occurrence?" said the first voice.
"Of course not," was the reply, "but what would you? I cannot cross the
frontier. Buonaparte will not let the de Moncourt go even to Brussels;
so the plan of my traveling with her as her servant cannot be carried
out."
It was the mention of his wife's name that had riveted St. Just's
attention.
"Has the man Garraud been sounded?" resumed the first man.
"Yes, but to no purpose. No boat can either land at Marseilles, or
leave it, without his permission; and he will not give it, without
knowing all the ins and outs of the application. He is a faithful
adherent of the first Consul."
"H'm," thoughtfully, "then we must find a spot near Boulogne. The
English smuggler, Wright, may be relied upon, you think?"
"I think so--if he be well paid; and this we are prepared to do."
"Well, look him up, and sound him carefully. I shall see you at Auteuil
to-night?"
"Certainly; I shall be at Madame's reception. It is said the Duke is to
be there."
No more was said, and the next sound that reached the listener's ear was
that of persons moving. Evidently, either the conference was at an end,
or they feared they were being overheard. At any rate, the speakers
left the booth, though not by the entrance at which stood St. Just, but
by some exit at the back. Anxious to see them and, if he thought it
wise, to follow them, in the hope of learning Halima's address, he
hurried round the corner for the purpose. Not watching whither he was
going, he ran into a chestnut roaster, whose chestnuts lay untended,
while the man himself was kneeling on one knee and peering earnestly
into the booth.
So sudden and forcible was their impact, that both men fell. Quick as
thought, the chestnut seller was on his legs again; then, without giving
a moment's consideration to his merchandise, he took to his heels.
St. Just, less fortunate, had no sooner risen to his feet than he found
himself in the grasp of the two men whose voices he had overheard.
Both were roughly attired; one, whose face was smeared with black,
looked like a coal dealer; the other like a laborer.
"A word with you, my friend," said he with the coal dust on his face,
and, between them, they led St. Just into the booth. He made no
resistance; he was without fear, and besides, it was broad daylight in a
crowded neighborhood. He was slightly curious too, to know what they
would say to him.
They motioned him to a wooden stool, which he took without a word.
Then, when they also had seated themselves, between him and the
entrance, the man who had first spoken addressed him roughly:--
"Now then, who the deuce are you, prowling about the stalls and prying
into other men's affairs? Some wretched market thief, no doubt. What
were you and that other rascal doing--the man that ran away?"
The man's words and manner took St. Just aback. "From my heart (De mon
coeur)," he began to stammer apologetically, his pronunciation being by
no means clear; so much so, that he was misunderstood. At any rate, his
words were magical in their effect. Before he could add another, both
men sprang to their feet and looked earnestly into his face.
"Who? What?" demanded the man who had first questioned him. "How came
you here? Do you come from her?"
The other man held up a warning finger, and the speaker changed his tone
and subject. "Have you any business with us, Sir, any orders for fuel,
that we find you about our booth?"
He spoke nervously, and St. Just saw that he was ill at ease. He was
more bewildered now than ever.
"Gentlemen," he said, and he could not forbear a smile, "you manners
are, to say the least, bizarre; you begin by rating me, suggesting that
I am a market thief, and then you ask me whether I bring an order for
your wares. I can see that my presence has in some way disconcerted
you; but why, I am at a loss to tell. Though I am in no way accountable
to you for my actions, I will not emulate your want of courtesy, but
will tell you frankly why you find me here. You may be able to assist
me; sometimes one gains intelligence from most unlikely quarters."
His hearers looked at him in some surprise; they doubted whether he was
not amusing himself at their expense. His bearing puzzled them.
"Anything we can do to assist Monsieur," began the one who had not yet
spoken.
St. Just bowed and resumed, "There is little to tell, and that little is
soon told. I have been but a few days in Paris, and I came to make
inquiries for a person for whom I have an important communication. I
was merely strolling about here on the chance of meeting some one who
could give me the address of the one I seek. Now, gentlemen, you know
my business. There is naught of mystery about it, though something I
did or said a while ago seemed to discompose you strangely."
The men seemed now reassured, satisfied that his presence there was an
accident and himself no spy upon their actions. His frankness and
dauntlessness had disarmed them. They hastened to apologize, and then
the man with the swarthy face went on, "It is just possible, but hardly
likely, that we might give the information Monsieur seeks. If Monsieur
would be at the trouble to state the name of the person he inquires
about--"
"But certainly," St. Just interrupted, "the lady's name is Madame de
Moncourt."
Again both men started visibly; it was plain that this name was wholly
unexpected by them; and that its mention stirred them greatly. In his
way St. Just was almost as astonished as themselves; he never thought to
get the news he sought from them. Now he was assured that they could
give it.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I see that the name is not unknown to you and
that you can oblige me with the lady's address. It was a fortunate
circumstance that brought me to you."
The next moment he had reason to doubt the truth of this last remark,
for, in an instant, he found himself seized, and a dagger pointed at his
heart. At the same time, a voice muttered in tones that, though low,
were distinct enough, "The first of your myrmidons who enters here shall
see this planted in your breast."
For all the suddenness of the attack and his inward trepidation, St.
Just showed no outward mark of flinching. He knew his best chance of
safety lay in keeping cool and exhibiting no signs of fear.
"Is this a comedy, Gentlemen," he said, "or what? Such rapid changes in
demeanor I never saw before; one moment you are all courtesy, the next
all menace. I think, if you would explain yourselves, we should the
better understand each other. First, for whom or what do you take me?"
"For an agent of Police," was the reply, the poniard still held in
unpleasant closeness to his breast.
St. Just laughed scornfully.
"My good sirs," he said, "so far am I from that, that did they but know
I am in Paris, they would arrest me. I am unarmed; search me."
Once more he was beginning to regain their confidence; what he said
seemed reasonable enough.
"Will you allow us first to bind your hands?" asked the man with the
coal-stained face, who seemed to take the lead throughout.
"By all means," was St. Just's answer, and he held out his hands and
brought his wrists together.
One of the men took out a handkerchief and with this he tied his hands
together; then searched him carefully, the other, meanwhile, still
keening the dagger in position.
Finding him unarmed, as he had stated, and that he had nothing about him
to connect him with the Police, the men once more became composed, and
he who held the weapon lowered it. St. Just was the first to speak.
"Now, gentlemen, I trust that you are satisfied that I had no designs
against you. I know nothing whatever of your business, nor do I seek to
know it. But I will be frank with you; I am sure you are not what you
seem; your speech and manner belie your dress. Further, I believe the
man I ran against outside was watching you. You know best whether he
had any object and whether you run any risk.
"And now you will confer a favor on me, by giving me the address of
Madame de Moncourt."
"Peste! Monsieur," said the leading man, with a gesture of annoyance,
"what folly is this? Why do you persist in assuming that we can help
you to it?"
"I know you can," was the cool reply.
"You are bold, Monsieur."
"And determined," he retorted.
The men moved to a little distance from him and held a whispered
consultation. After a few minutes, the first man again addressed him.
"What is the nature of your business with Madame de Moncourt? Your
visit might be unwelcome to her."
"Nay, gentlemen, I have not asked your business. I claim the same
consideration."
"Your name?"
"That question also I have not put to you. Thus much, however, I will
tell you; that what I have to say to Madame de Moncourt will cause her
the utmost satisfaction, and that she will hold him her enemy who
obstructs me. If you decline to furnish me with what I ask, I shall
soon elsewhere obtain it; you will merely delay, but not restrain me.
Still even delay I am desirous to avoid. I have another suggestion to
make, if you still doubt me; will you give me your word of honor to
convey a letter from me to the lady?"
There was another whispered conversation, and, at the end of it, they
advanced to him again.
"We have discussed this matter," said the man who had first addressed
him, "and this is our conclusion. We are ready to take you at once to
Madame de Moncourt, provided you agree to our conditions. If you are a
true man and are as anxious as you say to obtain speech with her, you
will show your confidence in us by agreeing to them. If you decline,
we, on our part, shall decline to convey any letter from you to her."
A smile of satisfaction lighted up the hearer's face; he was to see
Halima; all else mattered nothing. The promptness and decision of his
answer were worthy of Buonaparte himself:--
"I accept your conditions in advance."
It was now the others' turn to smile.
"Your trust in us is highly flattering, my friend," said one; "but
surely it is somewhat indiscreet. Had you not better hear our
stipulations before you commit yourself to their acceptance."
"I care not what they are," St. Just rejoined impetuously; "but name
them, we are wasting time."
"In the first place you will have to consent to make the journey
blindfold; and, should Madame decline to see you, or fail to recognize
you, or, having recognized you, desire your absence; to be brought back
here in the same condition."
"I agree to that without the slightest hesitation. But surely for you
to traverse the streets with a blindfolded man, either on foot or in a
vehicle, would arouse suspicion; which, I take it, gentlemen, is not
what you desire."
"Excellently put, Monsieur; your perspicuity does you credit. We
purpose taking steps to provide against the danger you suggest. In
effect, you will be carted to our destination in the guise of
merchandise--firewood, to be precise."
It was a curious mode of transit, but St. Just at once consented. He
was prepared to submit to almost any inconvenience to see his wife.
Then they proceeded to unfold their plan, and no time was lost in
putting it in execution.
A long, open wicker basket, almost as long as a coffin, and considerably
broader and higher--such as is used for carrying firewood--was dragged
from the corner of the booth. Then a handkerchief was tied across St.
Just's eyes. They wished to gag him, but refrained on his giving his
word of honor that he would not utter a sound. Then they tied his feet
together, his hands being already bound. Next he was lifted into the
basket, the sides and ends of which were then lined with bundles of
firewood, a layer being also laid upon the top of him.
Then one of the men went away to fetch a cart. St. Just hoped the
journey was not to be a long one, for already he was beginning to feel
far from comfortable; he was lying on his side, his knees doubled up to
his chest. Though the air was cool and fresh outside, in his cubicle,
packed round, as he was, with wood, it was almost stifling, and he began
to sweat profusely. Breathing became oppressive, and his limbs soon
ached with cramp. Then an intolerable itching of the skin set in, and
the unsatisfied desire to scratch almost drove him mad. He fancied that
his sensations must be those of a person buried alive.
After enduring this for about ten minutes--but which seemed to him a
good half hour--he heard a cart draw up. Then he felt that he was being
carried out and hoisted into it, and that wood and charcoal--as he
supposed--were being thrown in after him.
Next, one man mounted on the cart, and another placed himself beside the
horse, and they moved away.
Placed as he was, it was impossible for the passenger to see whither
they were going, nor could he guess at their direction. But, after
jolting and bumping along what seemed to him interminable streets, he
believed they had reached a city barrier. At any rate, the cart was
brought to a standstill, and a colloquy took place.
It must have been satisfactory, for they soon set off again, and now
proceeded for what St. Just, in his imprisonment, thought many miles
along a road without a turn. Then, from the change in his position, he
could feel that they were going up hill; next, after a moment's halt,
they passed through a gate; he knew this because he heard the gate clang
to behind them.
At last, when his sufferings from his cramped position and the
difficulty of breathing had become almost insupportable, and he was
feeling that, unless they should be quickly ended, he must call out,
despite his word of honor to keep silent, the cart came to a final stop.
After that, his imprisonment did not last long. The basket was soon
hauled out, and St. Just was lifted from it. He was in a pitiable
condition; not only was his face streaming with perspiration, but he was
wet through from the same cause from head to foot, and he was gasping
for breath. When they untied his legs and arms, he was so stiff that it
was some time before he could straighten them, and, of course, to stand
was quite out of the question.
But oh! the relief of being able to breathe without restraint. He lay
panting on the ground, drinking in deep draughts of fresh, cool air,
seeming as though he would never have enough. In a few minutes, he
became himself, except for the stiffness of his limbs; every bone in his
body ached, and the pain when he tried to move was terrible.
All this time, no word had been spoken by his conductors; but, when they
saw that he was breathing easily, they expressed their regret for the
discomfort they had put him to, at the same time telling him that they
were now in Madame de Moncourt's grounds.
Then they helped him to his legs and supported him while they moved him
about quietly, until he could stand alone. Next they straightened and
bent his arms. The pain of all this was excessive, but he bore it
manfully, bore it with the hope that he was so soon to see his wife. In
a short time he could work his arms and legs without much pain, though
stiffly still.
"You can walk now?" asked one of his companions.
"Walk!" repeated St. Just, with a laugh, "my faith, it will be some time
before I can walk like a sober man; but I can crawl, which must serve me
for the present. I seem to have no joints, and my sinews feel as though
they were tied in knots. Never before have I endured such purgatory.
But 'tis over, and I do not regret it, since it is to bring me to Madame
de Moncourt."
All this time they were in the open air.
"We will proceed then," said a voice which St. Just recognized as the
smutty faced man's. And he put his arm through St. Just's, and the
three proceeded to a door, through which they passed, and, by the
difference in the air and sound, the blindfolded man at once knew that
he was inside a building. Then he was led along a passage, another door
was opened, and they entered a room, the door of which was closed behind
them.
"Pray be seated, Monsieur," said the voice that had spoken last; and a
chair was placed behind him.
St. Just did so, and the next moment, the bandage was taken from his
eyes. After having been so long in darkness, he was almost blinded by
the sudden light, and was forced to place his hand before his eyes; but,
in a few seconds, they had become used to it.
"Thank God, I am able to use my eyes again," he said. "Doubtless,
Monsieurs, you have not restored my sight for nothing, and you will now
lead me to Madame de Moncourt."
"Softly, Sir," was the reply; "we know not yet whether she will desire
to see you. If not, you will remember our bargain, that you are to
return to Paris under the same conditions that attended your arrival
here.
"Pen, ink and paper are before you; write what you think proper to
Madame, and it shall be delivered at once; the result will rest with
her."
"What I desire above all things," replied St. Just; and he drew his
chair up to the table and sat down to write. It was only a few lines,
and it was in Arabic. He took this precaution lest his companions
should attempt to read it, though, at the same time, he thought it most
unlikely. He addressed the note in French, then handed it to one of the
men, who left the room with it, the other remaining behind to watch him.
Not two minutes had elapsed when his messenger returned; there was a
marked change in him. He was no longer cold and unbending, but there
was a smile on his face, his tones were genial and his bearing was
almost deferential.
"First let me apologize, Monsieur," he said, "for the unconventional
and, I fear, painful mode of your conveyance here. I can assure you we
had strong reasons for our seeming want of courtesy, and--"
"Pray say no more," interposed St. Just. "My journey, I cannot deny,
was somewhat rough; but, if you bring me the news that Madame will
receive me, it will be to me as though it had never been. I am
impatient only for her answer to my note."
"She bids me say that it will give her great pleasure to receive you. A
servant will be here to attend you to her almost immediately."
The man had scarcely ceased speaking, when the door was opened and a man
in livery entered. Approaching St. Just, he bent deferentially before
him, while he said:--
"Madame awaits Monsieur." Then he moved to the door and opened it.
Bowing to his companions, who replied with, "An revoir, Monsieur," St.
Just left the room, and then followed the man-servant, his heart beating
with exultation as well as trepidation. A minute later, the door of
another room was opened; then closed behind him. Instantly a well-known
figure rushed up to him and flung herself into his arms.
"Henri! at last, my husband!"
"Halima, once more I have you!"
*CHAPTER III.*
St. Just led his wife to a couch and, seating himself beside her, placed
his arm round her waist and drew her to him in a close embrace. Then,
interspersing his words with fervid kisses, he exclaimed:--
"Once more we are together, my beloved, my darling, my wife. My Queen!
you are more beautiful than ever. Oh! to think of all that I have
missed, the years that we have been parted. And you, my Halima, have
you thought of me?"
"Often indeed, my Henri, but with tears, as of one whom I should never
see again; for I feared that you were no longer living. I felt sure my
husband would come back to me, were he alive. Oh! why did you leave me
all these years--it is more than three? It was cruel, Henri!"
"Cruel indeed, had I had the power. But I will tell you all that has
befallen me since we parted. You will then see that I have not been to
blame. Ah! I would have flown to your side, had I been able."
His eyes were all aflame with love, and he pressed her closely to
him--almost savagely--and rained fresh kisses on her blushing face. She
could not doubt the depth and fervor of his passion, and she had an
intuition that it would be lasting. Moreover, his unstinted admiration
was a tribute to her beauty, that appealed to the leading attribute of
her being--pride in her own surpassing loveliness--and filled her with
exultation and delight. No one knew better than herself the power that
lies behind the eyes and smiles of a lovely woman, and in her own
person, she missed no occasion of exploiting it; for the homage of the
other sex was as the breath of life to her; a necessity of her
existence. And she was irresistible; no man could approach her without
becoming, if she so willed it, her devoted slave. Their hearts were as
tinder to the spark of her personality. She was fascination in the
concrete. All the Frenchmen she had met in Paris pronounced her
"ravissante," and that summed her up. What contributed much to her
success was that she retained the mastery of her own feelings; for no
man, save St. Just, had plumbed the depth of passion in her; thus she
had all others at a disadvantage. There were many that she liked, some
that she had a certain fondness for, but none that could appease that
love hunger that St. Just had roused in her and, when with her,
satisfied. But, warm as her affection was for him, it was more ardent
than enduring; for, when away from him, she was ready to console herself
with others. "La donna e mobile," might well have been applied to her.
She was a strange mixture, for, while erotic passion was strong in her
voluptuous nature, she was discriminate in its indulgence; and, while
she was sensual to the fingers' tips, there were few indeed who could
boast with truth of having enjoyed her favors.
Now, at her husband's close embrace, her whole being trembled with
desire, and she bent her eyes languishingly upon his face, while she
pressed her full red lips against his own; for his ardor had aroused the
like in her.
"Oh! my own, my darling," she softly murmured, "I am in heaven now that
you are back to me. No one has ever touched my heart like you."
For a space, with downcast eyes, she lay panting in his arms; for, what
with their mutual kisses and his strong embrace, to breathe freely was
impossible. Then she struggled gently.
"Loose me somewhat, dear," she gasped. "I love to feel your arms around
me, but your clasp is so unyielding that I scarce can draw my breath.
Nay, withdraw not altogether," she added, when he removed his arms, "but
hold me gently, while you tell me all about yourself. There will be
time for love's dalliances hereafter; now I am burning to be informed of
your adventures."
Thus adjured, St. Just gave her a full description of all his doings
since their separation. The story took long in telling, the longer that
it was continually interrupted by her endearments and sympathetic
comments on his sufferings. When it was ended, everything down to his
arrival in Paris and his appearance in that room having been recounted
she turned to him again.
"Oh! my Henri, what you have suffered," she exclaimed; "and to think
that you should have lost all memory even of me! But, at least, you
were spared the pain of wanting me."
"Ah! but think of the years of love that I have lost; for had I known,
this wasted period would not have been. If necessary, I would have
searched the whole world through for you. But my search would not have
been prolonged, for love would have winged my feet, and brought me
quickly to my goal."
"You can turn a pretty compliment. Tell me now, how like you me in this
costume; you have never yet seen me, but in Eastern dress. Does my
Parisian gown become me, with all these pretty chiffons?"
"You are ravishing, ma cherie; bewitching as you looked in Arab garb,
your charms are even enhanced in European habit. You look a gay
Parisian from head to foot."
Undoubtedly she did. No one, viewing her, would have guessed that in
her veins there ran a drop of Arab blood, for she was fairer even than
most Spanish women.
She laughed merrily at the compliment, for, in many things, she was
pleased as easily as is a child, and was as open in displaying her
delight.
"But now," resumed St. Just, "I am longing to hear about yourself; how
it is I find you here, and what you have been doing in the interval."
"Ah! but it would take all night to tell you everything," was her reply.
"By degrees you shall know all. Rest content on this occasion with the
chief incidents. You know you left me at the "Tomb of the Kings" to
take that treasure on to Cairo. Oh! that horrid treasure! But for
that, I should not have lost you. Well, I waited for month after month
for the message from you that was to tell me where I was to meet you;
and, each day, I became more sad and lonely. Ah! my Henri, how I did
miss you. When no news came, my anxiety became almost insupportable,
for I feared that some misfortune had befallen you; and I--I was
helpless to assist you, for I knew not what it was, or where you were.
"At last, three months after you had left me, one of the men who had
formed your escort came into the camp alone. He could scarcely walk,
but swayed about, like a drunken man, from side to side. He was unarmed
and had scarcely a rag about him, and he looked as though he had not
tasted food for many days. Altogether he was in a pitiable condition.
At first, he was too weak to speak; he staggered into the encampment,
and then his strength gave out, and he fell at full length to the
ground. When he had been sufficiently restored with food and drink, he
was brought to me, and then--then, my husband, I heard the dreadful
news; the very worst that could have happened had befallen me." Even
now she shuddered at its recitation; there was no make-believe about it,
and St. Just's heart leaped with joy and sympathy at the thought of how
she must have loved him.
"He told me," she went on, "of the attack on you at Thebes, and how he
had seen you fall; also that Yusuf who was in the attacking party, had
been slain by Mahmoud. May Allah bless the boy for that good deed!
Henri, there must have been treachery somewhere, though I know not how
it came about."
"There was," he interposed. "Some traitor in the camp must have given
Yusuf notice of our coming, and he, in consequence, waylaid us."
"When I heard this dreadful news, I fainted," proceeded Halima, "and it
was long before I again was conscious; and then--Ah! may I never again
suffer what I went through then. I rent the air with piercing shrieks,
when I realized that I should never see you more; for, after what this
man had told me, and hearing nothing from you, I could not doubt that
you were dead. How I passed the weeks that followed--but no, I cannot
bear to dwell on it; I will draw a veil over that fearful time; it was
worse even than when, once before, I thought that you were lost; for
then you were not my husband." She trembled violently at the
recollection.
"Of course," continuing, "the treasure having been captured from you,
there was an end to my father's ambitious schemes on my behalf; and I
was so depressed that I felt a desert life would drive me mad. Its
dullness was more than I could bear. I wanted rousing; grief and
monotony were killing me. So I resolved to do alone what we had meant
to do together; to travel to my mother's country. I had still the
jewels, and I knew that they were of enormous value, so that I should
not be short of money. With Abdallah and a few more to escort me, I set
off for Cairo, letting it be understood that I should remain there for a
while and eventually rejoin the tribe.
"Arrived at Cairo, I told Abdallah only, under an oath of secrecy, of my
real intentions, and that he was to take steps at once to put them into
execution. He did his utmost to dissuade me, but, when he saw I was
resolved, he promised to do his best to help me, and agreed to see me
safe to France."
"Faithful old soul," interposed St. Just, "I am sure you could depend on
him."
"Yes, indeed, I don't know what I should have done without him. He is
with me still. Well, we made our way to Rosetta. Thence we took ship
to Syracuse, where we landed, for the vessel went no further. Soon
afterwards, Abdallah heard of a French brig that was bound for Brest,
and in this we took our passage. From Brest we made our way to Paris.
"The first thing I did was to make my presence known to Buonaparte. I
knew no one else in Paris, and I wanted an introduction to a dealer in
precious stones, who would not rob me. He gave me this, and also told
me of this villa at Auteuil, where I have since lived."
"You have renewed your intercourse with him!" St. Just exclaimed with
anger, "and you professed to hate him."
"And so I do, and would circumvent him all I could; but, to do so, it is
necessary that I know his schemes and movements. My vengeance is not
forgotten; it is but gaining strength in slumber. I will be frank with
you, Henri. He seemed overjoyed to see me, so far as one so impassive
shows his feelings; and at once assumed that I desired our former
relations to be restored. But I quickly undeceived him, though I told
him he could visit me as a friend; and this he does. Perhaps he thinks
I shall relent, but he deceives himself."
"I would he came not here," St. Just said gloomily. "He is both
determined and deceitful and, should he guess your feelings towards him,
will not spare you."
"Have no fear for me, my friend. I can protect myself. But it was
necessary that I should be on friendly terms with him, so as to worm
myself into the confidence of his ministers and adherents, and thus
learn his plans."
"But how can you do this?" inquired her husband. "Surely they are not
the men to reveal State Secrets!"
"They are men, my dear, and I am a woman. I have some of my sex's
wit--and I am not wholly destitute of other weapons." And she looked at
him coquettishly, and laughed a merry laugh. "Foolish boy, have I no
powers of fascination?"
"Ah! have I not reason to know it!" he cried with strong conviction.
"You are a queen, who, if you will it, can bring all men to your feet.
But tell me, how did the First Consul take it when he learned that you
were married?"
"Married!" she laughed gayly, "who says that I am married? My faith, not
I."
St. Just loosed his hold of her with a sudden movement that was
involuntary, and looked at her in wonder, to see whether she had spoken
in mere banter, or in sober earnestness. He learned nothing from her
face; it was an enigma to him.
"This jest is out of place with me," he said.
"No jest, my friend," she answered airily, "but the honest truth."
His face clouded and took on a stern expression.
"What mean you, Halima?" he asked, and there was deliberation in his
voice. "But now, when first we met, you addressed me as your husband."
"A facon de parler, cheri. I thought 'twould please you; I ought rather
to have said 'My lover.'"
He gazed at her in mingled anger and stupefaction. Then he sprang from
the divan to his feet.
"Your effrontery amazes me," he said. "Pray do you pass as an unmarried
woman?"
"I pass as Madame de Moncourt," she replied, flashing her eyes boldly on
him, "and no one has yet had the temerity to ask for my credentials."
"I shall claim you as my wife," he said, his anger rising.
"And get shot as a deserter," was the cool response.
Her audacity and coolness staggered him; but, before he could reply,
"Nay, I can save you from that," she said, "while I think of it, let me
hand you this." And from a bangle on her wrist she unfastened the charm
Buonaparte's wife had given him, as a reminder that her husband would
spare his life, should it be jeopardized.
"I have worn it ever since we parted." She held it out to him.
But he declined it. "I will not have it," he said fiercely. "What care
I for life, without you to share it? No matter what the consequences, I
will proclaim you as my wife. Keep the talisman and be my murderess, if
you will." Then he added with a heartfelt wail, "Oh! Halima, was all
your boasted love for me but counterfeit?"
While his unbending resolution angered her, his anguish, which was but
the expression of his great love for her, touched her heart. Besides
which, she really loved him, and she did not mean to lose him; but she
must have him on her own conditions. A smile of triumph overspread her
face, but softened withal by love.
"Counterfeit," she cried. "You have had little experience of women, if
you cannot discriminate between real and pretended passion. You have
held me in your arms, and I have given you every proof that woman can of
how I love you. You insult me when you suggest that my passion was
assumed."
"Then why repudiate our marriage?"
"For the safety of us both. Be calm, my dear, and listen to me. First,
as to the position. I am no longer in Egypt; I am in France and am a
naturalized Frenchwoman. And you are a Frenchman. The Mahommedan
ceremony we went through is not binding on us here. Were I to proclaim
myself a Christian and disown the tie between us, you would be powerless
to enforce it. Impersonally I have made inquiries. No doubt were I to
admit your claim, I could not afterwards have it set aside. Now those
are the cold, hard facts. Next, to consider the consequence that would
ensue from such admission. I have said before, that I would be frank
with you, and I will; I will keep nothing from you. Buonaparte pursues
me with his attentions, but I know how to keep him at a distance. For
all that, if he knew that I was married, he would see in it the cause of
my refusing his advances. In such a case, for how long would your life
be safe? Do you think his promises to you would bar the way to his
desire? Even if he spared your life, he would either imprison you, or,
at best, order you to join some regiment now abroad; in any case we
should be separated. I am as firm as ever in my resolve to punish
Buonaparte, and I want your help. As my acknowledged husband you could
not give it. I cannot spare you, dear; believe me when I say that my
love for you is true and deep. No other man has ever touched my heart
like you; has made it leap within my bosom, and the blood to rush like a
torrent through my veins. Be reasonable, my own man, and come and sit
by me, and I will wind my arms around your neck, and kiss you to
compliance. Come, Henri, to your Halima, whose heart and soul are
wholly yours."
She held out her arms to him invitingly.
The man cast his eyes upon her glowing face and then on her heaving
bosom, over which her draperies rose and fell; thence they traveled
downwards, past the rounded arms and tapering fingers, to her dainty
ankles and the little slender feet that rested on a footstool; and the
blood began to boil within him with desire; but still he hesitated. She
saw it and resumed:
"Henri, you will not desert me. There is no one I can absolutely trust,
but you. I cannot do without you, but the public knowledge of the tie
between us would defeat my plans, and would, I know, result in harm to
you; and that I could not bear; for you are all the world to me."
The last words were uttered low, but were full of seductive sweetness to
the hearer. She turned her liquid eyes on him, eyes in which his own
image was reflected, and there was a witchery in her smiling, pleading
mouth. Once more his gaze roamed over the woman's sensuous perfections,
and he felt drunk with passion.
He sprang forward into her extended arms, and she caught him in her
sinuous embrace.
"My queen! My life," he murmured.
She read her victory in his eyes and words, and was content. His
passion seemed to have entered into her, for she pressed him tightly to
her breast, and kissed him madly--almost hungrily--on his lips and eyes,
as though she could not have enough of him.
But to one's capacity even, for his endearments, Dame Nature puts a
limit, and soon Halima was fain, for want of breath, to place a drag on
her effusiveness. She drew back and panted to regain her breath. When
somewhat calmed, she spoke again.
"Cruel man," she murmured softly, "I began to think my charms were
waning, when you remained so obdurate. Tell me, have I fallen off in
face or form?"
He looked her over searchingly; there was hunger and covetousness in his
eyes.
"My God!" he said in a tone almost of awe. "You are more beautiful than
ever; I almost tremble at your loveliness."
A deep-drawn sigh escaped him. Presently he resumed, "Now tell me what
you purpose. On what footing are we to stand towards one another?"
"Exactly as before, except in name. The world is not to know of our
relationship. You will visit me openly, like my other friends, and
sometimes in secret; only you must be circumspect. You will have your
apartments in Paris, and I shall live on here. I shall have no secrets
from you; you will know and be consulted about all my plans, for your
help is vital to me. I am rich, and my purse will be always at our
disposal. I will give you money before you leave me. Nay, you shall
have it now, lest I forget it."
She moved to an escritoire and drew forth from it a roll of notes and
gave it to him. "That will suffice for present needs," she said, "Do
not be sparing in its use; there is plenty more."
Then she resumed her seat beside him. "Henri," she said, once more
twining her arm around his neck, "I am all your own: body and soul and
every atom of me are yours; but this is our own sweet secret."
"Sweet wife," he answered softly; "and I am wholly yours; my thoughts
have never strayed to any other woman. I devote my will, my life to
you. Henceforth I exist but to serve you."
"Dear boy," she cooed, "and do you think I could have let you go?"
"And yet, though we have but just met for the first time for years, you
would send me from you. Oh! not to-night, my Halima," he cried
imploringly.
There was a sensual sparkle in her eye.
"Nay, not to-night," she answered; "after so long a parting, I cannot
spare you yet. But we must be circumspect. You shall pass here merely
as my guest. I can so arrange it as to avoid suspicion."
"A hungry man is fain to accept a crust; I must make the most of what
you offer," was his reply.
Now, whether throughout this burning interview Halima had spoken from
her heart, whether even she had persuaded herself that all she said was
true--that she had no thought for any other than her husband--need not
be stated here. But so much may be chronicled, that he implicitly
believed her.
They had so much to say to one another that the hours flew by unheeded;
but, at last, Halima recalled herself to her shortcomings in the matter
of the men who had accompanied St. Just--or rather brought him
captive--and she sprang up suddenly.
"I don't know what our friends will think of us," she laughed; "I
declare I had quite forgotten them; and all through you, you naughty
fellow. I must send word to them that I shall be happy to receive
them."
"What friends?" inquired her husband, and his tone betrayed annoyance.
"Those who brought you here."
"And who are they?"
"I will introduce you when they come. Meanwhile, will you ring the
bell, my dear?"
St. Just did what he was asked, and the man who came in answer to her
summons, was told to request the presence of the "two gentlemen who had
arrived with Monsieur." An oath broke from her husband's lips when the
servant closed the door; but she put her little hand before his mouth
with a pretty action and exclaimed, "Oh! fie to say such naughty words;
and so ungrateful too, when you have had me all to yourself for quite
three hours."
"Ah! but think how long I've had to wait," he said. "Three years with
you without a break, would not suffice me."
"Selfish glutton," she said roguishly, and her beaming countenance
showed how pleased she was. The shortest route to her good will was
ever by the road called Flattery.
Before she could add another word, the door was opened and the two
gentlemen came in. For the moment, they seemed strangers to St. Just,
but he soon recognized the features of the two men who had brought him
in the cart. Had he met them without previous preparation, he certainly
would not have known them. The coal merchant and the laborer were gone,
and, in their places, stood two well-dressed gentlemen with clean hands
and faces.
Halima advanced to them effusively, and held out her hand.
"What will you think of me? What can I say to you?" she cried. "I am
in despair at the reflection of my want of courtesy. But--I will speak
the truth--I had forgotten you were in the house. But indeed I had some
reason, and, when you hear it, I trust you will forgive my seeming
rudeness. This it is."
She turned round to St. Just, who was standing a little way behind her,
and took his hand in hers; then led him forward.
"Mons. Georges Cadoudal, Mons. St. Regent," indicating first the quondam
coal-merchant and then his comrade, "I have the honor to present to you
Captain Henri St. Just, my husband."
The look of wonder and almost incredulity on the faces of the newcomers,
and of surprise and satisfaction on St. Just's, caused much amusement to
the lady. The two gentlemen, of course, had not had a notion that she
was married; and he, after what had passed between himself and Halima,
had never dreamed that she would disclose the fact; in that she had, he
felt both grateful and delighted.
The three gentlemen bowed stiffly. "Surely Madame is not serious?" St.
Regent questioned.
"Absolutely," she replied, "Naturally, you did not know that I was
married," she went on vivaciously. "Nor indeed did I, until you were
good enough to bring my husband to me. 'Tis nearly four years since we
met, and I thought that we should never meet again. I believed he was
no more. Am I forgiven for forgetting you, Messieurs?"
"Nay, Madame," replied Cadoudal, "'tis not forgiveness you require, for
you have done no wrong; congratulations you demand, and from my heart I
tender them."
He laid his hand across his chest and bent low before her. Then he
addressed her husband, and held out his hand. "But, if Madame is to be
congratulated, tenfold more are you, Monsieur, in that you call the
loveliest woman in all France your wife. Have you forgiven us, for the
roughness of your ride?" he laughed.
"So entirely, if any forgiveness is required," St. Just replied, "that,
with the same end in view, I would ask to be allowed to undergo the ride
again; for all that, I never underwent such pain before. Even now, my
limbs have not recovered their full power. Messieurs, I thank you
heartily for all that you have done for me."
Then Halima spoke again.
"My friends," she said, "I have told you that he is my husband, to
convince you that you may repose the fullest trust in him, but the
knowledge is to go no farther; the fact must be a secret most profound;
for, should it be even hinted at, the consequences might be to bring our
plans to naught. Amongst friends--and, dare I breathe the word,
conspirators--there should be the utmost confidence; and my husband is
one of us; he is with us heart and soul in all that we have set before
us; he will consult with us, and I will vouch for his good faith, his
intrepidity and his zeal; for he has the same cause for hating the First
Consul, as myself. You may speak, therefore, with perfect openness
before him, and I beg you will."
Naturally after this, there was the utmost friendliness between St. Just
and his new acquaintances, and he made many discoveries that astonished
and amazed him.
Their conversation was, soon afterwards, interrupted by the entrance of
a servant, who announced that dinner was served.
"Give me your arm, Henri," said Halima. "You will permit me,
Messieurs," she laughed. "My husband has been so long away from me,
that he is the greatest stranger."
During and after dinner St. Just learned much more that astonished
him--notably that Halima and Cadoudal had been concerned in the recent
plot to put an end to Buonaparte.
This and more was told to St. Just on that eventful evening, much to his
uneasiness. He found himself, unwittingly, posted on the verge of a
political volcano, with a fair chance of being speedily engulfed within
its crater. He had never suspected that his wife, simply to gratify her
vindictive animus towards Buonaparte, would engage in schemes so
dangerous and far-reaching; and take part in a conspiracy whose
ramifications extended even beyond the country, and that, whether the
outcome were disaster or success, must result in deluging the land with
blood. And he himself was now committed to their schemes. His heart
was not in the conspiracy, and he trembled at the risk his wife and he
were running. He resolved to use his utmost influence to persuade her
gradually to withdraw herself from her dangerous surroundings. At the
same time, he could not but admit to himself that his hope of succeeding
with her was slight, for he knew her spirit and determination.
It was late when, greatly to St. Just's relief, St. Regent and Cadoudal
took their leave. When the door closed upon them, he sprang to his feet
and stretched himself.
"Thank God, they're gone," he cried. "I've had enough of plotting for
to-night; and now, my Halima, the few hours left we'll dedicate to
love."
He opened his arms to her. She ran to him and hid her face upon his
breast. "And, I, too," she murmured, "have been longing to be alone
with you, my Henri."
*CHAPTER IV.*
Nothing of any moment happened during the next three weeks, the position
Halima had laid down at her first meeting with her husband being rigidly
maintained. He came to see her as often as she would permit, but
resided at his apartment in the Rue de Dauphin, and with, of course, the
ever-faithful Mahmoud, who showed much surprise at the arrangement.
Halima had expressed her wish to see him, so, on his next visit, St.
Just took the young man with him. Mahmoud's delight at once more
meeting his young mistress was supreme; he threw himself at her feet and
uttered cries of joy in his native Arabic, blessing her and thanking
Allah for having permitted him to set his eyes on her again.
She pleased him mightily when she enlarged upon his bravery and fidelity
to her husband, and told him that he would find a friend in her
throughout her life, because she knew that, but for him, St. Just would
not be living. Nor did she forget to thank him for having slain the
hated Yusuf. Then she complimented him upon his manly looks and
handsome face, and prophesied that all the French girls would lose their
hearts to him. Altogether, when Mahmoud left her, he was in the seventh
heaven of delight, and more than ever devoted to herself and her
husband. It would have gone hard with any one who should have dared to
question any act or word of theirs, or say a syllable in their
disparagement, in Mahmoud's hearing.
During these weeks St. Just's love for Halima, if possible, increased in
fervor; with the result that, though in her presence he was supremely
happy, when away from her, he was restless, discontented, and
suspicious. On the whole it may be questioned whether he was not
happier when he was living at Marsala, oblivious of her existence, than
now, when he basked in her society for minutes, and yearned for it
unsatisfied for hours.
With her it was another matter, for, though she preferred his company to
that of any other man, and, when she had him to herself, placed no
limitations on her passions; her love for him was neither of that depth
nor of that enduring nature which was his for her. She was more like a
child with a much prized toy, than a wife absorbed in her devotion to
her husband.
Moreover, she had other matters to occupy her mind; she was up to her
ears in intrigues with various persons, not only of the First Consul's
entourage, but also of the adherents of the Bourbons. And the
atmosphere of treason and conspiracy in which she lived she thoroughly
enjoyed. She reveled in the power her beauty and her money gave her; and
even, strange as it may appear, in the risk she ran; this to her was but
a pleasurable excitement.
Buonaparte's visits to the Auteuil villa, to St. Just were a perpetual
sore; not that he was jealous or suspicious of his wife--for he had
accepted without reserve her statement that her old relations with the
General neither had been nor would be resumed; and he had confidence
both in her will and her ability to maintain her intimacy with him on a
platonic footing--but that he was filled with a deep-seated rancor
against the First Consul, not only for Halima's betrayal, but also
because he, St. Just, regarded him as the cause of all the sufferings
and misfortunes he had undergone. Animated by this resentment,
therefore so far from condemning the treasonable proceedings of his
wife's associates, he acquiesced in the plotters' aims, at the same time
that he doubted their accomplishment; and, additionally, the wisdom of
the means proposed for bringing them about. Then there was the
accompanying danger, and St. Just had had enough of that to make him
circumspect.
Altogether, he resolved to mix himself as little as might be with the
conspiracy; though, had he desired it, he might have learned its inmost
workings; for, now that Halima had vouched for his fidelity, the
conspirators were ready to place absolute trust in him. As it was, they
spoke openly before him on the few occasions when he chanced to be
present at their meetings; so that, had he been minded to play the
traitor, he was in possession of ample information to lay the whole
party by the heels.
Situated as he was, he could not wholly withdraw himself from active
participation in their schemes, but he confined himself as a rule, to a
subordinate position, his duties being principally the delivering of
messages and letters to various persons more or less in touch with the
conspiracy.
St. Just had formed a close friendship with St. Regent, one of the two
men, it will be recollected, who had brought him to Halima. There was a
great charm for St. Just in St. Regent's good-tempered, frank, impetuous
nature. Moreover the man had a strong will and a large amount of that
magnetic force which, when put forth, compels the acquiescence of those
on whom it is brought to bear. And he had exercised it upon St. Just,
with the result that he had gained over him complete ascendancy, and
could mould him to his will.
He started a plot, in which he was determined that St. Just should take
a part. The latter, though unwilling, was like wax in the other's hand,
and found himself unable to resist.
St. Regent numbered among his associates one Carbon, a chemist, an
ardent conspirator, like himself. To him, he and St. Just repaired, and
the three, with four others of like mind, laid their heads together to
evolve a plan for Buonaparte's assassination.
The outcome was, an "Infernal machine" of the following description. An
ordinary hand water cart, with its barrel made of zinc, was filled with
gunpowder and scraps of iron; in the tap, barely protruding from it, was
placed a special fuse that, on being touched with a chemically prepared
stick, would become ignited. This fuse, in a given time, would fire the
gunpowder inside the barrel, when the results would not be difficult to
guess.
St. Just, much to his annoyance and dismay, was told off to perform the
duty of artillery man.
The machine prepared, the next thing was to select a place for its
employment; and in this the plotters would be guided either by the
public announcements or by the information privately conveyed to them of
the First Consul's intended movements.
Meanwhile St. Just awaited his instructions.
Lest he should be recognized--for he had abandoned his idea for the
present of reporting himself to the military authorities--he was now
posing to the outside world as a doctor come to Paris, not to practice,
but to study. His appearance was so changed that none of his old
acquaintances would have known him. His former dark locks were now cut
close to the head, and by the aid of chemicals had assumed a light brown
hue, and the once clean-shaven, resolutely moulded mouth and chin were
now concealed under a mustache and beard to match his hair. His clothes
were of a sober cut and color to suit his professional assumption, and
his gait was slow and measured. Carrying the conventional silver-headed
stick, and with serious mien, and apparently immersed in grave
reflection, he moved about the crowded streets; no one of all the
thoughtless, laughter-loving Parisians, who differed little at that time
from what they are to-day, would have dreamed that he was aught but what
he seemed, a sober citizen, on lawful business bent.
On a certain afternoon in the expiring year, just when it was growing
dusk, St. Just received instructions to repair to the appointed spot,
and perform his part in the dastardly conspiracy.
Now, though, from day to day, he had held himself in readiness for such
directions as he had now received, when the news came to him that the
time for action had actually arrived, he felt almost stunned, and shrank
with horror from the performance of the deed imposed on him. For all
that, he knew that there was no evading it; the hour for backing out was
past; any treachery to his comrades, or even a mere refusal to play his
part would, he was convinced, result in retribution that would cost his
life. True, that, in executing the conspirators' behests, he would be
placing that life in serious jeopardy; but this was preferable to the
certainty of losing it.
He set out from his apartment on his murderous errand, with dragging
footsteps and a heavy heart. No one, to look at him, would have guessed
that, under that calm exterior, there raged a tumult of emotions. He
recalled the memory of his campaigns under the great general on whose
destruction he was bent, and his feet faltered. He felt he could not go
through with what was ordered. For a moment, a wild idea took hold of
him to retrace his steps and, at all hazards, to make his way to the
Tuileries and acquaint his old commander with his impending danger. He
stopped and turned half round. Then the thought of what would be the
consequence, the certainty that those he had betrayed would track him
down and take his life, no matter how or where he tried to hide himself,
restrained him from acting upon his half formed purpose. With a
despairing sigh he resumed his progress to the rendezvous, the conflict
being waged within him almost tearing him to pieces.
But, for all the tempest of his mind, he was careful how he held his
silver-headed stick, keeping it as nearly perpendicular as he could, and
never letting it touch anybody or anything except the ground; for,
innocent as it appeared, it contained the potentiality of destruction.
The upper half of it was hollowed out and held at the bottom a powerful
acid. Above this, but separated from it, and concealed under the silver
knob, was a subtle chemical. When the knob should be unscrewed and the
stick sufficiently inclined, the acid would come into contact with this
chemical and ignite it; on touching with this the fuse in the supposed
water cart, the explosion would follow in due course.
Presently he came to a broad thoroughfare, and, once more, he halted,
undecided. To his left lay the way to the Tuileries, the way to honor,
pardon, and--death! To the right, that to the Opera House, whither the
carriage of the First Consul would shortly pass--the way to dishonorable
revenge and Halima, and, if the scheme should prove successful--Life!
His indecision was but momentary, he chose the turning to the right; it
was the crisis of his career. A hollow, scornful laugh broke from him
at the reflection that, should the explosion be successful, there would
be no performance at the opera that night. On the other hand, should it
result in a fiasco, Paris would, on the morrow, be engaged in the
performance of a "Dies Irae," in which he and his associates would be
taking leading parts.
He had scarcely started afresh, after his temporary pause, when a beggar
who was tapping the ground in front of him with a stick, as though
blind, shoved against him. At the same moment St. Just felt something
pressed into his palm. Muttering an apology, the beggar dived into the
crowd and disappeared.
Instantly St. Just closed his hand, then quietly put it into his pocket;
by its feel he knew he held a piece of folded paper--no doubt a message
of importance. He clenched it tightly in his palm, lest some police
spy, having witnessed the beggar's action, should seek to seize it; for
spies in Paris were plentiful as blackberries in those perilous times,
so that one could scarcely trust one's neighbor.
The conspirator strolled insouciantly towards an oil lamp which hung a
little higher than his head, over a grocer's shop.
Here he withdrew the note and opened it. It was from one of the leaders
in the plot, and its words were few, but to the point, for one who
understood their language:
"The weather seems settled, so cloaks will not be needed." In the
corner was a little flag roughly delineated in red ink.
St. Just started, and an uneasy look appeared upon his face at the
reading of this note. The words, taken alone, meant that everything was
going satisfactorily, that the police had apparently no suspicions, and
that no special precautions needed to be taken. But the addition of the
red flag imported danger, and that the words signified the exact
opposite of what they stated, viz.--that the police had got wind of
something and were on the alert, and that St. Just was to exercise the
utmost care in all his movements, and to warn any others in the plot,
that he might see, to keep themselves as little in evidence as they
could. Disquieting intelligence for a man engaged on such an errand as
was his.
The first thing to be done was to get rid of this unwelcome missive, for
the agents of police were expert at reading cryptograms and digging out
their meaning how deep soever it was buried. Should he be arrested,
therefore, he had no mind that this compromising message should be found
on him.
He saw a ready way to its destruction. With the hand that held the note
he took out his watch, and brought it near the lamp above him, as though
to learn the time. Apparently, he was unable to see distinctly by the
feeble, flickering light; so he carefully transferred the watch to the
hand that grasped his silver-headed stick; then, lighting the paper at
the oil lamp, he held it close to the watch face, as though the better
to read the figures on the dial.
It burnt more rapidly than he had expected, with the result that it
scorched his finger.
With the sudden smart he forgot the role and tone he was assuming, and,
without a thought, brought out in his natural voice a string of military
oaths. Suddenly he pulled up, at the reflection of his indiscretion.
But not before his imprecations had been heard.
They caught the ear of a drunken-looking man, who was supporting himself
against a cabaret across the street. He was an old soldier, and
instantly recognized the familiar oaths. He looked long and searchingly
at St. Just, with a clearness of perception that would scarcely have
been expected in a drunken man.
Annoyed at his unguarded exclamation, St. Just put his smarting finger
into his mouth, and once more forgetting the added years and
professional gravity he was simulating, strode rapidly down the street.
This also the watcher noted. "Military oaths, military step," he
muttered. "You're not exactly what you seem, my friend. And your voice
I've heard before. I shall put a name to you anon." And he wheeled
round and entered the cabaret against which he had been leaning.
Meanwhile, St. Just strode on and, rounding a corner to the right, he
hurried forward. Half way down the street, he stopped. In the middle
of the road and almost blocking it were two carts, a market man's and a
water carrier's. They seemed to have collided, for the water cart was
tilted on its side, with one wheel off. The water carrier was assailing
the owner of the market cart with language more forcible than polite;
and the other was retaliating in terms equally expressive, each charging
the other with having caused the accident.
But a glance showed St. Just that this mutual vituperation was all
make-believe, for in the water carrier he recognized St. Regent and in
the market man another of the conspirators; but both so well disguised
that, had he not been prepared beforehand, he would not have known them.
When both thought that their wordy warfare had continued long enough to
allay any suspicions that they were in collusion, the driver of the
market cart, first giving St. Just a wink that was almost imperceptible,
moved forward for a few yards, then deliberately drew round his horse so
that it and the cart behind it stood crosswise in the street and blocked
it.
Soon--it is always so, even in the most trivial street accidents--a
little crowd began to form. This gave St. Just the opportunity he
wanted to transmit to his friends the warning he had received. Elbowing
his way to them, he called out in loud tones:
"Messieurs, how is this? Come, you must clear the road; the First
Consul is on his way to the Opera and will pass by almost immediately."
Then in a lower tone, "Be on your guard; there is danger ahead; the
police are on the qui vive."
The words had hardly left his mouth, when, in the distance, the sound of
horses' hoofs was heard. They came on at a brisk trot, and, before St.
Just had had time to unscrew the knob of his stick, half a dozen
dragoons had wheeled round the corner of the street, and were advancing
up it. They were the foremost of the First Consul's escort. With
fumbling fingers, St. Just removed from his stick the silver top. He
was trembling violently. Now that the supreme moment had arrived, his
nerve gave out. The dastardly nature of what he purposed presented
itself in full force before him. He felt he could not do the deed.
St. Regent shot a searching glance at him and understood. He saw that,
though St. Just was no intending traitor, his resolution had deserted
him, and that, unless he himself applied the match, their plot would be
abortive. With a gesture of impatience and a muttered exclamation, he
snatched the stick from the trembling man.
Meanwhile, at the First Consul's approach, a crowd had quickly gathered,
impeding the progress of the cavalcade. But the soldiers, striking the
people with the flat of their swords and pressing their horses on them,
soon forced a passage for the carriage which, driven at a rapid pace,
passed the point of danger at the very moment that St. Regent applied
the match.
For a few moments, St. Just remained standing at a distance he judged
safe from the fateful water cart. He was still trembling violently.
Then, realizing that the explosion would occur too late to achieve its
object, he elbowed his way through the seething mob and, when clear of
it, made a dash for the end of the road. This he gained without
impediment, but, no sooner had he done so, than he found himself grasped
firmly by the arms and surrounded by a party of men, who turned the
corner of the street just when he reached it.
Before he had even time to make a protest, still less to free himself,
the First Consul's carriage dashed by at a rapid trot, and he caught a
glimpse of Buonaparte, who was laughing at some sally of his
aide-de-camp.
"Forward!" shouted the leader of the men who had seized St. Just.
But, before the order could be obeyed, and almost at the same instant,
there was a roar like thunder when the electric fluid strikes a
building, and two of the party were hurled violently against the
shutters of a house hard by. Then a wave of blinding smoke, accompanied
by a fetid stench of sulphurous gas, swept up the street, almost
stifling St. Just and those who had arrested him. Then, a howl of rage
went up, with threats and execrations for the perpetrators of the deed,
mingled with the groans of the injured, the shrieks of the
terror-stricken women and the clatter of the falling bricks. The whole
air was full of dust, and the din was deafening. Nobody understood
exactly what had happened, or who had caused it; only that a terrible
explosion had occurred and that much havoc had been wrought by it. The
babble and confusion were indescribable and panic had seized on all the
crowd, men, women and children fleeing in all directions.
Then the leader of the party in whom St. Just had, by this time,
recognized the agent Vipont, gave his attention to his two men who had
been knocked down and had remained motionless where they had fallen.
One had had his head crushed in by a piece of iron from the exploded
water cart. He was a ghastly sight, his face battered out of
recognition, and his blood and brains scattered about the trottoir.
The other had come so violently into contact with the shutter he had
been thrown against, that the hook in it had been forced through his
forehead and deep into his brain. Both men were stone dead, of course.
The horse belonging to the market cart that had been forced purposely
into collision with the pretended water cart, had had one of its legs
torn off, and the blood was streaming from it. It had also suffered
other injuries, and portions of the shattered cart lay on it. The look
of anguish in the poor creature's eyes was piteous to behold; it seemed
to be appealing to those about it to end its sufferings; but none heeded
it. All were too much occupied in tending their injured fellow
creatures.
Vipont and his police were thus engaged, and also on the lookout for
those who had caused the outrage. Presently they found St. Regent. He
was lying near the dying horse. He had been hurled some yards, and the
fall had rendered him insensible, but the only outward injury he had
sustained seemed to be the loss of three fingers from his left hand.
They picked him up and took charge of him, but whether because he was
found so near the scene of the disaster, or that they had received some
information, or merely because he had been injured, St. Just had no
means of judging.
Round the exploded water cart was a yawning hole, and lying half in it
was the mangled carcass of the horse of one of Buonaparte's dragoons,
blown almost all to pieces. Its rider had escaped with a broken leg.
Many of the houses about were more or less in ruins, while all in the
vicinity of the explosion had their windows broken.
"To the Temple," said the police agent to his men. "When we have safely
lodged our prisoners, it will be time enough to render assistance here."
At this moment St. Just caught sight of the pretended blind beggar who,
earlier in the evening, had handed him the note. The man passed close
to him and, in passing whispered rapidly in his ear, "Keep faith, and
hope."
Then he disappeared amongst the crowd, and the police party began to
move away, St. Just held firmly by a police agent on each side, and St.
Regent, insensible and in happy ignorance of what had happened to him,
borne by two men on a litter they had improvised.
*CHAPTER V.*
His captors marched St. Just along at a brisk pace and in a short time,
they reached the Place de la Bastille, whose name achieved the double
purpose of keeping alive the memories of the horrors that had been
perpetrated within the grim fortress that had stood there, and of
signalizing the triumph of democracy.
Continuing their way, they gained the prison that had been the last
abiding place of the ill-fated Louis Capet. St. Just had often passed
it, but had little thought he should ever find himself a prisoner within
its walls; but that had been in the days when his honor was unsullied
and he was glowing with the ardor of a young soldier, confident in his
ability to cut his way to fortune with his sword. Alas how utterly had
his hopes been falsified!
Vipont pulled vigorously at the bell, which answered his appeal with a
strident clangor that made St. Just's heart thrill. It seemed to ring
out the death-knell of his freedom, if not indeed his life. A wicket in
the heavy gates was opened, and a man in uniform appeared behind it.
"A prisoner," said Vipont curtly. Then the party stepped inside and the
little door was closed behind them.
They crossed the court--it had been the garden during the imprisonment
of the Royal family--and the moon was shedding her rays upon the very
tree under which the hapless monarch had been wont to take his daily
exercise; causing the leaves to shimmer with a silver light as they were
stirred by the gentle breeze. St. Just glanced up at the black facade,
now dimly outlined against the dark wintry sky, and the gruesome thought
flashed on him that, perhaps, he too was doomed to pace each day up and
down, up and down, beneath that selfsame tree until that morning when he
should be told that his last hour had come, and be hurried to the
scaffold.
Vipont's party marched on with him and halted at a door, which, at the
summons of the warder who had admitted them to the prison, was opened.
They entered the building, and then St. Just was escorted down a narrow
passage to a flight of steps. These the man descended, and the others
followed, emerging at the bottom on another passage, along which the
jailer led the way, the rest of the party keeping close behind him,
their footsteps echoing along the sunken corridor with thuds that
reminded the prisoner of the blows he had heard at nights when the
executioner and his assistants were setting up the scaffold, from which
in the cold, gray morning some poor devil was to take his last look on
the world. This reflection and the searching cold and damp, that seemed
to pierce his very bones, and the mouldy smell that permeated the place,
sent a shiver through St. Just that, despite his efforts to repress it,
was visible to all.
Presently another iron door was reached, and, being opened, revealed a
room about five yards by four in area. High up in one wall was a narrow,
strongly barred window, that was little more than a slit, and
communicated to the outer air by a sort of funnel, for even the cell's
vaulted roof was below the surface of the ground. A small fireplace
faced this window, and, to prevent the possibility of a prisoner's
escape that way, a strong iron grating was fixed in the lower part of
the chimney.
A low wooden bedstead a yard in width, a small deal table and a wooden
stool comprised the furniture of this inhospitable apartment. At the
sight of it St. Just's heart sank.
When the door of what was to be St. Just's home until he should be
otherwise disposed of, had been thrown open, Vipont stood aside, and,
bending before the prisoner in mock courtesy, motioned him to pass
inside.
"I regret, Mons. le docteur," he said, "that we cannot offer you a more
luxurious apartment; for this, I admit, is scarcely fitting for a member
of the learned profession, I doubt not, you adorn. But, at any rate,
you will be safe from thieves, and your scientific meditations will not
be interrupted."
He wound up with a self-sufficient chuckle. St. Just made no reply, but
crossed the threshold of his cell, into which the jailer had preceded
him with a lantern. Then Vipont and his myrmidons withdrew. But, in a
few minutes, he returned, as though he had forgotten something. He
stepped quickly to the jailer's side and whispered something in his ear.
Now that St. Just had had time to look at him, he saw that the jailer
was a hard-featured, impassive, honest-looking fellow, with nothing in
his countenance that augured cruelty or ill-nature, for the mere love of
it. Whatever Vipont had said to him, the jailer raised the lantern and
turned its light upon St. Just at the same time bestowing a keen glance
on him. It will be borne in mind that St. Just was got up to pass for a
serious, middle-aged member of a learned profession. The result of the
jailer's scrutiny, which was made with much deliberation, was the
muttered reply to his companion, "I am of your opinion."
Then he placed the lantern on the table and moved round behind St. Just,
who, though suspicious of the glances cast at him, had no idea what they
portended; but he was soon to know, for the man suddenly threw himself
upon him, pinioning his arms behind him, so that he could not move.
Indeed St. Just made no attempt to do so, for the whole movement had
been so rapid that he was taken quite aback. Before he had recovered his
composure, Vipont had made a dash at his beard and plucked it off; when,
instead of a middle-aged doctor, there stood before them a man
clean-shaven and with youthful lineaments. The change it made in him
was wonderful; even his frame seemed to have become more upright and
muscular, so powerful is the influence of association.
Retaining in his grasp the beard, Vipont stepped back a pace and,
advancing the lantern towards the prisoner's face, seemed to be diving
into his memory for a clue that should enable him to fix the personality
of the man in front of him; for the latter could see by the police
agent's expression that he was convinced that they had met before.
Vipont looked long and earnestly at the captive, but to little purpose;
he could not put a name to him.
All at once he in the book of memory found the page that contained the
name he was in search of. A smile formed itself upon his face, the
prelude to a mocking laugh, that rang loudly through the cell. He
removed his hat and bent in mock courtesy before St. Just.
"Mons. St. Just," he said, "late lieutenant of the Guard at the
Luxembourg Palace, we meet again. On the occasion that I have in mind,
I have a fancy that I owe to you the failure of--well, an affair I need
not specify. Now I have an opportunity of satisfying the debt; and be
assured you shall be paid in full."
St. Just laughed scoffingly. "We shall see, my friend, I fear you not;
the less so after the reminder you have given me of our first meeting,
the circumstances of which had escaped my memory. I wonder whether the
First Consul knows the part you played. For myself, I will not attempt
to deny that I am St. Just--though, I think you would be put to it to
prove it."
"Oh, no, I shouldn't," retorted Vipont, with a sneering laugh.
Just then the sound of a distant clock, which was striking ten; was
borne across the frosty air, and penetrated to the prison. It checked
the agent in the middle of his laugh.
"So late!" he exclaimed. "I have dallied here too long, and must be
going."
Then he continued mockingly, "Do me the favor, my good Desmartins, to
show this gentleman, in whom I take the deepest interest, every
attention; treat him with the greatest deference; load his table with
the daintiest viands; bring out for him your choicest wines; prepare for
him your downiest bed; find him amusement, that he may not know a
moment's weariness; guard him from every danger. In a word, do
everything to keep him safe and happy, treating him as an honored guest,
extending to him cheerfully the hospitality for which the genial
custodian of the Temple is so famed." Then he turned to St. Just and,
in the same mocking tone continued, "Can I add anything further, Sir, to
ensure your comfort? I regret that I can no longer avail myself of the
pleasure of your company; but I am already due at the Opera, where I
have to report to the First Consul. I am desolated that I cannot have
the honor of your company thither, but I shall be pleased to bear him
any message you may charge me with."
There was a mocking smile on Vipont's lips, when he finished speaking,
and, with pretended deference, he once more bent low before St. Just.
The latter glared savagely at the police agent, but, when he spoke,
there was no passion in his voice, only a cold incisiveness in every
word that fell upon the mocker's ears and, despite his well-assumed
impassiveness, caused him some uneasiness.
"Yes, go, Sir," said St. Just. "Go, by all means, to the First Consul,
and tell him from me, if you have the honesty and courage to keep your
promise, that, on the night to which you have alluded, you and the
rascal Sotin, were the men who tried to murder him by Mons. Barras'
orders. I think, when he knows this, for all your activity in his
behalf to-night, you will not be long in paying another visit to the
Temple, but in a somewhat different capacity from that you occupy at
present. You will have an opportunity of testing the hospitality of our
good friend here; of participating in the luxuries you suggested he
should heap on me."
Vipont turned pale and trembled with mingled rage and dread.
"You lie, coquin," he yelled, "you vile traducer of a trusted servant of
the State. I know not what you mean. But I will soon silence your
perjured tongue."
And he laid his hand upon his sword and half drew it from its sheath, at
the same time taking a step forward. But Desmartins interposed, and laid
his hand on the police agent's arm.
"No violence, Monsieur, I beg," he said. "It is not to be permitted. I
am responsible for the prisoner's safety, and you shall not do him
hurt." And he placed himself between the men.
The sword dropped back into its scabbard, and Vipont, scowling, removed
his grasp from it. He glared furiously at St. Just.
"Why does he insult me, then," he snarled, "the gredin? But let him
wait, the coward, till I have the opportunity of chastising him. Then
we shall see."
"As you say," St. Just calmly interposed, "we shall see. But I care not
to bandy further words with you; and surely you are forgetting your
appointment." And, to show that conversation on his part was at an end,
he turned his back on Vipont and took a step or two away.
The police spy shook his fist in menace at St. Just; then, with the
words, "Au revoir, coquin," he turned on his heel and quitted the cell,
followed by the jailer, who took with him the lantern, leaving St. Just
to darkness and his thoughts.
For a while, he remained motionless where he stood, listening to the
retreating footsteps of his late companions. At last, they died away,
and the silence that ensued was deathlike.
"Will Halima hear what has befallen me?" he mused. "And how will she act
if she do hear it? Will she leave me to my fate? No, no, she could not
be so cruel!"
He paced restlessly about, tortured by the reflections that assailed
him. Beneath his conviction of her love for him there always lurked a
doubt of her fidelity. He did not forget that, on their meeting after
nearly four years' separation, she had looked more radiantly beautiful
than ever; there had been no evidence in her appearance that she had
bewailed his loss; and he did not doubt that, in his absence, she had
consoled herself with other lovers, and, in like circumstances, would do
so again. She had frankly admitted that the indulgence of her passions
was a necessity of her life. The thought threw him into a fever of
impatience and rebellion at his helplessness, and he began to cast about
for a means of informing her of his predicament.
Suddenly he halted in his aimless tramp about his cell. The blind
beggar--who was not really blind--had seen his capture, and, if himself
unknown to Halima, would know those who were acquainted with her, and so
the news would reach her. St. Just had not had time to recognize the
man, even if he had ever seen him before; but he was convinced that he
was in the plot.
His wife would not be long in hearing what had happened; perhaps she had
heard already. And she could save him, if she would, for she had in her
possession the charm that Josephine had given him, the talisman that
Buonaparte had promised should three times be effective in protecting
him, should the need arise and Buonaparte have the power; and surely,
surely Halima would use it in his behalf.
This hope, nay, this certainty--for, after all her protestations of
undying love, she would never be so base as to desert him--brought with
it comparative relief, and he was able to look his position in the face,
without the dread that had but now oppressed him.
Then, with reawakened confidence, he threw himself upon his narrow
pallet and, worn out by the excitement he had undergone, soon dropped
off into a slumber in which all his troubles were forgotten; he even
dreamed that he was with Halima.
A week passed by, and gradually the captive's spirits sank, for not a
whisper from the outer world had come to him, and the dreadful thought
was gaining on him that, after all, he was to be abandoned to his fate.
The hours dragged on in horrible monotony, his only visitor being his
jailer, who came at stated intervals to supply him with the sorry food
that was his fare. But, though the man was rough and almost surly, and
could with difficulty be got to speak--and, when he did, it was only in
monosyllables--St. Just looked forward to his visits with positive
delight, parting from him with regret and counting the hours, by the
chimes of distant clocks, until he should be due again. He was the
captive's sole link with humanity.
St. Just made various attempts to sound him, asked him whether anyone
had called at the prison in reference to his case; whether he was being
talked about outside; whether he had heard again from Vipont; but he
said not a word of Halima.
But he could extract nothing from Desmartins; the man was as close as a
mouse trap that has just achieved its purpose. All that could be got
from him was that he knew nothing. Then St. Just tried to inveigle him
into talk on general topics; he was so loth to lose the sight of a human
face, the sound of a human voice. But his jailer discouraged
conversation and would have none of it.
However, on the evening of the seventh day of his incarceration, and
without any previous intimation, the door of his cell was opened,
and--not Desmartins, as he had at first assumed--but a file of soldiers
entered. They were followed by their officer. He bowed to the prisoner
and then told him that he had orders to remove him, and that it would be
necessary to blindfold him.
"Whither do you take me?" asked St. Just.
"That I am not at liberty to say," replied the officer; "but you will
learn anon."
Then they blindfolded him, and two of the men placed themselves one on
each side of him, and each took an arm to guide him; thus they led him
from the room, and along the narrow passage, the jailer going in advance
to show the way, and taking the same route as on St. Just's arrival.
Presently, by the change in the sounds above him, and the freshness of
the atmosphere, St. Just knew that he was in the open air; in another
minute he heard the prison gate clang to behind him. Then he was guided
into a carriage, which was quickly driven away.
He was scarcely seated, when a voice muttered in a loud whisper in his
ear, "Make no rash effort to escape, and do not speak, or attempt to
remove your bandage, or you will suffer for it."
At the same time, to lend significance to the speaker's words, something
cold and hard was pressed against the hearer's temple. St. Just knew it
for the muzzle of a pistol, and, for a moment, shivered. But only for a
moment; it needed little wit to know that, for the present at any rate,
his life was safe. For all that, he deemed it prudent to obey the
injunctions of his companion; so sat motionless and silent. He tried at
first to follow in his mind the turns the carriage took, but, blindfold
as he was, he found it hopeless, so gave it up, resigning himself with
such patience as he could command to whatever was to follow. But his
mind was in a fever of inquiry. Was he being conveyed to Halima's
house, or to some place of safety at her instance; or were his captors
taking him to some other prison, where the discipline was harsher, and
the prisoners had less chance of making their escape?
The carriage creaked and rumbled on, with frequent jolts, for the roads,
at all times, at that period, bad, were now, by the mingled action of
frost and slush, a succession of alternate holes and hillocks. But, at
last, when it seemed to St. Just that they had been traveling for hours,
the carriage halted, and he was bidden to descend. Then he was again
taken by the arm and guided up a narrow staircase. Arrived at the top,
his conductor whispered a few words to some one there. A door was
opened, and he was led into a room and halted. Then the same voice that
had addressed him in the carriage spoke again.
"You are at your journey's end, and your bandage will now be removed.
Light, you see, like everything else, comes to him who waits." He
laughed pleasantly.
When the bandage had been removed, St. Just found himself in a
moderate-sized apartment, whose walls were lined from floor to ceiling
with books. He was standing before an open hearth, in which, burned a
cheerful fire of wood, whose flames diffused a ruddy glow throughout the
room, and a genial warmth that was more than grateful to a man who had
been enduring for a week the chill, damp air of a prison cell. On one
side of the room were two long windows, now closed with shutters and
hung with dark red curtains. A large oil lamp, its brilliance tempered
by a deep green shade, was burning on a table in the center of the room.
On the side that faced the fire was a pair of folding doors, now closed.
These details St. Just took in unconsciously, for what fixed his glance,
immediately that his bandage was removed, was the figure of a man who
was a stranger to him. He was standing by the fire and partially
supporting himself on a stick. An elderly man, thin in figure, somewhat
below the average height, and of shrivelled aspect. His face was long
and lean and absolutely colorless; only redeemed from lifelessness by
the piercing eyes, which were ever shifting restlessly, as though trying
to find an entrance into the weak places of an opponent. He was dressed
from head to foot in black.
Hard by St. Just there stood another man, whose green uniform with red
facings proclaimed him to be an officer of Chasseurs. He had been St.
Just's companion in his drive, and he it was who had removed the
handkerchief from his eyes, for he still held it in his hand.
The elder man fixed his keen glance upon St. Just for several moments,
without speaking. Then suddenly he addressed him in a high-pitched
voice.
"Well Mons. St. Just, what have you to say for yourself for mixing in
plots against the First Consul?"
Then, before his hearer could reply, he continued to the officer in
attendance: "You can withdraw, Beaumont. Wait in the anteroom, in case
you should be wanted--but not within earshot of this room." And he
raised his finger meaningly at the young officer, who, coloring to the
roots of his hair, stammered at the slur cast on him.
"Mons. de Talleyrand, I am a soldier and a man of honor. It is an insult
to suggest--"
"Go, Sir," interrupted the other sternly. "I have not time to pick and
choose my words, except when matters of State demand it."
And, without further parley, the officer retired.
Then the man who had been addressed as Talleyrand resumed his
conversation with St. Just; but first he moved to a chair, halting
slightly in his walk.
"Well, Sir," he said, "you find my question difficult to answer. But I
will spare you the dishonor of inventing denials that would be
unavailing; for the information at my command is unimpeachable. But one
thing I should like to know, that you alone can tell me; and that is how
it happens that you, who were reported dead in Egypt more than three
years ago, have now turned up alive in Paris?"
This was a much easier question to reply to than the other, and St. Just
detailed, shortly, the particulars--garbled for the occasion--of his
capture in the desert and subsequent adventures, up to his landing and
accident at Margala, explaining his strange loss of memory, that had
extended even to his ignorance of his own identity; and how that memory
had only recently been restored.
The story seemed plausible to Talleyrand, for it appeared incredible
that a soldier with St. Just's prospects of advancement would willingly
sacrifice his career.
"That seems reasonable," was his comment, "but what I can not understand
is why, on your return to Paris, you did not at once report yourself. I
should have thought that, having lost so much valuable time, you would
not have wasted a moment in seeking reinstatement. How was that? You
must have had some overpowering reason, and I am curious to know it?"
And he shot a searching glance at his hearer's face, as though he
thought thereby to wrench the truth from him.
St. Just quailed beneath it. He knew, by hearsay, the character of the
man before him, and, while anxious to conceal his conjugal relations, he
recognized the risk he ran, should Talleyrand convict him of an attempt
to palm off a lie on him. His difficulty was that he was in the dark as
to how much his cross-questioner knew. But Talleyrand was noted for his
gallantries; so St. Just thought he might look more leniently on his
dereliction, if he assigned a woman as its cause. All this passed
rapidly through his mind during the few seconds that elapsed before his
answer. With some hesitation, and the color mounting to his face, he
said:--
"I fully intended to report myself, as was my duty; but--"
"The woman tempted me," interrupted Talleyrand with a sneer, and a smile
that had more of triumph than good-nature in it.
St. Just started. Oh that he could fathom the depth of the knowledge
that Talleyrand possessed of him! However, the wily statesman had given
him his cue.
"Scarcely that," he answered, "for it would be base to charge a woman
with what was the outcome solely of my own infatuation. For I was
infatuated, infatuated to the verge of madness; my passion robbed me of
my judgment; so that I lived only in the present, with no thought of
consequences."
"And yet you were not content to bask in the Egyptian beauty's smiles,
but must needs associate yourself with plotters against the State.
'Twas there your madness really lay--not in your infatuation for Madame
de Moncourt. That I readily excuse; nay more, I can applaud; your
preference does you credit, Sir; I can scarcely pay her the same
compliment for the interest she takes in you."
The speaker seemed to delight in saying things that made his hearers
wince, and the coarse slight in his last words had that effect upon the
man before him.
A momentary flash of anger gleamed in his eyes; then surprise showed on
his face. Talleyrand knew the woman for whom he had forsaken honor; and
she was interesting herself on his behalf, if the statesmen's words
meant anything. Probably his presence there was due to that. The
thought brought much relief. But Talleyrand had made no reference to
his marriage; most likely then, he was unaware of it!
"I see you have guessed my secret," he replied. "I adore the lady to
whom you have just referred, and she has accorded me the privilege of a
visitor. I met her first in Egypt, where I was so fortunate as to save
her life."
"Indeed! And now she is using her influence to save yours. Do you know
this trinket?"
He held up the charm Josephine had given to St. Just.
"I do; it belongs to me. It was given me some years ago by Madame
Buonaparte, in the presence of her husband, the night I saved him from
assassination."
"Dear me, you seem to have a trick of saving life," sneered Talleyrand.
"Say rather, the good Fortune. But to continue; on that occasion, the
General attached a promise to the gift."
"Which he has fulfilled, and not for the first time, I understand. This
is the key that has unlocked your prison cell. Madame de Moncourt, by
some means,"--and he looked meaningly at St. Just--"got news of your
predicament and, having this talisman of yours in her possession,
entrusted it to me to pass on to the First Consul, with the reminder of
his pledge to you. I have fulfilled my errand, and, on certain
conditions, you are free."
St. Just could not repress a sigh of relief, for, though from the
commencement of his interview he had thought that he was safe, now he
was assured of it.
"I am deeply grateful to you, Sir," he said, "for your efforts on my
behalf; also to Madame de Moncourt, to whom, if I may take the liberty,
I will ask you to convey my heartfelt thanks."
Ignoring St. Just's request, which he had wit enough to know was not
made seriously, and, in consequence, resented, Talleyrand answered
sharply.
"Then show your gratitude, Sir, by abstaining in the future from
dabbling in conspiracies, and by devoting yourself faithfully to your
country's interests. Are you ready to act thus?"
To this St. Just answered that he was; and, at the time he really meant
it.
"See that you keep your word," rejoined the other; "your honor requires
much cleansing ere it will be bright. Here is your trinket, which I
trust you will never again prostitute to such vile purpose as that to
which it has just been put. But now, as to the conditions of your
liberty. It is thought a change of air would be beneficial to you. Are
you willing to leave France forthwith, for as long or as short a period
as may be ordered?"
St. Just's face fell; absence from France meant also absence from
Halima; but he was in no position to make terms; he had no choice but to
submit; still his distaste to the position was apparent in his answer.
"If my sole choice lies between captivity in France, and liberty
abroad," he said despondently, "I must fain choose the latter, though
life lived out of France will be mere existence. Is my place of
banishment yet decided?"
Talleyrand smiled sourly. "Things need not be quite so bad for you as
your forecast; if so you will it. The First Consul is disposed to give
you a chance of regaining your lost honor, but it will be your last. He
is in contemplation to send you to England on a mission of some
importance. To ensure success, tact, courage, secrecy and adaptability
will be required; and, above all--fidelity." And he fixed his eyes
significantly on his hearer. "On your conduct of the affair will depend
your future. The business will not occupy you long. Your answer?"
By the time the speaker had concluded, St. Just had brightened up
considerably. He hastened to reply with energy, "I accept without a
moment's hesitation. Sir, I am overwhelmed with gratitude at the
kindness shown me; and I pledge my honor--"
Talleyrand looked up with a curious, amused expression. "Your what,
Sir?" he asked cynically.
St. Just colored with shame. For a moment he was discomposed. Then he
replied, "I deserve your reprimand, Monsieur. I should have said, I
give my solemn word--I swear--that I will do my utmost to assure the
success of the mission to be entrusted to me. If earnestness of
purpose, unwearying labor, fearlessness of danger and unswerving
fidelity can secure it, I shall not fail. If needs be, I am ready to
sacrifice my life, in the cause committed to me."
Talleyrand's nature was too cold, and he had too full a knowledge of the
workings of the human heart for such "high falutin" to make much
impression on him: indeed, he rather despised enthusiasm; in his eyes it
showed want of self-control. But, in the present instance, he was
satisfied that St. Just meant all he said; whether his sentiments would
be enduring, was another thing.
"Your words are fair enough, Sir," he said coldly; "see that your deeds
lag not behind them."
The words had scarcely left his lips, when the folding doors at the end
of the room were opened, and the First Consul entered.
He paused for a moment in the doorway and then came forward. The light
from the lamp, modified, as it was, by the green shade, made his
countenance, always pale and passionless, look almost death-like now,
and emphasized by contrast the wondrous eyes which flashed and glistened
with vitality and movement. He wore the uniform of an officer of
Artillery, and with scarce a decoration. His nether limbs were encased
in white breeches and silk stockings; a sash of tricolor completed his
costume.
His eyes fixed the two men in the room; both felt their magnetic force,
and one seemed almost turned to stone. But almost instantly, both bent
before him.
"So!" he began, in a hard, dry voice, "Mons. St. Just, you have come to
life again. I will inquire into that anon. Meantime, perhaps you, Mons.
de Talleyrand, will explain the meaning of this--gentleman's presence
here." He stamped his foot impatiently.
"Sir," began Talleyrand, in his icy tones, "I ventured to send for Mons.
St. Just with a view to his being despatched to England on the mission
we have discussed together. You left in my hands the selection of the
agent, and, for several reasons which I shall be happy to give you when
we are alone, I deemed him suitable."
"An assassin, a prisoner from the Temple! I congratulate you on the
felicity of your selection," was the ironical rejoinder.
"A prisoner whom your clemency has freed. You cannot, General, have
forgotten the token from Mons. St. Just I handed you."
Buonaparte had not forgotten, but for a purpose he affected to have done
so. The Man of Destiny forgot nothing. "Token, what token?" he asked
sharply. He dropped into a chair, then leisurely took snuff.
"This charm, Sir," said St. Just respectfully. He stepped forward and
held out the trinket. "This jewel given to me by Madame Buonaparte in
your presence, one memorable night, when you attached a promise to it."
"I now remember, Sir," answered the First Consul sternly, "and the
pledge I gave you, but I little guessed that I should be reminded of it
in such circumstances as the present. I did not expect that, in the
fulfillment of my promise, I should be called upon to save a would-be
assassin, and a deserter from his colors from the penalty of his crimes.
But I will respect my word, Sir; your life is spared. See that you make
a worthier use of it in the future." Then, in a voice of thunder, he
concluded, "But have a care, Sir, have a care, lest you try my patience
and forbearance beyond their limits. Never again put that trinket to so
vile a use, or I fear me you will find that it has lost its virtue.
Nay, I marvel that, on this occasion, you should have shielded yourself
with its protection. A brave man dishonored, is glad to hide his
dishonor in the grave."
The countenance he turned upon St. Just was awful in its sternness and
contempt, and the confusion and abasement of the wretched man were
piteous to behold. He bent his head to his chest, and trembled in every
limb, and his face rivaled in its pallor even Buonaparte's. The
scathing words of the First Consul had so affected him that, for the
moment, he felt that death itself would have been preferable, and
regretted that the talisman had been employed to save his life. His
breath came hard and fast, and he made several ineffectual attempts to
speak; at last he gasped out:
"Sir I thank you for your clemency. I am so bewildered, so abashed, I
despise myself so much, that I can scarce find words. I can only
say--you have spared my life, do with it what you will."
Buonaparte eyed him searchingly. From his inscrutable expression it was
impossible to judge whether St. Just's words and manner had affected
him.
"And what guarantee have I of your future behavior?" he replied. "Wait
here."
He signed to Talleyrand, and they left the room together.
Ten minutes passed, during which St. Just, in some measure, recovered
his composure. At the end of that time, they returned, and Buonaparte,
without referring to his last question and without noticing St. Just
walked across the room and placed his back against the marble
mantelpiece. Then he began to kick with his heel the smouldering embers
in the grate.
Meanwhile Talleyrand addressed St. Just. "You will proceed to England
with the utmost speed, and there make it your business to become
acquainted with a certain Sir Henry Emerson. He is a King's Messenger,
and we have information that he will be setting out next week for
Holland with dispatches. It is of vital importance that we should know
their purport. It will be for you, when on the spot, to devise the best
means of bringing this about. Take copies of them, if you can, and
restore them without his knowledge; but, if this should be impossible,
secure the papers, and let me have them without a moment's loss of time.
You may not be able to achieve your purpose before Sir Henry Emerson has
set cut; if so, you must dog his footsteps until you do succeed. Don't
be too nice about the methods you employ: use bribery, violence,
anything so that you do not fail.
"On reaching London, you will go instantly to the house of one Perry, a
hosier at this address"--he handed it to St. Just--"and ask 'where you
can get the best bees.' If the man laughs at you, go away, for he is
not the right person; but try again later. If to your inquiry he reply
that he is a large bee farmer himself, you may state your business
freely, and he will give you every assistance. He is keeping a watch on
the movements of this King's Messenger.
"Here are ten thousand francs." He handed him a bundle of notes. "You
can change them, according to your requirements into English money at a
money changer's. Perry will see to that for you. Should you require
more, apply to him, and he will give it to you."
A clock on the mantelpiece struck two. St. Just was surprised to find
it was so late; his drive to this house must have taken hours. It
puzzled him to know where he was; not in Paris, clearly.
"You have had your instructions, Sir," said the First Consul, speaking
for the first time, since his second entrance into the room, "and will
start at once; and, as you value your life, be true. Another act of
treachery, and nothing shall protect you."
St. Just stepped forward, and was beginning to renew his protestations
of fidelity and gratitude, when Buonaparte waved him back and, with a
frown, walked rapidly from the room.
Then Talleyrand addressed St. Just. "To-morrow, at eleven, you will
start for Boulogne. There you will embark on the La Fleche. You have a
fair knowledge of English, I understand. You will pass as the Comte St.
Clair. Live as the others do--not ostentatiously, but don't grudge
expenditure, when needful. Return the moment you have achieved the
object of your mission.
"One last injunction; don't go to Auteuil, before you start."