Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “What would I have?” were the first words he caught. “Little enough, heaven knows! Little enough! What have I ever asked except to be allowed to serve? To gratify your least caprice. To be at your beck and call. To fetch and carry while another basked in your smiles. That is all I asked in the old days and I ask no more now. I am content to serve and wait and hope. But I will have — no stranger come between us. Not again! Not again!”

  “You do not understand, M. Baudouin,” the girl answered hurriedly.

  “Do I not?” he cried. “Perhaps I did not understand last time. But this time I do. I do! It had been well for you had I known more then!”

  “Spare me,” she said faintly, overcome apparently by some hidden meaning in his words.

  “That you may amuse yourself with this stranger?” he retorted. “No, I have given way enough. It had been better, as I say, if I had not, mademoiselle.”

  The stress he laid on the last word was unintelligible to the hidden listener, who knew only that it veiled an insult and drew nearer to the door. The girl remained silent and Baudouin presuming on this continued in a tone still more aggressive, “Times are changed, mademoiselle, changed in the last month. You, living out of the world, are ignorant of what is passing, and your father is being left as completely behind. Unless I make a mistake, in a little time you will need other and stronger protection than his.”

  “Not while he lives,” the girl answered, in a low tone.

  Baudouin laughed. “The pitcher goes often to the well, but it is broken at last,” he said drily. “I would have you understand that, since you may stand in need of my help, you would do well not to try me too far.”

  “M. Baudouin,” the girl said abruptly — and her tone was changed, and the listener, though he could not see her, could picture the challenge of her startled eyes— “you have never spoken to me in this way before. You have changed.”

  “So are the times. Those who were servants are now masters!”

  “You will never be mine,” the girl said firmly.

  “We shall see!” he answered.

  “We shall see!” cried an unexpected voice — that of the Vicomte, who could bear it no longer. His eyes stern, his colour high, he flung the door wide and entered. The secretary, startled, stepped back a pace. The girl, who had been standing close to the door, turned, and seeing who it was, uttered a low cry of thankfulness; in her relief she even stretched out her hands as if she would grasp the new-comer’s arm. The next instant she drew back, a strange expression in her eyes.

  “Now, sir,” the young Vicomte continued, harshly, “you have to deal with a man, and not with a woman whom you can terrify. I have overheard all, and I warn you that on his return I shall repeat it word for word to M. Mirande, who will know how to deal with you.”

  He expected that the threat would produce its effect, and that the secretary taken in the act would resume his normal demeanour. But Baudouin, his first surprise over, merely smiled. “Who are you, I wonder,” he replied grimly. “One in the Tallien-Barrère-Carnot conspiracy, that’s afoot, I suppose. If so, I need not — —”

  “You need suppose nothing!” the Vicomte retorted fiercely. “But leave the room without words, you dog!”

  “Thank you,” said the secretary, smiling contemptuously. “But I would have you remember that a living dog is better than a dead lion.”

  With that — and with little show of embarrassment or dismay — he went out. As the door closed behind him a singular constraint fell upon the two who were left. The Vicomte, with a grave face, paused by the table, and stood listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps. The girl, who had withdrawn to the farther end of the room, kept her face averted. The Vicomte looked at her doubtfully — looked at her more than once. “Mademoiselle,” he ventured at last, his voice low and agitated, “I am afraid he — I am afraid he means mischief.”

  “I fear so,” she whispered without turning.

  “Will you — shall I speak to your father?”

  “It may be better,” she answered — to the same tone.

  He looked at her long at that, but she did not move; and with a gesture as of farewell he turned and went softly away. Safe in his own room, with the door shut, he stood in the middle of the floor thinking; thinking not of the secretary nor of the danger with which Baudouin’s enmity threatened the house, but of the strange look which the girl’s face had worn on his first appearance at her side, the look of relief and thankfulness which he had surprised in her eyes, the impulse of confidence which had made her move towards him! He recalled them all, and his brow grew hot, his hand trembled. He felt at once terror and shame. When he heard M. Mirande’s step on the stairs, he gave himself no time for thought, but went hurriedly out on the lobby and called him into the room. “M. Mirande,” he said, “I have something to tell you. I have two things to tell you.”

  The Republican looked at him, his inscrutable eyes betraying no surprise. “What are they?” he asked, his tone almost phlegmatic.

  “The man Baudouin has been here, addressing himself so rudely to your daughter that I felt myself obliged to — to interfere.”

  “That is unlucky.”

  “It may be that he has your confidence,” the young Vicomte continued, “but, from the way in which he spoke of you, I doubt if you have his. He seemed to me — a dangerous man, M. Baudouin.”

  “Did he use threats?” the Republican asked, a slight shade of anxiety in his tone.

  The Vicomte nodded.

  “Did he mention any names?” M. Mirande continued, looking sharply at his watch.

  “Yes. Those of Carnot, Barrère — and I think, Tallien.”

  “Ah!” For a moment M. Mirande’s impulse seemed to be to leave the room; to leave it hurriedly, to go back perhaps whence he had come. But he thought better of it, and after a pause he continued, “Had you not something else to tell me?”

  “I had,” the young man answered, betraying, by his agitation, that he had now come to the real purpose for which he had sought the interview. “I wish to leave, M. Mirande. I wish to leave your house at once. I do not know,” he continued hurriedly, before the elder man could utter the dry retort which was on his lips, “whether you had it in your mind to try me by leaving me with your daughter, or whether I have only my own weakness to thank. But I must go. I am ashamed of myself, I hate myself for it; but I cannot be with her and not feel what I ought not to feel. Understand me,” the young man continued, his cheeks pale; “it is not by reason of any charm of hers, but because she is so like — so like my wife — because she seems a dozen times a day to be my wife, that my memory is unfaithful to Corinne — that I dare not remain here another day!”

  He stopped abruptly. M. Mirande coughed.

  “This is a strange confession,” he said, after a long pause. “You have said nothing to Claire?”

  “Heaven forbid!”

  “Then say nothing!” the Republican replied with curt decision. “As for leaving this place to-day, it is impossible. A crisis is at hand; this house is watched. You would be recognized and arrested before you passed ten yards from the door. Moreover,” he went on, seeming to ponder deeply as he spoke, “if you are right about Baudouin — and I doubt now whether I have been Wise to trust him — I see great and immediate danger before me. Therefore, if you would not desert the sinking ship, you must remain.”

  “I dare not,” the young man muttered, shaking his head.

  “What?” the old Girondin answered, his voice swelling, his eyes growing bright. “You a noble, and you dare not? You a noble, and you cannot govern yourself? Consider, M. le Vicomte! A few days may see me traverse the road so many traverse every day; the road of the guillotine. Then my daughter will be alone, defenceless, unprotected. I ask you — for I have no one else to whom I can turn — to be her brother and her guardian. Do you refuse?”

  “You no longer distrust me?” the Vicomte muttered, his cheek hot.

  “When you came to me a week ago,”
Mirande answered, “I did not foresee this crisis, nor the present danger. If I had, I might have received you differently. But, see you, what if this be the way in which I would try you?” he continued with energy. “What if this be the atonement heaven has assigned to you? In that case, do you accept, or do you refuse?”

  “I accept,” the Vicomte answered solemnly, carried away by the other’s burst of feeling. “I accept the charge.”

  M. Mirande smiled, but only for a moment. Quickly the light died out of his face, leaving it stern and austere. His brow grew dark, and turning with a sigh to his table, he signed to his companion to leave him, and was presently immersed in figures and calculations.

  The young man retired; on his side full of doubt and amazement, yet lifted by the other’s appeal to a higher level of will and purpose. Confidence begets honour. Frankly as he had gone to the Girondin with his confession, so frankly had the other received it. Now he felt that it behoved him to deserve confidence. Henceforth Claire must be his sister. But he knew that merely to call her sister was not all. He knew enough of his own weakness to recognize the necessity of shunning temptation, and during the next three days he was careful to avoid conversation with the girl; who on her part seemed to observe nothing, but went to and fro about her household duties.

  And yet she did not go about them as usual, a keen observer would have said. A subtle change had come over her. Alone in her room she sang to herself low crooning songs of happiness. Her eyes, so carefully lowered in the parlour, shone with a tender brightness, when no one saw them. Her cheek had grown fuller, her colour stronger, her whole being radiant. If she still went delicately when other’s eyes were upon her, it was rather in sympathy with the heavy air of fear and expectation which pervaded the house, which pervaded the city, than in obedience to her natural impulses.

  On the third evening, M. Mirande, who had been abroad all day, came home rather later than usual. The Vicomte and Claire were sitting in separate rooms, but something ominous in the sound of his footstep as he mounted the stairs, drew them both to the lobby to receive him. The evening light, shining through the window behind them, fell full upon his face and exaggerated its cold and grey severity. They waited for him in silence, and he did not see them until he set his foot on the last step. Then he pointed to his room, and, “Go in there, my children,” he said gravely.

  The young man started. The girl blushed and trembled. They both obeyed. M. Mirande’s next act was equally surprising. Following them into the room he proceeded to lock and bolt the door behind him; and then passing quickly to the window he looked out. For a moment they stood behind him in silence. After a pause the Vicomte spoke.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “The order for my arrest was signed an hour ago,” the Girondin answered, his eyes still glued to the window. “You are both included in it. Ah! here they are!”

  “Who?” the Vicomte asked with energy.

  “Baudouin and three officers. However, the door is shut. It is strong, and will gain us a few minutes.”

  “To what end?” The Vicomte spoke coldly. Mirande’s conduct took him by surprise, for resistance to arrest was rare during the Revolution. Such men as Mirande, courageous, bigoted, devoted to an ideal, made a point — unless they resorted to suicide — of submitting calmly to destiny and the law.

  The Girondin, however, had decided otherwise. Nor did he seem to be aware of his companion’s disapproval. He did not answer, but continued to look out long after the tramp of heavy footsteps on the stairs had drawn his daughter to his side. There was a loud summons without, “In the name of the law!” but the three remained silent, standing close together, the girl’s white, scared face glimmering in the increasing darkness of the room. The Vicomte a foot from her, could almost hear the dull beating of her heart.

  “Can nothing be done?” he muttered.

  “We can do nothing but wait and be silent,” the Republican answered calmly. “They know we are here, but if we do not answer, they may pause awhile before they attack the door. And every moment — is a moment gained.”

  The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders, but acquiesced; and some minutes elapsed — minutes which seemed hours to more than one of the three — before the locksmith for whom the Commissary had sent, assailed the door, and the almost empty house rang with the harsh sounds of his hammer.

  Crash! The door was open at last, letting into the room a flood of light, and with the light three men who entered with levelled arms. The foremost, an officer girt with a huge tricolour scarf, stopped abruptly, his jaw dropping ludicrously as his eyes fell on the placid group before him. “Citizen Achille Mirande?” he said interrogatively. “Yes? I am empowered to arrest you in the name of the Committee of Safety; you, your daughter also present I think — and a guest. This I presume is the person?”

  “It is,” Mirande answered quietly. “Perhaps you will permit me to show you where my papers are. They may be needed?”

  “They will be needed,” the Commissary replied, re-arranging his scarf, which had been pulled awry. “You may certainly collect them under surveillance.”

  “I can save M. Mirande the trouble,” remarked a mocking voice in the background. “I think I can lay my hand on any paper that may be required.”

  “I do not doubt it, Baudouin,” the Girondin answered placidly. “I take it that I have to thank you for this?”

  There was shame as well as triumph in the secretary’s eyes as he came forward. “You cannot say I did not warn you,” he said, avoiding the look of scorn which Claire — who stood by her father’s side, her hand in his — shot at him. “But you would go your way.”

  “And you, yours!” Mirande retorted. “An old way — Judas’s. But hark you, my friend! You seem to be prospering now. You have kicked down the ladder by which you have risen. Yet it is in my power to wound you. See you, do you know who this is?” and he pointed to the Vicomte who, with his arms folded, was gazing haughtily at the Commissary and his followers.

  “A conspirator against the safety of the Republic — that is all I know,” Baudouin answered sullenly.

  “Possibly,” said Mirande. “But not the less for that my son-in-law!”

  “The Vicomte de Bercy!” Baudouin almost shouted. “It is false. I heard of him but yesterday — at Nantes.”

  “You heard wrongly then!” Mirande answered with a cold sneer. “This is the man whom you met at Meaux, and of whom you lied to me, saying — that you might divide him effectually from my daughter — that he refused to surrender himself to save her.”

  “It was true — what I told you,” the secretary muttered, gazing at Bercy with hatred.

  “It was false!” cried the Girondin sternly. “Do I need evidence? I have it. Whom shall I believe, you, who have betrayed me to-day, or he who remained by my side in danger?”

  “He could not escape,” Baudouin said abruptly. His face was pale, the perspiration stood on his brow. His jealous eyes glared askance at the girl’s face. Mirande had said rightly. He had yet the power to wound this traitor.

  “He did not attempt it,” the Girondin answered. “And besides, I have tried him as gold in the fire! Look you at this. Bercy!” As the name rang through the room the speaker turned to the Vicomte and took his hand, “My friend, I have deceived you. My daughter did not die. I procured her pardon by the use of such influence as I possessed at that time. But having done that, deluded by this villain’s tale, I forced her to renounce you and to take her maiden name.”

  For an instant there was silence in the room.

  “She did not die?” the young man muttered, his eyes dilating. Then, before an answer could be given, he plucked his hand from Mirande’s grasp and seizing him by the shoulder shook him to and fro.

  “Where is she?” he cried hoarsely. “Speak, man, what have you done with her? Where is she?”

  “She is behind you.”

  Bercy turned. Claire was behind him. “Claire?” he cried. “Claire?”

  Th
e girl stood, her eyes slightly downcast, her arms hanging by her sides. And then at the sound of the name uttered a second time, she looked up, her eyes swimming with love and tears. “No, Corinne!” she said simply. And then, in a voice which pierced the traitor’s bosom as with a sword, she continued, “Honoré, my husband! Forgive me! Forgive me that I distrusted you! That I disowned you!”

  He did not answer, but he opened his arms and took her into them and held her there; while the father went to the window — perhaps to hide his emotion, and the Commissary lifted up his hands in admiration genuine and French of this moving scene. As for Baudouin, he bit his nails, his face white with rage.

  He cursed the delay. He would have cursed the police, had he dared, and had not the tricolour scarf awed him. “Bah!” he exclaimed at last in venomous tones, “a fine piece of play-acting, M. Mirande! And our friends here have indulgently given you time for it. But it is over, and the sequel will be less pleasant, I fear. He laughs best who laughs last.”

  “That is true,” Mirande answered soberly; and for an instant from his place at the window, he looked into the room.

  “In three days you will sneeze into the sack, my friends,” Baudouin continued with savage mockery. “Your married bliss, M. le Vicomte, will last but a short time, I fear. As for mademoiselle, Sanson will prove but a rough coiffeur, I doubt.”

  “Silence!” the Girondin cried; and his tone was strangely altered, his voice vibrated strangely through the room. “Silence, you hound!” he continued, turning from the window and walking into the middle of the chamber, his figure drawn to its full height, his hand outstretched. “Be still, and tremble for your own head. The warrant you bring is signed by Maximilien Robespierre?”