AN ULTIMATUM
She slept but fitfully that night, nor did she take any thought of
rest. The new silence which had fallen upon the city in the hour
of truce was for her an armistice of the mind. No longer might she
hope for help or consolation from another. Brandon’s life was in her
keeping. Her own friendship for him was not to be analysed or weighed
up at such a time. She must save him, she said, and dawn must lead her
to the task.
It was strangely silent in the city, and heavy black clouds loomed
where the crimson pall had been. She heard the rain pattering upon
the boards which defended the windows of the house; and ever and
anon a distant bugle reminded her of those who watched in the fields
of the unburied dead. But sleep was far from her eyes. Pacing that
lonely room, her thoughts were not for Strasburg or those who suffered
there. Sometimes she would recall those happy hours in the Niederwald
when Edmond had held her in his arms and they had known the sweetest
first-fruits of love unquestioning. How long ago that day seemed! Yet
she could kneel still at her bedside and witness before God the truth
and fidelity of the love she had given. A great longing to be taken
back to her husband’s arms was the supreme thought of her night. She
loved him so faithfully. He would never fail to understand her. If
only he were in Strasburg, they would go to the Rue de l’Arc-en-Ciel
together, and there would be no more peril for her friend. She
was sure that she owed all she had done to her friendship for a
fellow-countryman who had risked his life that she might have news of
Edmond’s safety. She could not conceive the ingratitude which would
leave her friend to the death of the streets, the death which she had
witnessed in the café of the Minster.
The passionate desire for Edmond’s return was, indeed, ever joined to
that ceaseless thought for Brandon’s safety. The terrible week, which
had struck down the one being in Strasburg at whose side she might have
knelt to tell her strange story, had made of her, she remembered, a
rich woman almost beyond her knowledge. That was no day for the thought
of bequests and wealth; yet even during the stress and distraction of
siege, old Dolomot, the advocate, had come to speak of her inheritance,
and had dwelt upon the new position she soon must take in the city. She
had not reflected upon the power of money before that day, but now a
great idea came to her--the idea of a woman who sees no side-issues but
rejoices already in a scheme new-made. She would purchase Brandon’s
life, she resolved. She cared not what price, she must pay. The men who
lurked about the tavern--their lips should be sealed. She would buy
silence and help--even from Gatelet, who was as poor as any captain
of National Guards might be. And to that end she must have money. Old
Dolomot would find it for her, and she would go to his house when day
came. The morrow must send messengers to every quarter of the city for
Richard Watts. Hope had saved Brandon already. She slept at dawn with
hope for her dreams.
The truce of night was over when she quitted her house very early in
the morning and set out to find Maître Dolomot. She could hear the
guns booming again, and often a terrible sound of buildings falling,
so that the very ground quaked beneath her feet and the whole city
quivered with the impact. The fresh breezes of the day came to her
choked with dust and sour with the acrid odours of gunpowder. She
could see the smoke of fires against which the summer rain had warred
in vain. Few civilians trod the streets of the northern suburbs, nor
was there any sign of life except in the churches, towards which women
turned tremblingly, as though the houses of God might defy the terror.
At intervals some scene of surpassing desolation compelled her to
remember the German oath that not one stone of Strasburg should stand
upon another. She beheld acres of rubbish and dust which yesterday had
been mansions of renown. Vast ruins vomited flame and smoke as though
funnels of the very pit of hell. Ambulances passed her only to give
visions of stricken faces and bloody clothes.
From this place of death and darkness she passed quickly to the safer
streets and the southern arrondissement. There were people abroad
here--timorous men who denounced the folly of the siege and cursed
the name of Uhrich the brave; women, who spoke of their troubles and
their hunger; little children, playing in the gutter, oblivious of the
peril hurtling above them. One poor creature, driven from her home by
a shell, ran to and fro distractedly with her babe in her arms. She
called God to witness that the babe was dead; but the onlookers laughed
at her, for they could hear the little one’s voice, and for the frenzy
of fear they had no pity. Such gunners and _mobiles_ as walked the
streets were begging drink-money of the people. Beatrix sought to pass
through them unobserved; but they swarmed about her threateningly, and
when she threw down her purse they fought for it, with savage cries and
bayonets drawn. She could still hear their voices when she turned into
the Rue St. Thomas and rang at Maître Dolomot’s door.
Twice she rang at the great brass bell, but no one answered her. A
lad, playing in the street before the solicitor’s door, told her there
was no one in the house. She rang a third time, and knocked loudly
and repeatedly. Slow to believe that fortune had played her this new
trick, she lingered about the place, gazing up at gloomy blinds and
the smokeless chimneys. Her great idea ebbed away while she waited. In
a sudden rush of fear, she remembered that Brandon must settle with
the woman to-night. And she must have money. His life was the price of
defeat.
Again and again she repeated the truth, as quick steps carried her back
to the Place Kleber and to her house. Child-like, she began to say that
surely there was one man in Strasburg who would take pity upon her. The
Abbé Colot, she knew, was her friend. She would go to him now, on the
instant, and tell him her story. He would help her. He was a priest
and would keep her secret. She remembered that his house was not a
stone’s throw from that very church of St. Thomas whose roof she could
see above the buildings. Thither she turned with new hope, but had gone
but a little way upon her errand when a hand was laid lightly upon her
shoulder, and, hesitating, she found herself face to face with the last
man in all Strasburg she would have wished to meet. For Gatelet stood
before her; and there was that on his face which betrayed a knowledge
of her errand.
“Ah,” he said curtly, “you are surprised, Madame.”
“And why, Monsieur?”
“Because of many things. Maître Dolomot, for instance, has gone to
Geneva.”
“Is not that my business?”
“Not at all. It is the business of those who safeguard the honour
of the city, Madame. We must have a little talk, you and I. Let us
sit at the café, here. There is too much noise in Strasburg to fear
eavesdroppers. And I want to talk to you very much, little Beatrix--”
She turned on him, flushing at his unabashed familiarity.
“How dare you?” she said.
He ignored her anger, and stalked into the café, setting a chair for
her at one of the little marble tables. A waiter came up and asked for
orders.
“Let me prescribe a glass of brandy. You are not well this morning,
Madame.”
She shook her head, but sat down, pulling excitedly at her glove. She
knew that she must listen to this man. He, in turn, gauged exactly the
measure of his power over her.
“Come,” he said, “do not be angry with me. We are friends together,
in a good cause. If I were not your friend, I should not be here this
morning. On the contrary, I should be in the Rue--but no names, my
dear, they are not necessary--let us say that I should be telling
my friends to go and see the young man whose foot was crushed by an
artillery waggon. You would not like that--eh? Well, be reasonable,
then, and listen to what I have to say.”
A murmur of assent escaped her lips. The pallor of death was on her
face. The ungloved hands showed blue veins outstanding as upon a hand
of clay.
“What do you want me to do, Monsieur?” she asked in a low voice.
He bent over the table, and whispered the words in her ear.
“To be my friend, little Beatrix.”
She rose from the table.
[Illustration: “The Frenchman ... reeled back across the table.”]
“You are a coward,” she said quickly.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“There is no cowardice in love. Do not agitate yourself, my dear. I
will give you time to think it over. You shall tell me to-night. To-day
they want me at the barracks; but I am coming back by-and-by, and if
you do not wish to be my friend, we shall go to the Rue--ah, no names,
Madame, no names yet--”
He rose also, for he thought that she was about to faint. The touch of
his hand seemed to burn her wrist. She uttered a loud cry, and strove
to release herself.
“Do not make a scene, Madame; and remember, I must have your answer
to-night.”
She had no voice to respond; but another, a man who crossed the road
quickly when he heard her cry, answered for her.
“Take that, and be damned to you,” he said.
The Frenchman, struck heavily upon the face, reeled back across the
table. But Beatrix fell sobbing into the arms of Richard Watts.