"You forbade me."
"That is true--quite true. Had you done it without asking me, I had
been better pleased."
"I had no grudge against him."
"Well, well, thank you, my man; I can look out for myself."
"Will monsieur accept the gratitude of a poor devil of a thief?"
"Oh, that is all right. One word more. It is as well to tell you, my
man, how I came to speak to you. When first I observed you, as I fell
behind, I saw that terrible old witch with two sticks pointing you out
to the fellow with the torn cap; then he followed you."
"It was Quatre Pattes, monsieur. I lodge in her house."
"A good name, I should say. I wish you better luck and safer lodgings.
Adieu"; and he went quietly on his way.
*XIX*
_Of the sorrowful life of loneliness, of Francois's arrest, and of those
he met in prison._
Francois stood still. He was alone, and felt of a sudden, as never
before, the solitude of an uncompanioned life. The subtle influence of
the Terror had begun to sap the foundations of even his resolute
cheerfulness. It was this constancy of dread which to some natures made
the terrible certainties of the prisons a kind of relief. He looked
after the retreating figure as it moved along the _quai_ and was lost to
view in the Rue des Petits-Augustines.
"Toto," he said, "I would I had his clever head. When 't is a question
of hearts, _mon ami_, I would rather have thine. And now, what to do?"
At last he moved swiftly along the borders of the Seine, and soon
regained his own room. The Crab would go to the afternoon market; her
net swung over her arm at the time he had seen her; and, as she always
moved slowly, he had ample leisure.
He packed his bag, and taking from his pistol the paper he had secured
when in company with Gregoire, replaced it under the lining of his shoe.
Its value he very well knew. After a moment's reflection, he put his
pistol back on the peg high up in the chimney. He had been in the house
nearly an hour, and was ready to leave, when he heard feet, and a knock
at the locked door. A voice cried:
"In the name of the republic, open!" He knew that he was lost.
"_Dame_! Toto. We are done for, my little one"; and then, without
hesitation, he opened the door. Three municipals entered. One of them
said:
"We arrest thee, citizen, as an _emigre_ returned."
"_Emigre_!" and he laughed in his usual hearty way. "If I had been that,
no one would have caught me back in France. Ah, well, I am ready,
citizen. Here is an old rapier. The woman will sell it; better to give
it to thee or to the republic." He took up his slender baggage, and
followed them. When they were down-stairs, he asked leave to see the
Crab. The guard called her out of her den.
"_Chere maman_," said Francois, "this is thy doing. These good citizens
have my rapier, and the pistol is gone. Not a sou is left thee. Thou
hast killed the goose that laid the golden eggs. Alas!"
The Crab rattled her claws on the sticks, and these on the floor, and
spat vileness of thieves' slang, declaring it a wicked lie. Would they
take the silver-hilted sword? It was hers, and he owed her rent. At
last, laughing, the guards secured the thief's hands behind his back,
and marched him away to the revolutionary committee of the section
Franklin. Here no time was lost with the _emigre_, who was sent off in a
hurry to the prison of the Madelonnettes, with poor Toto trotting after
him, much perplexed by the performance.
Francois was astounded at the celerity and certainty of the methods by
which he, a free Arab of the streets, was thus caged. As usual, it
acted on his sense of humor, and before the dreaded sectional tribunal
and with the municipals he was courageously merry. When he heard that he
was to be sent to the Madelonnettes, he said:
"But, citizens, I am not of the sex. _Mon Dieu!_ the Madelonnettes! 'T
is not respectable--'t is not decent"; and he laughed outright. As no
man was ever so made as to be protected from the infection of such mirth
as the thief's, the judges laughed in chorus. One of them, disturbed in
his slumber, awoke, and seeing no cause for this long-visaged flap-ear
so to mock the justice of the republic, he said:
"Thou wilt not laugh long, miserable aristocrat!"
This much delighted Francois. "By St. Jacobus, citizen, I swear to thee
I am only an honest thief. I did not expect to be made of the fine
nobility by a good democrat like thee."
"Off with him!" said the judge. "They laugh best who laugh last."
"No, no," cried the incorrigible; "they laugh best who laugh most. _Au
revoir_."
"Take him away! The next case."
The thief was gay, and amused the officers; but his keen senses were now
all on guard, and, too, like others, he felt relieved at the ending of
his life of suspense and watchful anxiety. His misfortune was plainly
due to the avarice and needs of the Crab, and to her belief that he had
ceased to be available as a means of support.
There was a little delay at the front of the old house of detention;
some formalities were to be gone through with. Francois took careful
note of it all. The prison stood in the Rue des Fontaines: a gray stone
building, with a lofty story on the first floor, and, above, three
stories and an attic; a high wall to left shut in the garden.
On entering a long, dark corridor, his bonds were removed, his bundle
was searched, and what little money he had was scrupulously restored to
him. He was stripped and examined, even to his shoes; but as the tongue
of leather was loose only at the toes, the precious document escaped a
very rigorous search. Poor Toto had been left outside, despite
Francois's entreaties. In the cell to which he was consigned were eight
straw mattresses. He arranged his small baggage, and was told he was
free to go whither he would above the _rez-de-chaussee_, which was kept
for forgers of assignats and thieves. The corridor was some fifty feet
long, and smelt horribly. On the main floor was the common dining-room.
A separate stair-case led to a garden of considerable size, planted with
box and a few quince- and other fruit-trees. At night two municipals
guarded this space, while, outside, the steps of sentries could be heard
when the hours of darkness brought their quiet. At 9 P.M. the
prisoners, who assembled in the large hall, answered to their names; a
bell rang, and they were locked in their cells, or slept as they could
in the corridors. The richer captives were taxed to support their poor
companions, and even to buy and feed the mastiffs which roamed at night
in the garden.
Much of all this Francois learned as he arranged his effects and talked
gaily with the turnkey, one Vaubertrand, a watchful but not unkindly
little man. Thus informed, Francois, curious as usual, went down the
corridor, and out into the garden. Here were quite two hundred men and
women, some in careful, neat dress, many in rags. He saw, as he looked,
cures, ladies, seamstresses, great nobles, unlucky colonels, and, as he
learned later, musicians, poets; and, to his surprise, for he knew the
theaters, actors such as Fleury, Saint-Prix, and Champville, whose
delicious laughter the Comedie Francaise knew so well. Here, too, were
Boulainvilliers, De Crosne, and Dozincourt, the ex-kings and heroes of
the comic stage; and there, in a group apart, the fine gentles and dames
who had exchanged Versailles and the Trianon for this home of disastrous
fortunes.
"Yes," said the turnkey; "the citizen is right; 't is a droll
menagerie," and so left him.
Francois looked at the walls and chained dogs, and knew at once that the
large numbers in the prison made impossible that solitude in which plans
of escape prosper. For a while no one noticed him so far as to speak to
him. The ill-clad and poor kept to one side of the garden; on the
other, well-dressed people were chatting in the sun. Women were sewing;
a young man was reciting verses; and De Crosne, with the child of the
concierge on his lap, was telling fairy-tales. Ignorant of the
etiquette of the prison, Francois wandered here and there, not observing
that he was stared at with surprise as he moved among the better clad on
the sunny side of the yard. He was interested by what he saw. How
quiet they all were! what fine garments! what bowing and courtesying!
He liked it, as he always liked dress and color, and the ways of these
imperturbable great folks. Beyond this his reflections did not go; nor
as yet had he been here long enough to note how, day by day, some
gentleman disappeared, or some kindly face of woman was seen no more.
What he did observe was that here and there a woman or a man sat apart
in self-contained grief, remembering those they had lost. The thief
moved on, thoughtful.
At this moment he heard "_Diable!_" and saw the Marquis de Ste. Luce.
"What! and have they trapped you, my inevitable thief? I myself was
bagged and caged just after I left you. We are both new arrivals. Come
aside with me."
Francois followed him, saying he was sorry to find the marquis here.
"It was to be, sooner or later; and I presume it will not last long. I
was careless; and, after all, Francois, it was my fate--my shadow. A
man does many things to amuse himself, and some one of them casts a
lengthening shadow as time goes on. The shadow--my shadow--well, no
matter. We all have our shadows, and at sunset they lengthen."
"'T is like enough, monsieur. 'T is like me. There is a man with a
wart I am afraid of, and it is because of that wart. The man is a
drunken fool."
"Despard is my wart," said the marquis, dryly. "As to being afraid, my
good Francois, I never had the malady, not even as a boy."
"_Dame_! I have it now; and to get out of this is impossible."
"I think so. Did you mention Despard?"
"No; it was monsieur spoke of him."
"Quite true--quite true. He found me at last. Confound the fellow! I
did not credit him with being clever."
"So this is his man with a wart?" thought Francois, but made no comment.
He had not fully comprehended the simile with which this impassive
seigneur illustrated the fact that but one of his many misdeeds had cast
on his future a lengthening shadow of what he would have hesitated to
call remorse.
"Francois," he said, "you and I are new additions to this queer
collection. I may as well warn you that even here spies abound. Why?
The deuce knows. Barn-yard fowls are not less considered than are we.
It is the tribunal one day; then the Conciergerie; and next day,
_affaire finie_, the business is over. Meanwhile, you are in the best
society in France. There are M. de la Ferte, the Comte de Mirepoix, the
Duc de Levis, the Marquis de Fleury. I used to think them dull; calamity
has not sharpened their wits. _Diable!_ but you are welcome." The
marquis had all his life amused himself with small regard to what was
thought of him or his ways of recreation. "'T is a bit of luck to find
you here in this hole." Francois could hardly agree with the opinion,
but he laughed as he said so.
"Here comes my old comrade, De Laval Montmorency. He is still a gay
jester. He says we are like Saul and that other fellow, Jonathan,
except that in death we shall both of us to a certainty be divided."
"_Ciel!_ 't is a ghastly joke, monsieur."
"It has decidedly a flavor of the locality. I must not play telltale
about you, or they will put you in the _rez-de-chaussee_, and, by St.
Denis! I should miss you. I shall have a little amusement in
perplexing these gentlemen. Your face will betray you; it used to be
pretty well known. However, we shall see."
The nobleman last named threaded his way through the crowd, excusing
himself and bowing as he came.
"Ah," he said, "Ste. Luce, another new arrival. The hotel is filling up.
Good morning, monsieur. _Grand merci!_ 't is our old acquaintance who
used to tell fortunes on the Champs Elysees; told mine once, but, alas!
did not warn me of this. Well, well, we have here some queer society.
Take care, Ste. Luce; this citizen may be a spy, for all thou knowest.
I assure thee we have to be careful."
"I--I a _mouchard_--a spy?"
"M. de Montmorency has no such idea," said Ste. Luce. "I shall ask him
to respect your desire to be known by a name not your own. Permit me to
add that I have less reason to thank some of my friends than I have to
thank this gentleman. He is pleased to have mystified Paris for a
wager, or no matter what. Just now he is--what the deuce is it you call
yourself at present?"
Francois was delighted with the jest. "Allow me, monsieur, to pass as
Citizen Francois. My real name-- But you will pardon me; real names
are dangerous."
"And what are names to-day," said the marquis, "thine or mine? My
friend here--well, between us, Montmorency, this is he who held the
stair with me in my _ci-devant_ chateau. Thou wilt remember I told thee
of it. A good twenty minutes we kept it against a hundred or so of my
grateful people. He is the best blade in Paris, and, _foi d'honneur_,
that business was no trifle."
"Who you are, or choose to be, I know not," said the older noble, "but I
thank you; and, _pardieu!_ Ste. Luce is free with your biography."
This was Francois's opinion.
No one knew distinctly who was this newcomer, concerning whom, for pure
cynical amusement, Ste. Luce said so much that was gracious. Any
freshly gay companion was welcomed, if his manners were at all
endurable. The actors and actresses were pleasantly received. The few
who remembered the long face, and ears like sails, and the captivating
laugh of the former reader of palms, were so bewildered by Ste. Luce's
varied statements that the poor thief found himself at least tolerated.
He liked it. Nevertheless, as the days went by, and while seemingly the
gayest of the gay, Francois gave serious thought to the business of
keeping his head on his shoulders. He told fortunes,--always happy
ones,--played tricks, and cut out of paper all manner of animals for the
little girl, the child of the turnkey. Toto he gave up for lost; but on
the fourth day the dog, half starved, got a chance when a prisoner
entered. He dashed through the guards, and fled up stairs and down,
until, seeing his master in the big hall, he ran to him, panting. The
head jailer would have removed him, but there was a great outcry; and at
last, when little Annette, Francois's small friend, cried, the dog was
allowed to remain.
He was, as the marquis declared, much more interesting than most of the
prisoners, and possessed, as he added, the advantage over other
prisoners of being permanent. In fact, they were not. Every day or two
came long folded papers. The _ci-devant_ Baron Bellefontaine would
to-morrow have the cause of his detention considered by Tribunal No. 3.
Witnesses and official defenders had been allowed; but of late, and to
_emigres_, these were often denied. Also, witnesses were scarce and
easily terrified, so that batches of merely suspected persons were
condemned almost unheard. To be tried meant nearly always the
Conciergerie and death. All cases were supposed to be tried in the
order of their arrests; but great sums were spent in paying clerks to
keep names at the foot of the fatal dockets of the committee. The
members of this terrible government survived or died with much judicial
murder on their souls; but countless millions passed through their hands
without one man of them becoming rich. Elsewhere, with the lower
officers, gold was an effective ally when it was desired to postpone the
time of trial.
*XX*
_Of how Francois gave Amar advice, and of how the marquis bought his own
head._
It was now about May 26, when, at evening, a commissioner in a cocked
hat, much plumed and scarfed, came into the dining-hall. Toto was
between his master's knees, and was being fed. Francois heard a
gray-haired old lady exclaim to a neighbor: "_Mon Dieu! cherie_, look!
'T is the Terror in person."
The actor Champville cried out gaily: "I must practise that face. 'T is
a fortune for the villain of a play. If ever I get out, it will be
inestimable." Alas! he was in the next day's list,--the _corvee_, they
called it,--and came no more to table. Francois looked up, caught a
glimpse of that relentless visage, and dropped his head again over the
slender relics of a not bountiful meal. It was Jean Pierre Amar!
The marquis looked up from his plate, but made no effort to conceal
himself. Amar walked around the table. Now and then his mouth wandered
to left. It was comical, and yet horribly grotesque. He seemed to
notice no one, and went out to make his inspection. Presently a turnkey
came and touched Francois's shoulder.
"The citizen commissioner would see thee."
"I am ruined--done for!" murmured the thief; and, followed by Toto, he
went after the turnkey. In the room used as a registering-office, Amar,
_le farouche_, sat handling a paper.
"Ah!" he said. "Citizen turnkey, leave the suspect with me, and close
the door." The commissioner laid a pair of pistols on the table, and
looked up at Francois.
"Well, citizen, we are met again. I am free to say that I had careful
search made for thee, and now good fortune has brought hither not thee
alone, but that infernal _ci-devant_ who pinned me like a butterfly."
As he spoke there was something fascinating in the concentration of
emotion on the active side of this unnatural face. Francois felt the
need to be careful.
"Why the devil don't you speak?"
"Will the citizen kindly advise me what answer it will be most prudent
to make?" And for comment on his own words, which altogether pleased
him, a pleasant smile drifted downward over his large features.
"_Sacre!_ but thou art a queer one, and no fool," said the Jacobin.
"Thou wilt be dead before long; a monstrous pity! I would give my place
for thy laugh."
"'T is a bargain to my mind. Let us change. I shall set thee free at
once--at once, citizen commissioner; I bear no malice."
Amar, silent for a moment, stroked his nose with thumb and finger.
"Thou dost not remind me thou didst save my life."
"No; what is the use?"
"Use? Why not?"
"Because men like the citizen commissioner do not lightly change. I
have a too plain recollection of what I was promised in return for my
benevolence. I should regret it except for--"
"For what?" said Amar.
Then Francois rose to the height of his greatness.
"I am a Frenchman, even if I am not of thy party. Had not the country
needed thee, that day had been thy last. Citizen, as a man thou wouldst
set me free; as a patriot thou wilt bow to the law of the republic. I am
willing to die rather than soil the record of one to whom France owes so
much." An overwhelming solemnity of aspect came upon this comedian's
face as it met the gaze of the commissioner. "Alas! the country has few
such citizens."
"_Tonnerre_! True--true; it is sad." The man's vanity was excelled
only by that of the prisoner before him. Francois had personal
appreciation of the influential value of the bait he cast. A great
diplomatist of the older type was lost when Francois took to the war
against society in place of that against nations.
"If the citizen commissioner has no more need of me, I will go! To
waste his time is to waste the genius of France." Not for nothing had
Francois been of late in the society of the Comedie Francaise.
"_Tiens_! Who told thee to go? I desire to do my own thinking. Why
art thou here?"
Francois laughed, but made no other reply.
"Young man, art thou laughing at the Revolutionary Tribunal?"
"Thou art also laughing, monsieur." When Francois laughed, he who
looked at him laughed also.
"_Diable!_ yes. What right hast thou to make an officer of the Great
Committee laugh? Thou wilt get into trouble."
"I am in it now, monsieur--up to the neck."
"No 'monsieur' to me, aristocrat! What brought thee here?"
'"A greedy woman denounced me. Could not I denounce her in turn?"
"_Mort du diable!_ that is a fine idea--to let the denounced also
denounce. It would make things move. I will mention that to Couthon."
The half of the face that was able to express emotion manufactured a
look of ferocious mirth; but it was clear that he took the proposition
seriously.
"It appears that we do not go fast enough, citizen," said Francois. "In
April, 257; in May, so far, only 308. So say the gazettes. What if we
denounce Citizens Robespierre and Vadier? We might go faster. Let us
denounce everybody, and, last, the devil."
Amar set an elbow on the table, and, with his chin in his hand,
considered this novel specimen of humanity.
[Illustration: "AMAR CONSIDERED THIS NOVEL SPECIMEN OF HUMANITY."]
Francois had a controlling idea that what chance of safety there was lay
in complete abandonment to the natural recklessness of his ever-dominant
mood of humor.
"Art thou at the end of thy nonsense, idiot?" said the Jacobin.
"Not quite; the citizen might denounce himself."
"By all the saints! Art making a jest of me--me, Jean Pierre Amar?
Thou must value thy head but little."
"_Dame!_ it was never worth much; and as to saints, one Citizen
Montmorency said yesterday that the republic hath abolished the noblesse
of heaven and earth too. Droll idea, citizen"; and he laughed merrily.
"Oh, quit that infernal laughing! Thou must be of the Comedie
Francaise."
"No; I am of the comedy of France, like the rest--like the commissioner;
but the citizen has two ears for a joke."
"I--I think so"; and he made it manifest by a twisted, unilateral grin
of self-approval. "That idea of the citizen--prisoners denouncing--I
shall not forget that. Wilt thou serve the republic?"
"Why not?"
"These common spies in the prisons are useless. I will put an 'M' to
thy name on our list; 'M' for _mouchard_--spy. That will put thee down
at the bottom whenever the Committee of Safety comes to thy case. I am
not ungrateful."
"Very good," said Francois, promptly. "I am as honest a Jacobin as the
best. I will serve the republic, citizen, to the best of my ability."
"Then thou wilt report once a week, especially on the _ci-devants_. The
head keeper will give thee pen, ink, and paper, and a chance to write
here alone. I will so order it. But beware, citizen! I am not a man
to trifle with; I do not forget.'7
"I should think not," said Francois, humbly.
"And when Gregoire comes, in June, thou wilt report to him."
"I--Gregoire--report--"
"Certainly. What's the matter? Off with thee now. Ah, that _sacre_
Citizen Ste. Luce! I forgot him. Tell him his case will come on
shortly."
"I am sorry."
"That is to lack patriotism."
"But he and De Crosne are the only people who amuse me, and it is dull
in this bird-cage. He swears thou art clumsy with the small sword."
"I--I clumsy! I should like to catch him somewhere. I was too fat; but
now!" and he smote his chest. "Didst thou think me clumsy--me, Pierre
Amar?"
"I? No, indeed. These aristocrats think no one else can handle a
rapier. Ah, if I could fence with the citizen commissioner a little,
and then--"
"Impossible."
"He swears thou art coward enough to use the guillotine to settle a
quarrel, and that thou dost fence like a pigsticker."
Amar, _le farouche_, swore an oath too blasphemous to repeat. The great
thick-lipped mouth moved half across so much of his face as could move
at all. He was speechless with rage, and at last gasped, as he struck
the table: "Me--Amar? Ah, I should like well to let him out and kill
him; and I would, too, but there are Saint-Just, and Couthon, and the
rest. Go; and take care how thou dost conduct thyself. Go! The _sacre_
marquis must take his chance. Pig-sticker indeed!"
Thus terminated this formidable interview; but, alas! it was now close
to the end of May, and in the background of June was the man with the
wart.
The next day, in the garden, Francis related to the marquis his
interview with the dreaded Jacobin. The gentleman was delighted.
"_Mon Dieu_! Francois, you are a great man; but I fear it will do no
good; my turn must be near. De Crosne and poor Fleury got their little
billets last evening, and are off on a voyage of discovery to-morrow,
along with M. de la Morne, and De Lancival, and more. They will be in
good society. Did you think that Jacobin Apollo would be pricked into
letting me out for the chance of killing me?"
"It came near to that, monsieur. I did say that you were not much of a
blade, after all; that Citizen Amar was out of condition when you last
met; and that if he and I could fence a little,--outside, of course,--M.
le Marquis would regret the meeting."
"Delicious! And he took it all?"
"Yes, as little Annette takes a fairy-tale of M. Fleury's--who will tell
no more, poor fellow!"
"But, after all, we are still here. I envy you the interview.
_Parbleu!_ these fellows do their best, but they can't take the jests
out of life. I hope the next world will be as amusing."
As he ceased, Francois exclaimed:
"By all the saints! there is that crazy fool Despard."
"Despard--Despard?" repeated the marquis. "That is a contribution to the
show. How the mischief did he get here?"
The unlucky Jacobin was wandering about like a lost dog, a shabby,
dejected figure. Toto, at play, recognized his master's former partner,
and jumped up in amiable recognition. Despard kicked him, and the
poodle, unaccustomed to rude treatment, fled to Francois. The thief's
long face grew savage and stern; to hurt Toto was a deadly offense.
"Pardon, monsieur," he said to the marquis, and went swiftly to where
Despard stood against the wall.
"Look here, rascal," said Francois; "if ever thou dost kick that dog
again, I will twist thy neck."
Despard did not seem to take in his meaning.
"It is thou, Francois. There is the _ci-devant_--the marquis. I
followed him. I--Pierre Despard--I denounced him. I did it. I am not
afraid."
"Stuff! Didst thou hear me? What have I to do with _ci-devant_
marquises? Thou hast kicked Toto."
"I see him; I must speak with him."
"_Fichtre!_ he is mad," said the thief, and went after him.
At the coming of Despard, ragged, wild-eyed, excited, the group about
the tall gentleman turned.
Despard paused before him. "It is my turn now! I followed--I
followed--I denounced thee--I, Pierre Despard. They will let me out
when thou art to die; it will be soon. I will take thy child--thy
bastard--my wife's child. We will go to see thee--I and thy
hunchback--to see thee on the tumbrel at the guillotine. She hath thy
own cold eyes--frozen eyes. Thou wilt know her by those when thou art
waiting--waiting--shivering."
The marquis listened with entire tranquillity.
"One or two more in the audience will matter little"; and, smiling, he
walked away.
A strange tremor seized on the chin and lower lip of Despard. He said
to Francois, "Come with me," and then, in a bewildered manner, "He isn't
afraid yet. I--I want him to be afraid."
"_Dame!_ thou wilt wait then till the cows roost and the chickens give
milk."
"No; it will come."
"Stuff! How camest thou here? Didst thou denounce thyself? I have
heard of men mad enough to do that."
"No. Do not tell. I trust thee; I always did trust thee. I am a spy.
I am to stay here till I want to be let out, when he--he is tried. I
wanted to watch him. Some day he will have fear--fear--and--I--"
"Well, of all the mad idiots! A mouse to walk into a trap of his own
accord! _Dieu!_ but the cheese must have smelt good to thee."
"I shall go out when I want to go. Didst thou know his daughter is
dead? I am sorry she is dead."
"Yes--God rest her soul!"
"I am sorry she is dead because she cannot be here. I wish she were
here. If only she were here, it would be complete. Then he would be
afraid."
"_Bon Dieu!_" cried several, "he will kill him!" The thief had caught
Pierre by the throat, and, scarce conscious of the peril of his own
strength, he choked the struggling man, and at last, in wild rage,
hurled him back amid a startled mass of tumbled people.
"Beast!" muttered Francois, at his full height regarding angrily the
prostrate man.
In an instant the jailers were at his side. "What is this?" said they.
"He--he kicked my dog!"
"Did he? Well, no more of this, citizen."
"Then let him be careful how he kicks my dog; and take him away, or--"
Pierre needed no further advice.
Presently Ste. Luce came over to Francois.
"What is wrong?"
"He kicked my dog!"
"Indeed? Do you know this man well? Once you warned me about him.
Where have you met?"
"We juggled together, monsieur, when I used to read palms. He is a bit
off his head, I think."
"'T is common in France just now, or else the reverse is. But he has a
damnably good memory. We of Normandy say, 'As is the beast, so are his
claws.' The fellow is of good blood in a way; but, _mon Dieu!_ he is a
coward to be pitied. To be through and through a coward does much
enlarge the limits of calamity. If I or if you were to hate a man, for
reasons good or bad, we would kill him. But a coward! What can he do?
He has his own ways, not mine or yours. His claws are not of the make
of mine. I have no complaint to make as to his fashion of revenging
himself; but really, revenge, I fancy, must lose a good deal of its
distinctness of flavor when it waits this long. It is, I should say,
quite twelve years--quite. There is a child, he says, or there was. Do
you chance to know anything about it?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever see it? Is it male or female?"
"A girl, monsieur. I never saw it."
"How old?"
"I do not know."
"Penitence becomes a question of dates, Francois. But it is true--true
that I never had the least talent for regret; and if a man is not
capable of regret, why, Francois, how the deuce can he achieve
penitence? Don't think I am joking, my most accomplished thief. There
are men here who--there is M. de--well, no matter. There are men here
who are honestly bewailing their past--well, amusements--sins, if you
please. I cannot. There are some here who, because they are noble by
descent, are making believe not to be afraid, and will make believe
until the knife falls. I am not penitent, because I am not; and as to
the knife, I have had a most agreeable life, and should never have gone
on living if life had ceased to amuse me."
He was now silent awhile, his strong, handsome features clear to see, as
they lay on the scant grass in the sunshine. The thief had learned that
at times this great seigneur would talk, and liked to do so; and that at
other times he was to be left to the long silences which were difficult
to secure where this morbidly gay crowd, of all conditions of men, was
seeking the distraction of too incessant chat.
He rose quietly, and went away to talk with Domville of the Comedie, who
himself was always glad of the company of Francois's cheery visage.
In the salon, which was now deserted, he saw Despard. Pierre stood at
an open window, and was pulling at his fingers, as Francois had so often
seen him doing. He was gazing at the people in the yard. His eyes
wandered feebly here and there, as if without interest or purpose. His
attitude of dejection touched some chord of pity in his partner's heart.
"Dame! he must have thought I was rough with him for a dog--a dog." He
had no mind to explain.
Pierre turned to meet him. He was not angry, nor was he excited. The
shifting phases of his malady had brought to him again the horrible
misery of such melancholy as they who are sound of mind cannot conceive.
When this torture has a man in its grip, the past is as nothing; the
present a curse; duty is dead; the future only an assurance of continued
suffering; death becomes an unconsidered trifle; life--continued
life--an unbearable burden.
Poor Pierre said no word of his ex-partner's recent violence. The tears
were running down his cheeks. The man at his side was, as usual, gaily
cheerful.
"What is wrong with thee?" said Francois. "I was hard on thee, but thou
knowest--"
"What is it?" replied Pierre. "I--it is no matter."