Amid the sordid surroundings of Charlot's private quarters the Captain
and the Deputy supped that evening. The supper sorted well with the
house--a greasy, ill-cooked meal that proved little inviting to the
somewhat fastidious La Boulaye. But the wine, plundered, no doubt, in
common with the goblets out of which they drank it--was more than good,
and whilst La Boulaye showed his appreciation of it, Charlot abused it
like a soldier. They sat facing each other across the little deal table,
whose stains were now hidden by a cloth, and to light them they had four
tapers set in silver candlesticks of magnificent workmanship, and most
wondrous weight, which Tardivet informed his guest had been the property
of a ci-devant prince of the blood.
As the night wore on Captain Charlot grew boisterous and more
confidential. He came at length to speak of the last capture they had
made.
“I have taken prizes, Caron,” said he, “which a king might not despise.
But to-day--” He raised his eyes to the ceiling and wagged his head.
“Well?” quoth La Boulaye. “What about to-day?”
“I have made a capture worth more than all the others put together. It
was an indifferent-looking berline, and my men were within an ace of
allowing it to pass. But I have a nose, mon cher”--and he tapped the
organ with ludicrous significance--“and, bon Dieu, what affair! I can
smell an aristocrat a league off. Down upon that coach I swooped like a
hawk upon a sparrow. Within it sat two women, thickly veiled, and I give
you my word that in a sense I pitied them, for not a doubt of it, but
they were in the act of congratulating themselves upon their escape from
France. But sentiment may become fatal if permitted to interfere with
enterprise. Stifling my regrets I desired them to alight, and they being
wise obeyed me without demur. I allowed them to retain their veils. I
sought the sight of things other than women's faces, and a brief survey
of the coach showed me where to bestow my attention. I lifted the back
seat. It came up like the lid of the chest it was, and beneath it I
discovered enough gold and silver plate to outweigh in value almost
everything that I had ever taken. But that was by no means all. Under
the front seat there was a chest of gold--louis d'ors they were, some
two or three thousand at least--and, besides that, a little iron-bound
box of gems which in itself was worth more than all the rest of the
contents of that treasure-casket of a coach. I tell you, Caron, I
dropped the lid of that seat in some haste, for I was not minded that
my men should become as wise as I. I stepped down and bade, the women
re-enter, and hither under strong escort I have brought them.”
“And these treasures?” asked La Boulaye.
“They are still in the coach below, with the women. I have told these
that they shall spend the night there. To-morrow I shall see to them and
give them their liberty--which is a more generous proceeding than
might befall them at the hands of another. When they are gone comes the
division of the spoil.” He closed one eye slowly, in a very ponderous
wink. “To my men I shall relegate the gold and silver plate as well as
the money. For myself I shall only retain the little iron-bound box. My
followers will account me more than generous and themselves more than
satisfied. As for me, La Boulaye--by St. Guillotine, I am tempted to
emigrate also and set up as an aristocrat myself in Prussia or England,
for in that little box there is something more than a fortune. I asked
you to-day whether you were minded to lay information against me in
Paris. My faith, I am little concerned whether you do or not, for I
think that before you can reach Paris, Captain Charlot Tardivet will be
no more than a name in the Republican army. Abroad I shall call myself
Charlot du Tardivet, and I shall sleep in fine linen and live on
truffles and champagne. Caron, your health!”
He drained his glass, and laughed softly to himself as he set it down.
“Do you trust your men?” asked La Boulaye.
“Eh? Trust them? Name of a name! They know me. I have placed the ten
most faithful ones on guard. They answer to the rest of us with their
necks for the safety of their charge. Come hither, Caron.”
He rose somewhat unsteadily, and lurched across to the window. La
Boulaye followed him, and gazing out under his indication, he beheld the
coach by the blaze of a fire which the men had lighted to keep them from
freezing at their post.
“Does that look secure?”
“Why, yes--secure enough. But if those fellows were to take it into
their heads that it would be more profitable to share the prize among
ten than among sixty?”
“Secreanom!!” swore Charlot impatiently. “You do my wits poor credit.
For what do you take me? Have I gone through so much, think you,
without learning how little men are to be trusted? Faugh! Look at the
porte-cochere. The gates are closed--aye, and locked, mon cher, and
the keys are here, in my pocket. Do you imagine they are to be broken
through without arousing anyone? And then, the horses. They are in the
stables over there, and again, the keys are in my pocket. So that, you
see, I do not leave everything to the honesty of my ten most faithful
ones.”
“You have learned wisdom, not a doubt of it,” laughed the Deputy.
“In a hard school, Caron,” answered the Captain soberly. “Aye, name of a
name, in a monstrous hard school.”
He turned from the window, and the light of the tapers falling on his
face, showed it heavily scored with lines of pain, testifying to the
ugly memories which the Deputy's light words had evoked. Then suddenly
he laughed, half-bitterly, half humourously.
“La, la!” said he. “The thing's past. Charlot Tardivet the bridegroom of
Bellecour and Captain Charlot of Dumouriez' army are different men-very
different.”
He strode back to the table, filled his goblet, and gulped down the
wine. Then he crossed to the fire and stood with his back to La Boulaye
for a spell. When next he faced his companion all signs of emotion had
cleared from his countenance. It was again the callous, reckless face
of Captain Charlot, rendered a trifle more reckless and a trifle more
callous by the wine-flush on his cheeks and the wine-glitter in his eye.
“Caron” said he, with a half-smile, “shall we have these ladies in to
supper?”
“God forbid!” ejaculated La Boulaye.
“Nay, but I will,” the other insisted, and he moved across to the
window.
As he passed him, La Boulaye laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
“Not that, Charlot,” he begged impressively, his dark face very set.
“Plunder them, turn them destitute upon the world, if you will, but
remember, at least, that they are women.”
Charlot laughed in his face.
“It is something to remember, is it not? They remembered it of our
women, these aristocrats!”
There was so much ugly truth in the Captain's words, and such a
suggestion of just, if bitter, retribution in his mental attitude, that
La Boulaye released his arm, at a loss for further arguments wherewith
to curb him.
“Paydi!” Charlot continued, “I have a mind for a frolic. Does not
justice give me the right to claim that these aristocrats shall amuse
me?”
With an oath he turned abruptly, and pulled the casement open.
“Guyot!” he called, and a voice from below made answer to him.
“You will make my compliments to the citoyennes in the coach, Guyot, and
tell them that the Citizen-captain Tardivet requests the honour of their
company to supper.”
Then he went to the door, and calling Dame Capoulade, he bade her set
two fresh covers; in which he was expeditiously obeyed. La Boulaye stood
by the fire, his pale face impassive now and almost indifferent. Charlot
returned to the window to learn from Guyot that the citoyennes thanked
the Citizen-captain, but that they were tired and sought to be excused,
asking nothing better than to be allowed to remain at peace in their
carriage.
“Sacred name of a name!” he croaked, a trifle thickly, for the wine he
had taken was mastering him more and more. “Are they defying us? Since
they will not accept an invitation, compel them to obey a command. Bring
them up at once, Guyot.”
“At once, Captain,” was the answer, and Guyot went about the business.
Charlot closed the window and approached the table.
“They are coquettish these scented dames,” he mocked, as he poured
himself out some wine. “You are not drinking Caron.”
“It is perhaps wise that one of us should remain sober,” answered the
Deputy quietly, for in spite of a certain sympathy with the feelings by
which Charlot was actuated, he was in dead antipathy to this baiting of
women that seemed toward.
Charlot made no answer. He drained his goblet and set it down with a
bang. Then he flung himself into a chair, and stretching out his long,
booted legs he began to hum the refrain of the “Marseillaise.” Thus a
few moments went by. Then there came a sound of steps upon the creaking
stairs, and the gruff voice of the soldier urging the ladies to ascend
more speedily.
At last the door opened and two women entered, followed by Guyot.
Charlot lurched to his feet.
“You have come, Mesdames,” said he, forgetting the mode of address
prescribed by the Convention, and clumsily essaying to make a leg. “Be
welcome! Guyot, go to the devil.”
For a moment or two after the soldier's departure the women remained
in the shadow, then, at the Captain's invitation, which they dared not
disobey, they came forward into the halo of candle-light. Simultaneously
La Boulaye caught his breath, and took a step forward. Then he drew back
again until his shoulders touched the overmantel and there he remained,
staring at the newcomers, who as yet, did not appear to have observed
him.
They wore no headgear, and their scarfs were thrown back upon their
shoulders, revealing to the stricken gaze of La Boulaye the countenances
of the Marquise de Bellecour and her daughter.
And now, as they advanced into the light, Charlot recognised them too.
In the act of offering a chair he stood, arrested, his eyes devouring
first one, then the other of then, with a glance that seemed to have
grown oddly sobered. The flush died from his face, and his lips twitched
like those of a man who seeks to control his emotions. Then slowly the
colour crept back into his cheeks, a curl of mockery appeared on the
coarse mouth, and the eyes beamed evilly.
They tense silence was broken by the bang with which he dropped the
chair he had half raised. As he leaned forward now, La Boulaye read in
his face the thought that had leapt into the Captain's mind, and had it
been a question of any woman other than Zuzanne de Bellecour, the Deputy
might have indulged in the consideration of what a wonderful retribution
was there here. Into the hands of the man whose bride the Marquis de
Bellecour had torn from him were now delivered by a wonderful chance
the wife and daughter of that same Bellecour. And at Boisvert this
briganding Captain was as much to-night the lord of life and death,
and all besides, as had been the Marquis of Bellecour of old. But
he pondered not these things, for all that the stern irony of the
coincidence did not escape him. That evil look in Charlot's eyes, that
sinister smile on Charlot's lips, more than suggested what manner of
vengeance the Captain would exact--and that, for the time, was matter
enough to absorb the Deputy's whole attention.
And the women did not see him. They were too much engrossed in the
figure fronting them, and agonisedly, with cheeks white and bosoms
heaving, they waited, in their dread suspense. At last, drawing himself
to the full of his stalwart height, the Captain laughed grimly and
spoke.
“Mesdames,” said he, his very tone an insult in its brutal derision,
“we Republicans have abolished God, and until tonight I have held the
Republic right, arguing that if a God there was, His leanings must
be aristocratic, since He never seemed to concern Himself with the
misfortunes of the lowly-born. But tonight, mesdames, I know that the
Republic is at fault. There is a God--a God of justice and retribution,
who has delivered you, of all people in the world, into my hands. Look
on me well, Ci-devant Marquise de Bellecour, and you, Mademoiselle de
Bellecour. Look in my face and see if you know me again. Not you. You
never heeded me as you rode by in those proud days. But heard you ever
tell of one Charlot Tardivet, a base vassal whose wife your husband,
Madame, and your father, Mademoiselle, took from him on his bridal morn?
Heard you ever tell of that poor girl--one Marie Tardivet--who died of
grief as a consequence of that brutality? But no; such matters were too
trivial for your notice if you saw them, or for your memory if you ever
heard tell of them. What was the life of a peasant more than that of
any other animal of the land, that the concern of it should perturb the
sereneness of your aristocratic being? Mesdames, that Charlot Tardivet
am I; that Marie Tardivet was my wife. I knew not whom you were when I
bade you sup at my table but now that I know it--what do you look for at
my hands?”
It was the Marquise who answered him. She was deathly pale, and her
words came breathlessly: for all that their import was very bold.
“We look for the recollection that we are women and unless you are as
cowardly as--”
“Citoyenne,” he broke in harshly, answering her as he had answered La
Boulaye, “was my wife less a woman think you? Pah! There is yet another
here who was wronged,” he announced, and he waved his hand in the
direction of La Boulaye, who stood, stiff and pale, by the hearth.
The women turned, and at sight of the Deputy a cry escaped Suzanne. It
was a cry of hope, for here was one who would surely lend them aid. It
was a fact, she thought, upon which the Captain had not counted. But La
Boulaye stood straight and cold, and not by so much as an inclination of
the head did he acknowledge that grim introduction. Charlot, mistaking
Mademoiselle's exclamation, laughed softly.
“Well may you cry out, Citoyenne,” said he, “for him I see you
recognise. He is the man who sought to rescue my wife from the clutches
of your lordly and most noble father. For his pains he was flogged until
they believed him dead. Is it not very fitting that he should be with me
now to receive you?”
“But he, at least, is in my debt,” cried Mademoiselle, now making a step
forward, and sustained by an excitement born of hope. “Whatever may be
my father's sins, M. la Boulaye, at least, will not seek to visit them
upon the daughter, for he owes his life to me, and he will not forget
the debt.”
Charlot's brows were suddenly knit with vexation. He half-turned to La
Boulaye, as if to speak; but ere he could utter a word--
“The debt has been paid, Citoyenne,” said Caron impassively.
Before that cold answer, so coldly delivered, Mademoiselle recoiled.
“Paid!” she echoed mechanically.
“Aye, paid,” he rejoined. “You claimed your brother's life in payment,
and I gave it to you. Do you not think that we are quits? Besides,”
he ended suddenly, “Captain Tardivet is the master here. Address your
appeals to him, Citoyenne.”
With terror written on her face, she turned from him to meet the flushed
countenance of Charlot, who, with arms akimbo and his head on one side,
was regarding her at once with mockery and satisfaction.
“What do you intend by us, Monsieur?” she questioned in a choking voice.
He smiled inscrutably.
“Allay your fears, Citoyenne; you will find me very gentle.”
“I knew you would prove generous,” she cried.
“But, yes, Citoyenne,” he rejoined, in the tones we employ to those who
fear unreasonably. “I shall prove generous; as generous as--as was my
lord your father.”
La Boulaye trembled, but his face remained calmly expressionless as he
watched that grim scene.
“Monsieur!” Suzanne cried out in horror.
“You will not dare, you scum!” blazed the Marchioness.
Charlot shrugged his shoulders and laughed, whereupon Madame de
Bellecour seemed to become a being transformed. Her ample flesh, which
but a moment back had quivered in fear, quivered now more violently
still in anger. The colour flowed back into her cheeks until they flamed
an angry crimson, and her vituperations rang in so loud and fierce a
voice that at last, putting his hands to his ears, Charlot crossed to
the door.
“Silence!” he roared at her, so savagely that her spirit forsook her
on the instant. “I will put an end to this,” he swore, as he opened the
door. “Hold there! Is Guyot below?”
“Here, Captain,” came a voice.
Charlot retraced his steps, leaving the door wide, his eyes dwelling
upon Suzanne until she shrank under its gaze, as she might have done
from the touch of some unclean thing. She drew near to her mother, in
whom the brief paroxysm of rage was now succeeded by a no less violent
paroxysm of weeping. On the stairs sounded Guyot's ascending steps.
“Mother,” whispered Suzanne, setting her arms about her in a vain
attempt to comfort. Then she heard Charlot's voice curtly bidding Guyot
to reconduct the Marquise to her carriage.
Madame de Bellecour heard it also, and roused herself once more.
“I will not go,” she stormed, anger flashing again from the tear-laden
eyes. “I will not leave my daughter.”
Charlot shrugged his shoulders callously.
“Take her away, Guyot,” he said, shortly, and the sturdy soldier obeyed
him with a roughness that took no account of either birth or sex.
When the Marquise's last scream had died away in the distance, Charlot
turned once more to Suzanne, and it seemed that he sought to compose
his features into an expression of gentleness beyond their rugged
limitations. But the glance of his blue eyes was kind, and mistaking
the purport of that kindness, Mademoiselle began an appeal to his better
feelings.
Straight and tall, pale and delicate she stood, her beauty rendered,
perhaps, the more appealing by virtue of the fear reflected on her
countenance. Her blue eyes were veiled behind their long black lashes,
her lips were tremulous, and her hands clasped and unclasped as she now
made her prayer to the Republican. But in the hardened heart of Charlot
no breath of pity stirred. He beheld her beauty and he bethought him of
his wrongs. For the rest, perhaps, had she been less comely he had been
less vengeful.
And yonder by the hearth stood La Boulaye like a statue, unmoved and
immovable. The Captain was speaking to her, gently and soothingly, but
her thoughts became more taken with the silence of La Boulaye than with
the speech of Charlot. Even in that parlous moment she had leisure to
despise herself for having once--on the day on which, in answer to her
intercessions, he had spared her brother's life--entertained a kindly,
almost wistful, thought concerning this man whom she now deemed a
dastard.