are two doors: that in the rear wall is closed; the other, upon our
right, and evidently leading to an inner chamber, we find ajar. The
furniture of this mean apartment is chipped, faded, insecure, yet
still possessed of a haggard elegance; shamed odds and ends, cheaply
acquired by the proprietor of the lodging-house, no doubt at an
auction of the confiscated leavings of some emigrant noble. The single
window, square and mustily curtained, is so small that it cannot be
imagined to admit much light on the brightest of days; however, it
might afford a lodger a limited view of the houses opposite and the
street below. In fact, as our eyes grow accustomed to the obscurity we
discover it serving this very purpose at the present moment, for a
tall woman stands close by in the shadow, peering between the curtains
with the distrustfulness of a picket thrown far out into an enemy's
country. Her coarse blouse and skirt, new and as ill-fitting as sacks,
her shop-woman's bonnet and cheap veil, and her rough shoes are
naively denied by her sensitive, pale hands and the high-bred and
in-bred face, long profoundly marked by loss and fear, and now very
white, very watchful. She is not more than forty, but her hair,
glimpsed beneath the clumsy bonnet, shows much grayer than need be at
that age. This is ANNE DE LASEYNE_.
_The intent young man at the desk, easily recognizable as her brother,
fair and of a singular physical delicacy, is a finely completed
product of his race; one would pronounce him gentle in each sense of
the word. His costume rivals his sister's in the innocence of its
attempt at disguise: he wears a carefully soiled carter's frock, rough
new gaiters, and a pair of dangerously aristocratic shoes, which are
not too dusty to conceal the fact that they are of excellent make and
lately sported buckles. A tousled cap of rabbit-skin, exhibiting a
tricolor cockade, crowns these anomalies, though not at present his
thin, blond curls, for it has been tossed upon a dressing-table which
stands against the wall to the left. He is younger than MADAME DE
LASEYNE, probably by more than ten years; and, though his features so
strikingly resemble hers, they are free from the permanent impress of
pain which she bears like a mourning-badge upon her own._
_He is expending a feverish attention upon his task, but with patently
unsatisfactory results; for he whispers and mutters to himself, bites
the feather of his pen, shakes his head forebodingly, and again and
again crumples a written sheet and throws it upon the floor. Whenever
this happens ANNE DE LASEYNE casts a white glance at him over her
shoulder--his desk is in the center of the room--her anxiety is
visibly increased, and the temptation to speak less and less easily
controlled, until at last she gives way to it. Her voice is low and
hurried._
ANNE. Louis, it is growing dark very fast.
LOUIS. I had not observed it, my sister. [_He lights a second candle
from the first; then, pen in mouth, scratches at his writing with a
little knife._]
ANNE. People are still crowding in front of the wine-shop across the
street.
LOUIS [_smiling with one side of his mouth_]. Naturally. Reading the
list of the proscribed that came at noon. Also waiting, amiable
vultures, for the next bulletin from Paris. It will give the names of
those guillotined day before yesterday. For a good bet: our own names
[_he nods toward the other room_]--yes, hers, too--are all three in
the former. As for the latter--well, they can't get us in that now.
ANNE [_eagerly_]. Then you are certain that we are safe?
LOUIS. I am certain only that they cannot murder us day before
yesterday. [_As he bends his head to his writing a woman comes in
languidly through the open door, bearing an armful of garments, among
which one catches the gleam of fine silk, glimpses of lace and rich
furs--a disordered burden which she dumps pell-mell into a large
portmanteau lying open upon a chair near the desk. This new-comer is
of a startling gold-and-ivory beauty; a beauty quite literally
striking, for at the very first glance the whole force of it hits the
beholder like a snowball in the eye; a beauty so obvious, so
completed, so rounded, that it is painful; a beauty to rivet the
unenvious stare of women, but from the full blast of which either king
or man-peasant would stagger away to the confessional. The egregious
luster of it is not breathed upon even by its overspreading of sullen
revolt, as its possessor carelessly arranges the garments in the
portmanteau. She wears a dress all gray, of a coarse texture, but
exquisitely fitted to her; nothing could possibly be plainer, or of a
more revealing simplicity. She might be twenty-two; at least it is
certain that she is not thirty. At her coming, LOUIS looks up with a
sigh of poignant wistfulness, evidently a habit; for as he leans back
to watch her he sighs again. She does not so much as glance at him,
but speaks absently to MADAME DE LASEYNE. Her voice is superb, as it
should be; deep and musical, with a faint, silvery huskiness._]
ELOISE [_the new-comer_]. Is he still there?
ANNE. I lost sight of him in the crowd. I think he has gone. If only
he does not come back!
LOUIS [_with grim conviction_]. He will.
ANNE. I am trying to hope not.
ELOISE. I have told you from the first that you overestimate his
importance. Haven't I said it often enough?
ANNE [_under her breath_]. You have!
ELOISE [_coldly_]. He will not harm you.
ANNE [_looking out of the window_]. More people down there; they are
running to the wine-shop.
LOUIS. Gentle idlers! [_The sound of triumphant shouting comes up from
the street below._] That means that the list of the guillotined has
arrived from Paris.
ANNE [_shivering_]. They are posting it in the wine-shop window.
[_The shouting increases suddenly to a roar of hilarity, in which the
shrilling of women mingles._]
LOUIS. Ah! One remarks that the list is a long one. The good people
are well satisfied with it. [_To ELOISE_] My cousin, in this amiable
populace which you champion, do you never scent something of--well,
something of the graveyard scavenger? [_She offers the response of an
unmoved glance in his direction, and slowly goes out by the door at
which she entered. Louis sighs again and returns to his scribbling._]
ANNE [_nervously_]. Haven't you finished, Louis?
LOUIS [_indicating the floor strewn with crumpled slips of paper_]. A
dozen.
ANNE. Not good enough?
LOUIS [_with a rueful smile_]. I have lived to discover that among all
the disadvantages of being a Peer of France the most dangerous is that
one is so poor a forger. Truly, however, our parents are not to be
blamed for neglecting to have me instructed in this art; evidently
they perceived I had no talent for it. [_Lifting a sheet from the
desk._] Oh, vile! I am not even an amateur. [_He leans back, tapping
the paper thoughtfully with his pen._] Do you suppose the Fates took
all the trouble to make the Revolution simply to teach me that I have
no skill in forgery? Listen. [_He reads what he has written._]
"Committee of Public Safety. In the name of the Republic. To all
Officers, Civil and Military: Permit the Citizen Balsage"--that's
myself, remember--"and the Citizeness Virginie Balsage, his
sister"--that's you, Anne--"and the Citizeness Marie Balsage, his
second sister"--that is Eloise, you understand--"to embark in the
vessel _Jeune Pierrette_ from the port of Boulogne for Barcelona.
Signed: Billaud Varennes. Carnot. Robespierre." Execrable! [_He tears
up the paper, scattering the fragments on the floor._] I am not even
sure it is the proper form. Ah, that Dossonville!
ANNE. But Dossonville helped us--
LOUIS. At a price. Dossonville! An individual of marked attainment,
not only in penmanship, but in the art of plausibility. Before I paid
him he swore that the passports he forged for us would take us not
only out of Paris, but out of the country.
ANNE. Are you sure we must have a separate permit to embark?
LOUIS. The captain of the _Jeune Pierrette_ sent one of his sailors to
tell me. There is a new Commissioner from the National Committee, he
said, and a special order was issued this morning. They have an
officer and a file of the National Guard on the quay to see that the
order is obeyed.
ANNE. But we bought passports in Paris. Why can't we here?
LOUIS. Send out a street-crier for an accomplished forger? My poor
Anne! We can only hope that the lieutenant on the quay may be drunk
when he examines my dreadful "permit." Pray a great thirst upon him,
my sister! [_He looks at a watch which he draws from beneath his
frock._] Four o'clock. At five the tide in the river is poised at its
highest; then it must run out, and the _Jeune Pierrette_ with it. We
have an hour. I return to my crime. [_He takes a fresh sheet of paper
and begins to write._]
ANNE [_urgently_]. Hurry, Louis!
LOUIS. Watch for Master Spy.
ANNE. I cannot see him. [_There is silence for a time, broken only by
the nervous scratching of Louis's pen._]
LOUIS [_at work_]. Still you don't see him?
ANNE. No. The people are dispersing. They seem in a good humor.
LOUIS. Ah, if they knew--[_He breaks off, examines his latest effort
attentively, and finds it unsatisfactory, as is evinced by the
noiseless whistle of disgust to which his lips form themselves. He
discards the sheet and begins another, speaking rather absently as he
does so._] I suppose I have the distinction to be one of the most
hated men in our country, now that all the decent people have left
it--so many by a road something of the shortest! Yes, these merry
gentlemen below there would be still merrier if they knew they had
within their reach a forfeited "Emigrant." I wonder how long it would
take them to climb the breakneck flights to our door. Lord, there'd be
a race for it! Prize-money, too, I fancy, for the first with his
bludgeon.
ANNE [_lamentably_]. Louis, Louis! Why didn't you lie safe in England?
LOUIS [_smiling_]. Anne, Anne! I had to come back for a good sister of
mine.
ANNE. But I could have escaped alone.
LOUIS. That is it--"alone"! [_He lowers his voice as he glances toward
the open door._] For she would not have moved at all if I hadn't come
to bully her into it. A fanatic, a fanatic!
ANNE [_brusquely_]. She is a fool. Therefore be patient with her.
LOUIS [_warningly_]. Hush.
ELOISE [_in a loud, careless tone from the other room_]. Oh, I heard
you! What does it matter? [_She returns, carrying a handsome skirt and
bodice of brocade and a woman's long mantle of light-green cloth,
hooded and lined with fur. She drops them into the portmanteau and
closes it._] There! I've finished your packing for you.
LOUIS [_rising_]. My cousin, I regret that we could not provide
servants for this flight. [_Bowing formally._] I regret that we have
been compelled to ask you to do a share of what is necessary.
ELOISE [_turning to go out again_]. That all?
LOUIS [_lifting the portmanteau_]. I fear--
ELOISE [_with assumed fatigue_]. Yes, you usually do. What now?
LOUIS [_flushing painfully_]. The portmanteau is too heavy. [_He
returns to the desk, sits, and busies himself with his writing,
keeping his grieved face from her view._]
ELOISE. You mean you're too weak to carry it?
LOUIS. Suppose at the last moment it becomes necessary to hasten
exceedingly--
ELOISE. You mean, suppose you had to run, you'd throw away the
portmanteau. [_Contemptuously._] Oh, I don't doubt you'd do it!
LOUIS [_forcing himself to look up at her cheerfully_]. I dislike to
leave my baggage upon the field, but in case of a rout it might be a
temptation--if it were an impediment.
ANNE [_peremptorily_]. Don't waste time. Lighten the portmanteau.
LOUIS. You may take out everything of mine.
ELOISE. There's nothing of yours in it except your cloak. You don't
suppose--
ANNE. Take out that heavy brocade of mine.
ELOISE. Thank you for not wishing to take out my fur-lined cloak and
freezing me at sea!
LOUIS [_gently_]. Take out both the cloak and the dress.
ELOISE [_astounded_]. What!
LOUIS. You shall have mine. It is as warm, but not so heavy.
ELOISE [_angrily_]. Oh, I am sick of your eternal packing and
unpacking! I am sick of it!
ANNE. Watch at the window, then. [_She goes swiftly to the
portmanteau, opens it, tosses out the green mantle and the brocaded
skirt and bodice, and tests the weight of the portmanteau._] I think
it will be light enough now, Louis.
LOUIS. Do not leave those things in sight. If our landlord should come
in--
ANNE. I'll hide them in the bed in the next room. Eloise! [_She points
imperiously to the window. ELOISE goes to it slowly and for a moment
makes a scornful pretense of being on watch there; but as soon as
MADAME DE LASEYNE has left the room she turns, leaning against the
wall and regarding Louis with languid amusement. He continues to
struggle with his ill-omened "permit," but, by and by, becoming aware
of her gaze, glances consciously over his shoulder and meets her
half-veiled eyes. Coloring, he looks away, stares dreamily at nothing,
sighs, and finally writes again, absently, like a man under a spell,
which, indeed, he is. The pen drops from his hand with a faint click
upon the floor. He makes the movement of a person suddenly awakened,
and, holding his last writing near one of the candles, examines it
critically. Then he breaks into low, bitter laughter._]
ELOISE [_unwillingly curious_]. You find something amusing?
LOUIS. Myself. One of my mistakes, that is all.
ELOISE [_indifferently_]. Your mirth must be indefatigable if you can
still laugh at those.
LOUIS. I agree. I am a history of error.
ELOISE. You should have made it a vocation; it is your one genius. And
yet--truly because I am a fool I think, as Anne says--I let you hector
me into a sillier mistake than any of yours.
LOUIS. When?
ELOISE [_flinging out her arms_]. Oh, when I consented to this absurd
journey, this _tiresome_ journey--with _you_! An "escape"? From
nothing. In "disguise." Which doesn't disguise.
LOUIS [_his voice taut with the effort for self-command_]. My sister
asked me to be patient with you, Eloise--
ELOISE. Because I am a fool, yes. Thanks. [_Shrewishly._] And then, my
worthy young man? [_He rises abruptly, smarting almost beyond
endurance._]
LOUIS [_breathing deeply_]. Have I not been patient with you?
ELOISE [_with a flash of energy_]. If _I_ have asked you to be
anything whatever--with me!--pray recall the petition to my memory.
LOUIS [_beginning to let himself go_]. Patient! Have I ever been
anything but patient with you? Was I not patient with you five years
ago when you first harangued us on your "Rights of Man" and your
monstrous republicanism? Where you got hold of it all I don't know--
ELOISE [_kindling_]. Ideas, my friend. Naturally, incomprehensible to
you. Books! Brains! Men!
LOUIS. "Books! Brains! Men!" Treason, poison, and mobs! Oh, I could
laugh at you then: they were only beginning to kill us, and I was
patient. Was I not patient with you when these Republicans of yours
drove us from our homes, from our country, stole all we had,
assassinated us in dozens, in hundreds, murdered our King? [_He walks
the floor, gesticulating nervously._] When I saw relative after
relative of my own--aye, and of yours, too--dragged to the
abattoir--even poor, harmless, kind Andre de Laseyne, whom they took
simply because he was my brother-in-law--was I not patient? And when I
came back to Paris for you and Anne, and had to lie hid in a stable,
every hour in greater danger because you would not be persuaded to
join us, was I not patient? And when you finally did consent, but
protested every step of the way, pouting and--
ELOISE [_stung_]. "Pouting!"
LOUIS. And when that stranger came posting after us so obvious a spy--
ELOISE [_scornfully_]. Pooh! He is nothing.
LOUIS. Is there a league between here and Paris over which he has not
dogged us? By diligence, on horseback, on foot, turning up at every
posting-house, every roadside inn, the while you laughed at me because
I read death in his face! These two days we have been here, is there
an hour when you could look from that window except to see him
grinning up from the wine-shop door down there?
ELOISE [_impatiently, but with a somewhat conscious expression_]. I
tell you not to fear him. There is nothing in it.
LOUIS [_looking at her keenly_]. Be sure I understand why you do not
think him a spy! You believe he has followed us because you--
ELOISE. I expected that! Oh, I knew it would come! [_Furiously._] I
never saw the man before in my life!
LOUIS [_pacing the floor_]. He is unmistakable; his trade is stamped
on him; a hired trailer of your precious "Nation's."
ELOISE [_haughtily_]. The Nation is the People. You malign because you
fear. The People is sacred!
LOUIS [_with increasing bitterness_]. Aren't you tired yet of the
Palais Royal platitudes? I have been patient with your Mericourtisms
for so long. Yes, always I was patient. Always there was time; there
was danger, but there was a little time. [_He faces her, his voice
becoming louder, his gestures more vehement._] But now the _Jeune
Pierrette_ sails this hour, and if we are not out of here and on her
deck when she leaves the quay, my head rolls in Samson's basket within
the week, with Anne's and your own to follow! _Now_, I tell you, there
is no more time, and _now_--
ELOISE [_suavely_]. Yes? Well? "Now?" [_He checks himself; his lifted
hand falls to his side._]
LOUIS [_in a gentle voice_]. I am still patient. [_He looks into her
eyes, makes her a low and formal obeisance, and drops dejectedly into
the chair at the desk._]
ELOISE [_dangerously_]. Is the oration concluded?
LOUIS. Quite.
ELOISE [_suddenly volcanic_]. Then "_now_" you'll perhaps be "patient"
enough to explain why I shouldn't leave you instantly. Understand
fully that I have come thus far with you and Anne solely to protect
you in case you were suspected. "_Now_," my little man, you are safe:
you have only to go on board your vessel. Why should I go with you?
Why do you insist on dragging me out of the country?
LOUIS [_wearily_]. Only to save your life; that is all.
ELOISE. My life! Tut! My life is safe with the People--my People!
[_She draws herself up magnificently._] The Nation would protect me!
I gave the people my whole fortune when they were starving. After
that, who in France dare lay a finger upon the Citizeness Eloise
d'Anville!
LOUIS. I have the idea sometimes, my cousin, that perhaps if you had
not given them your property they would have taken it, anyway.
[_Dryly._] They did mine.
ELOISE [_agitated_]. I do not expect you to comprehend what I
felt--what I feel! [_She lifts her arms longingly._] Oh, for a Man!--a
Man who could understand me!
LOUIS [_sadly_]. That excludes me!
ELOISE. Shall I spell it?
LOUIS. You are right. So far from understanding you, I understand
nothing. The age is too modern for me. I do not understand why this
rabble is permitted to rule France; I do not even understand why it is
permitted to live.
ELOISE [_with superiority_]. Because you belong to the class that
thought itself made of porcelain and the rest of the world clay. It is
simple: the mud-ball breaks the vase.
LOUIS. You belong to the same class, even to the same family.
ELOISE. You are wrong. One circumstance proves me no aristocrat.
LOUIS. What circumstance?
ELOISE. That I happened to be born with brains. I can account for it
only by supposing some hushed-up ancestral scandal. [_Brusquely._] Do
you understand that?
LOUIS. I overlook it. [_He writes again._]
ELOISE. Quibbling was always a habit of yours. [_Snapping at him
irritably._] Oh, stop that writing! You can't do it, and you don't
need it. You blame the people because they turn on you now, after
you've whipped and beaten and ground them underfoot for centuries and
centuries and--
LOUIS. Quite a career for a man of twenty-nine!
ELOISE. I have said that quibbling was--
LOUIS [_despondently_]. Perhaps it is. To return to my other
deficiencies, I do not understand why this spy who followed us from
Paris has not arrested me long before now. I do not understand why you
hate me. I do not understand the world in general. And in particular I
do not understand the art of forgery. [_He throws down his pen._]
ELOISE. You talk of "patience"! How often have I explained that you
would not need passports of any kind if you would let me throw off my
incognito. If anyone questions you, it will be sufficient if I give my
name. All France knows the Citizeness Eloise d'Anville. Do you suppose
the officer on the quay would dare oppose--
LOUIS [_with a gesture of resignation_]. I know you think it.
ELOISE [_angrily_]. You tempt me not to prove it. But for Anne's
sake--
LOUIS. Not for mine. That, at least, I understand. [_He rises._] My
dear cousin, I am going to be very serious--
ELOISE. O heaven! [_She flings away from him._]
LOUIS [_plaintively_]. I shall not make another oration--
ELOISE. Make anything you choose. [_Drumming the floor with her
foot._] What does it matter?
LOUIS. I have a presentiment--I ask you to listen--
ELOISE [_in her irritation almost screaming_]. How can I help but
listen? And Anne, too! [_With a short laugh._] You know as well as I
do that when that door is open everything you say in this room is
heard in there. [_She points to the open doorway, where MADAME DE
LASEYNE instantly makes her appearance, and after exchanging one fiery
glance with ELOISE as swiftly withdraws, closing the door behind her
with outraged emphasis._]
ELOISE [_breaking into a laugh_]. Forward, soldiers!
LOUIS [_reprovingly_]. Eloise!
ELOISE. Well, _open_ the door, then, if you want her to hear you make
love to me! [_Coolly._] That's what you're going to do, isn't it?
LOUIS [_with imperfect self-control_]. I wish to ask you for the last
time--
ELOISE [_flouting_]. There are so many last times!
LOUIS. To ask you if you are sure that you know your own heart. You
cared for me once, and--
ELOISE [_as if this were news indeed_]. I did? Who under heaven ever
told you that?
LOUIS [_flushing_]. You allowed yourself to be betrothed to me, I
believe.
ELOISE. "Allowed" is the word, precisely. I seem to recall changing
all that the very day I became an orphan--and my own master!
[_Satirically polite._] Pray correct me if my memory errs. How long
ago was it? Six years? Seven?
LOUIS [_with emotion_]. Eloise, Eloise, you did love me then! We were
happy, both of us, so very happy--
ELOISE [_sourly_]. "Both!" My faith! But I must have been a brave
little actress.
LOUIS. I do not believe it. You loved me. I--[_He hesitates._]
ELOISE. Do get on with what you have to say.
LOUIS [_in a low voice_]. I have many forebodings, Eloise, but the
strongest--and for me the saddest--is that this is the last chance you
will ever have to tell--to tell me--[_He falters again._]
ELOISE [_irritated beyond measure, shouting_]. To tell you what?
LOUIS [_swallowing_]. That your love for me still lingers.
ELOISE [_promptly_]. Well, it doesn't. So _that's_ over!
LOUIS. Not quite yet. I--
ELOISE [_dropping into a chair_]. O Death!
LOUIS [_still gently_]. Listen. I have hope that you and Anne may be
permitted to escape; but as for me, since the first moment I felt the
eyes of that spy from Paris upon me I have had the premonition that I
would be taken back--to the guillotine, Eloise. I am sure that he will
arrest me when I attempt to leave this place to-night. [_With
sorrowful earnestness._] And it is with the certainty in my soul that
this is our last hour together that I ask you if you cannot tell me
that the old love has come back. Is there nothing in your heart for
me?
ELOISE. Was there anything in _your_ heart for the beggar who stood at
your door in the old days?
LOUIS. Is there nothing for him who stands at yours now, begging for a
word?
ELOISE [_frowning_]. I remember you had the name of a disciplinarian
in your regiment. [_She rises to face him._] Did you ever find
anything in your heart for the soldiers you ordered tied up and
flogged? Was there anything in your heart for the peasants who starved
in your fields?
LOUIS [_quietly_]. No; it was too full of you.
ELOISE. Words! Pretty little words!