THE OLD IDEAL AND THE NEW
It was really only on four evenings of the week that Dangeau was able to
avail himself of Mlle de Rochambeau's services.
On Sundays she took a holiday both from embroidery and copying, and on
Mondays and Thursdays he spent the evening at the Cordeliers' Club.
It was on a Saturday that Dangeau had stormed, proffered friendship, and
kissed Mademoiselle's hand, so that during the two days that followed
both had time to calm down, to experience a slight revulsion of feeling,
and finally to feel some embarrassment at the thought of their next
meeting.
On Tuesday Dangeau was in his room all the afternoon. He had some
important papers to read through, and when he had finished them, felt
restless, yet disinclined to go out again.
It was still light, but the winter dark would fall in half an hour, and
the evening promised to be wet and stormy. A gust of wind beat upon the
window now and again, leaving it sprayed with moisture. Dangeau stood
awhile looking out, his mood grey as the weather. Some one not far off
was singing, and he opened his window, and leaned idly out to see if the
singer were visible. The sound at once grew faint, almost to
extinction, and latching the casement he fell to pacing his room. By
the door he paused, for the sound was surely clearer. He turned the
handle and stood listening, for Mademoiselle's door was ajar, and from
within her voice came sweetly and low. He had an instant vision of how
she would look, sitting close to the dull window, grey twilight on the
shining head bent over the fine white work as she sang to keep the
silence and the loneliness from her heart. The song was one of those
soft interminable cradle songs which mothers sing in every country
place, rocking the full cradle with patient rhythmic foot, the while
they spin or knit, and every word came clear to a lilting air:
"She sat beneath the wayside tree,
Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la--
She heard the birds sing wide and free,
Hail Mary, full of grace!
"She had no shelter for her head,
Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la,
Except the leaves that God had spread--
Hail Mary, full of grace!
"Down flew the Angel Gabriel,
Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la,
He said, 'Maid Mary, greet thee well!'
Hail Mary, full of grace!"
The song was interrupted for a moment, but he heard her hum the tune.
To the lonely man came a swift, holy thought of what it would be to see
her rock a child to that soft air in a happy twilight, no longer
solitary. He heard her move her chair and sigh a little as she sat down
again. The daylight died as if with gasps for breath palpably
withdrawn:
"She laid her Son in the oxen's stall,
Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la--
Herself she did not rest at all,
Hail Mary, full of grace!"
Another pause, another sigh, and then the sound of steps moving about
the room. Then the door was shut, and with a little smile half tender,
half impatient, Dangeau turned to his work again.
When the evening was come, and Mademoiselle was in her place, he asked
her suddenly:
"What do you do with yourself on Sunday?"
"I take a holiday, Citizen," she answered demurely, and without looking
up.
"But what do you do with your holiday, Citoyenne," said Dangeau,
persistent.
Mademoiselle smiled a little and blushed a little, smile and blush alike
reproving his curiosity, but after a slight hesitation she said:
"I go to one of the great churches."
"And when you are there?"
"Is it the Catechism?" ventured Mademoiselle, and then went on hastily,
"I say my prayers, Citizen."
"And could you not say them at home?"
"Why, yes, and I do, Citizen, but I go to hear the Mass; and then the
church is so solemn, and big, and beautiful. Others are praying round
me, and I feel my prayers are heard."
Dangeau frowned and then broke out impatiently:
"That idea of prayer--it is so selfish--each one asking, asking, asking.
I do not find that ennobling!"
"Is it so selfish to ask for patience and courage, then, Citizen?"
"And is that what you pray for?" he asked, arrested by something in her
tone.
Aline's colour rose high under his softened look, and she inclined her
head without speaking.
"That might pass," said Dangeau reflectively. "I do not believe in
priests, or an organised religion, but I have my own creed. I believe
in one Supreme Being from whom flows that tide which we call Life when
it rises in us, and Death when it ebbs again to Him. If the creature
could, by straining towards the Creator, draw the life-tide more
strongly into his own soul, that would be worthy prayer; but to most
men, what is religion?--a mere ignoble system of reward or punishment,
fit perhaps for children, or slaves, but no free man's creed."
"What would you give them instead, Citizen?" asked Mademoiselle
seriously.
"Reason," cried Dangeau; "pure reason. Teach man to reason, and you
lift him above such degrading considerations. Even the child should not
be punished, it should be reasoned with; but there--" He paused, for
Mademoiselle was laughing a soft, irrepressible laugh, that filled the
small, low room.
"Oh, Citizen, forgive me," she cried; "but you reminded me of something
that happened when I was a child. I do not quite know whether the story
fits your theory or mine, but I will tell it you, if you like."
"If it fits my theory, I shall annex it unscrupulously, of that I give
you fair warning," said Dangeau, laughing. "But tell it to me first, and
we will dispute about it afterwards."
Aline leaned back in her upright chair, and a little remembering smile
came into her eyes.
"Well, Citizen, you must know that I was only nine years old when I went
to the Convent, and I was a spoilt child, and gave the good nuns a great
deal of trouble, I am afraid.
"The sister in charge of us was Sister Marie Josephe, and we were very
fond of her; but when we were naughty, out came a birch rod, and we were
soundly punished.
"Now Sister Marie Josephe was not strong; she suffered much from pain in
her head, and sometimes it was so bad that she was obliged to be alone,
and in the dark. When this happened, Sister Genevieve took her place,
and Sister Genevieve was like you, Citizen; she believed in the efficacy
of pure reason! If under her regime there was a crime to be punished,
then there was no birch rod forthcoming, but instead, a very long,
dreary sermon--an hour by the clock, at least--and at the end a very
limp, discouraged sinner, usually in tears. But, Citizen, it was
ennuyant, most terrible ennuyant, and much, much worse than being
whipped; for that only lasted a minute, and then there were tears,
kisses, promises of amendment, and a grand reconciliation. Well, I must
tell you that I had a great desire to see the moon rise over the hill
behind us. Our windows looked the other way, and as it was winter time
we were all locked in very early. Adele de Matignon dared me to get
out. I declared I would, and I watched my time. I am sure Sister Marie
Josephe must have been very much surprised by my frequent and tender
inquiries after her health at that time.
"'Always a little suffering, my child,' she would say, and then I would
whisper to Adele, 'We must wait.'
"At last, however, a day came when the good sister answered, 'Ah, it
goes better, thanks to the Virgin,' and I told Adele that it would be
for that evening. Well, I got out. I climbed through a window, and
down a pear tree. I scratched my hands, and fell into some bushes, and
after all there was no moon! The night was cloudy and presently it
began to rain. I assure you, Citizen, I was very well punished before I
came up for judgment. Of course I was discovered, and, to my horror,
found myself in the hands of Sister Genevieve. 'But where is Sister
Marie Josephe?' I sobbed. 'Ah, my child!' said Sister Genevieve mildly,
'this wickedness of yours has brought on one of her worst attacks, and
she is suffering too much to come to you.' I cried dreadfully, for I
was very much discouraged, and felt that one of Sister Genevieve's
sermons would remove my last hope in this world. She did not know what
to make of me, I am sure, but I had to listen to more pure reason than I
had ever done before, and I assure you, Citizen, that it gave me a
headache almost as bad as poor Sister Marie Josephe's."
Mademoiselle laughed again as she finished her tale, and looked at
Dangeau with arch, malicious eyes. He joined her laughter, but would
have the last word; for,
"See, Citoyenne," he said, "see how your tale supports my theory, and
how fine a deterrent was the pure reason of Sister Genevieve as compared
with the birch rod of Sister Marie Josephe!"
"But if it is a punishment, then your theory falls to the ground, since
you were to do away with all reward and punishment!" objected Aline.
Dangeau's eyes twinkled.
"You are too quick," he said in mock surrender.
Mademoiselle took up her pen.
"I am very slow over my work," she answered, smiling. "See how I waste
my time! You should scold me, Citizen."
They wrote for awhile, but Dangeau's pen halted, the merriment died out
of his face, leaving it stern and gloomy. These were no times to foster
even an innocent gaiety. Abruptly he began to speak again.
"You see only flowers and innocence upon your altars, but I have seen
them served by cruelty, blood, and lust."
Aline looked up, startled.
"I could not tell you the tales I know--they are not fit." His brow
clouded. "My mother was a good woman, good and religious. I have still
a reverence for what she reverenced; I can still worship the spirit of
her worship, though I have travelled far enough since she taught me at
her knee. I have seen too many crimes committed in the name of
Religion," and he broke off, leaning his head upon his hand.
Mlle de Rochambeau's eyes flashed.
"And in the name of Liberty, none?" she asked with a sudden ring in her
voice.
A vision of blood and horror swept between them. Dangeau saw in memory
the gutters of Paris awash with the crimson of massacre. Dead, violet
eyes in a severed head pike-lifted stared at him from the gloom, and
under his gaze he thought they changed, turned greyer, darker, and took
the form and hue of those which Aline raised to his. He shuddered
violently, and answered in a voice scarcely audible:
"Yes, there have been crimes."
Then he looked up again, snatching his thoughts back to control.
"Liberty is only a name, as yet," he said; "we have taken away the
visible chain which manacled the body, but an invisible one lies deep,
and corroded, fettering the heart and will, and as it rusts into decay
it breeds a deadly poison there. The work of healing cannot be done in
a day. There can be no true liberty until our children are cradled in
it, educated in it, taught to hold it as the air, without which they
cannot breathe. That time is to come, but first there will be much
bitterness, much suffering, much that is to be deplored. You may well
pray for strength and patience," he continued, after a momentary pause,
"for we shall all need them in the times that are coming."
Slowly, but surely, the spirit of the two great Republican Clubs was
turning to violence and lust of power. Hebert, Marat, and Fouquier
Tinville were rising into prominence--fatal, evil stars, driven on an
orbit of mad passion.
Robespierre's name still stood for moderation, but there was, at times,
an expression on his livid face, a spark in his haggard eyes, which left
a more ominous impression than Marat's flood of vituperation or
Tinville's calculating cruelty.
Dangeau's heart was very heavy. The splendid dawn was here--the dawn
longed for, looked for, hoped for through so many hours of blackest
night--and behold, it came up redly threatening, precursor, not of the
full, still day of peace, but of some Armageddon of wrath and fury. The
day of peace would come, must come, but who could say that he would live
to see it? There were times when it seemed unutterably far away.
A dark mood was upon him. He could not write, but stared gloomily
before him. That anxiety, that quickened sense of all life's sadness
and dangers which comes over us at times when we love, possessed him
now. How long would this young life, which meant he was afraid to gauge
how much to him, be safe in the midst of this fermenting city? Her
innocence stabbed his soul, her delicate pride caught at his
heart-strings. How long could the one endure? How soon might not the
other be dragged in the dust? Rosalie he knew only too well. She would
not betray the girl, but neither would she go out of her own safe way to
protect her; and she was venal, narrow, and hard.
He did not kiss Mademoiselle's hand to-night, but he took it for a
moment as she passed, and stood looking down at it as he said:
"If God is, He will bless you."
Mademoiselle's heart beat violently.
"And you too, Citizen," she murmured, with an involuntary catch of the
breath.
"Do you pray for me?" he asked, filled with a new emotion.
"Yes, Citizen," she said, in a very low voice.
Dangeau was about to speak again--to say he knew not what--but with her
last words she drew her hand gently away, and was gone. He stood where
she had left him, breathing deeply. Suddenly the gloom that lay upon
him became shot with light, and hope rose trembling in his heart. He
felt himself strong--a giant. What harm could touch her under the
shield of his love? Who would dare threaten what he would cherish to
the death? In this new exultation he flung the window wide, and leaned
out. A little snow had fallen, and the heaviness of the air was
relieved. Now it came crisp and vigorous against his cheek. Far above,
the clouds made a wide ring about the moon. Serenely tranquil she
floated in the space of clear, dark sky, and all the night was
irradiated as if by thoughts of peace.