THE SPIDERS SPIN.
How provoking and how unfair to be called upon to drag out the years
of our earthly pilgrimage during so stormy a period as this one! With
unexpected bombshells exploding at one's feet, what was the use of
sketching elaborate schemes which accident would most likely shiver?
The abbe had already been obliged to change his tactics several times
in consequence of untoward circumstances, and now from a clearing
heaven there rained down missiles whose unexpected proximity sharpened
his ire. "Why was I born so late?" he asked himself with muttered
curses. "Under Louis XV., _le Bien-Aime_, everybody did what they
liked, provided that his majesty smiled. And if his own fancy was not
thwarted, that monarch must have been much addicted to smiling, for he
found the world a pleasant place. And now, just a few years later,
there seemed to be not such a thing as a smile left anywhere. They had
been so lavishly showered by the _bien-aime_ and his lotus-eating
coterie that the stock was completely exhausted, and humanity had to
put up with execrations as a substitute."
Each time that a courier arrived with intelligence of what was passing
in the capital, the male occupants of Lorge shuddered, guessing that
the news was bad. Bad, forsooth! The ball set a rolling was tearing
down the hillside with such velocity that the sight thereof took away
the breath.
Old de Vaux, grateful ever to the marquis and his affinity for their
treatment of his sciatic nerve, came riding over with crumpled
gazettes in his pocket, his eyes goggling in his head. If the whitened
locks upon his pate had not been artificial, they would have stood up
on end. "What are we all coming to?" was the burthen of his wail. If
the world was coming to an abrupt conclusion, why did it not perform a
dignified smash and vanish into vacuum in smoke, instead of first
permitting that over-rated creation, man, to show what a base thing he
was?
Smash! Paris, beautiful Paris, had come to smash. From a paradise it
was become a pandemonium where all that was best and noblest was torn
by devils' pincers.
Sciatica? Oh, yes. It was charming well, thanks to the delightful and
indefatigable pupil of Mesmer and the enlightened marquis. A pair so
good as they would certainly be canonized--so would the prophet.
Madame and Angelique were as disgusted as the baron, but sent kindest
messages to all. Would they allow their patient to unfold the latest
budget?
Then the old gentleman would drone out before a long-suffering but
apparently appreciative audience the result of his private
lucubrations, and pour forth as well those of his lady and of
Angelique. The seigneurs, he declared, must select the strongest
fortress in the province, arm and victual it, and thus secure from the
scum, look out for better times.
Of course, the crescendo of Parisian sinfulness found its echo, of
fluctuating intensity, in the provinces. The timorous old baroness and
her daughter preferred their garden to possible insult on the roads.
Moreover, there was little to be gained by visiting at Lorge now. The
marquise since her return from the capital, had been vastly frigid and
stand-off--a stuck-up piece of goods. It was certain, now that she had
her fabulous possessions in her hands, that a mere country noble's
family were too contemptible to touch. It was equally clear that the
oaf who was called chevalier had no honourable intentions, and that it
would be more than imprudent to place so chaste a specimen as
Angelique within reach of his brandy-laden breath. And so it came
about that the only neighbours of the fair sex in the vicinity visited
less and less at Lorge, and that the old baron when he trotted over on
his prad, looked as a matter of course for the society of the
mesmerists to whom he owed so much, and ceased to ask to see the
chatelaine.
Not understanding her, the baron had always been frightened of
Gabrielle--one shade less than of the abbe. Strange! When that
gentleman first came among them, the baron and all the booby squires
voted him the most charming of acquisitions. Now, somehow, he was to
be avoided as much as might be, for his tongue was sharp and his wit
scathing, and he was no respecter of persons. The abbe would sometimes
take up the old gentleman in his claws, as it were, toy with him as
cat does with a mouse, till he was bewildered and breathless; then
turn him inside out with a gesture of contempt, and fling him aside.
This was terribly disrespectful to a Vaux of Vaux, but it certainly
was a fact, whose enormity was only revealed by slow degrees, that the
abbe was not averse to treating a Vaux de Vaux (with a thousand
quarterings) as if he were no more than a puppet. Having arrived at
and digested this stupendous fact, it stood to reason that the baron
disliked the abbe as much as he dared; but, at the same time, the
counsel of that ghostly man was so worldly-wise; he was so respected
by the mesmerists, appealed to by them on every occasion as an oracle,
that in moments of startling difficulty such as were now of frequent
occurrence, it was only natural that the baron should amble over from
Montbazon to crave the oracle's advice.
A budget, indeed! Almost every day was stamped by some inconceivable
event. History was making up for casual napping by a spell of feverish
haste. A catalogue of years was crowded into weeks. The poor old globe
was spinning round so rapidly that it would certainly be shot out of
its orbit, to the annihilation of the insects on its surface.
When, six weeks after their arrival in the country, the incidents of
the tenth of August reached far Touraine, the cunning abbe had the
gazette wherein they were chronicled laid on the table of the
marquise, whom he justly calculated would be frozen with horror. That
her innocent benefactress should be summoned by destiny in fulfilment
of prophecy, to drain so full a cup of bitterness was appalling, and
naturally set her friend reflecting upon the darkness of her own
horoscope.
The sensitive and haughty queen was indeed humbled; her defenders
massacred, her home converted into a shambles.
After the storming of the Tuileries, the populace, blood-drunk,
wreaked their insensate fury upon all alike, irrespective of age or
sex. The gentlemen-ushers, pages, doorkeepers, even the lowly
scullions of the kitchen were, without distinction, butchered. It was
impossible to move a yard over the polished floors without treading on
a corpse, stripped and horribly mutilated. Every corner of the palace
was plundered, its furniture flung out of the window. When there were
no more Royalists to kill, the rioters turned upon each other, making
the fatal day the fete of carnage and devastation. The mangled bodies
of the seven hundred murdered Swiss were covered with those of
_sans-culottes_. It was a carnival of slaughter. On the Place Louis
XV., groups of men and women amused themselves by severing the heads
of the slain and tearing their flesh like tigers. It was a relief to
know that the royal family were safe within the Temple; and yet, for
what further suffering had they been rescued? The situation was so
alarming that foreign ambassadors left Paris in a body, the last to go
milady Sutherland, who stood by Marie Antoinette in her travail till
the prison gates were closed on her.
Then came the incident, so often repeated in history, of a hopeless
combat with a spirit which, easily raised, it is found impossible to
lay. General Lafayette, perceiving, with distress, the results of his
own teaching, implored his army to rise in defence of king and
constitution, and being met with laughter, fled.
On the second of September--a Sunday, whereon time hung heavy on the
hands--the brilliant idea occurred to certain zealous citizens, headed
by one Maillard, that it would be fine fun to make hay in the prisons.
Were there not the Abbaye, the Carmelites, the Chatelet, La Force,
Salpetriere, Bicetre, all crammed with wicked people who did not
approve of _sans-culottes?_ What a delicious amusement would it be for
the dull Sunday to teach them how bad they were. With yells, a throng,
increasing in volume at each street corner, swept towards the
Abbaye--men naked to the waist, with foaming lips and rolling eyes,
and arms clotted with gore. Knives and sharp pikes made short but
merry work. Recalcitrant maidens who refused to shout "Vive la
Nation!" were compelled to drink the blood of their relations. The
massacre continued all day and through the night. But why go into the
full details of the hideous story? France was become a dangerous
lunatic who had beaten and trampled on her keepers.
It was a desperate shock to Gabrielle when she read of the fate of her
friend, Louise, Princesse de Lamballe. That ill-starred lady had, as
she knew, been imprisoned in La Force; and it was with a thrill that
chilled her blood that she perused the details of her murder. Sure so
horrible and ferocious a deed had never been done before! The marquise
read, in the gazettes cunningly placed by the abbe, with blanched
cheek, of how the beautiful favourite of the stricken queen had been
dragged to the prison threshold, there to be slain by inches; of how
her body was stripped and mutilated and flung in derision on a
dung-heap, while her head was borne on a pike with auburn tresses
flying, and flourished at the Temple under the window of the royal
prisoners. Unhappy Louise! Unfortunate Marie Antoinette! Concerning
one the sinister prophecy was accomplished; concerning the other it
would be soon. What of the third, which concerned the Marquise de
Gange? Morbid fancy, forsooth! No, indeed. Her fate was sealed, like
theirs. What must be, must. She had lulled herself in false security.
Since Fate had decreed that the present occupants of Lorge were to
live in so unsavoury an era, it behoved the ruling spirit of the
group, Monsieur l'Abbe, to extract what advantage he could out of the
disadvantages. In the first place, outside events were so terribly
engrossing that local gossip and tittle-tattle for the time had lost
their charm. The general feeling of insecurity, too, was such that the
marquise could be taught without difficulty that this was not the
moment for aristocrats to appeal to the Seigneurie. What was a petty
bit of jealousy, or even a family misunderstanding, by the side of a
massacre of thousands? A protest at such a crisis on so paltry a
subject would be justly met with contempt.
Then as History kept plying her shuttle with lightning speed, the abbe
shook his head and marvelled, congratulating himself that the great
obstacle to his plan had been removed, since time was becoming
precious.
For the new will was now an accomplished fact, and lay safe in yonder
desk which bore the cypher of the marquis.
Mademoiselle Brunelle had intimated to the chatelaine, with a heavenly
resignation worthy of all praise, that for appearance' sake she would
accept the permission to linger on a week or two and then disappear
for ever. Her note, penned in a small and irreproachable caligraphy,
both relieved and troubled the marquise. That she had consented to
depart without a struggle was a relief, but her mild and simple
expressions of gratitude for past favours caused Gabrielle a twinge of
conscience. Of course it was inevitable that the woman should be made
to go, but the marquise would have felt more satisfied with herself if
the creature had been vulgar and played the termagant instead of
assuming the seraph. It was a million pities that she could not have
gone on behaving as at first, when her mistress, finding her useful,
had welcomed and tried to make a friend of her. The social earthquake
had so far shaken the city of Blois that professors began to find it
dangerous to cultivate aristocratic blossoms, preferring, with an eye
to a whole skin, the discharging of declamatory fireworks at clubs and
political assemblies. Of course there could be no question ever again
of bringing mademoiselle and her late charges together; and yet it was
a pity that it must be so, since the minds of the dear ones were lying
fallow.
News arrived of changes, legislative and warlike, such as would
transform the map of France. The jewels appertaining to the crown were
annexed. The National Convention, just sprung into being, decreed the
abolition of Royalty; proclaimed a Republic. The republican armies
were, contrary to expectation, crowned with victory. They conquered
Savoy, occupied Nice; swept from French territory the forces of the
Allies. The small remaining scraps of the property of emigrants, long
threatened and plucked at now and again, were actually seized _en
bloc_. A list of pains and penalties of the severest kind was launched
at such bad citizens as were gangrened with royalism.
At the present rate of progress the country would soon be no safer
than the towns. Aristocrats would be dragged from their retreats,
consigned to local jails, finished off in batches by a _noyade_ or a
_fusillade_--be drowned or shot in droves. Clearly, there was no time
for palaver or parleying, or the days would pass away when it would be
possible to emigrate. What a mercy--the abbe never wearied of
repeating the refrain--that the Marechal de Breze should have
transferred his wealth to Geneva, and that his obstinate and
stiff-necked daughter should have been induced to change her will!
Mademoiselle Brunelle was equally convinced with the abbe that there
was no time to squander. If she were to remain too long, the marquise
would become suspicious and insist on her departure Of course she need
not travel further than Blois, but it is well to be on the spot when
something important is to take place, especially when your coadjutor
is so double-faced as was the abbe. The susceptibilities of Clovis
must be respected. What the schemers had to do must be done speedily,
silently, and neatly. When she thought of it all the low laughter of
Algae rumbled. How surprised and mortified would the abbe be when in
the end he found himself circumvented! She was to put out her paw for
the chestnuts and keep half the booty for her trouble? So Pharamond
had picturesquely put it. Not so. Unwittingly it was his own paw that
was to be protruded, and in his case the fable would be realized. The
excellent lady had graduated in his own school, and it is given to
clever pupils ofttimes to outstrip the master.
Sure, now that they held the necessary document, their task was of the
most infantine simplicity. It had been ascertained by cautious probing
that Clovis could be counted on not to defend his wife. He would be
politely invited to bury his head in the sand until that which must be
was accomplished. By skilful manipulation his loathing for his better
half was increasing as steadily in volume as a rolling snowball, and
was assuming the proportions of a fixed idea. Gabrielle had decreed
the banishment of the dear affinity. With many a groan he had
acquiesced, being assured by two whisperers as he wrote to their
dictation, that it was but a matter of form. "If she conquers, after
all," he had said as he flung down the pen, "I will never forgive
either of you. You have some project in your minds for the arrangement
of the situation. What it may be I cannot guess, but I would have you
know that if you fail I shall hate you both quite as much as her."
Algae and the abbe had exchanged a glance of scorn over his shoulder,
in that they were forced to work with such a sorry tool. No matter. If
we paddle in thick mud, a little elbow-grease and water will make us
clean again. Both began from opposite points of view to understand
that the removal of Clovis might perchance have to follow his
wife's. After her removal they would journey to Geneva, divide the
fortune--hush the remorseful groans which so pusillanimous an object
as Clovis was certain to indulge in--possibly drive him to drink, the
natural corollary of remorse--and so into his grave. This was the
abbe's view. Algae went further. Arrived at Geneva, she would speedily
become the marquise, and certain of dominion over her spouse--so long
as his life was allowed to last--would secure to herself the reversion
of her predecessors' fortune, and politely dismiss the brothers.
All that, however, was as yet in the clouds, and there was no time to
lose. To a certain extent, the marquis must now be admitted to the
council, but the cautious finger of the governess must be kept upon
his pulse, to ascertain how far he could be trusted not to scream and
make an uproar. Such a task was exactly suited to a lady of such tact
and discretion as mademoiselle, and she gladly undertook the office.
Toinon, mightily displeased at the way things were going, was racked
by apprehension. It seemed to her as if she and her mistress were
being gradually enwrapped in the glutinous film of spiders, which
uncomely creatures by and by would quietly devour them. Such a
_menage_ as that of Lorge, despite its outward calm, was abnormal. Her
dear mistress dwelt in strict retirement in her own house. A band of
harpies (among which, I regret to say, she reckoned her master) were
secretly conspiring, and the result of their machinations could not
but be harmful. They whispered in corners, deliberated with closed
doors, discussed and argued something earnestly at all times and
seasons, and if somebody approached them, they suddenly grew silent.
What could they be conspiring? For two pins, popping her insulted
vanity into her pocket, she would write to the truant Jean, of whom
she vaguely heard sometimes as being quite of importance at Blois. If
he had grown out of his love for Toinon, his blindness was to be
deplored; but righteously indignant as that damsel felt at his
neglect, she never for a moment doubted his honesty, however
deplorable his opinions. Jean respected both the marquise and her
foster-sister, and if carried away from his allegiance by politics,
she felt none the less certain that, were she to summon him, he would
come. But how could she summon him? He would laugh at her fears, and,
on the principle of "Wolf, wolf," would not obey a second summons. All
she could report was that madame was unhappy and neglected, that the
objectionable ex-governess had come and was on the point of going, and
that, meanwhile, she and the brothers were given to whispering in
corners. It was absurd, and Jean would be justified in laughing at
her. He had left his dog behind him in her care, as an unfit companion
for a deputy at Blois, and as the faithful beast followed her about,
gazing into her eyes with canine sympathy, she would suddenly
sometimes sink upon the floor, and clasping his woolly head in her
comely arms, whisper to him, "Oh, my dear! I am so sorely troubled.
How I wish you could tell me what to do!"
As to her master, he was quite different from what he used to be. In
old days, who so spick and span, so punctiliously prim in his attire?
His face used then to wear a dreamy expression of philanthropical
beatitude, which, if somewhat trying, was free of blame. Now he
neglected his dress, his shoulders were rounded. He muttered between
his teeth, as he wandered with bent head, and when he raised it, his
eyes were bloodshot, his features convulsed by passion--torn by some
secret dread. He was always brooding, and on some subject which
stirred the lees, erstwhile so undisturbed, of evil thoughts. The
marquis was changing a _vue d'[oe]il_, and the change was not for the
better.
Toinon, with her dog behind her, was slowly mounting the stair one
day, revolving for the thousandth time the pros and cons of her
perplexity, when she perceived that the outer door of the abbe's
sanctum was open--an unusual circumstance, for had he not taken to
himself this tiny chamber by reason of its double doors? The abigail
hesitated. Should she descend to prying? If she did it would be for
the best motives, and if she heard anything that concerned her not it
might as well be consigned to a tomb. She could detect the mellifluous
accents of the abbe, apparently in remonstrance, then the voice of
mademoiselle, very low and earnest, broken by something smothered from
the marquis, who spoke in tones of pain. What could they be discussing
so earnestly? Raising her finger to caution the dog to silence, she
stole down a-tiptoe, and holding her breath, listened.
Not for long, however, for the marquis of a sudden cried out, "I will
never consent to such strong measures--never--never--never. They are
too full of risk;" and was evidently moving towards the door when his
progress was arrested by the abbe.
"Leave it to us, dear brother; leave it to us," the latter was
repeating, soothingly. "If not your poor brother and your devoted
friend, who else in the wide world are you to trust? It is as plain as
daylight that we must leave France ere long, and your obstinate wife
will never consent to go with us. Well, well; she doubtless will be
safe here if we are not, and if we get into trouble, she will be
rather pleased than otherwise. Do as you are advised. Take yonder
document and raise on it at Blois or Tours a little money for present
expenses. We are out of cash, as you know, since you so properly stood
out against the allowance. You can easily raise money on that paper.
Is not everybody scraping together all they can in order to be off
while there is time? Go, dear lad, perform your portion of the task,
and leave the rest to us."
"What of her, then?" Clovis inquired in doubt.
"Meddle, meddle, meddle--why will you meddle?" retorted Pharamond,
laughing. "I daresay she will live on here for many years, or perhaps
not--who knows? Suffice it for the moment that we men must fly across
the border."
Then came something more from mademoiselle, which the eavesdropper
could not catch, and Toinon had but time to flee with all her speed to
the upper storey, ere the marquis opened the door. He was sighing and
moaning and muttering in most extraordinary fashion.
Peeping from the landing above she could see that he trembled like a
leaf, and did not fail to mark the abbe's sneer of triumph as he
looked after his departing brother.
"He has been sent away from Lorge," she murmured, with wrinkles on her
brow. "He is to go, and to take madame's testament along with him.
Those two demons are victorious, and we are at their mercy. What do
they intend to do? Nothing that bodes good to us."