PASTORAL AND TRAGEDY.
The morrow, March 2d, was Sunday, and with it came a change to soft and
sunny weather. As Dick soon learned, this was a day to bring Parisians
out into the fields; a day on which the people would go to church and
then to pleasure, in their gayest clothes; a day on which a stranger
entering Paris in Dick's circumstances would be out of harmony with the
general picture. Moreover, gladdened by the unexpected foretaste of
spring, St. Denis itself looked charming. Therefore, Dick decided to
postpone the long-anticipated entrance till Monday.
He went in the morning to the famous abbey church where the kings of
France were buried; and after that he walked to the banks of the Seine,
whose waters sparkled in the sunlight or flowed green beneath the trees
along the edge. Doing as he saw some others do, Dick hired a boat, with
a boatman, and started to row up the Seine,--that is to say, southward,
towards St. Ouen and the more immediate environs of Paris.
Keeping to the right or eastern bank of the river, the boat had reached
a place between an island and a terraced park, when it was suddenly run
into by a larger craft, which contained a pleasure party rowing down the
river. Dick's boat was upset, and himself thrown out in such a way that
he had to dive to save his head from collision. He made a few powerful
strokes under water, to put himself clear of the boats, and when he came
to the surface he found that his boatman had been taken aboard by the
pleasure party and was proceeding down the river, the smaller boat in
tow. There was evidently no intention, on any one's part, to pick up
Dick.
"French politeness, in the lower classes, is so thick on the top that
there's none left at bottom," thought Dick, thus abandoned; and then he
struck out for the noble park that rose on the right bank of the river.
Thanks to the evergreens among its trees, and to its grass streaked here
and there with sunshine, this park had even now a verdant appearance,
and it was made inviting by little pavilions and summer-houses here and
there, and by glimpses of a charming chateau in its midst.
Dick had no sooner clambered ashore and risen to let the water drip from
his clothes, than a slender girl, eleven years old, came out of a
summer-house, carrying a cane, as was the fashion of the time, and
accompanied on one side by a footman who held a parasol over her, and
on the other by a large, bounding black dog. She had an extremely
intelligent face, the hair turning back from a thoughtful forehead. Her
manner and, as Dick soon found out, her speech were those of a woman
twice her age.
"Monsieur has been emulating Leander," said this young lady of eleven,
the instant she was within speaking distance of Dick, one glance of her
fine eyes having enabled her to estimate him to her own satisfaction.
Surprised at such a speech, made with such nonchalance by such a child,
Dick gazed for a moment in silence. She bore his gaze with perfect
sang-froid. So he said, smiling:
"It would be worth while, if mademoiselle were the daughter of Sestos."
"Has monsieur swum all the way from England?" asked the girl, evidently
to show that she recognized his way of speaking French.
"Mademoiselle mistakes, doubtless for the first time in her life," said
Dick. "I am an American, and if I have not swum all the way from
America, I am at least as wet as if I had."
"Monsieur is indeed a veritable rain-storm. Alphonse, show monsieur to a
room where he may dry his clothes. If he went home in them as they are,
he might catch cold,--America is some distance away. You may leave me
alone,--yonder comes Monsieur Marmontel."
The footman, resigning to her the parasol at a gesture, immediately led
Dick, over gravel walks flanked by lime-trees and foliage, to a side
entrance of the handsome house, and thence up-stairs to a chamber, in
which another servant soon started a fire. After taking off his clothes
to dry them, Dick donned a dressing-gown brought him by the footman. The
chamber having been placed entirely at his service, he made use of its
toilet articles to restore his best appearance. This done, and his
clothes dried, he put them on again, and went out the way he had come,
looking around, when he reached the front of the house, for some one to
thank.
"The weather has changed as to monsieur," came a voice from a clump of
shrubs, and the girl stepped into view, attended, as before, by the
footman.
"It is true, mademoiselle. I no longer weep tears of Seine water.
Instead, I smile in my heart with gratitude. May I know to whom my
thanks are due? I am--"
"No, no, do not say who you are! One is far more interesting who remains
unknown, and I am dying to meet an interesting person."
"I am sure mademoiselle would remain interesting, even if I knew her
name."
"No, for as long as you don't know me I shall be just as interesting to
you as your imagination can make me. Besides, the luxury of being
unknown, at St. Ouen, where everybody knows me, is refreshing. It makes
me seem another person."
She had led the way farther from the chateau while talking, and now she
sat down on a rustic bench, and motioned Alphonse to take away the
parasol. Dick saw no reason for an immediate departure, so he stood
behind the bench, looking now at the girl, now at the large trees on the
terrace.
"Do you know, an idea has come to me," said the girl, when Alphonse had
taken his station some distance away. The dog now came bursting through
some leafless foliage, and stood beside her, receiving her light
caresses while the conversation went on.
"If ideas are as uncommon in France as they are elsewhere," said Dick,
"you will be famous."
"I shall doubtless be famous some day, but not through this idea. It is
not original. The Abbe Raynal and I used to amuse ourselves by means of
it, but I knew all the while that he was the Abbe Raynal, and he knew
that I was Germaine--_mon Dieu_, I nearly spoiled all by telling my
name!"
"Germaine," repeated Dick. "I shall remember that, at least."
"I give you permission to remember it, only on condition that you
promise not to find out who I am, or whose house this is."
"Very well. After all, I like mystery. I promise."
"So much the better. This is the idea. When I was younger, I used to
have a little make-believe theatre, with miniature actors that I cut out
of paper. The Abbe overheard me one day rehearsing them in a little
comedy I had written, and offered to act with me whatever pieces
required only two characters. We began with a piece containing a
shepherd and a shepherdess, and, from acting that, we went a step
farther, and continued to pretend that we were the shepherds, carrying
out the illusion without premeditated speech or action. The Abbe had
done similar things at Sceaux, in the time of the Duchess du Maine."
"I have read of the French nobility having amused themselves in that
way," said Dick.
"Yes, when all the world was reading 'Astree,' and a hundred years
later, when Watteau and the opera brought shepherds into fashion again,"
replied this youthful prodigy of information. "It was a charming
amusement, was it not? But the trouble was, when we attempted it, that
no amount of imagination could transform the Abbe, with his 'History of
the Two Indies' in mind, into a shepherd. You understand, I knew him so
well. But you, of whom I know nothing, and who have come into my view in
so strange a manner--"
"More like a river god than like a shepherd," commented Dick.
"Oh, shepherds often fell into brooks! Nothing could be more in
character. Well, we are to play that you are a shepherd called--not
Celadon; we sha'n't take our names from d'Urfe,--let me think--"
"Silvius," suggested Dick, remembering the shepherds of Arden, in
Shakespeare.
"Yes, Silvius is a good name. And I shall be Amaryllis."
"And where are the sheep?"
"We shall have to imagine the sheep at present, though I can obtain some
easily enough. Well, you shall come every day in a boat, in the
afternoon, and I will be waiting somewhere near the place at which you
landed this morning."
"And must I come as wet as I was this morning?"
"No. You shall be a dry shepherd hereafter. Come about two o'clock, if
the weather is clear; but remember, I am not to know where you come
from, or whither you go when you leave, any more than you are to know
who I am. Now, that is all settled! Till to-morrow, Silvius!"
"But how am I to get home to-day? Would you have me swim?"
"No. Alphonse will show you out by the gate to-day, and you can go by
land to your lodge,--remember, shepherds dwell in lodges. But after
this you will come in a boat, and leave it at the shore to return by.
So, till to-morrow, Silvius!"
"Till to-morrow, Amaryllis!" said Dick, with a bow not very
shepherd-like. Obedient to a word from the girl, Alphonse, who had
heeded nothing of her talk if he had heard it, conducted Dick past the
house and through more of the park, to a gate, which opened on a
tree-lined avenue. Dick turned to the left, and a walk of about a mile
and a half brought him to St. Denis, where he dined and spent the rest
of the day thinking of his odd adventure.
He found himself looking forward to the next day with pleasure. The
bright face and the expressive eyes seemed to draw him back towards St.
Ouen. He could not get them out of his mind. The knowledge of their
proximity gave the whole neighborhood a new life and charm. He no longer
wished to hasten from that neighborhood. Paris no longer lured him as
with irresistible seductions. He found it now quite easy to tarry at the
very threshold of the city.
"Can it be possible," he thought, "that I am falling in love with this
child?"
He knew not that men twice and thrice his age--great men, whose names
sounded through the world of philosophy and letters--had asked
themselves the same question, regarding the same child.
The next morning, Dick visited one or two small shops in St. Denis, and
added to his meagre supply of linen, handkerchiefs, and hosiery.
Considering the small stock of money he had left, this was a piece of
extravagance, but he counted on immediate employment by Mr. Franklin, on
reaching Paris. Such is the confidence of youth.
In the afternoon he hired a boat, this time without a boatman, and rowed
alone to the appointed landing-place. As soon as he had made his boat
fast, he saw his shepherdess approaching down the terrace, herself
carrying the parasol, the footman standing back within hearing distance.
"Good day, Amaryllis!" he called out.
"Good day, Silvius! Follow me to my lodge." She led the way to a rustic
open summer-house veiled by a clump of trees, the smaller ones forming a
semicircle that enclosed a sunlit, grassy space descending gradually
from the summer-house to a row of shrubs that grew along the river.
"This is my lodge," she said, sitting on the bench that ran around the
inside of the structure.
Dick sat on the step at the entrance, near her feet, and said, glancing
at the clear space before them:
"I see your lodge is situated so that you can sit in it and keep your
sheep in sight while they graze."
"Yes, this spot is their favorite pasture, as you can see."
Dick looked at the invisible sheep dotting the clean sward. "So I
perceive. But let me understand. Is this flock yours alone, or are my
sheep also here?"
"Oh, you have left your flock on your own hillside, and have come up the
stream to see me. Neglectful shepherd!"
"When a shepherd neglects his own sheep, and hies to the lodge of a
neighboring shepherdess, you know what it is a sign of," said Dick.
"It is a sign that he likes to gossip."
"No; it is a sign that Cupid is at work."
Amaryllis blushed ever so slightly, but seemed pleased, and did not lose
her composure. "Well, to be sure, that is what invariably occurs between
shepherds and shepherdesses. I suppose there is no way of getting around
it."
"Not when Amaryllis is the shepherdess, by Jupiter!" said Dick, with
genuine enthusiasm.
So the game went on, and, whether or not it was all fun with Amaryllis,
it soon became half in earnest with Silvius. By a miracle, the balmy
weather, a premature promise of spring, lasted a week. Every day Silvius
came to the tryst, and, when he did not find Amaryllis waiting, he had
not long to wait for her. They strolled along the wooded banks of the
Seine, fancying those banks to be now those of the Lignon, now those of
the Tiber, now those of some Hellenic or Sicilian stream.
Sometimes a dainty luncheon, set out in the lodge or under the trees,
varied the monotony of this shepherd life. Sometimes the conversation
rose far out of the ken of ordinary shepherds, and invaded such subjects
as philosophy and religion, sentiment and the passions, art and letters,
music and the drama. Amaryllis described the acting of LeKain, and
Silvius gave an account of the last appearance of Garrick, which Dick
had witnessed from the first gallery of Drury Lane Theatre the previous
June 10th, when the English actor played "Don Felix" in "The Wonder" and
made a farewell speech that drew tears from himself and his brilliant
audience. But Dick learned far more than he could impart. His week of
make-believe pastoral was an education, and did more to fit him for the
fine world than all his former years had done. Of course that week had
results of the heart as well as of the intellect.
One afternoon, the second Tuesday of their acquaintance, after they had
sat some time at the lodge in silence, Dick gazing pensively at the
green space before him, he let his thought take the form of speech:
"After all, when you are eighteen I shall be only twenty-six."
"That will be seven years from now," she said, lightly. "Seven years is
a very long time."
"So much the better. It gives a man like me time to attain a position
worthy of a woman like you."
"Oh, position, rank, and that sort of thing, what are they, after all?
Have you heard what the Empress of Russia said to Monsieur Diderot? You
know that by devoting himself to the encyclopaedia, Monsieur Diderot has
kept himself poor, and his threadbare coat is no affectation. Well,
Catherine II., aware of this, and appreciating the great sacrifice made
in the interest of knowledge, bought Monsieur Diderot's library at a
fine price, and then ordered it left in Paris, and appointed him her
librarian to take care of it. Monsieur Diderot went to St. Petersburg
four years ago, to thank her in person, and while he was there Catherine
and he got into many disputes on questions of philosophy. One day
Diderot hinted that he was at a disadvantage in arguing with the Empress
of all the Russias. 'Nonsense,' said Catherine, 'is there any difference
between men?'"
Dick sighed, perceiving that she had sought to divert him from the topic
he had broached. He rowed back to St. Denis that evening an unmistakably
love-sick youth. He could hardly wait for the next afternoon, that he
might renew the subject at any hazard.
On the morrow, to his dismay, the sky was dark, and chill winds were
blowing. Spring, having thrust her sunny face in at the door too soon,
had been frightened far away, and might never have been present, so
different was to-day's world from yesterday's. Dick resolved,
nevertheless, to make his usual voyage.
Rain had already begun to fall on the agitated surface of the river,
when he landed at the park. He hastened to the lodge and found it empty.
How bleak and utterly forlorn the place now seemed! How disconsolate in
heart was Dick! Well, he ought not to have expected her on such a day.
He gazed with a heavy sigh at the spot where she usually sat.
What was that white thing, lying under a pebble, on that very spot? Dick
seized it eagerly, saw the name "Silvius" written on it, opened it out
hastily with trembling fingers. It was indeed a note, written in a
charming hand, and signed "Amaryllis." His disappointment turned to
gladness,--for the first sight of the beloved's handwriting, addressed
to oneself, is as good as an interview,--and he read:
"For a few days I must be away, yet Silvius will come as usual to
the lodge, will he not? On the day of her return, he will find
Amaryllis waiting. Since I last saw Silvius I have been thinking.
It is true, seven years is not a very long time!"
One knows, without being told, what demonstrations Silvius made over
this letter, how often he re-read it, what other things he did to it,
and where he finally bestowed it as he returned to his boat to row back
to St. Denis. He scarcely knew what he was doing, as he pulled his boat
out into the current, or how disturbed the river was, how heavily the
rain came down. So overjoyed was he by the promise contained in the last
line of the letter, that he was not cognizant of outward circumstances
until he was half-way between St. Ouen and St. Denis. Then he became
aware of the work of wind and water. He saw, moreover, that the day was
as dark as late evening, and that all signs were growing more
threatening every minute.
"The devil!" thought he. "This is not a time for taking chances, now
that such prospects await me. I must guard my life and health, and
achieve great things during those seven years."
He therefore rowed to an old, abandoned landing, which led to a ruined
garden, within whose crumbling walls stood a deserted house of rough
gray stone. On Dick's first row up the river, he had been told by the
boatman that this house had long been unoccupied.
Making his boat fast to a wooden spile, Dick went through the half
unhinged, half opened gate which was partly sunk into the earth, and up
the weed-grown garden walk, to the house. The door yielded to his
pressure, and he passed through a bare, dark, damp, mouldy corridor,
into a room whose windows opened on the garden. Though otherwise empty,
this room contained an old oak table, and several rough wooden chairs.
Dick sat down and waited for the storm to abate.
The doors and windows creaked, the wind sighed through the corridors and
chambers overhead, the rains beat on what glass remained in the
casements. But what was that other sound? Surely it was of the footsteps
of men. Peering through the window, Dick saw forms approaching through
the shrubbery, from a small side gate in the garden wall. These were,
doubtless, the last of a party whose foremost members were already in
the corridor.
The intruders came cautiously, but as if familiar with the place.
Evidently some organized meeting was at hand in this empty house. Dick
noticed the chairs and table anew. What were these men? A social club, a
gang of thieves, or a band of conspirators? In any one of these cases
Dick felt that he would be _de trop_. Manifestly the men were
approaching the room in which he sat. They were already too near the
door for him to escape unseen by the corridor. So he slipped into the
wide, empty fireplace with which the room was provided, and whose rear
was quite in shadow. A moment later three men entered the room.
Each took from beneath his cloak a bundle wrapped in cloth, and laid it
on the table, then sat down and waited. Other men arrived, almost
immediately, and the number kept increasing at short intervals until
perhaps fifteen were gathered. Their conversation so far had consisted
of brief remarks about the weather. They now sat in an irregular
semicircle, facing the table. The man who had first entered arose and
opened the bundles. The gray light of the stormy afternoon disclosed the
contents of these bundles as three swords and several pistols.
"Messieurs," said the man who had risen,--an erect, powerful, handsome
man of thirty,--"the hour is almost at hand. That all of us may
participate in the intention, though but one of us may strike the blow,
I am to describe fully the plan agreed upon by the Committee of Three.
As each one of us is potentially the chosen arm of the Brotherhood in
this honorable deed, it behooves each one to attend every detail as if
he were, in fact, already the selected instrument."
The men sat in perfect silence, their eyes fixed upon the speaker, every
attitude being that of breathless attention.
"In this silken bag," continued the orator, producing from beneath his
cloak that which he mentioned, "are a number of beans. One of them is
red, four are black, the others white. As soon as the plan of action
shall have been made known, each man shall draw from the bag a single
bean, in the order in which his name appears on our list. When all have
drawn, and not till then, each man shall disclose his bean to view at
the table. The possessor of the red bean will be God's choice for the
performance of this holy mission. He shall choose one of these swords,
which differ in weight and size, though all have been blessed and
devoted to our righteous purpose. The four who hold black beans shall
guide and guard the chosen instrument, both to protect him, and to
assure the Brotherhood against the consequences of any possible weakness
on his part. The holders of the white beans shall not act in the present
task; but, in the improbable event of its failure, the whole Brotherhood
shall assist the four, if necessary, as avengers against the brother who
will have failed, as spies to seek him out should he hide, as hounds
upon his track should he flee, as executioners to compass his death when
he is brought before us. Is it agreed?"
"Agreed!" said every man, resolutely, with clenched fingers, set teeth,
and gleaming eyes.
"The procedure shall be in this wise," went on the leader. "In an hour,
a carriage will be waiting outside the gate of this garden. The chosen
man, armed with the sword, shall be conducted to it by the four, each
provided with two of these pistols. Two of the four shall enter the
carriage with him, the other two shall take the place of the coachman,
who will be dismissed. The carriage shall set forth at once. The
Committee of Three has provided already for its passage through the
barrier, unhindered by the revenue collectors. The carriage will proceed
through the Faubourg de St. Denis, cross the boulevard, turn into the
Rue Clery, and so continue to the corner of the Rue du Petit Carreau, at
which corner, as we all know, the house is situated. The two gentlemen
of the black bean, in the carriage, shall accompany him of the red bean
to the door, their hands upon their pistols beneath their cloaks. When
the servant responds to their knock, the chosen man shall give the name
of Victor Mayet, and say that he must see Monsieur Necker immediately.
Victor Mayet is a clerk in the General Control Office, and Necker will
suppose he comes on a matter of urgent importance. Necker also will
surely receive him alone. When the man enters, his two comrades shall
return to the carriage, and wait for his reappearance. The man himself
will keep his sword concealed until he is alone with Necker. At that
moment, taking our enemy by surprise, he will thrust his sword into
Necker's body as many times as may be necessary to assure its reaching
a vital spot. So shall fall the haughty bourgeois Protestant, whom the
King in his blindness has raised to the most powerful post in the land,
and would doubtless soon, but for our intervention, raise higher; thus
shall God's holy religion and the nobility of France obtain revenge and
triumph at our hands."
There were murmurs of applause, repressed exclamations of "_Vive le
roi!_" and other signs of intense enthusiasm.
"Then, messieurs, he whose arm shall have struck this glorious blow,
shall hasten back to the carriage, and it shall be driven at once to my
lodgings in the Rue St. Honore, which, though not large enough for such
meetings as this, will serve as a hiding-place for the five gentlemen
until news comes, from other sources than the chosen man himself, of the
death of Necker. When such news comes, the four guards shall release the
happy Instrument of the Brotherhood. Until such news comes, they shall
guard him unremittingly; and, if it turn out that Necker still lives,
the man who ought to have slain him shall die in his place, at the hands
of the four. Thus are we assured against treason, weakness, or bungling,
on the part of him whom God, in the guise of chance, shall elect to do
our Brotherhood and France this service. Messieurs, each of you
remembering that the red bean or a black one may fall to him, are you
still agreed?"
The expressions of assent were as prompt and determined as before.
"Let us proceed at once to the drawing," said the leader.
"Pardon, brother," spoke up another. "It is so dark that, when we come
to show what beans we have drawn, we shall hardly be able to distinguish
the colors."
"Bring the candles, then, from the mantel to the table, and light them,"
said the leader.
Dick's heart underwent a sudden jump. Two men came straight for the
fireplace. Accustomed, now, to the half darkness of the room, both
descried his form vaguely, and at the same moment. "The devil! A spy!"
cried one. The other drew a pistol of his own, and instantly brought it
to bear.
"One moment!" cried Dick, stepping forth. "I am an unintentional
intruder. Rather, it was you that intruded upon me. I had sought shelter
here from the rain, when I heard you coming. Foolishly, thinking this
might be a refuge of thieves, I hid in the fireplace, hoping to remain
unseen till you had gone."
The assembled men, all of whom had risen, looked at Dick and then at one
another.
"I quite believe you, monsieur," said the speaker of the meeting,
courteously, after some moments, "not only because it is my gift to
perceive when a man is telling the truth, but also because a spy would
be sure of discovery in such a hiding-place. Nevertheless, you have
overheard everything that has been said here this afternoon."
"How could I avoid doing so?" said Dick.
"I do not say it was a fault on your part to overhear, monsieur," said
the other, whose authority over his comrades was manifestly so complete
that they left the present matter entirely to him, only waiting with
silent attention to carry out what orders he might give. "But what you
have heard, you would doubtless feel called upon, sooner or later, to
reveal, unless you were entirely of the same mind with us."
Here he paused, but Dick said nothing, for Dick did not choose to risk
certain death by admitting that he would feel so called upon. After a
moment, during which the speaker seemed to read Dick's thoughts, he went
on:
"You might give us an assurance that you would remember nothing of what
has passed here, but how could we let you go, on that assurance,
monsieur? For, if you secretly meant to betray us, you would feel
justified in giving that assurance, for the sake of your life and of
defeating our purpose. Or, you might give your word in all honesty, and
yet at some future time feel justified in breaking it. You can plainly
see, monsieur, that there is nothing for us to do but to kill you on the
spot--"
Dick read the quiet resolution in the speaker's eyes, and the more
impetuous determination in the eyes of the others; considered his
unarmed condition and the utter impossibility of a rush through the line
of stalwart forms that encircled him; and thought of Amaryllis, the
seven years, and the long and brilliant future that seemed about to
burst like a soap-bubble in a moment.
"Or to receive you as a member of our Brotherhood," concluded the
leader, calmly. Used to judging men instantly, he had doubtless
estimated Dick as a gentleman worthy of membership.
Forgetting for the moment what this alternative entailed, seeing only
the unexpected chance of life held out, Dick instantly grasped at the
latter. "Very well, I will join," he said.
But the matter had to be thoroughly considered by the assembly, and
there was a careful discussion of it for half an hour, while Dick sat
silent before the table, on which, in the meantime, candles had been
placed and lighted. During this talk, he began to realize all that he
was taking on himself in joining what was neither more nor less than a
secret society, whose present purpose was assassination. But a man with
his life in his hand must seize the first means of gaining time that
offers, and face each consequence when it occurs. The chances were in
favor of his having nothing to do with the sanguinary affair to be
immediately attempted; and he could probably give the Brotherhood the
slip in the near future. In any case, it was impossible to prevent the
attempt now under way, and the question as to whether he should
eventually expose that attempt, was a river not to be crossed till he
should come to it. Perhaps, after all, this Necker, whose name he knew
only as that of Councillor of Finance and General Director of the Royal
Treasury, was a rascal who merited death, as many public officials did;
certainly the Brotherhood showed a humane disposition in considering an
alternative by which Dick's life might be saved. Perhaps the removal of
their chosen victim, even by death, would benefit humanity,--so little
was Dick acquainted with matters of state.
Well, it was decided to admit him. He had to repeat a long oath after
the leader, kiss one of the swords, which, having been blessed, served
in place of a Bible, and sign his name at the foot of a list that the
secretary produced from a leather bag, which that officer carried to and
from the meetings, and which contained materials for what few records
the society required.
"And now," said the leader, "it is growing late. The carriage will be at
the gate at any moment. Let us draw for the honor that God holds ready
for one of us."
He held the bag in his left hand, and thrust his right hand inside; when
he withdrew the latter, he kept it closed, and passed silently, with the
bag, from man to man; knowing, without reference to the list, in what
order their names stood. Before this, he had put an additional white
bean into the bag, having been provided with several surplus ones. Each
man kept his hand closed on withdrawing it. When the bag reached Dick,
there was only one bean left. He did as the others had done. Then, not a
word being said, the leader laid aside the bag, and all pressed close to
the table, which they quite surrounded. Every right hand was laid out,
palm down, on the bare oak surface. The leader was the first to
disclose.
"A black bean!" he cried. "That is something, at least! Who has the red
one?"
Every eye turned with intense eagerness, from the bean immediately
before it, to the beans right and left,--every eye but Dick Wetheral's,
that is to say, for his remained fastened, with a kind of mild
astonishment, on the palm of his hand, whereon lay a bean that was red.
"Come, brother," the leader was saying, when Dick at last looked up.
"Choose a sword. I hear the carriage at the gate."
Before he had recovered from his bewilderment, Dick was passing through
the rain, towards the gate, clasping one of the swords tightly beneath
his coat. At his right arm was the leader, who carried one of the other
two swords, as well as a pistol in each outer pocket; at the left arm
was a second man, similarly armed. Two other men mounted the coachman's
place.
"Which way, monsieur?" said one of these latter, in joking imitation of
a driver, when Dick and his guards were seated in the dark carriage.
"The road to Paris," said the leader, and drew the coach door after him
with a bang.