LEFT-HANDED MATTHEW
It was about this time that Matteo le Gaucher--Matteo the
Left-handed--began to interest himself in our concerns. At first sight
nothing was more unlikely than that Matteo could ever make the slightest
difference to the fate of any human soul. Yet great and even final
events hung upon Matteo le Gaucher. He was an Italian from Arqua, and,
as was said by his comrades, a "spiteful toad." He was deformed in body,
and of course carried with him the repute of a _jettatore_. The evil eye
certainly looked out from under his low brows, but it was with his evil
tongue that he could actually do the most mischief.
He had been employed by Arcadius in his garden. He was not a bad
workman. "The ground," as he said, "was not too far off for him." He
could work when he chose, better than anyone at the task of the day. But
he was a born fault-finder, a born idler, insolent and quarrelsome. The
four who were his room-mates and who worked with him bore longer with
him because of his bodily infirmity and also because of the Evil Eye,
which they mocked at but devoutly believed in. At last he aroused
Arcadius, across whose path he had always been loath to come.
Arcadius found a fault. Matteo found a knife. All men knew the light
gardening hoe which seldom left the hand of Arcadius. Well, the master's
eye was accurate, and Matteo went to the town hospital with a broken
wrist and a right hand almost hagged off. Let no one for a moment be
sorry for Matteo. In that comprehensive interval he began to plot many
things rendered natural by years of vendetta practice.
Directly, he could not hurt Arcadius. He had tried that and Chanot had
only laughed at him. No, even to please him, the Committee of Public
Safety would not shoot the man who sent them their finest, indeed their
only, early fruits. Arcadius had no store of gold hid in his chimney. He
had spent it all with Chanot's uncle the notary, buying new land, ever
more and more--and some still not paid for--but all regularly being
covered instalment and interest. This Chanot knew, because in his days
of (oh, so dull) respectability, Chanot had had to make out the
receipts. And how he hated the thought of the long days of deskwork.
Matteo mourned over his broken wrist, which hurt the more abominably
whenever he hated anyone and could in no wise wreck his hatred. He must
think out something else. He retired into his pillows, turned his face
to the wall, and for a day and a night thought by what means he could
best hurt Arcadius or the friends of the master-gardener.
He had been in the corner of the hangar-dormitory that night when the
four Tuscans had been called up to follow the lantern of Arcadius. The
Toad, with the venom attributed to him for centuries, had risen quietly
and from behind the great arbutus, had seen the boat with Keller Bey
lying stark on his stretcher, and the beautiful girl watching over him,
push out into the night.
On their return the Tuscans had exhibited their newly earned gold, and
all innocently had striven to set his cupidity wild by tales of the
wonderful paradise of fertility and riches under the brow of the hill of
Mont St. Andre.
Matteo le Gaucher snarled at them, denying that the coins were good, or,
if good, that they had been won (as they asserted) by merely carrying a
sick man up a hill.
Not for such service did men give gold Napoleons. They lied, Carlo,
Beppo, Lorenzo, and the oaf from San Ghomigniano of the Seven Towers.
They all lied, and Matteo, who was certainly in most evil humour that
day, tried to knock up the hand in which the Tuscan was jingling them.
He of the City of the Seven Towers felled Matteo, who would never have
forgiven him, if the bone-splintering blow of the mattock in the hand of
Arcadius had not come to fill the hater with the hope of a greater
vengeance.
Nevertheless the thought of the rich man who dwelt on the slopes of Mont
St. Andre, with sacks of golden Napoleons on either side of every room,
kept haunting him. Matteo could neither eat nor sleep till he had seen.
So he took a half-holiday without asking permission (the beginning of
his quarrel with the huge Arcadius) and, stealing a skiff from a
neighbouring landing, scrambled up the steep face of Mont St. Andre.
Fortune willed that he should meet the junior _lyceens_ out for a walk,
two and two, with only a weak _pion_ to restrain them. Naturally Matteo
was mocked and mobbed. Matteo drew a knife, and grinned like a wild cat,
but recognised his error in time, accepted the situation, and with the
hate of hell in his heart, began to show the juniors knife tricks--how
to let it fall always with the point down, how to send it whizzing like
a gleam of light deep into the heart of a tree, which might just as well
have been the heart of a man.
At last he got clear of them, smiling and bowing, till the sober-coated
little rascals were lost to sight on the high path. Then he brandished
his knife in fury, and vowed that if he could he would cut the throat of
every wretched imp among them.
But at the sound of voices he subdued his anger, and, humbly asking his
way from this passer-by and that other, he at last made his way to
Gobelet. He knocked long for admission at the porter's lodge, but the
porteress seeing such a calumny on God's handiwork outside, and scenting
appeals for charity, eyed him disfavourably through the little
cross-barred spy-window and let him knock.
A little farther down the road, he was quite as unsuccessful at the
tower port of the Garden Cottage, over which the Tessiers had been wont
to sleep.
There was no one in the house at all, yet Matteo le Gaucher quickly
running to the top of the bank opposite, imagined he saw faces mocking
him at every window.
It chanced that for his sins (whatever they may have been) my father was
at that moment coming leisurely down the hill, his hands behind his
back. He had been up to call upon his friend Renard before his siesta,
and they two had argued over-long as to the purport of the fourteenth
chapter of the Koran.
Suddenly full in his path he found Matteo grovelling before him, his
hands and knees covered with blood, foam from his lips, and to all
appearance in a state of extreme exhaustion. Now my father, Gordon
Cawdor, was a man of very simple and direct mind, so far as the actions
of those about him went. He believed that what he saw was the reality.
Indeed, so transparent was his honesty that men took fright at it,
counting it as the last achievement of duplicity, so that on an average
he was as seldom deceived as any other man in the country.
Now he cried out for help, and after one or two shouts Saunders McKie
and Hugh Deventer came through the gate and took up the seeming
epileptic.
Saunders was wholly sceptical and when ordered by his master to wash the
froth from the sufferer's mouth prospected with such good will for soap
within that Matteo, had he dared, would gladly have bitten the finger
off. He was compelled to swallow what might have served him another
time.
"Dowse him wi' a bucket o' water, and let him gang his ways. I like not
the look o' the speldron. He is like the Brownie that my Uncle Jock
yince saw on the Lang Hill o' Lowden--a fearsome taed it was, juist like
this Eytalian."
"Hold your peace, Saunders," commented my father. "You, he, and I are as
God made us, and little that matters. What is written of us in the Book,
_that_ alone shall praise or condemn us!"
"Lord's sake, Maister Cawdor," said Saunders, who always wilted before
my father in his moments of spiritual reproof, "I was sayin' and
thinkin' no different. The Book and What is Written Therein! That's the
rub, an' no to be spoken o' lichtly. And after a' the craitur's a
craitur, though I will say----"
"Say nothing, Saunders, till you have given the unfortunate to eat and
drink. Then when he is recovered I shall speak with him a moment."
"Weel, Maister Cawdor, let your speech be silver, and no gowden."
"You mean, Saunders?"
"I juist mean that the buckie has a gallow's look aboot him, and if ye
are so ill-advised and--aye, I will say it--sae wicked as to gie him
gold, we shall a' hae our throats cuttit in our beds yin o' thae
nichts!"
Whereupon my father reproved his old servant for narrow-mindedness and
evil thinking, but Saunders held his own.
"Narrow-mindedness here and ill-thinkin' there," he said, "blessed are
they that think no evil, I ken, and that blessing ye are sure o',
Maister Cawdor. But ye pay me a wage to keep watch and ward for ye over
all evil-doers, and may I never taste porridge mair if this lad doesna
smell the reek o' the deil's peats a mile away."
Saunders prevailed in the matter of the gold, and it was only a
five-franc piece that Matteo carried away from the gate of Gobelet. Hugh
Deventer and Alida came out to see off the man who had caused such a
disturbance in the peace of the quiet villa. Matteo gazed at Alida with
the look of a wild beast before whose cage passes a fine-skinned plump
gazelle.
He was full to the lips with rage, bitterness, and all uncharitableness.
Gobelet he had seen, but owing to the machinations of that enemy of
mankind, Saunders, only the great paved kitchen in which the menservants
and maidservants passed to and fro, all gazing at him with inquisitive
and contemptuous eyes. Ah, if only he could make them smart for that,
those full-fed minions whose broken meats had been set down to him,
Matteo of Arqua. Not but that these were good, yes, and the wine was
excellent. It might be worth while, when he should decide to turn
honest, to find some such place, perhaps as porter or lodge-keeper
against his old age.
So after ringing the piece of a hundred sous on a stone, Matteo gave
himself to meditation as he descended to his boat. The house was rich.
There were many servants, and access to the money-bags along the wall
would be impossible to him.
But there were others who would think but little of the task. If only he
were at Arqua, he knew of as pretty a gang as ever donned masks--honest,
too, in their way, men who would not cheat the indicator of good
business out of his lawful share.
But here Matteo le Gaucher must think things over. It was vain for him
to give away a valuable secret without some guarantee of gain. So Matteo
crept back and took to his bed, where he turned the matter over and
turned it over, till he began to despair of ever finding a way of
bettering his condition without having to work. The touch of the
five-franc piece in his pocket, gained by a little dissimulation, had
disgusted him with the culture of cauliflower and early potato.
Next morning he scamped his work, fell athwart the bluff bows of
Arcadius, and so found himself with a broken bone and a wounded wrist in
the hospital of La Grace at Aramon.
Here he fell in the way of ex-notary's clerk Chanot, whose practice in
his uncle's office soon wormed Matteo's whole confidence from him--that
is, save on one point which he kept obstinately to himself.
It had long been a question with the Committee of Public Safety where
Keller had disappeared to. It was not believed that he had remained long
in the Chateau. A boat had been seen in mid-stream--the sound of voices
heard by watchers on the bridge. He might have been less seriously
wounded than they supposed, and at Arles, Aix, or even Marseilles he
might be seeking help from old-fashioned revolutionaries like himself.
The Committee of Public Safety had for some time abandoned all pretence
of government. The little red newspaper had stopped. The shops were put
under weekly contributions in return for permission to open their doors.
No maids or wives came any more to the Aramon markets, and though
provisions continued to arrive, they were brought in by farmers who came
in bands and well armed.
The "government" sat no more in the seats of the mighty, but lounged and
swung their legs from the tables, openly and shamelessly discussing the
next _coup a faire_, houses to dismantle, or rich men to hold to ransom
or doom to death. They smoked and deliberated, an oath at every word.
Men who had worked at the Small Arms Factory were now few, though there
were still several who had dug the foundations of the big-gun annex--a
professional bully or two from the city, deprived by the war of his
hareem and his means of livelihood, one or two well-educated youths,
_lycee_-bred even, who had "turned out badly," a few clever apprentice
workmen from the town, locksmiths and plumbers chiefly, who appreciated
idleness and a share in the profits of their skill in opening locks more
than the lash of the patron's tongue and the long day's toil from six to
six, year in and year out.
But all were less martial and more cautious now. They did not think any
more of attacking the strong, entrenched position behind which Dennis
Deventer and Jack Jaikes kept watch and ward, night and day.
They had courage--no man could truthfully say that they lacked that.
They had given their proofs. But they knew that the men within the Works
were growing stronger. There were rumours that Dennis Deventer had only
to hold up his hand and that he would have all the men he wanted within
the Chateau walls.
The men who had fought the troops, cleared the town, and set up the
"Tatter of Scarlet," the "Old Reds of the Midi," were no longer with the
rabble who used the black flag as an excuse for plunder and massacre.
The original Commune of Aramon (like that of Paris) had always been
meticulously careful as to the rights of private property. No
Communalist in Paris enriched himself one sou, at a time when the wealth
of all the banks and shops lay within the push of a gun-butt or the
explosion of a dynamite cartridge.
The men of the Old Commune had come to Dennis, Pere Felix at their head,
as Nicodemus came to Another long ago, secretly by night. Their chief
prayer had been to be allowed, though late, to take part in the defence.
Pere Felix appealed to Dennis not to discourage these willing hearts.
They were all approved Republicans and would fight for their opinion if
necessary, but they were no robbers nor murderers--nor would they have
any dealings with such.
But Dennis had enough men and desired no more. He had kept his own
bounds and let any attack him at their peril. Still, there was much they
could do. They could send him word of any new scheme of devilry. A
written word wrapped about a stone and tossed over the wall at a
convenient corner, where a watch was kept, would be sufficient. Or, if
proper notice were given, they could come, as to-night, to the Orchard
port. But this only upon matters of serious import which could not be
put off.
Moreover, since Pere Felix had all the country of Vaucluse open to him,
he could collect provisions from Orange to the Durance. For anything
fresh and portable good prices would be given. Yes, they could be
delivered at the Orchard gate. Three times a week, on such nights as
Pere Felix would appoint, he would have a guard put there to receive and
transport. Jack Jaikes would settle the bills. They all knew Jack
Jaikes.
The men looked from one to the other and smiled. Yes, they all knew
Monsieur Jack. There was never a man nor a boy in all the Ateliers but
knew Monsieur Jack. He had a way with him. He asked for what he wanted,
did Monsieur Jack. And he could do more with his bare hands and booted
feet when it came to a melee (what Jack Jaikes would have called a
scrap) than half a dozen ordinary men armed to the teeth. Oh yes, a
well-known figure in the Works, Monsieur Jack. In fact, quite a
favourite!
And they winked at one another, being quite aware that, without the
quiver of an eyelash, Dennis Deventer was winking too.
* * * * *
Matteo lay on his couch in the Hopital de Grace nursing his arm. The
wound had healed and they were treating the bone by friction
now--reducing and suppling it, but causing Matteo a good deal of
incidental pain, which the hospital doctors in their careless way took
very much as a matter of course. If Matteo had had the long Arqua knife
which had been taken away from him, the two _internes_ might have been
surprised by a sudden revelation of the sentiments of the patient under
treatment.
Matteo had privileges, however. The house surgeons only tortured him
once a day, and generally about four Chanot came to bring him a screw of
tobacco, a little brandy, and the news of the town, adroitly seasoned to
suit Matteo's taste in publicity.
"Ah, my good Matteo," he would say, as he came in with that nonchalant
ease in his gait and that devilish glitter in his eye which made Matteo
at once envy and adore him. "Matteo of the left hand, how goes the other
to-day? Have you had dreams of the beautiful lady you saw--or imagined
you saw--at the house on the hill?"
"It was no dream, Master," said the Gaucher, "I saw her. She had brown
hair, a wilderness of it, and her lips were redder than the grenadine
flower."
"The house was a rich one?"
"Wonderfully rich. I did not see much of it myself, being only on the
ground floor with the servants, but I have four comrades who saw the
bags of golden coins heaped up like corn sacks against the wall, and the
master is an old man, very wise and learned, who speaks my speech only
with a southern accent. He dips his hands into the gold and draws out
the Napoleons, jingling and glittering. They run over his palms, set
close together like a cup, and slip through his fingers upon the floor,
where they lie, for it is not worth while among so much to pick them up.
The sweeper has them for his pains in stooping. It is true Master, as
God is in heaven. My comrades saw all this and swore on the bones of the
blessed Saint Catherine of Siena, whose servant I am, that they spoke no
lie."
Then would Chanot rise and go his way meditating. There might be some
truth at the bottom of this fairy tale. It was worth while thinking
over. But there were points to study. Should he take the whole gang into
his confidence or only a few? That would depend on the number and
courage of the servants--their dispositions to fight for their
master--and then the girl--that also was a point to be weighed most
carefully. Yet Chanot could by no means put off too long, for the hill
of St. Andre was not far away, and the wind of the rich trover might be
wafted down on any breeze.
Chanot had no need of temptations to plot or to do evil. These came
natural to him. He was better acquainted with the evil he had done than
with that which he was going to do. His future was not, if one might say
so, on the knees of his gods, but on those of his devils. Anton Chanot
had been bred good, but up till now he had never thought, desired, or
done aught but evil. Evil, indeed, was his good, and if on occasion he
showed himself a little kind, as in the bringing of Matteo's tobacco, it
was only that he might obtain the secrets of some man's heart.
But Matteo was an Italian, and an Italian of Arqua. He was full of ruse
and as little trustful as a Norman peasant. He saw through Chanot's
little luxuries. He weighed the news gossip as in a balance, and even
the tobacco he smelt curiously, and found of second quality. One person
he meant at all hazards to benefit, and that person was Matteo le
Gaucher.
He was a shrewd schemer, and if it had not been for one thing his
conclusions would have been sound. He had forgotten that Anton Chanot
would just as lief kill him as any other, without thought or remorse,
smiling all the while as when he handed him over the daily paper of
tobacco in the hospital of Aramon.