I started from my seat; we bowed, and, stretching out a hand to
the fire, Doltaire said, "Ah, my Captain, we meet too seldom. Let
me see: five months--ah yes, nearly five months. Believe me, I have
not breakfasted so heartily since. You are looking older--older.
Solitude to the active mind is not to be endured alone--no."
"Monsieur Doltaire is the surgeon to my solitude," said I.
"H'm!" he answered, "a jail surgeon merely. And that brings me
to a point, monsieur. I have had letters from France. The Grande
Marquise--I may as well be frank with you--womanlike, yearns
violently for those silly letters which you hold. She would sell
our France for them. There is a chance for you who would serve your
country so. Serve it, and yourself--and me. We have no news yet as
to your doom, but be sure it is certain. La Pompadour knows all,
and if you are stubborn, twenty deaths were too few. I can save you
little longer, even were it my will so to do. For myself, the great
lady girds at me for being so poor an agent. You, monsieur"--he
smiled whimsically--"will agree that I have been persistent--and
intelligent."
"So much so," rejoined I, "as to be intrusive."
He smiled again. "If La Pompadour could hear you, she would
understand why I prefer the live amusing lion to the dead dog. When
you are gone, I shall be inconsolable. I am a born inquisitor."
"You were born for better things than this," I answered.
He took a seat and mused for a moment. "For larger things, you
mean," was his reply. "Perhaps--perhaps. I have one gift of the
strong man--I am inexorable when I make for my end. As a general,
I would pour men into the maw of death as corn into the hopper,
if that would build a bridge to my end. You call to mind how those
Spaniards conquered the Mexique city which was all canals like
Venice? They filled the waterways with shattered houses and the
bodies of their enemies, as they fought their way to Montezuma's
palace. So I would know not pity if I had a great cause. In anything
vital I would have success at all cost, and to get, destroy as I
went--if I were a great man."
I thought for a moment with horror of his pursuit of my dear
Alixe. "I am your hunter," had been his words to her, and I knew
not what had happened in all these months.
"If you were a great man, you should have the best prerogative
of greatness," I remarked quietly.
"And what is that? Some excellent moral, I doubt not," was the
rejoinder.
"Mercy," I replied.
"Tush!" he retorted, "mercy is for the fireside, not for the
throne. In great causes, what is a screw of tyranny here, a bolt of
oppression there, or a few thousand lives!" He suddenly got to his
feet, and, looking into the distance, made a swift motion of his
hand, his eyes half closed, his brows brooding and firm. "I should
look beyond the moment, the year, or the generation. Why fret
because the hour of death comes sooner than we looked for? In the
movement of the ponderous car, some honest folk must be crushed
by the wicked wheels. No, no, in large affairs there must be no
thought of the detail of misery, else what should be done in the
world! He who is the strongest shall survive, and he alone. It is
all conflict--all. For when conflict ceases, and those who could
and should be great spend their time chasing butterflies among the
fountains, there comes miasma and their doom. Mercy? Mercy? No, no:
for none but the poor and sick and overridden, in time of peace; in
time of war, mercy for none, pity nowhere, till the joybells ring
the great man home."
"But mercy to women always," said I, "in war or peace."
He withdrew his eyes as if from a distant prospect, and they
dropped to the stove, where I had corn parching. He nodded, as if
amused, but did not answer at once, and taking from my hand the
feather with which I stirred the corn, softly whisked some off for
himself, and smiled at the remaining kernels as they danced upon
the hot iron. After a little while he said, "Women? Women should
have all that men can give them. Beautiful things should adorn
them; no man should set his hand in cruelty on a woman--after she
is his. Before--before? Woman is wilful, and sometimes we wring
her heart that we may afterwards comfort it."
"Your views have somewhat changed," I answered. "I mind when you
talked less sweetly."
He shrugged a shoulder. "That man is lost who keeps one mind
concerning woman. I will trust the chastity of no woman, yet I will
trust her virtue--if I have her heart. They a foolish tribe, and
all are vulnerable in their vanity. They of consequence to man, of
no consequence in state matters. When they meddle there, we have La
Pompadour and war with England, and Captain Moray in the Bastile of
New France."
"You come from a court, monsieur, which believes in nothing, not
even in itself."
"I come from a court," he rejoined, "which has made a gospel of
artifice, of frivolity a creed; buying the toys for folly with the
savings of the poor. His most Christian Majesty has set the fashion
of continual silliness and universal love. He begets children in
the peasant's oven and in the chamber of Charlemagne alike. And we
are all good subjects of the King. We are brilliant, exquisite,
brave, and naughty; and for us there is no to-morrow."
"Nor for France," I suggested.
He laughed, as he rolled a kernel of parched corn on his tongue.
"Tut, tut! that is another thing. We the fashion of an hour, but
France is a fact as stubborn as the natures of you English; for
beyond stubbornness and your Shakespeare you have little. Down
among the moles, in the peasants' huts, the spirit of France never
changes--it is always the same; it is for all time. You English,
nor all others, you can not blow out that candle which is the spirit
of France. I remember of the Abbe Bobon preaching once upon the
words, 'The spirit of man is the candle of the Lord'; well, the
spirit of France is the candle of Europe, and you English will be
its screen against the blowing out, though in spasms of stupidity
you flaunt the extinguisher. You--you have no imagination, no
passion, no temperament, no poetry. Yet I am wrong. The one thing
you have--"
He broke off, nodding his head in amusement. "Yes, you have, but
it is a secret. You English are the true lovers, we French the true
poets; and I will tell you why. You are a race of comrades, the
French of gentlemen; you cleave to a thing, we to an idea; you love
a woman best when she is near, we when she is away; you make a
romance of marriage, we of intrigue; you feed upon yourselves, we
upon the world; you have fever in your blood, we in our brains; you
believe the world was made in seven days, we have no God; you would
fight for the seven days, we would fight for the danseuse on a
bonbon box. The world will say 'fie!' at us and love us; it will
respect you and hate you. That is the law and the gospel," he
added, smiling.
"Perfect respect casteth out love" said I ironically.
He waved his fingers in approval. "By the Lord, but you are pungent
now and then!" he answered; "cabined here you are less material. By
the time you are chastened unto heaven you will be too companionable
to lose."
"When is that hour of completed chastening?" I asked.
"Never," he said, "if you will oblige me with those
letters."
"For a man of genius you discern but slowly," retorted I.
"Discern your amazing stubbornness?" he asked. "Why should you
play at martyr, when your talent is commercial? You have no gifts
for martyrdom but wooden tenacity. Pshaw! the leech has that.
You mistake your calling."
"And you yours," I answered. "This is a poor game you play, and
losing it you lose all. La Pompadour will pay according to the
goods you bring."
He answered with an amusing candour: "Why, yes, you are partly in
the right. But when La Pompadour and I come to our final reckoning,
when it is a question who can topple ruins round the King quickest,
his mistress or his 'cousin,' there will be tales to tell."
He got up, and walked to and fro in the cell, musing, and his
face grew dark and darker. "Your Monmouth was a fool," he said.
"He struck from the boundaries; the blow should fall in the very
chambers of the King." He put a finger musingly upon his lip. "I
see--I see how it could be done. Full of danger, but brilliant,
brilliant and bold! Yes, yes...yes!" Then all at once he seemed to
come out of a dream, and laughed ironically. "There it is," he
said; "there is my case. I have the idea, but I will not strike; it
is not worth the doing unless I am driven to it. We are brave
enough, we idlers," he went on; "we die with an air--all artifice,
artifice! ... Yet of late I have had dreams. Now that is not well.
It is foolish to dream, and I had long since ceased to do so. But
somehow all the mad fancies of my youth come back. This dream will
go, it will not last; it is--my fate, my doom," he added lightly,
"or what you will!"
I knew, alas, too well where his thoughts were hanging, and I
loathed him anew; for, as he hinted, his was a passion, not a deep
abiding love. His will was not stronger than the general turpitude
of his nature. As if he had divined my thought, he said, "My
will is stronger than any passion that I have; I can never plead
weakness in the day of my judgment. I am deliberate. When I choose
evil it is because I love it. I could be an anchorite; I am, as I
said--what you will."
"You are a conscienceless villain, monsieur."
"Who salves not his soul," he added, with a dry smile, "who will
play his game out as he began; who repents nor ever will repent of
anything; who for him and you some interesting moments yet. Let me
make one now," and he drew from his pocket a packet. He smiled
hatefully as he handed it to me, and said, "Some books which
monsieur once lent Mademoiselle Duvarney--poems, I believe.
Mademoiselle found them yesterday, and desired me to fetch them
to you; and I obliged her. I had the pleasure of glancing through
the books before she rolled them up. She bade me say that monsieur
might find them useful in his captivity. She has a tender
heart--even to the worst of criminals."
I felt a strange churning in my throat, but with composure I
took the books, and said, "Mademoiselle Duvarney chooses
distinguished messengers."
"It is a distinction to aid her in her charities," he replied.
I could not at all conceive what was meant. The packet hung in
my hands like lead. There was a mystery I could not solve. I would
not for an instant think what he meant to convey by a look--that
her choice of him to carry back my gift to her was a final repulse
of past advances I had made to her, a corrective to my romantic
memories. I would not believe that, not for one fleeting second.
Perhaps, I said to myself, it was a ruse of this scoundrel. But
again, I put that from me, for I did not think he would stoop to
little meannesses, no matter how vile he was in great things. I
assumed indifference to the matter, laying the packet down upon my
couch, and saying to him, "You will convey my thanks to Mademoiselle
Duvarney for these books, whose chief value lies in the honourable
housing they have had."
He smiled provokingly; no doubt he was thinking that my studied
compliment smelt of the oil of solitude. "And add--shall I--your
compliments that they should have their airing at the hands of
Monsieur Doltaire?"
"I shall pay those compliments to Monsieur Doltaire himself one
day," I replied.
He waved his fingers. "The sentiments of one of the poems were
commendable, fanciful. I remember it"--he put a finger to his
lip--"let me see." He stepped towards the packet, but I made a sign
of interference--how grateful was I of this afterwards!--and he drew
back courteously. "Ah well," he said, "I have a fair memory; I can,
I think, recall the morsel. It impressed me. I could not think the
author an Englishman. It runs thus," and with admirable grace he
recited the words:
"O flower of all the world, O flower of all!
The garden where thou dwellest is so fair,
Thou art so goodly and so queenly tall,
Thy sweetness scatters sweetness everywhere,
O flower of all!
"O flower of all the years, O flower of all!
A day beside thee is a day of days;
Thy voice is softer than the throstle's call,
There is not song enough to sing thy praise,
O flower of all!
"O flower of all the years, O flower of all!
I seek thee in thy garden, and I dare
To love thee; and though my deserts be small,
Thou art the only flower I would wear,
O flower of all!"
"Now that," he said, "is the romantic, almost the Arcadian
spirit. We have lost it, but it lingers like some rare scent in the
folds of lace. It is also but artifice, yet so is the lingering
perfume. When it hung in the flower it was lost after a day's life,
but when gathered and distilled into an essence it becomes, through
artifice, an abiding sweetness. So with your song there. It is the
spirit of devotion, gathered, it may be, from a thousand flowers,
and made into an essence, which is offered to one only. It is not
the worship of this one, but the worship of a thousand distilled at
last to one delicate liturgy. So much for sentiment," he continued.
"Upon my soul, Captain Moray, you are a boon. I love to have you
caged. I shall watch your distressed career to its close with deep
scrutiny. You and I are wholly different, but you are interesting.
You never could be great. Pardon the egotism, but it is truth. Your
brain works heavily, you are too tenacious of your conscience, you
are a blunderer. You will always sow, and others will reap."
I waved my hand in deprecation, for I was in no mood for further
talk, and I made no answer. He smiled at me, and said, "Well, since
you doubt my theories, let us come, as your Shakespeare says, to
Hecuba.... If you will come with me," he added, as he opened my
cell door, and motioned me courteously to go outside. I drew back,
and he said, "There is no need to hesitate; I go to show you merely
what will interest you."
We passed in silence through the corridors, two sentinels
attending, and at last came into a large square room, wherein stood
three men with hands tied over their heads against the wall, their
faces twitching with pain. I drew back in astonishment, for there,
standing before them, were Gabord and another soldier. Doltaire
ordered from the room the soldier with Gabord, and my two sentinels,
and motioned me to one of two chairs set in the middle of the floor.
Presently his face became hard and cruel, and he said to the
tortured prisoners, "You will need to speak the truth, and
promptly. I have an order to do with you what I will, and I will
do it without pause. Hear me. Three nights ago, as Mademoiselle
Duvarney was returning from the house of a friend living near the
Intendance, she was set upon by you. A cloak was thrown over her
head, she was carried to a carriage, where two of you got inside
with her. Some gentlemen and myself were coming that way. We heard
the lady's cries, and two gave chase to the carriage, while one
followed the others. By the help of soldier Gabord here you all
were captured. You have hung where you are for two days, and now
I shall have you whipped. When that is done, you shall tell your
story. If you do not speak truth, you shall be whipped again, and
then hung. Ladies shall have safety from rogues like you."
Alixe's danger told in these concise words made me, I am sure,
turn pale; but Doltaire did not see it, he was engaged with the
prisoners. As I thought and wondered, four soldiers were brought
in, and the men were made ready for the lash. In vain they pleaded
they would tell their story at once. Doltaire would not listen; the
whipping first, and their story after. Soon their backs were bared,
their faces were turned to the wall, and, as Gabord with harsh
voice counted, the lashes were mercilessly laid on. There was a
horrible fascination in watching the skin corrugate under the
lashes, rippling away in red and purple blotches, the grooves in
the flesh crossing and recrossing, the raw misery spreading from
the hips to the shoulders. Now and again Doltaire drew out a box
and took a pinch of snuff, and once, coolly and curiously, he
walked up to the most stalwart prisoner and felt his pulse, then
to the weakest, whose limbs and body had stiffened as though dead.
"Ninety-seven! Ninety-eight! Ninety-nine!" growled Gabord, and
then came Doltaire's voice:
"Stop! Now fetch some brandy."
The prisoners were loosened, and Doltaire spoke sharply to a
soldier who was roughly pulling one man's shirt over the excoriated
back. Brandy was given by Gabord, and the prisoners stood, a most
pitiful sight, the weakest livid.
"Now tell your story," said Doltaire to this last.
The man, with broken voice and breath catching, said that they
had erred. They had been hired to kidnap Madame Cournal, not
Mademoiselle Duvarney.
Doltaire's eyes flashed. "I see, I see," he said aside to me.
"The wretch speaks truth."
"Who was your master?" he asked of the sturdiest of the
villains; and he was told that Monsieur Cournal had engaged them.
To the question what was to be done with Madame Cournal, another
answered that she was to be waylaid as she was coming from the
Intendance, kidnapped, and hurried to a nunnery to be imprisoned
for life.
Doltaire sat for a moment, looking at the men in silence. "You
are not to hang," he said at last; "but ten days hence, when you
have had one hundred lashes more, you shall go free. Fifty for
you," he continued to the weakest who had first told the story.
"Not fifty nor one!" was the shrill reply, and, being unbound,
the prisoner snatched something from a bench near; there was a
flash of steel, and he came huddling in a heap on the floor,
muttering a malediction on the world.
"There was some bravery in that," said Doltaire, looking at the
dead man. "If he has friends, hand over the body to them. This
matter must not be spoken of--at your peril," he added sternly.
"Give them food and brandy."
Then he accompanied me to my cell, and opened the door. I passed
in, and he was about going without a word, when on a sudden his old
nonchalance came back, and he said:
"I promised you a matter of interest. You have had it. Gather
philosophy from this: you may with impunity buy anything from a
knave and fool except his nuptial bed. He throws the money in your
face some day."
So saying he plunged in thought again, and left me.