A DOUBTFUL SAFETY
Mlle de Rochambeau knelt by her open window. She had been praying, but
for a long time her lips had not moved, and now it seemed as if their
numbness had invaded her heart, and lay there deadening fear, emotion,
sorrow, all,--all except that heavy beating, to which she listened half
unconsciously, as though it were a sound from some world which hardly
concerned her.
She had not left the little room at all. On the first day she had been
put off civilly enough.
"Rest a little, Ma'mselle, rest a little; to-morrow I will make my
sister a little visit, and you shall accompany me. To-day I am busy,
and without me you would not be admitted to the prison."
But when to-morrow came, there were at first black looks, then impatient
words, and finally the key turned in the lock and hours of terrifying
solitude. The one small window overlooked a dark and squalid street
where the refuse of the neighbourhood festered. It was noisy and
malodorous, and she sickened at every sense. The sounds, the smells,
the sight of the wizened, wicked-looking children, who fought, and
swore, and scrabbled in the noisome gutter below, all added to her
growing apprehension.
Closing the cracked pane she retreated to the farther corner of the
attic, and again slow hours went by.
About noon a distant roar startled her to the window once more. Nothing
was to be seen, but the sound came again, and yet again; increasing each
time in violence, and becoming at last a heavy, continuous boom.
There is scarcely anything so immediately terrifying as that dull mutter
of a city in tumult. Mlle de Rochambeau's smooth years supplied her
with no experience by which to measure the threat of that far uproar,
and yet every nerve in her body thrilled to it and cried danger! It was
then that she began to pray. The afternoon wore on, and she grew faint
as well as frightened. Rosalie Leboeuf had set coffee and coarse bread
before her in the early morning, but that was now many hours since.
The sun was near to setting when a loud shouting arose in the street
below, shocking her from the dizzy quiescence into which she had fallen.
Looking out, she saw that the children had scattered, pushed aside by
rapidly gathering groups of their elders. Every house appeared to be
disgorging an incredible number of people, and in their midst swayed a
very large man, extremely drunk, and half naked. Such clothes as he
possessed appeared to have been torn and rent in a most amazing manner,
and scraps of them depended fantastically from naked shoulders and
battered belt. His swarthy head retained its bonnet rouge, whose
original colour was dyed, here and there, a deeper and more portentous
crimson.
He waved great windmills of arms, and talked loudly in a thick guttural
voice, adding strange gestures and stranger oaths. A sort of
fascination kept Mademoiselle's eyes riveted upon him, and presently she
began to catch words--phrases.
"Dear holy Virgin! what was he saying?--Impossible--impossible,
impossible!" And then quite suddenly her shocked brain yielded to the
truth. There had been a massacre of the prisoners--this man had been
there; he was recounting his exploits, boasting of the number he had
killed.
"Mother most merciful, protect! save!--" But the ghastly catalogue ran
on. They say that in those days many claimed the murderer's praise who
had never acted the murderer's part. Men with hands innocent of blood
daubed themselves horribly, and went home boasting of unimaginable
horrors, guiltless the while as the children who hung eagerly on the
tale. There was a madness abroad,--a fearful, epidemic madness that
seized its thousands, and time and again set Paris reeking like a
shambles and laughing wantonly in the face of outraged Europe.
Whether Jean Michel were innocent or not, his conversation was equally
horrifying. Mlle de Rochambeau listened to it, shaking. The things
said were inconceivable, and mercifully some of them passed over her
innocence leaving it unbruised, save for a gradually accumulating weight
of horror.
Suddenly she caught her cousin's name--"that wanton, the Montargis,
damned Austrian spy," the man called her, and added Selincourt's name to
hers with a foul oath.
"I struck them, I! My pike was the first!" he shouted. Then drawing a
scrap of reeking linen from his belt he waved it aloft, proclaiming,
"This is her blood!" and looked around him for applause.
It was too much. A gasp broke from the girl's rigid lips, a damp dew
from her brow. The twilight quivered--turned to darkness--then broke
into a million sparks of flame, and a merciful oblivion overtook her.
Jean Michel may be left to the tender mercies of Louison his wife, a
little woman and a venomous, having that command over her husband which
one sees in the small wives of large men. Having haled him home, she
burned his precious trophy, and poured much cold water on his hot and
muddled head. Afterwards she gave her tongue free course, and we may
consider that Jean Michel had his deserts.
When Mlle de Rochambeau shuddered back again to consciousness, the room
was dark. Outside, quiet reigned, and a beautiful blue dusk, just
tinged with starlight. She dragged herself up into a half-sitting,
half-kneeling position, and looked long and tremblingly into the
tranquil depths above. All was peace and a cool purity, after the red
horror of the day. The lights of the city looked friendly; they spoke
of homes, of children, of decent comfort and ordered lives, and over all
brooded the great sapphire glooms of the darkening ether and the lights
of the houses of God. A strange calm slid into her soul--the hour held
her--life and death were twin points in a fathomless, endless stretch of
peace eternal.
The flesh no longer enchained her--weak with shock and fasting, it
released its grip, and the freer spirit peered forth into the
immensities.
Aline's body lay motionless, but her soul floated in a calm sea of
light.
How long this lasted she did not know, but presently she became aware
that she was listening to some rather distant sound. It came slowly
nearer, and resolved itself into a man's heavy step, which mounted the
narrow stairway, and paused ominously beside her door. Some of the
strange calm from which she came still wrapped her, but her heart began
to beat piteously. Her hearing seemed preternaturally acute, and she
was aware of a pause, of one or two quickly drawn breaths, and then the
dull sound of a groan--such a sound as may come from a man utterly weary
and forespent when he imagines himself alone. The pause, the groan were
over even as she listened, and the door opposite hers closed sharply
upon Jacques Dangeau.
A throb of relief shook her back into normal humanity. It was, of
course, the man she had seen on the stairs, and all at once she was
conscious of immense fatigue; her head sank lower and lower, the
darkness closed upon her, and she slept.
Rosalie stumbled over her an hour later, and took fright when the girl
just stirred, and no more. She had intended her young aristocrat to
pass a chastening day. Fasting was good for the soul, it rendered young
girls amenable, and Rosalie wished to come to terms with this friendless
but not unmoneyed demoiselle whom chance, luck, or some other god of her
rather mixed beliefs had thrown her way. She had not, however, meant to
leave the girl quite so long without food, but sallying out in quest of
news she had been detained by her trembling sister, whose timid soul saw
no safety anywhere in all red, raving Paris.
Rosalie set down her light and bent over the sleeping girl. A shrewd
glance showed her a drawn fatigue of feature and a collapsed discomfort
of attitude beyond anything she was prepared for.
"Tett, tett!" she grunted; "that Michel--could she have heard him? It
is certainly possible. Well, well, there will be no talk to-night, that
's a sure thing. Here, Ma'mselle! Ma'mselle!"
Mlle de Rochambeau opened her eyes, but only to close them again. The
lids hung half shut, and under them lay heavy violet streaks. This was
slumber that was half a swoon, and with a shrug of her vast shoulders,
and a mental objurgation of the tenderness of aristocrats, Rosalie set
herself to getting a cup of strong hot broth down the girl's throat.
Mademoiselle moaned and gasped, but when a sip or two had been chokingly
swallowed, she raised her head and took the warm drink eagerly. She was
about to sink back again into her old position when she felt strong arms
about her, and capable hands loosened her dress and pulled off shoes and
stockings. With a sigh of content, she felt herself laid down on the
bed, her head touched a pillow, some one covered her, and she fell again
upon a deep, deep, dreamless sleep.
It was high noon before she awoke, and then it was to a sense of
bewildered fatigue beyond anything she had ever experienced. She lay
quite still, and watched the little patch of sky which showed above the
roofs of the houses opposite. It was very blue, and small glittering
clouds raced quickly across it. Slowly, slowly as she looked, yesterday
came back to her, but with a strange remoteness, as if it had all
happened too long ago to weep for. A great shock takes us out of time
and space. Emotion crystallises and ceases to flow along its accustomed
channels. Aline de Rochambeau was never to forget the experience she
had just passed through, but for the time being it seemed too far away
to pierce the numbness round her heart.
A cry in the street did something; her cheek paled, and Rosalie coming
noisily in found her sitting up in bed with wide, frightened eyes. She
caught at the woman's arm and spoke in a sort of hurried whisper.
"Ah, Madame, is it true? For Heaven's love tell me! Or have I had some
terrible dream?" and her voice sank, as if the sound of it terrified
her.
Rosalie's fat shoulders went shrugging up to Rosalie's thick, red ears.
"Is what true?" she asked. "It is certainly true that you have slept
fourteen hours, no less; long enough to dream anything. They called it
laziness when I was young, my girl."
Mlle de Rochambeau joined both hands about her wrist. "Tell me--only
tell me, Madame--I heard--oh, God!--I heard a man in the street--he
said"--shuddering--"he said the prisoners were all murdered--and my
cousin--oh, my poor cousin!" Words brought her tears, and she covered
her face from Rosalie's convincing nod.
"As to all the prisoners, for that I cannot answer, but certainly there
are some hundreds less of the pestilent aristocrats than there were. As
to your cousin, the ci-devant Marquise de Montargis, she 's as dead as
mutton."
Aline looked up--she was not stupid, and this woman's altered tone was
confirmation enough without any further words. Two days ago, it had
been "Ma'mselle," and the respectful demeanour of a servant, smiles and
smooth words had met her, and now that rough "my girl" and these brutal
words! Rosalie Leboeuf was no pioneer. Had some terrible change not
taken place, she would never have dared to speak and look as she was
looking and speaking now.
Mademoiselle had not the Rochambeau blood for nothing. She drew herself
up, looked gravely in the woman's face, and said in a fine, cold voice:
"I understand, Madame. Is it permitted to ask what you propose to do
with me?"
Rosalie stared insolently. Then planting herself deliberately on a
chair, she observed:
"It is certainly permitted to ask, my little aristocrat--certainly; but
I should advise fewer airs and graces to a woman who has saved your life
twice over, and that at the risk of her own."
Mademoiselle was silent, and Rosalie took up her parable. "Where would
you have been by now, if I had not brought you home with me? There 's
many a citizen who would have been glad to find a cage for a pretty
stray bird like you, and how would that have suited you--eh? Better
rough words from respectable Rosalie Leboeuf than shameful kisses from
Citizen Such-a-one. And yesterday--if I had whispered yesterday,
'Montargis is dead, but there's a chick of the breed roosting in my
upper room,' as I might very well have done, very well indeed, and kept
your money into the bargain--what then, Miss Mealy-mouth? Have you a
fancy for being stripped and dragged at a cart's tail through Paris, or
would you relish being made to drink success to the Revolution in a
brimming mug of aristocrats' blood? Eh! I could tell you tales, my
girl, such tales that you 'd never sleep again, and that's what I 've
saved you from, and do I get thanks--gratitude? Tush! was that ever the
nobles' way?"
"Madame--I am--grateful," said Mademoiselle faintly. Her lips were
ashen, and the breath came with a gasp between every word.
"Grateful--yes, indeed, I should think you were grateful," responded
Rosalie, her keen eyes on the girl's ghastly face. With a little nod,
she decided that she had frightened her enough. "I want more than your
'Madame, I'm grateful,'" and as she mimicked the faltering tones the
blood ran back into Mademoiselle's white cheeks. "So far we have talked
sentiment," she continued, with a complete change of manner. Her
brutality slipped from her, and she became the bargaining bourgeoise.
"Let us come to business."
"With all my heart, Madame."
"Tut--no Madame--Citoyenne, or Rosalie. Madame smells of treason,
disaffection, what not. What money have you?"
"Only what I showed you yesterday."
"But you could get more?"
"I do not think so, I know nothing of my affairs--but there was a good
deal in that bag. I put it--yes, I 'm sure I did--under the pillow.
Oh, Madame, my money 's not here! The bag is gone!"
"Te! te! te!" went Rosalie's tongue against the roof of her mouth; "gone
it is, and for a very good reason, my little cabbage, because Rosalie
Leboeuf took it!"
"Madame!"
"Ma'mselle!" mimicked the rough voice. "It is the little present that
Ma'mselle makes me--the token of her gratitude. Hein! do you say
anything against that?"
Mademoiselle was silent. She was reflecting that she still had her
pearls, and she put a timid hand to her bosom. A moment later, she sank
back trembling upon her pillow. The pearls were gone. It was not for
nothing that Rosalie had undressed her the night before. She bit her
lip, constraining herself to silence; and Rosalie, twinkling
maliciously, maintained the same reserve. She was neither a cruel nor a
brutal woman, though she could appear both, if she had an end to gain,
as she had now.
She meant Mlle de Rochambeau no harm, and honestly considered that she
had earned both gold and pearls. Indeed, who shall say that she had
not? Girls had to be managed, and were much easier to deal with when
they had been well frightened. When she was well in hand, Rosalie would
be kind enough, but just now, a touch of the spur, a flick of the whip,
was what was required--and yet not too much, for times changed so
rapidly, and who knew how long the reign of Liberty would last? She
must not overdo it.
"Well now, Citoyenne," she said suddenly, "let us see where we are. You
came to Paris ten days ago. Who brought you?"
"The Intendant and his wife," said Mademoiselle.
"And they are still in Paris?" (The devil take this Intendant!)
"No; they returned after two days. I think now that they were
frightened."
"Very likely. Worthy, sensible people!" said Rosalie, with a puff of
relief. "And you came to the Montargis? Well, she 's dead. Are you
betrothed?"
Aline turned a shade paler. How far away seemed that betrothal kiss
which she had rubbed impatiently from her reluctant hand!
"I was fiancee to M. de Selincourt."
"That one? Well, he's dead, and damned too, if he has his deserts,"
commented Rosalie. "Hm, hm--and you knew no one else in Paris?"
"Only Mme de Maille--she remembered my mother."
"An old story that--she is dead too," said Rosalie composedly. "In
effect, it appears that you have no friends; they are all dead."
Aline shrank a little, but did not exclaim. In this nightmare-existence
upon which she had entered, it was as natural that dreadful things
should happen as until two days ago it had seemed to her young optimism
impossible.
Rosalie pursued the conversation.
"Yes, they are all dead. I gave myself the trouble of going to see my
sister this morning on purpose to find out. Marie is a poor soft
creature; she cried and sobbed as if she had lost her dearest friends,
and Bault, the great hulk, looked as white as chalk. I always say I
should make a better gaoler myself--not that I 'm not sorry for them,
mind you, with all that place to get clean again, and blood, as every
one knows, the work of the world to get out of things."
Mademoiselle shuddered.
"Oh!" she breathed protestingly, and then added in haste, "They are all
dead, Madame, all my friends, and what am I to do?"
Rosalie crossed her arms and swayed approvingly. Here was a suitable
frame of mind at last--very different from the hoity-toity airs of the
beginning.
"Hein! that is the question, and I answer it this way. You can stay
here, under my respectable roof, until your friends come forward; but of
course you must work, or how will my rent be paid? A mere trifle, it is
true, but still something; and besides the rent there will be your
menage to make. For one week I will feed you, but after that it is your
affair, and not mine. Even a white slip of a girl like you requires
food. The question is, what can you do to earn it?"
Mademoiselle de Rochambeau coloured.
"I can embroider," she said hesitatingly. "I helped to work an altar
cloth for the Convent chapel last year."
Rosalie gave a coarse laugh.
"Eh--altar cloths! What is the good of that? Soon there will be no
altars to put them on!"
"I learned to embroider muslin too," said Mademoiselle hastily. "I
could work fine stuffs, for fichus, or caps, or handkerchiefs, perhaps."
Rosalie considered.
"Well, that's better, though you 'll find it hard to fill even your
pinched stomach out of such work; but we can see how it goes. I will
bring you muslin and thread, and you shall work a piece for me to see.
I know a woman who would buy on my recommendation, if it were well
done."
"They said I did it well," said Mademoiselle meekly. Her eyes smarted
suddenly, and she thought with a desperate yearning of comfortable
Sister Marie Madeleine, or even the severe Soeur Marie Mediatrice. How
far away the Convent stillness seemed, and how desirable!
"Good," said Rosalie; "then that is settled. For the rest, I cannot
have Mlle de Rochambeau lodging with me. That will not go now. What is
your Christian name?"
"Aline Marie."
"Aline, but no--that would give every donkey something to bray over.
Marie is better--any one may be Marie. It is my sister's name, and my
niece's, and was my mother's. It is a good name. Well, then, you are
the Citoyenne Marie Roche."
Mademoiselle repeated it, her lip curling a little.
"Fi donc--you must not be proud," remarked Rosalie the observant. "You
are Marie Roche, you understand, a simple country girl, and Marie Roche
must not be proud. Neither must she wear a fine muslin robe and a silk
petticoat or a fichu trimmed with lace from Valenciennes. I have
brought you a bundle of clothes, and you may be glad you had Rosalie
Leboeuf to drive the bargain for you. Two shifts, these good warm
stockings, a neat gown, with stuff for another, to say nothing of comb
and brush, and for it all you need not pay a sou! Your own clothes in
exchange, that is all. That is what I call a bargain! Brush the powder
from your hair and put on these clothes, and I 'll warrant you 'll be
safe enough, as long as you keep a still tongue and do as I bid you."
"Thank you," said Mademoiselle, with an effort. Even her inexperience
was aware that she was being cheated, but she had sufficient
intelligence to know herself completely in the woman's power, and enough
self-control to bridle her tongue.
Rosalie, watching her, saw the struggle, inwardly commended the victory,
and with a final panegyric on her own skill at a bargain she departed,
and was to be heard stumping heavily down the creaking stair.
As soon as she was alone Aline sprang out of bed. Most of her own
clothes had been removed, she found, and she turned up her nose a little
at the coarse substitutes. There was no help for it, however, and on
they went. Then came a great brushing of hair, which was left at last
powderless and glossy, and twisted into a simple knot. Finally she put
on the petticoat, of dark blue striped stuff, and the clean calico gown.
There was a tiny square of looking-glass in the room, cracked relic of
some former occupant, and Aline peeped curiously into it when her
toilette was completed. A young girl's interest in her own appearance
dies very hard, and it must be confessed that the discovery that her new
dress was far from unbecoming cheered her not a little. She even smiled
as she put on the coarse white cap, and turned her head this way and
that to catch the side view; but the smile faded suddenly, and the next
moment she was on her knees, reproaching herself for a hard heart, and
praying with all dutiful earnestness for the repose of her cousin's
soul.