THE IDEALISTS
Up a long uncarpeted flight of stairs, and into a large lofty room on
the second storey, Thord led the way for his newly-found disciples to
follow. It was very dark, and they had to feel the steps as they went,
their guide offering neither explanation nor apology for the Cimmerian
shades of gloom. Stumbling on hands and knees they spoke not a word;
though once Max Graub uttered something like an oath in rough German;
but a whisper from Leroy rebuked and silenced him, and they pursued
their difficult ascent until, arriving at the room mentioned, they found
themselves in the company of about fifteen to twenty men, all sitting
round a table under two flaring billiard lamps, suspended crookedly
from the ceiling. As Thord entered, these men all rose, and gave him an
expressive sign of greeting with the left hand, the same kind of gesture
which had passed between him and Zegota on the Cathedral steps in the
morning. Zegota himself was one of their number. There was also another
personage in the room who did not rise, and who gave no sign whatever.
This was a woman, who sat in the embrasure of a closed and shuttered
window with her back to the whole company. It was impossible to say
whether she was young or old, plain or handsome, for she was enveloped
in a long black cloak which draped her from shoulder to heel. All that
could be distinguished of her was the white nape of her neck, and a
great twist of dead gold hair. Her presence awakened the liveliest
interest in Pasquin Leroy, who found it impossible to avoid nudging his
companions, and whispering--
“A woman! By Heaven, this drama becomes interesting!”
But Axel Regor and Max Graub were seemingly not disposed to levity, and
they offered no response to their lighter minded comrade beyond vague
hasty side-looks of alarm, which appeared to amuse him to an extent that
threatened to go beyond the limits of caution. Sergius Thord, however,
saw nothing of their interchange of glances for the moment,--he
had other business to settle. Addressing himself at once to the men
assembled, he said.--
“Friends and brothers! I bring you three new associates! I have not
sought them; they have sought me. On their own heads be their destinies!
They offer their names to the Revolutionary Committee, and their
services to our Cause!”
A low murmur of approbation from the company greeted this announcement.
Johan Zegota advanced a little in front of all the rest.
“Every man is welcome to serve us who will serve us faithfully,” he
said. “But who are these new comrades, Sergius Thord? What are they?”
“That they must declare for themselves,” said Thord, taking a chair at
the head of the table which was evidently his accustomed place--“Put
them through their examination!”
He seated himself with the air of a king, his whole aspect betokening an
authority that would not be trifled with or gainsaid.
“Gott in Himmel!”
This exclamation burst suddenly from the lips of the man called Max
Graub.
“What ails you?” said Thord, turning full upon him his glittering eyes
that flashed ferocity from under their shaggy brows--“Are you afraid?”
“Afraid? Not I!” protested Graub--“But, gentlemen, think a moment! You
speak of putting us--myself and my friends--through an examination! Why
should you examine us? We are three poor adventurers--what can we have
to tell?”
“Much, I should imagine!” retorted Zegota--“Adventurers are not such
without adventures! Your white hairs testify to some experience of
life.”
“My white hairs--_my_ white hairs!” exclaimed Graub, when a touch from
Axel Regor apparently recalled something to his mind for he began to
laugh--“True, gentlemen! Very true! I had forgotten! I have had some
adventures and some experiences! My good friend there, Pasquin Leroy,
has also had adventures and experiences,--so have we all! Myself, I am a
poor German, grown old in the service of a bad king! I have been kicked
out of that service--Ach!--just for telling the truth; which is very
much the end of all truth telling, is it not? Tell lies,--and kings will
reward you and make you rich and great!--but tell truth, and see what
the kings will give you for it! Kicks, and no halfpence! Pardon! I
interrupt this so pleasant meeting!”
All the men present looked at him curiously, but said nothing in
response to his outburst. Johan Zegota, seating himself next to Sergius
Thord, opened a large parchment volume that lay on the table, and taking
up a pen addressed himself to Thord, saying--
“Will you ask the questions, or shall I?”
“You, by all means! Proceed in the usual manner.”
Whereupon Zegota began.--
“Stand forth, comrades!”
The three strangers advanced.
“Your names? Each one answer separately, please!”
“Pasquin Leroy!”
“Axel Regor!”
“Max Graub!”
“Of what nationality, Pasquin Leroy?”
Leroy smiled. “Truly I claim none!” he said; “I was born a slave.”
“A slave!”
The words were repeated in tones of astonishment round the room.
“Why, yes, a slave!” repeated Leroy quietly. “You have heard of black
slaves,--have you not heard of white ones too? There are countries
still, where men purchase other men of their own blood and
colour;--tyrannous governments, which force such men to work for
them, chained to one particular place till they die. I am one of
those,--though escaped for the present. You can ask me more of my
country if you will; but a slave has no country save that of his
master. If you care at all for my services, you will spare me further
examination on this subject!”
Zegota looked enquiringly at Thord.
“We will pass that question,” said the latter, in a low tone.
Zegota resumed--
“You, Axel Regor--are you a slave too?”
Axel Regor smiled languidly.
“No! I am what is called a free-born subject of the realm. I do what I
like, though not always how I like, or when I like!”
“And you, Max Graub?”
“German!” said that individual firmly; “German to the
backbone--Socialist to the soul!--and an enemy of all ruling
sovereigns,--particularly the one that rules _me_!”
Thord smiled darkly.
“If you feel inclined to jest, Max Graub, I must warn you that jesting
is not suited to the immediate moment.”
“Jesting! I never was more in earnest in my life!” declared Graub,--“Why
have I left my native country? Merely because it is governed by Kaiser
Wilhelm!”
Thord smiled again.
“The subject of nationality seems to excite all three of you,” he said,
“and though we ask you the question _pro forma_, it is not absolutely
necessary that we should know from whence you come. We require your
names, and your oath of fealty; but before binding yourselves, I will
read you our laws, and the rules of membership for this society; rules
to which, if you join us, you are expected to conform.”
“Suppose, for the sake of argument,” said Pasquin Leroy,--“that
after hearing the rules we found it wisest to draw back? Suppose my
friends,--if not myself,--were disinclined to join your Society;--what
would happen?”
As he asked the question a curious silence fell upon the company, and
all eyes were turned upon the speaker. There was a dead pause for a
moment, and then Thord replied slowly and with emphasis:--
“Nothing would happen save this,--that you would be bound by a solemn
oath never to reveal what you had heard or seen here to-night, and that
you would from henceforth be tracked every day and hour of your life by
those who would take care that you kept your oath!”
“You see!” exclaimed Axel Regor excitedly, “There is danger----”
“Danger? Of what?” asked Pasquin Leroy coldly;--“Of death? Each one
of us, and all three of us would fully merit it, if we broke our word!
Gentlemen both!”--and he addressed his two companions, “If you fear any
harm may come to yourselves through joining this society, pray withdraw
while there is yet time! My own mind is made up; I intend to become
familiar with the work of the Revolutionary Committee, and to aid its
cause by my personal service!”
A loud murmur of applause came from the company. Axel Regor and Max
Graub glanced at Leroy, and saw in his face that his decision was
unalterable.
“Then we will work for the Cause, also,” said Max Graub resignedly.
“What you determine upon, we shall do, shall we not, Axel?”
Axel Regor gave a brief assent.
Sergius Thord looked at them all straightly and keenly.
“You have finally decided?”
“We have!” replied Leroy. “We will enrol ourselves as your associates at
once.”
Whereupon Johan Zegota rose from his place, and unlocking an iron safe
which stood in one corner of the room, took out a roll of parchment and
handed it to Thord, who, unfolding it, read in a clear though low voice
the following:--
“We, the Revolutionary Committee, are organized as a Brotherhood, bound
by all the ties of life, death, and our common humanity, to destroy
the abuses, and redress the evils, which self-seeking and tyrannous
Governments impose upon the suffering poor.
“_Firstly:_ We bind ourselves to resist all such laws as may in any
degree interfere with the reasonable, intellectual, and spiritual
freedom of man or woman.
“_Secondly:_ We swear to agitate against all forms of undue and
excessive taxation, which, while scarcely affecting the rich, make life
more difficult and unendurable to the poor.
“_Thirdly:_ We protest against the domination of priestcraft, and
the secret methods which are employed by the Church to obtain undue
influence in Governmental matters.
“_Fourthly:_ We are determined to stand firmly against the entrance of
foreign competitors in the country’s trade and business. All heads
and ruling companies of firms employing foreigners instead of native
workmen, are marked out by us as traitors, and are reserved for
traitors’ punishment.
“_Fifthly:_ We are sworn to exterminate the existing worthless
Government, and to replace it by a working body of capable and
intelligent men, elected by the universal vote of the entire country.
Such elections must take place freely and openly, and no secret
influence shall be used to return any one person or party to power.
Those attempting to sway opinion by bribery and corruption, will be
named to the public, and exposed to disgrace and possible death.
“_Sixthly:_ We are resolved to unmask to the public the duplicity,
treachery, and self-interested motives of the Secretary of State, Carl
Pérousse.
“_Seventhly:_ We are sworn to bring about such changes as shall elevate
a Republic to supreme power, and for this purpose are solemnly pledged
to destroy the present Monarchy.”
“These,” said Sergius Thord, “are the principal objects of our Society’s
work. There are other points to be considered, but these are sufficient
for the present. I will now read the rules, which each member of our
Brotherhood must follow if he would serve us faithfully.”
He turned over another leaf of the parchment scroll he held, and
continued, reading very slowly and distinctly:
“_Rule 1_.--Each member of the Revolutionary Committee shall swear
fidelity to the Cause, and pledge himself to maintain inviolable secrecy
on all matters connected with his membership and his work for the
Society.
“_Rule 2_.--No member shall track, follow, or enquire into the movements
of any other member.
“_Rule 3_.--Once in every month all members are expected to meet
together at a given place, decided upon by the Chief of the Committee at
the previous meeting, when business will be discussed, and lots drawn,
to determine the choice of such members as may be fitted to perform such
business.
“_Rule_ 4.--No member shall be bound to give his address, or to state
where he travels, or when or how he goes, as in all respects save that
of his membership he is a free man.
“_Rule_ 5.--In this same respect of his membership, he is bound to
appear, or to otherwise report himself once a month at the meeting of
the Committee. Should he fail to do so either by person, or by letter
satisfactorily explaining his absence, he will be judged as a traitor,
and dealt with accordingly.
“_Rule_6.--In the event of any member being selected to perform any deed
involving personal danger or loss to himself, the rest of the members
are pledged to shelter him from the consequences of his act, and to
provide him with all the necessaries of life, till his escape from harm
is ensured and his safety guaranteed.”
“You have heard all now,” said Thord, as he laid aside the parchment
scroll; “Are you still willing to take the oath?”
“Entirely so!” rejoined Pasquin Leroy cheerfully; “You have but to
administer it.”
Here a man, who had been sitting in a dark corner apart from the table,
with his head buried in his hands, suddenly looked up, showing a thin,
fine, eager face, a pair of wild eyes, and a tumbled mass of dark curly
hair, plentifully sprinkled with grey.
“Ah!” he cried,--“Now comes the tragic moment, when the spectators hold
their breath, and the blue flame is turned on, and the man manages the
lime-light so that its radiance shall fall on the face of the chief
actor--or Actress! And the bassoons and ‘cellos grumble inaudible
nothings to the big drum! Administer the oath, Sergius Thord!”
A smile went the round of the company.
“Have you only just wakened up from sleep, Paul Zouche?” asked Zegota.
“I never sleep,” answered Zouche, pushing his hair back from his
forehead;--“Unless sleep compels me, by force, to yield to its coarse
and commonplace persuasion. To lie down in a shirt and snore the
hours away! Faugh! Can anything be more gross or vulgar! Time flies so
quickly, and life is so short, that I cannot afford to waste any moment
in such stupid unconsciousness. I can drink wine, make love, and kill
rascals--all these occupations are much more interesting than sleeping.
Come, Sergius! Play the great trick of the evening! Administer the
oath!”
A frowning line puckered Thord’s brows, but the expression of vexation
was but momentary. Turning to Leroy again he said:
“You are quite ready?”
“Quite,” replied Leroy.
“And your friends----?”
Leroy smiled. “They are ready also!”
There followed a pause. Then Thord called in a clear low tone--
“Lotys!”
The woman sitting in the embrasure of the window rose, and turning round
fully confronted all the men. Her black cloak falling back on either
side, disclosed her figure robed in dead white, with a scarlet sash
binding her waist. Her face, pale and serene, was not beautiful; yet
beauty was suggested in every feature. Her eyes seemed to be half closed
in a drooping indifference under the white lids, which were fringed
heavily with dark gold lashes. A sculptor might have said, that whatever
claim to beauty she had was contained in the proud poise of her throat,
and the bounteous curve of her bosom, but though in a manner startled
by her appearance, the three men who had chanced upon this night’s
adventure were singularly disappointed in it. They had somehow expected
that when that mysterious cloaked feminine figure turned round, a vision
of dazzling beauty would be disclosed; and at the first glance there
was nothing whatever about this woman that seemed particularly worthy of
note. She was not young or old--possibly between twenty-eight or
thirty. She was not tall or short; she was merely of the usual medium
height,--so that altogether she was one of those provoking individuals,
who not seldom deceive the eye at first sight by those ordinary looks
which veil an extraordinary personality.
She stood like an automatic figure, rigid and silent,--till Sergius
Thord signed to his three new associates to advance. Then with a
movement, rapid as a flash of lightning, she suddenly drew a dagger from
her scarlet girdle, and held it out to them. Nerved as he was to meet
danger, Pasquin Leroy recoiled slightly, while his two companions
started as if to defend him. As she saw this, the woman raised her
drooping eyelids, and a pair of wonderful eyes shone forth, dark blue
as iris-flowers, while a faint scornful smile lifted the corners of her
mouth. But she said nothing.
“There is no cause to fear!” said Sergius Thord, glancing with a touch
of derision in his looks from one to the other, “Lotys is the witness
of all our vows! Swear now after me upon this drawn dagger which she
holds,--lay your right hands here upon the blade!”
Thus adjured, Pasquin Leroy approached, and placed his right hand upon
the shining steel.
“I swear in the name of God, and in the presence of Lotys, that I will
faithfully work for the Cause of the Revolutionary Committee,--and that
I will adhere to its rules and obey its commands, till all shall be done
that is destined to be done! And may the death I deserve come suddenly
upon me if ever I break my vow!”
Slowly and emphatically Pasquin Leroy repeated this formula after
Sergius Thord, and his two companions did the same, though perhaps less
audibly. This ceremony performed, the woman called Lotys looked at them
steadfastly, and the smile that played on her lips changed from scorn
to sweetness. The dark blue iris-coloured eyes deepened in lustre, and
flashed brilliantly from under their drowsy lids,--a rosy flush tinted
the clear paleness of her skin, and like a statue warming to life she
became suddenly beautiful.
“You have sworn bravely!” she said, in a low thrilling voice. “Now sign
and seal!”
As she spoke she lifted her bare left arm, and pricked it with the point
of the dagger. A round, full drop of blood like a great ruby welled up
on the white skin. All the men had risen from their places, and were
gathered about her;--this ‘taking of the oath’ was evidently the
dramatic event of their existence as a community.
“The pen, Sergius!” she said.
Thord approached with a white unused quill, and a vellum scroll on which
the names of all the members of the Society were written in ominous red.
He handed these writing implements to Leroy.
“Dip your pen here,” said Lotys, pointing to the crimson drop on her
arm, and eyeing him still with the same half-sweet, half-doubting
smile--“But when the quill is full, beware that you write no treachery!”
For one second Leroy appeared to hesitate. He was singularly unnerved by
the glances of those dark blue eyes, which like searchlights seemed to
penetrate into every nook and cranny of his soul. But his recklessness
and love of adventure having led him so far, it was now too late to
retract or to reconsider the risks he might possibly be running. He
therefore took the quill and dipped it into the crimson drop that welled
from that soft white flesh.
“This is the strangest ink I have ever used!” he said lightly,--“but--at
your command, Madame----!”
“At my command,” rejoined Lotys, “your use of it shall make your oath
indelible!”
He smiled, and wrote his name boldly ‘Pasquin Leroy’ and held out the
pen for his companions to follow his example.
“Ach Gott!” exclaimed Max Graub, as he dipped the pen anew into the
vital fluid from a woman’s veins--“I write my name, Madame, in words of
life, thanks to your condescension!”
“True!” she answered,--“And only by your own falsehood can you change
them into words of death!”
Signing his name ‘Max Graub,’ he looked up and met her searching gaze.
Something there was in the magnetic depth of her eyes that strangely
embarrassed him, for he stepped back hastily as though intimidated. Axel
Regor took the pen from his hand, and wrote his name, or rather scrawled
it carelessly, almost impatiently,--showing neither hesitation nor
repugnance to this unusual method of subscribing a document.
“You are acting on compulsion!” said Lotys, addressing him in a low
tone; “Your compliance is in obedience to some other command than ours!
And--you will do well to remain obedient!”
Axel Regor gave her an amazed glance,--but she paid no heed to it, and
binding her arm with her kerchief, let her long white sleeve fall over
it.
“So, you are enrolled among the sons of my blood!” she said, “So are
you bound to me and mine!” She moved to the further end of the table
and stood there looking round upon them all. Again the slow, sweet,
half-disdainful smile irradiated her features. “Well, children!--what
else remains to do? What next? What next can there be but
drink--smoke--talk! Man’s three most cherished amusements!”
She sat down, throwing back her heavy cloak on either side of her. Her
hair had come partly unbound, and noticing a tress of it falling on her
shoulder, she drew out the comb and let it fall altogether in a mass of
gold-brown, like the tint of a dull autumn leaf, flecked here and there
with amber. Catching it dexterously in one hand, she twisted it up again
in a loose knot, thrusting the comb carelessly through.
“Drink--smoke--talk, Sergius!” she repeated, still smiling; “Shall I
ring?”
Sergius Thord stood looking at her irresolutely, with the half-angry,
half-pleading expression of a chidden child.
“As you please, Lotys!” he answered. Whereupon she pressed an invisible
spring under the table, which set a bell ringing in some lower quarter
of the house.
“Pasquin Leroy, Axel Regor, Max Graub!” she said--“Take your places for
to-night beside me--newcomers are always thus distinguished! And all of
you sit down! You are grouped at present like hungry wolves waiting to
spring. But you are not really hungry, except for something which is
not food! And you are not waiting for anything except for permission to
talk! I give it to you--talk, children! Talk yourselves hoarse! It will
do you good! And I will personate supreme wisdom by listening to you in
silence!”
A kind of shamed laugh went round the company,--then followed the
scuffling of feet, and grating of chairs against the floor, and
presently the table was completely surrounded, the men sitting close up
together, and Sergius Thord occupying his place at their head.
When they were all seated, they formed a striking assembly of distinctly
marked personalities. There were very few mean types among them, and the
stupid, half-vague and languid expression of the modern loafer or ‘do
nothing’ creature, who just for lack of useful work plots mischief, was
not to be seen on any of their countenances. A certain moroseness and
melancholy seemed to brood like a delayed storm among them, and to cloud
the very atmosphere they breathed, but apart from this, intellectuality
was the dominant spirit suggested by their outward looks and bearing.
Plebeian faces and vulgar manners are, unfortunately, not rare in
representative gatherings of men whose opinions are allowed to sway the
destinies of nations, and it was strange to see a group of individuals
who were sworn to upset existing law and government so distinguished
by refined and even noble appearance. Their clothes were shabby,--their
aspect certainly betokened long suffering and contention with want and
poverty, but they were, taken all together, a set of men who, if they
had been members of a recognized parliament or senate, would have
presented a fine collection of capable heads to an observant painter.
As soon as they were gathered round the table under the presidency of
Sergius Thord at one end, and the tranquil tolerance of the mysterious
Lotys at the other, they broke through the silence and reserve which
they had carefully maintained till their three new comrades had been
irrecoverably enrolled among them, and conversation went on briskly.
The topic of ‘The King _versus_ the Jesuits’ was one of the first
they touched upon, Sergius Thord relating for the benefit of all his
associates, how he had found Pasquin Leroy reading by lamplight the
newspaper which reported his Majesty’s refusal to grant any portion of
Crown lands to the priests, and which also spoke of ‘Thord’s Rabble.’
“Here is the paper!” said Leroy, as he heard the narration; “Whoever
likes to keep it can do so, as a memento of my introduction to this
Society!”
And he tossed it lightly on the table.
“Good!” exclaimed Paul Zouche; “Give it to me, and I will cherish it as
a kind of birthday card! What a rag it is! ‘Thord’s Rabble’ eh! Sergius,
what have you been doing that this little flea of an editor should jump
out of his ink-pot and bite you? Does he hurt much?”
“Hurt!” Thord laughed aloud. “If I had money enough to pay the man ten
golden coins a week where his present employer gives him five, he would
dance to any tune I whistled!”
“Is that so?” asked Leroy, with interest.
“Do you not know that it is so?” rejoined Thord. “You tell me you write
Socialistic works--you should know something concerning the press.”
“Ah!” said Max Graub, nodding his head sagely, “He does know much, but
not all! It would need more penetration than even _he_ possesses, to
know all! Alas!--my friend was never a popular writer!”
“Like myself!” exclaimed Zouche, “I am not popular, and I never shall
be. But I know how to make myself reputed as a great genius, and all the
very respectable literary men are beginning to recognize me as such. Do
you know why?”
“Because you drink more than is good for you, my poor Zouche!” said
Lotys tranquilly; “That is one reason!”
“Hear her!” cried Zouche,--“Does she not always, like the Sphinx,
propound enigmas! Lotys,--little, domineering Lotys, why in the name of
Heaven should I secure recognition as a poet, through drunkenness?”
“Because your vice kills your genius,” said Lotys; “Therefore you
are quite safe! If you were less of a scamp you would be a great
man,--perhaps the greatest in the country! That would never do! Your
rivals would never forgive you! But you are a hopeless rascal, incapable
of winning much honour; and so you are compassionately recognized
as somebody who might do something if he only would--that is all, my
Zouche! You are an excellent after-dinner topic with those who are more
successful than yourself; and that is the only fame you will ever win,
believe me!”
“Now by all the gods and goddesses!” cried Paul--“I do protest----”
“After supper, Zouche!” interrupted Lotys, as the door of the room
opened, and a man entered, bearing a tray loaded with various eatables,
jugs of beer, and bottles of spirituous liquors,--“Protest as much as
you like then,--but not just now!”
And with quick, deft hands she helped to set the board. None of the men
offered to assist her, and Leroy watching her, felt a sudden sense of
annoyance that this woman should seem, even for a moment, to be in the
position of a servant to them all.
“Can I do nothing for you?” he said, in a low tone--“Why should you wait
upon us?”
“Why indeed!” she answered--“Except that you are all by nature awkward,
and do not know how to wait properly upon yourselves!”
Her eyes had a gleam of mischievous mockery in them; and Leroy was
conscious of an irritation which he could scarcely explain to himself.
Decidedly, he thought, this Lotys was an unpleasant woman. She was
‘extremely plain,’ so he mentally declared, in a kind of inward
huff,--though he was bound to concede that now and then she had a very
beautiful, almost inspired expression. After all, why should she not set
out jugs and bottles, and loaves of bread, and hunks of ham and cheese
before these men? She was probably in their pay! Scarcely had this idea
flashed across his mind than he was ashamed of it. This Lotys, whoever
she might actually be, was no paid hireling; there was something in her
every look and action that set her high above any suspicion that she
would accept the part of a salaried _comédienne_ in the Socialist farce.
Annoyed with himself, though he knew not why, he turned his gaze
from her to the man who had brought in the supper,--a hunchback,
who, notwithstanding his deformity, was powerfully built, and of a
countenance which, marked as it was with the drawn pathetic look of
long-continued physical suffering, was undeniably handsome. His large
brown eyes, like those of a faithful dog, followed every movement of
Lotys with anxious and wistful affection, and Leroy, noticing this,
began to wonder whether she was his wife or daughter? Or was she
related in either of these ways to Sergius Thord? His reflections were
interrupted by a slight touch from Max Graub who was seated next to him.
“Will you drink with these fellows?” said Graub, in a cautious
whisper--“Expect to be ill, if you do!”
“You shall prescribe for me!” answered Leroy in the same low tone--“I
faithfully promise to call in your assistance! But drink with them I
must, and will!”
Graub gave a short sigh and a shrug, and said no more. The hunchback was
going the round of the table, filling tall glasses with light Bavarian
beer.
“Where is the little Pequita?” asked Zouche, addressing him--“Have you
sent her to bed already, Sholto?”
Sholto looked timorously round till he met the bright reassuring glance
of Lotys, and then he replied hesitatingly--
“Yes!--no--I have not sent the little one to bed;--she returned from
her work at the theatre, tired out--quite tired out, poor child! She is
asleep now.”
“Ha ha! A few years more, and she will not sleep!” said Zouche--“Once in
her teens--”
“Once in her teens, she leaves the theatre and comes to me,” said Lotys,
“And you will see very little of her, Zouche, and you will know less!
That will do, Sholto! Good-night!”
“Good-night!” returned the hunchback--“I thank you, Madame!--I thank
you, gentlemen!”
And with a slight salutation, not devoid of grace, he left the room.
Zouche was sulky, and pushing aside his glass of beer, poured out for
himself some strong spirit from a bottle instead.
“You do not favour me to-night, Lotys,” he said irritably--“You
interrupt and cross me in everything I say!”
“Is it not a woman’s business to interrupt and cross a man?” queried
Lotys, with a laugh,--“As I have told you before, Zouche, I will not
have Sholto worried!”
“Who worries him?” grumbled Zouche--“Not I!”
“Yes, you!--you worry him on his most sensitive point--his daughter,”
said Lotys;--“Why can you not leave the child alone? Sholto is
an Englishman,” she explained, turning to Pasquin Leroy and his
companions--“His history is a strange one enough. He is the rightful
heir to a large estate in England, but he was born deformed. His father
hated him, and preferred the second son, who was straight and handsome.
So Sholto disappeared.”
“Disappeared!” echoed Leroy--“You mean----”
“I mean that he left his father’s house one morning, and never returned.
The clothes he wore were found floating in the river near by, and it
was concluded that he had been drowned while bathing. The second son,
therefore, inherited the property; and poor Sholto was scarcely missed;
certainly not mourned. Meanwhile he went away, and got on board a
Spanish trading boat bound for Cadiz. At Cadiz he found work, and also
something that sweetened work--love! He married a pretty Spanish girl
who adored him, and--as often happens when lovers rejoice too much in
their love--she died after a year’s happiness. Sholto is all alone in
the world with the little child his Spanish wife left him, Pequita. She
is only eleven years old, but her gift of dancing is marvellous, and
she gets employment at one of the cheap theatres here. If an influential
manager could see her performance, she might coin money.”
“The influential manager would probably cheat her,” said
Zouche,--“Things are best left alone. Sholto is content!”
“Are you content?” asked Johan Zegota, helping himself from the bottle
that stood near him.
“I? Why, no! I should not be here if I were!”
“Discontent, then, is your chief bond of union?” said Axel Regor,
beginning to take part in the conversation.
“It is the very knot that ties us all together!” said Zouche
with enthusiasm.--“Discontent is the mother of progress! Adam was
discontented with the garden of Eden,--and found a whole world outside
its gates!”
“He took Eve with him to keep up the sickness of dissatisfaction,” said
Zegota; “There would certainly have been no progress without _her_!”
“Pardon,--Cain was the true Progressivist and Reformer,” put in Graub;
“Some fine sentiment of the garden of Eden was in his blood, which
impelled him to offer up a vegetable sacrifice to the Deity, whereas
Abel had already committed murder by slaying lambs. According to the
legend, God preferred the ‘savour’ of the lambs, so perhaps,--who
knows!--the idea that the savour of Abel might be equally agreeable to
Divine senses induced Cain to kill him as a special ‘youngling.’ This
was a Progressive act,--a step beyond mere lambs!”
Everyone laughed, except Sergius Thord. He had fallen into a heavy,
brooding silence, his head sunk on his breast, his wild hair falling
forward like a mane, and his right hand clenched and resting on the
table.
“Sergius!” called Lotys.
He did not answer.
“He is in one of his far-away moods,”--said one of the men next to Axel
Regor,--“It is best not to disturb him.”
Paul Zouche, however, had no such scruples. “Sergius!” he cried,--“Come
out of your cloud of meditation! Drink to the health of our three new
comrades!”
All the members of the company filled their glasses, and Thord, hearing
the noise and clatter, looked up with a wild stare.
“What are you doing?” he asked slowly;--“I thought some one spoke of
Cain killing Abel!”
“It was I,” said Graub--“I spoke of it--irreverently, I fear,--but the
story itself is irreverent. The notion that ‘God,’ should like roast
meat is the height of blasphemy!”
Zouche burst into a violent fit of laughter. But Thord went on talking
in a low tone, as though to himself.
“Cain killing Abel!” he repeated--“Always the same horrible story is
repeated through history--brother against brother,--blood crying out for
blood--life torn from the weak and helpless body--all for what? For a
little gold,--a passing trifle of power! Cain killing Abel! My God, art
Thou not yet weary of the old eternal crime!”
He spoke in a semi-whisper which thrilled through the room. A momentary
hush prevailed, and then Lotys called again, her voice softened to a
caressing sweetness.
“Sergius!”
He started, and shook himself out of his reverie this time. Raising his
hand, he passed it in a vague mechanical way across his brow as though
suddenly wakened from a dream.
“Yes, yes! Let us drink to our three new comrades,” he said, and rose
to his feet. “To your health, friends! And may you all stand firm in the
hour of trial!”
All the company sprang up and drained their glasses, and when the toast
was drunk and they were again seated, Pasquin Leroy asked if he might be
allowed to return thanks.
“I do not know,” he said with a courteous air, “whether it is
permissible for a newly-enrolled associate of this Brotherhood to make
a speech on the first night of his membership,--but after the cordial
welcome I and my comrades, strangers as we are, have received at your
hands, I should like to say a few words--if, without breaking any rules
of the Order, I may do so.”
“Hear, hear!” shouted Zouche, who had been steadily drinking for the
last few moments,--“Speak on, man! Whoever heard of a dumb Socialist!
Rant--rant! Rant and rave!--as I do, when the fit is on me! Do I not,
Thord? Do I not move you even to tears?”
“And laughter!” put in Zegota. “Hold your tongue, Zouche! No other man
can talk at all, if you once begin!”
Zouche laughed, and drained his glass.
“True!--my genius is of an absorbing quality! Silence, gentlemen!
Silence for our new comrade! ‘Pasquin’ stands for the beginning of a
jest--so we may hope he will be amusing,--‘Leroy’ stands for the king,
and so we may expect him to be non-political!”