M. Goudé grumbled much when he heard that his whole class were going to
be absent for three days.
"A nice interruption to study," he said, "however, you were none of you
doing yourselves any good, and you may as well be out in the fields as
hanging about the streets gossiping. We can always talk, but during the
past six weeks Paris has done nothing but talk. Don't come back with any
of your number short. You have all got something in you and are too good
for food for Prussian powder."
Cuthbert went that evening to the Michauds, in his uniform, not for the
purpose of showing it off, but because men in plain clothes, especially
if of fair complexions, were constantly stopped and accused of being
German spies, were often ill-treated, and not unfrequently had to pass a
night in the cells before they could prove their identity. Mary gave an
exclamation of surprise at seeing him so attired, but made no remark
until after chatting for half an hour with the Michauds. The husband
presently made the excuse that he had to attend a meeting and went off,
while madame took up some knitting, settled herself in an easy chair,
and prepared for a quiet doze, then Mary said in English--
"I have no patience with you, Cuthbert, taking part with these foolish
people. The more I see of them the more I get tired of their bombast and
their empty talk. Every man expects everyone else to do something and no
one does anything."
"They have had nothing to stir them into action yet," he said, "only the
regulars and the moblots go outside the wall, and the National Guard are
practically useless until the Germans make an assault. Besides, three
parts of them are married men with families, and nothing short of their
homes being in danger will stir them up to risk their lives. We are
going out for three days to the outposts, we fall in at five o'clock
to-morrow morning."
"You are going to risk your life," she said, indignantly, "for the
Parisians, who have no idea whatever of risking theirs. I call it
madness."
"You are going against your own doctrines, Miss Brander. Before you were
indignant with me for doing nothing and being in earnest about nothing.
Now that I am doing something and that in grim earnest, you are just as
indignant as you were before."
"I did not mean this sort of thing," she said.
"No, I don't suppose you contemplated this. But you wanted me to work
for work's sake, although as it seemed then there was no occasion for me
to work."
"If it had been on the other side I should not have minded."
"Just so," he smiled. "You have become Germanized, I have not. My
friends here have all enlisted; I am going with them partly because they
are my friends and partly because it is evident the Germans might have
well stopped this war before now, but they demand terms that France can
never submit to as long as there is the faintest hope of success. You
need not be at all anxious about me. We are not going to attack the
Prussian positions I can assure you. We are only going out to do a
little outpost duty, to learn to hear the bullets flying without
ducking, and to fire our rifles without shutting our eyes. I don't
suppose there are five men in the three companies who have ever fired a
rifle in their lives.
"You see the Franc-tireurs are to a great extent independent of the
military authorities--if you can call men military authorities who
exercise next to no authority over their soldiers. The Franc-tireurs
come and go as they choose, and a good many of them wear the uniform
only as a means of escape from serving, and as a whole they are next to
useless. I think our corps will do better things. We are all students of
art, law or physic, and a good deal like such volunteer corps as the
artists or 'Inns of Court.' Some of the younger professors are in the
ranks, and at least we are all of average intelligence and education, so
I fancy we shall fight if we get a chance. I don't mean now, but later
on when we have gained confidence in ourselves and in our rifles. Just
at present the Parisians are disposed to look upon the Germans as
bogies, but this will wear off, and as discipline is recovered by the
line, and the mobiles grow into soldiers, you will see that things will
be very different; and although I don't indulge in any vain fancy that
we are going to defeat the German army, I do think that we shall bear
ourselves like men and show something of the old French spirit."
"That will be a change, indeed," the girl said, scornfully.
"Yes, it will be a change," he answered, quietly, "but by no means an
impossible one. You must not take the vaporings and bombast of the Paris
Bourgeois or the ranting of Blanqui and the Belleville roughs as the
voice of France. The Germans thought that they were going to take Paris
in three days. I doubt if they will take it in three months. If we had
provisions I should say they would not take it in treble that time. They
certainly would not do it without making regular approaches, and before
they can do that they have to capture some of the forts. These, as you
know, are manned by 10,000 sailors, hardy marines and Bretons, well
disciplined and untainted by the politics which are the curse of this
country. Well, I must be going. I have to purchase my three days' store
of provisions on my way back to my lodgings and shall have to turn out
early."
"Don't do anything rash," she said, earnestly.
"I can assure you rashness is not in my line at all, and I don't suppose
we shall ever get within five hundred yards of a Prussian soldier. You
need not be in the least uneasy, even supposing that you were inclined
to fidget about me?"
"Of course, I should fidget about you," she said, indignantly. "After
knowing you ever since I was a little child, naturally I should be very
sorry if anything happened to you."
"By the way," he said, without pursuing the subject farther, "I hear
that there is a movement on foot for forming a corps of women. If they
should do so it will afford you another illustration of the equality of
your sex to ours in all matters, and I will go so far as to admit that I
would much rather lead a company of the market-women than one composed
of these Parisian shopkeepers."
"Don't, Mr. Hartington," she said, appealingly, "I don't feel equal to
fighting now."
"Then we won't fight. Good-bye! If we are not lucky enough to light upon
some empty cottages to sleep in I fancy the gloss will be taken out of
this uniform before I see you again." He picked up his cap, shook hands,
and was gone.
Madame Michaud woke up as the door closed.
"He has gone? your tall countryman."
"Yes, he is going out to-morrow to the outposts. I think it is very
silly of him and very wrong mixing up in a quarrel that does not concern
him, especially when there are tens of thousands here in Paris who,
instead of fighting for their country, are content to sit all day in
cafés and talk."
"They will fight when the time comes," Madame Michaud said,
complacently. "They will fight like heroes. The Prussians will learn
what Frenchmen are capable of doing."
But Mary had no patience just at present to listen to this sort of
thing, and with the excuse that her head ached went at once to her room.
"I do not understand these English," Madame Michaud thought, as she drew
the lamp nearer and resumed her knitting, "here are a young woman and a
young man who are more like comrades than lovers. She was angry, more
angry than I thought she could be, for she is generally good-tempered,
when I asked her, the first time he came, if they were _affiancés_, 'We
are old friends, madame,' she said, 'and nothing but friends. Cannot a
girl have a man as a friend without there being any thought of love? In
England people are friends, they can talk and laugh to each other
without any silly ideas of this sort occurring to them. This is one of
the things that keeps woman back in the scale, this supposition that she
is always thinking of love.' I did not believe her then, but I have
listened to-night when they thought I was asleep, and I even peeped out
two or three times between my eyelids. I could not understand a word of
what they said, but one can tell things by the tone without
understanding the words. There was no love-making. She scolded him and
he laughed. He sat carelessly in his chair, and did not move an inch
nearer to her. She was as straight and as upright as she always is.
"That is not the way lovers act when one is going out to fight. I peeped
out when he shook hands with her. He did not hold her hand a moment, he
just shook it. They are strange people, these English. It would be wrong
for a French girl thus to talk to a young man, but I suppose it is
different with them. Who can understand these strange islanders? Why, if
Lucien were going out to fight I should dissolve in tears, I should
embrace him and hang on his neck; I might even have hysterics, though I
have never had them in my life. She is a good girl, too, though she has
such strange ideas about women. What can she want for them? I manage the
house and Lucien goes to his office. If I say a thing is to be done in
the house it is done. I call that equality. I cannot tell what she is
aiming at. At times it seems to me that she is even more mad than her
compatriots, and yet on other subjects she talks with good sense. What
her father and mother can be about to let her be living abroad by
herself is more than I can think. They must be even more mad than she
is."
Work at M. Goudé's school went on steadily during the intervals between
the turns of the Franc-tireurs des Écoles going out beyond the walls.
Indeed M. Goudé acknowledged that the work was better than usual.
Certainly the studio was never merrier or more full of life. So far from
the active exercise and the rough work entailed by the constant
vigilance necessary during the long night-watches, diminishing the
interest of the young fellows in their work in the studio, it seemed to
invigorate them, and they painted as if inflamed with the determination
to make up for lost time.
It converted them, in fact, for the time, from a group of careless,
merry young fellows, into men with a sense of responsibility. Their time
when away from the studio had previously been spent in follies and
frivolities. They often drank much more than was good for them, smoked
inordinately, were up half the night, and came in the morning to work
with heavy heads and nerveless hands. Now they were soldiers, men who
matched themselves against the invaders of their country, who risked
their lives in her defence, and they bore themselves more erectly, a
tone of earnestness replaced a languid indifference and a carelessness
as to their work, and in spite of some privations in the way of food
their figures seemed to expand.
The loss of two nights' sleep a week rendered early hours necessary, and
ensured sound sleep during the remaining five. The discipline of the
studio had been relaxed. The master felt that at such a time he could
not expect the same silent concentration on work that it demanded at
other times, but he found to his surprise that while they laughed and
joked as they painted, they worked none the worse for this, and that in
fact there was a general improvement manifest.
Cuthbert heartily enjoyed the change; the prevailing tone was more like
that to which he was accustomed at the studios of St. John's Wood than
was the somewhat strict discipline that had before prevailed in the
studio, and he enjoyed the hard work and excitement outside the walls.
The fact that they were running the same risks and sharing in the same
work was an added bond of union among the students; and, although, when
they met, as they very frequently did in each other's lodgings, there
was less uproarious fun than before; there was a healthier atmosphere,
and more pleasant and earnest talk.
Arnold Dampierre was the only exception to the general rule. When in the
field he evinced no want of spirit, and upon the contrary was always
ready to volunteer when a few men were required to crawl forward at
night to ascertain the precise position of the Prussian outposts or to
endeavor to find out the meaning of any stir or movement that might be
heard towards their front. At other times his fits of moodiness seemed
to increase. He was seldom present at any of the gatherings of his
companions, but went off after work at the studio was over, and it was
generally late at night before he returned to his rooms.
Cuthbert felt that the American avoided all opportunities of
conversation with him alone. He replied cordially enough to his greeting
when they met, but they no longer dropped in to smoke a pipe in each
other's apartments as they formerly had done. Cuthbert had no great
difficulty in guessing at the reasons for this change in their
relations. He himself when he first noticed that Arnold was taking the
first place with Minette had spoken to him half-jestingly,
half-seriously, on the subject. He had never made any secret of his own
distrust of the model, and in the early days of their intercourse had
spoken freely to Arnold on the subject. He could understand that if the
American, as it appeared, had become really attached to her, he would
shrink from the risk of any expostulations on the course he had adopted.
Cuthbert believed that his comrade was at present in a state of
indecision, and that, although deeply in love, he had not as yet been
able to bring himself to the idea of taking Minette back as his wife to
his home in Louisiana.
"It would be sheer madness," he said to himself, "and yet I have no
doubt it will end in his doing so, but as he must know it is a piece of
stupendous folly, I can understand his reluctance to risk my speaking to
him on the subject. I am awfully sorry for him, but I know it is one of
those cases in which, now that it has gone as far as it has, it would be
worse than useless to try to interfere, and would only make him more
bent upon going through with it. I don't see that one can do anything
but trust to the chapter of accidents. Minette, dazzled as she might be
by the prospect of marrying a gentleman and a man of property, might
still hesitate to do so if it would entail her having to leave Paris and
live abroad.
"I have no doubt that she is very fond of Dampierre, but she may change
her mind. He may be killed before this business is over. He may decide
to return to America directly the siege ends, with the idea of coming
over to fetch her afterwards, and either he may get over his
infatuation, or on his return may find that some one else has supplanted
him in her affections. I should not fancy that constancy would be one of
her strong points; at any rate I do not see that I can do any good by
meddling in the matter, though if Dampierre spoke to me about it, I
should certainly express my opinion frankly. It is much the best that
things should go on between us as they are now doing. He is a hot-headed
beggar, and the probabilities are strong in the favor of our having a
serious quarrel if the subject were ever broached between us."
One evening Cuthbert had taken up a book after his return from the
studio, and sat reading until it was long past his usual dinner hour
before he went out. He passed through several badly lighted streets on
his way to the restaurant in the Palais Royal, where he intended to
dine. There were but few people about, for the evening was wet. He was
vaguely conscious that some one was going in the same direction as
himself, for he heard footsteps following him a short distance behind.
In one of the worst lighted and most silent streets the steps suddenly
quickened. Cuthbert turned sharply round. He was but just in time, for a
man who had been following him was on the point of springing upon him
with uplifted arm.
Cuthbert felt rather than saw that there was a knife in his hand, and
struck straight from the shoulder at his face; the fellow was in the act
of striking when he received the blow. He fell as if shot, the knife,
flying from his hand, clattering on the pavement several yards away.
Cuthbert stood for a moment prepared to strike again if the man rose,
but as he made no movement he turned on his heel and walked on.
"It would serve him right if I were to give the scoundrel in charge for
attempted murder," he said, "but it would give me no end of bother. It
would not be worth the trouble, and he has been pretty well punished. I
have cut my knuckles, and I imagine that when he comes to be will find
himself minus some of his teeth. I wonder what his object was robbery, I
suppose and yet it is hardly likely that the fellow would have singled
me out and decided to kill me on the off chance of finding something
worth taking. He could not have seen that I have a watch on, for my
greatcoat is buttoned. It is more like an act of private revenge, but I
have never given anyone of that class any reason to dislike me.
Cartainly the man followed me for some distance, for I have heard the
steps behind me ever since I turned off into these quiet streets.
"By the way," he exclaimed, suddenly, "I should not be at all surprised
if he took me for Dampierre. We are about the same height, and although
I am a good many inches wider than he is, that might not be noticed in
the dark. If the fellow was watching outside the door, and had known
nothing of there being another man of the same height in the house, he
might very well have taken me for Arnold. He spends half his time up at
Montmartre, and may likely enough have given offence to some of the
ruffians up there; when he is not in a pleasant temper he does not mind
what he says. Possibly, too, the fellow may be an admirer of Minette,
and the thing may be this outcome of jealousy. At any rate I will tell
him in the morning about the affair and let him take warning by it if he
chooses."
Accordingly, next morning he waited outside in the street for Arnold,
who was generally the last to arrive at the studio.
"Rather an unpleasant thing happened yesterday evening, Dampierre. I was
followed from here and attacked suddenly in one of the back streets
leading up to the Boulevards. I had heard footsteps behind me for a
little time and had a vague sort of idea that I was being followed. The
fellow ran up suddenly and I had just time to turn and hit out. He was
in the act of striking with a knife, and if I had been a second later he
would probably have settled me. As it was I knocked him down and I fancy
I stunned him. At any rate he did not move, so I walked on. Of course it
may have been a mere vulgar attempt at murder and robbery, but from the
fact that this man followed me for some considerable distance I should
say it was not so, but a question of revenge. I don't know that anyone
in Paris has any cause of quarrel with me, but the idea afterwards
occurred to me that it might be that he took me for you. We are about
the same height, and if he was watching the house he might, when I came
out, mistake one for the other. Of course I have not a shadow of reason
for supposing that you have an enemy, but at any rate I thought it as
well to tell you about it, so that you might be on your guard, as I
shall certainly be, in the future."
Arnold was silent for a minute.
"I should not be surprised if you are right, Hartington; they are a
rough lot at Montmartre, and it is possible that I may, without knowing
it, have rubbed some of them the wrong way. I suppose you did not notice
what he was like?"
"No, it was too dark, and the whole affair too sudden for me to see
anything of the features. He was in a blouse with the low cap workmen
generally wear. I should say he stood four or five inches shorter than
we do--about five feet eight or so. He was a square-built fellow. If you
happen to come across him I fancy you may recognize him, not from my
description but from my handiwork. You see," and he pointed to his right
hand, which was wrapped up in an handkerchief, "I hit him hard and have
cut two of my knuckles pretty badly--I fancy against his teeth. If so,
I think it likely that two or three of them will be missing, and as a
man of that sort is hardly likely to go at once to a dentist to have the
gap filled up, it may prove a guide to you.
"For the next day or two his lips are sure to be swollen pretty badly.
Of course if you have no one in your mind's eye as being specially
likely to make an attempt upon your life these little things will afford
you no clue whatever, but if you have any sort of suspicion that one of
three or four men might be likely to have a grudge against you, they may
enable you to pick out the fellow who attempted my life. Of course I may
be mistaken altogether and the fellow may have been only an ordinary
street ruffian. Personally it won't make much difference to me, for I am
pretty handy with my fists, but as I know you have had no practice that
way, I recommend you always to carry a pistol when you go out at night."
"I always do, Hartington; I always have one in each pocket of my coat."
"Well, they may be useful, but I should recommend you to be careful, and
to walk in the middle of the street when you are in doubtful
neighborhoods. A pistol is very good in its way, but it takes time to
get it out, and cock it, while one's fist is always ready for service at
an instant's notice."
By this time they had arrived at the door of the studio. Arnold made no
allusion to the subject for some days, and then meeting Cuthbert at the
door of his house, said--
"By the way, Hartington, I have reason to believe that you were right
that that blow you luckily escaped was meant for me. However, I don't
think there will be any recurrence of the matter; in fact, I may say
that I am sure there won't."
"That is all right then, Dampierre. Of course I don't want the matter
followed up in any way, and should not have spoken about it had I not
thought that I ought to give you warning."
"I feel very much indebted to you anyhow, Hartington. Probably had I
been in your place the matter would have gone altogether differently."
Arnold had in fact learnt with absolute certainty who had been
Cuthbert's assailant. When he went up to Montmartre he told Minette what
had happened, and added: "He suspects that the scoundrel took him in the
dark for me."
"Why should any one bear ill-will to you?" Minette asked.
"That I can't say, but I do think that very likely he is right. He keeps
himself to himself, never attends meetings of any kind, and can hardly
have made an enemy, while it is possible that I may have done so."
Minette was thoughtful for some time, and when her father joined them
and said that it was time to be off to a meeting, she asked him
abruptly--
"Have you seen Jean Diantre to-day?"
"Ay, I have seen him, and a pretty sight he is."
"How is that, father?"
"He took more liquor than was good for him and got a bad fall as he was
going upstairs to his room, and as luck would have it, his mouth caught
the edge of the stone step. His lips were all cut and swollen to four
times their usual size and three of his teeth are out. Mon Dieu, what a
crash he must have got! He has been drinking a great deal lately, and I
have warned him over and over again that he would get himself into
trouble; but as a rule liquor does not affect him that way, he gets
sulky and bad-tempered, but he can generally walk steadily enough."
"Father, you must come with us to his lodgings," Minette exclaimed. "I
have something to say to him. I suppose he is up?"
"But it is time to be at the meeting Minette. What do you want to see
him for?"
"Never mind the meeting," she said, impatiently. "We shall be there
before it is done. It is more important that I should see Jean."
"Well, if it must be, it must," Dufaure grumbled, shrugging his
shoulders. "When you take a thing into your head I know it is of no use
talking."
Jean Diantre was sitting with two or three of his mates in his attic
over a small brazier of charcoal. They rose in surprise at the entrance
of Minette and her father, followed by the American. The girl, without
speaking, walked straight up to Jean.
"I knew you were a miserable," she said, bitterly, "a drunken, worthless
scamp, but until now I did not know you were a murderer. Yes, comrades,
this man with whom you sit and smoke is a miserable assassin. Yesterday
evening he tried to take the life of Arnold Dampierre here, whom you all
know as a friend of freedom and a hater of tyranny. This brave companion
of yours had not the courage to meet him face to face, but stole up
behind him in the dark, and in another moment would have slain the man
he was following, when the tables were turned. The man he had followed
was not Arnold Dampierre but another; and before this wretch could
strike with his knife, he knocked him down, stunned him, and left him
like a dog that he is on the pavement. No doubt he has told you the lie
that he told my father, that he fell while going upstairs drunk. It was
a blow of the fist that has marked him as you see. The man he had tried
to murder did not even care to give him in charge. He despised this cur
too much, and yet the fellow may think himself fortunate. Had it been
Monsieur Dampierre it would not have been a fist but a bullet through
his head that would have punished him. Now mark me, Jean Diantre," and
she moved a pace forward, so suddenly that the man started back, "you
are a known assassin and poltroon. If at any time harm befalls Monsieur
Dampierre I will stab you with my own hand. If you ever dare to speak to
me again I will hold you up to the scorn of the women of the quarter. As
it is, your comrades have heard how mean and cowardly a scoundrel you
are. You had best move from Montmartre at once, for when this is known
no honest man will give you his hand, no man who respects himself will
work beside you. Hide yourself elsewhere, for if you stay here I will
hound you down, I will see that you have not an hour's peace of your
life. We reds have our ideas, but we are not assassins. We do not sneak
after a man to stab him in the dark, and when we have arms in our hands
we are not to be beaten like curs by an unarmed man."
The other men had shrunk back from him as she spoke. Jean quailed
beneath her torrent of contemptuous words and from the fury in her eyes.
There was no doubting the fact that her charges were true.
"Who drove me to it?" he said sullenly through his swollen lips.
"Who drove you! Drink and your evil temper drove you to it. You wanted
to marry me--me who never gave you a word of encouragement; who knew you
_au fond_, who knew that you were at the best an idle, worthless scamp,
and would never have married you had there been no other living man in
the universe. But enough. I have said what I came to say, and you had
best take warning. Come, father, you have stood this fellow's friend,
and you have been wrong, but you know him now."
Minette passed out through the door Arnold held open for her; her father
and Arnold followed, and the four other men, without a word to Jean
Diantre, went down the stairs after them, leaving him to himself.