Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “I have not tasted food for three days,” he murmured presently, looking up with a glance of apology. The wine had already done its work. He looked a different man. His hand was steady, his cheeks wore a more healthy colour. “M. Chareloi hid me here,” he went on, “but a week ago I heard a disturbance in the house, and coming out when all was quiet I found it empty and locked. I fear he was arrested.”

  “He was guillotined five days ago,” the Girondin replied with brutal frankness.

  “Why? For what?” the young man exclaimed.

  “As a suspect,” Mirande answered, shrugging his shoulders.

  Bercy had partly risen from his chair. He sat down again, stunned.

  “Things move quickly nowadays,” Mirande continued, with a ferocious smile. “To the Luxembourg, thence to the Conciergerie, thence to the Place de la Revolution is a journey of three days at most; and the path is well trodden. You will find yourself in good company, M. de Bercy.”

  “You will give me up?”

  “Ay!” the Republican answered hoarsely. He had risen, and stood facing his antagonist, his hands on the table, his face flushed and swollen. “Ay, though you were my own son! What have you not done to me? You crept like a snake into my house, and robbed me of my daughter!”

  “I made her my wife!” the Vicomte answered, with calm pride.

  “Ay, and then? After that act of mighty condescension you led her to take part in your vile plot, and when she was discovered and arrested, you left her to pay the penalty. You left her to die alone rather than risk one hair of your miserable head!”

  The young man sprang to his feet in sudden ungovernable excitement. “It is false!” he cried. “False!”

  “It is true!” Mirande retorted, striking the table so violently that the room rang again and the flame of the lamp leapt up and for an instant dyed the two angry faces with a lurid gleam.

  “I say it is false!” the Vicomte replied sternly. “On the contrary, being at Rheims when I heard that Corinne was arrested, I took horse on the instant. I rode for Paris as a man rides for life. I was anxious to give myself up in her place if I could save her in no other way. But at Meaux, M. Mirande, I met your agent — —”

  “And went back to Rheims again and into hiding,” the other continued, with a bitter sneer, “after sending me, her father, the shameful message that your duty to your race forbade the last of the Bercys to die for a merchant’s daughter.”

  “I sent that message, do you say? I? I?” the young man cried.

  “Yes, you! Who else? You — sent it after hearing from me that if you would surrender, the Committee of Safety would suffer her to escape! So much my services had wrung from them — in vain. What? Do you deny that you met my agent at night in the yard of the Three Kings at Meaux, M. le Vicomte?”

  “I met him,” the young man answered firmly, though his frame was a-shake with excitement. “But I did not send that message by him! Nor did he give me such a message as you state. On the contrary, he told me that I was too late, that my wife had suffered two days before; and that you bade me save myself, if I could.”

  “Ay, she suffered,” Mirande answered ironically. “But it was four days later. And for the rest you tell me nothing but lies, and clumsy ones.”

  “What I tell you,” the Vicomte rejoined, with a solemnity which at last enforced the other’s attention, “is as true as that I loved my wife and would have died to save her. I swear it!”

  M. Mirande passed his hand over his brow, and stood for a moment gazing at his son-in-law. There was a new expression, an expression almost of fear, in his eyes.

  “Should you know the messenger again?” he asked at last.

  “I do not think I should,” the Vicomte answered. “He inquired for me by the name upon which we had agreed. We were together for a few minutes only, and the night was dark, the only light a distant lanthorn.”

  “Would he know you, do you think?”

  “I cannot say.”

  M. Mirande shrugged his shoulders, and strode half a dozen times up and down the room, his face dark with thought, with suspicion, with uncertainty. At length he stopped before his son-in-law.

  “Listen to me,” he said, meeting and striving to read the young man’s eyes. “It is possible that what you say is true and that you are not the coward I have thought you. In that case you shall have justice at my hands. Before I give you up to the Committee of Safety, who will deal shortly with you, I will resolve the doubt. Until I find the means to solve it, you may stay here.”

  “Indeed?” cried the young man proudly. “But what if I am not willing to be beholden to you?”

  “Then you have your alternative!” Mirande answered coolly. “Come with me to the nearest Guard House, and I will inform against you. After all, it will be the shortest way. It was only that being a citizen, and not a ci-devant, I wished to do justice — even to you.”

  The young man hesitated. He had spoken truly when he suggested that he was unwilling to be beholden to Mirande. But the alternative meant certain death.

  “I will stop,” he said, after a pause, shrugging his shoulders as he accepted the strange offer made him. “Why should I not? It is your agent who has lied, not I.”

  “We shall see,” replied the other, without emotion. “There is one thing, however, I must name to you. I know that you are a gallant among the ladies, M, de Bercy. My daughter Claire, who was at the seminary when you visited me before, is now at home. You will kindly restrict your intercourse with her to the most formal limits. Unfortunately,” he continued, with a strange bitterness in his tone, “she is like her sister, and the same arts that won the one, may win the other from the path of duty.”

  “For shame, sir!” the young noble answered, his eyes sparkling with indignation. “You insult, not me, but your dead daughter! Do you think that I loved her for her fortune alone? Or that her very image, untenanted by her soul, would satisfy me?”

  “They were singularly alike,” Mirande muttered with a grim shrug. “God knows! At any rate you are warned.”

  The young man shot at him an angry glance, but said no more; and Mirande, seeming to be satisfied that his condition was accepted, dropped the subject and proceeded to show his guest where he might sleep; for the latter felt a natural reluctance to return to his narrow prison behind the wainscot. In a few minutes the light was extinguished and the two men, thus strangely brought together again, lay a few feet from one another; the mind of each turning in the stillness of the night, to the link which had bound them, nay, which still bound them in a forced and uncongenial union.

  The Vicomte was aware that his host ran a certain risk in sheltering him. The supremacy which Robespierre had won at this time, and the desperate lengths to which he had gone, exposed all who were not of his immediate following to a jealousy that had already hurried to the guillotine the chiefs of half a dozen sections of the Republican party. Mirande, as one of the few surviving Girondins and as a man still possessing friends and influence was peculiarly obnoxious to suspicion. The slightest accusation, the word of a servant, the hint of a rival, would suffice to despatch him also along the path which so many trod daily.

  The Vicomte, therefore, on rising in the morning, proposed to withdraw to his hiding-place. M. Mirande, however, a little to his guest’s surprise, would not hear of this; observing curtly that he could trust his household, and that a change of name was all that safety required. The younger man, whose anxiety was not on his own account only, would have argued the point; but his host cut short the matter by opening the door, and ushering the Vicomte, almost before the young man was aware, into another room — a room, large and scantily furnished, but in other respects in striking contrast to that which he had left. Here the tall, narrow windows, three in number, were open; the sunlight poured in through half-closed jalousies and fell in bars on the shining parquet, and on a little table daintily laid for the morning meal and gay with flowers. In the cooler and darker parts of the room stood high-backed
chairs littered with a dozen articles which spoke of a woman’s presence; here a fan and silk hood, there a half-mended glove. As the young man’s eyes fell on these, and he drank in the airy brightness and even luxury of the room, he felt a strange pang of regret and misery. Such things were no longer for him. Such prettinesses no longer formed part of his life. And then he turned, and in an instant forgot his unhappiness and his loss in the sight of a young girl who, seated a little aside, had risen at his entrance and now stood facing him, her back to the light.

  He had been warned; yet he stood thunderstruck, breathless, staring. His eyes grew large, his jaw fell, the room for a moment went round with him. The likeness of the woman before him to his dead wife was so strong, so complete, so astonishing, that involuntarily, not knowing what he did, he held out his hands.

  “Corinne!” he muttered, his voice full of tears. “Corinne!”

  The girl, who but for the ravages of ill-health would have been very beautiful, did not answer; nevertheless she seemed scarcely less affected by his sudden appearance and his strange address. She swayed on her feet, and had she not grasped a chair would have fallen. A burning flush for an instant lit up her wan cheek, to disappear at the first sound of her father’s voice. He had followed Bercy into the room, and his tone was sharp with reproof and warning.

  “Citizen Perrot,” he said sternly, “this is my daughter Claire. Here is your place. Be seated, if you please.”

  The Vicomte mechanically did as he was told without looking where he sat. His hands shook, his brain was on fire. He had eyes only for the girl; who was so wondrously, so completely, like his wife. She had taken her seat with some timidity at the other side of the table, and if she no longer betrayed the same emotion, her eyes were downcast, the colour fluttered in her cheeks. It was in vain that Mirande shot angry glances at her — and at him. The young man stared as one enchanted, seeing only the white-robed figure seated between himself and the sunlight, that, shining through her dark hair, found golden threads in it, and crowned the face he knew so well with an aureole of brightness.

  Gradually the spell fell from him. For as he looked, the girl’s face changed and hardened and grew older; grew sharper and whiter; and he discerned the difference between Claire and Corinne. Corinne had never looked at him, or at any one, after that fashion. With a sigh, yet with eyes that often and involuntarily returned to the lode-star, he recovered himself; and he made, or pretended to make, a meal. His appetite, however, was gone, and he was thankful when his host rose and put an end to the constrained sitting.

  “You will excuse me,” the Republican said, drawing out his watch and looking at it. “I should be at M. Carnot’s at this hour. These rooms, however, are at your disposal, my friend; and if you want books, my daughter will direct you where to find them. But — caution, remember!”

  And with that, to the Vicomte’s astonishment, M. Mirande departed, leaving the two together. For a moment the young man sat, troubled and perplexed, gazing at the floor. He had intercepted the glance of warning which his host on leaving had aimed at his daughter; and with the knowledge that he was suspected, with the brutally frank exhortation addressed to himself fresh in his mind, to be left alone with the girl surprised him beyond measure.

  Presently he stole a look at her. She had passed to one of the windows, and, having seated herself, was employed upon some needle-work. Her attitude, the lines of her figure, the pose of her head, presented the same abnormal maddening resemblance to his wife; and slowly, as if fascinated, he moved nearer to her.

  “Pardon me,” he said at last, speaking almost in a whisper. “You are very like your sister, mademoiselle.”

  She glanced quickly at him, her face wearing the hard, sharp look that had slowly grown upon it. But she gave him no other answer.

  He felt that he ought to leave her, but the spell was upon him and he lingered.

  “You have been ill, I fear,” he said, after a long silence.

  “Monsieur is right,” she answered briefly. “The times are such that few of us escape. Those are perhaps most happy,” and as she paused on the word she looked up at him, “who die with their beliefs unshattered, before discovering the clay feet of their idols.”

  He started.

  “Mademoiselle!” he cried almost fiercely, carried away by an intensely painful thought. “My wife! Your sister? Answer me, answer me quickly, I beg of you. They did not — they did not tell her that I — that I refused — —”

  “That monsieur declined to save her?” Mademoiselle Claire answered slowly, her great dark eyes looking into vacancy — into the depths of gloomy memories. “Yes, they did. A woman, perhaps, would not have done it; would not have borne to do it. But men are cruel — cruel! And after all it helped her to die, you understand. It made it more easy.”

  He walked to the other end of the room, his face hidden in his hands. And there his frame began to be racked by deep sobs. He tried to summon up his pride, his courage, his manliness; but in vain. The thought that the woman who had loved and trusted him, his young wife — his young wife of a few months only — had died believing him a coward and an ingrate was too bitter! Too bitter, the conviction that, mistaken as her belief was, it could never be altered! Never be altered! She would never know!

  A light touch on his arm recalled him to himself. He turned and found Mademoiselle Claire at his elbow holding a glass of wine towards him. Her lips were compressed, but her face wore a delicate flush, and her eyes were changed and softened.

  “Drink,” she muttered hurriedly. “You are still weak; you have eaten nothing.”

  He controlled himself by an effort and took the wine; and the girl, moving away quickly, brought from the table a roll and, without again meeting his eyes, laid it on a chair beside him. She was in the act of regaining her place by the window, when the door opened somewhat abruptly, and the young Vicomte, scarcely master of himself, turned and discovered a man standing on the threshold.

  The stranger stared at him and he at the stranger, while Mademoiselle Claire, with eyes which on a sudden became keen and intent, seemed to forget herself in gazing on both. The new-comer was taller than the Vicomte and of about the same age; a thin, lithe man, with restless eyes and dark, tumbled hair. He scanned the Vicomte with at least as much disfavour as the latter, taken by surprise, spent on him; and he was the first to speak.

  “I thought that you were alone, mademoiselle,” he said, frowning as he advanced into the room and looked about him suspiciously.

  “This is a friend of my father’s,” she answered, “He is staying with us, M. Baudouin.”

  The explanation did not seem to improve matters in the young man’s eyes. He frowned still more gloomily.

  “Monsieur is from the country?” he asked.

  “No,” the Vicomte answered. “I have been in Paris some months.”

  The stranger looked darkly down, toying with a book which lay at the edge of the table. The girl waited awhile and then —

  “Did you bring a message from my father?” she asked, a slight tinge of impatience and hauteur in her manner.

  “No, mademoiselle, I have not seen him this morning,” he answered. And his sullenness matched her impatience.

  “Had you not better follow him then?” she said, with sharpness. “He is at M. Carnot’s. He may need you.”

  For a moment it was plain that M. Baudouin hesitated, but in the end he made up his mind to obey, and bowing with exaggerated respect he left the room.

  The Vicomte thought that he could not do better than follow the other’s example, and he too withdrew. Crossing the lobby to the room which communicated with his hiding-place he threw himself into a chair and gave himself up to the most melancholy reflections. The singular resemblance which Mademoiselle Claire bore to his wife must alone have sufficed to fill him with vain longings and poignant regrets; but these were now rendered a thousand times more bitter by the knowledge, so cruelly conveyed to him, that his wife had died believing him a heart
less and faithless coward.

  The return of M. Mirande later in the day, if it did not dispel these gloomy thoughts, compelled him at any rate to conceal them. The evening meal passed much as the morning one had passed; the host uttering a few formal phrases, while the other two sat for the most part silent. The Vicomte could not avert his eyes from his sister-in-law; and though he no longer felt the violent emotions which her face had at first awakened in him, he sat sad and unhappy. Her pale features reminded him of the dead past: and at once tortured him with regret, and tantalized him with the simulacrum of that which had been his. He could have cursed the Heaven that had formed two beings so much alike.

  In this way a week passed by, and little by little a vague discomfort and restlessness began to characterize the attitude of his mind towards her. He felt himself at once attracted by her beauty — as what man of his years would not? — and repelled by the likeness that made of the feeling a sacrilege. Meantime, whether he would or no, they were left together — much together. M. Mirande went abroad each day and seemed intent on public affairs. Each day, indeed, his look grew a trifle more austere, and the shade on his brow grew deeper; but though it was evident that the situation out-of-doors was growing more strained, the storms which were agitating Paris and desolating so many homes affected the little household in no other way. The Vicomte kept necessarily within, spending most of his time in reading. Mademoiselle Claire also went seldom abroad; and it followed that during the long July days when the sunshine flooded the second floor, in the early mornings when the sparrows perched on the open jalousies and twittered gaily, or in the grey evenings, when the night fell slowly, they met from time to time — met not infrequently. On such occasions the Vicomte noticed that Baudouin was never far distant. The secretary, as a rule, put in an appearance before the conversation had lasted ten minutes.

  Bercy began to suspect the cause of this, and one day he happened upon a discovery. He was sitting in M. Mirande’s room, when the sound of a raised voice made him lay down his book and listen. The voice seemed to come from the parlour. Once he was assured of this, and that the speaker, whose anger was apparent, was not Mirande, he took his steps. He stole out upon the lobby, and found the parlour door as he had suspected slightly ajar. Any scruples he might have entertained were dispelled by the certainty that the speaker was Baudouin and that the person whom he was addressing in harsh and vehement tones, was Mademoiselle Claire. The Vicomte drew himself up behind the door and listened.