"Am quite well. We shall meet again soon. I have taken Mahmoud with
me. I know you will not want him for the present.
Then, Halima guessed, if she did not positively know, of his coming
journey to England.
His preparations did not take him long, and he left Paris at the time
Talleyrand had ordered him to start, and reached Boulogne on the evening
of the following day. He soon found the La Fleche, a small vessel, at
anchor in the harbor. He presented himself to the captain as the Comte
St. Clair, according to instructions, and handed him papers authorizing
his passage to England.
The next morning, so soon as it was light, they moved out of the harbor,
but the breeze was so light, and what there was of it, so unfavorable to
their course, that they had to keep continually tacking; thus it was
night before they sighted the shores of England. As it was, they were
taken somewhat out of their course, and the nearest port was Shoreham;
this they made. St. Just was landed in a sir all boat a short distance
from the port itself, which, indeed, at that time, was little more than
a cluster of cottages--a hamlet; though now a town of some importance.
Taking his small bag in his hand--for he had not cared to encumber
himself with luggage, intending to supply himself in London with such
clothing as he required--he began to make his way across the sandy flats
that intervened between the shore and the high road, meaning, on gaining
Shoreham, to obtain some means of conveyance to Brighton, and thence to
take the coach to London. He was told that, by bearing direct
northwards from the sea, he would soon hit the road.
The night was dark, for there was no moon, and but a few stars were to
be seen; but that his way was so direct, he would not have attempted it
without a guide. Not a sound was to be heard, not even the fall of his
own feet, for the sand and the tufts of coarse grass that dotted it
formed a soft carpet that made his footsteps noiseless. But walking was
somewhat arduous; the more so that he had to feel his way, or he would
have fallen, for the ground was full of little mounds and hollows. His
progress, accordingly, was slow.
He went stumbling along, but never actually falling and had made about
half the distance to the road, when, all at once, close by his ear, he
heard the words shouted in a strident voice, "Here he is, lads!" and,
the next moment, received a violent blow on the head that felled him to
the ground, and, before he had so much as seen his assailant, he was
stretched insensible on the sand.
When he recovered consciousness, he found himself in a low, scantily and
rudely furnished room, which, from the nets and ropes that hung against
the walls and lay in heaps upon the floor, proclaimed its owner to be a
fisherman. With the feeling, so common to us all when sleeping, and some
one is approaching us, he felt that he was being watched, and he opened
his eyes. A rough-looking, middle-aged man was bending over him,
scrutinizing him intently, with an expression of mingled anxiety and
alarm. But, when the Frenchman opened his eyes, that were now lighted
with intelligence, the fisherman's strained look relaxed, and a smile of
satisfaction took its place.
"Glad to see you coming round, Sir," he said cheerily. "You'll soon be
all right now; but I was mortal feared once; I began to think you were
going to turn it up. How are you feeling, Sir?"
St. Just looked at him inquiringly, and with some alarm, as one does at
unexpectedly finding oneself in an unknown place and in the presence of
a stranger; but the man, though rough, looked kindly and good-natured;
so that St. Just's anxiety was but brief.
"My head aches badly here," he answered; and he put his hand at the back
part of his crown. The action made him wince; the place felt so tender.
"I must have fallen, or been struck. What has happened? Where am I?
Who are you?" Then before the other could reply, he resumed, "Ah, I
remember now; I was crossing the sands and some one knocked me down. Was
it you, and if so, why?"
"No, it wasn't me, Sir," replied the man, "and it was all a mistake."
He went on to explain that, in the dark, St. Just had been mistaken for
some one against whom his son had a grudge, and been knocked down in
consequence. On discovering the mistake, he and his son had brought him
to their cabin. He now expressed his sorrow and asked how he could
serve St. Just.
"I am much obliged to you," replied St. Just dryly. "Suppose you lend me
a hand to help me up, for I am still weak and dizzy."
The man gave him his hand willingly, and raised his visitor to a sitting
posture on the bed. St. Just rubbed his eyes, then let them wander
round the room. From the appearance of the roof and walls, and from the
thunder of the waves, which he could hear against the sides of where he
was, he was satisfied that he was in a cavern on the shore.
"This is not a house," he said, "we are underground; do you live here?"
"Well, it's all the house I have, when I'm at home, but I'm mostly out."
"And what's your name, and what are you?"
"John Slade, fisherman."
St. Just turned his eyes keenly on him and smiled faintly. "And you do
a little foreign trade as well, eh? Brandy, cigars, silks and lace?"
John Slade started and scowled at the injured man, who continued with a
laugh, "You needn't be alarmed, my friend, the secret of your retreat is
safe with me; I've nothing to do with the coastguard. Besides, as you
must have discovered, I am a foreigner, a Frenchman, and I know no one
in this country. But I have business in London and must be there as
soon as possible. How long have I been here?"
"Since the night afore yesterday. You'll soon be all right now, and
I'll see you to the coach for London. I daresay you'll be well enough
to start to-morrow. But now, Master, couldn't you take something to eat
and drink?"
St. Just thought he could. As a fact, he was feeling very hungry; he
had had nothing for two days.
A good night's rest made him another man, and, the next morning, he got
into John Slade's boat, and the smuggler rowed him to Brighton. The
boat was moored, and his companion went ashore with him and carried his
bag to the starting place of the London coach. Then they parted with
mutual expressions of goodwill--for St. Just had quite forgiven the
mistake that had laid him prostrate--and the young Frenchman was soon
rattling along the road to London.
As yet, he had formulated no plan of action; he deferred that, until he
should have seen the hosier in the Strand. So he hailed a hackney coach
and told the driver to take him to the address Mons. de Talleyrand had
given.
Fortunately Mr. Perry was in his shop and, on St. Just's putting the
question to him about the bees, he gave the expected answer; then he
asked his visitor into his parlor at the back of the shop, and inquired
in what way he could serve him.
The latter, having been told that he might speak to the hosier without
restraint, at once explained his errand, and asked his hearer the best
way to set about it.
Perry was a man of much better social standing and education than the
generality of London tradesmen of a hundred years ago. He had not been
born in the ranks of shopkeepers, but in his early days had fallen
desperately in love with the pretty daughter of the former proprietor of
this shop. The girl's virtue being every whit on a level with her
beauty, despite his efforts to deprave it, he had been compelled either
to marry her, or give up her pursuit; unable to do the latter, he had
done the former, and her father dying shortly afterwards, he had found
himself in possession of the business, which was too good to be
relinquished, the more so that he was without means or occupation.
Chance had thrown him into the way of many of the French emigres at that
time in London. He had traveled in France and could speak the language.
There was a good deal of the mole in him, and he was fond of burrowing
into secrets. Gradually he had strengthened his relations with these
emigrants, so that he had wormed himself into their confidence, and
there were few of their plots for the restoration of the French king
with which he was unacquainted. Believing in his sympathies, they spoke
openly before him and even consulted him about their schemes; almost he
had become their trusted agent. And while all this fed his appetite for
excitement and his love for plotting, it, at the same time, put money in
his pocket, for any services he rendered were well paid for. As a
matter of fact, his sympathies were not with the French King's party,
for, while filled with horror at the bloodshed of the "Terror," he
considered that the French people were quite right in rising against the
oppressors--king, nobles and priests--who had ground them down for
centuries.
The Revolutionists had their spies in England, and they were not long in
discovering Perry's intimacy with the Monarchists. By judicious
soundings, they found that he had no real love for these. He could,
therefore, knowing so many of their secrets, render them important
services. So overtures were made to him, which he accepted, and, at the
time of St. Just's visit, he was a recognized agent of the French
Republic, while all the time affecting Monarchist proclivities. He was
well paid by the Republic, so that now he was receiving money from both
sides. But he was careful not to give himself away, keeping the secrets
of each party inviolate from the other. Thus he performed with
satisfaction to himself the formidable feat of running with the hare and
hunting with the hounds.
Such was the man with whom St. Just now found himself in counsel.
It appeared that Perry knew Sir Henry Emerson well; this was doubtless
known in Paris and was why St. Just had been instructed to apply to him.
Sir Henry had called at the shop only a day or two before and, when
ordering certain articles of hosiery, had mentioned casually that he was
expecting every day to be ordered to the Continent with dispatches.
Perry told him that Sir Henry was in the habit almost nightly of
visiting a certain gambling hell near the Haymarket, at which the hosier
had the entree and occasionally tempted Fortune. He advised that his
visitor should accompany him there that night for the double purpose of
familiarizing himself with Sir Henry Emerson's appearance and
ascertaining, if possible, whether the date of his departure for Holland
was yet fixed.
This being settled, Perry took him to a costumier, where he fitted
himself with fashionable attire of English cut, he, Perry, supplying him
with such hosiery and under-linen as he required. Then, having engaged
a room for him at the Golden Cross Hotel, at Charing Cross, he left him,
with the promise that he would call for him at a late hour that night,
when they would proceed together to the gaming house.
In due course, they made their way thither. At the moment of their
arrival at the door, a close carriage, with no armorial bearings on the
panels, and drawn by a well-matched pair of horses, pulled up before it.
St. Just and his companion drew back to let the occupants precede them.
A well-built man, above the middle height and inclined to stoutness,
alighted from the carriage. His features were handsome, but inclined to
puffiness. Perry nudged his companion slightly and whispered, "The
Prince Regent."
The prince was followed by another man, and the two disappeared within
the house, the door having been already opened in answer to the summons
of a footman.
Perry waited a few minutes, so as not to follow too closely on the
Prince's heels, and then knocked at the same door. It was opened by a
man in livery, who greeted Perry respectfully, and then pulled a bell,
that tinkled in the distance, and they moved down the passage, at the
end of which was a green baize door, that opened noiselessly at their
approach, and then closed behind them. They found themselves in a hall
that blazed with light. A gorgeously clad, powdered footman stepped
forward and relieved them of their roquelaures--they retained their
hats--then preceded them up a broad staircase, so softly carpeted that
their footfalls could not be heard. At the head of it was another green
baize door, before which stood a negro of Herculean proportions,
gorgeously arrayed. The footman murmured something and the door swung
open.
The scene presented to St. Just's view was as startling as it was novel
to him. Proceeding, as he had, direct from the military school to the
battle field, he had little personal knowledge of the vices and
amusements of Society, and was proportionately astonished. In a large
room, furnished luxuriously, and, withal, somewhat meretriciously, the
walls lined with long mirrors and pictures suggesting that the persons
there delineated were the denizens of countries whose climate was more
than temperate--to judge from their costume, or the absence of it;
ottomans and lounges, heavily gilt and silk upholstered, dotted about;
and the whole brilliantly illuminated by the soft light of innumerable
wax candles;--were about sixty persons of both sexes--the men
predominating--in evening dress of the very latest fashion, some of the
ladies being conspicuous more by the audacity than the elegance of their
attire. Some were walking about the room talking and laughing,
occasionally pausing at the different tables to watch the progress of
the game. But most of them were either seated at the tables, or
standing behind the sitters engaged at play. Faro, hazard and other
convenient modes for winning and losing money rapidly were going on.
Perry cast his eye carefully round the room, and nodded to several
persons whom he knew. "The man we want is not here yet," he whispered
to St. Just. "I think we had better join in the play, if we can find a
table where it is not too high. For a stranger to come here and refrain
from doing so would look singular."
St. Just at once assented, and they strolled about the room in search of
a table.
Presently a man called out, "Come and try your luck, Perry; you won't be
ruined, we are only small fry here."
"Yes," replied the hosier, "my friend and I will join you;" and he
introduced St. Just--as the Comte St. Clair, of course.
They had been seated at the table but a few minutes, when Sir Henry
Emerson entered the room, and Perry pointed him out to St. Just, and,
during the evening, took an opportunity of introducing them to one
another. Sir Henry, who took the so-called Comte St. Clair to be an
emigre, and was a strong Royalist, received him in a friendly manner and
offered to present him to the Prince at a Levee to be held next day. He
added that he would not have another opportunity for some time, for
that, at the conclusion of the function, he would have to start for
Holland with dispatches.
This was the very information St. Just desired. If the documents were
to be in his hands before Sir Henry left England, he had little time to
lose. He thanked the speaker for his courtesy, of which he said he
would avail himself, and would present himself for the purpose at the
house of the King's Messenger at the time appointed. Then, the hour
being late, he shook hands with him, and he and Perry took their leave.
A modus operandi had to be decided on, and there was little time to do
it in.
However, before they turned in for the night, they had evolved a scheme
they thought would work, if Fortune should prove kind. There was this
about it, that, if that on which they counted for success were absent,
they would be no worse off than they were before, and no one would know
of their conspiracy. Since Sir Henry Emerson was to set out so soon as
the Levee should be over, they hoped to see the coveted dispatch lying
in some conspicuous position in his room--if it was not already in his
dispatch box--lest, by any chance he should forget it.
And the next day, when St. Just called, according to appointment, clad
in a levee uniform procured from a costumier, he found that they had not
miscalculated; for there, on a sideboard, in Sir Henry's room--he
occupied a suite of chambers in King Street, St. James--lay a packet
addressed to "----, His Majesty's Minister Plenipotentiary at The
Hague."
Perry had accompanied St. Just, making as his excuse a little present he
had brought from his shop for the unsuspecting King's Messenger.
A look of intelligence passed between the two conspirators when they saw
the packet on the sideboard, which stood close to the door.
Sir Henry Emerson greeted St. Just courteously and then looked
inquiringly at Perry, at the same time saying, "Ah, Perry, my friend,
what's brought you? Did you think the Count couldn't be trusted to find
his way here alone in a hackney coach?"
"Not that, Sir Henry," replied the hosier, "But the air is sharp in
Holland at this time of year, and I have just got in some woolen
jackets--quite a new article--to wear under the coat; and I have
ventured to ask your acceptance of one; you are one of my oldest
customers, and your approval will be of service to me." He held a fiat
brown paper parcel in his hand.
"Upon my word, Perry, you're a good fellow," said Sir Henry. "Egad, it
was very thoughtful of you and I am much obliged to you. I've no doubt
I shall find it very comforting, for, as you say, Holland is deuced cold
in January. I am afraid I have scarcely time to try it on just now, for
the Count and I must be off to the Levee; but when I come back."
"No need for that, Sir," answered Perry; "it is sure to fit. These
things are knitted and, within certain limits, will fit any one. I will
leave it on the sideboard." He walked up to it, stood his stick in a
corner made by it, and put his parcel on the top of the dispatch for
Holland, at the same time dexterously slipping the packet from
underneath it and transferring it to his breast pocket, his back being
turned to the other two.
This done, he faced about, wished the two gentlemen good day and took
his leave.
"It is time for us to be going too, Count," said Sir Henry, so soon as
Perry had taken his departure, "and I think our coach is at the door."
St. Just rose with alacrity. He was only too anxious to be gone, before
his host should have discovered that the dispatch was missing.
"I am at your service, Sir Henry," he replied.
"Hulloa!" cried Sir Henry on their way out, "Perry has left his stick
behind," and he pointed to a walking stick in the angle the wall made
with the sideboard. "Well, it will be safe enough here; no doubt he
will remember where he left it, when he misses it, and will call for
it."
Then they stepped into the coach and were driven to St. James's Palace
to pay their respects to "the first gentleman in Europe."
Three hours later they returned, St. Just accompanying the King's
Messenger to his chambers. He came in merely to thank him for the
attention he had received and to wish him "bon voyage," and was in the
act of leaving, when Perry was announced.
"I stupidly forgot my stick, Sir Henry," he began at once, "when I was
here three hours ago. Ah, there it is;" espying it in the corner. It
was a handsome stick with a heavy embossed gold knob; such a stick as
one would not like to lose; so that he might be well excused for calling
for it. He walked quickly to it, placing one hand in his breast pocket
at the same time. Then, as though a sudden thought had struck him, he
said, "Oh, if you have now the time, Sir Henry, you might try on the
jacket." At the same time he took up the brown paper parcel from the
sideboard and brought it towards Sir Henry. On the spot that it had
covered lay the dispatch once more.
"By all means," replied Sir Henry, "if it will not take long; for I am
due to leave in half an hour."
Perry quickly undid the parcel, the jacket was brought out, admired,
tried on and pronounced an excellent fit, all in the course of a couple
of minutes. Then St. Just and Perry took their leave, the latter, this
time not forgetting to take his walking stick.
Not a word passed between them on the subject of their visit to Sir
Henry Emerson, until they were closeted in Perry's parlor. Then St.
Just, who had been itching all the way to learn what Perry had done,
burst out, "I suppose you managed to take a copy of the dispatch, since
I saw what looked like the original lying on the sideboard, when you
took up the parcel."
"I did," was the reply, "but it took me all my time; there was so much
of it."
He went to a drawer, unlocked it, took out some papers and handed them
to St. Just. "This is the copy."
St. Just's eyes sparkled with satisfaction.
"Bravo, my friend," he said, "you have done well. I don't know what I
should have done without you. This is much better than the original,
for the English Government will not know what has occurred; whereas, if
the original had been missed, it would have aroused suspicion, and a
fresh dispatch of different import might have been substituted for it.
Is there any chance of their discovering that the envelope has been
tampered with? But perhaps you used a fresh one. But how about the
Foreign Office seal?"
Perry laughed. "Those are some of my little secrets," he replied; "but
it was the same envelope I replaced, and you may rest assured, my
friend, that it will not be guessed that it has been tampered with. It
was fortunate that everything favored us. I expected much more
manoeuvring would have been required to get the packet."
All that remained now, was to remunerate Perry for his services. St.
Just gave him notes for five thousand francs, with which the hosier
seemed well satisfied.
Later in the evening, they visited several places of amusement, and, the
next morning, St. Just took leave of Perry, and started on his return
for France. Three days later he presented himself before Mons. de
Talleyrand.
*CHAPTER VII.*
It appeared that the dispatch, a copy of which St. Just had contrived to
get, was of great importance. The First Consul and Talleyrand,
accordingly, were proportionately gratified, and expressed their
satisfaction at St. Just's aptitude and alertness. But there was no
warmth about their words, for both were men who put a chain upon their
thoughts and a mask upon their faces. The cynical diplomatist,
moreover, discouraged and even ridiculed, in others anything that
approached enthusiasm. But St. Just had not looked for fulsome praise,
and, knowing the character of the two great men, was satisfied with such
faint approval as he had received. They had said enough to show him
that they thought he had done well. And this was proved by the First
Consul's last words when St. Just was quitting his presence. "Keep
Mons. de Talleyrand informed of your abode, Sir; there may be other work
for you to do."
From this, St. Just had little doubt there would be; that, before long,
Mons. de Talleyrand would send for him again.
A thrill of satisfaction speeded through him at the thought, for, at the
sight of Buonaparte once more, all the subtle influence the General had
on those who came in contact with him had returned; he forgot his
grievance and pursuit of vengeance, and desired nothing better than to
devote himself faithfully for the future to the service of his old
commander. If only Halima would forego her cravings for revenge. There
lay the obstacle to his desire. He resolved to make a strong appeal to
her. But his hope of success was small, for he knew her headstrong,
dictatorial nature, and how bitter was her rancor against Buonaparte. He
longed to retrace his devious steps and regain the path of honor; but,
were it not, at the same time, the path of passion, he knew he would not
have the strength to take it. Strong as were the cords that were
drawing him towards Buonaparte, the fetters forged by Halima were
stronger still.
These reflections filled him with despondency, for he could not rid
himself of the conviction that, with Halima unyielding, disaster was
impending; the only question was how soon.
For the moment there was no need to discuss the point with the Egyptian
Beauty, as Talleyrand had called her; for he was, so to speak, in a
position of neutrality. He would wait and see what the future had in
store for him.
St. Just had not miscalculated, for, three days after his return to
Paris, he received a summons from the wily statesman who at that time
directed the Foreign Affairs of France.
Talleyrand suggested that he should go back to England and remain there,
until otherwise instructed, as a secret agent of the French Government.
He would have to learn all he could of the movements of the emigres and
the plans of the English Government, and report them to his own.
Further, he would have to execute such instructions as he received.
The proposal was a compliment to his sagacity and discretion, and so St.
Just received it, and was proportionately gratified. Coming from the
quarter whence it did, it amounted to a command that, even had he
desired to do so, he would not have dared to disobey.
St. Just knew this well; so, without the slightest hesitation, and with
professions of gratitude and allegiance to the Republic, he accepted the
offer made him.
He was given a week for his arrangements; then he was to start for
England.
On leaving the minister, he made his way at once to Halima. Now that it
was known to the authorities that he was alive and had returned to
Paris, there was no further need for secrecy in his intercourse with his
wife; he could visit Auteuil openly, and as often as he liked.
At first Halima was indignant when she heard of the mission he had
undertaken, and she upbraided him, affecting to believe that he had
accepted it in order to get away from her. This was too monstrous, and
he indignantly repudiated the imputation, which, he said, could not have
been made seriously. No one knew better than herself the sacrifices he
had made for her. He trusted it was only an outburst of
ill-temper--anger and disappointment at the prospect of their being
parted; and this he told her, and she admitted it, saying that she knew
he loved her. Then she tried her woman's wiles on him; throwing her
arms around his neck, with mingled embraces, tears and kisses, she
besought him not to leave her; told him that she loved him more than
life, that it would be cruel to desert her; that she would die without
him. He must tell Mons. de Talleyrand that, on reconsideration, he felt
himself unequal to the work required of him, and must beg to be excused.
He pointed out to her the impossibility, the madness of such a course,
and at last succeeded in convincing her that, were he to do what she
suggested, it would defeat the very object they had in view--the
enjoyment of each other's company, that he would at once become an
object of suspicion, would be watched and would speedily find himself
arrested. Thus they would be separated. Reluctantly, she was compelled
to admit the force of what he said.
"Let me think," she said when he had finished speaking. Her first fury
had spent itself, and, having regard to her emotional nature, she was
calm.
It was several minutes before she spoke again.
Then, "If you must go, and it seems you must, I will follow you to
England," she declared. "I will not be separated from you again, after
the years we have been parted. I love France: still I should like to see
England. I suppose the people are not quite uncivilized."
St. Just smiled at this. Coming from a native of the desert, her
knowledge of men and manners, up to a recent date, having been picked up
at Cairo, the conceit amused him.
She went on, "I am not sure, besides, that a temporary absence from
France, at the present time, would not be wise. Things are becoming
somewhat risky here. Since that affair in which you were implicated,
the police have shown more activity than ever. Some of our friends have
thought it prudent to leave Paris; some even have gone to England. We
can organize our plans for Buonaparte's confusion in greater safety
there. Really, Henri, I am beginning to think that your appointment is
a fortunate occurrence; you will now be able to give us valuable help.
Oh! if the First Consul could only know that he is appointing as his
agent, a man who is pledged to contrive his ruin; who, when told to
watch the Royalists and report their doings, will give him false
intelligence, and will warn them when in danger and keep them informed
of what is doing in the other camp! The First Consul paying an agent to
betray him! Oh! it is a rare comedy; it is delicious." Her eyes
sparkled with delight, her face rippled with animation and she broke
into a ringing laugh, in which was not the slightest affectation.
But St. Just looked very grave. The picture she had drawn of him was so
absolutely true--and so contemptible. A spy, and not an honest spy; a
traitor to the man who paid him for his espionage. He writhed inwardly
at his horrible position. What was comedy to her was to him the direst
tragedy; the enormity of his offense came home to him. To any honorable
man, whose judgment was not bemused by passion, the situation would be
unbearable. Now was the time, if ever, to pour out his heart in one last
appeal to her to relieve him of his pledge to be avenged on Buonaparte.
He had little hope of its success, but he would make it.
"Oh! Halima," he cried, and there was a ring of pleading in his tone
that would have roused an echo in any heart not deadened by revenge;
"why nurse this vengeance against that man? Time generally blunts the
edge of the weapon sharpened for vindictiveness. It is four years since
this injury was wrought, and no one, but you and me, has knowledge of
it. If I can overlook it, why not you? This scheme of vengeance is
blasting my whole career, and, if I am still to prosecute it, will
render me, in the trusted position that has been forced upon me, so
despicable in my own eyes, that death even would be preferable. Oh! if
you love me--and you say you do--get free of these conspiracies, which,
in your own heart, you know you join in, not from love of France, but
hate of Buonaparte. And it is useless; he is too strong for you; how
can the hawk aspire to conquer in a contest with the eagle? Be advised
by me, my dearest, let your vengeance sleep; or, better, let it die. We
love each other, we have ample means, I have a career before me; this
paltry passion of revenge alone obstructs the road to honor and
contentment. Oh, my dear one, my life, my soul, if you only knew the
hell that is within me, you would be merciful to me, by sparing him. It
is not that I love him, but he means France, and I love my country--and
I love my honor. Say, love, shall it be so? Shall we not bury in the
limbo of oblivion the recollection of your wrong? Oh, Halima, relieve
me of my pledge to you, and leave me free to do my duty to my country."
He ceased speaking, and scanned her anxiously, to mark the affect of his
appeal. But the hope that was on his face changed quickly to despair.
Her eyes flashed upon him angrily, and the look she turned on him was
pitiless, infuriated, contemptuous.
"Never!" she cried, and her voice rose almost to a shriek. "I will never
abandon my revenge. I can wait for its accomplishment, and I know that
time will bring it me. And you, if you are so poor a thing, you, my
husband, that you will not make my wrong your own, depart; leave me to
work it out alone. But, if you do, much as I have loved you, I shall
hate you for your pusillanimity even more than I hate him. Almost I
hate you now, for that you can suggest forgetfulness of my wrong. Leave
me now, ere I say words to you that cannot be recalled."
Her bosom was heaving with emotion, her eyes were like two balls of fire
that seemed to bulge beneath her brow, and she paced with rapid steps
about the room. "Go," she repeated, and she threw her hand out towards
him; "go, before my temper gets beyond control."
And, with the feeling that all hope was gone, he left her.
It was two months later; early in March. Both St. Just and Halima were
in London. Three days after his fruitless appeal to her to forego her
scheme of vengeance and leave him free to follow the path of duty, he
had started for England, whither, a fortnight afterwards, she had
followed him.
* * * * *
Halima was living in a London suburb--the district now known as Earl's
Court. A Lord Hartford, a strong supporter of the French Royalists, and
a friend and great admirer of the dark-eyed beauty, had placed a house
he had there at her disposal. It was a roomy, old-fashioned red-brick
structure standing in its own grounds, which were of considerable
extent.
It was one o'clock in the morning. In a large room to the right of the
hall, a room with long French windows that gave in to the well-kept
garden, a merry party sat at supper; the men numbered about thirty,
while the ladies did not exceed a dozen; all were dressed in the height
of the prevailing fashion, and each wore a white rosette pinned to coat
or gown, the emblem of the cause they were supporting. The meal was
practically over, and many of the guests had drawn their chairs back
from the table and were sitting about in groups engaged in animated
conversation, interspersed with occasional bursts of merriment and
ringing laughter from the lips of some fair woman; for they had supped
well, and the wine had passed round freely, warming hearts, sharpening
wits and unlocking lips.
One person alone sat moodily apart, seeming to take no interest in the
doings of the merry crew; a thin, sallow complexioned man with a nervous
manner; his eyes moved uneasily about the room, and, more from
restlessness, to judge from his appearance, than that he took much
pleasure in it, he kept taking sips from a glass of wine that stood in
front of him. When anyone addressed him, it was as Mons. de Guichard,
but his real name was Querel. He had been a surgeon in the Royalist
army and had joined in the plot to reinstate the Bourbons, and affected
to be one of the most ardent supporters of the cause.
Suddenly there was a lull in the laughter and conversation, and all eyes
were turned to the most beautiful and most extravagantly dressed woman
present. She was robed in a gown of white satin, cut, with an audacity
that bordered on immodesty, so as to display as much as she durst of the
voluptuous charms with which Nature had endowed her--her beautifully
rounded arms, which were bare to the shoulder, where a narrow band,
gem-studded, crossed them, and the exquisite curves of her neck and
swelling bosom, on which a diamond necklace reflected a thousand
sparkles from the wax-lights about the room. Her blue black eyes were
like two gleaming stars as she flashed them round the company; her face
was flushed with excitement, in part due to wine, and her expression and
whole bearing testified to a feeling of triumphant joy at the
consciousness of her rare outward gifts and their power to sway the
other sex and mold all men to her will.
The eyes of the man with the sallow face, de Guichard, no longer roved
about the room, but fixed themselves on her with a hungry lust that was
almost brutal.
Halima sprang quickly to her feet and raised aloft a glass filled almost
to the brim with foaming wine. Instantly the talk and laughter, that
had been lessening, in expectation of her action, became completely
hushed. Not only so, but all sat immovable.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," she began, "before we part, I have a toast to
give you. Most of you were present at our meeting before supper, and
know what was resolved on, but, for the information of those who were
not in time for it, I will repeat that our plans are at last complete
for restoring to France her rightful King. A messenger goes to-night to
make them known to our faithful friends in Paris, and to encourage them
to keep up their hearts. Courage, my friends, for the blow will soon be
struck that shall hurl the bragging upstart from the height he has had
the temerity to mount. This is the toast I ask you to join me in:
'Success to the White Rosette and the cause it typifies, our King's.'
Also to our next meeting in Paris, fixed for the 25th of March. Vive le
Roi!"
She swung the glass about her head, sprinkling, unintentionally, drops
of wine on those about her; then she brought it to her lips and emptied
it at a draught; then flung it down, and it splintered into fragments on
the floor.
Instantly all present sprang to their feet, and the cry went up "Success
to the White Rosette! Vive le Roi!" the shriller notes of the women
mingling with the rougher tones of the men. The glasses were clinked
together then drained to the bottom and, finally like Halima's shattered
to atoms on the ground. Employed in a cause deemed almost sacred, they
should be put to no common use again. Then deafening shouts and cheers
went up, and the enthusiasm became intense, the gentlemen drawing and
brandishing their swords, and the ladies waving their
pocket-handkerchiefs, and fluttering their fans. "Vive le Roi! Vive
Louis XVIII" again and again they cried.
Gradually the excitement wore itself away, and the party began to
separate, some taking their departure, others making their way to the
drawing-room, whence soon the strains of music could be heard. Some of
the gentlemen, inveterate topers, following the custom of the times,
lingered in the dining-room over their wine, but others, votaries of
Venus, rather than of Bacchus, followed the ladies into the
drawing-room. Amongst them was Mons. de Guichard, whose eye quickly
singled out their hostess, who flitted about from group to group,
dropping sugared words, varied according to the taste and sex of the
recipients, among ladies and gentlemen alike. He made several efforts
to gain her side, but each time, almost before he had reached her, she
had moved away.
But, at last, he saw his opportunity. He had seated himself near the
door, and Halima had just taken leave of some of her guests, and was
passing him on her return. He rose to his feet, and bowing courteously,
"Madame," he said, "may I beg the favor of five minutes' conversation
with you privately on a matter of great moment?"
His manner was so confused, he hesitated and was so ill at ease, his
face contorted and twitching with emotion she failed to comprehend, that
her first sentiment was of alarm.
"Alone?" she asked, her tone and face expressing her surprise.
He made no verbal answer, but merely bowed assent.
Halima had no lack of courage, and her first emotion had been but
momentary. "If you will follow me, Monsieur," she said. "But I trust
our interview will not take long. Indeed, I cannot for more than a few
minutes neglect my duties as a hostess."
She passed out of the room and led the way along the hall--throwing a
dark cloak over her shoulders on the way--to a glass door that, by a
short flight of steps, gave access to the garden, he following her.
With rapid strides, they threaded several winding paths, coming out at
last in front of a small pavilion, which she entered, inviting him to
follow.
Halima closed the door, then, tapping the floor impatiently with her
foot, she said, "I hope our business will not occupy us for more than a
brief space, and that its importance will justify my seeming rudeness to
my guests. Besides," and here she stifled a yawn behind her fan, "the
hour grows late, and I am tired."
For a moment, the man stood silent, then, with gleaming eyes, their
brightness scintillating even in the semi-darkness of the chamber, his
words rushed out in a torrent.
"Oh! Madame, can you not see what I would say to you? You are a woman,
does not your heart tell you of the fire that is consuming me? Madame,
no words of mine--nay, it is not in the power of language to express
it--can make you know the depth of my devotion to you. I love you, I
adore you, I could kiss the very ground your foot has pressed. My peace
of mind is gone, a tempest rages furiously within me. Every word you
say to another stings me, every look, every smile bestowed on others is
gall and wormwood to me. I live only in your presence. Without you,
death is to be desired. Why think you I have put my life in peril and
joined this conspiracy? 'Tis for love of you. Kings, countries,
statesmen, all else in this world, count to me for nothing when weighed
with you. With you I feel it in me to achieve great things, to dare all
dangers. Your society is eagerly desired, you are admired, beloved, you
hold an important position in this enterprise to reinstate the King;
but, supported by your love, I can secure for you even a higher place
than you have yet attained, or ever will without me. Madame, does not
my fervor melt you? Will you bid me hope?"
He ceased speaking, and gazed down into her face, searching anxiously
for some sign that he had moved her. His face was deathly white, and
his breath came throbbingly in the intensity of his suspense.
But she remained unmoved. For one thing, she did not like the man; had
never felt assured that he was trustworthy. Had almost any other man
evinced such passion for her, even had it awakened no responsive chord
in her, would have felt touched, and, to spare him would have checked
him at the outset. But this man she felt she hated.
"I don't know which amazes me the most, Sir," she replied; "your
temerity, or your vanity. What have I ever said or done to warrant your
addressing me in terms of love? I can charge myself with nothing that
should have prompted it. It must be that you have too liberally
indulged in wine, and that your wits have gone awandering. I will leave
you to regain your scattered senses."
The measured incisiveness of her tone, and the contemptuous expression
of her face would have silenced most men, but he was mad with passion.
When she moved to go, he placed himself before her. "If I am drunk," he
said, "'tis not with wine, but love. Oh! how can so fair a form, that
glows with life, and warmth, enshrine so cold a heart? An icicle shut
up within a jeweled casket. You heed not that my heart is lacerated,
and for love of you. But have a care, for passion makes one desperate.
Oh! Madame," and his voice changed suddenly to a wail, "forgive me and
relent." He reached out his hand and clutched her dress.
"Unhand me, Sir." She spoke quietly enough, but rage was gathering in
her face, and some little trepidation. They were some distance from the
house and, for aught she knew, no one was within call.
But his passion had passed beyond his power. A salacious glare was in
his eye, and his lips twitched lustfully. The next moment he had caught
her to him and almost stifled her in his embrace. She felt his hot
breath on her face, his kisses on her lips. Oh! how she loathed the
man. A piercing shriek went up. There was a sound of rushing feet
outside, the door of the pavilion was flung open, and two men burst in.
One wore a plain traveling suit, the other was dressed in the height of
fashion; but both were shrouded in long cloaks.
At their entrance, de Guichard loosed his hold on Halima, who was
panting and almost speechless with rage and shame, at the insult put
upon her.
The first of the newcomers--he was St. Just--turned savagely on de
Guichard. "Explain your presence here, Sir," he exclaimed.
But the man stood tongue-tied. The change in the position had been so
rapid and unlooked for, that he was at a loss for words.
"This man has insulted me, Henri," Halima broke in, speaking in gasps;
"I came here with him, believing he had political secrets to impart; but
he took the opportunity of forcing his attentions on me, and when I
repelled him, he seized me in his arms and kissed me. Then I screamed."
"Hah! is it so, Sir?" exclaimed St. Just. "I will teach you a lesson,
you will not easily forget. If you received what you deserve, I would
thrash you like a cur; but, since you have the appearance of a gentleman
and wear a sword. I will give you the opportunity of using it. Draw,
Sir!"
St. Just's words and Halima's had given de Guichard time to regain his
self-possession.
"And pray, Sir," he said, "what right have you to interfere in another's
love affair? I came here by this lady's invitation. Doubtless, but for
you and your companion, we should have arranged our little difference,
for 'the quarrels of lovers are the renewal of love.'"
"We waste time, Sir," St. Just broke out. "Draw, before I buffet you in
the face. I might prove a special right to make this lady's quarrel
mine; but I am content to assert that by which every honorable man is
moved to avenge a woman's injuries."
"I do not fight before women," returned de Guichard sullenly. "And
there is no light here; we cannot fight in the dark."
"As to fighting before a woman, Sir," Halima interposed, "for that you
have my full permission; further, it would afford me satisfaction; the
wrong is mine, I should like to witness its avenging. And, for light,
that soon can be procured. Oblige me with your tinder box, Sir." The
last words were spoken to her husband.
He gave her what she asked for, and soon she had set a light to several
wax candles about the room. While she was thus engaged, no word was
spoken aloud, but St. Just stepped up to his companion and whispered in
his ear. The other nodded in reply, and then St. Just removed his
cloak.
Her task performed, Halima took her stand beside her husband, a joyous,
cruel glow of expectation on her face. She sprang from a race of
warriors, and the din of battle was music to her ears; her eyes were
like two dancing sparks, as they flashed impatiently at the prospect of
a struggle between two men with hatred in their breasts; and her
nostrils were distended, as though, in anticipation, they sniffed the
scent of blood. The animal bulked largely in her nature. She seemed to
have no fear as to the result of the encounter; indeed she had not
thought of that, and if she had, she would not have been greatly
troubled; for she knew her husband was a skillful swordsman; of the
other's prowess she knew nothing.
Both men were very pale, St. Just with rage, de Guichard with that and
baffled lust.
"Are you ready, Gentlemen?" cried Halima, who seemed to have taken the
whole management upon herself. "Then draw."
She stepped back and placed herself midway between the combatants, the
stranger taking up a like position facing her.
Then the two men advanced, and drew their weapons. There was the clash
of steel opposed to steel; the duel had begun.
It was soon apparent that science would play but a small part in the
encounter; the temper of both men forbade it; St. Just fought furiously,
de Guichard desperately; the exchanges were made rapidly and with a
will: there was no attempt at feinting--only the cut and dried attacks,
parried in the ordinary way. So far as skill went, there was not much
to choose between the combatants; their strength also seemed
well-matched. Spite of the vigorous nature of their onslaughts, for
some minutes there was no palpable result; all that happened was that
they began to labor more in breathing. Suddenly St. Just, in making a
furious lunge, slipped on the polished floor and fell, his blade, in the
fall, snapping short off at the hilt.
De Guichard, desiring only to escape, now thought he saw his chance.
Making a cut at the candle held by St. Just's companion, he sliced off
the lighted end: then, in the comparative darkness and confusion, he
bounded to the door and rushed out into the darkness, brushing against a
man who was advancing. Meanwhile, St. Just had regained his feet and,
seeing his late opponent's retreating back, had hurled his sword hilt
after him.
The next moment, preceded by a torrent of strong oaths in Breton French,
a man entered the pavilion. He looked from one to the other in
surprise; then, recognizing St. Just, "Confound it, man, do you want to
break my shins? Am I Goliath and you David that you sling things at me?"
At this the man who had accompanied St. Just threw himself into a chair
and laughed heartily.
But Halima and St. Just exclaimed together, "Cadoudal! How come you
here? We thought you were in Paris?"
"No," replied Cadoudal, "I landed in England this morning and came on
here at once in the hope of meeting His Royal Highness; and I am
fortunate in doing so." He bowed low to the man who had entered with
St. Just, the Comte d'Artois. "The time for our rising is close at
hand. 'Tis now, or never with us. We must start for Paris at once. The
Jacobins wait but a signal from us to light the torch of revolution."
"Bravo! Vive le Roi!" cried Halima, almost before Cadoudal had ceased
speaking. "Down with the oppressor. To Paris, gentlemen, to Paris."
She sprang to her feet and began to chant a Royalist hymn.
In the excitement that followed on the disclosure of the Chouan leader's
news, de Guichard, now speeding citywards, was forgotten. And, on the
morrow, while the other conspirators yet lingered, and St. Just was
hastening to Ettenheim, with a letter for the ill-fated Duc d'Enghein,
urging him to join the cause, the traitor de Guichard was being borne
across the channel, as fast as ship could take him, to France and
Buonaparte.
*CHAPTER VIII.*
A long stretch of road wound its way along, until it was lost in the
distance in a thin white thread. At intervals at both sides were wooden
pillars painted in the national colors of Baden. Not far away, a broad
river swept along, following the same course as the road.
Moving along the road in silence, was a squadron of dragoons, at their
head a stern-faced officer; but between him and it, two closely-guarded
carriages.
In the first was seated St. Just, and by his side an older man, whom the
former had just addressed as General Dumouriez, opposite to them sat two
soldiers, their guards. In the second carriage was a young man of
refined appearance, whose countenance, at this moment, was racked with
anguish.
"My wife, my poor wife!" he murmured.
The sun was rising on the 15th of March, 1804.
* * * * *
Within the narrow walls of a square-chamber, which was bare of
furniture, save for a common wooden table, a man was seated on a rudely
constructed stool. His face could not be seen, for it was hidden in his
hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His whole attitude bespoke
despair--despair that was well-founded, for he was waiting, waiting
hopelessly, for the death he felt was close at hand.
It was St. Just, and he was immured in the fortress of Vincennes.
Presently he started to his feet, and then could be seen the havoc
wrought upon his countenance by grief and disappointment. The bloom of
health was gone, and his cheeks were pale and sunken, the bones above
them bulging over the cavities below; the flesh hung down in leathery
folds; deep lines scored his forehead, and his eyes, dim and lusterless,
were seated far back in their sockets. Nothing in his appearance
recalled the gay lieutenant of the Directory.
He began to pace his narrow cell with rapid steps, as though he hoped
thereby to thrust away from him the thought of his impending fate.
Backwards and forwards, like a caged animal, he tramped the straitened
chamber; but, though he speeded his footsteps till they approached a
run, he could put no space between his thoughts and him; he knew that
hope had flown; their plot had failed, and he was lost.
With a sigh, so deep and loud that it sounded like a groan, he checked
his restless pacing, and sank once more wearily on to the wooden stool.
Then, like the fugitive figures in a kaleidoscope, the late occurrences,
that had followed each other in a rush, arranged themselves in changing
pictures before his mental eye, and thought moved with them.
The picture of his wife came first, standing in the pavilion in the
garden of Hartford House, her lovely face glowing with excitement at
Cadoudal's news and the prospect of the speedy success of their
conspiracy. He had taken leave of her and the Comte d'Artois and
Cadoudal there and then, and started forthwith on his mission to the
heads of the conspiracy. What was she doing now? By her obstinacy and
vindictiveness she had wrought his ruin. Not intentionally, but it had
been the necessary sequence of her conduct. Despite his passion for
her, the anger raged so fiercely in him, that, for the moment, he felt
he almost hated her; that, if she then had stood before him, he could
have struck her down. He cursed the mad infatuation that had merged his
life in hers.
Then he followed in imagination his movements in that fateful journey,
from the moment of his leaving her; his drive that night by poste chaise
to the little town of Alfriston in Sussex, and the breakfast that
followed at the Star Inn there. Then his embarkation, at the mouth of
the Cuckmere River, upon Captain Wright's sloop, and the midnight
landing below the cliff at Bevile. He could almost feel himself now
being hauled up that cliff with a swinging him round and round and
bruising him against protruding lumps of chalk; he could almost hear the
screaming of the gulls disturbed by him in his ascent.
He recalled the days of terror that had followed, when each conspirator
(traveling for the most part without papers) sometimes as a beggar,
sometimes as a pedlar, secretly and swiftly as he could, tramped his way
along the country that lay between the sea and Paris. He thought of the
many perils of discovery he had undergone from barking dogs at country
houses on his way, and the espionage, and suspicions of some of the
Government officials; of his manner of getting into Paris, hidden, as he
had been, under the tarpaulin of a hay-wagon, whose driver he had
hoodwinked into the belief that he was a deserter.
Then onward marched his thoughts and he found himself at Ettenheim with
the Duc d'Enghien. He remembered that that visit had been rendered
futile by the Duc's mistress, who had besought her lover not to risk his
life in France, but to abide where he then was; and that her arguments
had prevailed.
At this, he had gone on to Paris to report the failure of his mission to
the Duc; and there had been a period of awful waiting, of terrible
suspense. Then, when everything had seemed ripe for action, still no
active steps had been taken; everyone had seemed afraid to make the
plunge into the whirlpool of revolt. And, while they had hesitated,
whispers of treachery had been heard, at first vague and contradictory;
gradually they had gathered strength, and, at last, the news had
thundered on them that Moreau and Pichegru had been arrested, and that
the Comte d'Artois had fled precipitately to the coast.
Their leaders gone, the others had feared to rise; and he himself had
hurried again to Ettenheim to warn the Duc d'Enghien of his danger.
How vividly he recalled the interview in the library, the hurried
burning of the compromising papers, and the scattering of their ashes in
the moat; the tearful entreaties of the Duchesse (so called) that they
should remain there just one more night; and then, last scene of all,
the startling summons at the chateau, the tramp of the soldiers through
the corridors, when they had gained admission, the rude awakening, the
peremptory orders to rise and dress immediately, the journey, in the
still, silent night, that had ended at Vincennes.
This was the final picture that was presented to his mind, and it
brought him to the present. He was a prisoner in the gloomy fortress,
from which death only would release him! Truly his heart was full of
anguish and regret; he had sacrificed all for love of Halima, and,
notwithstanding, had failed in gaining that for which he had made the
sacrifice; for he could not doubt that he had seen her for the last
time. The First Consul would not again forgive him; he had warned him
on the last occasion.
He moved wearily to the window of his cell and gazed out on the inner
moat, pressing his head against the iron bars; it was burning and racked
with pain, and the cold was grateful to him.
It was close on dawn, and in the dim gray light, there came in view a
party of soldiers with an officer. Some carried torches and lighted
lanterns, and others spades and mattocks.
The officer looked around and, presently, pointed to a spot; then the
men began to dig there, the watcher at the narrow window speculating,
with half-listless curiosity, what could be their object; were they
seeking a buried treasure?
Gradually the light of day crept up, and, at its approach, the torches'
flare and the feeble glimmer from the lanterns began to wane, until,
when the golden sheen, fast spreading over the Eastern sky, announced
the birth of another day, they could no longer be discerned.
Then the meaning of what these men were doing flashed all at once upon
St. Just, and he became sick with horror. The shape and size of the
opening they were making proclaimed with fearful certainty its purpose.
It was a grave.
For whom? For him? A great fear fell upon him; a deadly faintness
overcame him for the moment, but, with a strong effort, he forced it
back. He could not take his eyes away; a sort of fascination seemed to
glue them to the scene.
At last the grave was finished and the diggers stood at ease, and began
to wipe the sweat from off their foreheads, for the work had been both
arduous and rapidly performed. Suddenly their officer gave the word of
command, and caps were replaced and the men ranged themselves in a line
and stood at attention.
The reason was soon apparent; a file of soldiers wheeled round the
corner and were halted at some thirty paces from the grave. Then more
soldiers came in sight, and in the midst of them--some before and some
behind him--walked a man, wearing only his shirt and pantaloons. The
prisoner was marched up to the newly opened grave and halted; his guards
fell back and he stood there alone, awaiting death.
Then the full horror of the situation burst forth upon St. Just; the man
who faced him was the Duc d'Enghien. Doubtless his own fate would be the
same!
And now an officer approached the man whose course was all but run; and
St. Just could see that the Duc was addressing him with vehemence; nay,
in the clear still air, he could hear his very words.
"Sir, I protest against this outrage, in the face of God and man. Your
ruler must be mad to do that which will raise all Europe against him."
But the officer shook his head and refused to allow him to proceed.
Meanwhile, the firing party had been drawn up in line, their muskets in
position. The officer in command stepped back, then raised his sword.
There was a sharp cry and, at the same moment, the crack of musketry.
The murdered Royalist reeled, spun half round, clutching convulsively at
his throat with both hands, in his death agony, and fell backward into
the grave.
Sick at heart at the bloody spectacle he had just witnessed, St. Just
strove to avert his gaze, but a compelling fascination seemed to chain
him to the window. The officer gave some directions to the men. Those
with spades advanced and began to throw in the soil. The foul deed that
horrified all Europe was accomplished.
The filling of the grave was soon completed, and the footsteps of the
last actors in the grisly drama died away, and all that remained to mark
the tragedy that had been enacted was a slight mound upon the ground,
watched by a little dog--his master's favorite--that, ever and anon,
sent up a piteous howl to note its sense of its bereavement.
Then St. Just, no longer supported by excitement, felt his knees begin
to totter, and a deadly sickness overtake him; he clutched at the iron
bars to hold him up, but his grasp was feeble, and gradually it relaxed.
He swayed to and fro; then fell fainting to the floor.
*THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON.*
*EPOCH III.*
*THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON.*
*CHAPTER I.*
Eighteen months elapsed before there was any change in St. Just's
condition. All that time he remained a prisoner in the fortress of
Vincennes.
When, at the sight of the execution of the Duc d'Enghien, he had fallen
fainting to the ground, he had struck his head violently against the
stone floor, with the result that when, later, his jailer entered his
cell, he was still insensible. All attempts to rouse him proving
fruitless, the garrison surgeon was called in. He pronounced St. Just's
condition to be very serious, and warned the Government that, unless the
patient received the utmost care, he would slip through their fingers.
So he was at once removed to a more comfortable apartment; but it was
several months before he regained his strength. Brain fever, the result
of the privations he had undergone, culminating in the awful shock of
the Duc d'Enghien's murder, set in, and, for weeks, he lay unconscious,
sometimes delirious, with occasional lucid intervals. More than once
they thought that life had left him, but he rallied just in time. At
last, the fever was subdued, and, from that moment, though he was at
first so weak as to be unable to raise his hand, he began rapidly to
regain his strength.
In all probability his illness saved his life, for to try him for
treason was impossible. The Governor informed Buonaparte of his
condition, and received orders that he was to be detained in the
fortress until further notice, but to be treated with no unnecessary
harshness, and to be allowed such liberty as was consistent with his
safe keeping. This had been due to Josephine's intercession; she had
not forgotten St. Just's services to her husband on the night when she
first met the young lieutenant; also she had been struck with his
handsome face and manly bearing, and had a somewhat tender feeling
towards him.
When he had recovered, he was allowed a fair amount of liberty within
the fortress, with as much outdoor exercise as he desired, but this was
on parole. At first he was naturally very anxious, for he had not
forgotten the tragedy he had witnessed, and for some months he lived in
perpetual apprehension of hearing that the moment for his execution had
arrived: or, at any rate, that he was to be tried for treason--and this
would have amounted in the end to the same thing; for that he would be
found guilty there could not be a doubt.
But, when month succeeded month, and he received no untoward news, his
hope revived and gradually strengthened into confidence that his life
was to be spared.
The fact was that stirring events in France had succeeded each other
with such rapidity, and Buonaparte's mind was so occupied with weightier
matters, that he forgot all about St. Just, who might have spent the
remainder of his days a prisoner, but for an accident to be presently
described.
One evening, when he was sitting by his window musing over all that had
occurred to him since he had regained his memory at Marsala and returned
to France, he was surprised to receive a visit from the governor. He
was surprised because it was usual, when that functionary desired an
interview with a prisoner, for such prisoner to be brought before him at
his own quarters; not for him to go to the prisoner.
So, when his door was opened and St. Just recognized his visitor, he
feared that it portended mischief to himself, and a vague dread came
over him. He sprang in some confusion from his seat, and had just begun
to greet the governor respectfully when his eye fell on another person
who was following him. The sight almost took away his breath; if his
apprehension of evil had been vague before, it was now distinct enough,
for the man was Buonaparte!
"The--the First Consul!" he gasped in terror, when the short figure and
pale face of the "Man of Destiny" confronted him.
A grim smile flitted about the great man's features, and, with his hands
crossed behind his back, he turned to the governor, who, hat in hand,
had stood aside respectfully; then he said in his harsh, rapid tones:--
"Evidently, Mons. le Gouverneur, your lodgers hear nothing of what goes
on in the outside world."
"Not a word, Sire; it is forbidden within these walls."
At that word, "Sire," St. Just gave a start. What did it portend? He
noted, too, that the governor's manner was rather that of a subject to a
monarch than of an official to the head of a republic. Had Buonaparte
indeed, become King of France?
While he was still wondering, Buonaparte, who, in the dim twilight had
not recognized him, turned to him and inquired sharply, "Your name,
sir."
"St. Just, Sire," was the reply, he deeming it wise to use the same form
of address that the governor had employed; but he was trembling visibly.
Buonaparte started, and again a cruel smile hovered about his mouth;
then the words fell from him in a torrent:--
"So it is you, Sir. I had forgotten you. By my faith, it was a fitting
return you made for my clemency in allowing you to live. You plotted
against me once and I forgave you; I have spared your life a second
time, regardful of my promise; can you suppose that, but for that, you
would have lived an hour after you had been brought here? And it is to
my wife that you are principally indebted; it was she who reminded me of
my pledge. You have a good friend in the Empress. But for her, you
would have been shot, as you deserved, and buried in yonder ditch." And
he pointed towards the window, and beyond to the very spot on which the
young Duc d'Enghien had been done to death.
St. Just's first fear had somehow passed away, and an irresistible
impulse took possession of him to speak out all that was in his mind.
Smarting at the Emperor's contemptuous lashings, boiling over with
indignation at his wife's seduction and all that had followed as a
consequence, he felt that even the certainty of instant death could not
restrain him. He must speak and he would.
He drew himself upright and looked unflinchingly in the conqueror's
face.
"It is true that you have spared my life," he said; "but of what value
is it, since you have poisoned it? It would have been no misfortune to
have died like him, whose grave you can see out yonder, innocent of all,
except the attempt to rid France of a despot. I could even have
welcomed death, had I succeeded."
The governor was astonished at St. Just's temerity. He stepped forward
and drew his sword, and, but for the Emperor's interference, would have
cut down the audacious speaker.
But Napoleon waved him back.
"Nay, do not seek to check him," he said calmly. "I would hear him out.
When the tongue wags freely, we learn who are our friends and who our
enemies. Proceed, Sir," to St. Just.
At the Emperor's words and tone St. Just was greatly discomposed, but,
having started, he could not now draw back. For all that, his
confidence and rage were waning fast, and he proceeded stumblingly:--
"Was it honorable to seduce the woman to whom I was affianced, and, with
that object, to do your best to send me to my death? In such
circumstances, would not you strive to be revenged; would not you strike
down the man who should dishonor her you love?"
"Tut, tut, man," struck in Napoleon, "I like not generalities. Let us
inform ourselves of whom we talk about. Is it Madame de Moncourt of whom
you speak?"
"It is."
"And pray, Sir, what right had one of my officers when on duty in the
field to enter into a marriage contract without my permission? But let
that pass. In the first instance I did not know how matters stood
between you. Possibly, had you taken me into your confidence, events
might have taken a different course. But do you mean to tell me
seriously that this is the reason of your treachery? That, with a grand
career before you, you sacrificed your whole future for a woman; that,
instead of remaining brave and honorable, as I know you were, you could
become a traitor to your country, a deserter from your colors, a
creature forced to crawl about disguised, a plotter of assassination;
and all this because a woman has smiled upon another? What is woman? a
toy, a plaything for an hour; a bagatelle not worth consideration in
comparison to a man's career. I did not think you had been so great a
fool. And it was for this, you madman, that you raised your feeble hand
at me!"
And the Emperor laughed boisterously. St. Just became more and more
confused. Napoleon's mockery hit him hard. All his angry vehemence had
left him, and with it all his hope. He no longer stood erect, but hung
his head. He felt as though his speech had left him; but, with a mighty
effort he managed to force out the words:--
"Yes, that was my sole reason. Now do with me what you will. I do not
flinch from death, and will meet it like a soldier." And, with these
words, he once more stood upright, expecting, the next moment, to hear
his doom. He was resolved to receive it like a man.
For a short space no one spoke. As for the governor, he was amazed. It
astounded him how any one could dare to beard Napoleon.
The Emperor took a step or two to the window and gazed out, his eye
reposing on the low mound, below which lay buried the body of the
murdered Bourbon. He was debating how to deal with the man who had had
the rashness to speak his mind to him. He was not magnanimous, but he
was whimsical; many of his actions that were attributed to generosity
were actually the outcome of caprice, and, sometimes, of a belief in
fate.
Twice he resorted to his snuff-box, as though hoping to gain inspiration
from it. Then he wheeled round sharply and fixed his piercing eyes upon
St. Just, who stood trembling at his own audacity, and at the
expectation that the first words that would reach his ear would sound
his death knell. He was astonished, therefore, at what they really
were.
"You have made a great mistake, my friend. Doubtless the best way to
prevent its repetition, would be to have you shot. But I will spare
your life, once more; you might think, otherwise, that I went in fear of
you. Pshaw! a lion does not dread a snapping cur. For all that I would
send you to the traitor's fate, but that the memory of one man's death
restrains me." He pointed to the ominous mound that varied the level of
the moat. "You may thank your star for that."
He paused and began to pace the room, the eyes of the other two men
watching every moment; they scarce durst breathe. Their suspense was
becoming almost unbearable, when he spoke again.
"You shall have your liberty once more, Sir; but--before I leave, I will
sign the necessary papers for your release--not in France. On leaving
here, you will proceed to Ministry of Marine with a letter I shall give
you, authorizing and instructing the Minister to give you a packet of
papers. With these you will proceed to England, where you will hand
them to Mr. Perry, the hosier in London. You know the man, having made
his acquaintance on a previous occasion, when he helped you to intercept
a despatch from the English Government to their Minister at the Hague.
I have no more to add, except that you will not return to France,
without permission. If you do, your death be on your head."
He turned to go; then wheeled round suddenly and shook his hand
threateningly at St. Just. "And beware, Sir; think not to escape my
vengeance, if you again betray my trust. Even in England you will find
my arm long enough to reach you. Spies will dog your steps; so have a
care, Sir, have a care."
He walked rapidly to the door, the governor, at his heels, the latter
throwing the words to St. Just on his way out, "I will have everything
put in order for your journey at once."
Left to himself, St. Just tottered to a seat and panted audibly, for
such were the strength and conflict of his emotions and the violent
beating of his heart, which seemed struggling to burst from its fleshy
prison, that his breath could only come in short, quick sobs. He seemed
to have withered up under the fire of Napoleon's scorching words. Shame,
remorse, hatred, thirst for vengeance, and a sense of utter impotence,
all fought together within him, and were tearing him to pieces in the
contest. Oh! that he could relive the past, blot out the present, cast
in a nobler mould his future! But alas! he knew the hopelessness of his
aspirations! He had the rectitude to wish aright, but not the will to
do. He knew that, in Halima's hands, he would be as wax. Honor, for
him, involved a life apart from her; for the Emperor, in sending him to
England, was, without meaning it, sending him to dishonor.
For one mad moment, he thought of refusing to obey the Emperor's
command, and submitting to the consequences. It was certain death; but
what of that? It would save his honor. And the pain; that would be
only momentary; he had suffered far more anguish in the battlefield; and
to be shot was a fitting end to a soldier's life.
But death meant never again to set eyes on Halima. No, he could not
face it. Not yet.
An hour later he had left Vincennes, and, three days afterwards, he was
in London.
At once he made his way to Hartford House, his mind disturbed with
mingled hopes and fears. For aught he knew, his wife no longer lived,
and, if she did, it did not follow that she was even in England.
But his mind was quickly set at rest on both these points. Of the
servants who came in answer to his summons he inquired whether Halima
still lived there, asking for her in her mother's name, for he did not
know whether she had thought fit to adopt his own.
The man replied that Madame de Moncourt still lived there and was at
home. Oh! the relief at this intelligence! By his emotions at that
moment, St. Just knew what would have been his feelings, had the reply
been different. Yes, Halima was still all in all to him. His spirits
sprang up with a bound; he had made his inquiry in a tone of mingled
eagerness and dread; but now his whole mien and manner changed; a gleam
of pleasure lighted up his face, and his tone was bright and cheerful.
"Will you tell Madame," he said, "that a messenger has arrived from
France on business of importance, and begs the favor of an interview?"
Since the servant did not know him, he would not give his name.
The man invited him to enter, and showed him into an anteroom off the
hall.
Presently he heard a step upon the staircase, that sent a thrill right
through him and made the heart within him dance with joy. For the
moment, all the past was blotted out; all his shame, his rage, his
desire to be revenged upon Napoleon, were as though they had never been;
he lived only in the present.
He had been warming his hands before the fire, but, at the opening of
the door, he swung round and faced her.
She advanced into the room with a quick, gliding motion, a look of eager
expectation on her face. Then, bending courteously, she said, "I bid
you welcome, Sir. I understand you are direct from France, and are the
bearer of important news. Does it by any chance concern--Vincennes? I
am deeply interested in one--"
All the while she had fixed her eyes piercingly, inquiringly upon St.
Just, scrutinizing him from head to foot. Suddenly they glowed with a
brighter light, and a flash of joyous recognition was darted from their
depths.
"Henri!" she cried, nay, almost shrieked; and she rushed to him and
threw her arms around his neck. She drew his head down to her own and
covered him with kisses. "Oh! my darling, to think that you are given
back to me once more. And I had mourned you so, and had tried, oh my
very hardest, for your release; and the terror I have been in lest--but
there, I cannot put it into words. But it is over, and you have come
back to me, my dearest. Oh! my happiness is too great."
She burst out laughing; then she began to sob hysterically, and the
tears fell from her eyes in scalding drops.
St. Just laid his hand gently on her gold brown locks and stroked them
fondly. "Don't weep, my own," he said; "this is no time for tears;
tears are for sorrow, not for joy; and we are happy now. Ah, cherie,
you don't know what it is for me to be with you again, after all that I
have suffered, it is like heaven, but I will spare you the recital of
what I have undergone. Our hours shall not be so misspent, and we have
lost too many since first we met. So, dry your tears, my sweet, and let
me see you smile."
She looked up at him, smiling lovingly through the drops that glistened,
like liquid diamonds, on her cheeks. "It is joy, my Henri," she murmured
sobbingly. "It has been too much for me to see you so unexpectedly; but
I shall be myself again directly." Then she stroked his face again.
It was two hours later and the reunited couple were still seated
together in Halima's boudoir, whither she had taken him. Of course she
had coaxed out of him a full account of all that he had seen and done
and suffered since their last meeting. At his relation of the Duc
d'Enghien's murder, the tears rushed to her eyes; but her grief was only
momentary, for it was overwhelmed in the swirl of indignation that swept
over her. She sprang to her feet and began to pace rapidly about the
room; the blood rushed in a torrent to her face, and there was a
dangerous glitter in her eyes.
"Coward! inhuman monster!" she exclaimed. "Oh! that women can be the
mothers of such men--more bloody and ruthless than any tiger. One would
almost believe that, at his conception, Allah must have slept, and the
enemy of mankind been thus left free to wreak his malice on humanity
unchecked. Oh! cruel, cruel! But it shall be the worse for him. Of
late my lust for vengeance has seemed to languish somewhat; but this
cold-blooded, this perfidious murder of an innocent man has put new life
in it, and it will now increase in strength so long as the breath is in
me, or it finds satisfaction in the hurling of the bloody upstart into
infamy. I am glad you have given me this full account for it has put
the seal on my resolve."
She seated herself again upon the couch, with a sudden movement threw
one leg over the other, and swung her foot restlessly to and fro. Her
bosom was heaving with agitation, and her nostrils quivered with
violence of her passion. All her husband's efforts to compose her were
unavailing; for the time, her passion for him seemed to have spent
itself. He now sat mutely watching her. Presently she spoke again.
"And the French people have made this fiend their Emperor! Poor deluded
fools! And he boasts that he will bring all Europe to his feet. And I
think he will. So be it; the higher the eagle soars, the more crushing
will be his fall when wounded. Ha! ha! So far my incantations have
revealed the truth; I doubt not now they will be fulfilled in their
entirety. I shall live to see his downfall and disgrace; then I will
mock at him in his despair."
She turned her face towards the fire and gazed absently at the glowing
embers; for the moment so lost in her reflection that she forgot that
she was not alone.
With a start, she roused herself and faced St. Just, then laid her hand
lightly on his arm.
"So he has entrusted you with papers for his agent." She spoke in her
natural tone, without excitement; but, though the outward expression of
her hatred was for the present satisfied, her longing for revenge was as
intense as ever, and her determination.