A ROYALIST PLOT
Charlotte Leboeuf was one of the people who would certainly have set
cleanliness above godliness, and she sacrificed comfort to it with a
certain ruthless pleasure. The house she declared to be a sty,
impossible to cleanse, but she would do her best, and her best
apparently involved a perpetual steam of hot water, and a continual reek
of soap-suds. Dangeau put up more than one sigh at the shrine of the
absent Rosalie as he stumbled over pails and brooms, or slipped on the
damp floor. For the rest, the old life had begun again, but with a
dead, dreary weight upon it.
Dangeau at his busy writing, at his nightly pacings, and Aline at her
old task of embroidering, felt the burden of life press heavily, chafed
at it for a moment, perhaps, and turned again with a sigh to toil,
unsweetened by that nameless something which is the salt of life. Once
he ventured on a half-angry remonstrance on the long hours of stitching,
which left her face so pale and her eyes so tired. It was not necessary
for his wife, he began, but at the first word so painful a colour
stained her cheek, eyes so proudly distressed looked at him between
imploring and defiance, that he stammered, drew a long breath, and
turned away with a sound, half groan, half curse. Aline wept bitterly
when he was gone, worked harder than before, and life went drearily
enough for a week or so.
Then one day in July Dangeau received orders to go South again. He had
known they would come, and the call to action was what he craved, and
yet what to do with the girl who bore his name he could not tell.
He was walking homewards, revolving a plan in his mind, when to his
surprise he saw Aline before him, and not alone. Beside her walked a
man in workman's dress, and they were in close conversation. As he
caught sight of them they turned down a small side street, and after a
moment's amazed hesitation he took the same direction, walking slowly,
but ready to interfere if he saw cause.
Earlier in the afternoon, Aline having finished her work, had tied it up
neatly and gone out. The streets were a horror to her, but she was
obliged to take her embroidery to the woman who disposed of it, and on
these hot days she craved for air. She accomplished her business, and
started homewards, walking slowly, and enjoying the cool breeze which
had sprung up. As she turned out of the more frequented thoroughfares,
a man, roughly dressed, passed her, hung on his footsteps a little, and
as she came up to him, looked sharply at her, and said in a low voice,
"Mlle de Rochambeau?"
She started, her heart beating violently, and was about to walk on, when
coming still nearer her, he glanced all round and rapidly made the sign
of the cross in the air. With a sudden shock she recognised the Abbe
Loisel.
"It is M. l'Abbe?" she said in a voice as low as his own.
"Yes, it is I. Walk on quietly, and do not appear to be specially
attentive. I saw you last at the Abbaye, how is it that I meet you
here?"
A slight colour rose to Aline's cheek. Her tone became distant.
"I think you are too well informed as to what passes in Paris not to
know, M. l'Abbe," she said.
They came out into a little crowd of people as she spoke, and he walked
on without replying, his thoughts busy.
Part saint, part conspirator, he had enough of the busybody in his
composition to make his position as arch manipulator of Royalist plots a
thoroughly congenial one. In Mlle de Rochambeau he saw a ravelled
thread, and hastened to pick it up, with the laudable intention of
working it into his network of intrigue. They came clear of the press,
and he turned to her, his pale face austerely plump, his restless eyes
hard.
"I heard what I could hardly believe," he returned. "I heard that Henri
de Rochambeau's daughter had bought her life by accepting marriage with
an atheist and a regicide, a Republican Deputy of the name of Dangeau."
Aline bit her lip, her eyes stung. She would not justify herself to
this man. There was only one man alive who mattered enough for that,
but it was bitter enough to hear, for this was what all would say. She
had known it all along, but realisation was keen, and she shrank from
the pictured scorn of Mme de Matigny's eyes and from Marguerite's
imagined recoil. She walked on a little way before she could say
quietly:
"It is true that I am married to M. Dangeau."
But the Abbe had seen her face quiver, and drew his own conclusions. He
was versed in reading between the lines.
"Mme de Matigny suffered yesterday," he said with intentional
abruptness, and Aline gave a low cry.
"Marguerite--not Marguerite!" she cried out, and he touched her arm
warningly.
"Not quite so loud, if you please, Madame, and control your features
better. Yes, that is not so bad. And now allow me to ask you a
question. Why should Mlle de Matigny's fate interest the wife of the
regicide Dangeau?"
"M. l'Abbe, for pity's sake, tell me, she is not dead--little
Marguerite?"
"Not this time, Madame, but who knows when the blow will fall? But
there, it can matter very little to you."
"To me?" She sighed heavily. "It matters greatly. M. l'Abbe; I do not
forget my friends. I have not so many that I can forget them."
"You remember?"
"Oh, M. l'Abbe!"
"And you would help them?"
"If I could."
He paused, scrutinising her earnest face. Then he said slowly:
"You bought your life at a great price, and something is due to those
whom you left behind you in peril whilst you went out to safety. I knew
your father. It is well that he is dead--yes, I say that it is well;
but there is an atonement possible. In that you are happy. From where
you are, you can hold out a hand to those who are in danger; you may do
more, if you have the courage, and--if we can trust you."
His keen look dwelt on her, and saw her face change suddenly, the eager
light go out of it.
"M. l'Abbe, you must not tell me anything," she said quickly, catching
her breath; for Dangeau's voice had sounded suddenly in her memory:
"I have pledged my honour"; and she heard the ring of her own
response--"Monsieur, your honour is safe." She had answered so
confidently, and now, whatever she did, dishonour seemed imminent,
unavoidable.
"You have indeed gone far," he said. "You must not hear--I must not
tell. What does it mean? Who forbids?"
Aline turned to him desperately.
"M. l'Abbe, my hands are tied. You spoke just now of M. Dangeau, but
you do not know him. He is a good man--an honourable man. He has
protected me from worse than death, and in order to do this he risked
his own life, and he pledged his honour for me that I would engage in no
plots--do nothing against the Republic. When I let him make that
pledge, and what drove me to do so, lies between me and my own
conscience. I accepted a trust, and I cannot betray it."
"Fine words," said Loisel curtly. "Fine words. Dutiful words from a
daughter of the Church. Let me remind you that an oath taken under
compulsion is not binding."
"He said that he had pledged his honour, and I told him that his honour
was safe. I do not break a pledge, M. l'Abbe."
"So for a word spoken in haste to this atheist, to this traitor stained
with your King's blood, you will allow your friends to perish, you will
throw away their lives and your own chance of atoning for the scandal of
your marriage--" he began; but she lifted her head with a quick, proud
gesture.
"M. l'Abbe, I cannot hear such words."
"You only have to raise your voice a little more and you will hear no
more words of mine. See, there is a municipal guard. Tell him that
this is the Abbe Loisel, non-juring priest, and you will be rid of me
easily enough. You will find it harder to stifle the voice of your own
conscience. Remember, Madame, that there is a worse thing even than
dishonour of the body, and that is damnation of the soul. If you have
been preserved from the one, take care how you fall into the other. What
do you owe to this man who has seduced you from your duty? Nothing, I
tell you. And what do you owe to your Church and to your order? Can
you doubt? Your obedience, your help, your repentance."
The Abbe had raised his voice a little as he spoke. The street before
them was empty, and he was unaware that they were being followed. A
portion of what he said reached Dangeau's ears, for the prolonged
conversation had made him uneasy, and he had hastened his steps. Up to
now he had caught no word of what was passing, but Aline's gestures were
familiar to him, and he recognised that lift of the head which was
always with her a signal of distress. Now he had caught enough, and
more than enough, and a couple of strides brought him level with them.
Aline started violently, and looked quickly from Dangeau to the priest,
and back again at Dangeau. He was very stern, and wore an expression of
indignant contempt which was new to her.
"Good-day, Citizen," he said, with a sarcastic inflexion. "I will
relieve you of the trouble of escorting my wife any farther."
Loisel was wondering how much had been overheard, and wished himself
well out of the situation. He was not in the least afraid of going to
prison or to the guillotine, but there were reasons enough and to spare
why his liberty at the present juncture was imperative. One of the many
plots for releasing the Queen was in progress, and he carried upon him
papers of the first importance. It was to serve this plot that he had
made a bid for Aline's help. In her unique position she might have
rendered priceless services, but it was not to be, and he hastened to
extricate himself from a position which threatened disaster to his
central scheme.
"Good-day," he returned with composure, and was moving off, when Dangeau
detained him with a gesture.
"One moment, Citizen. I neither know your name nor do I wish to know
it, but it seemed to me that your conversation was distressing to my
wife. I very earnestly deprecate any renewal of it, and should my
wishes in the matter be disregarded I should conceive it my duty to
inform myself more fully--but I think you understand me, Citizen?"
So this was the husband? A strong man, not the type to be hoodwinked,
best to let the girl go; but as the thoughts flashed on his mind, he was
aware of her at his elbow.
"M. l'Abbe," she said very low, "tell Marguerite--tell her--oh! ask her
not to think hardly of me. I pray for her always, I hope to see her
again, and I will do what I can."
She ran back again, without waiting for a reply, and walked in silence
by Dangeau's side until they reached the house. He made no attempt to
speak, but on the landing he hesitated a moment, and then followed her
into her room.
"Danton spoke to me this morning," he said, moving to the window, where
he stood looking out. "They want me to go South again. Lyons is in
revolt, and is to be reduced by arms. Dubois-Crancy commands, but
Bonnet has fallen sick, and I am to take his place."
Aline had seated herself, and picked up a strip of muslin. Under its
cover her hands clasped each other very tightly. When he paused she
said: "Yes, Monsieur."
"I am to start immediately."
"Yes, Monsieur."
He swung round, looked at her angrily for a moment, and then stared
again into the dirty street.
"It is a question of what you are to do," he said impatiently.
"I? But I shall stay here. What else is there for me to do?"
"I cannot leave you alone in Paris again."
"Monsieur?"
"What!" he cried. "Have you forgotten?" and she bent to hide her sudden
pallor.
"What am I to do, then?" she asked very low. Her submission at once
touched and angered him. It allured by its resemblance to a wife's
obedience, and repelled because the resemblance was only mirage, and not
reality.
"I cannot have you here, I cannot take you with me, and there is only
one place I can send you to--a little place called Rancy-les-Bois, about
thirty miles from Paris. My mother's sisters live there, and I should
ask them to receive you."
"I will do as you think best," murmured Aline.
"They are unmarried, one is an invalid, and they are good women. It is
some years since I have seen them, but I remember my Aunt Ange was
greatly beloved in Rancy. I think you would be safe with her."
A vision of safety and a woman's protection rose persuasively before
Aline, and she looked up with a quick, confiding glance that moved
Dangeau strangely. She was at once so rigid and so soft, so made for
love and trusting happiness, and yet so resolute to repel it. He bit his
lip as he stood looking at her, and a sort of rage against life and fate
rose hotly, unsubdued within him. He turned to leave her, but she
called him back, in a soft, hesitating tone that brought back the days
of their first intercourse. When he looked round he saw that she was
pale and agitated.
"Monsieur!" she stammered, and seemed afraid of her own voice; and all
at once a wild stirring of hope set his heart beating.
"What is it? Won't you tell me?" he said; and again she tried to speak
and broke off, then caught her courage and went on.
"Oh, Monsieur, if you would do something!"
"Why, what is it you want me to do, child?"
That was almost his old kind look, and it emboldened her. She rose and
leaned towards him, clasping her hands.
"Oh, Monsieur, you have influence--" and at that his brow darkened.
"What is it?" he said.
"I heard--I heard--" She stopped in confusion. "Oh! it is my friend,
Marguerite de Matigny. Her grandmother is dead, and she is alone.
Monsieur, she is only seventeen, and such a pretty child, so gay, and
she has done no harm to any one. It is impossible that she could do any
harm."
"I thought you had no friends?"
"No, I had none; but in the prison they were good to me--all of them.
Old Madame de Matigny knew my parents, and welcomed me for their sakes;
but Marguerite I loved. She was like a kitten, all soft and caressing.
Monsieur, if you could see her, so little, and pretty--just a child!"
Her eyes implored him, but his were shadowed by frowning brows.
"Is that what the priest told you to say?" he asked harshly.
"The priest----"
"You 'd lie to me," he broke out, and stopped himself. "Do you think I
didn't recognise the look, the tone? Did he put words into your mouth?"
Her eyes filled.
"He told me about Marguerite," she said simply. "He told me she was
alone, and it came into my heart to ask you to help her. I have no one
to ask but you."
The voice, the child's look would have disarmed him, but the words he
had overheard came back, and made his torment.
"If it came into your heart, I know who put it there," he said. "And
what else came with it? What else were you to do? Do you forget I
overheard? If I thought you had lent yourself to be a tool, to
influence, to bribe--mon Dieu, if I thought that----"
"Monsieur!" but the soft, agitated protest fell unheard.
"I should kill you--yes, I think that I should kill you," he said in a
cold, level voice.
She moved a step towards him then, and if her voice had trembled, her
eyes were clear and untroubled as they met his full.
"You shall not need to," she said quietly, and there was a long pause.
It was he who looked away at last, and then she spoke.
"I asked you at no one's prompting," she said softly. "See, Monsieur,
let there be truth between us. That at least I can give, and will--yes,
always. He, the man you saw, asked me to help him, to help others, and
I told him no, my hands were tied. If he had asked for ever, I must
still have said the same thing; and if it had cut my heart in two, I
would still have said it. But about Marguerite, that was different.
She knows nothing of any plots, she is no conspirator. I would not ask,
if it touched your honour. I would not indeed."
"Are you sure?" he asked in a strange voice, and she answered his
question with another.
"Would you have pledged your honour if you had not been sure?"
He gave a short, hard laugh.
"Upon my soul, child, I think so," he said, and the colour ran blazing
to her face.
"Oh, Monsieur, I keep faith!" she cried in a voice that came from her
heart.
Her outstretched hands came near to touching him, and he turned away
with a sudden wrench of his whole body.
"And it is hard--yes, hard enough," he said bitterly, and went out with
a mist before his eyes.