THE SEARCH.
I had not seen Louis since the day of the duel at Cahors, when,
parting from him at the door in the passage by the Cathedral, I had
refused to take his hand. Then I had been sorely angry with him. But
time and old memories and crowding events had long softened the
feeling; and in the joy of meeting him again, of finding him in this
unexpected stranger, nothing was further from my thoughts than to rake
up old grudges. I held out my hand, therefore, with a laughing word.
"_Voila l'Inconnu_, Monsieur!" I said with a bow. "I am here to find
you, and I find you!"
He stared at me a moment in the utmost astonishment, and then
impulsively grasping my hand he held it, and stood looking at me, with
the old affection in his eyes. "Adrien! Adrien!" he said, much moved.
"Is it really you?"
"Even so, Monsieur."
"And here?"
"Here," I said.
Then, to my astonishment, he slowly dropped my hand; and his manner
and his face changed--as a house changes when the shutters are closed.
"I am sorry for it," he said slowly, and after a long pause. And then,
with an unmistakable flash of anger, "My God, Monsieur! Why have you
come?" he cried.
"Why have I come?"
"Ay, why?" he repeated bitterly. "Why? Why have you come--to trouble
us? You do not know what evil you are doing! You do not know, man!"
"I know at least what good I am seeking," I answered, purely astounded
by this sudden and inexplicable change. "I have made no secret of
that, and I make no secret of it now. No man was ever worse treated
than I have been by your family. Your attitude now impels me to say
that. But when I see Madame la Marquise, to-morrow, I shall tell her
that it will take more than this to change me. I shall tell her----"
"You will not see her!" he answered.
"But I shall!"
"You will not!" he retorted.
Before I could answer, Madame Catinot interposed. "Oh, no more!" she
cried in a voice which sufficiently evinced her distress. "I thought
that you and he were friends, M. Louis? And now--now that fortune has
brought you together again----"
"Would to heaven it had not!" he cried, dropping his hand like a man
in despair. And he took a turn this way and that on the floor.
She looked at him. "I do not think that you have ever spoken to me in
that tone before, Monsieur," she said in a tone of keen reproach. "If
it is due--if, I mean," she continued quietly, but with a sparkling
eye, "it is because you found M. le Vicomte with me, you infer
something unworthy of us. You insult me as well as your friend!"
"Heaven forbid!" he exclaimed.
But she was roused. "That is not enough," she answered firmly and
proudly. "For one week more, this is my house, M. Louis. After that it
will be yours. Perhaps then--perhaps then," she continued, with a
pitiful break in her voice, "I shall think of to-night, and wonder I
took no warning! Perhaps then, Monsieur, a word of kindness from you
may be as rare as a rough word now!"
He was not proof against that, and the sadness in her voice. He threw
himself on his knees before her and seized her hands. "Madame!
Catherine! forgive me!" he cried passionately, kissing her hands again
and again, and taking no heed of me at all. "Forgive me!" he
continued, "I am miserable! You are my only comfort, my only
compensation. I do not know, since I saw him, what I am saying.
Forgive me!"
"I do!" she said hastily. "Rise, Monsieur!" and she furtively wiped
away a tear, then looked at me, blushing but happy. "I do," she
continued. "But, _mon cher_, I do not understand you. The other day
you spoke so kindly of M. de Saux; and of--pardon me--your sister, and
of other things. To-day M. de Saux is here, and you are unhappy."
"I am!" he said, casting a haggard, miserable look at me.
I shrugged my shoulders and spoke up. "So be it," I said proudly. "But
because I have lost a friend, Monsieur, it does not follow that I need
lose a mistress. I have come to Nimes to win Mademoiselle de St.
Alais' hand. I shall not leave until I have won it."
"This is madness!" he said, with a groan. "Why?"
"Because you talk of the impossible," he answered. "Because Madame de
St. Alais is not at Nimes--for you."
"She is at Nimes!"
"You will have to find her."
"That is childishness!" I said. "Do you mean to say that at the first
hotel I enter I shall not be told where Madame has her lodging?"
"Neither at the first, nor at the last."
"She is in retreat?"
"I shall not tell you."
With that we stood facing one another; Madame Catinot watching us a
little aside. Clearly the events of the last few months, which had so
changed, so hardened Madame St. Alais, had not been lost on Louis. I
could fancy, as I confronted him, that it was M. le Marquis, the
elder, and not the younger brother, who withstood me; only--only from
under Louis' mask of defiance, there peeped, I still fancied, the old
Louis' face, doubting and miserable.
I tried that chord. "Come," I said, making an effort to swallow my
wrath, and speak reasonably, "I think that you are not in earnest, M.
le Comte, in what you say, and that we are both heated. Time was when
we agreed well enough, and you were not unwilling to have me for your
brother-in-law. Are we, because of these miserable differences----"
"Differences!" he cried, interrupting me harshly. "My mother's house
in Cahors is an empty shell. My brother's house at St. Alais is a heap
of ashes. And you talk of differences!"
"Well, call them what you like!"
"Besides," Madame Catinot interposed quickly, "pardon me,
Monsieur--besides, M. St. Alais, you know our need of converts. M. le
Vicomte is a gentleman, and a man of sense and religion. It needs but
a little--a very little," she continued, smiling faintly at me, "to
persuade him. And if your sister's hand would do that little, and
Madame were agreeable?"
"He could not have it!" he answered sullenly, looking away from me.
"But a week ago," Madame Catinot answered in a startled tone, "you
told me----"
"A week ago is not now," he said. "For the rest, I have only this to
say. I am sorry to see you here, M. le Vicomte, and I beg you to
return. You can do no good, and you may do and suffer harm. By no
possibility can you gain what you seek."
"That remains to be seen," I answered stubbornly, roused in my turn.
"To begin with, since you say that I cannot find Mademoiselle, I shall
adopt a very simple plan. I shall wait here until you leave, Monsieur,
and then accompany you home."
"You will not!" he said.
"You may depend upon it I shall!" I answered defiantly.
But Madame interposed. "No, M. de Saux," she said with dignity. "You
will not do that; I am sure that you will not; it would be an abuse of
my hospitality."
"If you forbid it?"
"I do," she answered.
"Then, Madame, I cannot," I replied. "But----"
"But nothing! Let there be a truce now, if you please," she said
firmly. "If it is to be war between you, it shall not begin here. I
think, too--I think that I had better ask you to retire," she
continued, with an appealing glance at me.
I looked at Louis. But he had turned away, and affected to ignore me.
And on that I succumbed. It was impossible to answer Madame, when she
spoke to me in that way; and equally impossible to remain in the
house, against her will. I bowed, therefore, in silence; and with the
best grace I could, though I was sore and angry, I took my cloak and
hat, which I had laid on a chair.
"I am sorry," Madame said kindly. And she held out her hand.
I raised it to my lips. "To-morrow--at twelve--here!" she breathed.
I started. I rather guessed than heard the words, so softly were they
spoken; but her eyes made up for the lack of sound, and I understood.
The next moment she turned from me, and with a last reluctant glance
at Louis, who still had his back to me, I went out.
The man who had admitted me was in the hall. "You will find your horse
at the Louvre, Monsieur," he said, as he opened the door.
I rewarded him, and going out, without a thought whither I was going,
walked along the street, plunged in reflection; until marching on
blindly I came against a man. That awoke me, and I looked round. I had
been in the house little more than three hours, and in Nimes scarcely
longer; yet so much had happened in the time that it seemed strange to
me to find the streets unfamiliar, to find myself alone in them, at a
loss which way to turn. Though it was hard on ten o'clock, and only a
swaying lantern here and there made a ring of smoky light at the
meeting of four ways, there were numbers of people still abroad; a few
standing, but the majority going one way, the men with cloaks about
their necks, the women with muffled heads.
Feeling the necessity, since I must get myself a lodging, of putting
away for the moment my one absorbing thought--the question of Louis'
behaviour--I stopped a man who was not going with the stream, and
asked him the way to the Hotel de Louvre. I learned not only that but
the cause of the concourse.
"There has been a procession," he answered gruffly. "I should have
thought that you would know that!" he added, with a glance at my hat.
And he turned on his heel.
I remembered the red cockade I wore, and before I went farther paused
to take it out. As I moved on again, a man came quickly up behind me,
and as he passed thrust a paper into my hand. Before I could speak he
was gone; but the incident and the bustle of the streets, strange at
this late hour, helped to divert my thoughts; and I was not surprised
when, on reaching the inn, I was told that every room was full.
"My horse is here," I said, thinking that the landlord, seeing me walk
in on foot, might distrust the weight of my purse.
"Yes, Monsieur; and if you like you can lie in the eating-room," he
answered very civilly. "You are welcome, and you will do no better
elsewhere. It is as if the fair were being held at Beaucaire. The city
is full of strangers. Almost as full as it is of those things!" he
continued querulously, and he pointed to the paper in my hand.
I looked at it, and saw that it was a manifesto headed "_Sacrilege!
Mary Weeps!_" "It was thrust into my hand a minute ago," I said.
"To be sure," he answered. "One morning we got up and found the walls
white with them. Another day they were flying loose about the
streets."
"Do you know," I asked, seeing that he had been supping, and was
inclined to talk, "where the Marquis de St. Alais is living?"
"No, Monsieur," he said. "I do not know the gentleman."
"But he is here with his family."
"Who is not here," he answered, shrugging his shoulders. Then in a
lower tone, "Is he red, or--or the other thing, Monsieur?"
"Red," I said boldly.
"Ah! Well, there have been two or three gentlemen going to and fro
between our M. Froment, and Turin and Montpellier. It is said that our
Mayor would have arrested them long ago if he had done his duty. But
he is red too, and most of the councillors. And I don't know, for I
take no side. Perhaps the gentleman you want is one of these?"
"Very likely," I said. "So M. Froment is here?"
"Monsieur knows him?"
"Yes," I said drily, "a little."
"Well, he is here, or he is not," the landlord answered, shaking his
head. "It is impossible to say."
"Why?" I asked. "Does he not live here?"
"Yes, he lives here; at the Port d'Auguste on the old wall near the
Capuchins. But----" he looked round and then continued mysteriously,
"he goes out, where he has never gone in, Monsieur! And he has a house
in the Amphitheatre, and it is the same there. And some say that the
Capuchins is only another house of his. And if you go to the Cabaret
de la Vierge, and give his name--you pay nothing."
He said this with many nods, and then seemed on a sudden to think that
he had said too much, and hurried away. Asking for them, I learned
that M. de Geol and Buton, failing to get a room there, had gone to
the Ecu de France; but I was not very sorry to be rid of them for the
time, and accepting the host's offer, I went to the eating-room, and
there made myself as comfortable as two hard chairs and the excitement
of my thoughts permitted.
The one thing, the one subject that absorbed me was Louis' behaviour,
and the strange and abrupt change I had marked in it. He had been glad
to see me, his hand had leaped to meet mine, I had read the old
affection in his eyes; and then--then on a sudden, in a moment he had
frozen into surly, churlish antagonism, an antagonism that had taken
Madame Catinot by surprise, and was not without a touch of remorse,
almost of horror. It could not be that she was dead? It could not be
that Denise--no, my mind failed to entertain it. But I rose, trembling
at the thought, and paced the room until daylight; listening to the
watchman's cry, and the mournful hours, and the occasional rush of
hurrying feet, that spoke of the perturbed city. What to me were
Froment, or the red or the white or the tricolour, veto or no veto,
endowment or disendowment, in comparison to that?
The house stirred at last, but I had still to wait till noon before I
could see Madame Catinot. I spent the interval in an aimless walk
through the town. At another time the things I saw must have filled me
with wonder; at another time the hoary, gloomy ring of the Arenes,
rising in tiers of frowning arches, high above the squalid roofs that
leaned against it--and choked within by a Ghetto of the like, huddled
where prefects once sat, and the Emperor's colours flew victorious
round the circle--must have won my admiration by its vastness; the
Maison Carree by its fair proportions; the streets by the teeming
crowds that filled them, and stood about the cabarets, and read the
placards on the walls. But I had only thought for Louis, and my love,
and the lagging minutes. At the first stroke of twelve I knocked at
Madame Catinot's door; the last saw me in her presence.
It needed but a look at her face, and my heart sank; the thanks I was
preparing to utter died on my lips as I gazed at her. She on her part
was agitated. For a moment we were both silent.
At last, "I see that you have bad news for me, Madame," I said,
striving to smile, and bear myself bravely.
"The worst, I fear," she said pitifully, smoothing her skirt. "For I
have none, Monsieur."
"Yet I have heard it said that no news is good news?" I said,
wondering.
Her lip trembled, but she did not look at me.
"Come, Madame," I persisted, though I was sick at heart. "Surely you
are going to tell me more than that? At least you can tell me where I
can see Madame St. Alais."
"No, Monsieur, I cannot tell you," she said in a low voice.
"Nor why M. Louis has so suddenly become hostile to me?"
"No, Monsieur, nor that. And I beg--as you are a gentleman," she
continued hurriedly, "that you will spare me questions! I thought that
I could help you, and I asked you to see me to-day. I find that I can
only give you pain."
"And that is all, Madame?"
"That is all," she said, with a gesture that told more than her words.
I looked round the silent room, I walked half way to the door. And
then I turned back. I could not go. "No!" I cried vehemently, "I will
not go so! What is it you have learned, that has closed your lips,
Madame? What are they plotting against her--that you fear to tell me?
Speak, Madame! You did not bring me here to hear this! That I know."
But she only looked at me, her face full of reproach. "Monsieur," she
said, "I meant kindly. Is this my reward?"
And that was too much for me. I turned without a word, and went
out--of the room and the house.
Outside I felt like a child in darkness, on whom the one door leading
to life and liberty had closed, as his hand touched it. I felt a dead,
numbing disappointment that at any moment might develop into sharp
pain. This change in Madame Catinot, resembling so exactly the change
in Louis St. Alais, what could be the cause of it? What had been
revealed to her? What was the mystery, the plot, the danger that made
them all turn from me, as if I had the plague?
For awhile I was in the depths of despair. Then the warm sunshine that
filled the streets, and spoke of coming summer, kindled lighter
thoughts. After all it could not be hard to find a person in Nimes! I
had soon found M. Louis. And this was the eighteenth century and not
the sixteenth. Women were no longer exposed to the pressure that had
once been brought to bear on them; nor men to the violence natural in
old feuds.
And then--as I thought of that and strove to comfort myself with it--I
heard a noise burst into the street behind me, a roar of voices and a
sudden trampling of hundreds of feet; and turning I saw a dense press
of men coming towards me, waving aloft blue banners, and crucifixes,
and flags with the Five Wounds. Some were singing and some shouting,
all were brandishing clubs and weapons. They came along at a good
pace, filling the street from wall to wall; and to avoid them I
stepped into an archway, that opportunely presented itself.
They came up in a moment, and swept past me with deafening shouts. It
was difficult to see more than a forest of waving arms and staves over
swart excited faces; but through a break in the ranks I caught a
glimpse of three men walking in the heart of the crowd, quiet
themselves, yet the cause and centre of all; and the middle man of the
three was Froment. One of the others wore a cassock, and the third had
a reckless air, and a hat cocked in the military fashion. So much I
saw, then only rank upon rank of hurrying shouting men. After these
again followed three or four hundred of the scum of the city, beggars
and broken rascals and homeless men.
As I turned from staring after them I found a man at my elbow; by a
strange coincidence the very same man who, the night before, had
directed me to the Hotel de Louvre. I asked him if that was not M.
Froment.
"Yes," he said with a sneer. "And his brother."
"Oh, his brother! What is his name, Monsieur?"
"Bully Froment, some call him."
"And what are they going to do?"
"Groan outside a Protestant church to-day," he answered pithily.
"To-morrow break the windows. The next day, or as soon as they can get
their courage to the sticking point, fire on the worshippers, and call
in the garrison from Montpellier. After that the refugees from Turin
will come, we shall be in revolt, and there will be dragoonings. And
then--if the Cevennols don't step in--Monsieur will see strange
things."
"But the Mayor?" I said. "And the National Guards? Will they suffer
it?"
"The first is red," the man answered curtly. "And two-thirds of the
last. Monsieur will see."
And with a cool nod he went on his way; while I stood a moment looking
idly after the procession. On a sudden, as I stood, it occurred to me
that where Froment was, the St. Alais might be; and snatching at the
idea, wondering hugely that I had not had it before, I started
recklessly in pursuit of the mob. The last broken wave of the crowd
was still visible, eddying round a distant corner; and even after that
disappeared, it was easy to trace the course it had taken by closed
shutters and scared faces peeping from windows. I heard the mob stop
once, and groan and howl; but before I came up with it it was on
again, and when I at last overtook it, where one of the streets,
before narrowing to an old gateway, opened out into a little
square--with high dingy buildings on this side and that, and a
meshwork of alleys running into it--the nucleus of the crowd had
vanished, and the fringe was melting this way and that.
My aim was Froment, and I had missed him. But I was at a loss only for
a moment, for as I stood and scanned the people trooping back into the
town, my eye alighted on a lean figure with stooping head and a scanty
cassock, that, wishing to cross the street, paused a moment striving
to pass athwart the crowd. It needed a glance only; then, with a cry
of joy, I was through the press, and at the man's side.
It was Father Benoit! For a moment we could not speak. Then, as we
looked at one another, the first hasty joyful words spoken, I saw the
very expression of dismay and discomfiture, which I had read on Louis
St. Alais' face, dawn on his! He muttered, "_O mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_"
under his breath, and wrung his hands stealthily.
But I was sick of this mystery, and I said so in hot words. "You at
any rate shall tell me, father!" I cried.
Two or three of the passers-by heard me, and looked at us curiously.
He drew me, to escape these, into a doorway; but still a man stood
peering in at us. "Come upstairs," the father muttered, "we shall be
quiet there." And he led the way up a stone staircase, ancient and
sordid, serving many and cleaned by none.
"Do you live here?" I said.
"Yes," he answered; and then stopped short, and turned to me with an
air of confusion. "But it is a poor place, M. le Vicomte," he
continued, and he even made as if he would descend again, "and perhaps
we should be wise to go----"
"No, no!" I said, burning with impatience. "To your room, man! To your
room, if you live here! I cannot wait. I have found you, and I will
not let another minute pass before I have learned the truth."
He still hesitated, and even began to mutter another objection. But I
had only mind for one thing, and giving way to me, he preceded me
slowly to the top of the house; where under the tiles he had a little
room with a mattress and a chair, two or three books and a crucifix. A
small square dormer-window admitted the light--and something else; for
as we entered a pigeon rose from the floor and flew out by it.
He uttered an exclamation of annoyance, and explained that he fed them
sometimes. "They are company," he said sadly. "And I have found little
here."
"Yet you came of your own accord," I retorted brutally. I was choking
with anxiety, and it took that form.
"To lose one more illusion," he answered. "For years--you know it, M.
le Vicomte--I looked forward to reform, to liberty, to freedom. And I
taught others to look forward also. Well, we gained these--you know
it, and the first use the people made of their liberty was to attack
religion. Then I came here, because I was told that here the defenders
of the Church would make a stand; that here the Church was strong,
religion respected, faith still vigorous. I came to gain a little hope
from others' hope. And I find pretended miracles, I find imposture, I
find lies and trickery and chicanery used on one side and the other.
And violence everywhere."
"Then in heaven's name, man, why did you not go home again?" I cried.
"I was going a week ago," he answered. "And then I did not go.
And----"
"Never mind that now!" I cried harshly. "It is not that I want. I have
seen Louis St. Alais, and I know that there is something amiss. He
will not face me. He will not tell me where Madame is. He will have
nothing to do with me. He looks at me as if I were a death's head! Now
what is it? You know and I must know. Tell me."
"_Mon Dieu!_" he answered. And he looked at me with tears in his eyes.
Then, "This is what I feared," he said.
"Feared? Feared what?" I cried.
"That your heart was in it, M. le Vicomte."
"In what? In what? Speak plainly, man."
"Mademoiselle de St. Alais'--engagement," he said.
I stood a moment staring at him. "Her engagement?" I whispered. "To
whom?"
"To M. Froment," he answered.