A SERPENT IN THE GARDEN.
THE thought of entering the house revolted me. I needed the high
heavens to give room for my happiness, the moon and the stars for
confidants, the breeze of the night to cool the fever in my veins. To
enter the house would be to break the spell, to bring me back again to
that earth which my feet seemed scarcely to touch. So I retraced my
steps to the white seat at the end of the garden, sat down where she
had sat, and abandoned myself to a delicious reverie. I put all thought
of the morrow from me--of the morrow when we must separate; all thought
of that gray future which would never be brightened by sight of her, by
the light of her eyes and the smile of her lips--all this I put away.
I had only to close my eyes to bring her again to my side. What a
miracle she was--what a wonder of God’s handiwork! The clear and
delicate skin, the hair with its glint of gold, the eyes with their
arched brows and upturned lashes, the lips trembling with sympathy
or curving with scorn, the oval chin showing just a suspicion of a
dimple, the rounded figure promising I know not what allurements
and perfections--all these I contemplated one by one, and seemed to
catch again that exquisite _odeur de femme_ which had ravished and
intoxicated me as I held her in my arms.
And behind and above all this, the soul--a woman’s soul in its delicacy
and sweetness, yet with a certain manliness about it, too, in its high
ideals, its conception of honor and duty, its courage and devotion,
its reverence for the pledged word--something of the oak as well as
of the ivy, almost as if she had been raised among men rather than
among women, and had come to look at the world somewhat with a man’s
eye. Yes, and there was something manlike, too, in her independence,
her impatience of convention, her self-reliance. Not that all this
destroyed or even clouded the woman in her--that quality of siren and
coquette which is in every woman’s blood. Rather it enhanced it, gave
it a sauce and piquancy not to be withstood.
For a moment she had been mine--I had dared and been forgiven. She had
been kind to me; she had been moved by my love; she had thrown me a
flower at parting. And at thought of it, I took it from my bosom and
pressed it to my lips. I inhaled its fragrance, which somehow seemed a
part of her; I contemplated its beauty, in which I saw hers reflected.
She had been kind to me. I even dared to think she had been kinder yet,
did fate permit, and the thought gave me a throbbing joy--a selfish
joy, I told myself, since I had no right to make her suffer, too.
Yet human nature is but an imperfect thing, and love is selfish in
its unselfishness. In my heart of hearts I was glad--glad that she
would remember me, that she would think tenderly of our evening in
the garden, and of my kisses on her lips. The memory thrilled through
me. I thanked God that I had been brave enough to snatch that moment’s
joy, that there was that between us! That there would always be; no
stretch of time nor stress of circumstance could alter it--it was woven
indelibly into the texture of our lives. Whenever she thought of me,
whenever she visited this garden, yea, whenever any other dared speak
to her of love, she must recall that moment when I had held her close
against my heart and raised her lips to mine!
And I--could I kiss another woman?
I sat erect with a quick intaking of the breath, for I saw in my path a
new pitfall, and one of my own digging.
Must I confess to my betrothed that my heart was in another’s keeping,
or did honor bid me to keep silent, to simulate affection, to lead her
to the altar in the belief that it was she I loved? Oh, I should not
shrink from confession; and she had the right to know--yet--yet would I
not confess in the hope that she would set me free?
But if she should feel as I did about this marriage, that honor
demanded its consummation, that duty compelled her to sacrifice
herself, whatever my offenses, would not such confession merely
embitter her cup to no purpose? Yet even if I did not confess, would I
be strong enough, self-controlled enough to cheat her woman’s eyes?
Here was a question not easily answered; a dilemma the most awkward; a
problem which I felt I could not solve alone. I could only hope that
during our ride next day to Poitiers I might have opportunity to lay it
before Mlle. de Chambray. She, I felt sure, would with her clear vision
see instantly where my duty lay.
So I put the problem from me and lay back in the seat and closed my
eyes and lived over again, minute by minute, that brief, delicious
evening. I recalled every look, every word, every gesture from the
instant I had first perceived her on the threshold of the drawing-room
until that other instant when at parting she had tossed the flower down
to me. I held it to my lips and murmured low to it the words I had not
dared to utter in her hearing.
Ah, _mesdames et messieurs_, you smile, perhaps, and shrug your
shoulders! But in your own lives has there not been some such moment?
At least I trust so! Recall it!--and remember that I was young and
ardent; remember that love had come to me not timidly by slow steps,
but with one glorious burst of happiness, flinging wide the gates of
my heart at a single touch, as, to my mind, love always should. But if
you have had no such moment, if you have stopped your ears and hurried
on when love called you to tarry--if life is for you so poor, and gray,
and savorless--then, I pray you, put this tale aside, for of that which
follows you will understand not a word. Nor indeed would I care to tell
it to such an audience.
How long I sat there, wrapped in this garment of purest joy, I know
not--an hour perhaps, or even two. I was aroused by the rattle of oar
in rowlock coming from the river at my feet. I glanced out absently
across the water just as a boat shot from the shadow of the farther
shore, crossed the strip of moonlight in mid-stream, and disappeared
again into the shadow cast by the trees which edged the garden.
I saw it clearly but an instant; yet that instant had sufficed to wake
me from my abstraction, for it showed me that the boat was weighted
deep in the water with a crowd of men who wore about their necks the
tri-colored scarf of the Republic.
As I stared down at the river, trying to comprehend the meaning of this
vision, a second boat similarly loaded followed the first.
I sat intent, listening to the rattle of the oars. Then I heard the
boats grate upon the gravel of the bank and the sound of men leaving
them, talking together in voices so subdued that only a faint murmur
reached me.
What could it mean? What was the object of this midnight expedition?
Then my heart stood still. The soldiers had entered the garden and were
advancing cautiously in the shadow of the hedge. The grass muffled
their footsteps, but now and then gun clanked against bayonet, or
scabbard against boot. I sat where I was, quite secure in my clump of
evergreens, straining my ears, my eyes, trying to understand. I could
just discern the squad as it approached, halted, moved on again; and
each time it left behind it a dim figure, stationary in the shadow. As
I stared, the leader came suddenly into a patch of moonlight. His face
was turned toward the château, and instantly I recognized the rough
countenance, the fierce mustachios of Dubosq.
In a flash I understood. They were after M. le Comte. They were posting
sentries about the house. Dubosq was making sure that this time his
quarry would not break through the trap.
I started to my feet, then instantly sank back again, for the squad
was almost upon me. I must get to the house; I must warn M. le Comte;
yet to attempt it at this moment was to invite disaster, not only for
myself, but for him. I must wait; I must watch my chance; I must get
to the house unseen. Dubosq must not suspect our knowledge of his
movements. I could picture the fierce joy which filled him at the
thought that his hour of vengeance was at hand.
Still the squad came forward. At last it halted so close behind me that
I might almost have stretched out my hand and touched the nearest man.
I crouched low in the seat and sat with bated breath.
“You understand,” Dubosq’s voice said, “you are to remain here until
you hear the cry of an owl thrice repeated. You will then advance
toward the château as quietly as possible and keeping in touch with the
other sentries. If any man attempts to leave the house or to enter it,
and refuses to halt at your challenge, do not hesitate, but shoot him
instantly.”
“And the women?”
“The women are not to be harmed--that is imperative. They must not
escape, but the man who injures them shall answer for it.”
“They are aristocrats, like the others,” growled the sentry.
“That is true,” agreed Dubosq; “but Citizen Goujon hopes to convert
them.”
“Pah!” said the fellow contemptuously. “Has one of them ever been
converted? Answer me that, citizen!”
“Come,” said Dubosq, sharply, “I have given you the orders. See that
you obey them. Forward!”
The squad moved on past me toward the château, and I cautiously raised
my head above the back of the seat and peered around. The sentry had
been posted so close to me that I could hear him still growling to
himself.
“A Septembrist!” I told myself. “A monster! An assassin!”
But as I looked at him I could scarcely believe that this was the
bloodthirsty ruffian whose voice I had listened to. He stood leaning
on his musket, staring toward the château, and a beam of light falling
full upon his face revealed a mere youth, with features finely
chiselled and the dreamy eyes of a poet. His hair clustered about
his face in little curls, his lips were curved and sensitive as any
woman’s. I stared at him amazed; then suddenly I understood. This
was one of those who fought for an ideal, who fancied that the era of
universal brotherhood was at hand, and that the Revolution was to make
it possible--one to whom “Liberty, equality, fraternity” was not a mere
phrase, but a vision to be realized. I had heard of such, but never
until that moment had I believed in their existence. Could it be that
after all the Revolution had in it a germ of good, a possibility of
light?
I shook the thought away--it was absurd to suppose that good could
spring from murder and outrage, that light could come from a darkness
so revolting. This was not a moment for theories, but for deeds. I
must go; I must make a dash for it. I should fall, of course. He could
scarcely miss me in that clear light. But the shot would alarm the
house, would give its occupants at least a moment to prepare for their
defense. That, at any rate, I could accomplish.
I gathered myself for the spring. Just ahead of me lay a strip of
moonlit lawn--it was there that the peril lay--it was there he would
bring me down. And the shot would precipitate the attack.
I paused. If there was no alarm at least twenty minutes would be
required to post the sentries and to make sure there was no break in
the chain. Perhaps there was another and a better way. Perhaps I could
leap upon the sentry and bear him down before he could give the alarm.
I raised my head cautiously and looked at him again, measuring the
distance. He was humming the “Marseillaise,” his thoughts evidently
far away, for his eyes were lifted and he was staring absently up at
the clear heavens. Had I a dagger I could have struck him down. But I
had no weapon; and even had there been a dagger in my hand I doubt if
I could have nerved my arm to the blow, so pure, so youthful did he
appear at that moment--younger than I. And somehow I understood that
there in the sky he saw a face smiling down at him.
I shook myself savagely and called myself a fool. Since he had espoused
the cause of murderers he must suffer like any other--this was no time
to hesitate. Again I measured the distance and noted his abstraction.
I would be upon him at a single bound, and, my fingers once at his
throat, I knew that he would not cry out.
Suddenly, in the shadow back of him I fancied I saw a deeper shadow
move. I strained my eyes. Yes!--there it was--another sentinel perhaps,
and my heart fell. And yet, why did he advance so slowly, why did he
crouch so near the earth? Was it man or beast?
Breathlessly I watched it, vague, inchoate, scarce discernible; but
the menace of its attitude, the meaning of that slow advance, was
unmistakable. A man, undoubtedly, since in Poitou no such bloodthirsty
beast of prey existed. But who--who? I glanced again at the sentry’s
unconscious face, so pure, so innocent. Should I warn him? Should I----
The shadow stood suddenly erect, a knife flashed in the air, and the
sentry fell forward upon the grass, coughing softly. The shadow bent
over the prostrate figure, the knife flashed again and the coughing
ceased.
Chilled with horror as I was, I nevertheless realized that the moment
for escape had arrived. I slid from the seat and crept forward toward
the house, across that staring disk of moonlit lawn where it seemed
that the light of all the suns in heaven was beating down upon me;
then, with a deep breath of thankfulness, into the shadow of the
shrubbery again. There I stood erect, and softly but rapidly pressed
forward. I gained the walk. Before me was the open window--a moment
more----
Then I heard swift, soft steps behind me, and a chill of terror ran up
my spine and seemed to stiffen the hair upon my head; for I knew that
the slayer of the sentry was pursuing me, knife in hand--red, dripping
knife in hand! Numb with fear, I nerved myself for the struggle; but
even as I turned a powerful and cruel hand was laid roughly on my
shoulder.
“Proceed, monsieur,” whispered a hoarse voice in my ear. “Proceed. I
will go with you.”