THE SWORD OF ROCROY
Citizen St. Hilaire had just come in from making a few purchases at the
baker's shop in the Rue des Mathurins. Shortly after dusk that evening
he had recalled to mind that he was without the gill of cream for his
next morning's coffee, and also that the small white loaf which formed a
part of his breakfast was at that moment reposing crisp and warm on the
counter of the baker's shop a few doors distant.
As Citizen St. Hilaire was very particular about his coffee and always
liked to have a certain choice loaf that Jules, the baker in the Rue des
Mathurins, made to perfection late every afternoon, he had braved the
wind and rain of a stormy January evening, and gone out to procure his
next morning's repast.
Returning to his small apartment at the top of the house, he threw off
his wet cloak and was on the point of extracting from his pocket a
little can of cream, when a knock sounded at the door of the chamber
which served him for sitting-room, dining-room, and library. Putting the
can upon the table, he took up a lamp and went to the door.
A young woman stood upon the threshold. She had evidently come in a
carriage, for the costly clothes she wore were quite unspotted by the
rain.
"This is Citizen St. Hilaire," she said in a tone of conviction as she
stepped into the room.
St. Hilaire bowed and stepped back to place the lamp upon a small table
near at hand, and stood waiting the further pleasure of his visitor.
As he stood within the circle of light, the young woman looked from him
to his modest surroundings with marked curiosity, her eyes dwelling upon
each object in the room in turn. It did not take long to note every
piece of furniture; the table, arm-chair, a few books, the violin case
in the corner, with a picture or two and a pair of rapiers upon the
wall. When she had completed her survey of the room her gaze returned to
him once more.
He was plainly dressed in a suit of dark brown color. His linen was
exquisitely neat, and his figure was so elegant that although his coat
was far from new, and of no exceptional quality, it became him as well
as if it were of the most costly material.
"Will you be seated?" said St. Hilaire, drawing forward the arm-chair
from its corner.
The young woman took the seat he offered her.
"And so you are Citizen St. Hilaire," she repeated as if the name
interested. "I--I am Citizeness La Liberte. I remember you well," she
continued; "I saw you a number of times, years ago, at the home of the
Marquis de----But why mention his name? There are no more marquises in
France, and he was a worthless creature," and she tossed back her head
with a gesture of careless freedom.
"No," he repeated, "there are no more marquises," and with a laugh he
seated himself opposite her. The sharp end of the crisp loaf in his
pocket made him aware of its presence. He took it out and put it in its
place upon the table beside the cream.
"The Republic has caused many strange changes, but I should never have
dreamed of finding you here like this, Citizen St. Hilaire," and again
she eyed him wonderingly.
"The Republic has done a great deal for you?" said St. Hilaire, raising
his eyebrows inquiringly.
"Everything," replied La Liberte with emphasis, while her eyes and the
jewels on her bosom flashed upon him dazzlingly. Her look indicated that
she thought the Revolution had not dealt so generously by him.
"It has done much for me too," said St. Hilaire.
"What good has it done you?" inquired La Liberte incredulously.
"It has taught me wisdom," he replied.
"Oh," she answered contemptuously, "it has brought me pleasure.
Therefore I love it. But you, Citizen St. Hilaire,--will you answer me a
question?"
St. Hilaire bowed in acquiescence.
"Are you satisfied with this Republic? I know it is dangerous to speak
slightingly of it in these days, but between us, with only the walls to
hear, do you like it?"
"I am never satisfied with anything," replied St. Hilaire with just a
touch of weariness in his voice.
"I should think that you would hate it. I should were I you," and La
Liberte shook her brown curls with a laugh.
"Notwithstanding," said St. Hilaire, "I would not go back to the old
regime."
"I do not understand you at all," exclaimed La Liberte in despair, with
a puzzled look on her brow.
"Why try?" he asked dryly. "I have given it up myself. Tell me in what
way I can serve you?"
"I have come here to do you a service," she answered. The room was warm,
and as she spoke she threw her ermine-lined cloak over the back of the
chair.
A slight trace of surprise showed itself upon Citizen St. Hilaire's face
as he looked at her inquiringly.
She had evidently found the chair too large to sit in comfortably, for
she perched herself upon its arm with one foot on the floor while she
swung the other easily.
"That is extraordinary!'" he exclaimed. "It is a long time since any one
has gone out of his way to do me a service. May I ask why you have done
so?"
"Oh, I can hardly tell you why," she replied, tapping her boot heel
against the side of the chair. It was a very dainty foot and clad in
the finest chaussure to be found in Paris. "You were once kind to a
friend of mine," she went on to say, slowly--"and I rather liked
you--and so I have come to show you this." She put a slip of paper into
his hand.
It was headed, "List for the fifteenth Pluviose." Then followed a score
of names. St. Hilaire saw his own among them near the end.
The young woman watched him earnestly while he read it. The careless
look had quite disappeared from her face, and given place to one of
seriousness.
"It is a list of names," said St. Hilaire, turning the paper over and
looking at the reverse side to see if it contained anything else. "And
my name is honored by being among them. Where did it come from? What
does it mean?"
"I picked it up," replied La Liberte. "I saw it lying on a table. I did
not know the other names upon it and should never have touched it had I
not seen your name. And I resolved that you should see it also, and be
warned in time. But you have little time to spare. To-morrow is the
fifteenth."
"Warned?" repeated St. Hilaire, "of what?"
"Every man whose name is upon that list will be arrested to-morrow. It
may be in the morning, it may be during the day, it may be late at
night. But it will surely be to-morrow. Oh! I have seen so many of those
lists, and of late they are longer and more frequent."
"Whose handwriting is this?" inquired St. Hilaire, looking at
critically.
"I dare not tell," said La Liberte in a low tone.
"As long as you have revealed so much, why not go a step further and
make the information of greater value?" he insisted quietly.
"One of the committee, I dare not mention his name even here," and she
looked around the room furtively. "One of the most powerful," she went
on, in a very low tone, as if frightened at her own temerity. "Cannot
you guess?"
"Yes, I think I can," rejoined St. Hilaire musingly.
"Now that you have had this warning I hope you will be able to elude
them. Give me the paper again, Citizen St. Hilaire, that I may replace
it before it is missed. He is at the club now, but I must hurry back.
Never mind the light; I can find my way well enough. My eyes are used to
the dark."
St. Hilaire took up the lamp, and in spite of her remonstrances
accompanied her down the four flights of stairs. At the door stood a
handsome equipage.
"That is mine," she said, as St. Hilaire escorted her to the carriage;
there was the same slight touch of pride in her tone that had crept out
once before. "This once belonged to the Duchess de Montmorenci," she
said. "It is rather heavy and old-fashioned, but will do very well until
I can get a new one."
"I see that you have had the coat of arms erased," St. Hilaire
remarked. "I suppose your new carriage will have a red nightcap on the
panel."
"Now you are laughing at me," she said, tossing back her brown curls
with a pout. "Good-night, marquis," she added in a low voice in his ear
as he was closing the door of the carriage.
"Citizen St. Hilaire," he corrected gravely, as she drove away. "You
forget there are no more marquises in France."
After La Liberte's departure the Citizen St. Hilaire retraced his steps
up the stairs, humming quietly to himself. On reaching the top landing
he entered his room and sitting down by the window he looked out over
the lights of Paris. For two hours he sat thus buried deep in thought
and scarcely moving. When he finally arose from his chair the city clock
had long struck the hour of midnight.
First drawing the bolt to the door as if to prevent intrusion even at
that late hour, he opened an old armoire in the corner of the room and
took from it an object carefully wrapped in a velvet cover. He took from
the covering a sword, with golden hilt studded with jewels. The
scabbard, too, was of pure gold, set profusely with diamonds, emeralds,
and rubies. Unsheathing the weapon he held it to the light. He held it
carefully, almost reverently, as one holds some sacred relic. His eye
was animated and had he uttered his thoughts he would have spoken
thus:--
"This is the sword that a marshal of France wielded upon the field of
battle. He was my ancestor, and from father to son it has come down to
me, the last of my race. It is as bright to-day as when it flashed from
its sheath at Rocroy. I have kept it untarnished. It is the sole
remaining relic of the greatness of our name."
Replacing the sword carefully in its scabbard, he buckled it around his
waist. Then taking a cloak from the armoire he enveloped himself in it,
so as to completely hide the jeweled scabbard. This done, he went into
his bedroom and drew from under his couch a small chest from which he
took a purse containing some money. All these preparations he made
quietly and with great deliberation. Returning to the sitting-room he
unbolted and opened the door. All was quiet. A cat, that frequented the
upper part of the building, and made friends with those who fed it,
walked silently in through the open door and arching her back rubbed
purringly against his leg. He went to the cupboard, and getting out a
saucer filled it with the cream that was to have flavored his next
morning's cup of coffee, and placed it on the floor. The animal ran to
it greedily, and for a few moments St. Hilaire stood watching the little
red tongue curl rapidly out and in of the creature's mouth as she lapped
up the unexpected feast. Then giving a glance about the room, but
touching nothing else in it, he extinguished the light and went out into
the corridor, leaving the door ajar.
When he passed out into the street he noticed that the rain had ceased.
The wind blew freshly from the west and the night was cool. Drawing his
cloak closer about him and allowing one hand to rest upon his
sword-hilt, he walked rapidly away, humming softly to himself. In the
room he had just left, the cat licked up the last few drops of cream in
the saucer; signified her contentment by stretching herself, while she
dug her forepaws into the carpet several times in succession; then
jumped into his vacant arm-chair and curled up for a nap.
The Citizen St. Hilaire had always foreseen the possibility of just such
an emergency as now confronted him. He was quite prepared to meet it.
On the other side of the river in the small and quiet Rue d'Arcis dwelt
an old man. The house in which he lived, number seven, was also very
old. It was large and rambling. St. Hilaire knew it well. As a child he
had played in it. It had once belonged to him, and he had deeded it to
an old servant of his father at a time when he regarded old houses as
encumbrances upon his estates, and when aged servants had found no place
in his retinue. If for no other reason, his family pride had caused him
to make generous provision for a faithful retainer, and now that his own
worldly fortunes were reduced, he knew where to find a home until he
could carry out his plans for leaving the country. For some time past he
had been forming such plans, but with his customary indifference to
danger he had delayed their execution from day to day.
Crossing the Seine by the bridge St. Michel and following the Quai, St.
Hilaire remembered an unfrequented way to the house in the Rue d'Arcis.
From the Quai on the left was a blind alley that ended at a row of
houses. Through one of these houses had been cut an arched passage to
the street beyond. The passageway came out on the other side almost
directly opposite number seven, and offered a tempting short-cut.
St. Hilaire walked quietly up the alley and had almost reached the
farther end, when a door on the opposite side opened and a woman came
out. The lateness of the hour and the signs of timidity which the woman
showed, caused St. Hilaire to stop in the entrance to the passageway and
look back to observe her actions.
She peered first down the street cautiously, as if to see that there
were no passers on the Quai, then up at the windows of the houses
opposite to assure herself that she was unobserved from that quarter.
Satisfied as to both of these points, she closed the door noiselessly,
and hurriedly passed down the street. She was, however, not destined to
reach the Quai unnoticed by any other eyes than St. Hilaire's, for she
had not gone fifty paces when a party of four men, talking in loud
voices, crossed the street on the Quai. At sight of them the woman
stopped short and hesitated. The four also stopped and looked at her.
One of them called out to her. Evidently frightened she turned, and
crossing the street hurried back. To St. Hilaire's surprise, she passed
by the house from which she had recently come, and made straight for
the passageway where he stood. The four men gave chase, one of them
overtaking her before she had reached the entrance. He placed his hand
upon her arm, while she cried and struggled to free herself. The hood
fell over her shoulders, and in the light from a lantern, hung upon a
projecting crane from one of the houses, St. Hilaire recognized Madame
d'Arlincourt.
The exertion to free herself from the man's grasp had caused her hair to
fall down upon her shoulders. Her blue eyes had a wild look like those
of a person whose mind is strained almost to madness. She fought
fiercely for her freedom.
A dove striking its pinions against a lion's paw could have been able to
effect its release as quickly as the poor little countess from the huge
hand that held her.
St. Hilaire was as gallant a gentleman as ever drew a sword, or raised a
lady's fingers to his lips. On the instant, he forgot his own danger and
the cause of his flight, and stepped forward into the circle of light.
"How now, citizen? What have you to do with this young citizeness?" he
cried out in distinct tones.
In his surprise at St. Hilaire's sudden appearance, the man loosened his
grasp upon Madame d'Arlincourt's shoulder. With a cry she flew instantly
to St. Hilaire's side for protection.
"Defend me, sir, oh, save me from them!" she cried, catching hold of his
arm.
"I will not let them harm a hair of your head," he whispered in reply;
"calm yourself, my dear madame."
The quiet way in which he spoke seemed to bring back some part of her
self-control. She ceased crying and stood by his side like a statue,
although he could feel by the pressure on his arm that she still
trembled.
"Well, citizen, what would you with this citizeness?" repeated St.
Hilaire in a loud voice, as the other men came up behind their comrade.
"Her actions are suspicious; she may be an aristocrat. We want to bring
her to the Section for examination," answered one of them.
"Let her come to the Section," echoed another.
The fellow who had first laid hands upon the countess now recovered
speech. "If she's an aristocrat here's at her; I've killed many an
aristocrat in my day." As he spoke he drew himself together and raising
his musket leveled it at the woman's head.
The countess tightened her grasp on St. Hilaire's arm with both her
hands, rendering him powerless for the moment.
St. Hilaire pushed her gently behind him, and looking straight into his
opponent's face, said firmly:--
"She shall certainly go to the Section, citizen, but first put down your
weapon and let me speak. I am Citizen St. Hilaire--were we in the
Faubourg St. Michel almost anybody would be able to tell you who I am."
"I know you, citizen!" exclaimed one of the men in the rear, "and you
should know me also. My name is Gonflou!" and the fellow grinned
good-naturedly over the shoulder of his companion, as if he recognized
an old friend.
"Ah yes, good citizen Gonflou!" repeated St. Hilaire. "Restrain the
ardor of this patriot who handles his musket so carelessly, while I
question the little citizeness."
"Lower that musket, Haillon, or I'll beat your head with this," said
Gonflou, rattling his heavy sabre threateningly.
Haillon muttered an oath and lowered the muzzle of his weapon.
"We can't be all night at this," he growled. "Better let me take a shot
at the woman; she's an aristocrat, that's flat."
St. Hilaire bent over the countess.
"Release my arm!" She obeyed like a child. Stepping back with her a
couple of paces, he continued:--
"Who is in the house you have just come out of? Answer me truthfully and
fearlessly."
She looked up into his face, and he saw that she now recognized him as
she answered in a whisper, "My husband. He is ill. I could only venture
out after midnight to summon a physician who is known to us."
"Well," exclaimed Haillon, impatiently grinding the butt of his gun on
the pavement, "how long does it take to find out about an aristocrat?"
"She was going to summon a doctor to attend a sick father," said St.
Hilaire without looking at Haillon.
"Bah," growled the latter.
"Right behind us," continued St. Hilaire, in a very low voice, and
looking into the countess' face earnestly to enforce his words, "is a
passageway that leads to the Rue d'Arcis."
Madame d'Arlincourt nodded. She understood.
"When I next begin to talk to these men, you must go through that
passage to the house opposite. It is number seven. You will not be able
to see the number, but it is directly opposite; you cannot mistake it.
Knock seven times in quick succession. Some one will inquire from
within, 'Who knocks?' You must reply 'From Raphael.' Do you understand?"
"Yes," said the countess.
"You are taking up too much of our time, citizen," interrupted Haillon,
"let me take a hand at questioning."
"Be silent, Haillon;" said St. Hilaire in a tone of quick authority.
"The door will be opened without further question. Once inside you must
tell them that you were sent by Raphael, and that they are to keep you
until it is safe for you to return to your own domicile. Now
remember!--as soon as I enter into conversation with these men."
"I can remember," replied the countess, "but what are you going to do
after that? Will they not harm you?"
St. Hilaire laughed lightly. "Oh, I will take care of that. I expect to
follow you in a few minutes." Then he turned and advanced a few steps in
order to cover her retreat more fully.
"The citizeness has convinced me that she is nothing but a poor
sewing-girl in great distress at the illness of her father. I have told
her that she might continue on her errand for a doctor unmolested. You
are over-zealous, good Haillon, to see an aristocrat in every shadow."
"She has disappeared," cried Gonflou.
Haillon raised his musket with finger on the trigger. St. Hilaire's hand
struck upward just as the detonation echoed through the quiet street.
Then the smoke, clearing away, revealed Haillon upon the pavement, while
the sword in St. Hilaire's hand was red with blood.
"He has killed a citizen," bellowed Gonflou. "Comrades, cut him down.
Avenge the death of a patriot."
Three sabres were uplifted against the citizen St. Hilaire. He drew back
a pace or two and with a smile upon his lips warded off the blows aimed
at his head and breast. Then he poised himself and set his face firmly.
The sword which had first won renown on the field of Rocroy now flashed
in the light of the flickering lamp of the passage d'Arcis, and another
of his assailants fell to the ground.
The wrist that wielded it was just as supple and the white fingers that
held the jeweled hilt just as strong as when, in the days gone by, the
Marquis de St. Hilaire was known as the best swordsman in his regiment.
His two remaining adversaries hesitated in their attack for a moment.
Then Gonflou, bleeding from two deep wounds and bellowing like an angry
bull, sprang at him again with his heavy sabre lifted in both hands.
One of the two fallen men had half raised himself and dragged over to
where Haillon lay. He drew a pistol from the dead man's belt and,
leaning forward, fired under Gonflou's arm. The blow from Gonflou's
sabre was parried, then Jean Raphael de St. Hilaire fell forward on his
face and lay without moving upon the pavement, while the sword of Rocroy
fell ringing to the ground.
One of the attacking party was still unhurt. He raised his weapon over
the prostrate body at his feet. Gonflou pushed him aside roughly.
"That's enough, citizen. We'll take him to the Section without cutting
him up." The man who had fired the shot had since busied himself with
tying up his own wounded arm. He now bent over St. Hilaire. "He still
breathes," he said. "Had we not better finish him?"
"No, my little Jacques Gardin," was Gonflou's answer, who, the moment
the fight was over, became as good-natured as before; "let us take him
to the Section."
"But he has killed Haillon," persisted young Jacques, who had reloaded
the pistol and was handling it lovingly.
"Pah," replied Gonflou, with a laugh, "Haillon should have been careful
when playing with edged tools. Come, citizens, take hold and we'll carry
them both to the Section. You may take your choice, Citizen Ferrand, the
corpse or the dying man. I'll carry either of them, and little Jacques
shall run ahead. Forward, march, comrades."