Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “And did you throw it into a coach,” I said, “on the Pont du Change to-day?”

  “God forbid!” he replied, shrinking into himself again. “I wrote it for her, and she took it away. She said it was a jest that she was playing. That is all I know.”

  I saw that he spoke the truth, and after a few more words I dismissed him, bidding him keep silence, and remain at home in case I needed him. At the last, he plucked up spirit to ask who I was; but preferring to keep that discovery for a day to come, when I might appear as the benefactor of this little family, I told him only that I was one of the King’s servants, and so left him.

  It will be believed that I found the information I had received little to my mind. The longer I dwelt on it, the more serious seemed the matter. While I could not imagine circumstances in which a woman would be likely to inform against her husband without cause, I could recall more than one conspiracy which had been frustrated by informers of that class — sometimes out of regard for the persons against whom they informed. Viewed in this light, the warning seemed to my mind sufficiently alarming; but when I came also to consider the secrecy with which Madame Nicholas had both prepared it and conveyed it to me, the aspect of the case grew yet more formidable. In the result, I had not passed through two streets before my mind was made up to lay the case before the King, and be guided by the sagacity which was never wanting to my gracious master.

  An unexpected meeting which awaited me on my return to the Arsenal confirmed me in this resolution and enabled me to carry it into effect. We entered without difficulty, and duly found Maignan on guard at the door of my apartments. But a glance at his face sufficed to show that something was wrong; nor did it need the look of penitence which he assumed on seeing us — a look so piteous that at another time it must have diverted me — to convince me that he had infringed my orders.

  “How now, sirrah?” I said, without waiting for him to speak. “What have you been doing?”

  “They would take no refusal, my lord,” he answered plaintively, waving his hand towards the door.

  “What!” I cried sternly; for this was an instance of such direct disobedience as I could scarce understand. “Did I not give you the strictest orders to deny me to everybody?”

  “They would take no refusal, my lord,” he answered penitently, edging away from me as he spoke.

  “Who are they?” I asked, leaving the question of his punishment for another season. “Speak, rascal, though it shall not save you.”

  “There are M. le Marquis de la Varenne, and M. de Vitry,” he said slowly, “and M. de Vic, and M. Erard the engineer, and M. de Fontange, and — —”

  “Pardieu!” I cried, cutting him short in a rage; for he was going on counting on his fingers in a manner the most provoking. “Have you let in all Paris, dolt? Grace! that I should be served by a fool! Open the door, and let me see them.”

  With that I was about to enter; when the door, which I had not perceived to be ajar, was thrown widely open, and a laughing face thrust out. It was the King’s.

  “Ha, ha! Grandmaster!” he cried, diverted by the success of his jest and the change which doubtless came over my countenance. “Never was such hospitality, I’ll be sworn! But come, pardon this varlet. And now embrace me, and tell me where you have been playing truant.”

  Saying these words with the charm which never failed him, and in his time won more foes than his sword ever conquered, the King drew me into my room, where I found De Vic, Vitry, Roquelaure, and the rest. They all laughed heartily at my surprise; nor was Maignan, who was the author, it will be remembered, of that whimsical procession to Rosny after the battle of Ivry, which I have elsewhere described, far behind them; the rascal knowing well that the King’s presence covered all, and that in my gratification at the honour paid me I should be certain to overlook his impertinence.

  Perceiving that this impromptu visit had no other object than to divert Henry — though he was kind enough to say that he felt uneasy when he did not see me often — I begged to know if he would honour me by staying to sup; but this he would not do, though he consented to drink a cup of my Arbois wine, and praised it highly. By-and-by I thought I saw that he was willing to be alone with me; and as I had reason to desire this myself, I made an opportunity. Sending for Arnaud and some of my gentlemen, I committed my other guests to their care, and led the King into my closet, where, after requesting his leave to speak on business, I proceeded to unfold to him the adventure of the snowball, with all the particulars which I have set down.

  He listened attentively, drumming on the table with his fingers; nor did he move or speak when I had done, but still continued in the same attitude of thought. At last: “Grandmaster,” he said, touching with his hand the mark of the wound on his lip, “how long is it since Chastel’s attempt — when I got this?”

  “Seven years last Christmas, sire,” I answered, after a moment’s thought.

  “And Barrière’s?”

  “That was the year before. Avenius’ plot was that year too.”

  “And the Italian’s from Milan, of whom the Capuchin Honorio warned us?”

  “That was two years ago, sire.”

  “And how many more attempts have there been against my person?” he continued, in a tone of extreme sadness. “Rosny, my friend, they must succeed at last. No man can fight against his fate. The end is sure, notwithstanding your fidelity and vigilance, and the love you bear me, for which I love you, too. But Nicholas? Nicholas? And yet he has been careless and distraught of late. I have noticed it; and a month back I refused to give him an appointment, of which he wished to have the sale.”

  I did not dare to speak, and for a time Henry too remained silent. At length he rose with an air of resolution.

  “We will clear up this matter within an hour!” he said. “I will send my people back to the Louvre, and do you, Grandmaster, order half a dozen Swiss to be ready to conduct us to this woman’s house. When we have heard her we shall know what to do.”

  I tried my utmost to dissuade him, pleading that his presence could not be necessary, and might prove a hindrance; besides exposing his person to a certain amount of risk. But he would not listen. When I saw, therefore, that his mind was made up, and that as his spirits rose he was inclined to welcome this expedition as a relief from the ennui which at times troubled him, I reluctantly withdrew my opposition and gave the necessary orders. The King dismissed his suite with a few words, and in a short space we were on our way, under cover of darkness, to the secretary’s house.

  He lived at this time in a court off the Rue St. Jacques, not far from the church of that name; and the house being remote from the eyes and observation of the street, seemed not unfit for secret and desperate uses. Although we noted lights shining behind several of the barred windows, the wintry night, the darkness of the court, and perhaps the errand on which we came, imparted so gloomy an aspect to the place that the King hitched forward his sword, and I begged him to permit the Swiss to go on with us. This, however, he would not allow, and they were left at the entrance to the court with orders to follow at a given signal.

  On the steps the King, who, to disguise himself the better, had borrowed one of my cloaks, stumbled and almost fell. This threw him into a fit of laughter; for no sooner was he engaged in an adventure which promised peril, than his spirits rose to such a degree as to make him the most charming companion in danger man ever had. He was still shaking, and pulling me to and fro in one of those boyish frolics which at times swayed him, when a loud outcry inside the house startled us into sobriety, and reminded us of the business which brought us thither.

  Wondering what it might mean, I was for rapping on the door with my hilt. But the King put me aside, and, by a happy instinct, tried the latch. The door yielded to his hand, and gave us admittance.

  We found ourselves in a gloomy hall, ill-lit, and hung with patched arras. In one corner stood a group of servants. Of these some looked scared and some amused, but all were so much taken
up with the movements of a harsh-faced woman, who was pacing the opposite side of the hall, that they did not heed our entrance. A glance showed me that the woman was Madame Nicholas; but I was still at a loss to guess what she was doing or what was happening in the house.

  I stood a moment, and then finding that in her excitement she took no notice of us, I beckoned to one of the servants, and bade him tell his mistress that a gentleman would speak with her. The man went with the message; but she sent him off with a flea in his ear, and screamed at him so violently that for a moment I thought she was mad. Then it appeared that the object of her attention was a door at that side of the hall; for, stopping suddenly in her walk, she went up to it, and struck on it passionately and repeatedly with her hands.

  “Come out!” she cried. “Come out, you villain! Your friends shall not save you!”

  Restraining the King, I went forward myself, and, saluting her, begged a word with her apart, thinking that she would recognize me.

  Her answer showed that she did not. “No!” she cried, waving me off, in the utmost excitement. “No; you will not get me away! You will not! I know your tricks. You are as bad one as the other, and shield one another come what will!” Then turning again to the door, she continued, “Come out! Do you hear! Come out! I will have no more of your intrigues and your Hallots!”

  I pricked up my ears at the name. “But, Madame,” I said, “one moment.”

  “Begone!” she retorted, turning on me so wrathfully that I fairly recoiled before her. “I shall stay here till I drop; but I will have him out and expose him. There shall be an end of his precious plots and his Hallots if I have to go to the King!”

  Words so curiously à propos could not but recall to my mind the confusion into which the mention of Du Hallot had thrown the secretary earlier in the day. And since they seemed also to be consistent with the warning conveyed to me, they should have corroborated my suspicions. But a sense of something unreal and fantastic, with which I could not grapple, continued to puzzle me in the presence of this angry woman; and it was with no great assurance that I said, “Do I understand then, madame, that M. du Hallot is in that room?”

  “Monsieur du Hallot?” she replied, in a tone that was almost a scream. “No: but Madame du Hallot is, and he would be if he had taken the hint I sent him! He would be! But I will have no more secrecy, and no more plots. I have suffered enough, and now Madame shall suffer if she has not forgotten how to blush. Are you coming out there?” she continued, once more applying herself to the door, her face inflamed with passion. “I shall stay! Oh, I shall stay, I assure you, until you do come. Until morning if necessary!”

  “But, Madame,” I said, beginning to see daylight, and finding words with difficulty — for already I heard in fancy the King’s laughter, and conjured up the quips and cranks with which he would pursue me— “your warning did not perhaps reach M. du Hallot?”

  “It reached his coach, at any rate,” the scold retorted. “But another time I will have no half measures. As for that,” she continued, turning on me suddenly with her arms akimbo, and the fiercest of airs, “I would like to know what business it is of yours, Monsieur, whether it reached him or not! I know you, — you are in league with my husband! You are here to shelter him, and this Madame du Hallot who is within here! And with whom he has been carrying on these three months! But — —”

  At that moment the door at last opened; and M. Nicholas, wearing an aspect so meek and crestfallen that I hardly knew him, came out. He was followed by a young woman plainly dressed, and looking almost as much frightened as himself; in whom I had no difficulty in recognizing Felix’s wife.

  “Why!” Madame Nicholas cried, her face falling. “This is not — who is this? Who—” with increased vehemence— “is this baggage, I would like to know? This shameless creature, that — —”

  “My dear,” the secretary protested, spreading out his hands — fortunately he had eyes only for his wife and did not see us— “this is one of your ridiculous mistakes! It is, I assure you. This is the wife of a clerk whom I dismissed to-day, and she has been with me begging me to reinstate her husband. That is all. That is all, my dear, in truth it is. You have made this dreadful outcry for nothing. I assure you — —”

  I heard no more, for, taking advantage of the obscurity of the hall, and the preoccupation of the couple, I made for the door, and passing out into the darkness, found myself in the embrace of the King; who, seizing me about the neck, laughed on my shoulder until he cried, continually adjuring me to laugh also, and ejaculating between the paroxysms, “Poor du Hallot! Poor du Hallot!” With many things of the same nature, which any one acquainted with court life may supply for himself.

  I confess I did not on my part find it so easy to laugh: partly because I am not of so gay a disposition as that great prince, and partly because I cannot see the ludicrous side of events in which I myself take part. But on the King assuring me that he would not betray the secret even to La Varenne, I took comfort, and gradually reconciled myself to an episode which, unlike the more serious events it now becomes my duty to relate, had only one result, and that unimportant. I mean the introduction to my service of the clerk Felix; who, proving worthy of confidence, remained with me after the lamentable death of the King my master, and is to-day one of those to whom I entrust the preparation of these Memoirs.

  PART III

  KING TERROR. A DAUGHTER OF THE GIRONDE

  In a room on the second floor of a house in the Rue Favart in Paris — a large room scantily and untidily furnished — a man sat reading by the light of an oil lamp. The hour was late, the night a July night in the year 1794 — year two of the Republic. The house already slumbered round him; the sounds of Paris rose to his ears softened by night and distance. Intent on his work, he looked up from time to time to make a note; or, drawing the lamp a little nearer he trimmed its wick and set it back. When this happened, the light falling strongly on his face, and bringing into relief its harsh lines and rugged features, showed him to be a man past middle life, grey-haired, severe, almost forbidding of aspect.

  Peaceful as his occupation seemed, there was something in the air of the room which suggested change, even danger. The floor was littered with packing cases and with books piled together at random. On the low bedstead lay a travelling cloak; on the table, by the reader’s hand, lay a pistol and beside it one of the huge sabres which were then in fashion. Nor were these signs without meaning. The man reading on, wrapt and unconscious, in his upper room, merely followed his bent. He read and reasoned, though in the great city round him the terror of the Revolution was at its height; though the rattle of the drum had scarcely ceased with nightfall, and the last tumbril was even now being wheeled back into its shed.

  For men grow strangely callous. The danger which impends daily and every day ceases to be feared. Achille Mirande had seen the chiefs of his party fall round him. He had seen Pétion and Barbaroux, Louvet and Vergniaud die — the Girondins who had dreamed with him of a republic of property, free and yet law-abiding. Nor had his experiences stopped there. He had seen his foes perish also, the Hébertists first and later the Dantonists. But for himself — death seemed to have passed him by. Danger had become second nature; the very rumbling of the tumbrils passing his house on the way to the guillotine had ceased to be anything but annoying; until to-day, to avoid the interruption, he had left his house in the Rue St. Honoré and established himself in this empty flat in the little Rue Favart.

  By-and-by he laid down the book he was reading and fell into deep meditation. As he sat thus, alone and silent in the silent room, a sound, which a keener ear would have noticed before, attracted his attention. Startled in a degree by it, he roused himself; he looked round. “A rat, I suppose,” he muttered. Yet he continued to peer with suspicion into the corner whence the sound had come, and presently he heard it again. The next instant he sprang to his feet; phantom-like a door in the panelled wall at the back of the room — a door in the wall where there
should have been no door — was swinging, nay, had swung open. While he glared at it, hardly believing his senses, a man appeared standing in the dark aperture.

  The man was young and of middle height. Dazzled by the light, and suffering apparently from weakness, he paused, leaning for support against the doorway. His eyes were bright, his sunken cheeks told of fever or famine. His clothes stained and dusty, and his unkempt hair, added to the wildness of his appearance. For a moment he and the owner of the room glared at one another in speechless wonder. Then a name sprang to the lips of each.

  “Monsieur Mirande!” the younger man muttered.

  “De Bercy!” exclaimed the other.

  The stranger said no more, but shaking with agitation walked to a chair and sat down. Mirande, his face rigid with passion, stood in silence and watched him do it. Then the Republican found his voice.

  “You villain!” he cried, advancing a step, his manner menacing. “Was it not enough that you stole into my house and robbed me of my daughter? Was it not enough that you led her to forfeit her life in your plots and then left her to die? Was not this enough, that you now come and insult me by your presence?”

  The young man raised his hand in deprecation, but seemed unable to reply. Mirande, gazing pitilessly at him, presently read his silence aright, and an expression of cruel joy altered his features.

  “I understand,” he said grimly. “I see all now. You have been in hiding here. To be sure, your name has been on the list of suspects these three months. And you all the time have been starving like a rat behind the panels! Well, you shall have food and wine. You shall eat, you shall drink. I would not for the world have you cheat the guillotine.”

  He went to a cupboard as he spoke, and, taking from it bread and wine, he placed them before the other. The young man made a slight gesture, as though he would have refused them; but his pale face flushed with desire negatived the action, the momentary resistance of his pride gave way, and he ate and drank, sparingly, yet with the craving of a man half-famished.