor of the morrow, nor even of Denise, but of Froment himself. If the aim of the man had been to impress me, he had succeeded. Seated there in the darkness, I felt his influence strong upon me; I felt the crisis as and because he felt it. I thrilled with the excitement of the gambler’s last stake, because he had thrown the dice. I stood on the giddy point on which he stood, and looked into the dark future, and trembled for and with him. My eyes turned from others, and involuntarily sought his tall figure where he walked alone; with as little will on my part I paid him the homage due to the man who stands unmoved on the brink, master of his soul, though death yawns for him.

  About midnight there was a general movement to descend. I had eaten nothing for twelve hours, and I had done much; and, notwithstanding the dubious position in which I stood, appetite bade me go with the rest. I went, therefore; and, following the stream, found myself a minute later on the threshold of a long room, brilliantly lit with lamps, and displaying tables laid with covers for sixty or more. I fancied that at the farther end of the apartment, and through an interval in the crowd of men before me, I caught a glimpse of women, of jewels, of flashing eyes, and a waving fan; and if anything could have added to the bewildering abruptness of the change from the dark, wind-swept leads above to the gay and splendid scene before me it was this. But I had scant time for reflection. Though I did not advance far, the press, which separated me from the upper end of the room, melted quickly, as one after another took his seat amid a hum of conversation; and in a moment I found myself gazing straight at Denise, who, white and wan, with a pitiful look in her eyes, sat beside her mother at the uppermost table, a picture of silent woe. Madame Catinot and two or three gentlemen and as many ladies were seated with them.

  Whether my eyes drew hers to me, or she glanced that way by chance, in a moment she looked at me, and rose to her feet with a low gasping cry, that I felt rather than heard. It was enough to lead Madame St. Alais’ eyes to me, and she too cried out; and in a trice, while a few between us still talked unconscious, and the servants glided about, I found all at that farther table staring at me, and myself the focus of the room. Just then, unluckily, M. St. Alais, rather late, came in; of course, he too saw me. I heard an oath behind me, but I was intent on the farther table and Mademoiselle, and it was not until he laid his hand on my arm that I turned sharply and saw him.

  “Monsieur!” he cried, with another oath — and I saw that he was almost choking with rage — with rage and surprise. “This is too much.”

  I looked at him in silence. The position
was so perplexing that I could not grasp it.

  “How do I find you here?” he continued with violence and in a voice that drew every eye in the room to me. He was white with anger. He had left me a prisoner, he found me a guest.

  “I hardly know myself,” I answered. “But — —”

  “I do,” said a voice behind M. St. Alais. “If you wish to know, Marquis, M. de Saux is here at my invitation.”

  The speaker was Froment, who had just entered the room. St. Alais turned, as if he had been stabbed. “Then I am not!” he cried.

  “That is as you please,” Froment said steadfastly.

  “It is — and I do not please!” the Marquis retorted, with a scornful glance, and in a tone that rang through the room. “I do not please!”

  As I heard him, and felt myself the centre, under the lights, of all those eyes, I could have fancied that I was again in the St. Alais’ salon, listening to the futile oath of the sword; and that three-quarters of a year had not elapsed since that beginning of all our troubles, But in a moment Froment’s voice roused me from the dream.

  “Very well,” he said gravely. “But I think that you forget — —”

  “It is you who forget,” St. Alais cried wildly. “Or you do not understand — or know — that this gentleman — —”

  “I forget nothing!” Froment replied with a darkening face. “Nothing, except that we are keeping my guests waiting. Least of all, do I forget the aid, Monsieur, which you have hitherto rendered me. But, M. le Marquis,” he continued, with dignity, “it is mine to command to-night, and it is for me to make dispositions. I have made them, and I must ask you to comply with them. I know that you will not fail me at a pinch. I know, and these gentlemen know, that in misfortune you would be my helper; but I believe also that, all going well, as it does, you will not throw unnecessary obstacles in my way. Come, Monsieur; this gentleman will not refuse to sit here. And we will sit at Madame’s table. Oblige me.”