[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 51.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
CYPRUS LOCUSTS.
BY A DWELLER IN THE EAST.
Everybody who has read anything about the East must be acquainted with
the plague of locusts. I distinctly remember that when a small boy I
was more impressed by the accounts of the enormous extent of their
flocks than with anything else my books could tell me. There was to me
something appalling, and at the same time attractive, in the swarms
stretching for miles, which obscured the sun, and devoured everything
green wherever they settled. It is difficult, if not impossible, for
any one brought up in our temperate regions to realise such a state
of things. We hear, to be sure, of damage done to crops at home; just
now, it is sparrows; not very long since it was game; next year it may
be something else; but in all these cases it is simply damage—perhaps
one per cent., or five per cent., or ten per cent. But with locusts
it means not damage, but destruction, or, better still, annihilation
of the crop. Fancy an English farmer turning out after breakfast and
admiring his six-acre field of wheat, deliciously green, about two feet
high. Fancy him, too, coming home to dinner at noon and seeing this
same field as bare as his hand. This is no exaggeration, but a plain
matter-of-fact illustration of what may be seen any spring where these
abominable insects abound. Once seen, it can never be forgotten.
I have had my recollection of these creatures and their ways revived by
a parliamentary paper entitled, ‘Report of the Locust Campaign of 1884,
by Mr S. Brown, Government Engineer, Cyprus.’ It gives the results of
the measures employed to stay the plague to which the island has for
ages been subject; and so far it is satisfactory enough. The locusts
have been put down, and for most people that is the chief point. I
notice that the _Times_ has devoted about half a column to the paper,
but has contented itself with simply copying the salient points, the
writer evidently knowing nothing of the subject. The paper itself
presupposes a knowledge of a certain nature, which no one except those
who are acquainted with the district can be expected to possess. I
venture, therefore, to supply the information necessary to a thorough
understanding of the subject.
Speaking as a dweller in the East, I may say that we have had the
locusts with us always. In the old old days, they were sent by the
gods; in less remote times, they were a dispensation of Providence.
They came and went, leaving lamentable traces of their progress. But
it was in the nature of things that it should be so, and nobody ever
thought of trying if something could not be done to stop their ravages.
Under Turkish rule, of course this feeling was intensified by the
fatalism peculiar to their faith. The locusts came of their own accord,
and went off in the same way; it was _kismet_, and there was nothing
to be done. But even Mohammedans in time cannot escape altogether the
influence of Western ideas, and some thirty years ago it occurred to
Osman Pasha, then governor of Cyprus, to try and make head against
the scourge which devastated the island. He was earnest in the cause,
but unfortunately died before measures could possibly have had any
effect. His successors, as a rule, talked a great deal, but, after the
manner of their race, did nothing. A tax was imposed on the peasants,
which was to be devoted to the purchase and destruction of locusts’
eggs. This was all very well; but as the officials helped themselves
to from fifty to ninety per cent. of the money collected, very little
impression was made on the swarms. And then, again, as three parts sand
and one part eggs did duty as eggs, it is not to be wondered at that
the insects were as plentiful as ever.
So things went on till about fifteen years ago, when Said Pasha
became governor. He kept on the system of buying eggs, but with this
important difference, that when he paid for eggs he saw that he got
them. He put some Europeans on the Commission of superintendence, had
the eggs stored, and authorised their destruction only after his
personal inspection. The proceedings were open to the light of day, and
everything was done to prevent imposition. The result was admirable; in
three years, locusts’ eggs were as valuable as those of the silkworm;
and in 1870, it was officially reported that the insect had ceased to
exist in Cyprus. This, however, proved to be an exaggeration. No doubt,
a great impression had been made; swarms were no longer to be met with
by the ordinary traveller; but it is plain that a good many did remain
in out-of-the-way and difficult districts.
In 1872 it was reported that locusts were reappearing. This was
pronounced to be a calumny, and the observers were referred to the
official Report, showing that the locust had ceased to exist in
Cyprus—which, of course, was conclusive! In 1875, however, denial
was no longer possible; no one with eyes in his head could doubt
the existence of countless myriads of plundering insects. Said
Pasha by this time had left the island, and his successor was of a
different character, and did nothing to stop their increase, which
accordingly went on unchecked till the British occupation in 1878. As
may be imagined, the question very soon engaged the attention of the
authorities, and a determined set was made against the creatures. In
the autumn of 1879, thirty-seven and a half tons of eggs were collected
and destroyed, and in the spring of that year an enormous number of
insects were trapped. In 1880 larger swarms than ever appeared, a
great many of which were trapped, and two hundred and thirty-six tons
of their eggs collected. In 1881 the locusts came in still greater
numbers, and in the autumn and winter, thirteen hundred and thirty
tons of eggs were destroyed. It was evident that what had been done
was a trifle; exceptional measures were declared to be necessary,
and preparations were accordingly made on a very large scale for the
campaign of 1882. It was shown that egg-collecting alone was not to
be depended upon. One may think that this affords the easiest means
of destruction, and so it does, if you can be sure of getting at all
the eggs. But the breeding-grounds are situated in remote and rugged
districts, to patrol which properly means a very large supply of
labour, and even then it becomes a mere question of eyesight, which
often fails. Up to a certain stage in its existence the insect creeps
but cannot fly, and it is then that it must be taken. Trapping the
non-flying insects is therefore the feature which forms the salient
matter of Mr Brown’s Report, but which will not be understood by the
public without explanation.
The Report opens with a statement of the material employed. This
consisted of two thousand canvas screens, each fifty yards long; one
hundred thousand five hundred square yards of canvas for screens;
twelve thousand six hundred and eleven square yards oilcloth; twenty
tons zinc for traps; and seventy-six thousand one hundred and
eighty-three stakes for the screens, besides cordage and other minor
articles. As the reports from the breeding districts came in, it was
thought this supply would prove insufficient, and Mr Brown therefore
caused one thousand additional screens to be made up, and three
thousand seven hundred and eighty traps of a new type to be cut out of
the zinc received from England. The total apparatus, therefore, when
operations began, amounted to eleven thousand and eighty-three screens,
each fifty yards long; and thirteen thousand and eight traps; with the
necessary complement of stakes, tools, and tents for labourers. To
give an idea of the total length of the screens, it may be mentioned,
that if stretched continuously they would form a line three hundred
and fifteen miles long, almost enough to encircle the whole island. In
order to work all this material, labour was necessary, and accordingly
contracts were made to a maximum of thirteen hundred and ninety-eight
labourers.
This is all very interesting; but what is the meaning of it? What are
screens? What is canvas wanted for? What do they do with oilcloth? And
what sort of traps do they make out of zinc? This is what Mr Brown does
not tell us, and this is exactly the information which I propose to
supply. The first step in the process is to begin with a little natural
history.
The female locust is provided with a sort of sword-like appendage, with
which she makes a hole in the ground, in which she deposits her eggs.
Over these she exudes a glutinous matter, which hardens by exposure, in
time forming a case impervious to wet, cold, or even fire, the whole
resembling a small silk cocoon. The number of eggs in each of these is
variously estimated; some say a hundred, others eighty; but Mr Brown by
actual experiment finds that the average may be taken at thirty-two,
and that the sexes are produced in about equal proportion. It is not
difficult, therefore, to calculate the rate of increase, allowing
fifty per cent. to be lost through the operation of natural causes,
birds, caterpillars, &c. A couple of locusts will thus produce sixteen
individuals or eight couples the first year; next year, the product
will be a hundred and twenty-eight, or sixty-four couples; the third
year, eight times that; and so on—a calculation which may be carried on
to any length you like, and which will explain the countless myriads
which everybody has heard of.
The female having performed her duty in reproducing her species, is of
no further use, and both she and her partner disappear—that is to say,
they both die. It is a popular belief in Cyprus that the male eats the
female and dies of the consequent indigestion. But a more scientific
explanation of the fact is, that as by the end of July—beyond which
locusts are never seen—everything green is burnt up by the sun, their
food fails, and they die of starvation. There is no mistake about their
death; every open pool of water is full of them, and the stench is
abominable, and one may walk along the coast for miles amongst their
dead bodies, washed up by the sea. The eggs remain in the ground till
hatched by the warmth of the spring sun, which brings them out early in
March. If the season should be cold or wet, the only effect is to delay
the hatching; the eggs never appear to get addled. At the beginning
of April this year the swarms were on the march, and operations
began, and were continued till the 13th of May, when all that were
left were on the wing. It is by taking advantage of the habits of the
creature that the greatest success in its destruction is achieved. The
young locusts as soon as they can crawl go in search of green food.
Impelled by this instinct, they go straight on, turning neither to
the right nor to the left. They are remarkably short of sense; they
can do nothing but follow their nose, and have not an idea of turning
a corner. If a locust on the march were to meet with a lamp-post, he
would never think of going round it, but would climb up to the top and
come down on the other side. It is by taking advantage of this steady
plodding perseverance that the arch-inventor Man makes the creature
work its own destruction. Some twenty years ago, Mr Richard Mattei, an
Italian gentleman, and large landed proprietor in Cyprus, made various
experiments, which have resulted in the employment of the screens and
traps which are mentioned in Mr Brown’s Report. The manner of operation
is as follows.
In early spring, it was reported to headquarters that one hundred and
thirty-three breeding-grounds had been discovered. Each of these was
therefore screened off by a ring-fence. The screens are formed of
canvas about two feet high, on the top of which are sewn about four
inches of oilcloth. These are arranged so as to form a zigzag with
angles of about one hundred and thirty-five degrees. At intervals,
pits are dug of a regulation size—a cubic yard—so as to facilitate
computation. The locusts on the march come up to the screen, climb up
the canvas, get on to the oilcloth, and straightway slip down. Nothing
daunted, they try again, again, and again, each time edging a little
nearer to the angle. Arriving here at last, they find a pit, into
which they fall or jump. Naturally, they climb up again; but find at
the top a framework of wood, lined on the inside with sheet-zinc, on
which they cannot walk, and consequently they fall back into the pit.
Imagine thousands of the creatures all doing this at the same time,
and the result will be, of course, that one-half smothers the other
half, and in its turn gets smothered by a few spadefuls of earth,
which the labourer, always on the watch, takes care to apply at the
proper moment. The pit is then full, and is counted as such in the
daily report. Mr Brown gives full details. The ‘full’ pits contained
a depth of eighteen inches of locusts; pits three-quarters, one-half,
one-quarter, and one-eighth full were returned as such, and when
reduced to ‘full’ pits, the total number amounted to fifteen thousand
nine hundred and nineteen. The whole number, however, of pits in which
locusts were trapped was twenty-six thousand and sixteen, and the total
number of pits dug far exceeded this.
Every pains was taken to arrive at a correct account of the number
of locusts thus destroyed, and the number for this year is set down
at the enormous total of fifty-six thousand one hundred and sixteen
millions. Last year the number was computed approximately at one
hundred and ninety-five thousand millions. With such a destruction,
it was believed that this year the swarms would be less; and this
anticipation was fully realised, less than one-third appearing of what
was visible in 1883. This is extremely satisfactory, when we find that
the swarms of 1883 were as numerous as those of 1882, which in their
turn greatly exceeded those of 1881. In fact, up to 1883 the locusts
had been gaining ground; now they are losing it; and it only needs
care and watchfulness on our part to thoroughly exterminate them,
or at anyrate to render them practically harmless. For if the locust
can only find food, it will not travel; they march simply in order to
get wherewith to support existence; and if they can find enough near
their birthplace, they will stop there. But of course this cannot be
allowed, when we think of their multiplication next year and the years
after. No; it is a question of war to the ‘pit.’ Efforts must not be
relaxed; the system of reports from the breeding districts will still
be continued; and the supply of screens and traps must always be ready
for use.
This year, the large supply of material was used in a much more
careful and methodical way than in any previous year. Some idea of the
extent of the operations may be gathered from the fact that in one
district—that of Tchingerli—there was a continuous line of screens
without a break for twenty-seven miles in length, arranged in three
great loops connected by a common centre. Another breeding-ground
was surrounded by screens sixteen miles long; and there were many
other similar cases. With screens thus fixed, with plenty of pits,
and with careful supervision, the destruction should be complete.
Accidents, however, will occur, some of which are preventable, whilst
others are not. Heavy rains and floods, for instance, swept away
some of the screens; and there were also cloudy and windy days, when
the locusts will not march, and of course will not fill the pits. No
doubt, occasion was taken on such days to help in the destruction by
manual labour; every little helps; and it is not difficult to slay
one’s thousands and tens of thousands when the victims are all close
together. It is not unusual to meet the creatures in a body a mile
wide and a mile deep. They are about an inch and a quarter long, and a
quarter of an inch wide, and march with an interval of about an inch,
progressing some half-mile a day.
One would think that the importance of information to headquarters
would be patent to everybody in the island; yet such is the apathy,
not to say stupidity, of some of the islanders, that Mr Brown was
surprised and disgusted to hear that whilst operations were at the
height, locusts had been discovered at the extreme east point of the
island, which had been reported free. Not only so, but no locusts had
existed within thirty-five miles, nor had any been seen flying in that
direction. Material was at once forwarded, but unfortunately too late,
as the insects had almost arrived at the flying stage, when nothing
can be done. One might as well try to reduce midges by squashing them
between the hands. The district was found to be only a small one—less
than half a mile in diameter. It may safely be left next year to Mr
Brown’s tender care.
What is the result of all this time, trouble, and expense? You could
traverse the locust area and see very few; whereas in May and June
of previous years you might ride through flights some of which would
cover an area of several square miles. The small number that are left
are thinly scattered over a comparatively small area, and as they find
sufficient food in the natural grasses, they do not migrate. This
year, up to August not a single flight has been seen, and best of all,
nothing has been heard of damage to the crops. It is calculated that
the survivors of this year do not amount to more than one per cent. of
those of last year. The problem, therefore, appears to be solved; all
that is necessary is a small annual expenditure to keep the material
and labour in working order.
ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.
CHAPTER XIV.
It was but a few minutes past seven o’clock when Jules tapped at the
door of Madame De Vigne’s boudoir. The summons was responded to by
Nanette. ‘Monsieur De Miravel’s compliments to Madame De Vigne, and
would she grant monsieur the honour of an interview for a few minutes?’
The answer came at once: ‘Madame De Vigne was ready to receive Monsieur
De Miravel.’
Daylight was waning, and although the Venetians were drawn half-way
up the windows, the room was in twilight. To De Miravel it seemed
almost in darkness as he went in; but in a few moments his eyes became
more accustomed to the semi-obscurity, and he then perceived his wife
standing in the middle of the floor—a tall, black-robed figure, crowned
by a face whose extreme pallor, seen by that half-light, would have
seemed like that of a dead woman, but for the two large, intensely
glowing eyes which lighted it up.
After his first momentary hesitation, De Miravel advanced a few steps
and made one of his elaborate bows. Madame De Vigne responded by a
grave inclination of her head, and motioning her visitor to a chair,
sat down herself on an ottoman some distance away. In the silence, not
yet broken by either of them, they heard the low, far-away muttering of
thunder among the hills.
De Miravel was the first to speak. ‘I am desolated, madame, to have
been under the necessity of seeking this interview,’ he said. ‘But I
have been waiting, waiting, waiting till I have grown tired. I am tired
of being here alone in this great hotel, where I know no one. It is
now two days since I spoke to you. You know my proposition. _Eh bien!_
I choose to wait no longer; I am here for your answer.’ He spoke the
last words with a kind of snarl, which for the moment brought his long,
white, wolfish-looking teeth prominently into view.
‘As you say, I am fully acquainted with your proposition,’ answered
Mora in cold, quiet, unfaltering tones. ‘But you know well how hateful
to me are the conditions which you wish to impose. I think I made that
point clear to you on Wednesday.’
‘You were in a passion on Wednesday. I heeded not what you said.’
‘But I meant every word that I said. In view of that fact, and knowing
what you know—may I ask whether in the interim you have not seen some
way by which those conditions may be modified—some way by which,
without injury to what you conceive to be your interests, they may be
made less objectionable to me?’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘You are only wasting my time and
yours,’ he said. ‘When I have said a thing, I mean it. As the
conditions were on Wednesday, even so they are now—altered in nothing.
If you cannot comply with them, tell me so at once, and at once I will
seek out Sir William. Ah ha! Mademoiselle Clarice had better wait
awhile before she orders the robe for her wedding!’
She heard him apparently unmoved. There was not a flash, not as much
as a flicker to be seen of the passion which had so possessed her on
Wednesday. Her quietude surprised him, and rendered him vaguely uneasy.
‘Consider, Laroche—before it is too late.’
‘Too late?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘_Peste!_ What can she mean?’
‘You know how utterly impossible it is that I should live with you
for one day, or even one hour, as your wife,’ continued Mora. ‘You
know that I would sooner seek a refuge in the dark waters of yonder
lake. Why, then, strive to make a desperate woman more desperate? And
my sister!—she has never harmed you, she does not even know of your
existence. Why try to wreck the happiness of her life, as you wrecked
mine? Why try to shatter the fair future that lies before her? To do
so can in nowise benefit you. Consider—think again before you finally
decide. Have pity on this child, even though you have none on me. Ah,
Laroche, you never had a sister, or you would know something of that
which I feel!’
‘This is child’s play,’ he exclaimed with a sneer. ‘We are wasting
time. A strong man makes use of others to effect his ends. I make use
of you and your sister. I have said.’ He was convinced by this time
that her quietude was merely that of despair—the quietude of a criminal
who submits to the hands of the executioner.
‘Listen, Laroche!’ she continued in the same icy, impassive tones.
‘Although I am not what the world calls rich, I am not without means,
as you are aware. Give me your promise to leave England, and never to
seek out or in any way annoy either my sister or me, and half of all
I am possessed of shall be settled upon you. It will be an income for
life which nothing can rob you of.’
An eager, greedy light leaped into his eyes. ‘What do you call an
income, dear madame?’ he said. ‘How many thousand francs a year would
you be prepared to settle on your brave Hector?’
‘Six thousand francs a year would be about half my income.’
‘Six thousand francs! And my wife’s sister married to the son of one of
the richest _milords_ in England! _Chut!_ Do you take your Hector for
an imbecile?’ He rose, crossed to the pier-glass over the chimneypiece,
adjusted his scarf in front of it, and then went back to his chair.
‘Do you know what is now the great ambition of your Hector’s life?’ he
asked, gazing fixedly at her out of his half-shut eyes. ‘But no—how
should you? Listen, then, and I will tell you. It is to be introduced
to two, three, or more of the great London clubs where they occupy
themselves with what you English call “high play.” Sir William or his
son shall introduce me—when I am of their family. Six thousand francs a
year! _Parbleu!_ when once I have the _entrée_ to two or three of the
_cercles_ I speak of, my income will be nearer sixty than six thousand
francs a year.’
‘If such are your views, if this is the course you are determined to
pursue, I am afraid that any further appeal by me would be utterly
thrown away.’
‘Utterly thrown away, _ma belle_, an absolute waste of time, as I said
before.’
‘I felt convinced from the first that it would be so.’
‘Ah! Then why amuse yourself at my expense in the way you have?’
‘It was not by way of amusing myself that I appealed to you, but for
the ease of my conscience in the days yet to come.’
He stared at her suspiciously for a moment or two, then he said with a
shrug: ‘I do not comprehend you.’
She rose and pushed back her chair. ‘There is nothing more to be said.
I need not detain you further.’
He too rose, but for once he was evidently nonplussed. ‘Nothing more to
be said?’ he remarked after a pause. ‘It seems to me that there is much
more to be said. I have not yet had your answer to the proposition I
laid before you on Wednesday last.’
‘I thought you understood. But if you want my answer in a few plain
words, you shall have it.’
In the twilight he could see her clear shining eyes gazing steadily and
fearlessly into his. Craven fears began to flutter round his heart.
‘Hector Laroche, you have lost much time and put yourself to much
trouble and expense in hunting down a woman whose life, years ago, you
made a burden almost too bitter for her to bear—and all to no purpose.
You have found me; what then? You have made a proposition to me so
utterly vile as altogether to defeat your own ends. From this hour I
know you not. I will never see or speak to you again. It will be at
your peril to attempt to molest me. I have friends who will see that I
suffer no harm at your hands. There is the door. Begone!’
‘Ho, ho!’ he cried with an hyena-like snarl. ‘You bid me begone, do
you? _Eh bien!_ I must not disobey a lady’s commands. I will go—but it
shall be in search of Sir William.’
‘Your search need not take you far; Sir William Ridsdale is here, under
this roof.’
Laroche could not repress a start of surprise. He was still staring
at Mora like a man at an utter loss what to say next, when a tap was
heard at the door, which was followed a moment later by the entrance of
Nanette: ‘Sir William Ridsdale has sent word to say that he should like
to see Monsieur De Miravel as soon as that gentleman is at liberty to
wait upon him.’
‘Monsieur De Miravel is at liberty to wait upon Sir William at once,’
said Madame De Vigne in clear, staccato tones.—‘Nanette, conduct
monsieur to Sir William’s apartment.’
Laroche scowled at her for a moment. Then he said in a low voice: ‘Do
you set me at defiance? Is it really that I am to tell Sir William
everything?’
‘Yes; I set you at defiance. Tell Sir William all that you know.
_Scélerat!_ do your worst.’
The scowl on his face deepened; his lips twitched, but no sound came
from them. Madame De Vigne’s finger pointed to the open door at which
Nanette was standing. Laroche turned on his heel and walked out of the
room with the air of a whipped cur.
* * * * *
By this time it was nearly dark; the evening was close and sultry;
distant thunder reverberated among the hills; there was the menace of a
storm in the air. The grounds of the hotel were deserted, and just at
present the house was as quiet as though it were some lonely country
mansion, instead of a huge hostelry overflowing with guests. It was
the hour consecrated to one of the most solemn duties of existence,
and, with few exceptions, the flock of more or less hungry birds of
passage were engaged in the pleasing process of striving to recuperate
exhausted nature by means of five courses and a dessert.
Nanette, after conducting Laroche to Sir William’s room, was on her way
back to light the lamp in her mistress’s boudoir, when, as she turned a
corner of the corridor, she was suddenly confronted by Jules, between
whom and herself, as being of the same nationality, a pleasant little
flirtation was already in full swing. The meeting was so sudden and the
corridor so dusky, that the girl started, and a low cry broke from her
lips.
‘Hist! do not make a noise, I beg of you, ma’amselle,’ whispered Jules;
‘but tell me, is madame in her room and alone?’ His face looked very
pale in the twilight, and Nanette could see that he was strangely moved.
‘Madame is in her room, but she is indisposed, and cannot see any one
this evening—unless,’ she added archly, a moment after, ‘the business
of monsieur with her is of very, very great importance.’
‘Ah, believe me, dear ma’amselle, it is of the very greatest
importance. Do not delay, I beg of you! Any moment I may be missed from
the _salle_ and asked for. Tell madame that the affair I want to see
her upon is one of life and death.’
The girl stared at him for a moment, and then went.
He stole noiselessly after her and waited outside the door. Presently
the door opened, and Nanette beckoned to him to enter. He went in, and
found himself alone with Madame De Vigne.
‘Pardon the question, madame,’ said Jules; ‘but may I ask whether the
gentleman—Monsieur De Miravel he calls himself—who left this room a few
minutes ago is a friend of madame?’
Madame became suddenly interested. ‘I have been acquainted with the
person you name for a great number of years,’ she replied after a
moment’s hesitation.
‘Madame would not like any harm to happen to Monsieur De Miravel?’
‘Harm? No; certainly not. I should not like harm to happen to any one.
But your question is a strange one. Tell me why you ask it.’
‘I ask it, because Monsieur De Miravel is in danger of his life.’
‘Ah!’ Her heart gave a great leap; she turned suddenly dizzy, and had
to support herself against the table.
‘I have told this to madame in order that she may warn Monsieur De
Miravel, should she think well to do so. If he wishes to save his
life, he must leave here at once—to-night; to-morrow may be too late.’
Mora was thoroughly bewildered. What she had just been told had the
effect of a stunning blow upon her; it had come so suddenly that for a
little while her mind failed to realise the full meaning of the words.
‘What you have just told me is so strange and terrible,’ she said at
last, ‘that you cannot wonder if I ask you for further particulars. You
assert that M. De Miravel’s life is in danger. What is it that he has
done? What crime has he committed, that nothing less than his death can
expiate?’
Jules slowly drew in his breath with an inspiration that sounded like a
sigh. What he was about to tell must be told in a whisper. ‘Throughout
Europe, as madame may be aware, there are certain secret Societies and
propaganda, which, although known by various designations, have nearly
all one great end in view. Of one such Society Monsieur De Miravel is,
and has been for the last dozen years, an affiliated member. Nearly a
year ago, several brothers of the Society were arrested, tried, and
sentenced to long terms of imprisonment. Certain features of the trial
proved conclusively that the arrests were the result of information
given by a spy. There was a traitor in the camp; but who was he? That
question has at length been answered. It has been proved beyond a doubt
that the traitor is the man who calls himself Monsieur De Miravel. The
sentence on all traitors is death. De Miravel has been condemned to
die.’
‘This is horrible,’ murmured Mora.
‘It is simple justice, madame.’
‘Has Monsieur De Miravel any knowledge or suspicion of the terrible
fate to which he has been condemned?’
‘None. How should he have, madame?’
Mora remained lost in thought for a few moments; then she said: ‘It
seems strange that you, in the position you occupy, should know all
that you have told me, and yet Monsieur De Miravel himself should know
nothing.’
Jules lifted his shoulders almost imperceptibly. ‘It may seem strange
to madame; but it is not so in reality. I, Jules Decroze, the poor
_garçon_, am a humble brother of that Society which has condemned the
traitor De Miravel to die. I, too, am affiliated to the sacred cause.’
‘You! Oh!’ Involuntarily she moved a step or two farther away.
Jules spread out his hands with a little gesture of deprecation.
‘I hope you don’t run any risk yourself in telling me what you have
told me this evening?’ said Mora after a few seconds of silence.
‘If it were known that I had broken my oath, as I have broken it but
now, I should be sentenced to the same fate as De Miravel. But that
matters not. I have long owed madame a debt of gratitude; to-night I
have endeavoured to pay it.’
‘You have more, far more than paid it. You may have broken your oath,
as you say, but you have done all that lay in your power to save a
fellow-creature’s life.’
‘For your sake, madame—not for his, the traitor!’ muttered Jules.
If Mora heard, she took no notice. ‘You must not remain here another
moment,’ she said. ‘You have run too much risk already. Perhaps I may
be able to have a few words with you in private to-morrow. You say that
Monsieur De Miravel must go away at once—to-night?’
‘At once. If he lingers here over to-morrow’—— He ended with one of his
expressive shrugs.
Mora shuddered. ‘Suppose he refuses to believe what I tell him, and
puts it down as an invention for the purpose of frightening him away?’
‘If madame will say these words to him, “_The right hand of the Czar is
frozen_,” Monsieur De Miravel will know that she speaks the truth.’
A moment later the door opened and closed noiselessly, and Mora was
alone.
CHAPTER XV.
When Hector Laroche was ushered into Sir William Ridsdale’s room, his
eyes blinked involuntarily. The change from the dusky twilight outside
to the brilliantly lighted apartment in which he now found himself
fairly dazzled him for the first few seconds.
There were but two people in the room. At a large square table, covered
with papers and documents written and printed, sat the baronet. At a
smaller table, a little distance away, and busily writing, sat Colonel
Woodruffe—‘the man of the portrait,’ as Laroche muttered to himself the
moment his eyes lighted on him. Was it possible that this other man,
this white-haired gentleman, whose gaze was bent so keenly on him from
under his bushy brows, was the great Sir William himself? He remembered
to have seen this person on more than one occasion walking about the
grounds in the company of Miss Loraine, but he had never troubled
himself to inquire whom he might be. If he were really Sir William,
then had he been at the hotel for two or three days, and he, Laroche,
had never discovered that fact. What a blunder!
The Frenchman placed his right hand over his heart and bowed
obsequiously; then he advanced with slow, cat-like movements towards
the table, but came to a stand while he was yet some three or four
paces away. The keen eyes of the white-haired gentleman, fixed so
persistently on him, made him feel dreadfully uncomfortable. He had a
great dislike to being stared at in that way.
‘You are Hector Laroche, _ex-déporté_ No. 897; and I am Sir William
Ridsdale.’
For once his start of surprise was thoroughly genuine. ‘How! Monsieur
knows’——
‘Everything. Madame De Vigne has disclosed to me the whole dreadful
story of her married life. Her I pity from the bottom of my heart; but
for you, scoundrel, I have no feeling save one of utter loathing and
contempt!’
‘Monsieur’—— whined Laroche with an indescribable writhing of his long
lean body.
‘Silence, fellow!’ said Sir William sternly. ‘It is for you to listen,
and not to speak.’ He rose and crossed to Colonel Woodruffe and spoke
to him in a low voice.
The baronet returned to his seat. ‘It is not my intention to say a
great deal to you, Monsieur Laroche,’ resumed Sir William; ‘I wish to
rid myself of your presence as soon as may be; and what I have to say
will be very much to the purpose.’
Laroche writhed again, but did not speak. Events had taken a turn so
utterly unexpected by him, the ground had been so completely cut from
under his feet, that he seemed to have nothing left to say.
‘Madame De Vigne is an Englishwoman, and as such is entitled to the
protection of the laws of her country. The first point I wish you
clearly to understand is, that her income is settled strictly upon
herself, and that you are not entitled to claim so much as a single
franc of her money. This time, at least, you will not be allowed to
rob her, as you did once before. The second point I wish you clearly
to understand is, that if you in any way harm, molest, or annoy Madame
De Vigne or her sister, you will very quickly find yourself within
the walls of an English prison, where you will be able to meditate on
your folly at your leisure. This is a matter which Madame De Vigne’s
friends will look to particularly, consequently I warn you in time.
And now, having proved all this to you, I am induced, by certain
considerations which in nowise affect you, to make you an offer which
you will probably see the wisdom of accepting. The conditions of my
offer are these: You shall at once quit England and never set foot in
it again; you shall neither write to Madame De Vigne nor seek to hold
any communication of any kind whatever with her or any one connected
with her. In return for your faithful obedience to these instructions,
you shall be paid an annuity of three thousand francs a year. The sum
shall be paid you in quarterly instalments by my Paris agent, to whom
you will present yourself in person once every three months. When you
cease to present yourself, it shall be considered either that you no
longer care to claim the annuity or that you are dead. Such is the
offer I have to make you, Monsieur Laroche; you can either accept it or
decline it at your own good pleasure; for my own part I care not which
you do.’
Three thousand francs a year! was Laroche’s first thought. Why,
scarcely half an hour ago, his wife had offered him just double the
amount on precisely the same terms, and he had laughed in her face.
Imbecile that he had been!
Coward though he was at heart, as nearly all braggarts are, if Laroche
just then had happened to possess a revolver, he would have felt
strongly tempted to make use of it and risk the consequences. How he
hated those two men!—one white-haired, smiling, benevolent-looking,
as he had seen him walking about the grounds, but with such a hand of
iron hidden in his velvet glove; the other stern, impassive, coldly
contemptuous, who had taken no more notice of him during the interview
than if he were a dog. Yes, he hated them both with the ferocious
hatred of a tiger balked of the prey in which its claws are already
fixed.
This other man he felt nearly sure was in love with his wife; and he
was just as certain that Mora De Vigne was in love with him. Even at a
time like that, it thrilled him with a malicious joy to think that so
long as he, Laroche, was alive they could never be more to each other
than they were now. Perhaps if he had not appeared on the scene till a
month or two later, they might have been married by that time. If he
had only known—if he had only had the slightest suspicion that such was
the state of affairs, he would have kept carefully in the background
till the newly wedded couple should have returned from their honeymoon,
and then have made himself known. That would have been a revenge worthy
of the name. But now——
Sir William’s voice recalled him to realities. ‘Perhaps you wish for a
little time before you make up your mind?’ he said.
Laroche shook his head. His nimble brain had already taken in the
altered state of affairs; he saw that the day had gone hopelessly
against him, that the battle was lost, and that the only thing left him
to do was to accept from the conquerors the best terms that he could
induce them to offer. If only he had not refused that six thousand
francs! But to a man in his position even three thousand francs a year
was better, infinitely better, than nothing. It would at least suffice
to find him in absinth and cigarettes, and would serve to blunt the
keen edge of chronic impecuniosity.
‘Three thousand francs a year, Sir William! It is a bagatelle—a mere
bagatelle.’
‘Take it or leave it.’
The Frenchman spread out his hands and drew his shoulders up nearly to
his ears. ‘_Ma foi!_ I have no choice. I must accept.’
‘In that case, nothing more need be said, except that you will leave
here by the first train to-morrow morning. Here is a bank-note with
which to defray the expenses of your journey; and here is the address
of my agent, on whom you will please call on Wednesday morning next,
by which time he will be in receipt of my instructions.’ Sir William
pushed the note and the address across the table in the direction of
Laroche as though the latter were some plague-stricken creature with
whom he was fearful of coming into closer contact.
The Frenchman advanced a step or two, picked up the papers, and put
them away slowly and carefully inside his pocket-book, looking the
baronet full in the eyes as he did so. His teeth were hard set, and
his breath came and went with a fuller rise and fall than usual, but
otherwise there was nothing to betray the tempest of passion at work
within him. When he had put his pocket-book away again, and still with
his eyes bent full on the baronet, he said in a low, deep voice: ‘It
is possible, Sir William, that we may some day meet again.’ Then with
a nod, that might mean much or that might have no meaning at all, he
turned and walked slowly out of the room.
The Frenchman found Nanette waiting for him in the corridor. ‘If
you please, monsieur, my mistress desires to see you in her room
immediately on a matter of much importance.’
‘Can it be that she is going to renew the offer of the six thousand
francs?’ was the first question that Laroche asked himself. Checkmated
at every turn though he had been, and though all his fine castles in
the air had come tumbling about his ears, he began to hope that more
might be saved from the wreck than had seemed probable only a few
minutes ago, and it was not without a certain revival of spirits and a
certain return to his old braggadocio manner that he followed Nanette
to Madame De Vigne’s room. Just as he was passing the staircase window,
the lightning’s lurid scroll unrolled itself for an instant against
the walls of blackness outside. Laroche shuddered, he knew not why. A
moment or two later he found himself once more in the presence of his
wife. In the interim, the lamp had been lighted and the curtains drawn.
A FEW NOTES ON PERSIAN ART.
The limner’s art in Persia has few patrons, and the professional
draughtsman of the present day in that country must needs be an
enthusiast, and an art-lover for art’s sake, as his remuneration is so
small as to be a mere pittance; and the man who can live by his brush
must be clever indeed. The Persians are an eminently practical people,
and buy nothing unless it be of actual utility; hence the artist has
generally to sink to the mere decorator; and as all, even the very
rich, expect a great deal for a little money, the work must be scamped
in order to produce a great effect for a paltry reward. The artists,
moreover, are all self-taught, or nearly so, pupilage merely consisting
of the drudgery of preparing the canvas, panel, or other material for
the master, mixing the colours, filling in backgrounds, varnishing,
&c. There are no schools of art, no lectures, no museums of old or
contemporary masters, no canons of taste, no drawing from nature or the
model, no graduated studies, or system of any kind. There is, however,
a certain custom of adhering to tradition and the conventional;
and most of the art-workmen of Iran, save the select few, are mere
reproducers of the ideas of their predecessors.
The system of perspective is erroneous; but neither example nor
argument can alter the views of a Persian artist on this subject.
Leaving aside the wonderful blending of colours in native carpets,
tapestries, and embroideries, all of which improve by the toning
influence of age, the modern Persian colourist is remarkable for his
skill in the constant use of numerous gaudy and incongruous colours,
yet making one harmonious and effective whole, which surprises us by
its daring, but compels our reluctant admiration.
Persian pictorial art is original, and it is cheap; the wages of a
clever artist are about one shilling and sixpence a day. In fact, he is
a mere day-labourer, and his terms are, so many days’ pay for a certain
picture. In this pernicious system of time-work lies the cause of the
scamping of many really ingenious pieces of work.
As a copyist the Persian is unrivalled; he has a more than Chinese
accuracy of reproduction; every copy is a fac-simile of its original,
the detail being scamped, or the reverse, according to the scale of
payment. In unoriginal work, such as the multiplication of some
popular design, a man will pass a lifetime, because he finds it pay
better to do this than to originate. This kind of unoriginal decoration
is most frequent in the painted mirror cases and book-covers, the
designs of which are ancient; and the painter merely reproduces the
successful and popular work of some old and forgotten master.
But where the Persian artist shines is in his readiness to undertake
any style or subject; geometrical patterns—and they are very clever
in originating these; scroll-work scenes from the poets; likenesses,
miniatures, paintings of flowers or birds; in any media, on any
substance, oils, water, or enamel, and painting on porcelain; all are
produced with rapidity, wonderful spirit, and striking originality. In
landscape, the Persian is very weak; and his attempts at presenting the
nude, of which he is particularly fond, are mostly beneath contempt. A
street scene will be painted in oils and varnished to order ‘in a week’
on a canvas a yard square, the details of the painting desired being
furnished in conversation. While the patron is speaking, the artist
rapidly makes an outline sketch in white paint; and any suggested
alterations are made in a few seconds by the facile hand of the _ustad
nakosh_ (master-painter), a term used to distinguish the artist from
the mere portrait-painter or _akkas_, a branch of the profession
much despised by the artists, a body of men who consider their art a
mechanical one, and their guild no more distinguished than those of
other handicraftsmen.
A Persian artist will always prefer to reproduce rather than originate,
because, as a copy will sell for the same price as an original, by
multiplication more money can be earned in a certain time, than by the
exercise of originality. Rarely, among the better class of artists,
is anything actually out of drawing; the perspective is of course
faulty, and resembles that of early specimens of Byzantine art. Such
monstrosities as the making the principal personages giants, and the
subsidiaries dwarfs, are common; while the beauties are represented as
much bejewelled; but this is done to please the buyer’s taste, and the
artist knows its absurdity. There is often considerable weakness as
to the rendering of the extremities; but as the Persian artist never
draws, save in portraiture, from the life, this is not to be wondered
at.
The writer has before him a fair instance of the native artist’s
rendering of the scene at the administration of the bastinado. This
picture is an original painting in oils, twenty-four inches by sixteen,
on _papier-mâché_. The details were given to the artist by the writer
in conversation, sketched by him in white paint on the _papier-mâché_
during the giving of the order, in the course of half an hour; and the
finished picture was completed, varnished, and delivered in a week. The
price paid for this original work in oils in 1880 was seven shillings
and sixpence. The costumes are quite accurate in the minutest detail;
the many and staring colours employed are such as are in actual use;
while the general _mise en scène_ is very correct.
Many similar oil-paintings were executed for the writer by Persian
artists, giving graphic renderings of the manners and customs of this
little-known country. They were always equally spirited, and minutely
correct as to costume and detail, at the same low price; a small
present for an extraordinarily successful performance gladdening the
heart of the artist beyond his expectations.