He tried to press her throat, but in changing his hold allowed her to utter a second scream, louder, more shrill, more full of passion than the other. At the same instant a chair, knocked down by Blondel in his efforts, fell with a crash, throwing down a pewter platter; and Claude, white and breathless as he was, began to struggle, seeing his mistress so handled. The four swayed to and fro. Another moment, and either the Syndic must have jerked himself free, or the contest must have attained to dimensions that could not escape the notice of the neighbours, when a sound — a sound from within, from upstairs — stayed the tumult as by magic.
Blondel ceased to struggle, and stood aghast. Basterga relaxed his hold upon his prisoners and listened. Claude leant back against the wall. The girl alone — she alone moved. Without speaking, without looking, as a bird flies to its young, she sprang to the stairs and fled up them.
The maniacal laugh, the crazy words — a moment only, they heard them: and then the door above, which the poor woman, so long bedridden, had contrived in her frenzy of fear to open, closed on the sounds and stifled them. But enough had been heard: enough to convince Blondel, enough to justify Basterga, enough to change the fortunes of more than one in the room. The scholar’s eyes met the Syndic’s.
“Are you satisfied?” he asked, in a low voice.
Blondel, breathing hard, nodded.
“You heard?”
He nodded a second time. He looked scared.
“Then you have enough to burn the old witch and the young one with her!” Basterga replied. He turned his small eyes, sparkling with malignity, on the young man, who stood against the wall, pale, and but half recovered from the blow he had sustained. “You thought to thwart me, did you, Messer Claude? You thought yourself clever enough to play with Cæsar Basterga, did you? To hold at bay — oh, clever fellow — a magistrate and a scholar! And defy us both! Now I will tell you what will come of it!” He shook his great finger in front of the young man. “Your pretty bit of pink and white will burn! Burn, see you! A show for the little boys, a holiday for the young men and the young women, a treat for the old men, who will see her white limbs writhe in the smoke! Ha!” as Claude, with a face of horror, would have waved him away, “that touches you, does it? You had not thought of that? Nay, you had not thought of other things. I tell you, before the sun sets this evening, this house shall be anathema! Before night what we have heard will be known abroad, and there will be much added to it. There was a child died in the fourth house from this on Sunday! It will be odd if she did not overlook it. And the young wife of the Lieutenant at the Porte Tertasse, who has ailed since her marriage — a pale thing; who knows but he looked this way once and Mistress Anne thought ill of his defection? Ha! Ha! You would cross Cæsar Basterga, would you? No, Messer Claude,” he set his huge foot on the fallen sword which Claude had made a movement to recover. “I fight with other weapons than that! And if you lay a finger on me” — he extended his arms to their widest extent— “I will crush the life out of you. That is better,” as Claude stood glaring helplessly at him— “I teach you prudence, at any rate. And as,” with a sneer, “you are so apt at learning, I will do you, if you choose, a greater kindness that man ever did you, or woman either!”
The young man, breathing quickly, did not speak. Perhaps his eyes were watching for an opening; at the least appearance of one he would have flung himself upon his enemy.
“You do not choose. And yet, I will do it. In one word — Go!
Teque his, puer, eripe flammis!”
He pointed to the door with a gesture tragic enough. “Go and live, for if you stay you die! Wait not until the chain is drawn before the door, until boards darken the windows, and men cross the street when they would pass! Until women hide their heads as they go by, and the market will not sell, nor the water run for you! For then, as surely as she will perish, you will perish with her!”
“So be it!” Claude cried. And in his turn he pointed, not without dignity, to the door. “Go you, and our blood be upon your head!”
Basterga shrugged his shoulders, and in one moment put the thing and his grand manner away from him. “Enough! we will go,” he said. “You are satisfied, Messer Syndic? Yes. Farewell, young sir, you have my last word.” And while the young man stood glowering at him, he opened the street door, and the two passed out.
“You will not go on with this?” Blondel muttered with a backward gesture, as the two paused.
“Nothing,” Basterga answered in a low voice, “will suit our purpose better. It will amuse Geneva and fill men’s mouths till the time come. For you too, Messer Blondel,” he continued, with a piercing look, “will live and not die, I take it?”
The other knew then that the hour had come to set his seal to the bargain: and equally, that if at this eleventh hour he would return, the path was open. But facilis — known is the rest, and the grip which a strong nature gains on a weaker, and how hardly fear, once admitted, is cast out. Within the Syndic’s sight rose one of the gates, almost within touch rose the rampart of the city, long his own, which he was asked to betray. The mountains of his native land, pure, cold and sunlit, stood up against the blue depth of winter sky, eloquent of the permanence of things, and the insignificance of men. The contemplation of them turned his cheek a shade paler and struck terror to his heart; but did not stay him. His eyes avoiding the other’s gaze, his face shrinking and pitiable, shame already his portion, he nodded.
“Precisely,” Basterga said. “Then nothing can better serve our purpose than this. Let your officers know what you have heard, and know that you would hear more — of this house. That, and a hint of evil practices and witch’s spells dropped here and there, will give your townsfolk something to talk of and stare at and swallow — till our time come.”
“But if I bid them watch this house,” Blondel muttered weakly — how fast, how fast the thing was passing out of his hands!— “attention will be called to you, and then, Messer Basterga — —”
“My work is done here,” Basterga replied calmly. “I have crossed that threshold for the last time. When I leave you — and it is time we parted — I go out of the gates, not again to return until — until things have been brought to the point at which we would have them, Messer Blondel.”
“And that,” the Syndic said with a shudder, “will be?”
“Towards the longest night. Say, in a week or so from now. The precise moment — that and other things, I will let you know by a safe mouth.”
“But the remedium? That first!” the Syndic muttered, a scowl, for a second, darkening his face.
Basterga smiled. “Have no fear,” he replied. “That first, by all means. And afterwards — Geneva.”
CHAPTER XIX.
THE DEPARTURE OF THE RATS.
The wood-ash on the hearth had sunk lower and grown whiter. The last flame that had licked the black sides of the great pot had died down among the expiring embers. Only under the largest log glowed a tiny cavern, carbuncle-hued; and still Claude walked restlessly from the window to the door, or listened with a frowning face at the foot of the stairs. One hour, two hours had passed since the Syndic’s departure with Basterga; and still Anne remained with her mother and made no sign. Once, spurred by anxiety and the thought that he might be of use, Claude had determined to mount and seek her; but half-way up the stairs his courage had failed he had recoiled from a scene so tender, and so sacred. He had descended and fallen again to moving to and fro, and listening, and staring remorsefully at the weapon — it lay where he had dropped it on the floor — that had failed him in his need.
He had their threats in his ears, and by-and-by the horror of inaction, the horror of sitting still and awaiting the worst with folded hands, overcame him; and in a panic planning flight for them all, flight, however hopeless, however desperate, he hurried into his bed-closet, and began to pack his possessions. He packed impulsively until even the fat text-books bulked in his bundle, and the folly of flying for life with a Cæsar and Melancthon on his back struck him.
Then he turned all out on the floor in a fury of haste lest she should surprise him, and think that he had had it in his mind to desert her.
Back he went on that to the living-room with its dying fire and lengthening shadows; and there he resumed his solitary pacing. The room lay silent, the house lay silent; even the rampart without, which the biting wind kept clear of passers. He tried to reason on the position, to settle what would happen, what steps Basterga and Blondel would take, how the blow they threatened would fall. Would the officers of the Syndic enter and seize the two helpless women and drag them to the guard-house? In that case, what should he do, what could he do, since it was most unlikely that he would be allowed to go with them or see them? For a time the desperate notion of bolting and barring the house and holding it against the law possessed his mind; but only to be quickly dismissed. He was not yet mad enough for that. In the meantime was there any one to whom he could appeal? Any course he could adopt?
The sound of the latch rising in its socket drew his eyes to the outer door. It opened, and he saw Louis Gentilis on the threshold. Holding the door ajar, the young man peered in. Meeting Claude’s eyes, he looked to the stairs, as if to seek the protection of Anne’s presence; failing to find her, he made for an instant as if he would shut the door again, and go. But apparently he saw that Claude, thoroughly dispirited, was making no motion to carry out his threats of vengeance; and he thought better of it. He came in slowly, and closed the door after him. Turning his cap in his hand, and with his eyes slyly fixed on Claude, he made without a word for his bed-closet, entered it, and closed the door behind him.
His silence was strange, and his furtive manner impressed Claude unpleasantly. They seemed to imply a knowledge that boded ill; nor was the impression they made weakened when, two minutes later, the closet door opened again, and he came out.
“What is it?” Claude asked, speaking sharply. He was not going to put up with mystery of this sort.
For answer Louis’ eyes met his a moment; then the young man, without speaking, slid across the room to a chair on which lay a book. He took up the volume; it was his. Next he discovered another possession — or so it seemed — approached it and took seisin of it in the same dumb way; and so with another and another. Finally, blinking and looking askance, he passed his eyes from side to side to learn if he had overlooked anything.
But Claude’s patience, though prolonged by curiosity, was at an end. He took a step forward, and had the satisfaction of seeing Louis drop his air of mystery, and recoil two paces. “If you don’t speak,” Claude cried, “I will break every bone in your body! Do you hear, you sneaking rogue? Do you forget that you are in my debt already? Tell me in two words what this dumb show means, or I will have payment for all!”
Master Louis cringed, divided between the desire to flee and the fear of losing his property. “You will be foolish if you make any fuss here,” he muttered, his arm raised to ward off a blow. “Besides, I’m going,” he continued, swallowing nervously as he spoke. “Let me go.”
“Going?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mean,” Claude exclaimed in astonishment, “that you are going for good?”
“Yes, and if you will take my advice” — with a look of sinister meaning— “you will go too. That is all.”
“Why? Why?” Claude repeated.
Louis’ only answer was a shudder, which told Claude that if the other did not know all, he knew much. Dismayed and confounded, Mercier stepped back, and, with a secret grin of satisfaction, Louis turned again to his task of searching the room. He found presently that for which he had been looking — his cloak. He disentangled it, with a peculiar look, from a woman’s hood, contact with which he avoided with care. That done, he cast it over his arm, and got back into his closet. Claude heard him moving there, and presently he emerged a second time.
Precisely as he did so Claude caught the sound of a light footstep on the stairs, the stair door opened, and Anne, her face weary, but composed, came in. Her first glance fell on Louis, who, with his sack and cloak on his arm, was in the act of closing the closet door. Habit carried her second look to the hearth.
“You have let the fire go out,” she said. Then, turning to Louis, in a voice cold and free from emotion, “Are you going?” she asked.
He muttered that he was, his face a medley of fear and spite and shame.
She nodded, but to Claude’s astonishment expressed no surprise. Meanwhile Louis, after dropping first his cloak and then his sack, in his haste to be gone, shuffled his way to the door. The two looked on, without moving or speaking, while he opened it, carried out his bag, and, turning about, closed the door upon himself. They heard his footsteps move away.
At length Claude spoke. “The rats, I see, are leaving,” he muttered.
“Yes, the rats!” she echoed, and carried for a moment her eyes to his. Then she knelt on the hearth, and uncovering the under side of the log, where a little fire still smouldered, she fed it with two or three fir-cones, and, stooping low, blew steadily on them until they caught fire and blazed. He stood looking down at her, and marvelled at the strength of mind that allowed her to stoop to trifles, or to think of fires at such a time as this. He forgot that habit is of all stays the strongest, and that to women a thousand trifles make up — God reward them for it — the work of life: a work which instinct moves them to pursue, though the heavens fall.
Several hours had elapsed since he had entered hotfoot to see her; and the day was beginning to wane. The flame of the blazing fir-cones, a hundred times reflected in the rows of pewter plates and the surface of the old oaken dressers, left the corners of the room in shadow. Immediately within the windows, indeed, the daylight held its own; but when she rose and turned to him her back was towards the casement, and the firelight which lit up her face flickered uncertainly, and left him in doubt whether she were moved or not.
“You have eaten nothing!” she said, while he stood pondering what she would say. “And it is four o’clock! I am sorry!” Her tone, which took shame to herself, gave him a new surprise.
He stopped her as she turned to the dresser. “Your mother is better?” he said gently.
“She is herself now,” she replied, with a slight quaver, and without looking at him. And she went about her work.
Did she know? Did she understand? In his world was only one fact, in his mind only one tremendous thought: the fact of their position, the thought of their isolation and peril. In her treatment of Louis she had seemed to show knowledge and a comprehension as wide as his own. But if she knew all, could she be as calm as she was? Could she go about her daily tasks? Could she cut and lay and fetch with busy fingers, and all in silence?
He thought not; and though he longed to consult her, to assure her and comfort her, to tell her that the very isolation, the very peril in which they stood were a happiness and a joy to him, whatever the issue, because he shared them with her, he would not, by reason of that doubt. He did not yet know the courage which underlies the gentlest natures: nor did he guess that even as it was a joy to him to stand beside her in peril, so it was a joy to her, even in that hour, to come and go for him, to cut his bread and lay for him, to draw his wine from the great cask under the stairs, and pour for him in the tall horn mug.
And little said. By him, because he shrank from opening her eyes to the danger of their position; by her, because her mind was full and she could not trust herself to speak calmly. But he knew that she, too, had fasted since morning, and he made her eat with him: and it was in the thoughts of each that they had never eaten together before. For commonly Anne took her meal with her mother, or ate as the women of her time often ate, standing, alone, when others had finished. There are moments when the simplest things put on the beauty and significance of rites, and this first eating together at the small table on the fire-lit hearth was one of such moments. He saw that she did eat; and this care for her, and the reverence of his manner, so moved her, that at last tears rose and choked h
er, and to give her time and to hide his own feelings, he stood up and affected to get something from the fireside.
Before he turned again, the latch rattled and the door flew open. The freezing draught that entered, arrested him between the table and the fire. The intruder was Grio. He stood an instant scowling on them, then he entered and closed the door. He eyed the two with a sneering laugh, and, turning, flung his cloak on a chair. It was ill-aimed and fell to the ground.
“Why the devil don’t you light?” he cried violently. “Eh?” He added something in which the words “Old hag’s devilry!” were alone audible. “Do you hear?” he continued, more coherently. “Why don’t you light? What black games are you playing, I’d like to know? I want my things!”
Claude’s fingers tingled, but danger and responsibility are sure teachers, and he restrained himself. Neither of them answered, but Anne fetched the lamp, and kindling a splinter of wood lighted it, and placed it on the table. Then bringing the Spaniard’s rushlight from the three or four that stood on the dresser, she lighted it and held it out to him.
“Set it down!” he said, with tipsy insolence. He was not quite sober. “Set it down! I am not going to — hic! — risk my salvation! Avaunt, Satan! It is possible to palm the evil one, like a card I am told, and — hic! — soul out, devil in, all lost as easy as candle goes out!”
He had taken his candle with an unsteady hand, and unconsciously had blown it out himself. She restrained Claude by a look, and patiently taking the rushlight from Grio, she re-lit it and set it on the table for him to take.
“As a candle goes out!” he repeated, eyeing it with drunken wisdom. “Candle out, devil in, soul lost, there you have it in three words — clever as any of your long-winded preachers! But I want my things. I am going before it is too late. Advise you to go too, young man,” he hiccoughed, “before you are overlooked. She is a witch! She’s the devil’s mark on her, I tell you! I’d like to have the finding it!” And with an ugly leer he advanced a step as if he would lay hands on her.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 423