THE BEGINNING OF THE TERROR
Many fled from the city in the week that followed that memorable
Sunday; but old Hélène remained in the Place Kleber. No word or
argument would turn her from her purpose. The people looked to her for
example. She would not fail them. Even the Bishop himself, who came
daily to her house to counsel flight, could not persuade her.
“I have lived here for fifty years,” she said; “am I to run away now
because the gates are closed to the enemies of France? Is that your
advice, monseigneur? Shall we leave the sick in their beds and the
wounded to die in the streets? Shall we say, ‘Good-bye, brave fellows;
when the war is done we will come back from Geneva to thank you’? Is
this our trust in the God of France? Ah, you do not think so, my good
friend--you do not wish it.”
The Bishop shook his head, but could not gainsay her.
“You do not know what is about to happen to us,” he said gently; “every
day there are more Prussians in the Ruprecht’s Au. Guns are coming
always from Coblentz and Wesel and Magdeburg. They will not leave one
stone upon another--I tremble for you and yours, my daughter. Yet, God
knows, we should be grateful for your courage.”
There was no braver man in Strasburg, and he would leave the Place
Kleber with a glad heart after such a talk as this. To all who doubted,
or were craven or of little faith, he said--
“Go to Madame Hélène, my son. She is a woman, and she will protect you.
While one stone stands upon another, the Mother of the City prays for
her children. Go to her, and tell her that you wish the General to open
the gates.”
They turned away ashamed, and went abroad to spread the good tidings.
Everywhere the placid life of the great house was an example for the
city. And never was example needed so sorely by a people. Day by day
the news was more grave, the situation more hopeless. Now tidings of
von Werder’s march, now news of the Prussian guns, now of the fall of
villages--every hour added to the dismay and the panic. Unwillingly men
and women began to realise that their mighty citadel, their ramparts,
which had stood up during the centuries, were powerless to break the
girdle of iron which cut them off from France and liberty and even
the common things of life. They spoke of courage, of endurance, of
resistance to the last man; yet this talk was for the café and the
market-place. At home, with their children about them, they began to
forget even the vocations which gave them bread. Unrest and doubt were
everywhere. When the first of the guns was heard, and men knew that at
last the hour was at hand, they went bravely through the streets; but
the thought of each one was for the house which sheltered him, for the
safety of those whom it had been his life’s task to foster.
Beatrix was often abroad in the streets of the city after the day of
her meeting with Brandon North; but she did not fear as the others
about her, nor share their apprehensions. The safety of Strasburg was
no longer of moment to her. She counted the days which should bring
her some news of Edmond or of her letter. There was always in her mind
the thought that Brandon might come again, and that her secret would
be discovered. She could imagine a guilt of that secrecy which others,
perchance, would not lay to her charge. The doubt that Edmond might
not approve, might even blame her for the friendship, was not to be
satisfied. She did not know if Brandon had escaped again after his
flight from the Rue de Kehl. Wherever, in the public places, she saw a
concourse of people, then her heart faltered and her step trembled. She
could not forget that white face in the café--the blood that trickled
upon it, the merciless canes which beat it down. If that man had been
her English friend!
Night and day she thought of these things, sleeping little, walking
abroad for the very sake of solitude. It was a strain to eat at the
great table, and to hear old Hélène’s brave words, and to realise how
little she shared that enduring belief in the glory of France and the
hopes for the days to come. Sometimes she had the impulse to tell all,
to say, “I have seen Brandon in the Rue de Kehl, and he has taken my
letter to Ulm.” Her promise remained, however. A whisper might endanger
the life of the man who had risked so much to save her. She could
satisfy her own conscience, but not the reason of others, she thought.
There were few of her friends in the city, but such as braved the siege
she saw every day; and forgot her own care in the babble of news and
scandal. Pretty Thérèse Lavencourt and Georgine took her to the gardens
often; and it was in the gardens, just ten days after Brandon’s flight,
that she first met the man Gatelet again, and found herself face to
face with him. She knew that her cheeks flushed crimson, and she could
hear her heart beating; but she was smiling when she took his hand, and
she realised what part she must play.
“Ah,” he said gaily, “then the guns do not keep you from the gardens,
ladies?”
Thérèse Lavencourt laughed in that high key which was the terror of
amateur pianists who played often at her mother’s house.
“Oh, but you are here, monsieur,” she said.
He bowed at the compliment, and other officers, hussars, and
_francs-tireurs_ came up to the place.
“Here is Mademoiselle Lavencourt, come to dance to the music of the
guns,” he exclaimed; “we shall make a set of quadrilles, eh, Duvisne!”
A very thin lancer, thus appealed to, answered:
“The set would only be complete when the Captain comes back. Have you
any news of your husband, Madame Lefort?”
Beatrix looked at Gatelet in spite of herself, but answered frankly--
“I believe he is at Ulm, Monsieur. He will not give his parole, and we
must wait for your dance until the war is over.”
“Bravo, bravo!” cried several voices together, but Gatelet said--
“If only the Germans would wait also! There is too much brass in
their band for my taste. Yesterday they played all day upon the Porte
Saverne. You can hear the music now if you will listen--”
They waited a moment, and a low booming report seemed to shake the
very ground beneath their feet. Thérèse Lavencourt laughed again, but
Georgine, a plump blonde from Rouen, feigned alarm, and leaned heavily
upon the young lancer’s arm.
“Oh, Monsieur,” she cried, “how silly of me! And I have no husband at
Ulm!”
Thérèse Lavencourt took up the theme as they all began to walk slowly
toward a stand where the band played a military march with all that
fervour which marked the faith of Strasburg in the first days of her
isolation.
“That is the worst of husbands,” she exclaimed, with a glance at a
captain of hussars which was unmistakable; “first you want them to show
themselves; then you want them to go away. When they are gone, you shed
tears. How silly it all is! And, of course, one pretends to be sorry,
and all that. As if there was nothing else in life but marriage!”
“Nevertheless, marriage is decidedly amusing,” exclaimed the captain of
hussars. It was the very subject he desired to speak about.
Light wit and shallow talk drew the little group away from the music to
the shelter of the shrubberies. Beatrix found herself suddenly alone
with Gatelet. She was sure that he had contrived the rendezvous, and he
took up the conversation at once.
“You hear that, Madame Lefort. But you do not agree with it, of course.
If she had said that marriage was exciting--”
“Exciting, Monsieur?”
He laughed brutally.
“Certainly; I said exciting.”
She answered him very coldly:
“I have never thought about the question.”
“Naturally--you leave others to think. Your friends, for instance. Pray
count me among the number.”
The very suggestion was an insult--a subtle insult; but she realised
that in some way this man shared a secret momentous to her happiness,
and she restrained her just resentment.
“You were my husband’s friend, Monsieur Gatelet; I am sure you are
mine.”
“Do not doubt it. It is pleasant to see the faces one knows when so
many are missing. I think often of our old acquaintances--of Tripard,
and Giraud, and Chandellier, and the Englishman. Ah, you remember the
Englishman, Brandon North, Madame?”
She doubted no longer that he knew the truth. Hot blood flushed her
cheeks crimson. This man shared her secret, then--this man who had
twice insulted her in as many minutes.
“I remember Mr. Brandon North, certainly,” she exclaimed, making a
supreme effort to retain her self-control; “he was one of my husband’s
friends.”
The man nodded his head cunningly.
“I am sure of it--as he is a friend of yours, Madame. You will be glad
on that account to know that he is still in Strasburg.”
She was not actress enough to restrain the cry which came to her lips.
“Still in Strasburg, Monsieur--Mr. North in Strasburg!”
He took her by the arm and began to speak with a familiarity which he
claimed of his knowledge.
“Listen,” he said; “you can trust me. When he left you last Sunday--do
not mind that I know--I am a man of honour--when he left you last
Sunday he meant to go back to his German friends. But a little accident
happened, Madame--you never thought of that. He wished to leave us,
but he was not able. At the corner of the Rue de Kehl a gun-carriage
crushed his ankle. He fell fainting, but it was I who helped him up.
‘He is the good friend of Madame Lefort,’ I said; ‘he shall suffer
nothing at my hands, for I am sure he is not here to spy out our
secrets. And he is in Strasburg now, at the house of Madame Clairon in
the Rue de l’Arc-en-Ciel. He waits for you to go there; you will not
disappoint him.”
He released her hand, and with a familiar salute, the meaning of which
was unmistakable, he left her. His words were as a blow upon her face.
She knew that the life of her friend was in this man’s keeping--the
gift of one who had put upon her the ultimate insult.