IN THE SHADOW.
“SO, Citizen Tavernay,” he repeated, dwelling on the words with a
malicious triumph, “you did not escape after all--you and yonder pretty
aristocrat. God’s blood! but this is a pleasant moment!”
He stopped and looked into my eyes, then burst into a roar of laughter.
“For me, I mean!” he cried, holding his sides. “For me--not for you.
Come--look at it from my standpoint. Be large-minded enough to look
at it from my standpoint. Could anything have been more perfect, more
complete, more admirable in every way? It tempts me almost to believe
in Providence.”
I could only stand and stare at him and wonder numbly whether he were
man or devil.
“You wonder how I know you?” he continued. “True, I have never before
had the supreme pleasure of meeting you thus, face to face, and of
conversing pleasantly with you as I am now doing; but I know you
perfectly nevertheless. The Nation has a sharp eye for its enemies, and
it never sleeps. That eye has been upon you from the moment of your
flight.”
But I had shaken off my stupor and got something of my boldness back.
“Nonsense!” I said contemptuously. “I am not fleeing. I am on my way to
join the forces at Thouars. You mistake me for some one else.”
He looked at me and nodded, while his smile grew and broadened.
“Not bad,” he commended; “but it is useless to lie. Even if you were
not Tavernay, your fate is none the less assured. I can well understand
your reluctance to part with life;” and he cast a leering glance toward
the still form on the cot. “You must have found life very pleasant
recently. But do not despond. You are leaving your mistress in tender
hands. She will not want for affection.”
“What is the charge against me?” I demanded, controlling as well as I
could the wrath which devoured me.
“The charge?” he repeated negligently. “Oh, I do not know--there are a
dozen charges. I have not yet determined which I shall use. But what
does it matter? Between ourselves, I will tell you, citizen, that I
have decided upon your death because you are in the way;” and again his
eyes wandered to that still figure.
“You would, then,” I said, realizing that I must keep my calmness,
“murder a patriot in order to be more free to wrong a woman?”
“A patriot?” he sneered. “Perhaps not--but I would murder an aristocrat
for far less cause than that.”
“I am not an aristocrat,” I protested desperately.
“So you persist in that farce?” he queried coldly. “Really, you grow
wearisome. Perhaps you will explain then how you happen to be wearing
the clothing of that traitor, Pasdeloup?”
My tongue refused to answer, and he laughed again as he noted my
confusion.
“I recognize it, every stitch,” he went on evenly; “every stitch except
the shoes. And I even think I can guess where you got those. More than
that, I can have you identified in a moment. Perhaps you remember
Sergeant Dubosq, whom you encountered on the road from Tours. I am sure
that he will recall you readily, even in this guise, for he has an
excellent memory. Shall I summon him?”
I saw that it was useless to persist.
“No,” I answered; “don’t disturb the sergeant.”
“You admit then that you are Tavernay?”
“Yes,” I answered boldly; “why not? I have committed no crime----”
“You have opposed the Nation.”
“In what way? By trying to escape?”
“You have abetted the Nation’s enemies.”
“By accepting their hospitality? That is childish!”
“You have murdered two patriots,” he went on inexorably.
“Two?” I repeated with a start.
“One you stabbed last night.”
“It was his life or mine.”
“The other you shot a few moments ago.”
“To defend a woman’s honor.”
A sudden light blazed in his eyes.
“You pretend it still exists?” he sneered.
I gave him a look, which, had looks that power, would have scorched and
shrivelled him where he stood. But instead of shrinking he came very
close to me and stared into my eyes, a fiendish grin upon his lips.
“Really, Citizen Tavernay,” he said at last, “it would appear from your
countenance that this surprising thing is true; and yet I can scarcely
believe it. Have you taken a vow? Are you--but no matter. I thank
you, my friend, for your forbearance. I applaud your virtue, which is
really unique even in this age of virtue. Nevertheless you must agree
with me that your death is more than ever necessary. Indeed I find you
already one too many!” and he glanced toward the cot with a meaning
unmistakable.
“What a brute!” I murmured, contempt mastering every other emotion.
“What a brute! This is your whole life, then! You think of nothing
but vileness. I might have guessed as much by looking at you! But one
victim has already escaped you----”
“Yes,” he broke in, his face suddenly contorted with rage; “and the
wretch who fired that shot is burning in hell for it!”
“She died in her husband’s arms,” I continued, seeing how the words
stung him, “happy, his lips on hers. Of you she had never so much as
heard the name. During her whole life not once did she so much as
think of you. For her you have never existed--never will exist! She has
escaped you!”
“Go on!” he said hoarsely, licking his lips with a purple tongue. “Body
of God! Go on!”
His face was convulsed with anguish, great drops of sweat stood out
across his forehead; he was quivering under the blows I dealt him, and
yet he seemed to get a kind of fearful pleasure from them. And in that
instant I saw how he had been consumed by a hopeless passion; how he
had beaten himself against a lofty wall which he could never hope to
scale; how he was at this moment eating his heart out--and I might have
found it in my soul to pity him, if I had not so loathed and hated him
for the evil it was still in his power to do.
“Go on!” he repeated savagely. “What more?”
“Nothing more,” I answered, “except that your second victim will escape
you even as the other. God protects His angels!”
“Pah!” he yelled, his wrath bursting forth like a whirlwind. “I will
show you how He protects them;” and he sprang toward the cot like a
wild beast.
A blind fury seized me--a fury maddening, uncontrollable. I saw
red--literally and actually I saw red, as though the world had been
suddenly drenched with blood. I strained at the cord about my wrists
until it cut deep into the flesh; I hurled myself toward him, only to
be jerked back cruelly by the noose about my neck. I cursed him till
I could curse no longer; I offered my soul’s hope of eternity for a
single moment’s freedom.
Then suddenly I realized my impotence; a great calm fell upon me. I
stopped and looked at him. He had left the cot and come back to me,
bringing a candle with him in order to see more clearly, and he stood
there regarding me with the air of a connoisseur.
“Well, citizen,” he asked with a diabolical smile, “have you finished?
If you care to begin again, pray do so, for it is very amusing. If not,
I fear I shall have to bid you adieu. After all, one must prosecute his
loves in private.”
A long sigh from the cot interrupted him; he turned with a start,
holding the candle above his head. In an instant I saw my chance; I
drew up my leg and kicked him savagely with all my strength, full in
the belly.
He went back and down with one terrible yell and lay writhing upon the
floor. Again I tore wildly at my bonds, but the flap of the tent was
dashed aside, and the guard rushed in.
Goujon sat upright with an effort, swaying from side to side.
“String him up!” he yelled, his lips white with froth like a mad dog’s.
“Hang him! Out with him this instant! An aristocrat and a traitor!” The
words rose to a scream of agony. “Oh, he has killed me!” he groaned,
and fell forward upon his face.
“God grant it!” I murmured. “Oh, God grant it!”
Already their hands were upon me, dragging me away.
“Tavernay!” screamed a voice. “Tavernay! Oh, my love!” and I turned my
head to see Charlotte starting from the cot, her hands outstretched.
For an instant I shook them off; then they closed about me and hurled
me from the tent. I fancied that death was upon me then and there, so
merciless were the blows they dealt me. By some miracle I managed to
keep my feet, and suddenly a gigantic figure drove itself through the
crowd like a catapult.
“Murderers!” he shrieked. “Assassins!” and I heard the blows which sent
them to right and left. “What!” he continued, taking his stand before
me. “You would kill a defenseless man--twenty against one! What sort of
cowards are you?”
“He is an aristocrat,” broke in the man who held my halter. “Citizen
Goujon has ordered that he be hanged.”
“Hang him and welcome,” rejoined the newcomer; “but don’t let me catch
you worrying him like dogs. Now off with you!”
The voice sounded strangely familiar in my ears, and when I had shaken
the blood from my eyes, I saw that my rescuer was Dubosq.
“Many thanks, my friend,” I said; and he started round astonished. “It
seems you do not know me,” I added, as he stared his bewilderment,
“and yet it was only three days ago that we met on the road from Tours.”
He seized a torch from the hand of a bystander and flashed it into my
face.
“My word, citizen!” he cried. “Small wonder! You looked like a
bridegroom, then--and now-- What have you been doing with yourself?”
“I have been trying to escape being murdered,” I rejoined. “And it
seems that I am not going to escape after all.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” he corrected; “you shall not be murdered, I will
see to that--only prettily executed.”
“There is a difference, then?” I questioned, with irony.
“All the difference in the world,” he answered with conviction. “The
one is irregular and apt to be bungled; it is done without authority
and without method, and is often needlessly prolonged. The other is
carefully planned and quickly carried out; all unpleasantness is
avoided----”
“Oh, it is!” I broke in with a little laugh. “I am glad to know that!”
“Citizen, you surprise me!” protested Dubosq; and I saw that he was in
earnest. “I thought you more of a philosopher. Since this is the end,
why worry about it?”
“I will try not to,” I said; “but at twenty-one the end comes rather
early.”
“True,” he agreed, and gazed at me contemplatively; “I had forgot that
you were so young.”
“At any rate, I thank you for your interest,” I said.
“Perhaps it is misplaced;” and he looked at me, frowning heavily. “So
you were an accomplice of the _ci-devant_ Favras, after all. You lied
very prettily that morning, citizen--and I would have sworn that you
were fresh from the nursery. That’s one on old Dubosq.”
“Not in the least,” I protested. “I did not lie--I had never seen
Favras before. He took my horse by force, as I related to you; but I
found him awaiting me at the next town. He restored my horse to me and
insisted that I spend the night at his château.”
“Faith, citizen,” said Dubosq with a laugh, “you’d better have lost
your horse and spent the night under a hedge. As it is, you lose your
life and enter the eternal night.”
“Yes; there’s no help for that, I suppose?”
“Not if Citizen Goujon has ordered it.”
“He did order it,” broke in one of my persecutors, who had listened to
all this with ill-concealed impatience, “and at once.”
“Very well, comrade,” said Dubosq; “come along, then. But he didn’t
order you to torture this fellow, and, _pardieu_, I’ll see that you
don’t. If you have any message, Citizen--I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Tavernay,” I prompted.
“Oh, yes; I remember. Well, if you have any messages, Citizen Tavernay,
I’ll be glad to take charge of them. It’s the only kindness I can do
you, I’m afraid.”
“Thanks, my friend,” I answered, tears in my eyes at this unexpected
favor. “If you could convey news of my death to my mother at
Beaufort----”
“Consider it done,” he broke in. “Anything else?”
“Citizen,” I said, lowering my voice, “for myself I do not greatly
care. But I had a companion--a pure and beautiful woman. If you can
save her from death, or worse, you will be doing a noble action.”
Dubosq pulled his great mustaches thoughtfully.
“Is she an aristocrat?” he asked at last.
“Not at all,” I hastened to assure him. “She was merely a guest at the
château like myself.”
“I will see what can be done,” he promised; “but it will be no easy
task.”
“I know it, my friend; therefore I ask it of you.”
“Come, Citizen Tavernay,” he said, raising his head suddenly, “I can
pledge you one thing.”
“And that?”
“That she has nothing worse to fear than death.”
“God bless you!” I said with trembling lips. “God bless you! Now I can
die in peace.”
“Do you know, citizen,” said Dubosq in a voice almost tender, “I regret
more and more that you did not accept my invitation to join us that
morning, for, by my soul, you are a gallant fellow!”
We had reached a small oak which grew upon the hillside, and one end of
the line was thrown over a lower branch.
“One minute to shrive yourself, citizen,” called a rude voice.
I looked out over the hillside. The moon was sailing high in the
heavens, and I noticed that the flock of sheep was moving down toward
us. Just above us was the line of sentinels, and the fires of the camp
gleamed along the road below. I could see the soldiers crowded about
them, for the night was chill; could hear their jests and laughter.
The tragedy which was enacting here on the hillside, and which meant
so much to me, concerned them not at all. They would go their way,
the world would wag along, only I would no longer be a part of it. My
mother--this would be her death, too--the death of all her hopes, all
her ambitions. She would have nothing more to live for. I wondered what
she was doing at this moment. Did some message of the spirit warn her
that her only son was in deadly peril? Another woman would miss me--but
aside from these my disappearance would be scarce noted. It would
create not even a ripple on the great ocean of the world. My life would
count for nothing.
I thought of all this, and more, which I cannot set down here--and
commended my soul to God. So this was the end! How little I had
foreseen it when I had ridden so bravely out from Beaufort! How deeply
I had lived in those three days! They seemed to count more than all the
rest of my life----
“The time is up, citizen!” called the same rude voice.
Dubosq was at my side.
“Courage!” he whispered. “It is soon over!”
“Adieu, my friend,” I said. “Remember your promise.”
“I do remember it. Trust me.”
I raised my head. At least I would die worthily.
“God and the King!” I shouted. “Death to the Na----”
There came a sharp pain at my throat----
Then, as though I had uttered a signal, a hundred muskets crashed
from the hedge at our right. The rope relaxed; I opened my eyes to
see with astonishment the sheep rising on two legs and charging down
upon us. The night was filled with shrill cries, with hideous yells.
In the camp a drum was beating, and I could see the Blues running to
arm themselves, dashing hither and thither in panic, their officers
straining to bring order to the frenzied mob. But the savage flood was
upon us....
“At least, aristocrat, you shall not escape!” hissed a voice in my ear;
and the world reeled and turned black before me as a great blow fell
upon my head.