again a week later. It was evidently a good dinner, and M. Armand is
properly grateful.
The gratitude, indeed, was rather excessive, rather provincial. It was
just the effusion which a young man who had not yet learned
self-possession might have written on his first introduction to the
highest social life of Paris. Certainly the correspondence was very
artfully designed. But what did it hide? I puzzled over the question; I
took the words and the dates, and it seemed to me that I began to see
light. So much stress was laid upon the dinner, that the word must
signify some event of importance. The first letter spoke of a dinner in
the future. I imagined that it had not been possible to pass this
warning into Paris. The second letter mentioned with gratitude that the
dinner had been successful. Well, suppose "dinner" stood for
"engagement"! The letter would refer to the sortie from Paris which
pushed back our lines and captured Ville Evrart and Maison Blanche. That
seemed likely. Madame de Villetaneuse gave the dinner; General Trochu
made the sortie. Then "Madame de Villetaneuse" stood for "General
Trochu." Who would be Armand? Why, the French people outside Paris--the
provincials! I had the explanation of that provincial expression of
gratitude. Ah, no doubt it all seems far-fetched now that we sit quietly
about this table. But put yourself in the thick of the war and take
twenty years off your lives! Suppose yourselves young and green, eager
for advancement, and just off your balance from want of sleep, want of
food, want of rest, want of everything. There are very few things which
would seem far-fetched. It seemed to me that I was deciphering these
letters with absolute accuracy. I saw myself promoted to captain,
seconded to the staff.
I went on with the letters, hoping to find an explanation there. The
third letter was addressed to Mademoiselle de Villetaneuse, who had
evidently written to M. Armand on behalf of her mother, inviting him to
her box at the opera. M. Armand regretted that he had not been fortunate
enough to call at a time when mademoiselle was at home, and would look
forward to the pleasure of seeing her at the Opera.
"Mademoiselle," I cried, "what does the Opera stand for?"
Mademoiselle Sophie laughed disdainfully.
"For music, monsieur, for art, for refinement, for many things you do
not understand."
[Illustration]
I sprang up in excitement. What did it matter what she said? M. Armand
stood for the Army of the Loire. It was that army which had been
expected at Ville Evrart. Here was a pledge that it would come to the
help of Paris at the next sortie. That was valuable news--it could not
but bring recognition to the man who brought evidence of it into the
Prussian lines. I hurriedly read through the other letters, quoting a
passage here and there, trying to startle Mademoiselle de Villetaneuse
into a confession. But she never changed her attitude, she did not
answer a word.
Her conduct was the more aggravating, for I began to get lost among
these letters. They were all in the same handwriting; they were all
signed "Armand," and they seemed to give a picture of the life of a
young man in Paris during the two years which preceded the war. They
recorded dinner-parties, visits to the theatres, examinations passed,
prizes won and lost, receptions, rides in the Bois, and Sunday
excursions into the country. All these phrases, these appointments,
these meetings, might have particular meanings. But if so, how
stupendous a cipher! Besides, how was it that none of these messages had
been passed into Paris? Very reluctantly I began to doubt my own
conjecture. I read some more letters, and then I suddenly turned back to
the earlier ones. I compared them with the later notes. I began to be
afraid the correspondence, after all, was genuine, for the tone of the
letters changed and changed so gradually, and yet so clearly, that the
greatest literary art could hardly have deliberately composed them. I
seemed to witness the actual progress of M. Armand, a hobbledehoy from
the provinces, losing his awkwardness, acquiring ease and polish in his
contact with the refinement of Paris. The last letters had the postmark
of Paris, the first that of Auvergne.
They were genuine, then. And they were not love-letters. I looked at
Mademoiselle Sophie with an increased perplexity. Why did she now sit
rocking her head like a child in pain? Why had she so struggled to
hinder me from opening them? They recorded a beginning of
acquaintanceship and the growth of that into friendship between a young
man and a young girl--nothing more. The friendship might eventually end
in marriage, no doubt, if left to itself, but there was not a word of
that in the letters. I was still wondering, when the French officer
raised himself from his sofa and dragged himself across the room to
Mademoiselle Sophie's chair. His left trouser leg had been slit down the
side from the knee to the foot and laced lightly so as to make room for
a bandage. He supported himself from chair to chair with evident pain,
and I could not doubt that his wound was as genuine as the letters.
[Illustration]
He bent down and gently took her hand away from her face.
"Sophie," he said, "I did not dare to think that you kept this place for
me in your thoughts. A little more courage and I should long since have
said to you what I say now. I beg your permission to ask Madame de
Villetaneuse to-morrow for your hand in marriage."
My house of cards tumbled down in a second. The French officer was M.
Armand. With the habit women have of treasuring tokens of the things
which have happened, Mademoiselle Sophie had kept all these trifling
notes and messages, and had even gathered to them the letters written to
her mother, so that the story might be complete. But without M. Armand's
knowledge; he was not to know; her pride must guard her secret from him.
For she was the lover and he only the friend, and she knew it. Even in
the little speech which he had just made, there was just too much
formality, just too little sincerity of voice. I understood why she had
tried to throw the ebony box down into the hall so that I might open it
there--I understood that I had caused her great humiliation. But that
was not all there was for me to understand.
In answer to Armand she raised her eyes quietly, and shook her head.
"You wish to spare me shame," she said, "and I thank you very much. But
it is because of these letters that you spoke. I must think that. I must
always think it."
"No!" he exclaimed.
"But yes," she replied firmly. "If monsieur had not unlocked that box--I
don't know--but some day perhaps--oh, not yet, no, not yet--but some day
perhaps you might have come of your own accord and said what you have
just said. And I should have been very happy. But now you never must.
For you see I shall always think that the letters are prompting you."
And M. Armand bowed.
I had taken from her her chance of happiness. The friendship between
them might have ended in marriage if left to itself. But I had not left
it to itself.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I am very sorry."
She turned her dark eyes on me.
"Monsieur, I warned you. It is too late to be sorry." And as I stood
shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other, in great remorse as she
had foretold, she added, gently, "Will you not go, monsieur?"
I went out of the room, called together my escort, mounted and rode off.
It was past midnight now, and the night was clear. But I thought neither
of the little beds under the slope of the roof nor of any danger on the
road. There might have been a _franc-tireur_ behind every tree. I would
never have noticed it until one of them had brought me down. Remorse was
heavy upon me. I had behaved without consideration, without chivalry,
without any manners at all. I had not been able to distinguish truth
when it stared me in the face, or to recognise honesty when it looked
out from a young girl's dark eyes. I had behaved, in a word, like the
brute six months of war had made of me. I wondered with a vague hope
whether after all time might not set matters right between M. Armand and
Mademoiselle Sophie. And I wonder now whether it has. But even if I knew
that it had, I should always remember that Christmas night of 1870 with
acute regret. The only incident, indeed, which I can mention with the
slightest satisfaction is this: On the way back to Noisy-le-Grand I came
to a point where the road from Chelles crossed the road from
Montfermeil. I halted at a little cabin which stood upon a grass-plot
within the angle of the roads, and tying up all the money I had on me in
a pocket-handkerchief I dropped the handkerchief through a broken
window-pane.
* * * * *
The Colonel let the end of his cigar fall upon his plate, and pushed
back his chair from the table. "But I see we shall be late for the
opera," he said, as he glanced at the clock.
[Illustration]
A SPELL FOR A FAIRY
BY ALFRED NOYES
_Painting and Drawings by_ CLAUDE A. SHEPPERSON, A. R. W. S.
GATHER, first, in your left hand
(This must be at fall of day)
Forty grains of yellow sand
Where you think a mermaid lay.
I have heard a wizard hint
It is best to gather it sweet
Out of the warm and fluttered dint
Where you see her heart has beat.
_Out of the dint in that sweet sand
Gather forty grains, I say;
Yet--if it fail you--understand
I can show you a better way._
Out of that sand you melt your glass
While the veils of night are drawn,
Whispering, till the shadows pass,
_Nixie--pixie--leprechaun_--
Then you blow your magic vial,
Shape it like a crescent moon,
Set it up and make your trial,
Singing, "_Fairies, ah, come soon!_"
_Round the cloudy crescent go,
On the hill-top, in the dawn,
Singing softly, on tip-toe,
"Elaby Gathon! Elaby Gathon!
Nixie--pixie--leprechaun._"
Bring the blood of a white hen,
Killed about the break of day,
While the cock in the echoing glen
Thrusts his gold neck every way,
Over the brambles, peering, calling,
Under the ferns, with a sudden fear,
Far and wide, while the dews are falling,
Clamouring, calling, everywhere.
[Illustration]
_Round the crimson vial go
On the hill-top, in the dawn,
Singing softly, on tip-toe,
"Nixie--pixie--leprechaun!"
And, if once will not suffice,
Do it thrice.
If this fail, at break of day,
I can show you a better way._
Bring the buds of the hazel-copse
Where two lovers kissed at noon:
Bring the crushed red wild thyme tops
Where they walked beneath the moon;
Bring the four-leaved clover also,
One of the white, and one of the red,
Mixed with the flakes of the may that fall so
Lightly over the sky-lark's bed.
_Round the fragrant vial go,
On the hill-top, in the dawn,
Singing softly, on tip-toe,
"Nixie--pixie--leprechaun!"
If this fail, at break of day,
I can show you a better way._
Bring an old and wizened child
--_Ah, tread softly and speak low_--
Tattered, tearless, wonder-wild.
From that under-world below;
Bring a withered child of seven
Reeking from the City slime,
Out of hell into your heaven,
Set her knee-deep in the thyme.
[Illustration]
_Bring her from the smoky City,
Set her on a fairy-throne.
Clothe her, feed her, of your pity.
Leave her for an hour alone._
You shall need no spells or charms
On that hill-top, in that dawn.
When she lifts her wasted arms
You shall see a veil withdrawn.
There shall be no veil between them,
Though her head be old and wise.
You shall know that she has seen them,
By the glory in her eyes.
_Round her irons, on the hill,
Earth shall toss a fairy fire.
Watch and listen and be still,
Lest you baulk your own desire._
When she sees four azure wings
Light upon her claw-like hand;
When she lifts her head and sings,
You shall hear and understand.
You shall hear a bugle calling,
Wildly over the dew-dashed down,
And a sound as of the falling
Ramparts of a conquered town.
_You shall hear a sound like thunder,
And a veil shall be withdrawn,
When her eyes grow wide with wonder,
On that hill-top, in that dawn._
[Illustration
[Illustration]
OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH
_A TALE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL_
BY BARONESS ORCZY
_Painting by_ A. C. MICHAEL _and_ _Drawings by_ H. M. BROCK, R.I.
_Copyright, 1914, by the Baroness Orczy in the U.S.A._
WE were such a happy family before this terrible revolution broke out:
we lived rather simply but very comfortably in our dear old home just on
the borders of the forest of Compiegne. Jean and Andre were the twins;
just fifteen years old they were when King Louis was deposed from the
throne of France, which God had given him, and sent to prison like a
common criminal, with our beautiful Queen Marie Antoinette and the Royal
children and Madame Elizabeth, who was so beloved by the poor!
Ah! that seems very, very long ago now. No doubt you know better than I
do all that happened in our beautiful land of France and in lovely Paris
about that time: goods and property confiscated, innocent men, women,
and children condemned to death for acts of treason which they had never
committed.
It was in August last year that they came to "Mon Repos" and arrested
papa, maman, and us four young ones and dragged us to Paris, where we
were imprisoned in a narrow and horrible, dank vault in the Abbaye,
where all day and night through the humid stone walls we heard cries and
sobs and moans from poor people who no doubt were suffering the same
sorrows and the same indignities as we were.
I had just passed my nineteenth birthday and Marguerite was only
thirteen. Maman was a perfect angel during that terrible time: she kept
up our courage and our faith in God in a way that no one else could have
done. Every night and morning we knelt round her knee, and papa sat
close beside her, and we prayed to God for deliverance from our own
afflictions, and for the poor people who were crying and moaning all the
day.
But of what went on outside our prison walls we had not an idea, though
sometimes poor papa would brave the warder's brutalities and ask him
questions of what was happening in Paris every day.
"They are hanging all the aristos to the street-lamps of the city," the
man would reply, with a cruel laugh, "and it will be your turn next."
We had been in prison for about a fortnight, then one day--oh! shall I
ever forget it?--we heard in the distance a noise like the rumbling of
thunder; nearer and nearer it came, and soon the sound became less
confused. Cries and shrieks could be heard above that rumbling din, but
so weird and menacing did those cries seem, that instinctively--though
none of us knew what they meant--we all felt a nameless terror grip our
hearts.
Oh! I am not going to attempt the awful task of describing to you all
the horrors of that never-to-be-forgotten day. People who to-day cannot
speak without a shudder of the September massacres have not the remotest
conception of what really happened on that truly awful second day of
that month.
We are all at peace and happy now, but whenever my thoughts fly back to
that morning, whenever the ears of memory recall those hideous yells of
fury and of hate, coupled with the equally horrible cries for pity which
pierced through the walls behind which the six of us were crouching,
trembling, and praying, whenever I think of it all my heart still beats
violently with that same nameless dread which held it in its deathly
grip then.
Hundreds of men, women, and children were massacred in the prisons of
Paris on that day--it was a St. Bartholomew even more hideous than the
last.
Maman was trying in vain to keep our thoughts fixed upon God--papa sat
on the stone bench, his elbows resting on his knees, his head buried in
his hands, but maman was kneeling on the floor with her dear arms
encircling us all, and her trembling lips moving in continuous prayer.
[Illustration]
We felt that we were facing death--and what a death!--O, my God!
Suddenly the small grated window--high up in the dank wall--became
obscured. I was the first to look up, but the cry of terror which rose
from my heart was choked ere it reached my throat.
Jean and Andre looked up too, and they shrieked, and so did Marguerite,
and papa jumped up and ran to us and stood suddenly between us and the
window like a tiger defending its young.
[Illustration]
But we were all of us quite silent now. The children did not even cry,
they stared wide-eyed--paralysed with fear.
Only maman continued to pray, and we could hear papa's rapid and
stertorous breathing as he watched what was going on in that window
above.
Heavy blows were falling against the masonry round the grating, and we
could hear the nerve-racking sound of a file working on the iron bars,
and farther away below the window those awful yells of human beings
transformed by hate and fury into savage beasts.
How long this horrible suspense lasted I cannot now tell you: the next
thing I remember clearly is a number of men in horrible ragged clothing
pouring into our vault-like prison from the window above; the next
moment they rushed at us simultaneously--or so it seemed to me, for I
was just then recommending my soul to God, so certain was I that in that
same second I would cease to live.
It was all like a dream, for instead of the horrible shriek of satisfied
hate which we were all expecting to hear, a whispering voice, commanding
and low, struck our ear and dragged us, as it were, from out the abyss
of despair into the sudden light of hope.
"If you will trust us," the voice whispered, "and not be afraid, you
will be safely out of Paris within an hour."
Papa was the first to realise what was happening: he had never lost his
presence of mind, even during the darkest moment of this terrible time,
and he said quite calmly and steadily now:
"What must we do?"
"Persuade the little ones not to be afraid, not to cry, to be as still
and silent as may be," continued the voice, which I felt must be that of
one of God's own angels, so exquisitely kind did it sound to my ear.
"They will be quiet and still without persuasion," said papa; "eh,
children?"
And Jean, Andre, and Marguerite murmured: "Yes!" whilst maman and I
drew them closer to us and said everything we could think of to make
them still more brave.
And the whispering, commanding voice went on after awhile:
"Now, will you allow yourselves to be muffled and bound? and after that
will you swear that whatever happens, whatever you may see or hear, you
will neither move nor speak. Not only your own lives, but those of many
brave men will depend upon your fulfilment of this oath."
Papa made no reply, save to raise his hand and eyes up to where God
surely was watching over us all. Maman said in her gentle, even voice:
"For myself and my children, I swear to do all that you tell us."
[Illustration]
A great feeling of confidence had entered into her heart, just as it had
done into mine. We looked at one another and knew that we were both
thinking of the same thing: we were thinking of the brave Englishman and
his gallant little band of heroes about whom we had heard many wonderful
tales of how they had rescued a number of innocent people who were
unjustly threatened with the guillotine; and we all knew that the tall
figure disguised in horrible rags, who spoke to us with such a gentle
yet commanding voice, was the man whom rumour credited with supernatural
powers, and who was known by the mysterious name of the Scarlet
Pimpernel.
Hardly had we sworn to do his bidding than his friends most
unceremoniously threw great pieces of sacking over our heads and then
proceeded to tie ropes round our bodies. At least I know that that is
what one of them was doing to me, and from one or two whispered words of
command which reached my ear I concluded that papa and maman and the
children were being dealt with in the same summary way.
I felt hot and stifled under that rough bit of sacking, but I would not
have moved or even sighed for worlds. Strangely enough, as soon as my
eyes and ears were shut off from the sounds and sights immediately round
me, I once more became conscious of the horrible and awful din which was
going on not only on the other side of our prison walls, but inside the
whole of the Abbaye building and in the street beyond.
Once more I heard those terrible howls of rage and of satisfied hatred
uttered by the assassins who were being paid by the Government of our
beautiful country to butcher helpless prisoners in their hundreds.
[Illustration: The Scarlet Pimpernel to the Rescue
_Painted for
Princess Mary's Gift Book
by A. C. Michael_]
Suddenly I felt myself hoisted up off my feet and slung up on to a pair
of shoulders that must have been very powerful indeed, for I am no light
weight, and once more I heard the voice, the very sound of which was
delight, quite close to my ear this time, giving a brief and
comprehensive command:
"All ready--remember your part--en avant!"
Then it added in English; "Here, Tony, you start kicking against the
door whilst we begin to shout!"
I loved those few words of English, and hoped that maman had heard them
too, for it would confirm her--as it did me--in the happy knowledge that
God and a brave man had taken our rescue in hand.
But from that moment we might all have been in the very antechamber of
hell. I could hear the violent kicks against the heavy door of our
prison, and our brave rescuers seemed suddenly to be transformed into a
cageful of wild beasts. Their shouts and yells were as horrible as any
that came to us from the outside, and I must say that the gentle, firm
voice which I had learnt to love was as execrable as any I could hear.
Apparently the door would not yield, as the blows against it became more
and more violent, and presently, from somewhere above my head--the
window presumably--there came a rough call and a raucous laugh:
"Why! what in the name of ---- is happening here?"
And the voice near me answered back equally roughly:
"A quarry of six--but we are caught in this trap--get the door open for
us, citizen--we want to be rid of this booty and go in search for more."
A horrible laugh was the reply from above, and the next instant I heard
a terrific crash; the door had at last been burst open either from
within or without, I could not tell which, and suddenly all the din, the
cries, the groans, the hideous laughter and bibulous songs which had
sounded muffled up to now burst upon us with all their hideousness.
[Illustration]
That was, I think, the most awful moment of that truly fearful hour. I
could not have moved then, even had I wished or been able to do so, but
I knew that between us all and a horrible, yelling, murdering mob there
was now nothing--except the hand of God and the heroism of a band of
English gentlemen.
Together they gave a cry--as loud, as terrifying as any that were
uttered by the butchering crowd in the building, and with a wild rush
they seemed to plunge with us right into the thick of the awful melee.
At least that is what it all felt like to me, and afterwards I heard
from our gallant rescuer himself that that is exactly what he and his
friends did. There were eight of them altogether, and we four young ones
had each been hoisted on a pair of devoted shoulders, whilst maman and
papa were each carried by two men.
I was lying across the finest pair of shoulders in the world, and close
to me was beating the bravest heart on God's earth.
Thus burdened, these eight noble English gentlemen charged right through
an army of butchering, howling brutes, they themselves howling with the
fiercest of them.
All around me I heard weird and terrifying cries:
"What ho, citizens! what have you there?"
"Six aristos!" shouted my hero boldly as he rushed on, forcing his way
through the crowd.
"What are you doing with them?" yelled a raucous voice.
"Food for the starving fish in the river," was the ready response.
"Stand aside, citizen," he added, with a round curse. "I have my orders
from citizen Danton himself about these six aristos. You hinder me at
your peril."
He was challenged over and over again in the same way, and so were his
friends who were carrying papa and maman and the children, but they were
always ready for a reply. With eyes that could not see one could imagine
them as hideous, as vengeful, as cruel as the rest of the crowd.
I think that soon I must have fainted from sheer excitement and terror,
for I remember nothing more till I felt myself deposited on a hard
floor, propped against the wall, and the stifling piece of sacking taken
off my head and face.