Le glaive est contre toi tourne de toutes parties.
La Harpe, “Jeanne de Naples,” Act iv. sc. 4.
(The sword is raised against you on all sides.)
In the mean time Glyndon, after an audience of some length with C--,
in which the final preparations were arranged, sanguine of safety,
and foreseeing no obstacle to escape, bent his way back to Fillide.
Suddenly, in the midst of his cheerful thoughts, he fancied he heard a
voice too well and too terribly recognised, hissing in his ear, “What!
thou wouldst defy and escape me! thou wouldst go back to virtue and
content. It is in vain,--it is too late. No, _I_ will not haunt thee;
HUMAN footsteps, no less inexorable, dog thee now. Me thou shalt not see
again till in the dungeon, at midnight, before thy doom! Behold--”
And Glyndon, mechanically turning his head, saw, close behind him, the
stealthy figure of a man whom he had observed before, but with little
heed, pass and repass him, as he quitted the house of Citizen C--.
Instantly and instinctively he knew that he was watched,--that he was
pursued. The street he was in was obscure and deserted, for the day was
oppressively sultry, and it was the hour when few were abroad, either
on business or pleasure. Bold as he was, an icy chill shot through his
heart, he knew too well the tremendous system that then reigned in Paris
not to be aware of his danger. As the sight of the first plague-boil to
the victim of the pestilence, was the first sight of the shadowy spy
to that of the Revolution: the watch, the arrest, the trial, the
guillotine,--these made the regular and rapid steps of the monster that
the anarchists called Law! He breathed hard, he heard distinctly the
loud beating of his heart. And so he paused, still and motionless,
gazing upon the shadow that halted also behind him.
Presently, the absence of all allies to the spy, the solitude of the
streets, reanimated his courage; he made a step towards his pursuer, who
retreated as he advanced. “Citizen, thou followest me,” he said. “Thy
business?”
“Surely,” answered the man, with a deprecating smile, “the streets are
broad enough for both? Thou art not so bad a republican as to arrogate
all Paris to thyself!”
“Go on first, then. I make way for thee.”
The man bowed, doffed his hat politely, and passed forward. The next
moment Glyndon plunged into a winding lane, and fled fast through a
labyrinth of streets, passages, and alleys. By degrees he composed
himself, and, looking behind, imagined that he had baffled the pursuer;
he then, by a circuitous route, bent his way once more to his home. As
he emerged into one of the broader streets, a passenger, wrapped in
a mantle, brushing so quickly by him that he did not observe his
countenance, whispered, “Clarence Glyndon, you are dogged,--follow
me!” and the stranger walked quickly before him. Clarence turned, and
sickened once more to see at his heels, with the same servile smile
on his face, the pursuer he fancied he had escaped. He forgot the
injunction of the stranger to follow him, and perceiving a crowd
gathered close at hand, round a caricature-shop, dived amidst them, and,
gaining another street, altered the direction he had before taken, and,
after a long and breathless course, gained without once more seeing the
spy, a distant quartier of the city.
Here, indeed, all seemed so serene and fair that his artist eye, even
in that imminent hour, rested with pleasure on the scene. It was a
comparatively broad space, formed by one of the noble quays. The Seine
flowed majestically along, with boats and craft resting on its surface.
The sun gilt a thousand spires and domes, and gleamed on the white
palaces of a fallen chivalry. Here fatigued and panting, he paused an
instant, and a cooler air from the river fanned his brow. “Awhile, at
least, I am safe here,” he murmured; and as he spoke, some thirty paces
behind him, he beheld the spy. He stood rooted to the spot; wearied and
spent as he was, escape seemed no longer possible,--the river on one
side (no bridge at hand), and the long row of mansions closing up the
other. As he halted, he heard laughter and obscene songs from a house a
little in his rear, between himself and the spy. It was a cafe fearfully
known in that quarter. Hither often resorted the black troop of
Henriot,--the minions and huissiers of Robespierre. The spy, then,
had hunted the victim within the jaws of the hounds. The man slowly
advanced, and, pausing before the open window of the cafe, put his head
through the aperture, as to address and summon forth its armed inmates.
At that very instant, and while the spy’s head was thus turned from him,
standing in the half-open gateway of the house immediately before
him, he perceived the stranger who had warned; the figure, scarcely
distinguishable through the mantle that wrapped it, motioned to him
to enter. He sprang noiselessly through the friendly opening: the door
closed; breathlessly he followed the stranger up a flight of broad
stairs and through a suite of empty rooms, until, having gained a small
cabinet, his conductor doffed the large hat and the long mantle that had
hitherto concealed his shape and features, and Glyndon beheld Zanoni!